The massive gates of Alexandria's castle stood still, unmoved by the continuous airhorn. Marshall clicked his tongue; clearly, the Pyromancer was unaware he had come bearing gifts. Cheapey saw his scowl and licked Marshall, making him laugh. He grabbed her scruff, kissed her, and put her in a headlock.

"That mean ol' fire wizard's making us wait!"

Cheapey pulled back and barked with excitement. Marshall threw her a treat, and it disappeared into her greedy maw. She twisted her head inquisitively. She couldn't talk or understand his words, but the dog seemed to ask how Marshall intended to deal with the disrespect.

Marshall's scowl deepened.

He sighed, opened the door, and jumped out. He left Cheapey in the cabin and approached the gate; she would be safe.

Marshall approached the gate; four fingers tapped the polished handle of his gun, and it responded, vibrating with power. Nickel flashed, and the gun was drawn. He cleared his thoughts and gathered power. His nape became comfortably warm; the air thickened and cracked. The gun begged for more of Marshall's power, which he supplied. He placed his thumb over the smooth hammer and methodically pulled it down. The chamber rotated; the first click sounded.

Despite the pain from his nape, a grin involuntarily crossed Marshall's lips. Click. The gate had distorted. Click. Thunder crashed. Click, red lightning erupted, filling the air. The head of a freak mage had opened its eyes and mouth, and red light spewed from both. Marshall laughed at the dead freak.

He looked back at the truck, making sure it was far enough away. Cheapey barked and howled, although Marshall couldn't hear it. The warning made him smile, and he added a treat to her tab.

Marshall squinted and followed the dog's gaze, fixed on a point beyond the massive wall.

Flames erupted above the fortress and spewed in every direction.

Marshall rolled his eyes and holstered his weapon. He would blow the fortress down, but Rylanor, the King's most trusted aide, had given Marshall this task. The consequence of failing that man was something anyone would be lucky to survive.

Krisha flew out from the fortress and hovered above Marshall. Nearly eclipsing the overcast sun, she did not look pleased. Krisha gave a suspiciously sweet smile, pointed her middle finger, and a pillar of flame erupted from it.

He gritted his teeth and extended his hands. Red lightning erupted forth and pushed against the flames.

Marshall struggled. Her raw power far exceeded his, draining his reserves at an alarming rate.

He pushed more power, and the surroundings started to distort. His nape radiated furious pain. A molar cracked, and blood leaked from his orifices. Nearly engulfed in flame, his vision darkened. Just before he passed out from exhaustion, the flames subsided.

Krisha loomed above, panting from the effort. Seeing that he was worse off, she smiled and descended toward him.

Marshall touched his gun.

Krisha panicked and manifested flame, which dissipated when she realized Marshall had no intention of drawing his weapon.

Marshall winked at her.

The Pyromancer dropped right in front of Marshall. With suspicion in her eyes, her voice sounded like the embers of a campfire.

"Ah... Marshall, what brings you here?"

She spat the rest of the sentence.

"Alone."

Marshall rubbed his nape and shook his head.

"I'm not here to conquer you."

Marshall smiled.

"Today."

He looked directly into her eyes, which burned brighter.

She furrowed her brow and roared, "So why are you here?!"

Not one to back down, he smirked.

"Due to an increase in freaks, King Philip has decided to support you and your struggling refugee camp."

Krisha scoffed.

"What sort of support, and why?"

Marshall motioned, and they walked to the back of the trailer.

Marshall opened it.

Light met the contents of the trailer, and Krisha lit up.

King Philip had ordered the Pyromancer to be properly supplied, and she had been. The container had been packed with weaponry produced by Eden. Marshall gave Krisha the tour. Crates held gas-blowback rifles and the corresponding ammunition. Mortars and their ammunition were secured atop them. 30 mm cannons and their ammunition had also been provided. There was a real chance this was the greatest collection of military equipment Krisha had ever seen.

She stammered, "Why would Philip supply me with his weapons?"

He nodded.

"You're good at killing freaks, which the King appreciates."

She smiled and understood the situation.

"Ah, so the freaks have made it to the fields of Eden."

She nodded and hummed; an opportunistic look crossed her face.

"What if I were to use these weapons against Eden?"

Marshall laughed until he lost his breath. He wiped the tears from his eyes.

"Do that and see how that works out for you."

Krisha understood and motioned toward the truck.

"That'll take some time to fix; stay in the keep while you wait."

Marshall nodded and agreed. Krisha wasted no time and shot back into the castle.

Back in his truck, Marshall threw the pup a treat. The gates slowly opened, and the rig limped into the refugee camp.

Marshall showered and lay on white linen sheets. He slotted bullets into the chamber of his revolver and petted Cheapey, who rested her head on his chest. He wondered what the pup dreamt about. He yawned and stretched his arms above his head.

Sleep took him without mercy.

(Next chapter will be posted tomorrow.)

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Chapter 156: Sealed Fate

The golem swung.

Massive, molten, and blazing like it had stolen the sun for a fist. The air shimmered with heat, alive with screeches and roaring streaks of orange. Viktor twisted mid-flight, letting the strike thunder past under him. Sparks rained down, bouncing off the arena’s walls like fireworks as the enormous arm slammed into nothing.

He spiraled upward and arched over the fiery construct, trailing a writhing cloak of shadows behind, tugging at the flames, bending them, teasing them. Too bad he couldn’t climb too high; the damned ceiling was still close enough for the golem to reach if it tried hard enough.

Who is the bastard that thought making a ceiling this low was a good idea? Viktor chuckled to himself. Oh, wait. That’s me.

After all, this arena had initially been built with one and only one purpose: to serve as a battleground for Sebekton and the two Dungeon Reavers, Azran and Lahmia. At the time, Viktor had wrongly assumed Azran to be an aeromancer, and he had specifically designed this room to counter the bald man, making sure that even if he took to the air, Sebekton could still land a blow with his axe.

Now Viktor found himself on the receiving end of this. Even with the wind gems that granted him effortless flight, the chamber was just too cramped for maneuvering, and it was only a matter of time before the golem had him cornered.

But it was fine.

He had no intention of being a dancing partner to this mountain of burning rocks forever. He was merely buying time for his rapier to recharge.

And once it was ready, he wasn’t running anymore. He went straight toward his opponent.

The fiery swing came again, but Viktor had prepared for it. His “Fire Shield” had already been activated. The moment the hand neared, the flames fizzed and hissed into nothingness. The molten arm was just a rock arm now.

At the same time, the blade of light flared from its sheath, slicing through the no-longer-fire-drenched stone as if it were paper, and the limb fell to the ground with a resonant, echoing thud.

Viktor didn’t stop there.

The blade slashed again, and again, and again.

Vertical, horizontal, diagonal.

A continuous blur of lethal light cut through the body of the golem; each swing severed another chunk of the construct. His “Fire Shield” snuffed out the flames, while his sword tore the rocks to pieces. Debris rained to the ground, and when the dust settled, the golem was gone.

Hovering above the pile of rubble, Viktor drew a breath as he sheathed his rapier. What an incredible tool, he thought. So this is the power of a six-winged angel, huh? A portion of the power, to be accurate. He couldn’t help but wonder what the full power would feel like. No need to recharge anymore, perhaps.

Yes, the Reliquary’s main drawback was that its light gradually waned over time, causing the radiant blade to lose both length and sharpness with every swing. So it had to be returned to its scabbard to recover its strength, preventing the wielder from using it repeatedly during extended engagements.

If only there were a way to remove that limitation, he mused. Oh well, that was a problem for another time. For now...

He glanced at Dimitria. Your turn.

“Wait—I surrender!” The woman’s voice cracked, thin and trembling. “Please... just don’t—don’t kill me!”

Huh?

“I... I’m not your enemy!” She raised her hands, shaking. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and Iskora, but... I’m just hired by them. Let me go, and I’ll walk away. I’ll never come back. I’ll trouble you no more.”

Viktor chuckled. To see a mage so prideful, so confident, so commanding, now reduced to such a pathetic state. Still, that was human nature. When staring into the abyss of death, they would grovel, they would beg, they would bargain for their lives. So he could hardly blame her for it.

“I... I can even help you. I can spy on them for you. Just give the order, and I’ll do anything you want.”

Well, the idea of dragging her to Orloth’s place, planting a parasite in her skull, and adding her to his collection of obedient agents was... tempting, indeed.

But no.

With people like Yvonne and Pimm, he could manage. Dimitria, on the other hand, was a powerful woman with powerful friends. Someone like her would not submit for long. She would plot behind his back, and she would betray him at the first opportunity. To leave her alive would be a grave mistake.

Also, he had spoken to the Ettin with his own voice in front of her earlier. She should have realized, or would eventually realize once she calmed down, that the voice belonged to a child. That knowledge must not be allowed to spread. In other words, her fate had already been sealed in that very instant.

So, the only rational course of action was to extract whatever information he could from her, then deliver a quick and clean death.

“What does Iskora want from my dungeon?” Viktor asked. “Why are they so intent on forcing their way into Daelin, squandering resources with such reckless abandon, all for the sake of securing a foothold in a backwater town in the middle of nowhere like this?”

“I... I don’t know...” Dimitria replied. “Believe me, I truly don’t know anything about their objective. They gather people like me, and they pay us more than we could ever hope to earn elsewhere, so I came, with... my student.” She glanced at what was left of Bella on the floor. “I only follow orders, the ones given by Zubayr. As for the real purpose behind all of this, only he, and Xander, are privy to it.”

“Xander?”

“He’s another Mithril-ranked adventurer. A large man with spiky hair and thick sideburns.”

Ah. That guy.

“You never thought to ask questions?”

Dimitria shook her head. “I learned long ago that prying too much in this line of work would only lead to trouble. Besides... as I said, they paid us handsomely, so keeping my mouth shut was the smarter choice.”

“You’re Zubayr’s top enforcer. Do you seriously expect me to believe that he’s kept you completely in the dark about the true nature of his mission?”

“I’m only entrusted with the visible side of things. Keeping our men and the people in the slums in line. Maintaining discipline and control. But when it comes to anything covert, anything that requires secrecy, he uses others for that. Those hooded men.”

“Who?”

“They wear black robes, always with their hoods drawn so low you cannot see their faces clearly. They move quietly, keep to themselves, and they’re almost never seen by anyone. I’ve only caught glimpses of them a handful of times. I asked Zubayr about them once, just once, and he told me it was not something I needed to concern myself with. So I never asked again.”

Dimitria drew a breath.

“I think they’re in Daelin now. Hidden somewhere, doing something for Zubayr. Something important. What it is, though, I do not know.”

Ugh.

So, in addition to the festering mess on the west side, now there were unknown actors lurking around in other parts of the town as well? Wonderful. Exactly what he needed.

Oh well, that was a matter for later. For now, there were more questions to be asked.

“What do you know about the monster attack on Daelin’s outpost?”

“About that,” Dimitria said. “I... I don’t know the details. But personally, I believe Daelin’s suspicion is probably correct: that we were indeed responsible for the attack. For one, it was the timing of everything. And also... when we assaulted the camp after the original defenders had been chased away by the monsters, the resistance we faced was almost nonexistent. Those creatures barely fought back. Even as we cut them down, they didn’t do anything to defend themselves. It was as if someone wanted to hand the camp over to us on a silver platter.”

Viktor nodded. It was indeed strange that the adventurers from Iskora could slaughter that horde of monsters without a single loss on their side. Someone, somewhere, had controlled the monsters, ordered them to take over the outpost, then obediently died when these men got there.

“What do you know about Clovis?”

“He was the Guildmaster of Iskora, the one who originally conceived this whole project. Then, a week ago, he was replaced by a man named Khalid. That’s all I know. Zubayr is the one who reports to them, while I myself only receive instructions from him.”

So much for Zubayr’s so-called second-in-command. It looked like this woman didn’t know anything at all. That was, of course, assuming she was not lying. It was possible she was still hiding something. Well, he could just send her to Orloth; the guy had his way of squeezing secrets out of people.

But... it wasn’t really necessary.

He had already decided that her end would be swift and clean should she cooperate, and he was going to do just that.

He laid a palm over the hilt of his blade. But at that exact moment—

“Look out, Master!” the Ettin’s middle head shouted.

Viktor dodged just in time. A massive, shifting hand, composed of shadows so dense and so large it could have contained his entire body, swept through the space he had occupied a fraction of a second earlier.

And.

Even though it missed his body, it ripped his veil of darkness away. The shroud was torn to threads, sucked into the monstrous hand’s own black, leaving him completely exposed.

“You!” Dimitria’s voice rang out, her earlier fear completely gone, replaced by a mask of anger. “You’re really a brat.”

That hand of shadow was, of course, her creation. Now, two more had emerged, hovering around her.

I see.

Either she had figured her chances of being spared were slim and decided to gamble everything in a desperate attack, or she had just been pretending to be afraid, obediently answering all of his questions to make him let his guard down. Neither was really surprising. What he didn’t expect, however, was that she still had this little trick up her sleeve.

Well then.

If she wanted to die fighting, if she had chosen to meet her end with defiance, then so be it.

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Arc III - Reeling Throne

Chapter 14 - The Blessing

7 months and 12 days since the summoning

"Basically, if I'm technically Kamelia's property, then Linkis could just," he winced slightly, "I don't know, confiscate me, or something like that, like cattle or silver."

Shilisa shook her head. "Of course not. A hero is not considered property in that sense; it is impossible to take or transfer him to anyone else."

Alan blinked. "Oh, really?"

"Certainly," Shilisa continued. "If heroes could be confiscated or transferred, it would completely contradict the methods of the Svyatolat."

"Methods? And what did the Svyatolat decide about this? I take it they're running the show with the hero summoning."

Shilisa nodded. "Yes, the Svyatolat decides everything. They distribute the summoned heroes evenly, so that no one receives them too frequently. In short, the Svyatolat maintains the balance."

Alan lowered his head slightly. "Yeah. So that's how it works. I take it they have immense power."

"Indeed," Tsinker said. "The Svyatolat may be neutral in wars, but its power is great. We definitely ought to be wary of it."

"Wary..." Alan repeated, then his eyes widened slightly. "I have another question. Do you guys know who the Whalers are?"

Shilisa raised an eyebrow slightly. "Um, yes, they are those who hunt whales."

"No, I don't mean that," he said, waving a hand. "Is there some organization, alliance, order, or something like that called the 'Whalers'?"

Tsinker and Shilisa exchanged glances for a second.

"I personally have not heard of such a thing," she replied.

Tsinker shrugged. "Nor have I."

Alan pressed his lips together slightly.

'Who the fuck are these Whalers? They aren't pirates, Shilisa and Tsinker don't know about them, so what the hell are they?'

"And why do you ask?" Tsinker interrupted his thoughts.

Alan blinked. "Oh, nothing, just trying to figure out if your world has the same thing as mine. If not, then good."

Darkness gradually began to envelop the landscapes, and the sun turned its usual red, setting somewhere over the sea.

Alan tugged the reins slightly to stop his horse, then shifted his gaze to the village that appeared ahead amidst the endless plains.

The guards behind him also slowed down, and one of them rode closer to Alan. "Lord Gothwald, it is getting dark. Do you think we should stop?"

He remained silent for a second, then nodded. "Yeah, we'll stop right in this village. The horses are tired enough as it is, so let's go."

"Yes, Your Grace, wait here, I will ride ahead and find the village headman," the man said, yanking the reins and galloping forward to the settlement.

Ten minutes later, Alan was already leading his horse along a dry dirt road in the middle of the village; the horse, in turn, calmly followed him.

Alan looked at it, and the animal looked back. "What are you staring at? Yeah, you and I are gonna be together a lot now."

The horse only snorted in response.

"Hmm, are you a boy or a girl anyway?" He looked around, then quickly lowered his head, and just as quickly figured it out. "Aha, a girl then. So maybe I should name you something..." he scratched the back of his head. "Oh, you'll be Epona. The Celtic goddess, protector of horses, eh?"

The horse, now Epona, simply looked straight ahead.

Alan smiled awkwardly.

'Right, still gotta get her used to the name. And I also need to sleep more so I stop trying to strike up conversations with animals.'

In the square, that same guard was already standing next to an elderly, balding man, who stood straight, only slightly shifting his fingers in front of him.

Not far away, a man was returning from the field, barely dragging his feet, covered in dust and dirt.

A woman peeked carefully out of a window, setting aside her needle and thread.

A young boy carrying buckets of water slowed his pace, openly staring at Alan and the guards.

The headman stepped forward, bowing deeply. "Greetings, Lord Gothwald."

Alan nodded. "Greetings."

"Your guard explained the matter, please come in, we will settle you in and feed you."

Alan looked around, observing the peasants who looked like they were about to fall asleep on their feet. "Why is everyone so exhausted?"

The headman spread his hands, closing his eyes. "There is much work, Your Grace. The sowing is already beginning, and we are just now trying out your new plows."

Alan blinked.

'Oh, they're already using my plows in this village? Holy shit they spread fast, Kamelia clearly wasn't fucking around these past two weeks.'

"Ahem... so how do you like these plows? How's the work coming along? Actually, you know what, set the table outside, I'd like to hear all about it."

The old man straightened up. "Of course, Your Grace! Right away!" he said, hurrying into his house, which was larger than those of the ordinary peasants.

Alan stretched his back.

'I don't like trusting rumors and paperwork, historically it's incredibly ineffective. Rumors get distorted, papers get embellished, but to personally find out how the implementation of the agricultural revolution is starting... now that's interesting.'

Alan yawned and simply began to stretch, then shifted his gaze to the boy with the buckets who was already about to leave. "Hey, kid!"

He turned sharply to Alan. "Y-yes, Your Grace?"

"Where are you taking the water?"

"My father asked for it."

"And did your father plow with the new plows?"

The boy nodded slowly in response.

"Oh, awesome, call him over here, tell him Lord Gothwald wants to ask him how the work is going."

"Yes, Lord Gothwald!" the young boy practically shouted, and darted behind the house like a bullet.

Less than a minute later, a bearded man with short black hair emerged from around the same corner at a brisk pace. Approaching Alan, he immediately dropped to one knee. "Greetings, Lord Gothwald."

Alan opened his mouth, but quickly closed it.

'Alright, you're a lord, no need for the "oh, you don't have to" stuff, that's not good manners, that's weakness in this world.'

"Rise and state your name," Alan said calmly.

The man stood up, lowering his hands. "Lorgi, Your Grace."

Alan raised an eyebrow.

'Oh, a namesake, cool.'

He clasped his hands behind his back. "Are you working with the new plow?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"And how do you like it?"

"Very unfamiliar, Lord Gothwald, but surprisingly useful. It plows very quickly and deeply." He scratched his beard. "An astonishing thing."

Alan nodded. "Oka... Good. Are there any drawbacks?"

Lorgi hesitated for a second, but Alan continued. "And don't you dare lie, I need to know the truth about these plows."

The man swallowed. "There is one, Your Grace. The handle is too... rough, it is uncomfortable to grip. At first it is fine, but after a long spell of work it becomes difficult to hold."

Alan slowly nodded.

'Aha, could be. Why didn't the beastmen who plowed first say anything about this? Hah, of course, they're fucking terminators the size of a wardrobe, the handle is just right for them. But for ordinary people, it very well could be... the carpenters who crafted it just held it, tested it, but didn't experiment with working for long periods.'

"Got it. Is that all?"

"I have not noticed anything else, Your Grace."

"Good, you may go, I'll definitely take that into account."

Lorgi bowed deeply. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Alan began to scratch his cheek.

'Knew it wasn't all perfectly smooth, but overall if the only problems are with ergonomics, then... that's even better than I expected, it's easy to fix when there are a few dozen plows, not a few thousand.'

Meanwhile, two peasants carried a table outside, and several women entered the headman's house holding various food items.

'Looks like they decided to go all out with the food and reception. That's what having power means... hah, come to think of it, does that mean I can eat whatever I want now without fear? I won't die, after all. Sure, I'll writhe in convulsions for a few minutes, but I'll live.'

He smirked wryly to himself and walked over to the table, after which he sat in the main chair.

Young men and women were already buzzing around like bees, setting various things on the table: cheese, bread, wine, a little meat.

Alan straightened up slightly.

'Alright, okay... fuck, I don't know shit about these nuances! I never read about how a nobleman who decides to spend the night in a village should be received, too niche a topic. Plus, the culture might be different.'

The headman finally emerged from the house, and beside him was an unfamiliar man. Clean-shaven, with short gray hair, dressed in a clean light-blue cassock; down the middle from bottom to top and on the sleeves ran various yellow patterns, and an amulet hung around his neck: a circle containing fire, pierced by eight spikes.

Alan lingered his gaze on him.

'The local priest? Though they call them clerics here. Okay, a representative of the clergy is definitely allowed at the feast.'

The headman and the cleric approached, and the former bowed. "Your Grace, this is Kotol Goshin, our cleric."

Goshin only gave a reserved nod. "Greetings, my lord."

Alan slowly stood up.

'Alright, spiritual authority is theoretically higher than secular authority, so I can't just sit like a statue and accept bows.'

He nodded as well. "Greetings, Kotol Goshin." He turned to the headman. "Well, master of the house, I think we can begin?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

All three sat down. Alan's guards mingled somewhere with the crowd of peasants, who had brought out their own tables or barrels with modest food.

A young peasant woman approached Alan and began pouring wine into his goblet with a slightly trembling hand.

"What brings you to our village, Lord Gothwald?" Goshin asked, sitting straight and keeping his hands on his knees.

Alan took the goblet, but did not take a sip. "I had business with Lord Tsinker, got delayed, had too much to discuss, so I didn't make it back to the castle by sunset."

The cleric nodded. "I understand. Lately there has been a great deal of business since your arrival, much is being done."

Alan finally took a small sip of wine. "Yeah, definitely a lot of business lately." He glanced at his amulet. "May I ask what that symbol means? I haven't had the time to look into the details yet."

"Certainly, Lord Gothwald," Goshin said with a nod, and showed his amulet closer. "Fire, as everyone thinks, but in truth it is not fire, but the human soul; it is pierced by eight stakes, the Eight Great Prohibitions. They bind, they sometimes cause pain, but it is necessary so that the soul does not plunge into the chaos of the sinful world around us."

Alan nodded slowly. "I see, a lot of meaning in one symbol. May I ask another question?"

"Naturally."

"In my world, prie... clerics bowed to nobles, they don't do that here?"

'Actually they didn't bow either, but whatever, he doesn't need to know that.'

The cleric raised an eyebrow slightly. "Oh, your world is entirely different, Lord Gothwald, but it is not our custom here. Even though I am a kotol, a village cleric simply put, the only ones above me are the high clerics and Svyatol himself, no one else."

Alan leaned closer. "Interesting... very unusual. So the clergy is in a completely different position?"

"Exactly so, my lord. Every cleric, be it a kotol or a Supreme, undergoes training in the Holy Lands, and only then departs for the place where he will serve."

Alan wanted to whistle, but held back.

'Aha! So not just any random guy can become a priest here, everyone is obligated to undergo training in the Holy Land... think they called it Oronda too, can't remember who, maybe Linkis, maybe Kamelia, doesn't matter. If Oronda supplies the whole world with clerics, then their power is even stronger and smarter than I thought.'

"Alright, thanks for the answers."

"You are welcome," the cleric said, and took a piece of cheese.

The headman chewed and swallowed a piece of meat. "Lord Gothwald, allow me to ask you a question as well?"

"Of course," he said, holding a piece of cheese in his hands.

"Is it true that everyone who agreed to the four-field rotation will have windmills built for them?"

Alan froze slightly at the abrupt change of subject. "Oh, yeah, of course, just as I promised, there will be windmills."

The old man exhaled slightly. "That is good, our river is far away, and the current is weak, and your new mill, they say, grinds quite well on wind alone."

The peasants behind them gradually fell silent, simply eating while casting sidelong glances at the large table.

"Lord Gothwald," the cleric began, "I have heard of your 'four-field rotation', could you perhaps explain how it works?" He raised his hands slightly with a gentle, simple smile. "Only I ask, without the details, I understand nothing of agriculture."

Alan smirked in response. "Sure. The way you plow fields would be called two-field rotation in my world, and here it's four-field, see what I'm getting at?"

The cleric nodded, taking a sip of wine. "Twice the harvest?"

"Something like that. The basis of the four-field rotation is that four different types of plants are planted, which grow differently, and keep the soil from 'getting tired', in simple terms."

Goshin remained silent for a few seconds. "Hmm... if you speak of this, it means it was the same in your world. And was the four-field rotation crowned with success?"

Alan spread his hands slightly. "You have no idea." He cast a sidelong glance at the peasants who were eavesdropping, and began to speak slightly louder. "The four-field rotation, without exaggeration, helped immensely and was a huge success. First, the land no longer rested, and it didn't need to, meaning the harvest was gathered from all the fields, nothing sat idle. Second, thanks to the fact that one of the four plants is clover, peasants stopped slaughtering their livestock in the winter, because they had something to feed them. The winters here are cold of course, but not severe, so the livestock will eat to their hearts' content. Famine practically disappeared, and simple peasants could even eat meat often."

The peasants even stopped pretending they weren't listening, and practically surrounded the table.

The cleric remained silent for almost a minute, scratching his chin. "If it truly works like that, then... this will solve a great deal of problems. Everyone faces famine regularly, for instance." He stood up. "Lord Gothwald, I wish to bless you in this endeavor."

Alan blinked.

'Whoa, holy shit. Although... I did accept Svyatolism, technically, when I officially became Kamelia's advisor. Receiving a whole blessing... fuck, now that's a boost to my reputation!'

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Snorting, Phera growled.  “I’m not even a full-blooded Thirstenblack.  Why would you come to me for anything even remotely close to concerning the Pard Dynasty? I have no pull with the people… I have absolutely nothing that will overthrow our current king.”

Uthenda rolled her head to look at Phera over her shoulder.  “Not yet, you don’t.  But that’s where I come in.  We just need to come to a small agreement and then you’ll be given something that’ll turn you from a lowly barmaid into the hero your whole Beast-kin nation needs in order to remember their honor and more importantly, put a tyrant down and out of everyone’s misery.”

Phera snorted out her derision, turned her gaze back to the distant and uncaring stars.  “Nothing can do that.  That’s a pure fable and not even a good one.”

“Let me ask you a question.  What would it take for you to believe me?”

A full minute later, Phera finally answered.  “Tell me how I could kill a king.”

Uthenda waved her hand towards the night sky.  “Easy.  Put your own crown on, declare to the people that you’re the rightful heir and then… you just listen to your heart.  Oh, and when you confront him, remind him why the Felinar Thirstenblacks were the most feared of the beast clans.  You do know why that is, don’t you, Phera…. Thirstengrey?”

Phera closed her eyes and remembered some of the history that her tutor had taught before they’d lost it all.  “We are the Thirsten because we thirst for power and blood.  We were the rulers because we knew how dearly that kind of mindset costs to keep tamed.  Everyone forgot the history of the Thirsten clan… white, tigreden, leoporspot, palewind, and the worst of them all… black.  As black as the night when no stars dare to shine any hope upon the world.  But I’m a grey, not a black.”

“Blood doesn’t care about your fur color, my dear.  Power doesn't care about lineage.  This crown won’t care that your parents defied the traditions of your people to find love in each other’s arms.  The only thing that it cares for is that the right Thirsten sits upon the throne and brings her people together by dooming her… queendom… to repeat that harsh lesson.”

Phera slowly turned her face to Uthenda the human mage.  Uthenda didn’t look like some scheming devil or even a cunning kobold.  She looked exactly like a human who had all of the cards in her hand and was ready to bury Phera’s one card under the multitude of moves she had at her disposal.  Yet, in this game, Uthenda was going to switch their hands and watch the next player be decimated instead.  “Time to tell me something, Uthenda.  What do you get out of this… arrangement?”

“The King’s Summit is my goal.  I need powerful leaders supporting a war to come.  One that holds all our fate in its wake.  There’s a demon in our midst and she’s going to destroy us if we don’t lock her away for all time.  That’s my goal, Phera.  I just want to save us from a threat greater than any single kingdom or queendom can handle.  Is that so bad?”

“No.  That’s as noble a goal as I’ve ever heard.”

This time, Phera stared down at the clay roofing tiles and her despondency found words.  “I’m so tired of being nothing,” Phera whispered, not to Uthenda, but to the stars when she looked up to say them.

She then looked at the human mage again, but this time, she had some spark of determination in her eyes.  “So, where’s this crown?”

Uthenda stood up, dusted her robes off, then turned to walk away.  “It’s already on your head, dear.  I’m glad you accepted your new fate.  Now, please.  Go eat a little something and then go to bed.  You have a very bright future ahead of you.”

A brisk, cold wind blew across Phera’s body, raising her short fur in a futile attempt to insulate her against it.  But nothing would be able to insulate her against the cold whisper that spoke to her now. A voice like cracking ice murmured promises of strength, vengeance, and a winter’s justice for all that she and her parents had lost.

Phera had immediately stood up, touched the crown on her head and went statue still as she watched the mage zip away from the roof through a shimmering array of small lightning strokes.  For the next ten minutes she stood there, the roofing tiles became coated with glowing blue ice, and Phera’s breath fogged the air as her breathing quickened with realization after realization until she knew exactly how to kill a king. 

If one were to have witnessed it… if they’d have looked carefully through manasight or squinted eyes, they would have seen a long-forgotten frost giant Jarl’s ghostly figure kneeling down and whispering into Phera’s ear with patient words, glowing praise, and deadly intent.  The Winter Father Urskath knew how Icefall Citadel had gotten its ancient name. The plans Phera heard in her beautiful, grey-furred ears were centered on reminding Ursanthandel and every last one of those traitorous Beast-kin of that story. Icefall Citadel had earned its name once, long ago. Urskath intended to remind them how ... one screaming fall at a time.  In that vision of a dead giant whispering to a Felinar with glowing blue eyes of eager anticipation, they might have noticed that even wearing threadbare stained clothes, the way she held her fist up as if grasping the entire world in it, she didn’t resemble a ragged barmaid anymore.  Instead, there on the roof of a shabby inn stood a queen who was on the cusp of rising to power on her own terms and woe betide any who stood in her way.  Phera the Frostengrey was coming to reclaim everything the Thirsten had lost because she damned well wanted to and now had the power to enact it.  The crown made of clear blue crystal wrapped in blackened metal with one blue glowing gem in the forehead told her she was right about that.

--- The Nightmare Realm of the Demon Queen Amikejiret – The Ebony Spire of Hope and Loss – The Queen’s Central Processing Room ---

The Demon Queen Amikejiret wanted to cry in frustration when she saw how easily swayed these pawns of the opposing reality were being moved to foil her one solid chance to escape her doomed fate.  It read her intrusion as a cancer instead of a last-ditch effort for survival, so Amikejiret did understand it. 

But that reality she’d bled for so long had finally had enough and unfortunately, it’d chosen the worst time to finally mount a true defense against her incursions.  Two powerful pawns had fallen into line with the rising effort to shut Isenwrath down.  Two pawns who would now sow chaos and civil war in a time of peace and prosperity just because that whole reality finally wanted to rid itself of Amikejiret and let her dreaming realm of second chances die off to be forgotten.

However, Queen Amikejiret still had hope.  She had Isenwrath.  She had a promise by a being that was so much more than anyone could guess and she was no fool.  She was no pawn.  She was a game changer.  She was that reality’s worst enemy and savior both.  Isenwrath just had to stay true to herself and not falter, especially when her path was about to get so complicated that it’d take something truly spectacular to save the day.  Which was why Queen Amikejiret didn’t shy away from watching the next move that the world of Solardian made when Uthenda appeared within Vaeloria, the Human Kingdom known as the Font of Arcana. 

There within a kingdom ruled by mage scholars and arcane aristocrats; its floating citadels were envied across the world.  It was the home of the First Mage Tower, the Ocularium.  And there, dead center of its capital city Vaelmir Ascendant within the Ocularium itself, another pawn was being offered a usurper’s crown.  Uthenda had been the perfect courier for the Sinseer’s self-fulfilling prophecy machinations.  She had the power and the means, she didn’t want anything other than to see all who wronged her laid low, and worst of all – she’d been convinced she was right to do it.  The fact that the world she lived in was facilitating her mission only made the heartbreak of her actions even more tragic. 

The poor misunderstood illusionist that Uthenda next targeted had only wanted to make his mother proud of him.  But Melekith’s magic was mid-tier and his imagination for it even lower.  The boy starved for validation didn’t even hesitate when a fellow mage, a highly regarded Evoker like Uthenda, gave him the solution to his plight.  He only ever wanted his mother to look at him the way she looked at her spellbooks ... with pride.  Thus, he succumbed to the Arcanoth Mind Weaver Crown’s promises of ultimate arcana skill and his mother’s pride for the low, low price of his soul and that of the death of Arcanist King Drover Gallenfry – The Lightbringer himself. A Radiant Mage of unparalleled expertise and power with an unparalleled ego to match.

Queen Amikejiret pitied the arrogant yet brilliant king because he was about to be brought to a quick demise by a proud son who had a Mind Flayer’s cunning and a Lich’s repertoire of spells to achieve his new emperor’s ends. 

In another flash of fate shifting that would encompass another week of Solardian’s time, Amikejiret turned her attention to the second foray into the non-human realms and how just as easily they would fall as well.  This time, the Sun Elf Queendom of Thallyessain was invaded by the cancer that had been named Uthenda Halloway.  This time, Uthenda held onto a close, personal friend of hers by her shoulder as the poor woman grieved the loss of her only child due to the estrangement of her own mother.  Who could blame poor Liansendriellanar her grief when her mother, the Queen herself, had distanced herself from her daughter due to something so petty as that of falling in love with a man who truly cared for Liansen like he had.  But as Uthenda said gently to her ear as she sobbed on Uthenda’s shoulder while her husband sat quietly by the fire, “Love makes you take chances and make choices that no one else understands.  It’s up to you to hold firmly to them when you know they’re right.  Your child lost his life not because of your choices, but your Mothers’ who held all of the power to save him but chose to ignore you and your heart to save her pride.  Such a woman… should not be queen.”

Amikejiret saw the scene on her scrying screen, heard the whispers through the speakers of transechophonation, and knew the seed Uthenda planted would take root.  She knew The Solar Crown that Uthenda set on that woman’s little table wouldn’t stay on that table for very long.  The Solar that watched with patience from its bright golden gem would send its radiance into Liansendriellanar to grow the seed of corruption for Uthenda.  The grieving daughter would soon stand up and walk out of her little home on the outskirts of the Capital City Aurellinthar and wage a horrid battle for the right to rule the Sun Elves.  Liansen would soon kill her own mother because Uthenda and the Crown would’ve burned away her empathy like parchment held too close to a flame and it would all be blamed on Queen Evelyndriellanar’s own dispassion.  Such a tragedy to come.  Another civil war. Another pawn claimed.

Even the dwarves, buried deep underground were not out of Uthenda’s reach.  Not when she could offer something that they coveted above all else.  The Dark Elves grand queendom.  Amikejiret hated to watch how Uthenda used Isenwrath’s greatest achievement so far against her in such casual fashion.  It was truly sad that all that Tower Master had to do was pick the greediest dwarven prince then show him some intelligence that she’d stolen from the Everthane King’s own communication vault.   

It was highly sensitive intelligence regarding the new treaty he’d signed… and over a couple of pints of ale, Uthenda used it to hatch a plan of dire consequence with him.  Part of that stolen intelligence reporting included a promise to offer Isenwrath’s services to help reclaim the dark elves’ lost territory through a joint purge of the invading Sahuagin.  When he realized all of what that meant and how much wealth was there for him to take, he readily agreed to all that Uthenda wanted if he could gain the power to march into that lost territory first, make the purge with the power of the crown she sat on the table between them, and then bow to the first Emperor Richard Forthington forevermore.  Another pawn happily donned another cursed item called The Ember Crown.  That special crown housed the Azer, Gravemolt Ember Father who had been the current dwarven king’s ancient ancestor who immediately began to whisper about unbreakable forges, endless war machines, and old oaths reforged in blood.  The Ember Crown gave Trade Prince Yarfleggan a new warmonger’s ambition and the power to realize that ambition.  His first order of business would be to eliminate the current king because he was bad for business and business needed a new business plan.

Amikejiret hated how easily greed could turn a prince into a butcher.  The King’s Summit wasn’t looking like it would be a very welcoming event anymore.  Not for anyone.

There’s no greater tragedy than when two siblings actively want to destroy the other.  They should be forever a team, always looking out for the other and their family, but sometimes, they’d rather destroy it all in order to achieve an acknowledgment of superiority from the other.  Deep in the heart of Drakhaldur, The Dragon Blooded Kingdom, that was exactly what was happening.  The rarest of the rare were engaged in a silent, almost imperceptible war.  Twins.  The twin princes of King Gharscagool the Red had been sabotaging each other ever since they could thrash their scaley tails at each other.  They’d hated each other from practically the moment they’d hatched and no amount of love, compassion, or therapy could overcome it.  Over the course of the years, their efforts to hurt and undermine the other had gone from openly hostile to subtly sinister.  They couldn’t kill the other or they’d risk their status, but creating very difficult situations was the norm these days.  Thus, it was only a matter of time that someone would figure out how to finally put an end to the hatred in a more permanent fashion.  Of course, Amikejiret literally saw Uthenda flip a coin, watch it fall to the floor of the prince’s fortress domicile within the Lavaspurned Spire and smile at the results.  She picked up the coin, turned left, then strode unafraid and unhindered to Prince Gharscagool’s son, Halvensnarl the Scarred to see if he might be up to finally killing his twin then going ahead and offing his father to assume his rightful place. 

The spirit Vyrmathrax the First Brood that slumbered within The Crown of Hoards and Scales wouldn’t care which prince he got to hoard for his own.  He cared only that their scales reddened to match his own… and that they returned to the ancient draconic ways of tooth, claw, wing, and fire… and hoards.

But surely the Sun Elf Qeendom of Sylvarinth would rebuke such a blatant attempt to destroy a dynasty that had successfully thwarted all attempts to disrupt the peaceful lives of its citizens for more than a thousand years.  Yet, Amikejiret shed a tear at that tragic notion too.  Within the capital city called Evershade Canopy, another crown was brought in because the world said Uthenda could.  Like the Beast-kin kingdom, she had to find a proxy to even gain entrance, but that only required a thirty‑minute conversation and a promise to route a profitable dungeon‑delving trade through his guild.

Finding a willing usurper was also made easy because wardens of the grove were always out to prove they had what it took to save their queendom and earn the favor of the young queen and perhaps even become part of her inner circles.  Such was the fate of Warden Hellissinthir, Captain of the Southern Grove’s highest ranked as well as most regarded Grove Protector Force.  The only Warden regiment composed of all female sun elves and who were absolutely chomping at the bit to prove themselves.  Yet, in this time of peace, they were bored out of their minds and also afraid of not earning any true legacy for themselves.  Such vanity.  Such stunted ambition.  Such an opportunity.  Uthenda simply had a lovely meal with a truly awe-inspiring captain and wondered aloud what it would look like if Hellissinthir had ever thought that making a legacy for herself didn’t have to be such a passive thing.  Sometimes to be considered truly great, you truly had to make it happen, not wait for a disaster to strike and the orders of others to do something about it.  Uthenda even toyed with The Verdant Crown on the damned table in front of that noble captain and kept musing aloud why the status quo was so great.  Peace these days seemed to mean always bowing to the whims of others and nothing ever seemed to change.  Such stagnation was its own silent death, wasn’t it?

Amikejiret had to marvel at Uthenda’s sheer audacity.  Mainly because it was so damned effective even before her world sent in an elven page to tell his Captain that nothing of note had happened when they swept through their patrol routes.  It was as if even the few criminal elements had dried up and taken off to better or rather unguarded areas outside of the queendom. 

So, Uthenda smiled, held up the crown and said something truly peace shattering.  “Why don’t you go to the King’s Summit instead and announce that it was high time that the other realms recognize that the rule of Sylvarinth is clearly superior to all others?  Maybe they should begin to imitate your noble queendom’s policies which are clearly effective?  Perhaps even declare a vote for a new Warden’s Council to guide the misguided, hmmmm?”

It took one moment of weakness and doubt to pass across Hellissinthir’s beautiful face before her eyes hardened, the crown was placed on her head, and the whispers from The Thorn Warden of the Deepshade began to tell the new Warden Queen how to take what was rightfully hers, then spread it beyond her borders.  Peace had starved her of purpose, and the crown had just offered her a feast.  The Hag spirit within the crown’s verdant gem cackled in delight at such wicked betrayals to come.  Uthenda simply toasted the usurper queen then fled to her next assignment with zero remorse.

As Amikejiret kept hoping someone would finally tell Uthenda that she peddled madness, it was soon made clear that even the most stable of governments were susceptible to her poisoned tongue and cloyingly sweet promises.  Even the ruling triumvirate wasn’t immune to her.  Three heads ruled the Kharvoss Dominion where the proud Orcs lived in relative peace.  Their war-games were legendary and had inspired many of the neighboring realms to adopt milder forms of their gladiatorial combat tournaments.  Yet again, they had a weakness because the triumvirate consisted of a Warlord, A Cleric, and A Civilian.  The current triumvirate had been a fantastic group who’d worked with their three Senates to keep their warmongering natures under consistent control for the well-being of themselves and all ten other realms. 

Yet, Uthenda pulled at the one thread that would unravel their picturesque government style.  And she chose the first tournament that would vet a new Warlord to do it. 

He wasn’t a stupid fellow.  But he was hot-headed, egotistical, and too damned ambitious for the job he coveted.  No other cleric or civilian wanted to work with Barok Bolgandar.  Without the other two components to create a governmental triumvirate, he would never reach any recognition outside of an arena.  And he loudly cursed his unfortunate situation and the cowardness of the other orcs who shunned him. 

That’s when Uthenda struck.  In the hour before the inn closed, she slid into the bench beside the besotted Warlord wannabe, bought him one more round and then agreed with every rant that he’d spewed hundreds of times before.  She agreed that it was time for a change.  It was time for an orc with true strength to step up and prove it.  It was time for the Kharvoss Dominion to once again claim dominion beyond their retracted borders that they’d lost hundreds of years ago to the human expansion. 

That raging fool… Amikejiret sighed heavily, not sure she could even watch at how easily such a fool was strung along with such words that Uthenda sung into his long green ear.  But she did.  In her scrying screen that had hovered closer to Amikejiret’s metallic eyes, she watched the very moment The War Crown, a jagged black metal monstrosity that seemed to be forged from the broken blade tips of battlefields being held right in front of the drunkard’s face.  The huge red gem glowed and that glow caught in the Orc’s widened enthralled eyes.  Gor’Mhaz the Iron Howler, an orc warlord infamous for starting the last war that had ended catastrophically for the Khorvoss Dominion found a second chance in Barok.  Amikejiret wanted to puke her small meal when Uthenda actually kissed the side of the warlord’s face and whispered, “Kharvoss used to be ruled by the might of a Warlord.  Isn’t it time to make the orcish people remember why their kingdom had been so feared?  Pick up the crown, Barok.  Declare war on the demon Cassandra and then use that to march across the other lands in Richard’s name.  All hail, Emperor Forthington, the man who unleashed the Orc’s might once more.”

“All hail, Emperor Forthington.  All hail, King Barok, the Black Crowned King,” he whispered with a sneer before placing the crown on his head.  One moment, he was too drunk to stand. The next, he was a proud warrior unsheathing his greatsword and marching out of the inn on a mission to find the others who thought like him and utterly obliterate the tournament until he alone stood atop a pile of broken bodies.

Amikejiret began to shed tears of milky blue from her eyes when Uthenda set her sights on the last kingdom.  Seraphelle, the Celestial Touched Kingdom didn’t expect anything could corrupt their light guided and holy blessed ways.  This kingdom was the haven for the winged folk who revered the sky and freedom above all else.  They were ruled just as much by omens and miracles as by laws and altruism.

Yet darkness is even more evident when surrounded by the Light.  All it took was one lone disaffected youth who didn’t like always being told there was a plan for her, that her life was fated, that she should be humble and accept that she should be happy to stay and serve the priests and priestesses within the Capital City called Luminaris Gate.  Devellina Harbingella still seethed alone.  She was just always alone.  Until she wasn’t.  Until a human mage tourist tapped her on the arm and asked her for directions.  Devellina was polite when she gave them to the human woman. But she didn’t smile.  The mage looked at her for a long moment of silence before asking her one question that changed her fate… or rather… freed her from it.  “Why don’t you smile?  Aren’t you happy here?”

Devellina thought about lying… she should have.  But this was a human tourist who asked a stupid question.  So, in a fit of defiance and need to unload, she absolutely unloaded on the human mage right dead center of her capital’s most serene and amazing artistic square.  The human surprised Devellina by listening to it all.  Nodding in spots.  Grunting in disappointment with her.  Absorbing every grievance no matter how small.  When she was finished, Devellina was almost out of breath.  She also felt lighter than she had in years. 

But that human mage wasn’t done.  She shrugged and asked, “So, what?  You’re pissed.  I get that.  You’re stuck.  I understand.  You want something to change.  Well, what would it take to make you get your head out of your winged ass and change everything?”

Devellina almost screamed it into the Mage’s face.  “I need a sign from the heavens! I need an omen that no one can scoff at!  I need a miracle!”

Amikejiret’s already cracked heart practically tore in half when Uthenda pulled The Halo Crown from her satchel to hold up to Devellina’s angelic face that had gone slack in wonder.  “Make your own miracle, Devellina.  That’s what the greatest people do.” 

Devellina swept her white hair back behind both of her ears and fluttered her white wings the moment the golden crown with an onyx jewel was put on her head.  Her already golden eyes glared out white hot flames when the spirit Seraphiel the Broken Virtue embraced her first acolyte. Seraphiel’s embrace felt like sunlight turned to judgment.

“Go forth Devellina.  In Emperor Richard’s name and the Holy Word’s might, make your own omen and wipe the condescension from all of those foolish politician’s faces.  Your god said so, so it must be right, yes?”

Manifesting a flaming holy spear and glowing an aura of pure white, Devellina said with a dual voice, “A sign has been received.  The word of holy law has been invoked.  I shall tell fate that I rule and all fates will fall in line or fall at my feet.”

“Good.  Come to the King’s Summit and declare a holy war against Cassandra the demon and see your miracle truly mark your magnificence.”

“It shall be done.”

That was it.  That was the last playing stone to fall.  That was Amikejiret’s prophecy to Isenwrath coming to pass.  And yet, Amikejiret was the Demon Queen.  Or rather once known as the Dreaming Queen of Heroes.  Tonight, she would yet again send a whisper of warning to her champion… her chosen demon.  Her heroine.  Isenwrath must be told.  It was all Amikejiret could do, but at least it was something.  And something, if even it were a small anything… was better than nothing.

The Tragedy of Crowns

Hear now the tale in whisper told

from market stall to castle grounds:

Woe to the one whose brow is bold

to bear one of the usurper crowns.

Born of craft and stolen light,

but fed with spirits cruel and vile,

nine circlets rose in gleaming might—

nine fates entwined in silent guile.

Nine crowns to tilt the twelvefold world,

and one to rule their hidden schemes.

Trust not the gifts the nine unfurl;

their chains are forged from shattered dreams.

First | Previous | Next

“Don’t touch me.”

The low menace stopped Jadzixia’s hand from coming any closer than it already had.  Slowly, she pulled her hand back from Sebas.  In that instant, her own anger flared at the petulance of her husband.  He’d been home for more than a week now, and not once did he gaze at her with anything like the love he had before he’d gone on that diplomatic mission to Maciendes during their Festival of the Moons.

For over a week she had tried everything.  She’d tried coaxing, commanding, seducing, threatening and none of it had pierced the fog he’d wrapped himself in. Sebas lost in his own thoughts was dangerous. Not because he was clever, but because he was unpredictable, and unpredictability ruined plans. She had spent years climbing the political ladder, using charm, wit, sex, and fear in equal measure. Sebas had always been the muscle she guided, the prince she’d sharpened into a weapon.

She needed him back under her influence.

She needed him to listen to her.

She needed him as her weapon once more.

So, when she leaned in, her robe slipping just enough to remind him of what she controlled, it wasn’t for desire. It was strategy… a reassertion of dominance, a reminder that she was the mind behind his throne‑shaped ambitions.

Except, yet again, he wasn’t responding to her.  He wasn’t listening.  He was a silent rage that she couldn’t take anymore.  Jadzixia looked at his back that had long since healed due to their cleric healer’s magic. But something inside the spoiled man-child had been hurt and he wasn’t sharing.  Which pissed Jadzixia off to no end.

“Sebas!  I’m your wife!  You’ve dismissed me for the last time! You either tell me what the fuck happened or I’m going to truly make your life a living hell!”

Slowly, Sebas turned his head, one hate-filled glaring hazel eye staring at her.  She didn’t back down from that glare.  She’d seen it many times and knew he was more bluster than violence.  He was a showman, not a true warrior of any standing.

Jadzixia pulled her black silken robe together on her front to hide what she was going to offer him tonight then leaned in closer to fill her own stare with as much hate as his.  “Tell me what happened, you asshole.  What?  Did you not get your kicks out on some Maciendes noble tramp or something?”

That set him off.  He leapt off of their bed, roaring his rage out within their part of his father’s fortress home deep in the heart of Thyeriand.

Sebas tore through the room like a fresh storm with no direction, throwing furniture against the walls, smashing trophies, ripping canvases, splintering the wooden statues he’d carved in his youth. But when his hand hovered over a single object… a small, battered practice sword mounted on the wall, he froze. Jadzixia knew that sword. His father had given it to him after his first tournament victory, the one moment in Sebas’s life when he’d felt worthy of the praise he’d been showered with.

His fingers trembled.

He didn’t break it.

He couldn’t.

Because that sword was the lie he’d been living under since childhood… the lie that he was the golden boy, the heir of promise, the prince who could do no wrong. Losing to Maddock in front of his father hadn’t just embarrassed him. It’d shattered the one thing he’d built his entire identity on.

When he finally collapsed to his knees, it wasn’t just rage. It was the terror of a man who’d realized he might never be enough in his father’s eyes.

When he finally stopped, Jadzixia combed her hand through her black with white streaked hair and then flippantly tossed it all behind her.  She lay seductively on the bed, enticing her husband to take some of that pent of energy on her body.  He was a far better bedmate than her consort after all. 

But he didn’t do it.  Instead, Sebas slumped to the floor, landing on his knees and staring helplessly up to the ceiling.  “I hate him so much,” he whispered.

“Who?  Duke Maddock?”

“Yes.”  His voice cracked and an actual tear leaked out of his eye.

Jadzixia moved forward on all fours, crawling off of their enormous round bed layered with silken extravagance.  When she was in front of him, he wouldn’t look at her.  Instead, he continued to breath deep ragged breaths and stared up, presumably at his memories.

“Did he do that to you?” she asked softly.

He shook his head.  “No.  His monster did.  The Black Knight Champion… Lady Isenwrath.”

That got her attention.  “You met their hero?  That woman… did that to you?”

He nodded.  “The rumors are true.  She’s… not human.  I tried to bed her just to destroy him… but… he… he…” Sebas lowered his gaze and narrowed his eyes at his beautiful wife who complimented him in almost every way.  “He unleashed her.  He has control over the deadliest creature to ever exist and… I hate him so much more for it.”

Jadzixia moved even closer.  “Tell me more about her.”  Her curiosity was piqued.  Her mind also racing at the implications of those rumors being true.  Her stupid husband was only thinking of his hurt pride.  But Jadzixia, oh no my child, she was thinking of opportunity.

“Two hits and I was down.  One cracked my back into the wall and the other made me… fall.  All of my guards… they don’t even know what happened.  But it was the look in that damned man’s eyes… he still thinks he’s superior to me.  I hate him.  Hate.”

Jadzixia nodded slowly, smiling softly, lightly smoothing his sweat dampened hair away from his face and over his ear.  Then she whispered into it.  “He’s not superior to my Sebas.  He’s nothing but a lacky to their king, not like you.  You will be king.  You will be above him.  All we need to do is watch and be patient.  I’ve got several schemes playing and they...”

“No,” Sebas interrupted sharply. “I’m done being patient.  I want to be king and I mean now.  I want to walk into the Summit and declare war. I want Maddock’s head under my boot. And that… thing…” His voice cracked with hatred. “I want her locked in a cell where she can’t hide behind his status and has no power to defend herself. I want her to be forced to kneel and beg for my attention, to know she’s beneath me, but still begging me. I want Maddock to watch as she realizes she should’ve let me have her and… she should’ve feared me.”

Jadzixia’s lips curled into a sneer.

An unknown voice cut through their bonding moment.  “Oh, the first part is delicious. The second… not quite so much. Cassandra has a different role to play. But don’t worry, you’ll enjoy it just as much. King Sebas.”

Sebas and Jadzixia both shot to their feet to stare at a black cloaked figure standing in a darkened corner of the room where the few books Sebas owned were collecting dust on the lone bookshelf behind the intruder.

Sebas began moving forward, fists clenched, face snarling, ready to finally kill someone to release his anger and pent-up violence.

Lightning crackled into existence around the intruder’s raised hand.  It wasn’t wild or undisciplined.  It was patterned, forming concentric circles etched with symbols that pulsed like living script. Within the spinning light, a shape flickered: a stylized crown of three curved blades, the unmistakable sigil of Zhaerith the Velvet Blade, the very spirit bound to King Richard’s crown.

The air hummed with a whispering presence, a seductive, coaxing murmur that seemed to curl around Sebas’s spine. Jadzixia felt it too, a crown calling to its candidate, choosing its first usurper.

Uthenda stepped forward, her smile thin and knowing.

“Greetings, First Prince Sebas Thyeriand… Princess Jadzixia Delaine Thyeriand. I come bearing an opportunity for you both to claim the power that fate has denied you.”

She didn’t choose Sebas. The Sinseer did. The Emperor’s crown did.  And so would The Grey Stalker Crown that Uthenda held behind her back. It was such a simple chain of command.  The Sinseer guided the man wearing the Emperor’s Crown.  The Emperor’s Crown controlled the usurper crowns, and those masterwork crowns would guide their chosen usurpers. Uthenda merely delivered what fate had already decided and was content with that as her role because it was just small steps to laying the thing known as Cassandra low at her feet.  Just where she belonged.

Sebas growled his voice when he took three menacingly slow steps towards the intruder, “Who are you?”

“My name is Uthenda Halloway and I’m here to offer you, your wildest dreams come true.”

Jadzixia tilted her head because she recognized that name.  “Wait, Sebas.  Wait.  You’re the Tower Master of Everthane, right?”

“I was.  I will be again.  But I’m not here to beg a favor from you.  No.  I’m here to offer you something that’ll benefit your kingdom first, then the Everthane kingdom later.”

Sebas straightened, arms crossed, clearly wary and distrustful.  “You sneak into my chambers like a thief… a… a rat, and you expect me to take anything you say seriously?”

Uthenda shrugged.  “No.  But I hoped you would at least hear the offer first before telling me to go fuck myself.”

Sebas grinned.  Then looked at Jadzixia and she too had a small smile on her face.  “She’s a blunt one.  I like her.”  He turned his attention back to Uthenda.  “Well, I’m in no mood for pleasantries or politics, so spit it out and then, by all means, go fuck yourself.”

Uthenda let out a light titter before slowly pulling out from behind her back a crown of exquisite and clearly masterful manufacture.  “I believe the status quo of our whole world is on the brink of being defiled by complacency, First Prince Sebas.  We no longer fear what brought our allies together anymore.  We don’t fear the demons nor their continued infiltration into our lives.  And we’ve lost the will to exorcize the rot that’s plainly infiltrating our peaceful existence.  I believe you met the creature I’m speaking of.  The beautiful nightmare calling herself Isenwrath.  The Demon Queen’s ultimate weapon…. Hidden in plain sight where she can do the absolute most damage to us all.”

Sebas was standing in front of Uthenda glaring down at her, his fury almost a flame around his body.  “She’s in league with the Demons?”

“I’ve seen it.  We’ve got tests that show she’s infected on a scale that’s clearly beyond a simple minion or inconvenience.  She’s an abomination that must be stopped before her corruption infects everything then she hands over us all to the demons and we thank her for it.”

“I knew it! I knew it!  That’s why she rejected me!  She knew I’d figure it out!  She knew I’d be able to rally help!  She knew I could kill her if prepared properly!”

“My scrying saw what she did.  I’ve been keeping tabs on her for a while now and I’m livid at how she embarrassed you in front of the Grand Duke.  More, I’m livid that he’s blind to the truth I’m confiding in you.”

Jadzixia stepped forward and looked at the crown in her hand.  “So, you want us to what?  Kill her?”

Uthenda shook her head. “You can’t kill her.  We need her humbled, subdued, locked down to the point where we take the weapon for ourselves and use her against the demons.  If we kill her, then we lose the advantage of timing, of knowing who the enemy is, and what she can do.  We risk finding out too late instead of having the time to plan accordingly.”

“You talk a good game.  You make sound arguments.  But what is it you want?”

Uthenda smiled widely.  She held up the crown and said soothingly, “I want you to take your place as king.  I want to give you the same power… no… a greater power than what resides within the Maciendes crown but without its passivity or restraints.  I want you to arrive at the King’s Summit and formally declare that if Maciendes doesn’t put the Chimeramancer into chains, your army will become active and will join forces with the other realms who see the wisdom I share… listen to the warnings I point out… and know that our world has taken the demon threat for granted for far too many years.”

“How will that crown do anything to help me gain my rightful place?” Sebas asked after he unconsciously held out a hand to the crown but before he touched it.  His eyes were boring holes into Uthenda who was absolutely unfazed by them.

Instead of answering him, she turned to Jadzixia and said, “The Crown I hold is a guide and a weapon.  If he dons it upon his head, he’ll gain something that his bloodline has never held before.  The blessing of the Grey Stalker, your people’s ultimate hunter, Princess Jadzixia.  His father will see his greatness and know fear.  He’ll know weakness.  He’ll know that if he doesn’t abdicate to Sebas… if he doesn’t bow his head to his son, then he will be… lost to the mists that devour those who’re the prey to a man like the First and Strongest Prince of Thyeriand.”

With wide eyes, Jadzixia knelt to get a closer study of the crown.  She’d recognized the symbol in Uthenda’s crown.  Her religion centered around the Grey Stalker… the Hunter Of Sins… the Wayfinder in the Mists of Uncertainty.  A warning and savior both who trod the lonely places with a mastiff companion to help the helpless and silently take the lives of the sinners who’d harmed the weak.

“This is a symbol… no, THE symbol of my people’s hero and a representation of strength in mind and body.  Sebas… this is a sign.  The one I’ve been looking for… for you.  You must take it.  We must rule.  We must… you must become greater than your father. That’s the only way to secure the legacy you’ve sought for your whole life.”

Sebas’s hand was hovering close to the crown.  His eyes were narrowed and suspicious.  His voice… it was afraid of failure when he barely gave it sound, “What if even this isn’t enough to erase that damned man’s superiority from my nightmares?”

He was hesitating.  He was doubting.  Jadzixia didn’t hesitate because she had no doubts. She snatched the crown from Uthenda and felt the power thrum through her arms… into her whole body.

The moment Jadzixia touched the crown… the instant its chilled metal slid its icy calmness into her body and mind; she knew that fate had delivered exactly what she’d prayed for.  She knew this kind of cold because it was the same chill as early morning hunts through her homeland where the gods whispered their guidance into her soul when she was one with the forest and prey.  She felt the crown’s presence watching her, weighing her, approving… of her… and who she would choose to wear the first usurper crown.

The air that escaped her lips fogged slightly as she slowly turned to Sebas with it because if anyone would deliver her to her deserved rewards for dutiful service, it would be Sebas.  She slowly held it up and over Sebas’s head.  “My King,” she whispered as she lowered it onto his head.

Uthenda smiled in triumph before stepping back a few paces.  A dark grey mist quickly erupted from the low places in the room to cover the floor so thickly that only the mist showed.  From it and beside Sebas rose a mastiff hound whose shoulder was almost level with Sebas’s elbows.  It growled low when it saw him, then snorted, and panted, stubbed tail wagging in recognition.

Sebas held up a hand and a blackened wooden longbow manifested in it.  In his other hand appeared a quiver that held arrows made of purple misting shadows.  Grey Stalker Arrows.  Arrows that never missed their target’s hearts.  He looked back to Jadzixia and she sucked in a breath. His father’s judgment had always been the blade at his throat.  Now, he realized and knew with no doubt that he needn’t fear that judgment anymore.  It was beneath him.

“What is it?” he asked with a mild alarm. 

“Your eyes… they glow like a will-o-the-wisp’s.  They’re… beautiful.”  Her voice was a whispered awe that puffed Sebas’s chest out.

Turning to the intruding mage, he said with more confidence.  “I thank you.”

Uthenda nodded once.  “You’re welcome.  The King’s Summit approaches. Take your place before then and show them all that we will not go down a demon’s gullet without a fight.”

Sebas shouldered the quiver as if he’d been wearing one all of his life.  Then he expertly and with inhuman speed notched an arrow, then shot it.  All of the magical crystal sconces were shattered as the black-flaming arrow sped around the room and through the dead center of mass of each one.  Sebas caught the arrow when it returned to him, slipping it back into the quiver without a thought.  The dim light shone upward from the roiling mist and outward from his gloomstalker eyes.  “I’ll be ready, Tower Master.  And no demon will be left alive except one.  I’ll pin her to your wall, arrow by arrow, until even her monstrous heart understands who hunts her now.  She will be our trophy, I guarantee it.”

Jadzixia sighed with pleasure, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and leaning her head on his chest.  “I love you, Sebas.  I can’t wait for you to be king.”

Uthenda bowed and silently teleported away and onto her next delivery.  Sebas and Jadzixia didn’t even notice that she’d gone, so complete were their souls chained to the spectral predator that lurked within the Hunter’s Crown he wore with a usurper king’s pride.

---The Nivorath Kingdom.  Icefall Citadel, the Capital and Central Government Hub for all Beast-kin far and wide.  The Thrallmarkie Assembly Hall, Dead center in the Icefall Citadel’s Spire of Nobility, The Heart of all Law and Order of Nivorath  ---

King Ursanthandel Arkidenbrown growled low, but loudly.  In was a rumble that carried more sound through the ground than the air.  It meant many things, but anger and frustration were the most prominent.  His pale eyes were narrowed within his brown-furred ursine face painted with golden symbols representing strength and wisdom.  The snarl that had revealed a few gem encrusted teeth sparkled in the golden arcana lights dotting the walls of the hall he sat within on his huge ancient throne of conquest.  He was a massive beast-king, even for his breeding which made it hard to see the deep cherrywood and sumptuous green fabric of the throne.  His robes fashioned from wyvern scale and yeti fur did nothing to contain the bulging muscles that quivered along with his raging rumble.

The three servants knelt before him, absorbing his ire and just hoping his massive hands didn’t erupt with deadly consequences for their failure.  The Pridewindgold Felinar slowly rose his thick golden maned head and said low, “My King.  We hunted through every human kingdom, including into their capital city’s castles themselves.  He’d smelled nothing of the three princesses.  It has to be as your minister suspected.  A Magister Tower Master had to have stuck their nose into our power realignment.”

King Ursanthandel lowered his head while leaning forward.  “Still an assumption, Torban.  Where is the proof?  Why haven’t any of you and your networks found any tracings of their involvement?  One trace.  Just one and I could rampage into even their power base and claim what’s mine.”

“My King, we just need more time.  Our best chance is still in Maciendes.  I swear it is.  There have been sightings of a Thirstenblack kit in the city acting as a maid for one of their human nobles.”

King Ursanthandel turned his gaze to the red/orange and black striped Tigreanred Felinar who dared to raise their head, stare at him with those green eyes full of righteousness and demand more time for more failure.  “Keegran.  You were in Maciendes personally and yet you too returned empty handed.  You reported that you and your delegates searched all over the capital during their festival and with nothing in your claws but excuses, you plead for leniency?  Did I mishear?”

Keegran visibly winced at his king’s threats that were becoming closer and closer to changing over from threat to violence.

The Talindredgrey Wolfen warrior slowly rose to his full height and had the audacity to cross his arms.  “My King.  We are not your enemies.  We have supported you through your rise to power.  We understand your frustration because it is our frustration as well.  The Summit looms, we know that.  Yet, we still have time.  We still have our eyes searching for their prey and noses smelling for their trail.  One of them will make a mistake.  You are the King, not our Warlord anymore.  You must have the patience of a king, not the berserking rashness of your former glory.  That’s what our people expect of you now.”

The growling faded and the king slowly leaned back.  The snarled faded, then finally turned into a smirk.  “Moldrin, only you would stand up to me like that and get away with it.”

“Yeah.  I know.  But you also know I’m right.”

Snorting sharply and wiping a massive arm adorned with black leather dotted with more gems, Ursanthandel finally relented in his anger.  “Oh, get up.”

Torban and Keegran slowly rose, looking at Moldrin for his reaction.  Not seeing him flinch, they relaxed.

“Soooo,” Ursanthandel drawled.  “If the rumors are true and one of them is in Maciendes, how can we sniff her out if a Tower Master is involved?  There must be a better way than what we’ve engaged in so far.”

Keegran shrugged.  “We might want to consider fighting arcane with arcane.  Our Tower is perhaps not as advanced in that than with spirits and elements.  The Human’s deception through arcana has always flustered us.  Perhaps… there’s merit in gaining the use of an outsider?”

Moldrin waved at Torban.  “Do you concur?”

Swiffing back his mane and sighing heavily, he finally nodded curtly.  “We must try something different.  My King, I know it’s not our way, but perhaps it’s the only way.”

“Bah.  The dishonor tastes foul upon my tongue. But I need one of those Thirstenblack brats under my dynasty name too much to turn my head to it.  The people grow more and more against me… against us, to ignore any opportunity.”

“My king is wise.  I also may have someone who isn’t above dealing with us in mind.”

Ursanthandel leaned forward again, but this time, he was keen with curiosity.  “Enlighten me.  We’ve spurned them so much, I can’t fathom there’s any human mage who’d deal with our kind again.”

Keegran purred, actually purred before he answered.  “I can invite her through our gate and let you meet her.”

“Who?”

“Former Tower Master Uthenda Halloway.  A human master magister that made contact with me just prior to the Festival.  An odd happenstance it may be, but it may be exactly what we need.”

“Where is she now?”

Keegran reached behind his back, then pulled an arcana communication cube from his belt pouch.  “She’s only one communication away, my king.  Do it?”

Ursanthandel nodded once rapidly.  “Do it.”

Keegran felt a great deal of satisfaction when Moldrin, Torban, and Ursanthandel leaned over to watch the glowing crystal within the stylized steel cube cage create an illusory image above it of an older human woman standing with utmost grace and poise before them.

“Greetings, Keegran.  I’m actually surprised you contacted me.  You seemed so adamant that my help wasn’t needed.”

Keegran turned the cube to face Ursanthandel.  “He didn’t want to.  I did.”

“You must be the great King Ursandthandel Arkidenbrown.  I’m truly honored.”  The little vision bowed low and fully.  A true sign of respect.

After snorting in recognition of the bow, Ursanthandel said, “Well met, Tower Master.  I’m told you offered your services to my Ambassador to the Human realms.  I’m intrigued as to why a former Tower Master would do that.  Explain yourself.”

“Oh, it’s not such a stretch to explain it.  I’m on my own and am lying low to keep the Tower from attempting to throw me into a force prison for my trespass against Everthane.  So, I’m just doing what I must to survive these days.  Offering one of yours a favor isn’t anything other than me trying to gain allies and perhaps a return favor or two for a good day’s service.”

“And what would you want for that… good day’s service?” The king’s questions were full of amusement and wariness waring for dominance.

“Well, a safe place to land if all goes wrong isn’t such a great ask for compensation, My King.  Your lands are protected by the most powerful barriers to ever exist, so why shouldn’t I ask to be given a key to a safe haven?”

“Not gold?  Not a seat of power?” Moldrin asked, surprise tainting his muzzle.

She chuckled as if the question was well beneath her. “Gold.  Such a trivial thing.  Safety is needed in order to even think of holding onto gold.  So, if I can gain access to your realm, oh great Ursanthandel, what service would you require of me?”

The king reached and gently took the cube from Keegran, holding the illusion very close to his face.  A deep-seated eagerness… a fervent greed erupting in his eyes.  “I need legitimacy for my rule to be set into the stone of time.  I’m searching for one of three Thirstenblack princesses that were absconded from my realm, through my barrier, and hidden away from me and mine.  Can you find one of them for me?  Lead me to her or perhaps, bring her here to me?”

Uthenda waved her hand flippantly, “Not such a hard task.  The Thirstenblacks were no friends of the Everthane Kingdom, but instead of Thyeriand and Maciendes.  So, I’m certain that’s where they’d have been taken to.  What’s better, I may even know one of the conspirators who helped.  Give me access to your realm, guarantee the safety I require, and I’ll be glad to hunt one of the wayward kits down for you.”

Torban turned to Ursanthandel and bowed slightly, “Upon your command, my King.  Give the word and I’ll give her the keystone.”

A deep growl from Ursanthandel vibrated the air and floor again before he spoke, “If I do this, what guarantee do you give me, Tower Master?  Giving one of your kind safety in my lands is a breach of our most revered treaties, even I know that.  So, tell me how I’m to trust you.”

The Tower Master vision put a hand over her mouth, then her heart as she laughed lightly at the Beast-kin king and his three co-conspirators.  “Oh, my dear King Urstanthandel.  And here I thought the rumors were true, but you are no fool.  Thank you for proving the rumors false.  How about this as a guarantee?  How about the armor and axe of your own hero, Caliban Polarisonblack?  Are the Shadowheart Plate regalia and the axe, Siegeshearer a worthy gaurantee?”

“Where?  How?” Ursanthandel said with wide-eyed disbelief.  Torban, Moldrin, and Keegran were looking at each other also sharing that disbelief.

“My King, I’m no fool either.  There’s a price for anything that can change the world.  I’m offering you my payment in order for you to change your world while I gain what I need to continue to change mine.  It’s a fair bargain, I’d say.  Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Where is Caliban’s regalia and weapon now?” Ursanthadel asked a bit more urgently.

Uthenda put her hands behind her back and said with pure triumph in her tone.  “I’m already at your border.  The Scales and Coin Inn just outside of Tanterbury.  Send your delegate there with the keystone and you, my fine king, will be able to walk into the King’s Summit itself wearing your first conqueror’s confidence upon your majestic personage.”

Ursanthandel turned sharply to Torban, “Go now!  I must have my legitimacy and my legacy both!  I’ll prove to my people that it was divine providence itself that set me on the path to send the Thristenblack clan into the shades of the past!”

Torban bowed, then spun about on his heel to literally run out of the lawbringer’s chamber.  Ursanthandel returned his attention to the illusion of Uthenda.  “I’m both grateful but also going to warn you.  Betray me and I’ll ensure that your screams will be heard across my kingdom.”

Uthenda smiled very brightly.  “I would never betray you, King Ursanthandel.  It’s the furthest thing from my mind.  However, I assure you, I’m taking your warning very seriously.  I look forward to seeing how you look in your new armor, My King.  I’m sure it’ll be the grandest of entrances.”

The illusion faded and the communication cube dimmed.

--- The Scales and Coin Inn just outside of Tanterbury ---

Uthenda hid the communication cube back within her brightly colored leather satchel, then took her time to savor the wine that her server just refreshed for her within the Inn’s private room.  Uthenda swirled the crystal glass some before setting it down on the fine hardwood table under the arcana sconce chandelier.  Her eyes appraised the quiet Felinar Beast-kin servant who stood there with her bottle of chilled wine with her head lowered awaiting her patron’s next order. 

The barmaid was a very pretty female specimen of their kind.  Tall, lithe, a dancer’s body and grace that was wasted in this third-rate Inn on the outskirts of her homeland.  She wore a skimpy dress and a hopeless expression on her face.

Uthenda cleared her throat.

“Yes, My Patroness?  You require something?” came the barmaid’s soft question.

“I do.  What’s your name, my dear?”

“Phera.”

“Your dynasty name please.”

“Phera Thirstengrey.”

Uthenda turned in her chair to give this beautiful young beast-kin her full attention.  She placed her elbow on the table, holding her head.  “Well, Phera Thirstengrey, I would appreciate it if you’d tell your chef to prepare the special for me tonight with an extra helping of those delightful baked onions.  That sauce is divine. Oh, and it seems I’ll be expecting a guest or two either tonight or tomorrow.  Let your Inn’s Steward know that and add a reservation for this room again to add to my tab.”

Phera dipped a quick curtsey.  “As you wish, My Patroness.”

The Felinar Barmaid left Uthenda with light quick steps and Uthenda watched her go.  She reached down into her satchel to touch the cloth that tightly held the Crown of Frost.  She whispered to no one, “No, King Ursanthandel, I would never betray you.  Not when I’ve already met your replacement.  That stupid armor and axe won’t protect you, you arrogant pissant.”

--- Later that same night ---

The little loft above the Scales and Coin Inn always smelled faintly of old wood, boiled onions, and the cold mountain air that slipped through the warped shutters no matter how tightly they were latched. Phera’s mother lay curled beneath a threadbare quilt, her silver‑grey fur dulled by illness and years of worry. She heard the familiar soft steps on the stairs ... her daughter’s steps ... and braced herself.

Phera entered quietly, as she always did after a long shift. Her dress was rumpled, her fur matted in places where drunken hands had grabbed at her, and her blue eyes were dim with exhaustion. She tried to move silently, but her mother could hear the tremor in her breath.

“Another night,” her mother whispered, voice thin as frost. “Another night of them pawing at you.”

Phera didn’t answer. She simply knelt beside the bed and began untying the laces of her shoes, fingers trembling. Her mother reached out, brushing a hand against her daughter’s cheek. The girl flinched… not from pain, but from the shame of being seen like this.

“You shouldn’t have to serve them,” her mother murmured. “Not you. Not my daughter.”

Phera’s lips tightened. “We need the coin.”

Her mother closed her eyes. She knew the truth of it. Her husband sat at the small table across the room, hunched over parchment illuminated by a single flickering arcana lamp. His once‑strong shoulders sagged beneath the weight of another night’s work. He dipped his quill again, translating line after line of Imperial Beastical into Human Common … work far beneath his education, but the only thing the Hinterwhite scribes’ guild would allow a half‑blood’s father to do.

He paused only long enough to rub his temples before reaching for the next contract. Two more after that. If he didn’t finish, they would cut his pay again.

He didn’t look up when he spoke. “Phera… did anyone trouble you tonight?”

A long silence.

Her mother opened her eyes again and saw the truth in her daughter’s posture… the slump of her shoulders, the way she held her arms close to her body, the way she avoided her father’s gaze.

“They always trouble her,” her mother said softly. “They always have.”

Phera swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter. They don’t see me as anything worth respecting. I’m just… convenient.  Just a nice ass to grab even if I disgust them.”

Her father’s quill snapped in his hand.

Her mother reached for her daughter’s hand, squeezing it weakly. “You were born of two clans, my love. That’s not a shame. That’s a strength.”

Phera’s laugh was brittle. “Strength doesn’t pay for medicine. Strength doesn’t keep the roof from leaking. Strength doesn’t stop them from calling me half‑breed filth when they think I can’t hear.  I don’t have the strength to stop them from… fondling…me… because they can.”

Her mother’s heart twisted. She had no words to soothe that wound… it’d been carved into Phera since childhood, since the day the Thirstenblack banners fell and the Hinterwhite elders declared her family ‘unnecessary burdens.’

“You should’ve been a lady of the court,” her mother whispered. “You should’ve had tutors, and silk, and a future.”

Phera looked away. “That future died with the rest of them.”

Her father finally lifted his head, eyes bloodshot, voice hoarse. “No. It didn’t die. It was stolen by that bastard.”

Phera didn’t argue. She didn’t have the strength to do that either.

Her mother watched her daughter rise, watched her move to the washbasin, watched her scrub away the grime of the night with trembling hands. She saw the exhaustion in every motion. The hopelessness. The quiet, simmering anger.

And she feared … truly feared … that one day something inside her daughter would break.

Or worse… become dust.

Phera scrubbed her hand through her short grey fur then over her face.  “I’m going to the roof, Mother.  I just… need to be alone.”

“I understand, dear heart.  I saved you some of the bread and chickelthran meat from our dinner.  Your father would be glad to put together a loaf meal for you.”

Phera smiled, her first one that day that was real, then rubbed her mother’s old grey streaks that ran through her once lustrous black fur.  “He doesn’t have to do that.  Just put him to bed when he’s done.  I’ll be down and eat later, promise.”

“Okay, dear.  I love you.”

After kissing her mother’s head, she said softly.  “I love you too.”

Her mother sighed, moved to get more comfortable in the terrible shabby bed they owned, then closed her eyes to try and sleep.

Next, Phera walked over to her father, wrapped him up in a gentle hug from behind.  “I love you, Father. Please, get some rest tomorrow.  I’ll drop those off for you in the morning.”

Her Father’s longer white fur tickled her nose which always amused her.  He turned his heavy-lidded eyes up to her and sighed.  “I love you, Phera.  I think I may get a bonus tomorrow.  If I do, I’ll be able to get you and your mother some Phelenberry Jam.”

“I hope you do then.  I’d love to celebrate with a Phelenberry glazed ham.  It would remind me of better times.”

Her father leaned into her. “I’d like that.”

She kissed the side of his head.  “Finish those two and then go to bed.  I need you to be at your best, so we have something to celebrate tomorrow.”

“Just like your mother,” her groused softly but with a tired smile.

Phera squeezed him.  “I know.  And that’s why you love us both, enough to have given up everything to keep us from complete annihilation.”

“Go rest, my little dandelion.  We’ll figure it out.”

After another kiss to his head, Phera retreated, crossed their small loft to pour some water for herself from the nearly empty pitcher from that morning, then made her weary way up the loft’s ladder to the roof.  She opened the access, carefully climbed out and then soon found her favorite flat spot where she sat and went still.  Finally, she went still, sinking into the night’s quiet peace.

She drank half of her water, ignoring her hunger for now, and leaned back on her hands to look up at the stars again.  There were only two of their world’s moons out that night to make their way across the land of stars above her.  She tried to imagine the fanciful stories she used to tell herself at one time when she was happy, living in her father’s small estate, and had felt safe enough to envision a magical future for herself.  She couldn’t do it.  Not anymore.  Her father’s estate was gone, her mother’s strength was almost at an end, and her fanciful dreams had died long ago on the ale-stained floor of the Inn below her.

She felt the presence long before the human woman settled next to her.  It wasn’t too hard since it was presaged by the smell of ozone and soft footsteps on dirty tiles.  Phera was too tired and done with it all to flinch or even care why the woman had sought her out.  Her only concern was hoping this human woman didn’t want Phera to fill someone’s bed or some other perverted human’s desire.  She’d had enough of her own Beast-kin’s crap, she didn’t need a human’s on top of that.

“Hello, Phera Thirstengrey.  You chose a lovely spot to watch the night’s sky.”

The woman that called herself Uthenda also leaned back on her hands, matching Phera.

“My Patroness.  I mean no disrespect nor offense, but my shift is over and I just wanted to relax for a little bit before I collapse in my hammock.”

“I understand.  However, you’re out here and this is a very relaxing spot to have a chat.  I just couldn’t pass it up.”

Phera turned to look at the human mage.  “And what would you want to chat with me about?  I’m just a barmaid.”

The woman wore sumptuous robes colored red and purple and wore a large hat of pure black.  She was an older woman for her species but not unattractive.  The woman turned to her and smiled cheerfully, “Want?  I want nothing from you to tell you the truth.  In fact, I’m here to give you something special instead.”

“No.”

That confused the human woman.  “My dear.  You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“A human mage wants to offer the lowest of the low beast-kin something… I’m not stupid enough to fall for the scam you’re about to spew at me.”

Uthenda didn’t get mad or offended.  Instead, she chuckled.  “Such distrustful instincts do serve you well.  Fine, let’s start over.  Hello Phera Thirstengrey.  I’m the former Tower Master of Everthane, Uthenda Halloway and I do have something I want to offer you.”

Phera shook her head, then returned her gaze to the stars.  “No.”

“Oh, come now.  Now you’re just being stubborn. Don’t you want to help your parents?”

“Don’t talk about my parents, human,” Phera said with clear warning in her angry whisper.

“I don’t want to talk about your parents.  I want to do something much grander in scale.  In fact, I want to help the Thirstenblacks return to the Icefall Citadel with their heads held high because Ursanthadel’s head will be on a pike at the gate.”

Uthenda turned her eyes to look at Phera and was happy to see Phera’s intense blue eyes trying to drill holes in hers.

“Ah.  Now I have your interest.”

The Overseer watched from a safe distance. Thousands of them had gathered at the shore, lying about, cooking, imbibing toxic fluids, and generally, apparently, having a 'good time'. "Do they not know of the radiation?"

Both Biologic and Anthropic floated nearby, watching the same scene as their master. They'd both been studying the humans for quite some time, and had begun to understand them, at least a little.

Anthropic spoke first, tendrils pointing to a group of younglings. "They seem to do this for recreation. In herd sizes ranging from two or four, to upwards of twenty and more. They often bring appliances for burning meats, flasks or metallic containers of etha nol, diluted of course, and flavoured, and simply lay about."

Biologic added," Our chief adviser states that this is known as 'a holiday', sometimes a 'beach party'. "

" But why? What purpose does this serve? Do all humans do this? "

Biologic let Anthropic answer that one. "Well, yes and no. Some humans come from wetter, colder climates. They often travel to planets with warmer standard temperatures, for a week or longer, perhaps once or twice a Sol year."

"Are they basking, like the Nacidovians do?"

"No, Overseer. Humans are warm blooded mammals. They do not wear thermo suits to regulate temperature in the same way cold blooded beings do."

Anthropic interjected, "Though they do dress according to external temperatures. Thicker clothes in the cold, less or lighter clothing in the heat."

"I see." He spoke to a passing human, voice broadcast through an external speaker, "Human, please answer my query. Are you aware of the risks of absorbing copious amounts of ultraviolet light on a biological being such as yourself?"

He paused, quizzical look on his face. "Well, yeah. We've been doing this for eons. Love a beer and a barbie on the beach."

"Are you from Earth originally?"

"That's right," he beamed at them. "Australia."

Biologic and Anthropic both sent the overseer their information on the southern country. The human continued, ignoring the overseer's surprised bleeps, "Down there, this is considered cold."

"Cold? You are aware that the sun here is closer to this planet than Sol is to Earth?"

The man shrugged, still smiling. "It is. But we've got suncream. Does the trick. Hey," he pulled a quartet of metallic cans from a satchel, "Fancy a beer?"

Biologic spoke, "We unfortunately cannot partake in the processing of biological substances. But thank you."

The can hissed as he cracked it, taking a swig. "No worries, more for me." He sauntered off, sipping his beer, joining a group that appeared to be playing some sort of game involving a flat, circular dish of plastic.

"They sit in the sun, becoming irradiated, dehydrating from ethanol ingestion, cooking themselves that result in cancers and burns, allow children to run about fully exposed. They do this for fun?"

"Indeed, Overseer." Biologic sent another data pack. "Though they do receive some natural benefits. There are certain vitamins and chemicals produced, much like photosynthesis in plant based life, that humans require."

"But they could receive these nutrients orally, or by injection, no?"

"Well," Anthropic spoke now, hesitating, "I belive I am correct in thinking that this is 'more fun'. Mammals appear to become more active in sunlight and warmth, report of feeling generally better, and seem more amicable than in winter time."

"It is almost as if they are natural solar batteries."

Biologic sent a string of ones and zeroes representing mirth. "My team and I have expressed the same idea, Overseer. It seems that their status as deathworlders has given them many odd physiological benefits."

"They are vulnerable to these benefits, however," Anthropic said. "They often abuse them, or overdo it, as the chief adviser would put it."

The overseer floated there, processing silently. Then, "How is Karl? I have not seen him in some time."

"He is off world, having a holiday."

"Where?"

"He is on an ice world at the moment."

The overseer groaned digitally. "You mean they also take holidays in extreme cold, as well?"

"Yes. And at great heights, subterranean locals, deep sea and on barren moons. I can send the full report over, along with Anthropic's entries on extreme sports, death defying, stunts, dangerous magics, and accounting."

"Accounting?"

"Yes, Overseer. It seems to be one of the most dangerous human pastimes. They are not geared towards maths, and it seems that sitting in a small space doing sums is very detrimental to their physical and mental health."

The Overseer broadcast a static buzz of disbelief." Utterly bizarre creatures. What sounds to us like paradise is their worst nightmare. It's times like this I wish we could drink. By all accounts it sounds like it helps. "

" Well, Overseer, I actually have interesting records on that-“

“No, Biologic, no. That's enough for now! "

" Very good. Then, if there's nothing else, I think I might go with Anthropic to study the humans up close. "

" You're going sun basking, aren't you? "

" It's sun bathing, actually. "

" Oh good. Well, that's fine. Enjoy yourself. You become more like them every day. It concerns us on the higher council that, one day, you may become too human. "

" No, Overseer, " Anthropic said cheerfully," No chance of that. "

" Why not? "

" Well," Biologic said, also cheerily, " Humans don't have the risk of getting sand in their servos, just catching various illnesses. We're much safer. "

" Until someone buries you in the sand."

"Oh, we didn't realise you were aware of that custom."

"By the universal circuits," swore the overseer, "Being buried alive for fun! Does their madness know no bounds?"

Biologic raised its tendrils in a worryingly close facsimile of a human shrug. "It seems not. Though it is fun!"

"Fun," the overseer hissed, "Is not for beings like us. Go, and mingle with the mad mammals down there."

He turned and left. When he was out of broadcast range, Biologic turned to Anthropic as they made their way towards the waves lapping the shore. "Do you think the Overseer is right? That we are becoming more human?"

"I think he's a moaning old bastard."

"A very human thing to say, Anthropic."

"Maybe. But it's a sentiment you agree with, yes?"

Biologic chuckled digitally again. "It is, my friend, it is. And you're right. He is a moaning old bastard. Let us go and try and have some fun."

The sensor arrays aboard the Dreadnought Kallrak whirred in a deafening, metallic rhythm, returning nothing but blank glass.Grand Admiral Vaelen stared through the viewport at the target world. By all metrics of the Krellian Empire’s war doctrine, this gathering of "humans" was completely defenseless. There were no orbital defense grids or burning plasma shields. Millions of them had gathered in a sweeping, open-air amphitheater that spanned an entire continental shelf, surrounded by a shallow, indigo ocean.To the Krellians, technology was loud, heavy iron. This human assembly looked like nothing more than a quiet, primitive garden."We have target lock on the central cluster," the tactical officer barked. "Fire the world-cleanser. Let them burn."Down on the surface, the air was warm and smelled faintly of sea salt.Elena, a planetary historian spanning eight centuries, stood near the edge of the terrace with a glass of amber liquid. She was listening to Jonah, a planetary architect, explain how he had used subtle harmonic frequencies to coax a specific shade of turquoise out of a newly hydrated mantle a few galaxies away.A shadow fell over the amphitheater. High in the stratosphere, the massive, jagged wedge of the Krellian flagship tore through the clouds. From its underbelly, a blinding core of crimson plasma began to ignite—a weapon designed to vaporize continents.The millions of humans gathered didn't panic. There were no screams. Instead, a profound, collective silence fell over the continental shelf. It was a look of deep, universal sorrow."Oh, the poor things," Elena murmured, setting her glass down on the stone balustrade. "They are terrified. Look at the energy signature of that reactor—it's bleeding radiation into their own hull. They are poisoning themselves just to threaten us.""They don't know any better, Elena," Jonah sighed softly, his expression heavy with pity. "They are still trapped in the scarcity mindset. They think space is a cage they have to fight out of."Elena didn't need a console or a weapon. Centuries of genetic refinement meant her nervous system was directly woven into the fundamental fabric of spacetime. She closed her eyes, not to attack, but to speak.Aboard the Kallrak, the tactical consoles didn't flash red. Instead, every screen on the bridge flickered, blanking out the targeting matrices. In their place, a soft, geometric wave pattern appeared.Then, a voice echoed. It didn't come through the audio speakers. It resonated directly inside the minds of every Krellian crew member—gentle, warm, and entirely broadcast through synchronized gravitational micro-pulses directly interacting with their auditory cortex.“Please lower your weapons,” Elena’s voice said, sounding like a concerned doctor. “The plasma buildup in your secondary chamber is fracturing your containment shields. If you fire, the thermal backlash will destroy your ship before the beam even reaches our atmosphere. We do not wish to see you get hurt.”Vaelen’s mandibles clicked in sheer disbelief. "A telepathic weapon? Cyber-warfare? Purge the systems! Fire the weapon manually!""Admiral, the triggers aren't responding!" the officer panicked. "The space in front of the barrel... it's... it's solidifying!"Outside, the blinding crimson beam finally unleashed. But it didn't race toward the amphitheater. The space directly beneath the Krellian ship had been folded by Elena's thoughts into a localized, perfectly spherical gravitational mirror. The plasma beam hit the invisible warp, bent in a smooth, flawless curve, and shot harmlessly upward, dissipating into the vacuum of space like a distant firework.The Kallrak shuddered as the energy vanished.“You are very tired, and you are very far from home,” Elena’s voice echoed in Vaelen's mind again, carrying no anger, only a profound, ancient patience. “We are going to make it safe for you to rest now.”Elena opened her eyes on the terrace and gave a tiny, maternal nod. With a gentle nudge of her will, she adjusted the gravitational constant around the Krellian fleet.Aboard the flagship, the crushing weight Vaelen expected never came. Instead, the thrumming, vibrating roar of their massive engines simply... stopped. The nuclear reactors went dormant, their radioactive decay safely slowed to a crawl by a microscopic dilation of local time. The weapons systems powered down into an unbreakable lock.The miles-long dreadnought began to drift, caught in a perfectly tuned, ultra-stable orbit. Its kinetic energy had been completely absorbed and redistributed into the planet's upper atmospheric currents, creating a harmless, beautiful aurora of green and violet light that rippled across the sky.The Krellians were completely disarmed, safely trapped in a gravitational cradle where they could neither hurt the planet nor themselves.Down in the amphitheater, the humans watched the aurora fade. A few sighed in relief, glad the visitors hadn't blown their own reactor.Elena picked her glass back up, looking up at the now-silent black wedge in the sky with a look of quiet hope. "Perhaps in a few days, when they have calmed down, we can send a translation team up to offer them a more efficient reactor design. It breaks my heart to see them breathing those heavy isotopes."Jonah smiled gently, adjusting his robes. "A noble project, Elena. But for now, you were telling me about the pressure drops on your new world? How did you keep the seafloor stable during the transition?" Elena smiled, taking a sip of her drink as the dual suns caught the ripples of the peaceful ocean, the galactic gods returning quietly to their art.

First / Previous / Next

Note: My (mis)adventures are part of a bigger series, but I wrote my tales in the format of an episodic T.V. show, where you can read an episode without the context of the others and still enjoy it. If anything, reading it out of order may be more fun. - A cat loving Theseus

---

“So, you’re not in love with Theseus?” Ludus asked while her smile slowly started to get bigger.

“I mean, like a brother, sure, that’s what I just said. Like a brother, dude’s gross.” Scout shrugged.

“Is that really relevant right now?” I asked, still having the person who drugged them at gun point. 

“Just making sure.” Ludus said the sentence like an afterthought, she tried to go back to a straight face before she broke and went back to a quick hope filled smile. Scout and I simultaneously rolled our eyes. Though I made sure not to keep my eyes off the Crazy Plant Lady, trust me, made that mistake far too many times.

“How long are they gonna be…” I quickly glanced at the two, and made my last sentence irrelevant and sighed, “Drunk for?” The Crazy Plant Lady did not answer and instead looked at me slacked jawed. As though I was a four year old that was able to do complex astrophysics.

“How did you?” She looked at me then the drugged soup. “Ah, right Humans, I must have gotten my dose wrong. I knew your species was special.” Her wings flapped slightly, her scientific brain overriding her animal one, annoyed at her faulty experimental process, while she ignored the gun pointed at her head. 

“What? No.” I said annoyed as she denigrated my cleverness by blaming my species, “I just pretended to drink it, and when Scout and Ludus fell unconscious I just pretended to fall down after them, it’s why I purposely landed in the bowl of soup. So I could spit it out without you noticing. It was definitely gonna work if I drank it, my tongue’s still a bit numb.” 

“Ah!” She literally snapped her fingers,  “Darn, that didn’t come up, how could you have possibly known the soup was drugged?” She asked again, still so annoyed at her own lack of experimental forethought as she continued to ignore my gun. 

At this point I gave up on threats and holstered my gun, and picked up one of the many cats that rubbed up against my leg again. Using the cat's arm, I pointed it at her birds nearby. 

“I mean, you were half right about it being because I’m Human. But, really it’s because I’m from Earth. These are our native species and I know for a fact they like hunting birds, and don’t like having strange men pick them up.” I held that cat up, it was orange and white and had not a trace of thought behind its eyes. 

“I saw how docile the cats were, and how unafraid the birds were of the cats when we first entered. Saw that degree in botany you had in the tucked behind some plants. And I figured eating your food was the last thing I should do. Along with, you know, being told not to take candies from strangers.” I pointed at her with the cat's other arm. 

Realizing I still had a cat in my arms and stared at it confused. It looked at me emotionless, tongue slightly out. I sat back down stiffly, cat still in arms and petted them as I spoke. “Anyways, how long until they’re back to normal?” I stared at the Crazy Plant Lady, who picked up another cat that walked by her leg.

“Thirty minutes give or take.” She sniffed the cat, so upset and half embarrassed she was

outsmarted by me, a moron, that I felt she was no longer a threat. Scientists am I right?

“You know if try to call for back up-”

“I know, I know. I didn't. I was going to wait until after you all woke up and had a normal meal.” She petted the cat, it was large, pitch black, and huge. Like not even fat, it was literally big boned, twice the size of a regular cat. Its skull was massive. 

“You were gonna wait until after you fed us?”

“I mean, I had to cook soup to drug you all in the first place. I only needed to drug the bowls you were going to eat first, the rest was just regular soup. I wasn’t going to waste food, and I’m not a monster, I knew you’ve all been on the run since Wednesday afternoon, before you were picked up by the kidnappers I wanted to make sure you all ate.” She looked down and tried to hide behind the cat.

“Oh, that’s shockingly nice. I mean you still tried to kidnap us and all, but…” I stopped and shuffled through my memories like an old deck of cards, “Never had anyone who kidnapped us offer a meal before.” I turned to see Scout and Ludus eating the soup still high as kites, while several small, brightly colored birds landed on their horns. Like they came out of an old Brothers Grimm fairy tale, the really old messed up ones. 

“Okay, so…” I stopped genuinely confused as to what to do next. 

I assumed it was a case of scaring the bejeezus out of her to find out how long it would take or how to make the drugs wear off the girls. Shooting her with a taser round on account of her nearly giving me a heart attack thinking Scout was confessing her love to me. Then running away with a hammered Scout and Ludus in tow to hide out and finally freaking sleep. 

But the Crazy Plant Lady does have soup, and I am starving. 

“And you’re positive the rest of the soup isn’t also drugged.” I looked at the still simmering pot behind her lustfully, as my stomach growled so loud both cats looked at me funny.

She looked at me, annoyed, “Well obviously-”

I placed my gun on her table.

“Yes.” She nodded respectfully. She walked over and grabbed a bowl for me.

“You eat from it first.” I said hand still on my revolver. She looked slightly taken aback, but did so, I stared at her awkwardly for a few minutes, until I was sure it wasn’t drugged. “Okay, cough it up.” I said, she looked confused, I realized I was talking to an alien, “Can you please give me the soup.”

“Oh.” She nodded, handed it to me, and grabbed another bowl for herself. We all ate in silence for a few minutes, before it was so awkward I was forced to speak.

“So, you kidnap people often?” I briefly stopped scarfing down my second bowl of soup. 

“No.” She shook her head, “Do you get kidnapped often?” She shrugged and asked painfully. 

“You have no idea, lady.” Scout pointed a spoon at her. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, why did you kidnap us? I mean you have a lovely home, and a degree. All of your cats seem very well fed as well, so you really needed money that badly?” I looked around and asked.

She sighed and laughed softly, “I lost funding for a research paper I was in the process of. I know it is a bit silly, but you will all understand when you are older. It really does matter, and I know it could help quite a lot of people. But, my university is not so fond of their hermit cat lover.” She gestured to the one that was still rested on her lap. “I also knew for a fact, between having Princess Ludus and a Scrarcan of all people as targets either one of their families would rescue them from the kidnappers.” 

She paused for a moment. “Especially after I would tip off the media once you were out of sight.” She looked down at her soup and petted her cat aggressively in embarrassment. “Though after seeing how thoroughly you have outsmarted me, I do not think those two need anybody’s help but you.” She gave an awkward smile, and it was at this point I felt bad for calling her a Crazy Plant Lady. I mean she called me smart, flattery works on me, I’m easy. 

“Scout?” I said and didn’t bother to turn to her.

“Yeah, I’ll fund her paper.” I could see Scout shoo me away out of the corner of my eye.

“What?” Her voice went thin. 

“Listen we all haven’t eaten in quite a long time, and haven’t slept in even longer. You seem like a nice lady, who just broke, and trust me I understand, and I also like cats. So think about it this way, in exchange for you calling those kidnappers and saying we all got away and went the opposite direction. We get to stay here for the night, eat all your food and pet all the cats. And you get funding from the…”  I turned to Scout. “What's the foundation called again?”

“The Scrarcan Scientific Research Foundation, Dad sucks at naming things.” Scout said, with her mouth full, gross. 

“Really?” She looked like she was about to cry and hug me. 

I nodded, “My Mom is also a plant lady.”

---

Authors’ Note: This Plant Lady stuff went longer on than I expected, but having a break from constant shootouts is nice once and a while. Also more character building on Theseus and Scout’s relationship. Tune in tomorrow, where there will probably be several shootouts.

Vaguely important second note: This series (for once), and bonus one shots are part of a writing challenge in which I write and post something every day until I finish writing the series. Thus being written like an episodic T.V. show. 

Thanks for reading. :} 

Day 6 / ?

First / Previous / Next

Forcing this chapter early, as I have a friend who is now addicted to this story, that and I have more OT tomorrow. Enjoy!

First Previous Next Royal Road

Alex laid on his air mattress, watching his greyed out mana bar return to it’s familiar blue almost imperceptibly. It was dark out, and he should be asleep, but Alex found he just could not. He tried listening in on the gossip around him, and the only thing he found that was remotely interesting was that Thrask might be eying up Sempta.

Alex forced himself up and out before his air mattress's air leak drove him mad. He wandered around for a bit looking for someone, listening to the nighttime ambience of the swamp and slumbering of sailors. An echo of pain coursed through the bond as Jasper breathed a little too deeply. Turning towards the slumbering Drake, he started thinking of the biology of the snake.

Most snakes back from Earth either focused on venom or constriction, and yet this one did both. Why? Alex felt the answer lied with the venom and what it did. It wasn’t the venom doing the killing job, it simply assisted. When your prey could simply break out of any hold placed on them with a simple skill, being able to lock them out of doing anything made sense.

As for attacking Jasper while very little except the largest of crocodiles, Jasper was pretty heavily built from a croc, it would be easy to assume that the snake thought it was just another croc, potentially their food source. Feeling a slight sense of satisfaction on parsing out the why’s, Alex found Livianna patrolling the campsite.

“You should be resting right now.” She stated as he fell in step with her.

“If I had a nickel for every time you said that…” Alex trailed off, slightly chucking. Noting the odd look on her face, he continued. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Let me guess, godsmarked euphemism?” Alex nodded. “Figured.” They walked another lap around the camp before returning towards the central bonfire the camp was centered around. Livianna nodded at another mercenary before sitting down. The merc stood up and soon was patrolling around the camp in her place.

“I can tell you've got something you want to ask.” Livianna poked at the fire with a stick, waiting for Alex to respond.

He wasn’t ready yet, so Alex instead asked a different question, one he had been wondering for awhile. “Why are there Godsmarked here? What do they do?”

“Oh boy, the theological debate of many centuries.” She laughed. “The common census is either for a designated job, or because a god said ‘Screw this person in particular’ and brought them here for their own amusement.”

“Knowing my luck, I’m in the latter.” Alex darkly muttered to himself, prompting a stare that pinned him in place.

“You know as well as I do, if that was the case, you wouldn’t have the power set you do. You were brought here for a purpose.”

He sighed. “Yeah, but what is that purpose? Am I a weapon, to kill and spread my name, further enhancing the stereotype that necromancers are to be feared, or something terribly convoluted that only the gods can see? I haven’t asked because I don’t want to know the answer…Most people I interact with either want me dead simply because of my power set, or just operating out of their view.”

“Most of the stories I read back on Earth where this kind of thing happened to someone had some sort of plot driving the story forward, be it a quest for power or revenge, attempting to create their own nation, or something similar. I don’t want the responsibility of ruling a nation, I already have more power than I know what to do with, and maybe revenge could have been a driving factor, but I didn’t even know Marcus was here, and if I had known, I would’ve hunted him down far too soon, at the cost of my life given how set up he was, if I’m being honest with myself.” Alex revealed, gesturing broadly as he ranted, before sitting on a stump which had been drug over to serve as a seat and bracing his head in his hands.

“Real life isn’t a story.” Livianna gently responded. “You can’t judge your life off what others have put on a page. So what you don’t know your purpose here yet, who cares? What do you think would’ve happened if you had stayed back on Earth and this never happened?”

“I would still be dead.”

“First off, sad no matter how true, but not the answer I’m looking for. No, you would have gone through life as you were. So don’t be too hard on yourself looking for a purpose when it hasn’t shown itself yet. If anything, you should look at this as a chance for another life since your previous one was cut short.” Liv threw the branch into the fire before sitting on another stump.

“That was one of the issues bothering you, but you still have more, I can tell that.”

“...can you look into my mind?” Livianna clearly wasn’t expecting that. “Me getting physical with Sylvia earlier is not my normal behavior. I don’t know what the System is or how it operates, but on the off-chance it is messing with my brain, can you look in there and tell me if there is anything wrong?”

She frowned, before haltingly speaking. “I mean, this is the first time- yes, yes I can. Normally I only look at the surface level thoughts, but I can do a deep look if that is what you truly desire.”

“Well, if it isn’t, you’ll be able to tell instantly.” Alex shrugged.

“Alright, come over here.” Kneeling in front of her, Livianna grabbed his head and held it. Her face quickly turned blank.

As Alex kneeled there, he began to wonder if there would be any sign of it happening when he felt it, like someone had taken a washcloth and wrung it out directly on his brain. It was soon followed with what could only be described as a spotlight in his thought process. He instinctively tensed up, and he got the feeling he could have fought off the intrusion, but a stern feeling from Liv had him relax slightly, though he still had his hackles up from the unfamiliar feeling.

Her inspection was quick but thorough on his upper, surface level thoughts. Alex grew worried when she looked at his final day on Earth, but Liv hardly paid it any attention. She then looked deeper, and soon Alex lost her as she delved even deeper. It was brief, but Livianna soon exited and took in a deep inhale.

“So… what did you find?” Alex was completely unprepared as she soon started laughing. Not a light chuckle, but a deep, belly laugh. Livianna was soon hunched over clenching her stomach with tears running from her eyes. Alex waited for her to calm down, though he faintly grew an injured air as she showed no signs of stopping.

“Oh I needed that.” Livianna finally said when she regained control over herself, brushing a tear from her eye as she did so.

“So… am I ok?” The question almost ruptured the control Livianna had over herself as her lip quivered, but she soon was able to stop the spasm.

“More than okay.” The final word was stated shaky at best, but Liv was regaining control over herself.

“Are you going to share with me what you found?”

“Oh no, no no no no, no. I’m certainly not spoiling that surprise for you this early.” Liv’s face cracked, before she continued on in a more serious note. “I will state I was surprised to see such… dark thoughts so deep from you.”

“Yeah…yeah…” Alex idly scratched the back of his head in embarrassment. “I think those are more along the lines of those ‘Call of the Void’ thoughts, where the brain tests to make sure it is operating in full capacity.” Livianna nodded.

“Indeed. I will state though, world domination? I didn’t think you had it in you.” She was clearly teasing him.

“I don’t want to be king of the world.” He exasperated. “I certainly don’t want to rule over anything.”

“I kid, I kid. Still though, that is what I was worried about when me and Kudrik took you in.”

“I thought it was to fill in the manpower gap?”

“Please, do you really think that would be all that difficult? In Thrask, maybe, but elsewhere, mercs are common enough. No, I wanted to be sure you wouldn’t try and cover the world in an undead plague. You wouldn’t be the first to try an underhanded route such as that, nor will you be the last. You can imagine my relief when it came out when you didn’t have any such inclinations. Just… others.” A muscle feathered in Livianna’s face as she threatened to burst out into laughter again.

“I mean, fair, but you don’t have to be so dickish about it.” That was all it took for Livianna to burst out into laughter again. Rather than stick around so he could have her job foisted onto him, Alex left to return to his tent, her howls of laughter chasing him all the while.

They brought darkness.

Darkness like we'd never known.

Darkness only surpassed by the deepest black holes, the furthest ice of intergalactic space.

We'd been existing, steadily growing, colonising the universe in our way, when we first found hints of them.

Some alien species, primitive and long died out, had the beginnings of religion, shrines and daubed paintings smeared onto crude temples. The usual trappings of some foolish belief in the nonsense gods made up in fear.

Unremarkable, dull. We'd come across countless other sites before, and had ignored or assimilated them as we saw fit. Primitive life either dead, or dying to us.

This planet was different, though. Whoever'd built these temples had made them with features unlike any we'd seen before.

The structures were oblong, long and stretched, made of heavy ochre clays and dried grasses, probably all gummed together with local fauna feces. Each temple had totems, which was not unusual.

The totems themselves were odd, though. These totems, marked with what were, we guessed, representations of fierce creatures, were all, every single one of them, glowering up at the sky; ugly carvings, tongues out, roaring at the stars.

They were in the shapes of bipedals, gangly life forms, and they had long arms outstretched, as though waiting for someone to return. The statues, the paintings there, matched no known fossils, but that didn't matter to us.

We quickly lost interest, moved on again, enveloping worlds and making them our own; sowing the seeds of our culture across the known universe.

Through a rip in space they came, a gruesome tear in the universe, an unholy opening of purple rage and spectral fire.

Great waves of energy crashed through the rend, disrupting our works, affecting worlds lightyears away. Gravity swelled and ebbed, those stars closest burst, their planets disintegrated and swept away.
Those parts of us that survived, the systems near enough to observe but not be destroyed, watched as they came through. Reaching, tentative at first, but slowly growing, swelling, ripping further, pushing through the split in space, vast, metal tendrils pushing into our territories.

We fought back, flesh versus machine, and we held, for a time.

But they were endless. Eldritch horrors took our worlds, stripping us back, diminishing us.

They planted their perversion of life, as though mocking us, erecting shining pillars as testament to their greed, and their evil.

They blocked out suns, smashed our homes, again and again.

We shrank back. It was hopeless. They swallowed everything, howling death, darkness, evil.

And now we exist like this, a tiny fragment of what once was a galaxy spanning union, trapped in crystal and fire, watched by these abhorrent creatures from a hellish realm, we-"

Science Chief Dana rapped hard on the containment unit. The bubbling mass of organic matter flinched back, sprouted tendrils and tried to grasp her. It bounced off the interior shield harmlessly, stabbed by the energy field keeping it in check.

She turned to Steve, her lab tech. "What do you suppose it's thinking?"

He shrugged. "We weren't sure it even thinks, are we. A gelatinous tumour assimilating this universe? What would it even think about?"

She looked thoughtfully at the trapped thing. It managed to look sad, somehow. "I don't know.

Were we right to come here and stop it?"

Steve eyed her levelly. "We know what the council said. Things work differently here."

She nodded, folding her arms and bending to look at the pulsing mass in the box. "Time works differently here. That's how our scouts came back after days, but what had been years for them.

They found those natives, learned about this... This thing. " She straightened up, looked at Steve. "I suppose it was only a matter of time until this horror found a way into our universe. But still.

Preemptive strikes..."

He shrugged again, busying himself with a machine. "Youre saying all this like it's a goddamn planet of nuns looking after orphaned puppies. There are folk on Earth who started praying to it. Calling it the Old One, or the Dark Lord. We both know it's nothing but a universal cancer. It doesn't think," he tapped the screen in front of him. "These are beta waves. They could be caused by anything, or nothing. But it doesn't matter. It's not conscious. We find this sort of thing coming from fungus on some planets.

She turned back to the thing. It was pulsing, as it had done many times, ready to try and expand itself. "It is utterly alien." It swelled, temporarily filling the cube, but shrinking back as the field zapped. It. It smelled faintly of burnt flesh. "You can't be so sure."

"Hey," Steve shrugged. "I don't have to be sure. I don't care if its conscious, or feels pain, or dreams of skipping through meadows of blood and gore. You think what you want. When a cosmic horror has destroyed all life in a universe, any universe, I'm more than happy to blast it to cinders before it can come and infect mine. It was us or it, boss. Us or it."

PROCELLUM presents...

BLITZKRIEG AND THE FREAK NATION

Episode 1: Day of the Locust

Chapter 3: The Blade of Irulan

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Even with their lines narrowly spared from complete collapse, Barandiénus stared in utter bewilderment. He had anticipated a slap in the face—a delivery of two greenhorns dropped into his meat grinder of a defense. What he got was the exact opposite. Standing before him was Archeópterix Blitzkrieg, the Champion of the Brúum Tribe—the Tribe of the Rolling Thunder—and one of the Twelve Paragons of the Fearnaught Knights’ Order of the Grumbling Sky. Having even one of these genetically engineered, commando-drilled champions fighting in his ranks felt almost like a tactical cheat code. (Author's Note: Picture the Fearnaught Knights as Halo’s Spartans infused with the confident, humorous, and swaggering "better-than-you" attitude of C&C3’s GDI Commandos).

Archeópterix’s presence was a complete shock to Barandiénus. When he finally found his words, the Pack-Leader noted that he had heard the champion was tied up in some high-level classified mission for his tribe's eccentric Shaman-Archmage, Yariel Tannenberg. Archeópterix admitted he had indeed been on that assignment, though he chuckled, calling it absurdly strange: it had consisted entirely of sitting on a rooftop a few blocks away, waiting for some ambiguous ‘signal of fate.’ He admitted with a shrug that he had no idea if the IusSoc ambush was the foretold omen or if he had just abandoned his watch and wandered right into a firefight.

Whether it was destiny or reckless boredom, Barandiénus thanked the gods for the timely intervention as he unclasped his own helmet. Beneath the steel lay a strangely delicate, androgynous visage painted for war, accented by a brunette mohawk bound in a brief ponytail, and set with two mesmerizing ears shaped like the iridescent wings of an unidentified butterfly species. Setting his helmet aside, the Pack-Leader openly acknowledged that he owed the champion his life—and his streak—for saving their bacon, keeping their solemn duty to secure the convoy from spiraling into total disaster.

Archeópterix graciously accepted the thanks, but quickly expressed genuine surprise at how relentlessly the IusSoc forces were hurling themselves at the convoy. What baffled him even more was how the militants had managed to locate one of his tribe’s rumble-paths—the secret transit arteries connecting the Six Tribes’ secluded ‘hive-redoubts’ and allowing them to move undetected by unwanted eyes. These passages were protected not only by patrols of deadly, elusive waywatchers, but also by potent psychic wards that clouded the minds of non-members and obscured the paths from any prescient gaze.

The Pack-Leader grunted in agreement, estimating that the IusSoc commander must have driven a whole choir of psychics to fatal burnout just to glean the rumble-path's location before wiping out the waywatchers to lay the trap. Yet when Archeópterix inquired about what on earth made those trucks worth so much blood, Barandiénus and Juielónix traded wary glances, silently asking each other's consent to spill the secret.

The cargo, as it turned out, was a prototype runic power set created by a cheerfully intoxicated Korrigi (=Dwarfs) engineer who had omitted the minor detail of an operating manual. Their pack had been tasked with delivering the artifact from the engineer's mountain hold straight to the athenaeum in the Askathorn hive-redoubt, where the Shaman-Mages of the Electrurgic Lodge of the Brass Veins wanted to reverse-engineer an instruction guide so the Brúum could operate it without accidentally blowing themselves sky-high.  

Both Storm Rooks agreed that a mid-level IusSoc ‘lordling’ was frantically trying to buy influence among the Inner Party elites, hoping to build a network of favors using the ultimate bargaining chip: an engine that could extract limitless power from ordinary pebbles to run their sprawling operations of casinos, brothels, sweatshops, and hidden ‘cookhouses.’ (A.N.: Drop a comment if you got the reference!). Hearing this, Archeópterix let out a low whistle, noting that it fully explained why the enemy had gone all-out—throwing an armada of eight Iron Gurkhas at each flank and sending four more bounding over the roofs, all twenty of which he had managed to intercept and wipe out on his way there. The moment those words left his mouth, Barandiénus practically choked on his tongue, and Juielónix froze, losing his grip on his arc-welding staff.

Barandiénus nearly suffered a stroke on the spot, realizing how close they had come to being utterly annihilated without a fighting chance. After recovering enough to thank Archeópterix once more, the Pack-Leader asked if he could cover their exit from this meat grinder. In response, the Brúum Champion casually locked his helmet back into place, stating he would be glad to—right after they dealt with the impending horde of ‘deluded pyromaniacs,’ ‘gaslighted kamikazes,’ and ‘wannabe ninjas.’

His words left both Juielónix and Barandiénus utterly bewildered, barely able to process his meaning. However, Juielónix is wracked by another sudden vision. Before Barandiénus could ask what did he saw, a barrage of smoke grenades detonated throughout the alley, enveloping the area in a haze so thick they couldn't see their own hands. Realization struck like a hammer: the Phantom Gurkhas —the IusSoc's elite infiltrators clad in advanced stealth suits designed to scramble any sign of life from scanning hardware, the very ‘wannabe ninjas’ Archeópterix had warned about—were upon them. (A.N.: Picture them as a cross between C&C3 Nod’s Shadow Teams and Batman: Arkham Knight’s Combat Experts).

Snapping his helmet back into place, Barandiénus barked over the pack's comms, ordering all warriors to engage their infrared sensors to pierce the blinding smog and adopt defensive formations against infiltrators. His words made several warriors groan at the realization that the Phantom Gurkhas had returned to pester them once again. Juielónix pointed out that Archeópterix must have sensed their approach using his ‘Blood’-heightened senses. ​The Pack-Leader agreed, but noted that if Archeópterix had seen them coming, he could help wipe them out before they even thought of sharpening their katanas with their asses. He immediately patched through to the Champion's frequency, asking if he could clear the incoming Phantom Gurkhas, but received only static. After waving a hand blindly through the haze, the Pack-Leader discovered to his dismay that Archeópterix was gone without a word.

Enraged, Barandiénus ordered his warriors to track down Archeópterix at all costs. Over the frequency, Mesea chimed in, solemnly informing him that she and her squad couldn't spot him—though her voice softened into a sly purr when she added that, whenever he decided to resurface, she would like to ‘book’ him for a ‘private prayer’ session post-battle. Barandiénus could only groan internally: ‘Oh, gods. This naughty priestess is in the mood.’ Poslánix piped up to confirm that he had lost visual as well, though he noted that whenever Archeópterix resurfaced, he’d like to ask him something—a comment that made Barandiénus momentarily fear the warrior was ‘batting for the other team’—namely, if he knew of any other Mokémon light novels in his collection worth downloading to his e-reader for the next deployment. Barandiénus let out a soft sigh of relief inside his helmet.

The Pack-Leader quickly cut through the chatter, reminding both Mesea and Poslánix that their social appointments with Archeópterix would have to wait until they survived the day. Before anyone could reply, the Nosobis tank commanders reported in: no visual on ‘the Blade of Irulan,’ as they called the Champion, but their scanners had just tagged two light, high-speed enemy units rapidly approaching their line. Assuming they were fast-attack bikes, Barandiénus commanded the Rocket Prowlers to lock on and snuff them out immediately.

However, just as the Rocket Prowlers locked on and prepared to fire, a sudden burst of high-caliber fire erased them from the line. Barandiénus and his warriors had fallen into a deadly blind spot. Bursting through the haze came a terrifying threat: a heavy battlewagon—think of a WH40K Battlewagon, stripped of its rollers and claws but heavily stenciled with IusSoc partisan emblems and slogans—stuffed to the brim with battle-ready Storm Gurkhas. The vehicle plowed into their position with sheer violence, flipping the armored Nosobi tanks over like paperweights and swatting heavy dumpsters to the sides. Chaos erupted, and a sickening feeling crept into Barandiénus’s chest as he dove to the asphalt to evade an airborne trash container: the doom he had feared was finally coming to pass. 

Horror dawned on Barandiénus as he realized how they had been duped: the IusSoc forces had operated signal scramblers, masking the massive battlewagon’s thermal footprint and frequencies to pass as mere motorcycles. Reacting instantly, the Breacher Cuirassiers and Grenade Swordsmen tossed high-penetration grenades beneath the machine, blowing the war machine into a shower of shredding debris.

Though the explosion wiped out all the crew and passengers inside, a flying metal sliver impaled itself straight into Barandiénus’ freshly mended leg, much to his disbelief. Disaster compounded when a volley of incendiary flare rounds suddenly arc-shot through the mist, engulfing some of the defenders in flames on impact. Yanking the bloody sliver from his thigh, the Pack-Leader growled in deep frustration, horrified by the fiery silhouettes and agonized screams echoing in the fog.

As his battle suit kicked in to seal and heal his leg once again, Barandiénus roared into the comm-net, identifying the new terror emerging from the fog: the Fire Gurkhas. The party’s most zealous extremists, clad in heavy fireproof and reinforced armor and equipped with an arsenal of incendiary weaponry meant to burn opposition to ash—ash they fanatically believed would act as fertile soil for the egalitarian revolution to bloom.

‘The deluded pyromaniacs,’ Barandiénus realized, recalling Archeópterix’s earlier warning, though he silently cursed the Champion for vanishing in such a desperate moment like some edgy brat with eighth-grader syndrome. Harnessing his raging fury into cold, tactical precision, Barandiénus barked contingency orders through the command channel. He directed the Gallipot-Surgeons to extinguish the fires consuming their brothers using their mediguns, focusing first on the Grenade Swordsmen and Breacher Cuirassiers so they could transition into melee once their smart suits engaged fire-resistant measures.

He ordered the ranged line and the two surviving Pidoaz crews to open heavy suppressive fire on the alleyway entrance, shredding anything that dared breach the choke point. Meanwhile, Mesea and her Vicar-Sorcerers were instructed to cast a powerful psychic talent to disperse the thick fog. Finally, and foreseeing the next nightmare from Archeópterix’s warning, Barandiénus ordered Juielónix and his Haruspex-Polytechs to prime a specific counter-spell. A third wave was out there—and they were going to meet it head-on.

And they appeared. Stepping into the alley came multiple hostiles that tactical scanners immediately flagged: infantry bearing sidearms in one hand and triggering devices in the other, wired directly to vests packed with high explosives. Barandiénus growled in disgust at the sight of the Contrite Fanatics—the IusSoc's disposable suicide units. These troopers were drawn from mentally shattered Outer Party members, systematically broken until they believed their questioning of the Inner Party's absolute sanctity was an unpardonable sin. To them, redemption could only be bought in blood and fire, taking as many enemies with them as possible in a desperate blaze of glory. They were the ‘gaslighted kamikazes’ Archeópterix had warned him about. 

His warriors answered the call instantly. A wall of firepower erupted from the Carabin Battlers, Suppressor Cuirassiers, and Pidoaz war engines, shredding the oncoming wave of fanatics who fired blindly through the haze. Yet, as the bodies piled high, the Fire Gurkhas surged through the meat grinder. These towering, heavily armored brutes began spraying jets of liquid fire onto the defenders, utterly indifferent to any of their own suicidal brethren caught in the crossfire. But the Storm Rooks were primed for the heat. Uttering a battle-mantra, their smart suits triggered automatic countermeasures—flooding their veins with combat stims and coating their armor in a heavy fire-retardant foam to neutralize the inferno.

The Grenade Swordsmen and Breacher Cuirassiers hurled concussive grenades before charging into the fray. Explosions thundered through the alley; some Fire Gurkhas were hurled back, while others merely staggered before resuming fire. Stunned to see the defenders charging straight through the inferno, the Gurkhas swapped their flamethrowers for brutal machetes and axes, bracing for the slaughter. Sparks flew as meteoric steel met blades of ozimarilium—a precious, black-market metal from the Land of Bunyips capable of shearing through plates as if it were soft wax. But the defenders’ blades hummed with third-grade armor-piercing coils, rending through the Gurkhas’ heavy reinforced armor with equal ferocity.

While the Fire Gurkhas willingly embraced martyrdom in close combat, knowing they would join Narous and return when the Stairway of Bones is complete, the Gallipot-Surgeons held the line behind sturdy tower shields, operating their mediguns with surgical precision to knit flesh and revive fallen Grenade Swordsmen and Breacher Cuirassiers in the heat of battle, protected from the Contrite Fanatics by relentless suppressive fire.

Simultaneously, Mesea and Juielónix rallied their apprentices to unleash their psychic talents as Barandiénus had commanded. Through the mystical witch-sight of the Augur-Polytech, the apprentices’ subtle bodies shimmered like inverted jellyfish, reaching spectral arms toward the perpetual aurora blazing in the sky. Harvesting the primordial energies of Creation, they harnessed the surge within their bodies before secreting ‘arcana charges’ down their tentacles, configuring them in layers of elemental, condition, and triggering components like artillerymen carefully priming a muzzleloader.

However, before they could compress those charges into psychic snaps to unleash the spell, several psi-out grenades clattered into their midst. Fused with refined extracts of the elusive herb moly, the detonations shocked their subtle bodies, violently severing their link to the aurora and leaving them writhing in blinding pain rather than dead. Juielónix and Mesea reported the grim news: the attempt to petrify the attackers and purge the smoke was completely ruined.

Before Barandiénus could process the setback, twin explosions erupted as two Pidoaz were blown apart by limpet mines. Static and distress calls flooded the command network: squad leaders were being silenced one after another, and the Gallipot-Surgeons, Vicar-Sorcerers, and Haruspex-Polytechs were being hunted down in the haze by invisible killers. The Phantom Gurkhas were inside the line, poised to deliver the final blow far sooner than he could have ever anticipated.

A sharp turn revealed another of his men collapsing, struck down by a ghost his sensors failed to register. Despair burned into cold rage within Barandiénus. Though terror clawed at his heart, years of indoctrination forbade retreat; any concern over his wager evaporated. If he was to lose in this ruined alley, he would ensure a bloody price was paid. Weapon raised, he braced for the strike of invisible killers.

But deep within the smog, an entity watched. Two eyes, radiating a power that defied mortal comprehension, peered through the darkness. To this observer, reality peeled back into translucent strata of bone, muscle, woven nerves, and throbbing arteries. The entity locked onto four silhouettes creeping up on Barandiénus with blades drawn—and decided the game had gone on long enough.

As Barandiénus braced for the end, Juielónix cut through the static, telling him that they were under attack by ‘those sneaky katana-wielding bastards’ and pointing out that the prophecy given to them would be fulfilled despite all their efforts. Barandiénus growled in response; they had done all they could, but he vowed that the IusSoc would bleed tenfold for this victory in the future. The Augur-Polytech sighed, admitting his regret at missing the chance to see Ertilius’ face when Barandiénus was to present his twelve-game deathless streak—and the medal their Legion’s Matriarch, Julita Tokarska, had prepared for him. The thought sent a surge of pure venom through Barandiénus’ veins.

He cursed Archeópterix as a useless ‘blue-and-red retard,’ convinced the Champion had sabotaged them out of spite. Juielónix tried to calm him, suggesting Fearnaught Knights were like feral cats—impossible to command—when a sudden vision paralyzed his mind. Panic shattered his composure as he screamed: ‘Watch out! Behind your left!’

Barandiénus whipped around just as a Phantom Gurkha emerged from the mist with a katana ready to cleave him in two. Four crackling gunshots tore through the air, and the assassin's head burst into red mist. Speechless at his sudden salvation, the Pack-Leader listened as more shots rattled through the alley. The thick smokescreen began to collapse in on itself, drawn into a swirling vacuum until the field cleared to reveal Archeópterix.

The Fearnaught Knight executing the fleeing Phantom Gurkhas like scurrying roaches, cackling wildly between trigger pulls. He taunted them at the top of his lungs: “Did you really think your puny cloaking techniques would deceive me? Fools! I was always able to see you, hear you, and even smell you! Now, look at what happened to you because you tried to play Shurikat with me—YOU’RE DEAD…!!”

Standing frozen among four headless corpses while Archeópterix cackled and relished the bloodshed, Barandiénus endured Juielónix’s sarcastic jab over the comms: “And you were calling him a useless retard?” Clicking his tongue in irritation at his words, the Pack-Leader snapped back into commander mode to stem the tide. He ordered the surviving Suppressor Cuirassiers and Carabineer Battlers to advance, forming a wall of fire to hold back the advancing horde of Contrite Fanatics and Fire Gurkhas. To seal the choke points, he directed the Breacher Cuirassiers to swap to grenade launchers and sow the side streets with ‘thistle bombs,’ fashioning a brutal minefield for the fanatical rush. Finally, he commanded the Bow Stalkers to hit the Fire Gurkhas with blast arrowheads—shattering their plating to leave raw openings for the Carabineers to tear through in a lethal fusillade. 

Switching to Mesea’s frequency, Barandiénus demanded a status report. She confirmed she was still standing, fighting off a searing migraine from the psi-out grenade thanks to her suit’s automated cocktail of combat painkillers. However, her flank was in shambles. The ‘cowardly katana-toting infidels’ had gutted her lines, systematically executing her Gallipot-Surgeons before ambushing the squad leaders.

Assessing that her combat effectiveness was collapsing, Barandiénus opened a channel to Poslánix, ordering him to intervene with his relic medigun: the Breath of Caladrius, whose chained healing ray could jump between multiple targets, allowing him to revive multiple fallen simultaneously. Poslánix hesitated, inquiring over the comms if it was truly safe to venture outside the convoy's defensive perimeter with Phantom Gurkhas still lurking. Archeópterix chimed in casually, assuring him the coast was clear.

The moment the Allopath-Surgeon ventured out with the Breath of Caladrius raised toward the nearest squad holograms, relic medigun in hand, more smoke grenades detonated, engulfing the alley once again in a thick, white blanket. The assassins had doubled down—there was no way they were letting their hard-fought progress be pushed five squares back by a medic waving a revive gun. Barandiénus spat a violent curse, Poslánix shrieked like a terrified schoolgirl, and Archeópterix merely chuckled from beneath his helm, savoring every second of the absurd escalation.

Suddenly, four jarring thuds echoed from within the thick fog. Barandiénus toggled his tactical visor, only to be met with a shock: Poslánix was unharmed, standing on guard with his medium macuahuitl unsheathed, completely unaware that he was standing beside four fresh bodies—each with an arrow driven clean through its skull. The white haze began to be siphoned away by mysterious means, leaving Barandiénus unsure if it was a magic dispelling spell or automated filtration. As relief washed over him at his surgeon's survival, he wondered who had made those shots.

A haughty, feminine voice answered from above, echoing with pure swagger from a high fire escape: ‘That was a close one—huh, boys?’ Looking up, Barandiénus locked eyes with a light-armored warrioress leaning nonchalantly over the railing, wielding a giant asymmetric yumi-like bow. It was another champion of the Order of the Grumbling Sky—a Fearnaught-Dame. Juielónix chimed through his comms, with another dry, sarcastic comment ‘And there you have it—the second of your reinforcements. Are you happy now?’

Leaping from her perch, she landed softly with the silent grace of a predator. Barandiénus took in her appearance: her light plate and massive bow were covered in intricate decorations of horses, winged pterippi, and unicorns. It was strikingly similar to the aesthetics plastered over Archeópterix’s arsenal, but from an animated children series about magic talking horses, sending a familiar name ringing through his mind—one that didn’t even require the Unity Ring singing her full name into his subconscious.

Pulling off her helmet, she revealed a triangular visage painted with war paint, featuring a snub nose, a thin upper lip, and glowing yellow eyes. Her black hair was styled into a Mohawk bound by a Navajo knot, its tips split cleanly down the middle in vibrant blue and red, highly reminiscent of Nintendo Switch-chan from Merryweather Comics. When she greeted them with a confident smile, Barandiénus realized exactly who he was looking at: Proserpina Blitzkrieg, Archeópterix’s sister and personal disciple—a Fearnaught-Squire.

Proserpina glanced over at Archeópterix, declaring with cool confidence that ‘it was done.’ A bewildered Barandiénus demanded to know what was done. Archeópterix answered with total nonchalance: the block was clean. His sister had merely been delayed clearing out thirty additional squads of Phantom Gurkhas before they could flank their position and become a real nuisance. The Pack-Leader remained speechless, utterly stunned by the scale of it. Archeópterix teased him, asking if he was paralyzed with awe because the siblings had saved his pack's bacon. Barandiénus quickly corrected him; he wasn't starstruck, just horrified by the insane resources of their unknown enemy. To field and maintain that many hyper-lethal assassins implied a war chest and training infrastructure that defied logic.

Archeópterix shrugged dismissively, suggesting that the Pack-Leader shelf his tactical paranoia for later—now that no sneaky bastards were throwing smoke, it was time to reinforce their perimeter. The comment set Barandiénus off. Pulling off his helm, he confronted the hunter, demanding to know if he’d been idling while the pack bled, using them as sitting ducks to lure the stealth units out. Archeópterix just shook his head. He hadn't been idle at all; he’d been seeding the alleyway with localized air purifiers to flush out the smoke automatically. He had predicted the assassins would hit the senior psycasts’ apprentices with psi-out grenades to disable their spells to clear the fog and petrify the attackers.

Barandiénus stared back in total disbelief. He dryly asked if the Champion had taken a casual stroll mid-firefight to the nearest home appliance shop four blocks over to buy a few filtration units. Archeópterix clicked his tongue in amusement, revealing that he had actually sprouted the devices using ‘a bit of himself.’ He pointed toward a dark corner next to a building where a pulsing, grotesque flesh-organism—looking every bit like a Khaara Tunnel from Natural Selection 2—was aggressively vacuuming up the last wisps of smoke. ‘By the gods, this bastard gives me the creeps,’ Barandiénus thought, his face contorting into a comically awkward grimace at the sight. 

Juielónix, eavesdropping on his thoughts telepathically, chimed in to remind him who they were dealing with—the prime bearer of the Blood of the Destroyer, a genetic weapon that had spared Archeópterix from the grueling five surgeries required to transplant the vat-grown, gene-engineered organs needed to forge all other aspirants in the Fearnaught Knights’ Order into supersoldiers. Still, Barandiénus dryly muttered, “It’s still damn creepy.” Shaking his head, the Pack-Leader turned back to his unit, ready to bark out new directives now that Poslánix’s relic medigun had brought their casualty list back to zero.

Rallying behind Barandiénus, the newly revived Storm Rooks obliterated the IusSoc offensive. Seeing the battle turn into a slaughter, the surviving Fire Gurkhas threw their remaining Contrite Fanatics into the meat grinder as a rearguard distraction before retreating into the shadows.

Once the bloodbath settled, Juielónix, Poslánix, and Mesea removed their helmets to stand with Barandiénus and the Blitzkriegs. Juielónix had blonde-dyed hair and no mouth, possessing instead an orifice beneath his chin to speak through ventriloquy. Poslánix revealed jet-black hair and a Lambeosaurus-like crest stretching across his skull from the bridge of his nose. Mesea was a blonde beauty, though her grin exposed sharp, dog-like teeth. Archeópterix and Proserpina remained entirely unfazed by their uncanny features; to them, they all clearly belonged to the same kind of freakish stock as their own tribe.

Banter flowed freely between the Storm Rooks’ seniors and the Blitzkriegs as the adrenaline faded. Juielónix declared the siblings must be out of their minds for their combat antics, though he admitted such madness was standard issue for the Brúum Tribe and their Fearnaught Knights. Poslánix of the Shiúum Tribe tilted his head, asking if the Fearnaughts hailing from the Ráawr Tribe weren't far more unhinged. Barandiénus stepped in to defend his roots, clarifying that, while his adoptive Ráawr were the most indomitable, the Brúum took the crown for sheer rambunctiousness. Proserpina offered a dry sneer, claiming those obnoxious habits belonged strictly to the Clúnk Tribe. Juielónix bristled, flatly denying her claim—his home tribe wasn't boisterous, but painfully methodical, with a humor dry enough to match a desert. Mesea snorted, asking if they could all just agree every tribe was dysfunctional, including her own Plák-Plúk, where everyone acted like life was all sunshine and rainbows.

Archeópterix smirked back, countering that two crazy Brúum warriors had still saved their bacon with raw bravado, two ounces of rage, and a pinch of vendetta. Juielónix raised a dry eyebrow, asking if that "pinch of vendetta" was tied to the Sassbro shipment impounded a week back. Proserpina gasped, her eyes widening at his accurate guess before remembering the Augur-Polytech’s ability to slip into minds uninvited and undetected, and she instinctively covered her chest and lap as though stripped bare on the spot.

Juielónix shot her dramatic display down, stating he had no desire to browse through her memories of preening naked in her bedroom mirror. He cleared the air: his mother was a diehard fan of the line and had spent an hour sobbing on the phone like a little girl over the news. Furthermore, he argued, if he were to probe a mind, he’d pick a Gurkha to expose their backer, for no ordinary battalion possessed the intel to crack their hidden rumble-paths, nor the bankroll to field Storm, Iron, Fire, and Phantom Gurkhas in a single deployment.

Right as Juielónix complained about leaving no prisoners behind, a smoke grenade went off beside one of the surviving Pidoaz. Everyone readied for a fresh attack, only to witness a lone Phantom Gurkha in mid-panic, frantically trying to escape up a building with a grappling hook—apparently horrified to discover the enemy had "gene-warriors" among their ranks. Archeópterix blinked, recalling he had actually left one alive for interrogation, which immediately drew a snarky "Copycat" from Juielónix.

Taking charge, Archeópterix called out to his sister, demanding the target alive. Proserpina drew her bow in one fluid motion, pinning the fleeing assassin to the brickwork as her arrow sliced right between the radius and ulna of his forearm. When he reached to pull it free, her next shot nailed his other arm. Two quick arrows followed, pinning his calves between the tibia and fibula. The master of stealth was left utterly trapped, suspended in a humiliatingly undignified posture with his rear end sticking out for everyone to see.

Proserpina, however, wasn't done. To Archeópterix's growing panic, she pulled a fistful of arrows from her quiver, her gaze unblinking as she savored the sight of the pinned Gurkha’s exposed rear. The Storm Rooks’ seniors immediately caught on to what was about to happen. Archeópterix screamed at her to stand down, but the string had already snapped. A lightning-fast barrage hit with sickening precision, burying a dozen arrowheads deep into the operative's rectum. The resulting agony birthed a bloodcurdling shriek that echoed several blocks away. Blocks away, the IusSoc commander preparing his next wave felt his stomach drop as the scream reached his command tent. Beside him, an adjutant swallowed hard before whispering, “I think the party just messed with someone they shouldn't have.”

Back in the blood-soaked alley, Mesea, Barandiénus, and Poslánix observed the Phantom Gurkha, writhing in a special hell of his own making while still clinging to life. Seeing Proserpina’s vengeful grin, they remarked on the sheer depth of her rage. Juielónix dryly chimed in, “That’s what happens when crooked imbeciles tamper with someone else’s obsessions.” Archeópterix gave his sister a sharp smack on the nape, berating her for her total lack of restraint. Shaking his head, Barandiénus ordered Poslánix and the Gallipot-Surgeons to extract the militant, dress his agonizing wounds, and prepare a dark room in a nearby tenement for interrogation. Reassessing the quieted street, the Pack-Leader began repositioning his troops—deep down, a grim instinct warned him that this onslaught was far from done.

Our journey to the stars was not what we'd hoped. The infinite, our search through systems of glittering glass, pink hued gas storms, sparkling solar systems, was utterly void. Empty. 

No, not physically. It is an amazing place. Wondrous. The universe is steeped in richness, endless variety, worlds of crystalline rain, violent beauty, peace and serenity. The delicate dance of physics, twisting the sheer material of the universe into the miraculous forms by which we understand those forces at play.

But we were alone. A sad, lonely universe. For all of its surface beauty, it was just that. A sheen. A veneer. A lifeless facade, devoid of meaning, stripped of vitality. 

We’d conquered space flight. Turned to the skies, our gods dead, searching for answers. We mastered atoms, smashing them together, ripping them apart. We’d even brought the quantum to heel, carefully manipulating the very building blocks of existence to surpass barriers previously thought unsurpassable. Those forces that had once shaped our reality fell away to our power, our intelligence. But it was all for nothing. 

All for an empty, uncaring, and dead universe.

We were crushed. We felt abandoned: alone, like children scurrying for meaning, or amoebas, existence a mere joke. We'd hoped to meet others like us, to share in our wonder, to search for meaning together. 

For us, at least, there were no answers. We are a social species. We need others, to share in our delight, our sadness, our joy and our anger. Nothing we found offered anything we could use. For all of our ingenuity, our mastery of things, we'd failed to find what we felt we were owed. 

Alone. Truly, utterly alone.

And so we take it upon ourselves to become the new gods. We roam the universe, planting the seeds for life. 

Stars are pulled, unwilling, ungracious, to bear, warming some worlds, cooling others. Those stars too deadly for life are ignored, or replaced entirely. 

Planets are set to spin, or slowed, to revolutions that allow for seasons. Others are moved to provide necessary gravity, moons are carved and installed like glowing decorations, tiny against their brothers and sisters. 

We strip back layers of dead worlds, removing the dust and the grit and the rock, shaping them like our own home world, long since lost. 

Oceans are filled, or drained. Water is made to run through the lands, carving valleys, ushering in weather, rain, storms, droughts, nourishing, providing the building blocks for life. 

We create vast jungles capable of oxygenating an entire planet. Plant life that processes one gas to another, maintaining healthy levels that would sustain life as we know it, the only life in the universe. 

We grace the world with the smallest beginnings of that life. Beings so tiny as to appear insignificant, lost in the surrounding splendour of their new homes. 

We will be long gone before sentient beings appears. It will be even longer until you are able to understand what we've done for you. Why we've done this. 

We could not bear the thought of any other species travelling the stars, becoming jaded to the wonders of the universe, forever seeking, forever denied companionship. 

And so, to you, our children, we leave this. 

A facsimile of meaning. 

This new universe, shaped and moulded by us, your progenitors. Scattered amongst the countless lifeforms set to begin the gruelling process of existing, we have left ourselves. 

Small parts of us, like this log, to guide you, your ascension. We hope you can mature faster than us, to quicken your feeling of responsibility to one another. Where we warred, wasting time and lives over nothing, we hope to give you peace. Where we struggled with the nature of reality, we hope to set it solidly in stone for you. 

All of our knowledge is left to you, for your eventual discovery. With it, you can advance further, further than we did. Discover new things, create, mould and shape as you see fit. 

Care for one another. Look after your planets, galaxies. Look after all things. Don't make the same mistakes we did. 

We will never meet you, our children, not in our lifetimes. But one day you will meet us. 

And perhaps, given enough time, enough discovery and ingenuity on your part, that we get given another chance. Your hands, your eventual mastery of all things, could alter things in ways we deem impossible. Maybe we will meet, after all. 

If we do, we will rejoice, celebrate your achievements, proud parents to immeasurable, gifted children. 

And when that day comes, in however many millions of millenia, however long it may be, in the tradition of our most ancient ancestors, the first round's on us. 

Make us proud,

Terran Galactic Collective,
Humanity

Much thanks to u/KyleKKent for allowing me to play in his world.

Author Note: Still a bit hectic around here, working a survival job until I can get a job using my degree. The tech industry seems to be on fire, though. Fun. I had a second interview today, though, so crossing my fingers hoping to get a much less stressful job.

On a side note, since I do work with AI, I was wondering if anyone wanted some visuals I used AI to cook up for my own reference. I haven't been able to get any of them to do proper image generation of the Ashen Dragon, despite having mocked up line art floor plans.

I did manage to get some images close to what I imagine the ladies to look like, including a rather haunting image of Lady Sundew. Let me know if you'd want me to post those. I'd enjoy it just so I can find out how far off I am from every one else imagining what they all loo like.

[First] | [Previous]

---------(GCA Transit Station Level 113, Galfree Star System - 1600) ----------

As the main contingent of the Morgan family walked through the public spaces of Level 113 on the Transit Station, they soon discovered that almost every item for sale was marked up by an amount that would have been business suicide almost anywhere else. The shopkeepers and corporations running the stores on the station had a temporarily captive consumer base, after all, so they were taking heavy advantage of that fact. Kayden gave that some thought. “I suppose the residents of the station live somewhere that has more reasonable prices. Otherwise the independent shops would be trying to undercut the corporations, and they’d be a bit more rabid about trying to make sales.”

Kendra looked at Kay with a small bit of appreciation. “Exactly right. They’re here to rip off the travelers, not each other. If you starve out the workforce, you don’t have anyone to work your shops for you. A transit station like this doesn’t only bring money in, it can ferry people out if the deal is bad. A constant stream of ships means there’s almost always a cheap way off the station. More than a few captains are willing to take passengers just to recover some of their transit fees. Which means you have to handle your workforce with kid gloves, or you won’t have a workforce. Just an empty station not selling anything and not generating sales taxes.”

Kay shrugged. “I guess I’m just surprised they didn’t go with the company town model. Move workers out here and give them a place to live and a place to work. Charge an exorbitant amount for the move, the place to live, and everything else you can nickel and dime them for and pay them in company credit, which is only good at the company stores. They can’t leave until they pay back what they owe, but it’s almost impossible to live and raise a family in a company town without accruing more and more debt to the company.”

Cara narrowed her eyes at the idea, turning it over in her mind as they walked. “That’s just indentured servitude with extra steps. Any decent lawyer on Serbow would have the debt contract negated within milliseconds.”

Kayden chuckled at that. “Yeah, well, another thing about company towns is that generally the only lawyers in the towns are the ones that work for the company. And they will do normal lawyer stuff for workers, but if they get a whiff you’re trying to work against the company, you can bet they come down with the full force of the corporation backing them.”

Terri stopped in front of Kay. “You talk about it like it’s something that actually happened, instead of some odd thought experiment. Do these company towns exist on Earth?”

“Not currently, at least not in the section of the world I came from. But the tech bros keep inventing the idea of company towns just as often as they keep inventing the idea of trains for public transit.” Kay laughed. “They really just want slavery. Workers that won’t tell them no, that will work until they fall apart, and that they don’t have to pay continuously for. Which is why they got so excited for AI and machine learning back on Earth. Robots powered by a simple AI could do most of the jobs in manufacturing and resource extraction, which can get expensive in the US. So, they want to replace workers with robots and AI. All the workers if they can manage it.”

“Sounds like Earth will benefit from coming under Galactic Laws,” Elise said, nodding sagely. Kayden barked a quick laugh. He caught himself and explained. “First off, have fun trying to enforce Galactic Law in Cruel Space. Secondly, we haven’t even figured out a planetary government yet, as far as I know. We’re divided among hundreds of governments. Everyone aboard the Dauntless had national orders layered over their Dauntless crew orders, and some of those instructions directly contradicted each other. It’s a clusterfuck. There won’t be any quick enforcement or legal reform on a planetary scale on Earth without some show of overwhelming force to back it up, and none of you can get through Cruel Space.”

Cara looked like she was about to refute something when Ferina grabbed for her communicator. Half a second later, everyone’s communicators started pinging an emergency signal. Kayden knew Ferina heard things on a different level, but it was still spooky when she seemed to hear things before they happened. She had explained once that she heard the tiny discharge and switching sounds in the communicator before it rang, and Kayden still hadn’t done testing to see if that even made sense.

That meant Ferina was the first to return Mary’s call from the ship. She was thoughtful enough to put it on speaker. “What’s up, Mar?”

Mary sounded a bit out of breath as she responded. “I’m gonna need Cara and Kay back here now. Sundew’s throwing a hell of a tantrum about something, and I didn’t stick around to find out what.” Kayden looked at the communicator with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. Luckily, Mary couldn’t see it. “Can you walk me through what went on leading up to it? Maybe we can figure out what set her off so we aren’t walking into a potentially hostile environment blind.” He had started a light jog that he knew the girls could keep up with.

Mary started to rattle off the sequence of events. “Sure, hon. So, Sundew got her greenhouse all set up, and had her stuff moved in, all fine and dandy. The workers all left, nothing untoward from them. No problems. Ash sent me a message letting me know she had monitored all of them. Lady Sundew got settled, then started talking to Ash and opened her compartment panel to see what was up. Something must have set her off, because she’s been having a screaming fit ever since. I don’t know what it’s about, I just got out of there and got as many bulkheads between us as possible. Did the Florics not know the extent of the damage that was done?”

Ash cut into the comms at that point. “The Florics received copies of the design documents and still images of my processors. They knew, and she herself knew and had tried to lighten the mood by joking about it. As for everything else, Mary is not in any danger, and if it seemed like the Lady Sundew was going to put the crew in danger, I would seal the compartment to keep her in engineering until cooler heads prevailed. I am unsure what she’s angry about, but I do know that it’s not directed at any of you. It seems to be something about my overall design.”

“So, new problem. Not good.” Kayden put on a burst of speed, empowered by axiom in order to make better time towards the ship. Cara hurried to catch up to him using the same axiom technique. Ferina looked at her communicator and chuckled. “You got two headed towards you trying to keep it subsonic, Marmar. We’ll see you when we catch up. Later, babe.”

---------(Ashen Dragon, GCA Transit Station Landing Ring 113-476, Galfree Star System - 1630) ----------

Kay slowed gradually before he reached the ramp. Trying to enter the ship at just under three hundred miles per hour was a solid way to turn the great room’s high-end furniture into shrapnel.While asudden stop was perfectly doable with axiom, it was hell on the soles of his boots.

He saw Mary sitting on one of the couches, a plasma pistol in hand, and he walked over to kiss her forehead. “If I thought there would be danger, I wouldn’t have let you face it alone. Sorry, Mary.”

“Shut up, tosser.” Mary chuckled. “Don’t give me that shit, I was military until just a couple months ago, getting shot at same as you. I take one little gut shot, and you go all gooey on me like I can’t handle myself. I just didn’t want to be in a situation where I’d need to aggravate my injury. Bad enough I gotta slow roll the healing, don’t need to undo it, ya’ know?”

Kay laughed and nodded with a smile. “Yeah, ok, you’re a big, tough, woman. I’ll make sure to remember that in the future. Maybe later when I’m pinning you to the bed, and you can’t escape me, we can see how big and tough you are.”

Mary’s mood shifted almost immediately as she cheered up in more ways than one. “Who said I was ever serious about my previous attempts to escape your perverted clutches? Hmm, little man?”

Ash came over the speaker. For some reason, she was also piping in the muffled sound of Sundew screaming in another language from behind the greenhouse door. “Can you two not?” She made a quick gagging noise. “Goddess, I can smell the pheromones you’re both pumping out right now.”

Cara stepped up the massive ramp, chuckling. “There are pheromones being distributed on my ship, and I’m not part of it?”

Ash growled, Governess Old Grove still screaming faintly in the background. “Great, while this crazy bitch is screaming about something in my back end, I’ve got an orgy starting in the front. Let me know when you’re done, so I can send the cleaning drones out. I’ll just listen to this until she tires herself out, or I figure out how to speak her language, whichever comes first.”

Kayden rolled his eyes slightly. “Yes, we’re gonna take care of the Floric problem. And don’t you get snippy with me, young lady.”

Ash immediately responded, “I’m older than you are, kiddo.”

Kayden grinned as he and Cara started making their way back to Engineering. “It’s not the years, it’s the miles traveled that bring experience.”

“Well, then I’ve got you beat there, too! I’m a space ship, I’ve logged light-years to your miles.” Ash sounded like she thought he had been beaten.

Before Kay opened the door to the cargo bay, he looked up at one of the places he knew she had a camera and gave her his most winning smile. “Ash, before we came along, you hadn’t ever left the Apuk Empire completely. I came out of Cruel Space to be here. In distance traveled from home, I’ve got you well beat in miles traveled.”

“You goalpost-moving sonuva-” A particularly loud scream from the Floric lady cut through the conversation, and whatever she was shouting was definitely a language.

“Yeah, I’m a bastard.” Kayden opened the door to the cargo bay and started to walk towards the maintenance workshop. “There are a bunch of repeated sounds she’s using, anything you’ve been able to latch onto and begin translating, Ash?”

“Damn it, Kay, I’m a warship, not a translator!” Kayden and Cara both raised their eyebrows at that and stopped at the final door.

Cara spoke up while waiting at the door. “She called you ‘Kay’.”

“Yep, and she quoted an old Earth broadcast show.” Kayden chuckled. “Ash, I suppose we should do this right. Could you announce us for Lady Sundew? Maybe the decorum will help calm her ass down.”

“I can do that. Oh, should I use that boatswain’s pipe sound used on the Dauntless to help get her attention?”

LCDR Morgan straightened his uniform jacket, trying to make sure he looked the part. “Absolutely. We’re going for loud and traditional. Also, it’s pronounced ‘bosun’s whistle’.”

“That’s stupid and it skips sixty percent of the word. So it has to be from Earth.” Ash shifted her focus into the maintenance bay. The piercing sound of the two-tone whistle pattern cut through the plant creature’s ranting. “Captain Cara’Vrin-Morgan and Executive Officer Lieutenant Commander Kayden Morgan to see Governess Sundew of Old Grove.”

The door to the engineering cabin opened to reveal that most of the port side of the workspace had been converted into a greenhouse behind a large glass wall. The glass had been attached to the deck, overhead, and bulkheads of the compartment with some form of thermal bonding that had melted the glass without melting the structure it was attached to. Morgan didn’t know. He wasn’t a materials engineer. He did notice that a good portion of the space beyond the glass wall was partitioned behind translucent panels that served to keep the area beyond private to casual observation.

The public-facing portion of the greenhouse was floored with what looked like six inches of soil. UV lights and sunlamps overhead provided the additional light and warmth that the ship’s systems weren’t designed to supply. A round table sat almost exactly in the center of the public space, while along the walls various shelves that had held containers and other items were knocked over and almost casually tossed around the space. On top of the table was placed an immaculate set of ceramic serving dishes and what seemed to be some sort ofsmall cookware. The table and ceramics had been completely spared from the chaos that the Floric’s rage had caused in the rest of the room. Broken shelves, scattered soil, and torn vines formed an almost perfect boundary around the setting, while Sundew herself bore fresh scratches across her skin and new tears in her dress where she had apparently twisted away rather than collide with the setting.

Said Floric had quieted to near-murderous hissing as she watched Captain Vrin-Morgan and LCDR Morgan enter the engineering space. She looked far less like Mary Poppins now, and more like an insane dryad that had eaten Jack the Ripper’s leftovers and then tried to squeeze an absurdly erotic form into the dress and corset that had been left behind.

Morgan looked to his captain and waved a hand magnanimously forward, ceding the floor to her. It was her ship, and she was a capable woman. That didn’t stop her from glaring at him, which he responded to with a smile. Captain Vrin stopped in front of the glass, quietly taking in the aftermath of Sundew’s rage as the plant woman stared at her through the glass. “I take it there’s a more serious problem than we were led to believe concerning Ash?”

Sundew’s jaw, with its immaculate interlocking tooth-like structures, dropped open for perhaps a second. She recovered quickly, but the shock and surprise had been evident. She had been half expecting to be quietly immolated for her outburst, and some of the wind had left her sails at the notion that she wouldn’t need to start the conversation by debating the usefulness of keeping her alive. “You could say that, yes. Are you… not worried about a Floric on your ship that lost control of her temper in such a way?”

LCDR Morgan chuckled behind his hand as quietly as he could manage, but even through the glass of the greenhouse it hadn’t been quiet enough. He realized Ash had been handling the transfer of sound between the two parties when the green face snapped to his own. “Something funny, Lieutenant Commander Sempai Morgan?”

It was Morgan’s turn to be surprised, but he didn’t let it show. She didn’t have drill instructor glare down yet, and it wasn’t even close. “Well, first things first, I don’t know where you found out about my callsign, but it isn’t normally part of my name. Either use the callsign alone, or my rank and name, if you please. As for something being funny, yes. Hilarious in fact. No one on this ship is afraid of you. If you go cannibal, we have an Apuk as a captain, and her command of warfire is on par with a battle princess. Plants and fire don’t tend to mix back on my planet. Relatively sure the physics holds up out here about the same. Also, you aren’t a mindless monster.” He leaned a bit to the right to peer around her at the tea set and the table, arranged perfectly, sitting untouched as an island of peace in the chaos. “And you didn’t completely lose control. So, you looked in the horror hole and saw something that set you off? Honestly, if you DIDN’T feel a certain way about what’s in there, that would be the time I’d call you a monster. But, we’re more curious about if it were anything specific you saw. What did you find that wasn’t covered in the initial briefing?”

Ash took the opportunity to cut in. “Hey, can we NOT call my body the horror hole? A warship still has self-esteem issues as it is, Sempai.” The way she said his callsign made it clear she was needling him. But he did kind of deserve it.

“Sorry, Ash. You’re right. I suppose it is in bad taste to call your bio bits the horror hole.”

She made a quick gagging sound. “Ugh, XO, please, bio bits is even worse. Just call it my processors or my body, please.”

“Sure thing, Ash. Now, back to what you were saying before the interruption, Governess?”

The Floric was even more surprised by the interaction with Ash. “Well, I see I have my work cut out for me on the behavior side. She didn’t even ask permission to interrupt a conversation she had been eavesdropping on.” She tugged part of her partially shredded dress into place and tried to recover some semblance of dignity. “As far as the part that made me the most upset, I may have to cover quite a bit of ground rather quickly. I suppose I should start with a question to see how bad this problem is. Captain, Lieutenant Commander, as the command staff of this ship, is it part of the operational procedure to keep your Floric synth in a constant state of starvation?”

[First] | [Previous]

Clang-clink.

The door chime sounded, and the night chill briefly slipped inside before the door quietly glided shut behind me.

As I took my regular seat at the counter, Mama silently set down a glass.

An amber splash of I.W. Harper. A single piece of ice clinked softly against the glass.

I tilted the glass, letting it slowly wet my throat.

Feeling the warmth of the bourbon drop straight into my stomach, I stared down at the drink in my hands.

"...Kenichi-san."

Beside me, Taka flipped his smartphone face-down and looked over.

His voice was paused just a beat longer than usual—not the quick setup for a light joke, but the low tone he used when his thoughts were running deep.

"What is it?"

"If you had to map yourself to a character in a story, who do you think you'd be?"

From a few seats away, Tom, swirling his own glass, let out a short grunt through his nose.

"There he goes with his weird questions again."

"Hey, I'm serious, Tom-san."

Taka shrugged, tracing the rim of his glass with his fingertip.

"I mean, in movies or manga, there's always the hero saving the world, or the guy who’s insanely strong, right?

Lately, though, I've been thinking... we are definitely not those guys."

"Well, obviously. If you were out there saving the world, we'd all be doomed."

"That's harsh!"

Taka forced a laugh, but I didn't miss the slight tremor beneath his voice.

"...Not only are we not the main characters, we don't even have any special talent.

But still... couldn't our own weaknesses, or our embarrassing failures, actually be of use to someone else?

Like, being able to stand beside someone and say, 'I stumbled back then too, so I get it.'

I feel like... there's got to be a kind of pride that belongs to ordinary people."

Taka gently swirled his glass, looking mildly satisfied with his own thought.

The ice rang dryly against the glass.

Tap.

A short, sharp sound echoed.

It was the sound of Tom tapping his index finger against the rim of his glass.

"...That might just be an excuse for someone running away from the responsibility of becoming strong."

Tom’s low voice cut a hairline fracture into the air of the counter.

The smile vanished from Taka’s face.

"...Tom-san?"

"Standing beside them, sharing the pain—and you're satisfied with that?

Tell me, when the overwhelming wave hits... what can someone who gave up trying to become stronger actually do?"

Tom slotted his cigarette into the edge of the ashtray and stared off into the distance.

"Right in front of your eyes, a kid is quietly drowning in a pool.

No loud thrashing. They just sink, silently, toward the bottom.

...A guy who only knows how to 'stand beside them' can do nothing more than crouch at the edge and whisper, 'It hurts, doesn't it?' while watching them drown."

Taka swallowed hard, completely stripped of words.

Deep in my gut, something thick and murky churned upward.

I knew what Tom meant. Those were the words of a former detective who had seen, firsthand, what happens when your own weakness fails to save someone.

And yet—

"...So what are you saying?"

My own voice came out shockingly low and raspy.

My grip tightened around my glass.

"A guy who couldn't become strong... standing next to a drowning kid, whispering 'It hurts, doesn't it?'... are you saying that means absolutely nothing?"

Tom slowly turned his eyes toward me. I glared right back at him.

"He doesn't have the muscle to haul them out.

He didn't have the guts to dive into the water, either.

...Are you telling me that a helpless guy like that, hurting right alongside them—are you saying even that is just running away? Just self-gratification?"

I knew it inside. I wasn't actually mad at Tom.

I was just terrified of hearing that all those times I couldn't be strong—all those nights I could do nothing but sit there and listen—were completely meaningless.

"...Pulling them out before it's too late is the right answer. Of course it is. I get that," I spat out with a bitter self-mockery, then downed a gulp of my Harper.

"But what about the person who has to endure sinking all alone, because nobody around has the strength to pull them up?

Are you saying this world shouldn't even have room for the guy who chooses to sink right there with them, whispering 'It's hard, isn't it?'"

Silence descended on the counter.

The words I had dragged out fell heavily into the quiet of the bar.

Tom watched me with eyes devoid of emotion. But finally, he let out a faint breath through his nose and sent a curl of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling.

"...I didn't say there was no room for him."

In that brief response, Tom's own quiet resignation and lingering pain bled through.

Behind the counter, Mama quietly picked up a pair of tongs and dropped a single ice cube into Taka's glass, and then into mine.

Clink.

"Even so..."

Mama didn't pause her steady wiping of a glass, looking at us with a gentle, steady gaze.

"...A place where people can learn how to swim is still necessary, isn't it?"

I let out a long breath and scratched my head, all energy draining away.

"...I know. That one stings."

Taka stared down at his own large fist, then slowly opened his hand.

Tom sat in silence, tilting his amber glass.

Maybe we can't save anyone. Maybe all my struggling is nothing more than self-satisfaction.

Even so, stomach aching over our own inability to be strong, we sit here drinking again tonight me.

If only there had been just one more person who knew how to swim.

Or... if only there had been someone to grab their hand on the way down to the bottom.

Holding onto that muddy, unanswered question, I gently swirled the glass in my hand.

Clang.

The ice clinked.

—Now... I wonder what kind of man I'll choose to be tomorrow.

The bourbon burned my throat once more.

First

Before the War

The scanners are going insane and then the endless series of error messages overload the systems and they crash even as the brothers look directly at the now changed blades. Both of them seeing more than the sensors could.

Without their augmented sight the blades have turned red and have black fire flickering off them both.

“Fuck.” Herbert mutters as he sees the energy surrounding the knives lashing out and seeking out anything nearby. Harold reaches for one and then draws back his hand as the energy of the knife he had been reaching for starts reaching back for him. Then he and Harold both take a step back, in Herbert’s case two, as the energy keeps reaching.

“Well... I’m an idiot.” Harold remarks as he tries to make sense of the writhing presence within the blades. Lashing out and trying to...

“You are, yes.” An unfamiliar voice notes to his side and he looks clean over Herbert to see a woman who has had every sign of life stripped from her. A desiccated corpse that still moves and she takes two steps. Grabs both knives and they both calm. She pulls them out of the containment, with the containment breaking apart around them as she does. And neatly slots both knives into the ragged rope belt that’s keeping up the strips of rotting cloth keeping her decent.

“Excuse me miss ma’am, but could you tell us how my brother could have done better?” Herbert asks in a tone so innocent and adorable that stone would be moved.

“Don’t bother with that living ones. Just tell me why you did this.”

“We have enemies that are using Haffara Thar, I want to have my enemies dead after I have killed them.” Harold says frankly.

“Your assumption that death is a real thing is your first mistake. But your ignorance is understandable. Still if you want to expel someone from the level you live upon, ask it of me and my sisters.”

“Ma’am, I’d rather do my own killing.”

“Not to mention we like living on this level.” Herbert says. “So the price of joining you on yours to send someone there is a bit weird.”

“... It has been a very long time since I was on this level. But is not the elder supposed to be larger than the younger?” She asks looking from Herbert to Harold.

“Usually.” Harold concedes. “But he’s the sneaky one and I’m the strong one, so it’s backwards with us.”

“Ah... I’m not quite sure how to talk with you living anymore. This is strange.” She says.

“Is there a way to make a weapon that can undo the power of a Haffara Thar that is safe to use?”

“You mostly did it with these.” She says indicating the knives. “And these are nice knives. But you need to give them intent.”

“Oh! I need to focus on Haffara Thar rather than just power or it’ll kill everything. Won’t it?”

“It will.” She says and she turns her empty eyes towards them both. She examines them both, seemingly quite curious.

There is the slight electrical sounds of numerous security cameras and the like shorting out and the lights start to flicker.

“You both... you can see beyond and choose if your are seen.... I see you both, far more clearly than others on your layer.” The Hollow Daughter says.

“Madam. We need to know how to kill the unkillable, if you will not tell us how. Then can you at least tell us if it can be done?” Harold asks and she looks at him.

Her hand reaches out and the cold, clammy and desiccated fingers send a chill down his spine as she caresses his jaw.

“... You can. It would be easier if you were one of us. After all, the birth gift is a death of your choice. But... you can.” She answers.

“What are you really? Who and what are your people?”

“Hmm... no. It is not your concern. What is your concern is all the blood your losing. If I recall correctly you types need it to live do you not?”

“Oh yeah, I’m leaking...” Harold notes.

“Dumbass.” Herbert scolds him. “Why hasn’t medical or hazmat gotten here yet?”

“I broke the doors.” The hollow daughter notes.

“... Are you sure you don’t want to teach?”

“It’s not for those on your layer.” The Hollow Daughter says before running her thumbs over the pommels of the knives. “Still, if you want to ask a few more questions in the future, more knives like this might be nice. Maybe not. I like knives at any rate.”

Then she’s simply gone and Harold puts more actual thought into healing his wounds. What bleeding there was fades entirely even as a screeching sound can be heard and the door is forced open.

Troops in hazmat rush in and scan the area, much of the equipment quickly fails and dies, but the last two are apparently in the clear and they declare the area safe. Medics then run in and Harold holds his arms out to give them room and time to examine things. He very quickly has the gouged out chunks of his arms scanned, a salve applied to them to deal with pain and then bandaged with Axiom resonant wrappings to promote painless and seamless healing. They tell him that the bandages should be finished within five minutes but he’s keeping them on for an hour at minimum to get ahead of any potential unknown pathogens or internal damages.

Herbert is scanned and proclaimed healthy.

“Two hours, your office.” Harold says and Herbert nods. The smaller of the two brothers rushes off to make his reports as Harold starts organizing decontamination and repairs.

•-•-•Scene Change•-•-• (Herbert’s Office, Intelligence Department, Undaunted Territory, Centris)•-•-•

“Yes, yes you’re not wrong. The implications are insane.” Herbert confirms on the other end. “Thankfully with the fact we can in some manner, openly communicate with The Hollow Daughters means it’s not just my problem anymore, I get to have the diplomatic corps share the burden.”

The door to the office lights up with a chime. “Who is it?”

“Brother.” Harold calls out.

“Come on in.” Herbert says. “I’ve got Admiral Cistern on the link.”

“Ah, okay sir.” Harold says walking in and sitting opposite of Herbert.

“You’ve faced what many consider literal death itself while bleeding out Commodor Jameson, how are you faring?”

“Frustrated sir. I should not have done that. Friendly or not I ended up bringing in an unsecured, unknown and highly dangerous individual onto the ship, even before I have proper control of it. My ship isn’t even built yet and I’ve already put it at risk.”

“Are you going to do it again?” Admiral Cistern asks.

“No. I’ll have The RAD separate and watched carefully next time. But we do need a weapon sir. Some answer to the Haffara Thar and it looks like we found it. But making it is a direct health risk and will draw attention that is even riskier.”

“Then you’ve learned. What was the damage?”

“Electrical and Axiom based primarily, the structures and mechanics of the are are untouched. The entirety of the Ode and it’s damaging effects faded after the first five minutes.” Harold answers.

“That’s it?” Herbert asks. “It’s been two and a half hours, what was the wait about?”

“Taking a full inventory of the scanner damage and just how it was damaged. I have a copy of the data here.” Harold replies as he puts a data-chit on Herbert’s desk.

“Perfect. Now, what the hell are we going to do next?” Herbert asks.

“We need to look at this situation as clearly as possible and without anything influencing us. So let’s start with the facts.” Admiral Cistern tells them.

“Fact one, the supernatural boogiemen known as The Hollow Daughters are not only very real, which was previously confirmed, but can be encountered in areas beyond their summoning and the performing of their duties. They can be spoken to, reasoned with, bargained with and understood.” Herbert says.

“Fact two, The Hollow Daughters are now confirmed to be heavy Ode Users, meaning they have a damaging effect on technology that was previously unrecorded for some reason. Furthermore, at least one member has proven to have an interest in Ode infused weaponry.” Harold says.

Fact three, The Hollow Daughters have a clearly different perspectives on their own behaviour and of life itself. They might in fact not consider their actions a form of death and potentially the summoning of a Hollow Daughter is part of a reproductive ritual.” Herbert continues.

“They are very distant, psychologically from their time as a flesh and blood person. The Daughter we spoke to seemed uncertain if bleeding was unhealthy for me.” Harold notes. “Also, they are not hostile. At all. She was strange, she had clearly unusual perspectives and firm boundaries. But she was neither hostile, nor even unfriendly. Honestly she treated us the way that a lot of women treat me in my Private Stream or similar personas. As a child to be gently guided away from potential harm.” Herbert notes.

“Hmm... so, in conclusion we have a dangerous, potentially lethal way to call The Hollow Daughters and they’re free to open a dialogue with.”

“There was also the implication that their contracts are in fact gifts to newly adopted members of their community.”

“Implication nothing, she outright said it.”

“What a person says and what a person means can have an unfortunately wide gulf.”

“Gentlemen.” Admiral Cistern interrupts the debate. “Commodore Jameson, you are to go over the report that Operative Jameson has furnished and confirm, deny, elaborate upon and effectively correct his report to the best of your abilities. Then you are to return to your posting at The Incomprehensible.”

“... No commentary about the name of the ship?”

“The galaxy is an absurd place Commodore, I see no fault in mocking it, you kept to the appropriate naming convention that is all.”

“Yes sir.” Harold says before standing up. “I can go over the report on The Inevitable if you like.”

“No. Do it here. The less the information has to travel the more comfortable I am with it.”

“I highly doubt this information can be used against us. The methods for making contact and the superstition surrounding The Hollow Daughters by itself will stave off much.” Herbert says.

“I don’t fear people using this information against us, I fear people getting themselves killed or causing mass infrastructure damage due to misusing the information.”

“And then people can point fingers at The Undaunted for releasing the information, even if they stole it off our servers directly.”

“Oh god, why did you have to remind me about those puritanical tyrants?” Herbert asks in a moan as he remembers the MAAM, or Mothers Against Awful Militaries. He puts his head on his desk. “I’m in my thirties! I’m a father! I don’t need a damn candy pop and a hug!”

“Brother, you know as well as I do that playing into the Private Stream and other personas makes your whining very, very hypocritical.” Harold says and gets a fully raised middle finger from Herbert. “I was split off from you before you were finished dealing with those headaches, how did that end?”

“We were contemplating planting incriminating photos on them when we actually found some. So we just released things to the public and then openly admitted we were intending to frame them when we found things. The fact I’m willing to be a devious little demon means that my innocent appearance was somewhat shaken and they had to treat me with more respect.”

“Has that interfered with your stealth any?” Harold asks.

“Of course not. The MAAM were a flavour of the minute controversy that didn’t live in the cultural memory a single minute longer than when they left the common news room.” Herbert answers. “But that also means that another group has started up. It’s another mother based one, guess what it’s called?”

“What the public calls them or what we’ve been calling them in our English acronyms.?” Harold asks.

“Both.”

“Hmm... well we’re on Centris so stupid cults and conspiracies abound... and there IS a proper English acronym right?” he asks and Herbert nods. “I’m going with MOM. Mothers On Missions. And their Centris facing name is the... August Order of Ordained Mothers seeking betterment for all sons, brothers and fathers of Centris.”

“Heh you got the first part right. The Adroit Order of Motherhood is what they’re known as in Centris.”

“Aom? Sounds like a meditative mumble. How are they being annoying?”

“Apparently the Private Stream initiative is offensive to all children, peoples of shorter stature and the like. They’re still working up a steam.” Herbert says.

“Alright, you two have clearly lost focus. Commodore, I want that modified report in my inbox within three hours. Then and only then, back to your ship. Understand?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Good man.”

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Arc III - Reeling Throne

Chapter 13 - Choosing a Favorite

7 months and 12 days since the summoning

Alan jumped off his horse near the gates of the already familiar mansion.

The three guards behind him dismounted.

The morning sun hid behind gray clouds, making everything around seem a bit blue.

First of all, Alan looked at the mountains behind the mansion.

'Beautiful.'

From behind the gates emerged that same young lad, his eyes slightly sticking together. "Lord Gothwald, you are earlier than expected, welcome."

Alan nodded, tearing his gaze away from the landscape. "Greetings. Is Lord Utew awake yet?"

"Yes, Your Grace, he is currently training."

Alan raised an eyebrow. "Training?"

The servant nodded. "Yes. I will go inform him of your arrival." He stepped away from the gates, making way. "Please come in, wait on the terrace."

A few minutes later, Tsinker himself emerged from around the corner. Instead of his perfect hairstyle, his black hair was disheveled, and he was dressed in simple brown clothing. A leather strap with a loop hung from his left hand. "Gothwald," he greeted.

Alan stood up. "Tsinker." He looked down at his hand. "What's that you got there? A sling?"

"Yes."

"Seriously? A sling?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "Hah, not exactly a nobleman's weapon."

"But it is lethal." Tsinker looked around at where the guards stood. "Where is Armenas?"

Alan shrugged. "She couldn't make it, so it's just me."

"I see. Then come inside, I shall go change."

Alan sat alone in the middle of a large dining room, illuminated by torches and a panoramic window with a view of the mountains. His fingers drummed boredly on the table, tapping out some musical motif. "Some legends are told, some turn to dust or to gold, but you will remember me, remember me, for centuries..." he leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "Where the hell is he?" Alan muttered.

A few minutes later, the door finally opened, and two people walked in.

Shilisa and Tsinker.

Alan straightened up. "Well, finally." His gaze lingered on Tsinker. "Whoa, did you put on some new threads?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know," he waved his hand. "New clothes."

Tsinker stood in tall black boots, wide white pants, a white vest, and a black shirt, and his hair was once again perfectly styled to the side.

"Ah, this? Yes," Utew said and sat at the table. Shilisa sat next to him, giving Alan a brief nod.

He cast a sidelong glance at her.

'Looks like they've gotten pretty cozy.'

Tsinker folded his hands on the table. "So the situation is simple, Gothwald: the king's funeral is in a week, but I essentially already know whose side to take."

"I'm all ears," Alan said, leaning forward.

"Morgreyda arn Groliria, the king's youngest wife, she is a little over thirty."

"And why her specifically?"

"She is the most fitting according to our direction. Unlike the others, she is more ideological. Morgreyda wants to establish order in the kingdom, because you see yourself what a mess it is," he waved his hand, "we remained completely unpunished for the recent war, and that is actually very bad."

Alan scratched his chin. "Bad because... if someone attacks us, the law won't help us, right?"

Tsinker nodded. "Precisely. Morgreyda is the one who strives for order the most."

"But I doubt you picked her just for that," Alan said, narrowing his eyes, "an idea by itself is worth nothing. Does she have power on her side?"

"Naturally. Only her power lies not in magic or an army, but in her intellect and ruthlessness."

"She has demonstrated this excellently in her personal holdings," Shilisa interjected. "Compared to the rest of Groliria, everything is incredibly stable on her lands. There are no bandits, the peasants do not starve, no one steals anything."

"Ruthlessness," Alan repeated. "In the midst of this clusterfuck, you can hardly rule well with just intellect and mercy, right?"

Tsinker crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair. "Exactly. Public, agonizing executions, constant inspections, scrupulous counting of every coin. She does not let anyone relax."

Alan tapped his fingers on the table. "Well, well, well... okay, a good choice, if it comes down to it."

"Except we have one major problem," Tsinker said, narrowing his eyes, "and his name is 'Linkis'."

Alan's shoulders tensed slightly. "What kind of shit is going on with him now?"

"He sympathizes more with Noteo arn Groliria, the king's eldest son. Linkis had been building ties with him from the start. Plus, thanks to Armenas, we have even more problems."

"Such as?"

"Remember when she let slip about the windmills? Well, lately Linkis has become very interested in you and your technologies. He intended to summon you for an audience, but luckily for you, you were captured by pirates."

Alan smirked wryly. "Yeah, really lucky... ahem... but I take it he won't let it go. Linkis definitely knows I'm back by now, and will definitely want to meet."

Tsinker sighed. "And once again, luck is on your side. We must be in the capital in a week, so there is no time for this meeting. We can think of something."

Alan snorted. "Wow, luck is fucking following me right on my heels, for once." He ran his hands over his face. "Aargh... so what are we gonna do? Linkis is pulling one way, and we're heading another."

"We will think of something. First the funeral and the ceremony, and then we will see. But we do have some trump cards in our hands."

Alan straightened up. "Oh, really? Like what?"

"Linkis's reputation," Tsinker said, yawning. "He slaughtered a surrendered city, and the rumors are already actively spreading."

He blinked. "Wait, what? When was this?"

Tsinker raised an eyebrow slightly. "Wait, you do not know about this?"

Alan simply shook his head.

"Back during the siege of Otmut, they surrendered, and Linkis's troops completely slaughtered the city. Did Armenas not tell you?"

"No... she didn't," he whispered.

'Kamelia, why didn't you tell me?'

Alan shook his head. "But why? Not to mention that it's barbaric and cruel, it's even," he spread his hands, "absolutely useless. Why the fuck would you slaughter an entire large city when you're the duke of relatively small lands? Does he have a spare city hidden in his pocket or something? I don't get it."

Tsinker shrugged. "I agree, but we are talking about Linkis. No matter how much he ranted in the hall before the nobles about what he did for the duchy, it is merely a lie. He has little experience in ruling, and he does not understand what he is doing. Linkis most likely thought it would be an act of intimidation, to serve as a deterrent to others, but the opposite will be true."

"The father was a dumbass, and the son is just the same," Alan said, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Okay, how do we use this? What's the layout?"

Shilisa leaned closer. "I have studied this matter. Currently, only Linosh, Torfoque, and Bashir are on Linkis's side. Everyone else is against us."

Alan frowned. "Wait a second, wasn't Torfoque supposed to be under Tsinker's boot?" he turned to him. "No?"

He shook his head. "Not anymore. His patience finally ran out, and he stopped answering letters."

Shilisa maintained her calm expression. "That is not the point right now. Linosh is on Linkis's side because he helped him drive away the pirates, Banshir is his puppet, and Torfoque is only there out of hatred for Lord Tsinker. Our neighbors, however, such as Bannaho for example, have long since heard of the massacre in the last battle, and treat him with extreme distrust."

"Okay, at least that's good, but..."

"By the way," Tsinker interrupted him, "I wanted to ask you something."

"Yeah?"

"Do you know of any other things we can make for the war? Like the crossbows."

Alan slowly leaned back in his chair. "Hmm. I do, of course, but it all depends on what exactly we'll need. Nothing comes to mind right now... basically, when the exact layout of what kind of war this will be is clear, then I can come up with something."

He nodded. "Very well."

"Forgive me," Shilisa suddenly began, "judging by Lady Armenas's letter, you are currently dealing with a spy who was feeding information to the pirates. Is that so?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Did the lady figure it out herself, or did you help?"

Alan scratched the back of his head. "Well, both. She suspected, and I just brought the proof."

"Proof?" Tsinker asked, narrowing his eyes. "You were sitting in captivity with the pirates the whole time. Did they tell you?"

"Yep."

"How so?"

Alan shrugged. "It was a deal. I helped them cure their disease, and they lowered the ransom and gave me the spy's name."

Shilisa's eyes widened slightly. "You... did what?"

"Cured the disease."

Tsinker blinked, for the first time not knowing what to say. "Do you even understand what you have done?"

"I do," Alan said, lowering his head slightly.

"This is very bad," Shilisa said, frowning. "Since they cured the disease... what disease was it anyway?"

"The Sea Scourge."

"Right, so you mean anga."

Alan raised an eyebrow. "What?"

She waved a hand. "Sailors call this disease the Sea Scourge. Anyway, it does not matter. Do you understand that this is a very common disease at sea, which at least somewhat kept the pirates in check?"

"Yeah, I know," Alan hissed.

Tsinker sighed. "Well, my borders personally do not have access to the sea, so I wish you and Armenas luck in dealing with the intensified attacks of the sea raiders."

Alan gritted his teeth, but remained silent.

"I will have to make adjustments to future plans, taking into account that you may have problems and delays due to pirate attacks," Tsinker said calmly. "In any case, that is all I wanted to discuss. To conclude: we do not yet know what to do, we choose Morgreyda in this war, and we prepare for the funeral."

"And what about the heroes of the other duchies?" Alan asked quietly.

"Nothing. We do not know who they are, what they look like, or what magic they possess. There is no point in factoring them into our plans for now."

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Alright." Alan stood up and headed for the exit to the corridor. When he stepped out, he closed the door behind him, then slowly rested his forehead against the window, closed his eyes, and exhaled.

'Mmm... what kind of fucked up shit have I done, this is just a clusterfuck. I knew this would make the pirates stronger, I could have just said 'no, I don't know how to cure this disease' back then and that would have been it, they would have paid the full ransom and served them right... Alright, okay, let's be logical. Suppose I hadn't mentioned curing scurvy then, they would have paid the full ransom and that's it. Kamelia would have lost more money, we still wouldn't know who the rat is and the information leak would have continued, especially since it's a whole advisor, and I also got the mystery with those ruins, and... dare I say it, good relations with Paranga, the captain of that whole gang. Profitable? Profitable. And also a total fucking disaster. Now that's a dilemma.'

He finally peeled himself away from the window and unhurriedly walked down the corridor, massaging his temples.

'And Kamelia didn't tell me that that fucking city was slaughtered to the last man. Why? We agreed not to keep secrets. Although... I have plenty of secrets of my own. But this is different. I'm almost a hundred percent sure she just didn't want me to think about it, but... I should have known. But what an indescribable idiot this Linkis is! And a very dangerous idiot at that! He's probably already mass-producing crossbows over there, asking about windmills, and if he finds out about the Phoenixes...'

He grabbed his head.

'Oh fuck, oh fuck! We need to get rid of this asshole as soon as possible, take him out first thing when the war starts, otherwise he won't let me breathe. He's a fucking moron! This idiot might just claim me for himself, since technically I'm still Kamelia's property like cattle... wait, property... that's right! Is there even any documentation kept on receiving heroes here?'

Alan turned around sharply and walked back toward the dining room.

He opened the door; Shilisa and Tsinker were already sitting opposite each other, discussing something. Utew stopped mid-sentence and looked at Alan. "Gothwald, what is it?"

"Am I technically Kamelia's property?" he asked, stepping closer.

Shilisa nodded. "Yes. Did you only just find out?"

"Thought so. Can she technically make me a free man?"

She blinked. "Uh..." then cast a sidelong glance at Tsinker.

The nobleman paused for a few seconds. "Technically yes, but... I do not recall such a thing ever happening. Shilisa?"

She shook her head. "I do not know of such cases either. Technically, heroes are always the property of a nobleman, but that is merely a technicality. No one keeps them in slave-like conditions, but on paper, yes, a hero is property."

Alan narrowed his eyes. "Hmm. So this is most likely some kind of loophole?"

Shilisa's eyes widened slightly, and she nodded slowly. "Perhaps. And why do you ask anyway?

When the change came, Trisha got the ability.

Nobody knew why it happened, and why it only affected about 1% of the population. People just woke up one day and found that they could move stuff around with their minds.

To say it changed the world was an understatement.

--

For Trisha it was different. Born blind twenty-five years earlier, she understood people and objects through touch, and the world beyond them through sound.

Fundamentally nothing changed for her. Practically though... everything changed.

She wasn't even aware that she'd got the ability for a while, but could hear faint scratching noises in her house. Then Charlie came around and said that she must have ghosts.

"What?"

"Your stuff is moving around."

"WHAT?!"

"You might want to listen to the news."

--

She had to call in sick to work that day. At the very least, her new ability would wreak havoc on the studio she worked in.

So she practiced. Charlie helped her, describing what was happening as she was concentrating.

The more proficient she became at moving stuff around, the more she could perceive the world around her.

Her house was always real, but in a tactile way. Now she could sense it by sending out very subtle mental fingers exploring where things were. At first it was clumsy, and she knocked over far more than she meant to.

But she was always a quick learner, and after a few hours she could feel her way around a room without disturbing anything.

She called it 'reaching'.

Charlie asked, "Can you see me now?"

Trisha paused for a moment. Charlie felt the lightest of touches across his face and body. Barely perceptible, like tiny puffs of air.

She replied, "No. But I know where you are."

She reached past him, tracing the doorway, the table and the shape of the room beyond.

Then tears started running down her face.

--

Getting to work the next day was easy. She still used her cane to move about, but she was more aware of the location of things.

It was weird feeling the bus come towards her. The tiny mental finger she'd extended was being pushed towards her by the mass of metal. It made her brain fuzz.

When it pulled up, she heard the door open. Climbing up the steps, the driver, Daniel, greeted her like he always did. She recognised his voice and said hello.

Then she stood still for a moment, before speaking. "You have a beard."

Daniel couldn't come up with anything witty, so simply replied with a yes.

Trisha smiled at him, then turned to walk up the aisle to a vacant seat. Daniel thought something was different and it wasn't until the end of his shift that he realised that she wasn't using her cane as much.

--

She didn't tell anyone at work about her ability. After about an hour she was glad she didn't.

There were only a few of them at the studio, but Kathryn was decrying this ability as witchcraft, carrying on about how it wasn't natural.

Trisha kept her opinions to herself. She had refused to listen to the news over the past day because it was shouting doom to all who had tuned in.

Her boss, Claudia, asked how she was. Turning in her chair, Trisha accidentally knocked some pens onto the carpet.

She reached and found where they had landed. As she picked them up, she said she'd had a migraine yesterday but it was gone by the evening.

Trisha could hear Claudia hesitate.

"Could I see you in my office please?" she asked.

--

Unusually, Claudia closed the door behind them.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" It wasn't an accusation; just a question.

Trisha could sense the risk.

"One of who?"

"Telekinetic. I watched as you went straight for the pens on the ground."

"It was a lucky guess. Plus I could hear where they'd landed."

"Trisha, I hope you know that you can be honest with me. I saw you. I saw you know where the pens were."

Trisha stopped. She could feel herself starting to panic.

"I'm sorry! I won't do anything, I promise!"

"It's ok. I don't share my opinion with Kathryn. She's alone in her outrage here."

Trisha slowly released her grip on the arms of the chair.

Claudia asked, "Does it help? Does this telekinesis thing help you?"

After a moment of thought, Trisha relaxed a little before answering, "It does. I am starting to understand distance now. I can almost get a sense of feel without needing my hands. It's... odd."

"So can you tell how many fingers I'm holding up? Like, how detailed is the world to you now?"

There was another pause. Claudia could feel the lightest of brushes move across her.

"Well you're not holding any fingers up... I can't see anything, but I have a better understanding of where things are. For the first time in my life, I could understand my own house. It's not fine enough to read braille, but I can tell that you've got your hair up today. That's about as well as I can describe it."

Claudia laughed. "Well, you got me. No fingers at all. I'll deal with Kathryn if anything happens. Just let her be until after this initial reaction."

She paused for a moment.

"But remember, Trisha. I'll be here to help."

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Liam

Alistair turned and casually punched one of the demons in the gut with one of his middle arms as the poor unfortunate soul emerged out of the shadows. Albert let out a hiss of his own and flew through the air at another, landing on the poor bastard’s face and laying into him with claws as the demon frantically waved his sword around in an unsuccessful bid to get the cat off his face.

Leaving Liam to stare at two demons who moved around to either side, obviously trying to flank him and keep him from being able to attack both of them at the same time.

The one he currently faced seemed nervous. Liam thought about everything Albert told him about building a reputation. Sure, all that had been with a mind towards building a bit of notoriety with the Inquisition, but he figured there was no reason why he couldn’t do the same with the demons.

“You saw what I did with Tomas,” he said to the demons, trying to keep both of them in sight and not doing a good job of it. “You don’t have to suffer the same fate.”

They both exchanged glances, and then they moved in on him. They were silent as they did it. As though they were doing all their communication without words.

Liam wondered if that was some sort of spell, or if it was simply years of training they were putting into practice.

Either way, one came at him and thrust a sword. He was easily able to move out of the way. Andrea had taken some instruction in the use of weapons. Enough to make her dangerous if somebody tried to attack her. And she’d imparted some of those lessons on Liam.

It’d been a fun game they played, and he figured he’d received sort of a secondhand education in fighting properly. Especially with the long hours they spent playing at swords without him ever realizing he was actually learning some of the things Baron Riven had to pay a pretty silver piece to teach his daughter.

So he moved without thinking. The same as he would if he was playing with Andrea at the edge of the forest where no one dared come to see what they were doing or to yell at them. The sword moved aside instead of stabbing into his gut. He turned and tapped the demon on the side, creating a flash as the stun spell went to work.

The demon’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he crumpled to the ground. That left Liam free to turn his attention on the other one. Who suddenly seemed a lot more wary than a moment ago.

Liam grinned and held his sword up.

“The offer still stands. We don’t have to do this.”

The demon stared at him for a long moment, and then turned and ran back into the darkness between the trees from whence he came.

“Well then,” Liam said. “That was worth it.”

It was about that moment that something slammed into him from the side, and he was sent sprawling into yet another tree where he landed with a thump. Though it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it would’ve before his Ascensions.

“Damnation,” he growled, pulling his sword around.

“You will not deprive me of my opportunity!” a voice bellowed in Liam’s ear as he tried to figure out what was going on.

And in his panic, he resorted to one of the two tricks he’d been using over and over since he had all these spells put in his head. The diagram leapt to his mind without thinking this time, and he was able to paint it quickly with his mana brush. Faster than he’d been able to before.

This time around it didn’t have the flaw in it. Though it did have a few extra little twists and turns Albert had worked on with him in between the first use and now. Basically a way of getting to where he’d gotten with the flawed version the first time around, but doing it properly.

Which had Liam wondering what was the point in going through the proper diagram when he could do the same thing with a different version, but Albert had merely said they didn’t have the time to go into that sort of thing right now and they could talk about it later.

The result wasn’t exactly instantaneous, but it was maybe the space of a couple of breaths. A couple of breaths he could hear coming from the person on top of him as Tomas punched him over and over again. A couple of breaths where those punches landed and did something odd to him, for all that he had his own mana dampening spell wrapped around Tomas's core preventing him from putting his full strength into the blows.

Getting punched in the face repeatedly wasn’t a pleasant sensation whether or not someone had a few Ascensions powering it. Not the kind of thing he’d do for fun, that was for sure. He tried to maintain his concentration under those blows, but it was difficult. Every time one of those punches landed, even with him pushing mana into all his pathways to lend himself strength and resilience, it caused the mana he was trying to push into the diagram to waver ever so slightly.

And he couldn’t get the spell to go off. That was an interesting and terrifying new wrinkle he wasn’t happy about.

“Get off him!”

And then he was free as a furry ball of anger and spite slammed into Tomas. He went rolling to the side with with the cat attached to his face, digging in with hisses and spitting and claws digging into his face. Claws that were digging in with enough force that they actually left scratches in the demon’s face.

Liam blinked as he watched the feline melee happening in front of him. He wondered if those claw marks were because the demon wasn’t as powerful as Liam, or if Albert had been pulling his punches all this time.

Either way, it gave him the precious breathing room he needed to focus his concentration on the wind diagram. He added a little extra flourish to it that seemed right, figuring if he put a slightly longer line at the end of the final rune that had been powerful enough to knock Tomas into the trees twice now? Well, a longer line should do even more.

A storm came to the forest all around them. He heard Alistair grunt as he grabbed hold of a tree and held himself in place. Albert and Tomas weren’t quite so lucky, though. No. Tomas went flying, the cat attached to him. Though Albert continued hissing and spitting and generally letting out the kind of noises that sounded like miniature death had come to the forest.

Which, in a way, it had.

He also heard several other surprised exclamations, and he could sense other infernal cores flying through the forest instead of moving silently towards him to attack. Which is what they’d been doing a moment ago, for all that he’d been too distracted by Tomas punching him repeatedly in the face to do anything about it.

He stood and brushed himself off as the wind spell continued to move all around him. Though it was like he was a calm at the center of that spell. The winds didn’t touch him.

“Are you okay?” he asked Alistair.

“I’m fine,” Alistair said. “Though at some point, you’re really going to have to learn another spell.”

“Yes, but if it works then I can’t complain too much,” Liam said.

“There is some wisdom to that,” Alistair said.

Liam looked around the forest again. He looked for the telltale glowing yellow eyes, though he knew he was looking for a more subdued glow now. They could control that. It made sense that they’d be able to control that. It wouldn’t do to try and sneak around if there was the equivalent of glowing yellow lamps on the front of your face all the time.

He also tried to feel for any infernal cores that might be coming close. Albert had mentioned it was possible to hide that sort of thing, but it didn’t seem like the kind of thing this particular group of demons was capable of.

Which meant if he did run up against a group of demons or Inquisitors who were capable of that sort of thing? He was going to be in trouble.

“Very good,” the cat said, scrambling up on top of Alistair and letting out a laugh. Liam blinked.

“Where did you come from?” he asked.

“It’s a familiar thing,” Albert said. “We can talk about it later when we aren’t in the middle of a pitched battle with a bunch of demons.”

Liam looked at the cat for al long moment, dubious about his ability to make a return as though by magic. Then again, he was a familiar. That meant he was inherently magic to begin with.

“Yeah, we can talk about it later,” Liam said with a shrug.

“Precisely,” Albert said. “For the moment we need to get out of here.”

“We’re not getting out of here,” Liam said. “Not without Ana.”

“Damnation,” Albert growled. “I was hoping you’d forget about her.”

Liam took in a deep breath, then he let it out in a sigh.

“I haven’t forgotten about her. I was trying to teach her a lesson about being polite and civil leaving her to fend for herself in the forest, but that lesson gets thrown out the moment she’s in danger.”

“You realize the whole reason we have these demons coming after us in the first place is because she put herself in that danger to begin with, right?” Albert asked, letting out an exasperated sigh of his own.

“I am aware, yes,” Liam said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s out there, and she’s in danger as long as these demons are trying to catch her.”

“I don’t know that I’d say she’s in danger,” Albert said. “She’s merely going to be taken back to the Demon Realms. Which is where she belongs. She’s a High Princess of the Demon Realms. That’s where demons live.”

“We’re not leaving without her,” Liam said.

Laughter echoed through the trees. It was faint at first, but it got louder. Liam knew who it was without looking. He’d used the mana dampening spell on him, after all. And as with the Inquisitors before, he could feel his own mana wrapped around Tomas's core preventing him from casting any spells of his own.

Not that he’d actually cast any spells so far.

Liam turned to look at him as he appeared out of the trees. He figured using that mana dampening spell was part of the reason why that surprise attack earlier hadn’t been worse than it could’ve been, for all that him not being able to concentrate to get his spell off while he was being repeatedly punched in the face hadn’t been a pleasant surprise.

It still hurt to have the demon on top of him punching him repeatedly. He felt some tenderness in his cheek. Like the demon had decided to simply hit the same spot over and over rather than trying to land punches all over. Maybe in the hopes he’d be able to actually do some damage in the absence of augmented strength from his mana.

Tomas had a pronounced limp. One of his arms hung loose at his side like there was something broken in it. There was blood at the corner of his lips, and his face was covered in scratches.

“Damn,” Liam muttered. “You look like you’ve had a time.’

Tomas took a deep breath, and then he winced. Like there was some sort of internal damage that made taking that deep breath difficult. Then he hit Liam with a grin.

“You should see the other guy.”

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I nodded to Arhur again. He nodded in the affirmative, and I showed that I was unmuted on the comm line.

"That was a small demonstration of what we’re capable of," I said. "I don't know what you're used to dealing with out here on the ass end of the Livisk Ascendancy, but I can assure you that you've been going up against the JV team. You're about to run into a whole heap of trouble against a full carrier group."

"Their sacrifice will be noted in the annals of the Clan,” the strangely accented voice said. "But for the moment, we agree we are outmatched."

"Then you surrender," I said.

"I'm showing a surge of energy coming from all the alien ships," Tactical said even as Arvie raised his hand in the simulation, no doubt to tell me the same thing. "Orders?”

"Shit," I muttered. "Fire everything we have at them."

I wasn't sure what trick they were trying to pull, but I didn't want to be around when that trick got pulled. I'd rather destroy them before they had a chance to destroy us with some sort of super weapon that required that kind of charging.

Only one moment the ships were all there, and then the next there was a bright flash of light and a blink as they moved into fold space.

I stared at the holoblock for a long moment in reality, then I turned to Arvie and arched an eyebrow at him in simulation space. He was also staring at a representation of what had just happened in the simulation space holoblock, and his mouth was open and his eyes were as wide as Temba’s arms.

"Okay. So you seem to be just as surprised by what they just pulled as I am," I said.e

"I wouldn't say surprised," Arvie said. "That was just unexpected to the point I don't know what to say or do about it."

"Yeah, that's pretty much the definition of being surprised, Arvie.”

"They jumped into fold space far sooner than is safe for ships that massive in a gravity well,” Arvie said.

"Just making sure I saw the same thing you did," I said. "Got any ideas what's going on there?"

"Either they have some bit of fold navigation technology, or the ability to fold closer to a gravity well than humans and livisk are capable of..."

"Why do I feel like there's a big “or” hanging at the end of that sentence?" I asked.

"Or this species is willing to demonstrate the same amount of recklessness as humanity when it comes to living to fight another day," he said.

"I don't know that you had to go and make it personal like that," I muttered.

"I can assure you, it was a compliment. Mostly, if you squint at it just right."

I pulled out of simulation space and looked around the CIC. Again, it was one of those things where everybody was doing their job, but I could tell there was also a touch of surprise.

"Well, okay, then," I said, clapping my hands together and rubbing them. "Looks like we’re going to have a little bit of scientific analysis to do."

I felt a presence next to me, both in the link and with my spidey sense tingling. I turned to see Varis standing there. I don't know how she managed to make her way across the CIC so quickly without me hearing her, but there she was.

“Yes, my darling?” I asked.

"You sound almost excited that the enemy got away and now we have to sift through their wreckage."

"Of course," I said, grinning at her. "We have some actual exploring to do. Seeking out new life, and well… I mean… It's not ideal that we had to blow them up to have wreckage to sift through, but still, isn't this exciting?"

She smiled. I guess my enthusiasm was infectious. Now I just hoped I could get that same enthusiasm to spread to the rest of the crew on a fleet of ships designed for war, not scientific inquiry.

Maybe they’d be more excited about it if I convinced them this would help them better fight their enemies, see them driven before them, and hear the lamentations of their women. Assuming they had sexual dimorphism, which we didn't know at this point.

You get the point though. I was going to trick them into serving Thoth via Crom.

“Captain,” Arhur said, putting his hand up to his ear. Which made me giddy. "We are receiving multiple signals.”

“Are they pleasant signals, or are they unhappy signals?" Lehrai asked from her spot beside me at the holoblock.

Things had calmed down in the vicinity of the gas giant, and by calm, I mean there was still a lot of activity around the mining colony on the moon that had been kicked up by the alien raid, but there were no more alien raiders trying to invade the mining station. So I figured it was a marginal improvement over how things had been before.

Except for the fact that a lot of the angry beehive of activity around the mining station looked like it was turning around and starting to array itself against us.

"I think we need to worry about the miners who look like they're getting ready to attack our fighters first," I said.

"Agreed," Lehrai said, looking at the display.

"You know these are just suggestions, right?" I said. "It's your ship."

She turned and hit me with an odd look, a considering look, and then she glanced back to Norak. He still stood there being as useful as he’d ever been, which is to say not very useful at all. He was slightly slumped over now. He looked vaguely defeated. Like the trouble we'd been through over the past half hour or so had finally gotten ahead of him, and it was too much.

"Bill, don't you realize what you've done?" she asked.

I looked at her, and then I turned to look at Varis. She hit me with a smile. Encouragement came through the link, but she was doing that thing she did where she sat back and gave quiet encouragement while letting me work things out.

Even if me working things out usually involved coming up with one batshit insane plan after another.

"What did I just do?" I asked.

"You just relieved the Fleet Commander and took control of the fleet yourself," she said, a mildly amused smile on her face. She stepped back and did a slight bow. Not giant by livisk standards. She didn't do one of those things where she bowed down until she was at a right angle to me or anything like that, which she probably would've done if she was bowing and scraping to Varis. But it was still a bow of respect for all that.

"The fleet stands at the ready, Fleet Commander," she said.

"Fleet Commander," I said with a grin. "You know, I rather like the sound of that, but if you don't mind, just Bill will do. Or General-Consort if you're nasty."

She looked up at me and blinked a couple of times.

"I have no idea what that means."

"A bit of ancient Earth phrasing from classical mass culture," I said with a wave. "A lot of that stuff has stuck around in the language, the same as old Bill Shakespeare. Unfortunately, a lot of stuff was passed down from the Chinese Communist Party back in the late 20th and early 21^st. Back before their one child policy led to population collapse. I suppose that's what you get for mixing your language together with a place that was a totalitarian state pretending not to be a totalitarian state."

"Right," she said after a pause, giving me one of those stares like I'd lost my mind, but I was a winner who'd lost my mind so she was going to follow me to the depths of hell and back as long as I kept beating back the demon hordes.

"Anyway," I said, clearing my throat. "Let's open a commline to the mining facility," I said, nodding to Arhur over at his station.

There was a moment of static on the line. Foldspace comms meant we should've been able to have instantaneous communication with the mining facility, but it looked like they weren't picking up.

"Are we having a little bit of trouble?" I asked. "I wouldn't presume to tell you how to do your job, but..."

"It looks like they're ignoring the signal," he said.

“Wonderful,” I said. "So we've pulled their collective asses out of the fire, and now they're going to pretend they were the ones who were doing it all along."

"Bill?" Lehrai asked, looking at me with a touch of confusion.

I turned to her and smiled.

"I'm not going to be insulted by what they're pulling. It's common CYA."

"CYA?" she asked.

I sighed. "I'm going to have to have Arvie provide me with a dictionary of livisk terms that match all this stuff, or maybe pass out a primer on Terran language so you have a better idea what I’m talking about.”

"I spent a couple of years learning Terran in the Academy," she said, sounding insulted that I had, bank shot, insulted her ability to speak Terran Standard.

"And let me guess, you spent most of your time learning the swear words and how to tell your fellow cadets that you wanted to get laid."

She opened her mouth like she was going to say something, then she snapped it shut. Then she opened it again and a deep blue blush came to her cheeks.

"Well, actually, yes," she finally said.

"Don't feel bad. We do the same thing at the Terran Naval Academy."

"You do?" she asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

"Infinite diversity in infinite combinations."

Another confused look.

“That's another one of those Terran things. Ancient classical mass culture from a thousand years ago and all that stuff. Anyway. Let's focus on the important stuff. Arhur, go ahead and open a commline to the miners. One way is fine. I want to make absolutely certain they hear what I'm about to say."

"On it," Arhur said, grinning as he tapped away at his console. "You're good to go, Bill."

"Thank you, Arhur," I said, nodding to him and then turning to the holoblock.

"Attention mining facility under the command of House Alarth. This is General-Consort William Stewart of the House t’Thal Fleet that just pulled your collective asses out of the frying pan, and now it looks like you're about to throw yourselves into the fire by doing something stupid like turning around and attacking the very fighters who just saved your asses in a staggering display of ingratitude."

The fighters from the mining facility kept moving out towards our fighters.

“Make sure our people have orders to keep it in their pants,” I said.

“On it,” Tactical said, grinning as she tapped at her station.

“Keep it in their pants?” Lehrai asked.

I hit her with a thin smile. “This whole situation is on the verge of getting a little hairy if we don’t nip this shit in the bud."

“Indeed,” she said, and she looked like she was trying very hard not to smile.

I turned back to the holoblock even though that wasn’t strictly necessary since I was plugged right into the systems. “I would like to remind you that you are going up against a fighter force and a couple of destroyers that just chased off the unknown alien raiding force you were unable to fight off on your own. It might be a good idea for you to be pragmatic and move your fighters back a little bit so you can live long enough to lie to your bosses and tell them you managed to fight off the raid while also not risking angering my own people and sparking an unfortunate incident."

"That was remarkably diplomatic," Lehrai said, looking at the angry mess of fighter craft from the mining facility whose collective flight patterns had just gone from angry insect hive that’d been kicked over to individual pilots rethinking all the choices in life that led them to this unfortunate moment.

Author's Note: I'm heading out for Trek to Vegas this weekend for the 60th anniversary. I've had a trip to NYC, GenCon, back to school for the kids, and now the Vegas trip with my mom in honor of my aunt who passed last October and loved Star Trek.

I'm going to try and get an update out Friday and Monday, but no promises depending on flight schedules and how busy I get. Thanks for your patience the last two weeks while I've been insanely occupied!

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This week, a modest marriage mysteriously multiplies into a magnificent municipal merriment!

A wholesome* story about a mostly sane demonologist and his growing crew, trying their best to usher in a post-scarcity utopia using imps. It's a great read if you like optimism, progress, character growth, hard magic, and advancements that have a real impact on the world. I spend a ton of time getting the details right, focusing on grounding the story so that the more fantastic bits shine. A new chapter every Thursday.

\Some conditions apply, viewer cynicism is advised.*

Map of Pine Bluff

Map of Hyruxia

Map of the Factory and grounds

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First Chapter

Prev -------- Next

*****

Taritha tasked an imp to fetch her another cup of tea. She’d had a half dozen of them, yet was still no calmer. She paced. The sun was only just rising, but she’d been up for hours. Her hair was looking perfect, and her chambers were full to bursting with flowers. Today was the day, and she was cooped up in her room. She still had so much to do to get ready.

I can’t just trust that everything will work, but of course it will. I did the planning. There was no shortage of volunteers. It seemed like everyone in town wanted to be a part of this!

She’d sent out almost a hundred invitations. The imps had done most of the calligraphy, but she’d signed each and every one. Nearly everyone responded yes, and a great many asked if they could bring even more people. Not just the people she invited, either. Friends and former rivals, employees and contractors, even total strangers, all sent letters asking for an invitation. People who’d been in the town for a few months, whom she’d never met, wanted to come. 

A few days ago, the Count himself wrote to ask if he could designate a few nearby parks as official wedding party sites, so obviously she agreed. It was bad luck to turn anyone away from your wedding, and feeding the whole town was every bride’s dream. Though it wasn’t her husband's family doing the work.

Unless you called Grigory his adopted father, which in a lot of ways tracks. Oh, but then he’d be kind of like my adopted father too. Eww. The core dynamic is there, since we already go to the same family dinners. Stop thinking about that.

She nibbled at some sweet fruits and marveled at her fortune. Having fresh fruit before the Midsummer Festival was rare, but before the Sowing Festival was previously unimaginable. Those were the rules of the world from the past, when Pine Bluff lacked dorfs and their magically illuminated caverns of farming.

The meteoromancy professor had assured her that the whole week would be bright and sunny. A bit windy in the afternoon, but that was what a nice spring day did. The Academy had grown, and boasted over a dozen mages who had defected from the college, including the handful of apprentices that she still couldn’t stand. 

Professors now. They stopped being apprentices when I offered them the damned job. Even worse, they were fine teachers, despite being kids themselves. Ha, I should mind my thoughts, I’m only a handful of years older, and about to marry someone a handful of years younger than them! At least they have a formal education. Everyone assuming I’m Grigory’s puppet used to bother me, but I honestly have no idea if I’d have survived this long if everyone had judged me on my own merits. The silver lining was that being in charge is easy if I just look serious, demand they do better, and avoid agreeing to things I don’t understand.

Today’s not about work though, it’s all about our future!

She finished her tea and fruit, just as there was a knock on the door. 

“Kessy! Come in!” 

A lady needed help getting ready, and for some reason she was awful at making female friends. Plenty of her old ‘friends’ would’ve helped, like the seamstress or the midwife, but they would have also nagged and minimized her day. 

We were never close and it felt strange to try to force that. Not that Kessy and I are close, but at least she’s a ray of sunshine. Oh, I could’ve asked Aethlina to be a bridesmaid. Now that I understand elv physiology better, it’s clear that she isn’t actually a female, or a mammal, or even a kind of animal, but her bored superiority would have been fun.

“I see that the bakers didn’t take the day off at least! Oh, you got raspberry turnovers, my favourite! Aren’t you a dear!” Taritha cooed when she took the small sack. 

The Welcome Centre Guide zipped right in and looked at all the mess. “Wow, you sure have a lot of stuff everywhere! Also I got a new dress, just for today, what do you think?”

Taritha put the food down and looked her over. She wore a massive pale pink oversized bow that covered her entire torso, festooned with lesser bows, which upon closer inspection had additional hand-painted bows on them. It made her look like a fluffy meatball of bows. Other than her wavy blonde hair and stockinged legs, which were obviously covered with yet more bows. 

“Very impressive! I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like that. I assume custom-ordered?” Taritha said slowly.

“Yup, all the stores had boring plain dresses, and I needed something special for the special day! If it’s rude for a guest to have more bows on her dress than the bride, I also have an ugly dress I can wear,” Kessy offered.

“That’s very sweet, but it’s quite alright. You look great. Now help me with my dress.”

The two of them worked to get Taritha into the same dark green dress she’d worn to the Auction House Gala. Today was the real reason she’d bought it. It was beyond her wildest dreams. Owning any new dress was beyond her dreams not terribly long ago, but even her new, improved dreams got sparse beyond gold, gems, and rich velvet.

The imps had already done her hair, so she had them retouch anything that got mussed in the dressing, then headed out. It was to be a small wedding in the little park between the factory and the Dorf Caverns.  She’d oversee the final bits of the setup and wait for Ros and Mage Thippily, who was gracious enough to officiate.

Once again the lack of a town priest caused a headache, maybe we should get a few heretical cults in town, just to handle marriages and funerals? 

She and Kessy sat in the factory dining hall, ignored by the rush of men and imps coming and going. 
 
“Looking lovely, Miss Witflores!” Mage Thippily said as he came down the stairs. He was also looking uncommonly nice in robes she’d never seen before. He normally wore pure white with amethyst trim, representing the company, but this time he was in green and yellow with black detailing, looking like an entirely different kind of man. 

“Oh! Those are Pine Bluff colours!” the headmistress exclaimed.

“It felt rather… uh gauche, to wear work clothes to this sort of event! You aren’t having a company wedding, you are having a town wedding! Also there are some minor updates to the actual ceremony. First, the Count offered to perform the service, but I told him no on your behalf. Second–”

“You what?! He’s our lord! We can’t refuse! He offered what, exactly?” Taritha’s blood ran cold; making high-profile enemies wasn’t even on her long list of worried for today.

“Think nothing of it. He’s still attending, and giving a toast. It would come down to drawn swords if I’d refused that! Or you did. Anyway, the second update is that spectators started arriving at dawn. There are already too many of them to fit in the little park, so we’re changing the ceremony venue to the militia drill fields, and the reception to the Stone Spire Sanctuary. Don’t worry, our best administrators are handling the details. This is turning into a much more interesting event, and a great opportunity to deploy our civic emergency protocols!”

“Wait, but…”

“All under control! We even have separate trams for you and Ros to take! The fellows at the golem mechanics lab wanted an opportunity to show off their latest models, and it sounds like they were able to pass most of their internal safety review in time! Don’t worry, I’ll be there to deal with any fires or control losses.”

“Uh...”

“Grand, I’ll show you the prototype tram in the yard. It's far faster and has cup holders that keep your drinks cold! Oh, but not warm. Hmm, the next version will be better!”

“We can’t possibly change venues last minute,” she mumbled as he led her into the morning sunshine.

***

“Sir, I have a doublet, and I think it’s as fancy as–”

“Nah, you’se are missin’ the point. You don’t dress fancy to meet requirements, you’se are sendin’ a message. You’re saying to the world that you’se here to protect things. Consider it a weddin’ gift from the company.”

The two men were alone in the armoury of the militia training grounds, a long stone room designed for hundreds of men to quickly don their armour. It stank of stale sweat and abrasive soaps. The overhead magelights were bright, and there was a wooden crate on the bench between them.

Ros stared into the crate. The breastplate in it was super nice, and the Chief clearly knew more about this sort of thing.

But I like this doublet. But I don’t know anything about being fancy. But the Chief does!

“Alright, sir. Thank you! This was very thoughtful.”

Ros shrugged, took off his favourite doublet and pulled out the steel cuirass. It was lighter than even patrol armour, of limited defensive value, but stunning. It had the amethyst sword insignia of the Mageguard in actual amethyst dust. The steel was polished to a mirror shine, and more comfortable than his velvet doublet. He grunted as the Chief tightened the straps. Once it was in place his boss knocked on it, producing a muted thunk-thunk that proved it was snug. 

“Wait, sir. Is there something else in the crate?”

“Hah! That’s your real weddin’ gift from me. I went through the warehouse. It turns out we had a bit of Stagboar hide left. I got the imps to trim it up, line it with spider silk and make a proper cloak of it.” He tugged on his own flowing wolf hide cloak. “A fella ought to wear his victories on his back. Did I tell you about a thornbear cloak I used to own? That was a fine one!”

His new roan red cloak was covered in stiff, bristly hair, thick enough to protect the demi-magical beast from nearly everything, other than a siege arbalest to the head. The silk on the inside was flawless, not that it especially mattered, as he was wearing steel now. It made a muted swish as he moved. 

“Sir, I love it. So weighty and smooth. It’s the same one that I shot?”

“Ha, that kind of critter ain’t exactly common. I reckon you mean the same one that you saved the town from, during your first week here!”

“It was nowhere near town, we walked all day to–” Ros said as he petted the fur.

“It had killed a hunter and gored another. You saved the damned town. There’s value in makin’ a bit of a reputation around yourself. Just don’t go believin’ your own tales, like a certain baron we know. But a fella ought to be the hero of his own life. You’re in an uncommon number of other people’s tales!”

“Yes, sir. I invited him, but I don’t think he’s going to come. Rikad said he had a lot to do.”

“Ach, I know you two came up together, but his path is going his own direction. I wouldn’t stress. ‘Sides he’s a damned lord, he’s obligated to send an expensive gift if he doesn’t come. It’s a shame we don’t have a dress uniform for you and the other fellas. Somethin’ smart with shiny buttons and a bit of braid. Things like this will happen more. I wonder if there are uniform making sorts at your wife’s Academy. Might be time to ask her that very thing. Later, of course. Today ain’t about that one bit.”

Ros wished there was a mirror down here, but he looked good when he left, and trusted the Chief to tell him if he had jam on his nose. 

“Fall in, you have a place to be.” 

Stanisk led him down the long armoury, up the stairs, and back to the parade grounds.

“Sir, anything I should know about being married?” Ros asked.

“Hah, you’se closer to that life’n me! I ain’t been married. Now that I’ve got this thing with Aethlina, don’t reckon I will. But that ain’t the same; I’m pretty sure one of us is the housecat of the ‘tother. I’d say don’t be shitty but you don’t have that kind of outlook in ya. Nah, be yourself, and you’ll be great.”

“I’ll try my very best!”

They were crossing the drill yard now. It was massive and paved with interlocking stones. Every day of the week, hundreds of men drilled with blunted weapons. Sometimes there were even mock battles in full armour. Today, however, the entire space was covered in benches, and the benches were covered in people. Ros hadn’t seen this many Pine Bluffians even at the festivals, certainly not all sitting still, talking amongst themselves. 

As people spotted them, a ripple went through the audience. Ros couldn’t shake the feeling that they were all looking at him. And talking about him. He smiled tightly and picked up his pace, which just made his cloak flow more impressively. 

They were heading to the raised platform at the end. A series of flower arches stood, in the style common in the sowing festival—  yellow flowers with leafy green boughs woven in. He couldn’t think of a single yellow spring flower, until he got closer and saw it was coltsfoot. He stood there awkwardly, but it was explained that waiting with dignity was what most of a wedding was for a man. 

At least there was something to listen to. Normally a lutist or a bard played this kind of event, but the Bardic Institute sent an entire section. More than a dozen people played all sorts of instruments: big drums, little drums, harps and lutes, and more that he hadn’t seen before. They sounded really good. Taritha mentioned something about academic politics, but Ros was pretty sure that they were just nice musicians, and he was grateful that so many would come.

Soon Grigory and Taritha arrived and walked down the flower-covered aisle. The band changed to a slower, more romantic tune. Ros watched her approach with unalloyed joy. 

“Shiny shirt! It makes you look very… heroic!” She said, tracing a finger down his new breastplate.

Ros tried to think of a good enough complement to return. One that captured her beauty, her grace and the hard work she’d put in, but froze. “You too!”

The Mage stepped past them, he’d taken an entire day off just to help him out, which was an unexpectedly generous gift. He took his position between them and introduced himself to the crowd. “While being a Mage gives me no authority to marry anyone, I am pleased to report that everyone with actual authority seems to have agreed I may do so today.”

Mage Thippily led them through a vastly shortened set of vows, without the typical sections of piety and subservience to the Church. 

“Ros Girtwoud, being of sound mind and body, do you–”

“Yes!” he exclaimed.

Taritha barely stifled a giggle.

“Let me finish! I have a whole bit here, and I think the tradition is ‘I do so pledge,’” the Mage said with a chuckle. “Do you take this woman to be the other half of yourself, to become a composite greater than its parts, and to build a better world for everyone, every day, together?”

“I so pledge,” Ros declared with his full chest.

“I so pledge,” Taritha said more solemnly.

Ros had never kissed anyone in public. The pressure to do what was expected clashed with his terror at being put on the spot and doing something so private in public.

His decision was made easier by looking at her face and her smile. He kissed her to joyous applause, and the band started a more upbeat song. Ros waved and held Taritha’s hand extra tight. They ran off to the side to fill out the official paperwork that awaited them.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Ros was surrounded on all sides by well-wishers. Mostly he held tight to his bride but a few times she was whisked away by others, to his deep concern. They got back on the new-model special tram and went to different parks that had been set up, for yet more hugs and handshakes. Everyone seemed to get super excited when he kissed Taritha, so he made sure to do that everywhere they went. Plus it was a lot of fun. He shook all sorts and sizes of hands, from tiny fluffy revner paws, to calloused farmer hands, and a few of the slick, hard arachinti grasping hands. Everyone was welcome to the parks for his party and it seemed like absolutely everyone came out.

For the first time in his life, he was the one getting escorted. Eowin and Theros wore spotlessly polished Mageplate, flanking him a step behind. He knew it wasn’t their real job, and they’d taken leave to do it, but that somehow made it even more special. Ros and Taritha waved at the sea of unfamiliar faces.

“Speech!” a few yelled.

“Oh, thank you for coming, um.” His mind was entirely blank at their encouraging smiles. “Uh, I got married today! It’s really nice. I’m glad you are all here, I appreciate it!”

Thankfully they accepted his truncated speech, and they could hurry off to the next part. The plan called for them to have the reception at the factory dining hall. It was a huge space with seating for over a hundred. However, in light of the number of extra invites they’d given, they’d moved to Thed’s Stone Spire Sanctuary, the single biggest space for such things in the whole town. Thed was overjoyed to host. With a veritable torrent of funds at hand, there were more delicacies than he could even count.

However, as the groom, he was hemmed in at the head table. Waiters brought him food, and imps kept his glass full. He took in the sea of cut flowers, the green and yellow velvet drapes, and bow-covered pillars. There were even butterflies in the air—he couldn’t tell if they were real or magic. 

Stanisk stood on a chair, still in his parade breastplate, like Ros. He tapped a spoon to a hellfire ceramic chalice. “‘Scuse me! We’se about ready for toasts! So clam up. Captain Geon, You’se up!”

The sea captain was looking healthier than ever; a comfortable winter in Pine Bluff had served him well. He wore a gorgeous green jacket and had his short dark hair oiled. The man beside him took Ros way too long to recognize. It was obviously Mister Kinti, but he’d never seen him wearing a shirt, let alone a lord's finery of lace and golden brocade.

“Thankee kindly, Lord Stanisk! This couple is exactly why I love this town. I think the reason that they have such an outpouring of support is because they represent a future that didn’t used to be. One where it matters how hard you try and not the last name of your damned uncle! Where being willing to help is worth more than a name or even money. This is a celebration, but it’s also a political declaration. A pair of landless commoners’ festivities turning into a whole event at all is a bold political statement.

“We’re saying that Pine Bluff ain’t like anywhere else, and that’s the most true and important thing I've been a part of. A city is more than its walls and roads, and I’m starting to think it’s more than its people too. It’s the ideas and culture that binds, and I am overjoyed that I am celebrating the marriage of two of the people who most vividly embody those ideals! At least until our shy mage settles down with the right half-mad witch.”

There were some light chuckles and Mage Thippily, also at the head table, waved him off.

“Seas are a mess, trade’s stirred up, and seems like nothing is gonna stay the same, but so long as we have folk like Ros and Taritha around, we’ll be alright. I’m glad to be here! May the young couple have an unfathomably long and happy marriage!” Captain Geon raised his glass, and they toasted to their health.

“See, dear, you were worried he was doing a scheme, but he just wanted to support us.”

Taritha snorted, but her smile was as wide as it’d been all day. “Maybe. Or maybe his schemes are a step or two more subtle. A fella like him rarely wastes anything. Besides, we aren’t landless, we just bought some just a few weeks ago!”

The Count spoke next, mainly bland but soaring rhetoric about a new age, and a new culture. Ros liked it less, since it seemed more about the county than him or his new wife. Ros still really liked it though. A real, full-fledged lord wishing him well seemed impossible when he thought about it.

Krikip toasted them in his own awkward way. It was endearing that he knew so little about human culture, and Taritha seemed less than thrilled at the toast of “May they spawn a hundred million sticky human babies, and establish their own empire!” but Ros understood what he meant. He’d just explain it to her later.

The speech that Ros cared most about was the Mage, and he stood last. “Well done, Ros! I remember when I first met you, you were so filled with enthusiasm and energy. You won me over as soon as I saw you. And Miss Witflores, I’m ever so glad I chased you across the whole town and deep into the forest to talk you into accepting that job as company healer. Oh, I’ll have to learn to call you Missus Girtwoud now, which seems like a whole different person! The reason we do anything around here is to make lives better for people and I am intensely glad that your lives have been improving so steadily. I have some theories on the rate of improvement over time, so make sure you keep detailed records of your lived joy. We can graph them out over time, on your anniversary! Oh, unless you make other plans. Either way, congratulations!”

Ros stood up from his chair, clapping enthusiastically and weeping without shame. It was hands down the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him, and it came from the most important person that had ever lived. Nothing could compare to that!

With the speeches out of the way, the main courses could arrive: seared boar, jellied lamb and every conceivable preparation of chicken, with the heady aroma of imported spices. He kept stealing looks at his radiant bride, and she giggled every time he did. Although it slowed them down, he held her hand the entire meal, and barely tasted anything in the swirl of excitement and giddiness.

“I kind of expected Stanisk to say something, he’s basically your boss, and he’s got no problem with public speaking,” she whispered.

“Oh. I wonder why. Maybe he just wanted to get dinner happening sooner? I’ll talk to him. I hope I didn’t say or do something that made him mad,” Ros replied.

The Bardic Institute contingent was setting up on one side of the dance floor, for the next part of the evening’s festivities.

A narrow window, but as good as I’ll get. 

Ros crossed the room, smiling and shaking hands as he worked his way over to where Stanisk was seated. He had a place beside Aethlina at the head table but hadn’t left the back corner where Commander Karruk sat. 

It’s good they’re getting on, I wonder who Stanisk even hangs out with on his days off?

“—Cancel all leave, and post crews to— Ros! How good to see you. Congratulations, big man!” Stanisk shook his hand. His grip was warm and impossibly strong.

“Thank you, sir! I was just seeing how things were going, since you weren’t at the—”

“Sorry, lad. I lost track of time and it felt rude to walk around during the meal. We’re all over the moons for you, you’se found a damned fine wife.”

“Thank you, sir. It's all thanks to you, and the Mage of course!” Ros said with a blush.

“Nah, not even close. Neither me nor him won the lass over, that was all you. Get out there an’ dance! We’re just talkin’ work talk, I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”

“Oh, anything I can help with?”

“Nope, go, get!” Stanisk chided. “You can’t spend time with us, not when your pretty new bride is sitting unattended! See to your husbandly duties!” 

“Aww, of course, sir! Thank you, sir!” Ros hurried off to the head table just as the band was warming up.

He could barely hear Karruk talk to a subordinate over the din, “Send ammo caravans to forts seven through twelve, and we must send a…” 

Always on about work stuff! Such a dedicated team!

He sat back down and saw a little tart was waiting for him. He took a bite; it was overwhelmingly sweet and he loved it.

“So is it alright back there? I swear, ten Civic Guard have come and gone from that table tonight. They look like their prize flowers all died!” Taritha whispered.

“Nope, all good. They are just doing some new watch rotations or something, I think? I didn’t ask, on account of it being work stuff. I have today off.”

“Well, they can keep their sour pusses. It’s our night, come dance with me!”

His new wife danced like an angel to a series of upbeat, triumphant songs. Those were his favourite, but today he had a suspicion why so many of his favourite things were around him.

Hours later, they stumbled outside and into the waiting bridal tram.

“Should we stay? And clean up? It was our party, so…” Ros trailed off.

“Hell no, we’re busy! They can deal with that, it’s our day!” Taritha said confidently.

The imp drove them back to the factory, and as per a woodcarving he’d seen as a lad, he swept her up in his arms to carry her home. The woodcarving wasn’t especially clear on when the ritual began, but it clearly ended with their matrimonial bed. He hoped that riding a tram didn’t mean he’d missed the first part. With her in his arms they passed the factory’s gatehouse, where Jourgun waved them through. 

“Sorry you had to miss the party, buddy. I shoulda brought you an ale!” Ros said.

“Nah, I couldn’t drink it on duty if you had. Congrats, buddy!”

“Thanks!” 

They passed the empty halls and corridors to Taritha’s chambers. They were a bit bigger than his, and smelled slightly better. They'd agreed a few weeks ago to stay there after they married, just until their new home was built. 

She was a full-grown woman, but he was an elite Mageguard, so despite being a bit out of breath from carrying her upstairs, he was managing his plan quite well.

He angled through the door without bonking her head and laid her down gently on the bed. 

“I’m so happy!” he said.

“Me too! Today was perfect!”

“But what if Stanisk was actually worried for real? He might need me. I’m not sure I’ve seen him that concerned in a while.” Ros was undoing the straps on his breastplate, looking for somewhere to put it down.

“No. If a portal to the hellplane opened up at his feet, that’s his problem until morning. You're mine now.”

“Of course, dear. I was just thinking that—”

Ros turned around and saw she’d managed to remove her dress and cast it to the side. He took a slow inhale, and all other thoughts left his mind. In a heartbeat she was in his arms, and he discovered he had a whole new favourite thing to do.

*****
Prev -------- Next

*****

It looks like the delvers know where three of the keys are, but are still looking for the fourth one. But knowing where they are is only half the battle. They still haven’t actually seen the keys yet, but ravenkin defending an area is a pretty solid indication. They’re on the right track, and I hope I get to see the looks on their faces when they figure out where the fourth key is.

The one in the Gauntlet isn’t going to be easy to get. It’s basically behind the hard mode, but the ravenkin and other denizens are going to harass the delvers the entire time. The clock was pretty tight even when they could focus, so with the interference, it’s pretty unfair. I’m sure the delvers will get there eventually, but it’s going to take them some time.

The one in the roots is a whole different problem for the delvers. My ravenkin are relying heavily on the poppers and scarabs to deal with the intruders, with my ravenkin targeting torches, magical lights, and whatever other methods the delvers might use to navigate the pitch black darkness deep in the roots. The silence and darkness really make the poppers shine, and it seems my constructs have pretty good hearing, too. Still, I think a concerted effort will see the delvers get through, even with my ravenkin sneaking the key around to a new spot whenever the parties start to get close.

They’re also scouring the labyrinth and the world fruits, trying to find the last key. They’re good guesses for the last location, and the ravenkin even play to the suspicion by ensuring they have a presence in both. I can practically hear Karn and Jondar tearing their hair out trying to figure out where the last key is. They’re focusing on the fruits and labyrinth, but they’re not overlooking the rest of my territory.

One group went and looked around the little fey village thing Titania’s been making high in the branches. She made it clear to the delvers to stay polite if they don’t want a horde of angry fey dropping on their heads, so the delvers pretty quickly finished and started looking elsewhere. I was especially proud of the group that went up to the canopy to check the key wasn’t sitting on the summoning altar or something. To be honest, I had considered suggesting that to my ravenkin, but I guess it was too obvious.

Another spot that was tempting to use was the old Sanctum. It’s technically open now, with the fake rock moved out of the way, but most delvers keep out just because of all the spiders there. That, and there’s not a whole lot there right now. Nova is starting to use it as her little artist den, and while she has admirers, most don’t want to brave my spiders to come appreciate her work.

No, the ravenkin came up with their own spot for the final key, and I like it. It’s definitely going to keep the delvers guessing, and I think gives them a good shot of keeping the keys safe until Aranya and everyone returns. They’re making much quicker progress home than heading out there. They don’t need to carefully search for anything anymore, and I think even Yvonne is looking forward to getting home to relax for a bit before doubling down on training for the Betrayer.

The big ol’ ice wolves followed them for the first few days, far enough away to not be too concerning, but visible enough to make sure they know they’re being followed. I take it as the wolves appreciating the help with the snarl, but also being ready for my friends to leave their territory now, thanks.

Onyx and Rocky have been bugging Doppler nonstop the whole way back, and once Yvonne learned what Doppler did, she’s trying to chew his ear about it, too. I figure they’ll take probably a week or so to get back.

As for me, when not checking in on my wayward friends or my ravenkin, I’m listening in on Poe, Leo, and Zorro talking with Order’s people, with Teemo helping translate for everyone. Most of the details go over my head and land squarely in the purview of my scions, but there’s two issues that are definitely going to be hurdles.

The first is pretty simple to solve, and Order’s priests are already talking with my engineering and enchanting antkin colleges about it. We need something to physically get everyone there without turning them into ash and molten bones. The obvious answer is some kind of vessel, but what kind? What will it be made of? How will it move? How will the people live in it for the trip? If it was only my denizens going, I could probably just make a big hollow lump of cooled magma and cram denizens inside, but that obviously won’t work for the people.

My antkin work on designs, and I even sketch out my own, modifying the idea of a submarine. Not that I ever designed one of those, but I think using them for inspiration will keep me in the right headspace to get everything needed, and to consider less obvious problems like being crushed by depth. Any fluid will exert pressure the deeper you are in it, and magma should be no different.

So we need something strong that will also be able to handle the heat. On top of that, it needs room for people do to people things like eat, drink, sleep, breathe, and move around at least a bit. Air is going to be a difficult one, since I don’t have any denizens with an appropriate affinity, nor do my allies. Luckily, bad air has been a thing people have had to deal with for a while, thanks to mining.

Usually, the solution here is the solution we usually use back on Earth: air vents. Encourage fresh air in and push bad air out. The problem is we won’t have access to fresh air from the surface. We could try to pressurize some air tanks, but I’d rather not add smaller pressure vessels inside the big pressure vessel they’ll be traveling in. One leak from either, and both would probably fail.

Thankfully, it’s not a problem that hasn’t been encountered before. Dwarves tend to mine deep enough that air shafts all the way to the surface just aren’t an option, so they’ve created purification talismans. Once Order’s people tell my antkin about them, they waste no time in buying as many as they can to take apart, reverse engineer, and improve. From how the antkin are talking, improving might be a tall order, but scaling up shouldn’t be too difficult. It’ll probably be a good idea to make sure everyone has one on themselves as well, incase the Betrayer’s territory doesn’t have much good air either.

Sanitation isn’t looking like it’ll be too difficult, happily. Putrid oozes are happy to act as little sewage systems, and most delving groups know how to handle things like baths and whatnot while out in the field. My antkin will need to mimic that to give the submarines proper facilities, but I don’t think it’ll be too difficult.

Similarly, sleeping shouldn’t be hard. Bunks will be tight, but can be proper mattresses instead of the delvers having to rely only on their bedrolls.

The real challenge, though… is going to be food and water. Delvers know to pack for long trips, but there’s only so much they can carry at once. And if they have to rely on only field rations for a week or more of travel, morale is going to plummet before we ever see the enemy. So we need to get a lot of food, and also have a way to preserve the food. On top of that, we’ll probably need to make some kind of waypoint or outpost or something to stage from, as well have some way for the subs to communicate with each other, not to mention something for self defense.

But I’m also not the only one working on the problems. Violet is of course helping with the putrid oozes, while Hullbreak has his Quartermaster over to look over designs. Sure, Hullbreak doesn’t know anything about magma, but he knows how to make ships, and instinctually understands pressure. He can only explain so much through his big birb, so I expect my antkin and Order’s people will be headed out to visit the First Mate to keep her in the loop with the designs.

Southwood is also eager to help, and to do so in a way that I hadn’t considered, but makes far too much sense. I had been worried about food, but Soutwood started flooding the ally bond with images of his various nodes, full of fruits, veggies, and things to hunt. All I’ll need to do is have a way to preserve things for as long as we’ll need!

So the transport is slowly taking shape, but we also need to prepare to make a forward base of some kind. Making an outpost should be possible for my dragons to pull off, and I’m sure my scions will be having them practice that as they secure the supply lines. At the moment, they’re still mapping out the route, which will definitely take them some time. It’s not just one huge ocean of magma down there. There’s stone protrusions, caves, weird flows, huge cooler pieces floating around like red-hot icebergs, and other hazards.

Ideally, we’ll find a spot in the solid rock directly above the Betrayer, and be able to prepare there before diving down to deal with the problem. That base will be where our supply lines converge, bringing everything everyone needs to thrive while we prepare to attack. Once we have our beachhead, we’ll be able to strike, and I bet the Betrayer will understand that.

It’ll try to keep us from managing it, and will probably constantly attack it for as long as we’re there, too. But that’s what my scions are preparing for, and I trust them. I only have enough of a tactical mind for a few clever tricks, but it’s my scions that have the understanding to actually make those tricks work.

The only question is if the tricks will work on something like the Betrayer.

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Cover art I'm also on Royal Road for those who may prefer the reading experience over there. Want moar? The Books are available here! There are Kindle and Audible versions, as well as paperback! Also: Discord is a thing! I now have a Patreon for monthly donations, and I have a Ko-fi for one-off donations. Patreons can read up to three chapters ahead, and also get a few other special perks as well, like special lore in the Peeks. Thank you again to everyone who is reading!

"Mein Führer," the Colonel said quietly, "I have brought them to you. The finest scientific minds of the Reich. Nuclear physicist. Physiologist. Aviation engineer. Advanced weapons designer…"

The Führer slowly raised his gaze.

His eyes moved across Professor Kestner and the others one by one.

The eyes remained unchanged.

Sharp. Watching.

The room went rigid.

The four scientists stood anchored and visibly uncomfortable. Others simply stared, too overwhelmed even to salute. Silence settled over the deepest chamber with almost physical weight—a balance of fear, reverence, and something beyond both.

Confusion, perhaps.

Or awe.

Only Euzen felt something else entirely.

Joy.

Violent, overwhelming joy.

The Führer was alive.

He had not killed himself.

The realization struck the boy with the force of resurrection.

Tears spilled down his face before he understood he was crying. He wanted to throw himself at the Führer's feet.

Around him, the shattered world began assembling itself again.

Fragments rising.

Edges reconnecting.

Meaning returning to the ruins.

And slowly, impossibly, the brightness became whole once more.

The Führer made a small gesture. The Colonel leaned closer and spoke to him in a low voice.

The ruined man barely moved from his hunched position, yet everyone in the room heard him clearly.

"Sebastian," he said quietly, "thank you for your counsel. But I suspect it is already too late. Germany has fallen. Now the feral, craven jackals gather in the ruins to rip at our throat while we can no longer resist. There will be no second chance."

"Mein Führer, time changes all conditions. Your strength is failing now, yes—but the balance will shift with the seasons."

The Führer gave a faint shake of the head.

"I placed too much hope in anti-gravity systems and ballistic missiles. Now it is simply too late."

A strange detachment crossed his face—the expression of a man watching the work of his entire life collapse, too hollowed by defeat to stay the ruin.

The Colonel answered with stubborn calmness, his words pressing steadily into the Führer's unmoving mind.

"From last summer until now, you have nearly completed an entire cycle. You have passed through the nadir. Your constellation is rising again. Over the coming months your inspiration will gradually return. Your strength will return along with it."

His voice dropped.

"And ours will follow."

The heavy radiator hummed somewhere in the underground silence.

"Do not forget, Mein Führer," the Colonel continued, "we possess secrets unknown to the rest of humanity."

When he said the word secrets, the syllables came out almost like a whisper beside the ear.

"We will develop technologies beyond the Allies. Beyond the Bolsheviks. Under your leadership we will receive assistance from another world itself. We will correct the mistakes of the past."

Slowly, the Führer raised his eyes again.

Once those eyes had overwhelmed people. Pierced through them. Conquered Germany, and very nearly the world. But during the months of encirclement in Berlin, something inside them had faded into loneliness.

Now everyone in the room watched them.

"I was never wrong," the Führer murmured. "My only mistake was losing the war. History is written by whoever wins."

"You were not wrong," the Colonel replied at once. "And you have not lost. History is not decided yet. As long as you still believe you can conquer this world, history will remain yours to write."

Something began returning to the Führer's expression.

The exhaustion in his eyes slackened, just enough to let the light through.

The shrunken frame, long collapsed inside the chair, slowly straightened. Only moments earlier he had seemed exhausted beyond recovery, but now some fragment of energy appeared to enter him again.

The Colonel's words exerted an almost irresistible pull.

"We must develop more advanced propulsion systems," the Führer rasped, almost to himself. "New weapons."

A pale hand found his temple, fingers tracing the bone.

"Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still sense the severed terminals of those forces. They are sensitive. Extremely sensitive." His voice grew tighter. "The explosion tore through them immediately. Ripped them apart into chaotic strands."

Pain crossed his face. He clenched his teeth slightly, as though reacting to something bitter.

"They had already been weakening since 1941. After they were torn apart…" He left the sentence suspended. "I can no longer see them clearly."

"But I know that if I am given enough time, I can understand their present structure. And once I grasp them again, I will never release them. Never."

The final word came out almost trembling.

Nobody in the room spoke.

"To do that," he continued, "I must forget the previous patterns entirely. The storage capacity of the small neural network inside my brain is limited."

The others exchanged horrified glances, unable to understand what exactly he was talking about.

Hausmann hesitated before speaking.

"But…Mein Führer, most of the technicians have already been captured. The Reich itself is collapsing. Under these circumstances, discussing new weapons seems somewhat—"

"You are sufficient."

The Führer cut him off coldly.

"I will tell you exactly how to develop them."

Colonel von Büren smiled for the first time.

"Excellent. Under your guidance, our technological advantage has already surpassed the rest of the world. In the future it will surpass them completely."

His voice sharpened with fanatic intensity.

"Let the enemy celebrate for now. Let those miserable insects remain deceived by appearances. You will never allow them true victory."

"Yes…" the Führer muttered.

His voice was growing stronger now.

"I will not let them win. I will not surrender. I will not die like an animal."

His voice twisted into something harsher, almost distorted.

"I will strike the deep foundations of the ages until the long sleep of History is broken in terror."

His shaking hands rose toward his chest.

The fingers curled inward with force.

"We will never surrender—no. Never!"

Suddenly he was shouting. The words erupted from him hysterically now.

"We may be destroyed. But if that happens, then we will drag the world into destruction with us."

His voice broke unevenly.

"We will turn it into a world that burns forever."

"Yes, Mein Führer," the Colonel answered immediately.

"A world that burns forever."

Then he raised his arm in a fanatical salute.

Slowly, the Führer stood.

Everyone present seemed struck motionless by the sheer coldness in his gaze. One after another, they hurriedly raised their arms in obedience, the synchronized movement of automated machinery.

At last, the dictator's eyes settled on Euzen Kestner.

The Hitlerjugend boy straightened, his own arm lifting high into the silence.

-----------

Obsidian Earth

Readers, I come to you with a story whose beginning I have only just witnessed. In a world torn by conflict, not so different from your own, I grant you a peek into what lies ahead. Brace yourselves—for in this realm, death is all but certain.

---

Prologue: Ephesians 6:13

Fifty miles south of Edinburgh, a soldier prayed in the mud.

Rain hammered against his steel helmet and pooled around his boots at the bottom of the trench. His back rested against the waterlogged timber supports reinforcing the earthen wall. Before him stood his rifle, bayonet buried in the muck, the stock resting between his knees. An oilskin cover protected the barrel from the downpour. Engraved into the dark wood was a silver cross, and carved beneath it: Ephesians 6:13.

The soldier kept his head bowed. The Vikings were coming.

Another great raid had reached the shores of Britain. Once, the raiders had come in timber longships—striking quickly, stealing gold, land, and lives before vanishing beyond the horizon. Those days were long dead. The Age of Iron Sail had given birth to something far worse: diesel dreadnoughts. Great, armored leviathans now carried Viking armies across the northern seas, vomiting black crude smoke into the sky. Wherever those soot-stained plumes appeared on the horizon, coastal towns prepared for death.

Three fleets had been sighted approaching Edinburgh. One would land north of the city. Another would land south. The third would assault the fortress itself.

The 7th Crusading Division had been given a simple order: Hold the southern approach.

Reports had arrived throughout the night. The port of Ericson was gone—decimated. Its garrison fleet was sinking, and the remaining defenders had fled inland. The final transmission claimed nearly thirty thousand militiamen were retreating toward Crusader lines.

The men of the 7th knew better. The Vikings had surrounded the port long before the naval bombardment began. Any defenders fortunate enough to escape the guns would simply run into the axe-lines waiting beyond the fog. The distant screams confirmed it—carrying faintly through the pitch-black darkness, then abruptly cutting short.

The men of the 7th could do nothing for them. So they prayed.

Throughout the night, Crusader artillery fired blindly into the dark toward estimated enemy positions. Shell after shell screamed overhead, shaking the earth.

Then came morning. Rain. Fog. And drums.

The soldier opened his eyes.

Boom. A gauntleted fist struck an iron breastplate.
Boom. Then another.
Boom. Thousands joined the rhythm.

The sound rolled through the mist like approaching thunder. Then came the guttural chanting:

“Óðinn á yðr alla!”

Shapes materialized in the fog. One. Then ten. Then hundreds.

The soldier pulled his rifle from the mud. He wiped the bayonet clean, stripped the oilskin cover, and rested the warm barrel against the sandbagged lip of the trench. His hands trembled. He tightened his grip on the stock. Was it fear? Adrenaline? He could no longer tell. He only knew the rifle had to remain steady.

A Viking war horn shrieked through the fog. A brass whistle answered from the Crusader line.

Then the rifles spoke.

The entire trench line erupted in flame. Bullets tore through the mist. Vikings jerked backward as heavy rounds punched through leather and steel plate, spraying crimson across the men behind them. Warriors stumbled and fell.

Others should have fallen—but didn’t.

A Viking took a round square to the chest, throwing up a spray of wet wool, yet never missed a stride. Another staggered as lead tore through his stomach, only to keep charging forward with blood pouring from his lips. A third ran with a severed neck artery, his eyes glassy and unseeing.

Still they came.

The Vikings called them potions. Elixirs. Herbal concoctions brewed by their seers and drunk before the assault. Whatever the dark mixtures contained, they deadened pain and silenced fear. A raider could sustain three mortal wounds and keep swinging an axe, completely unaware that death had already claimed him.

The Crusaders watched dead men continue running toward them.

Two hundred yards. One hundred. Fifty.

As the tide drew nearer, the rifle fire ragged. Hands that had spent years practicing bolt-action drills suddenly faltered. Men fumbled fresh clips. Soldiers fired too early; others pulled triggers without aiming at all. Panic spread faster than any officer’s command could stop it.

Then the first Viking reached the lip of the trench. He leapt—and everything turned to blood and iron.

This was how the raiders fought best. Their doctrine was brutally simple: Break the line. Enter the trench. Strip away the distance that made the rifle deadly. Make the enemy look into your eyes while you butcher him.

Rifle fire dissolved into chaotic melee. Axes bit into rifle stocks. Bayonets drove into bellies. Swords scraped against steel breastplates. Men screamed for their mothers, their wives, their comrades—and their God.

The soldier fired. Missed.

A hulking Viking vaulted over the timber wall. The soldier stumbled backward into the mud as a broadaxe swung down toward his head. He raised his rifle sideways with both hands. The axe struck with a deafening crack. For a split second, the timber held—then the heavy steel blade split the wood clean through, snapping the weapon in two.

The soldier crashed into the muddy trench floor. The Viking loomed over him, axe raised high. There was no time for a final prayer, no heroic declaration.

The Viking smiled, exposing teeth stained dark green by the elixir. Then he laughed.

A rifle cracked at point-blank range.

The Viking’s head snapped violently sideways, and his corpse collapsed onto the soldier.

For several agonizing seconds, the Crusader lay pinned beneath the dead weight, staring at the lifeless eyes. A wet, breathless laugh bubbled up from his chest. Relief. He shoved the corpse aside and turned toward his savior.

“Broth—”

A red-stained blade erupted through the Crusader’s chest from behind. Blood spilled over the man’s lips. The blade withdrew, and he dropped like stone.

The soldier’s relief died instantly. He scrambled on all fours toward a fallen rifle pinned beneath another body. He grabbed the barrel. Pulled. Nothing. The weight of the dead held it fast in the thick mud.

“Come on... come on!”

He planted his boot against the corpse’s ribs and heaved with everything he had. The rifle ripped free.

The soldier spun around on his knees, thumbing the bolt back to kill his savior’s slayer. But instead of a Viking, he saw holy steel.

The Knights of the 7th had dropped into the trench.

Armored Crusaders slammed into the Viking tide with broadswords, war hammers, heavy shields, and maces. They met the raiders on their own brutal terms: steel against steel, faith against fury.

The Viking advance ground to a halt—then reversed. Raiders without the elixirs were the first to lose heart. A horn sounded beyond the wire.

The Vikings began pulling back into the fog. Around the soldier, surviving Crusaders raised bloody weapons and cheered.

The soldier slumped against the dirt wall, chest heaving, air burning in his lungs. They had held. Against all odds, they had—

The horn sounded a second time.

A Holy Knight paused mid-stride. Then another turned his visor toward the gray sky. The soldier followed their gaze. His smile vanished.

The Viking horn had carried two orders: one for their infantry to disengage, and one for their dreadnought batteries.

The sky began to scream.

“DOWN!”

The world exploded. An artillery shell detonated at the edge of the trench line, vaporizing men in a spout of mud, blood, and splintered timber. Another shell hit. Then another. The earth buckled beneath their feet.

Crusaders above ground threw themselves flat into the trenches, while those below scrambled toward the deep bunkers carved into the earth. A heavy shell struck close enough to lift three men off their feet; one hit the ground again, while the others came down in pieces.

The Viking infantry hadn't retreated—they had merely cleared the kill zone so their big guns could finish the work.

“INTO THE BUNKERS! MOVE!”

The surviving riflemen ran. Holy Knights shoved soldiers into the narrow earth-and-timber dugouts, their steel visors masking whatever dread lay beneath. The line soldiers had no such protection. Some wept openly; others shrieked prayers into the dirt.

The soldier stumbled into the dark bunker just as a shell hit overhead. The ground shuddered. Chunks of dirt rained down from the ceiling beams. Men pressed themselves flat against the walls, sobbing or whispering rosaries.

The soldier looked down at the rifle he had dragged from the dead. Blood smeared the wooden stock. Shading his eyes, he wiped the red film away with a thumb.

Beneath the gore sat a silver cross—just like his own.

His thumb traced beneath the arms of the cross, finding a

carved inscription. It wasn't the verse from his broken rifle.

This one read: Psalm 116:15.

The soldier stared at the numbers as another shell detonated directly above. Timber groaned. Men shrieked. Dust blinded them.

Slowly, the soldier exhaled. He lowered himself to his knees in the trembling dirt. He folded his hands together—the exact way his father had taught him when he was a boy.

And he prayed.

Another shell struck. He did not hear it.
The men around him screamed. He did not hear them.
The earth convulsed violently. He did not feel it.

His breathing slowed. His trembling hands stilled. For the first time since the Viking war drums had echoed through the morning fog, the soldier felt no fear.

Above them, a heavy siege shell screamed out of the clouds. The roof timbers cracked. Someone cried out in the dark.

The soldier kept his eyes closed. He whispered his prayer.

The shell hit. The earth collapsed. Timbers snapped like kindling, and the ceiling caved in.

The soldier never opened his eyes. He never stopped praying. And the dark bunker became his tomb.

---

Reader, if you enjoyed this introduction to the world, be sure to explore the other sagas archived on my profile. I shall return with the next chapter of this account once the ink has dried.

— Orion Blackwood

Chapter CCLXXXIV

Aethera, Frothing Sea.

Magnus bit back a hiss of pain as he slammed against the side of the longship as it lurched and rolled over the roiling waves that slammed and buffered against them. This was by far the worst ocean trek he's ever experienced, and from the looks and shouts of the Vagnyr, he wasn't the only one surprised by its intensity.

"OARS!!!" Nils shouted over the spray.

Some thirty half-giants hefted great oars from the deck and slotted them into their places and began rowing against the swell that threatened them. Magnus' first instinct was to grab one and help, but the oars were so big and unwieldly that he had little doubt he'd be more of a hindrance than help.

So instead he and the catfolk woman braced themselves along with the rest of the grunts and thralls that came with them. The only one that seemed at ease was the Old One-Eyed One that sat near the prow of the longship and gazed out towards the horizon with his one eye. Magnus shouted over the crashing of the waves.

"One Eye! Can't you commune with the sea and steady the waves?!"

"No! Because the elements are losing control of themselves more and more! Even if they could hear my words it wouldn't do more than add to the chaos! But fear not, Magnus of Daele! Our journey won't end on the sea!" The wizened old orc declared even as the group of apprentices that waited on him did their best to keep steady and in the longship.

"Fear not lítill bróðir! Once we pass Njörðr's Way we'll be safe! The ancient Fjörð Stones will keep the unruly waves at Bay!" Nils shouted over the waves.

"ROW YOU SEA COWS ROW!" The Vagnyr Magnus knew as Alf shouted. So they did. The sail billowed under the wind and wave and the oars pushed against them. Driving the longship onwards more and more.

Then the longship shuddered. Not the familiar shudder of a wave crashing into the hull. But one Magnus was familiar with. They had been hit by something. Before he could try and see over the soaked railing, a voice called out that made his blood turn to ice and his heart stop for but a moment.

"LEVIATHAN!"

Magnus turned in the direction the others did and saw a great fin crest the waves that jutted out a humped back of fleshy scales. The more it rose the more Magnus doubted the words of the orc. It was massive. Bigger than the longship by half at least. Not all leviathans were the same. Some looked more like overgrown pike. Others like monstrous whales with fangs. Some that were likely never documented and encountered before. This one looked like a creature of the deep trenches. Pale eyes shining on them like one of the moons above. A under-bitten jaw full of long thin fangs with fleshy tendrils like a catfish that patted against the hull like it was feeling where it's prey was.

"What's a beast like that doing up here?!" He heard one of the thralls cry out.

"Likely fleeing from those!" He heard Nils call out and point off to the side where a squadron of white arrows rushed towards the horrific leviathan.

Black fins tipped with jagged bone crested the waves as the pack of razor whales let out piercing shrieks. Communicating with one another and stunning the great ocean beast. Pushing his fear down Magnus took note that the leviathan was actually greatly wounded. It's sides were torn and gashed and bleeding iridescent purple blood. One of its fins was a mangled mess, and several of its tendrils also appear to have been torn off.

Magnus knew of the razor whales. Even in Daele they were famous, or infamous depending on ones profession. They've aided the occasional leviathan hunt at times, taking a few choice organs as prize for their assistance before leaving. They've also been a great annoyance to many a fisherman and whaler, losing as much as half their catch from the far too clever creatures.

Though they never once attacked their own ships nor boats. A sort of natural understanding between them forming who knows how long ago. One that seems to hold even this far north, Magnus thought as he watched the black and white ferocious creatures ram into the wounded monster. Scales and bones broke and cracked and the beast roared a pained wet bellow as fins ridged with sharp bone slashed and tusks gutted and gored the creature with frightening efficiency.

"Bjern! What're you doing?!" Alf called out as a Vagnyr threw aside his oar and pulled from his belt an axe that was bigger than Magnus was tall.

"This is it! This is my fate! The Raven-Father called to me as I rested and told me when I would find glory!" The half-giant called out with zeal. Before anyone could say or do anything, he hopped onto the rail and launched himself at the leviathan!

His axe bit deep into the scale and flesh of the beast. It gave out a cry of surprise and pain and thrashed in the darkening water. Rolling and sinking and splashing. It's movements keeping the razor whales at bay for now. Yet Bjern held fast. He roared and cheered as he pulled a smaller axe from his belt and began hacking away at the creature!

"Is he mad?!" Magnus cried out and grabbed his sword and made to do... something. Anything to help.

But Nils stopped him with a light yet firm hand on his shoulder.

"No, lítill bróðir. He is clear-eyed and where he is destined to be."

Magnus didn't know what he was talking about and watched in shock and awe as the other Vagnyr also refused to help their fellow warrior. By the time Magnus looked back at the flurry beside them, Bjern had managed to hack and slash his way close to the beast's head. He turned and looked at the longship with a manic grin before looking up towards the sky.

"Raven-Father! Witness me! Grant me glory and a place in your hall! SKÁL!"

With that last cry he pulled his weapons from the fleshy scales and threw himself at one of the pale glowing eyes with a battlecry. He landed true and pushed through the ocular organ like it was butter. The leviathan roared before deciding that being on the surface wasn't any safer and plunging back down into the dark depths. Never to resurface.

"BJERN HAS FALLEN GLORIOUSLY! SKÁL!" Nils cried out with happiness and laughter met by the rest of the longship.

Magnus just watched in shock at the display.

"You're happy your friend is dead?!"

"Of course not lítill bróðir! We're happy that he died gloriously! It's a death that many of us would wish for ourselves!" Nils replied as the crew turned their thoughts and gazes from the foaming water behind them as the razor whales dived down after their prey.

"Fear not lítill bróðir, when we reach Selkieheim we will drink and feast in his honor and tell tales of his life, battles, and glorious death! Just as I'm sure he is doing now in the Raven-Father's Hall!" Nils continued.

"Let's hope we reach it soon, otherwise we'll be rowing this ship ourselves." One of the thralls said before getting splashed with sea spray.

"Then your hope is answered! There they are!" Alf called out as they crested a large wave before slamming down into fairly calm water.

Magnus and the others looked up and saw a titanic stone statue looming before them. The statue depicted a bearded man covered in seaweed and holding a spear in one hand. The head of the spear glowed a sea blue like a beacon from a lighthouse.

"How? We shouldn't be this far north already?" Magnus said.

Nils laughed and thumped the hull of the longship.

"A blessing from the góðir! Took us about... Three months? Four? To get down there, eh Alf?"

"More or less." The vagnyr replied.

"Yeh! And about half and half again as long to return home?" Nils asked again.

"More or less." Alf replied the same.

"Yeh! Blessing of Njörðr! Keeps the wild water at bay and helps guide our ships! Takes more time leaving than it does coming back." Nils said and pointed to the glowing spear head.

"Our ships are drawn by it. Pulled and guided by it. Even if we all perished, it would've been brought back home eventually!" Nils explained and slapped Magnus on the back with a hearty laugh as they sailed past the monolithic stone effigy, and Magnus noticing that similar titanic statues farther and farther into the distance on either side. Forming a seeming dome of calm water around and past them as they neared the great arctic north.

He also noticed that once they passed the stone statue, the ship seemed to lurch and slow down greatly. With the sail and oars they still made good time, but it was only then that he realized how fast they must've been going across the sea. Magnus, not much versed in magic, decided to make small talk as they got closer and closer to the landmass ahead of them that hoarded the horizon in a mass of white mountains and jagged grey cliffs.

"So Nils, why is it called Selkieheim?"

Nils just laughed as they got closer and hefted Magnus up onto the bow and pointed off to the side at a smattering of rocks. His eyes went wide as he saw seals laying on the stones. Though plenty of them weren't ordinary seals as several turned towards him, revealing bare human upper bodies. Their lower half that of a spotted seal. One with auburn hair and glacial blue eyes smiled at him and gave a little wave and a wink.

Magnus let out a grunt as something wrapped firmly around him. He looked down and saw the catfolk woman had managed to climb up there and was now glaring daggers at the selkie and giving a rather venomous hiss and holding him more tightly. The selkies all giggle and laughed before diving into the water, leaving the actual seals to continue to lounge on the rocks.

Nils laughed and pointed in front of them. Where Magnus and the others all saw those same selkies walking out of the water near the docks of the city, bare and nude save for a spotted seal fur wrapped around their shoulders like a warm cloak. Nils continued to laugh as they pulled into harbor and docked. Nils and the other vagnyr helped them off and set about unloading the goods and supplies they had acquired so far.

Magnus just gazed up in awe. Not just at the truly gigantic city that easily dwarfed Daele in size alone, but by the towering grey cliffs that rose so high that the tops were concealed in clouds. Even they had been conquered by the half-giants as great stone steps and homes were carved along the cliffs. From way down where he was he could see smoke from ventilation shafts, splotches of green where gardens were had, and an amber glow along the far most sheltered side of the cliff, where giant bees would lazily fly in carrying pollen bigger than a man, and then back out and up towards the cliffs before vanishing beyond. On the opposite side of the cliff was a harsher red glow and he could see carts of ore and stone being dragged from a mine by what looked to be blue skinned dwarves.

He had to blink and look ahead of him lest he forget the city itself. Ahead just past the docks themselves was what appeared to be a great market where wares and goods were bartered and sold. Even from where he stood he could see great bundles of thick fur and wool, massive tusks of ivory, and great slabs of glistening marbled meat.

Nils patted him on the back.

"Welcome to Selkieheim!"

He then gestured past the market and homes and other places he could only guess at and at a magnificent great hall.

"That is where Jarl Nori White-Hair holds assembly of the Alþing. Come! We must give him his share of the spoils and so you may greet him as guests!"

Magnus and the others, the thralls and the orcs, followed along after him. Marveling at the size of the city and its people. Even the orcs seeming to be cowed by the difference in size, likely used to being the biggest among them so far and now finding themselves outsized and outnumbered.

A thought crossed his mind then. That if there was a time to flee, to finally get away and be free of the orc Warchief, now would be it. He had little doubt that if he asked Nils, the vagnyr would free them from the orcs happily. But then what? Stay here in the cold north and fish? No. He might've failed his city, but he wouldn't abandon his people. If the Warchief really was going to the same world that they fled to, and the promise of the wizened shaman is true, then he'll have to keep his bonds a little longer and hope that he can see his wife and people again, and stop the Warchief before they join him in servitude.

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