Author: PirateAba

Heroes of Hraace (Pt. 1) - The Wandering Inn

What is a hero?

The answer was that a hero depended on culture. It was, to some, a job, an aspiration, a thing you could achieve and reach, and to others, an idea, a label to bestow perhaps widely or narrowly; a nebulous thought. To some, it was a mark of greatness and tragedy. Fate’s instrument, a herald of important events, but not necessarily joyous ones.

But what is a [Hero]? A [Hero]…ah.

That was different. A [Hero] had rules. Not many, and most designed specifically for them, but they had been defined out of this hodgepodge of ideas by a being who had been there from the beginning. It was in the box around their name. The [ ].

He had argued so…ardently with the others about what [Heroes] should be, because they’d all had ideas. Pawns…but glorious pawns. They should have advantages, even a link with chosen Patrons. They should be blessed and cursed—they should be burning stars fated to die before they caused too much havoc.

He had pushed back and argued as much as he dared, that lone creator, that god with his own sad fate.

Isthekenous, the one who began it all.

Isthekenous, who had a right to at least write what a hero was in the fabric of reality.

Isthekenous, God-Hero Achetat, Champion of the Llegnais Pantheon, Warhost Leader of the Resprvchin Pantheon, Founder of the Aegum of Realities—these were his titles before he came to this place. Not all his titles; those would have been too many to count. These were his titles such as even the divine acknowledged and witnessed.

He had personally written [Heroes] into the weft of everything, far back then. And he had added rules that were, if not unique to his homelands, in keeping with his view of the world and role. One important rule about their creation.

So many rules about what they could be, because he had always valued that. Experimentation, growth—he had created his new project around that idea. The God drew from a multiverse of worlds where children dreamed and designed games and worlds. These concepts they played at, he made manifest reality. Isthekenous melded a true system from countless realities into a single, ambitious project that would transform everything.

But he had never been granted a new title for his achievement in this great creation. His dream had never been fully completed. Still—his work continued, and one of the things Isthekenous had written into [Heroes] as they changed, evolved, rose, and fell was this:

Be it so hard or glorious, they so terrible or marvelous or petty or inhuman or a step below the divine—they were a class among the greatest of the world. Designed to be so, and more than that? No matter what they did, no matter who they were, one certainty was true:

Heroes cheated.

When the wind arose, it blew a cloud of reddish dust over the horizon, sweeping from the fertile coast inland, moisture withering away each second until the land became as harsh as it, no longer bringing salt and the promise of moisture but harsh grit every bit as inhospitable as the ground itself.

Southwards, towards the Great Desert, Zeikhal, which had swallowed empires and digested their bones among the sands. No truer proving ground of nations existed: time and the desert would lay low even the mightiest creations.

Chandrar was the bare truth behind Terandria’s bright kingdoms. It was no older than any other continent, but it had the weight of finality about it. Great nations died here, the remnants split and fought, and new nations arose; Chandrar was the graveyard of ego, filled with ruins. Small wonder it was sometimes looked down on by other continents. The desert was harsh, and the continent was thus least-populated by space proportional to the others.

Yet in this seemingly barren wasteland, as the winds deposited a layer of reddish dust over a small farm, blowing the grains over carefully dug rows, there was life.

Dark green shoots, spiky, poking out of the soil. Yellats, the ubiquitous crop, could grow in this soil with only a few drops of water and time. It was no bounty and often considered a poor man’s crop, but they grew where every other plant had died. And like Yellats…Chandrar’s nations could blossom and grow to vast proportions if the conditions were right.

A hoe made of plain iron rose as the dust storm blew in. The tool rose in a smooth arc, then halted as the man paused, untroubled by the winds that forced other [Farmers] inside. The sands that could abrade even Stitch-folk skin blew around this man’s face, caressing his skin, bouncing off his open eyes; he neither cared nor noticed. His clothing suffered greatly; he replaced the rough linens once a month, a great expense. But money was one of those things that came and went.

The man stopped. He listened to the wind as it howled around him and thought it was too excited. The wind often told him things; it had sighed on the day the King of Destruction had quit his war. It had blown like a storm when the King of Destruction returned; when the Deaths of Rhir had awoken, he had felt it stir. It had blown at other times for reasons he hadn’t known, bringing strange odors and sensations, as if great works were occurring.

Now, it blew again, and the Hero of Zethe, whom men and women thought of as ancient history, as dead, raised his head. Doubte sensed Chandrar moving once more.

He disliked it. His hands tightened on the hoe, and his simple field of Yellats, already half-covered in dirt, quivered.

He struck one blow, and a furrow exactly twenty paces long and deep enough to plant Yellat seeds appeared. The ground thumped; dust rose, uncovering the Yellats. Doubte stepped left. Struck again.

Another row appeared. Normally, he dug the ground up with simple, economic strokes. Today, he was agitated. He sensed the hoe buckling in his grip and stopped himself before he struck the earth a third time.

His ardor was up; the hoe would break if he swung it too hard, despite its subtle strengthening. Doubte made himself chip the ground away, piece by piece. Even that was easy; he didn’t feel the hoe’s weight, nor the effort that had other [Farmers] sweating in the merciless sun. It was as simple as scooping butter from a pot. Easier.

The earth was too soft, too weak. The [Farmers], what few of them were around, called the ground hard and unyielding and barren for anything but the toughest Yellats, and this was true. But to him, he felt like he tilled the softest of sand. Anything could be made stronger, or in this case, more fertile.

He was doing so now, in fact. Doubte took a bit of energy, just a tiny bit, from his center and put it in the earth, running it down from his boots. He’d needed more coin of late; the winter had been long, he’d had more expenses, and his two children were growing. His wife, Acheranai, who asked for so little, had hinted it would be good to have more money to spend this month.

Lacking [Bandits], Doubte had done it the marginally harder way. He tossed a seed down, kicked dirt over it, and infused the soil with power as he passed. The ground was already wet with water he’d hauled from the well earlier. It would dry within the hour, but he needed less than that.

As Doubte walked down each row, the packed earth moved slightly. Within five minutes of tossing a seed down and tamping earth over it, something would shift…and the first bloom of a Yellat’s stalk would break the earth, opening to the sun.

The work of two weeks in five minutes. Doubte worked fast; even with slower hoeing, he’d be pulling the Yellats up within the hour. They’d be good-sized, worth something at the markets. Not much, but if he rode to a few settlements for the best prices, he’d have a few gold pieces in his pocket for an entire field’s harvest.

If he did that every day for a week, he could generate enough funds to live happily, even in this no-name village in the middle of nowhere. And if someone mugged him on the road, or he ran into a monster, he’d not need to farm the week.

[Hero]. He was no [Farmer]. He had no farming Skills. Yet he was good at farming, beyond most [Farmers]. Doubte’s work outside went unnoticed by the villagers huddled in their homes, waiting for the sandstorm to pass. He had lived here for over a decade and a half; he had become a fixture they didn’t pay attention to, despite his oddities.

He missed a spot, distracted by the wind, which whispered to him of moving kingdoms. Doubte had been wondering which ones. He knew the nations currently at war; not that he was up-to-date on their modern politics, but he had visited them all, save for the new Empire of Sands.

Which ones would fight? It was Zethe, perhaps. The mines again. He grimaced, thinking of hungry Heroph, Medain, now united by its High King, enemies far and old. If it came to war…

Absently, he noticed the spot he’d missed, turned, and flicked his hoe in irritation. The ground, eight paces distant, opened with a pfft of sand, and he tossed a Yellat seed into it, pointed—

A huge sprout of green leaves popped out of the ground, twice as high as the others, and Doubte grimaced again. He looked around, guilty, but no one had seen.

The villagers didn’t notice. They were good at not-noticing the ways he slipped.

It wasn’t a mind-bending Skill or magic from Acheranai.

Any glamor or Skill would have required reapplication, more subtle magic than he knew; this was just a bit of encouragement and a deal. The villagers could have noticed and maybe said something, but to whom and to what end?

Doubte would leave and not be caught if they did. If he vanished, their protection against bandits and monsters and even drought went away. He could rebuild. They could not.

The [Hero] of Zethe kept tilling his fields and realized he was angry, today. He realized it when the sandstorm and winds ceased before they should have. When he looked up, the wind was blowing westwards, towards the Great Desert, which loved to take in such storms and spit them out even harder in any direction it pleased. The villagers were coming out; the storm had abated.

It was avoiding him. Or rather, he’d deflected it.

Another sign he wasn’t controlling himself. Doubte leaned on his hoe, forcing himself to control his feelings. To become…not a blade, but a single point that did not interfere with the outside world. That was harder, but he had practice. He was a dangerous man, Doubte of Zethe.

He was the highest-level [Hero] in this world. At least, as far as he knew. One of those old monsters that appeared when least expected, and he was young by the standards of such monsters, but old by the standards of [Heroes], who lived like tempestuous butterflies that altered the world with each beat of their wings.

All he wanted was…well, not peace. Peace was just a word. He wanted respite, and he’d had it for fifteen years, but he wanted a guarantee of safety and such days for the future. The problem was that the winds told him those days were in jeopardy, and he saw another promise of strife to come as someone left the simple, plain, deceptively ramshackle house on the hill and came striding towards him.

“Zada! Have you heard the news? They’ve found Chemath Marble in the mines! Zada!”

Zada. ‘Dada’, but for Doubte. A child’s name, though the young woman who came leaping, cartwheeling, and even backflipping down the hill in a tangle of movements was anything but young these days. Well, she was still young, but not the toddler he remembered. The villagers coming out of their homes looked up as Doubte’s oldest child, his daughter, Neirute, emerged, and Doubte saw something as worrying as the wind.

She was restless. For a second, the door to their home stayed open, and unnaturally cool air blew forth. Doubte saw an interior that was nothing like worn, brown wood. Clean, swept marble tiles, a carpet, splendid fireash wood stairs led upwards in a place too big for the—

He waved a hand, and the door closed; he would have scolded Neirute, but she was feckless, young, and excited. She came to a halt among the fields in a jumble of motion, and she didn’t wear the frayed cloak and farmer’s outfit.

Her clothing could have weathered a thousand sandstorms and not frayed. It was, like his personal gear—special. Enchanted such that a Gold-rank adventurer would have paid dearly for it. Neirute had brown hair, cracked skin from the sun and dry air, and oh, her parents had tried to give her that weathered look, but the illusions were fraying.

A snippet of pale-white along the roots of her hair said she needed to re-dye it. Cracked skin couldn’t hide the vigor in her flesh, no more than she could stop bouncing from foot to foot, and her eyes—

Doubte had famous eyes, which even magic couldn’t hide. Pink striata, like a thousand bolts of lightning radiating outwards. His daughter’s were yellow mixed with swirling orbs, her irises a collision of her parents’, sand-yellow and bright pink. Classes often changed aspects of you; the daughter of a magic-user and a [Hero] had inherited both the features of their eyes.

“I heard about Zethe.”

Doubte said it to forestall her. He normally didn’t even speak the name of his nation, and Neirute’s bouncing slowed. She tilted her head.

“The marble’s back. Everyone is talking about it. Why are you angry at them, Zada?”

“Who is ‘everyone’?”

Doubte ignored the question. He went back to hoeing the ground, and Neirute hopped up and down next to him with each swift strike. Like a sparrow from another land. Hop, hop, hop.

“The…merchant.”

She said evasively, and he grunted.

“Which town? You went out again.”

“Just a bit with Calithe.”

“How far?”

She squirmed, and he glanced at her and got a confession.

“Forty…six miles?”

There and back within a day, if they’d escaped their mother’s notice. Doubte sighed.

“We’ll take your shoes away if you don’t tell one of us where you’re going.”

“But Zada…”

Neirute sensed the danger and pivoted back to her questions.

“Zethe? Why is it bad? The marble is something everyone wants. It’s powerful, isn’t it?”

“Beyond belief.”

“Zethe is poor?”

His hoe struck the ground and sheared through a rock. Doubte grunted.

“It had time to change. It didn’t.”

“So it’s poor.”

“It has…had no monsters, no bandits, no strife, no enemies, and enough to build upon. Things have changed. It was no Heroph.”

“But the mines…”

“I told them never to open the mines. To find something else, anything else. The mines will never be cleansed; they will send down [Miners], and they will die. The beetles will grow, and nations will fight over the Chemath. In the best case, it will be wars.”

“In the worst?”

This time, he struck too hard, and the ground was riven deep and far, thirty paces out; Doubte stared at the crack. He’d have to ask Acheranai to close it later. He switched to a new column.

“In the worst, Zethe will claim the mines and become Zethe of old, the Kingdom of Midnight Stone.”

She didn’t see what was wrong with that, but she was intelligent enough to frown and not say that. There was a lot about his past he had never told Neirute. He didn’t want to burden a child, he was ashamed, and most of all, he didn’t want to fill her head with stories.

Sadly, even in the middle of nowhere, stories appeared. Chandrar loved them.

“But the mines are back. So what now?”

“Things will happen. Let things be different this time.”

He went back to his work, an answer so displeasing to his daughter that she kept waiting for more, which never came. Exasperated, Neirute did a handstand on the hot ground and watched her father. Then, casually, she flipped back upright.

Then did a cartwheel.

It was a simple trick. A cartwheel, a simple three hundred and sixty degree rotation where you rolled along your hands and feet sideways, whirling around in the air until you came upwards. Children did it easily; adults, not so much. It was just a cartwheel.

Neirute performed the cartwheel with her limbs straight, without the hunched back that showed she wasn’t as flexible or as strong, and when she cartwheeled, it was casually, slowly, like someone breathing. Her hair whirled around, touched the ground, and then she was on her feet again, exiting the cartwheel faster than it had begun; she’d picked up the pace midway through by contorting her limbs subtly.

The effect was something that threw the eye to see it, like someone accelerating mid-step or slowing a motion. It was just a trick a girl had learned, but even now, the few children in the village stared at her. No one tried to copy her. They’d learned long ago that what Neirute could do with only a few tries would take them a hundred to master.

The children, young and old, worshipped Neirute. Worship, a word only Doubte knew, but which fit. Idolized her. If she told them she were picking berries, they’d join her at once, abandoning their duties.

If she started an adventuring team, Doubte thought they would fight to the death with her. Half the adults would.

Doubte’s daughter had inherited too much from her father. When he regarded her, his face was bleak for the future. But Neirute’s shining eyes were too proud for her father.

The Hero of Zethe. She’d known his past for years, now, but hadn’t made the connection of what it truly meant. Until recently. Now, she watched him and seemed to watch herself, as if realizing it wasn’t normal she could do so many things, as if her strange home, which she had been told never to let anyone into, suddenly struck her as odd. She had taken all these things for granted growing up—but now, she saw it.

“What are you going to do about it, Zada?”

She meant as the man he had been. As his class.

There was nothing for it. Doubte leaned on his hoe, abandoning his work. He shook his head at her.

“Me? Nothing. I am not that man. I am a simple farmer.”

“You rode for Khelt. You said you’d never take your sword off the fireplace, and you did. The scrying orb said it made no sense, that it was pointless for Khelt to intervene at the Meeting of Tribes.”

He grunted.

“The scrying orb is filled with people who know little more than you or I, but sound as if they know everything. Don’t listen to it.”

“Well—was it pointless?”

She’d watched his battle at the Meeting of Tribes, the few moments of him fighting, a hundred thousand times. He wished he could have stopped her watching, but Acheranai had been, so the children could hardly have been stopped. Thankfully, he’d kept his identity hidden with a helmet and armor, and the few who’d seen him in person hadn’t talked—much.

Even so. His daughter’s eyes were alight, and Doubte did have to think about the question.

A journey across the ocean with the King of Khelt to make war on the Drakes. A thing even he hadn’t done in his time as a [Hero]. Doubte thought and shook his head.

“It had to be done. Whatever blow we struck, the King of Khelt assured me it was worth his kingdom to do so. I cannot tell exactly what was done, but I can see the effect it had.”

In so many ways. Fates of Izril, perhaps altered, the New Lands…Khelt, now, and the change in the King of Destruction and nations here. Neirute didn’t have his experience, forged of many years, so she frowned with a simpler, honest perplexity.

“But you don’t know what was done?”

“No. It is possible I was manipulated or our actions were pointless, but I do not think King Fetohep lied to me.”

“How do you know?”

Another good question. Doubte answered honestly, because he was a father trying to teach her something. Too often, he’d heard parents say ‘because’ with no reason. He tried to explain himself.

“I studied him to see if he were lying. I know the signs, and so do you. Moreover, I know Fetohep’s character, both by reputation and deed. He is…a rare and honorable king. A good liar, but he would have given himself away, I think, if this had all been for nothing.”

Neirute’s eyes blazed with interest.

“They say Khelt is in trouble.”

“It may be.”

“They say the Prophet is powerful enough to split the ocean, quake the ground, and that his people can heal wounds without magic and strike down any foe.”

“Perhaps. Their classes are unique to me.”

Hardly invincible. Neirute paused significantly.

“Khelt is a paradise.”

“One of a handful.”

“It would be…amazing to live there.”

“You’d tire of it.”

Living in luxury could spoil anyone. Doubte saw where this was going.

“I am not offering my services to him. You know why.”

“I could—”

The rebuke made Neirute recoil. Doubte glanced down at his hoe, then towards the house. He saw a boy standing there, tall, so tall. He was fourteen, two years younger than his sister, but he looked like a grown man.

Calithe. And his eyes were locked on Doubte’s side, on the object the [Hero] carried for his morning’s work. Doubte had taken the blade and worn it rather than let it lie in the house. Neirute could pick locks, and he no longer trusted their word to keep away from his blade.

The boy on the hill was just short of gangly in height; he’d soon be taller than most men at well over six feet. His eyes had only those swirling orbs in them, faintly pink, and he was skinny since he’d shot up so fast, but strong. Far, far too strong. Stronger than any man in the village save Doubte, and clumsy with it, but his inheritance from Doubte and his mother was even more frightening than in his sister.

His eyes burned bright with so much of a boy’s zeal that it was terrifying, far more than his sister. Calithe wanted to hold that sword. He wanted to swing it. Doubte was afraid, because his son held the sword like [Blademasters] might envy.

When he looked at them, he thought of Torreb. That fearsome man. That horrific adventurer who had killed so many foes. His daughter, like Doubte’s, had inherited his powers. In Torreb’s case, it had been stolen. Doubte had been glad his children had been gifted something—but then afraid.

They were too bright for this village. He’d seen chance travellers doing double-takes, marking them despite all the precautions their parents took to keep them ordinary. How did you hide Neirute’s cartwheel or Calithe swinging a hoe like it was a blade? Swatting flies out of the air with a stick for fun?

“You are not ready for any of it. Your mother and I are preparing lessons. Harder ones.”

“Lehra Ruinstrider was my age when she found the Blade of Mershi.”

“Lehra Ruinstrider is a Named-rank adventurer, but only in title. She does not have an earnest place among them. She will—or she will quit or die.”

Neither of his children understood. They understood nothing when he tried to tell them—because it was something you had to live. Neirute stomped one foot, frustrated, and Doubte sighed.

“When you’re two years older, I will take you to Hraace. Both of you.”

He lied. It should have worked, and Neirute brightened up, then began to protest that she was two years older than her brother; it should be her alone. But she faltered, because two years…

Too short for him.

Too long for her.

Instead, her eyes flicked to Calithe, and the boy called down the hill.

“Father. I heard the King of Destruction is sending some of his people to Hraace. To make them [Heroes].”

There was everything in his tone, the excitement, the arrogance, the eagerness, and the frustration—but for a second, Doubte heard none of it. His ears roared. His blood rushed, and his head rose with real fury.

His children saw his eyes flash and hesitated, but it was not at them.

“You’re angry at the King of Destruction, Zada?”

Neirute watched his face, and Doubte was unsettled to know she was trying to read him. He schooled his features.

“…He should know better. I warned him. Who?”

“They say it’s Gazi the Omniscient and some of his servants. And the Horns of Hammerad.”

The Horns of…? An image crept to mind in Zethe’s head. The rainswept voyage aboard the Kheltian ship. A half-Elf throwing up on the King of Destruction, a [Necromancer] hunched in the rain, a woman with silver arms, and the Antinium with silver blades.

Gold-rank adventurers.

Heroes…?

He didn’t see it, but for their sakes, he hoped not. Doubte wondered what the King of Destruction was thinking. They had spoken, and Doubte had meant every word. Flos Reimarch had to know…was he desperate? Careless? The man was careless.

“Do you think they have a chance, Father?”

Doubte gazed at his son, at his daughter’s too-carefully incurious demeanor. He grunted.

“I don’t know them.”

“They’ve done a lot. I saw their battle at the Village of the Dead. And they killed an Adult Creler, but it wasn’t recorded. Zada, do you think I could be a Bronze-rank adventurer? There’s an Adventurer’s Guild in Irikhe. It’s only thirty-six miles away. If we hunted Skimscorpions or just small monsters…”

Doubte tossed his hoe on the ground. It had been a mistake to give the village a scrying orb. He saw the two watching him and wondered if they’d already gotten their adventurer permits. Acheranai did her best, but they slipped even her magic, and both were warded against scrying and, ironically, Acheranai’s own magic. And he had to travel at times…

He stood there, overweary, but not fatigued with indecision. He’d sensed this was coming and discussed it with his wife. And he was still a [Hero]. He made his choice swiftly, between the beating of his heart. But oh, it hurt.

Curse this changing age.

Curse the marrow-deep weariness in his bones.

Curse the unchanging minds and hearts of this continent.

“Neither of you two are to act as Bronze-rank adventurers. You would do well. Too well. You would make Silver-rank, and get yourself, or your teams, hurt. You are not like the others. You need lessons, and I cannot teach you everything.”

“If you taught me how to use a sword—”

Calithe broke in, voice frustrated, and Neirute protested.

“All I want to do is see other cities and nations, Father. How long will…?”

Both broke off as he exhaled.

Two years.

He’d wanted two years, but they were in the primes of their life, and he’d shown them who he was. This moment had been waiting, but like the wind, it had come too early. Doubte left the hoe where it lay and began to trudge back to the house.

“Stay here. I will be gone three weeks. If you two are good—I will take you with me the next time I ride. If you two behave and my journey goes well, I will take you on a vacation.”

Both stirred at this, their protestations turning to swift intrigue.

“Where? Why three weeks?”

He was seldom gone so long. Days at most. Doubte turned at the door.

“Hraace. Perhaps they might tutor you.”

Both mouths opened, and he stepped inside, calling Acheranai’s name before the babble of questions could reach him. He did not smile nor whoop for joy.

He hated Hraace.

They had never made him. He hated them, and they had met only a few times, them in entreaty, him in youthful arrogance, wary denial, and then disillusionment and bitterness. He hated what they did and what they surely knew they put upon those who they turned into [Heroes]. Perhaps they might have done better than Zethe and his self-taught misery, but he still hated their entire purpose.

—But his children needed guides.

Doubte was saddled and ready to go within ten minutes. Acheranai stood at the doorway as he bid her farewell, and his son and daughter waited, begging to go, even as he shook his head. The wind was blowing at his back again, and Doubte disliked how familiar it felt.

He felt it sweeping around him like the grains of sand and drew up his cloak to shield himself. Chandrar’s destiny, whirling and eddying in his wake as he began to ride. It followed [Heroes].

The rarest of classes. The most dangerous of classes, as Doubte well knew. He thought himself exceptionally dangerous and knew how he had been made—by chance in his case—and how you could make more artificially, as Hraace did.

But at least Chandrar mostly remembered the risks. Other continents? Doubte turned his head north and frowned. He had been, he’d thought, the lone [Hero] of his age. If one or two had appeared, they had died fast. [Hero] did not guarantee longevity, and they were, indeed, hard to make. Even the most famous eras had only had a few hundred at most—the Hundred Heroes who had settled Terandria for Humanity had literally been a hundred.

Rhir had thousands of [Heroes]. He’d sensed them levelling, and first thought it was a hallucination or bad joke. But it was unmistakable as some had reached higher levels and begun to take on…nuance.

How? Doubte didn’t know. But he was now certain. It worried him. Too many [Heroes]. He feared the future. Not the children as they were, even if they all had the class.

They would grow, like vast weeds, shooting up in moments to eclipse the sky. Vast fungoid growths, unnatural compared to any other mortal being, and fight and change and die in mere moments. They might well do what the Blighted Kingdom hoped, but Zethe did not fear the thousands of untested children.

No; they had the class, but no mastery of it. He feared an old [Spearmaster] more—no, Zethe would wait for the ones who came after. The few who had found the true strength of the class. Those he would have to treat as equals and watch, for they’d change this world.

Fear of a [Hero]. Fear of a father. Fear of a tired man.

Doubte rode. He wished he had great passion in him, but it was burnt away, and only his love of family and the long bitterness in his very being remained.

The [Hero of Zethe, Foe of Nations], Level 56, rode north. He was over a thousand miles from Hraace.

The journey would not take long.

On the first day after drawing his sword against the King of Destruction and all of his vassals, Pisces had a nightmare.

It was not a nightmare of Roshal or seeing Cawe being murdered before him or waking up in Riqre’s jars. So…a huge net positive there.

This nightmare was more prosaic. It was of him staring at Flos Reimarch with his rapier in hand, facing down Orthenon, Mars, Takhatres, Gazi, the Rustängmarder, and all his soldiers and seeing Flos wave a hand. Pisces ran, and Zamea’s foot stomped him a second before he woke, flailing, tangled in his sheets.

He rubbed at his face—remembered he’d actually nearly fought the King of Destruction, realized he no longer had his [Slave] class, and would have laughed or cried or done something, but then decided he just needed more sleep. Pisces rolled back up in the bedroll in the portable tent Flos’ people had given him. It was just past dawn, the world outside was cold, dark, and Pisces didn’t look forward to days of travel to Hraace or wherever the Horns were going next.

He closed his eyes, exhausted from the travails of yesterday, rolled over, and felt the sleep-tide wash over him once more, into perhaps better dreams…

Colth smacked the side of Pisces’ tent, jolting him upright.

“Oi, Proboscis Pisces. We’re striking camp, come on!”

Pisces refused to answer this insane statement—until Colth opened the tent flaps, letting in a huge draft of cold night air.

“Pisces, up. I told you he doesn’t wake up before noon.”

“Go away.”

“We’re leaving for Hraace. Come on, sleep in the magical carriages. I don’t think two are enough, actually, with all the Earth-kids and the rest. You’ll miss breakfast.”

“Lemmealneg’way.”

Colth cheerfully tried to tug Pisces out of his bedroll until the [Necromancer] kicked at him.

“Hey, hey! You’ll miss breakfast!”

Silence was the [Necromancer]’s answer. Pisces pulled a pillow over his head, and Colth retreated after a few more kicks.

“Fine, be that way.”

Pisces refused to acknowledge this madness. He was just drifting off once more when someone appeared at his tent flap.

“Pisces?”

It was Yvlon. Pisces said nothing for he was asleep or soon to be. He lay in blissful rest until Yvlon seized his legs.

“Huh? Yvlon? W-wait. Don’t—”

She tossed him out of the tent, in his bedroll and nightclothes, and mercilessly began to pack the tent up. A freezing Pisces hopped around.

“It’s not even bright! Yvlon! My clothes! I’m not changed!”

“We’re moving. Get something to eat. Come on.”

She tossed his robes in his face, and when he protested he needed privacy, she told him to change in his bedroll or behind a tent. Pisces stood there, freezing in the cold, and Colth strode past him, hands behind his head.

“See? I was being nice.”

Pisces kicked at Colth, fell over, and decided he could sleep on the ground with the bedroll around him. He lay there, quite happy for a few seconds, until Yvlon grabbed his bedroll, prised him out of it, and left him shaking and freezing on the ground.

Pisces…decided to get dressed.

At least Ceria looked as miserable as Pisces. She was eating from a pot serving early-morning porridge. Nothing fancy; they were still in the King of Destruction’s camp, but they were due to leave for Hraace early.

It had taken all of yesterday to organize leaving, mostly due to the Earthers, who had possessions to grab, and the Horns had justifiably been a bit rattled from the showdown with Flos. But they hadn’t been murdered in their sleep…

The gazes of some of the Rustängmarder, the elite troops who’d rejoined Flos, had made it clear that was only due to their orders. Pisces hunched over as some flavorful, filling soup was dumped into a bowl and he was handed a pair of Yellats for dunking. It wasn’t exactly royal food, but it was filling and good, and Pisces couldn’t complain after two days of feasting.

“Wubgh?”

“She dumped me out of my bedroll. It’s freezing.”

Pisces hissed at Ceria, who had a cloak around her shoulders and two eyes that refused to open. Ceria nodded.

“Hubgh badbugh.”

“Exactly. Ksmvr should be here to rein her in.”

Yvlon turned from where she was spooning breakfast porridge into her mouth, and both Pisces and Ceria ducked. Pisces shoveled a Yellat into his mouth.

“At least we’re leaving before the King of Destruction’s up. My heart can’t take another incident with h—”

“It’s another glorious day! Prepare for war! Or something interesting.”

A booming voice made Pisces jump, and he twisted around. A man, drinking from a bowl of porridge just like the others, was stretching to greet the day. Flos Reimarch woke at dawn like any soldier, and his voice got the rest up. Ceria just tried to cover her face with her cloak, and Pisces turned to the [Soldier] serving food from the cook pot.

“Is every day like this?”

The grinning veteran of Reim’s wars just raised an eyebrow at Pisces and the adventurers.

“Every day? Some nights, we don’t rest but to eat before we’re fighting again. This is practically a holiday ‘gainst Nerrhavia’s Fallen. On your way, adventurers. The sooner you remove the Earth’s children and yourselves, the sooner His Majesty’s back to war.”

Pisces and Ceria exchanged a glance of surprise. Even common soldiers knew the Earthers, if perhaps not all of what they were. Pisces opened his mouth, thinking to ask about Flos or the war, but they seemed too prosaic and basic as questions went, so he didn’t want to voice them. Instead, he changed the subject.

“This…Hraace we’re going to. A famous country, of course.”

“‘Course. An honor of His Majesty, even if none of you save Lady Pathseeker’s worthy of it.”

Faint envy was in the [Soldier]’s eyes as he served more portions of stew, and the people in line nodded. Pisces frowned. He knew Hraace, but again, not well. Colth would know more.

“Is it true they helped teach His Majesty of Reim?”

“Yes, though they’d claim more credit for it than they deserve. Our [Drummer]’s Hraacian. If you want to know more about them, ask him. The Heromakers are a peculiar lot. You’re all like to fail, you know. Even Torreb went to them and failed, but the visit’s worth it, for the honor and what you might learn alone.”

Interesting. Pisces saw Ceria raise her brows; she seemed better after the circlet’s breaking. Pisces tapped his lips.

“Hm. Then—do you think any of the, ah, Earth’s children might suit their requirements?”

That was a good question because it made the [Soldier] stop serving food for a second and think. He only resumed when someone thrust their bowl out, and he sucked at his teeth. He was some kind of [Vanguard] soldier judging from the quality of his armor; likely, he had seen all of Reim, perhaps even before the King of Destruction’s slumber, and so his reply was nuanced.

“Of the lot? It’d be the two twins I’d put money on. Teresa’s got the skill with the sword and bravery to match, but I’d back Trey of the two. He broke our Archmage out of Wistram. If anyone’s fit to it, it’s him.”

Another soldier cut in, nodding.

“Aye, and Lady Pathseeker’s training. His sister’s hungrier for it, though.”

“A fun gamble to see if one or both come back with the class. Then they’d be worthy of serving. You’ll see it yourselves, adventurers. Be on your way soon, though. Or Death-General Losve’s like to try to drub the lot of you. The Rustängmarder hold a grudge for being overshadowed yesterday.”

That made Pisces and Ceria search around, and sure enough, two of Wistram’s magical carriages were being loaded by the noisy Earthers and a few of Flos’ people. Pisces made out the glowing eyes of Gazi, the [Sand Mage] with a staff—Trey?—all gathered around the coach. Colth was there, packing what things the Horns weren’t carrying with them, and Yvlon was still deconstructing Pisces’ tent, half a sandwich still in her mouth.

They’d be on their way in the hour, and Flos seemed minded to let them go; he’d seen them off grandly enough yesterday. Pisces heard a clang of a fist on armor and jumped—one of the black-armored figures appeared as if summoned.

“We do not make war on others save at His Majesty’s command. Nor break our oaths twice. With that said, the Rustängmarder will remember who held the King of Destruction’s favor that day.”

One of the grim, death-aligned soldiers held out a bowl, and both the [Soldier] and Pisces eyed them. Pisces stood, flustered.

“I am sure we meant no offense, er, soldier. Yvlon Byres was merely—Yvlon.”

The Rustängmarder soldier bowed; they were helmetless, and Pisces saw a bald head, no scars beneath the helmet, but sharp features—a cold face—and death magic oozing from their armor.

“Offense? I misspeak, [Necromancer]. We took no offense. It was a deed which earned the King of Destruction’s favor and amusement. It has been noted and remembered.”

“A-ah. Not poorly, I hope?”

“As it was done. By all of us.”

“All as in…?”

“All Rustängmarder.”

The figure inserted a spoon into the bowl, lifted it to his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and Pisces gulped. Great. Another enemy for the Horns of Hammerad. He tried to be obsequious.

“I’m sure we’re not nearly important enough to warrant all that, er, soldier…?”

“I am Deathsoldier Chivic. It is worth remembering, [Necromancer], Adventurer.”

He nodded to Ceria, but used Pisces’ title. The [Necromancer] wavered. Here was an interesting group.

“Ah. [Necromancer]. You and I seem somewhat related, Soldier Chivic.”

“The Rustängmarder use death magic to ensure we will fight beyond our end. We are all fools and sinners and those seeking redemption in our ends. When I die, my corpse will take on my duty.”

How…efficient. Pisces swallowed. So that explained why it felt like Chivic was unnaturally infused with death-magic. He’d turn into a high-powered Ghoul, at the very least, on death. No wonder nobody wanted a piece of the Rustängmarder. Not only were they exceptionally good at fighting, they’d come right back even if you put them down.

“Erm, that’s rather macabre, even for my class, I must say. If I could ask—do your, um, deceased fellows turn on their allies?”

It was an obvious question, even if Ceria raised her brows, clearly wondering if this was going over the line. But Deathsoldier Chivic didn’t seem bothered. He saluted instantly, clasping his fist to his armor.

“Our forces are structured to prevent that. Any ally of ours will not suffer an undead soldier’s attacks unless every single commanding officer is dead.”

“So your commanders are all [Necromancers]?”

Pisces was astonished. Then he felt a presence at his back, like a graveyard walking. He spun—and a helmeted warrior stood behind him, a familiar one with a greatsword. Death-General Losve, whose voice echoed from beneath her helmet.

“Our class is not trained in death magic as yours is, Necromancer Pisces. It is authority we seek. I may command lesser undead and some greater undead in battle, even rogue. It is not given to me to practice advanced death magic. My understanding is that our sorceries still eclipse most Terandrian and Izrilian magic. Would that we have a chance to pit Chandrarian death magic against yours in glorious battle soon.”

…She was going to murder him. Pisces had not forgotten her glare from yesterday, and he backed up around the fire, behind Ceria.

“Death-General! I do apologize for yesterday, and rest assured, we will be leaving now. Right now. Ceria? Where’s Yvlon?”

Ceria was getting up and edging behind Pisces; even without her helmet, the green glow from Losve’s eyes looked like some kind of death-glare in a literal sense. She advanced slowly, feet crunching over frozen ground.

“No harm will come to you, at this moment, that you do not offer, adventurers. The altercation has been noted. As have your capabilities, [Necromancer]. You parried my strike.”

“I’m sure you took it easy upon me.”

She halted, and the light from her helm intensified.

“Nevertheless. It is good to find an enemy worth slaying. If we should meet in battle, let one of our corpses rise to greater death. I grant you mine should you take it.”

Deathsoldier Chivic made the armor-clasp salute again, and Pisces stood there.

“I, er, uh…”

‘I grant you mine should you take it’ was definitely the response he should be saying back, but he really didn’t want to. Losve waited, and Ceria piped up.

“I grant you Pisces’ body should you take it, Death-General. Can we have Flos’ if we get him?”

Death-General Losve’s helmet twitched. Everyone around Ceria and Pisces fell silent, and he realized all their heads had turned. The soldier pouring soup was spilling it over his fingers, heedless of the burns. The people in line, the two Rustängmarder…Pisces kicked Ceria as hard as he could, then turned.

“I am terribly sorry. I grant you Ceria’s body if you should take it—don’t mind her, she’s a [Prankster], terribly incorrigible…we’ll be leaving now—”

He dragged Ceria away, hissing in her ear.

“Are you insane? Is that circlet still making you stupid?”

“It’s sorta fixed, and so is my head. Come on, aren’t you getting tired of being intimidated?”

“Intimidated? They have every right to intimidate!”

She grinned at him as he put her in a headlock. Pisces was mid-stride to the carriages when he heard a voice.

“I challenge you, Captain Ceria, for service unto death.”

Ceria lost her grin instantly. Her eyes rolled back, and Pisces began to sweat. Uh oh. Uh oh…

He began dragging Ceria faster, and she started walking with him. Pisces raised his voice.

“—chicken sandwiches! Got to have them before we go, right, Ceria?”

“W—yeah! Famous Reim, um, chicken sandwiches. Let’s go, Pisces!”

Behind them, Death-General Losve’s helmet tilted, and the two adventurers began talking about famous Reim chicken sandwiches. She raised her voice.

“I say again, I challenge—”

Yvlon Byres wasn’t irritated. Berr had taught her that sometimes things sucked and you shouldn’t get annoyed about sleepy [Necromancers]. She loved her team, but they could be annoying, and that was fine. She found the two of them as she tucked Pisces’ tent into her bag of holding.

“Pisces, Ceria. Are you ready to go? Because if you’re not, you’re going hungry tod—”

“Yvlon! Let’s go!”

They rushed towards her, and Yvlon knew they’d done something stupid. She gave Ceria a stare, then saw someone striding after them. Well, someones.

At least ten of the Rustängmarder, in black armor, and the Death-General from yesterday. Yvlon glanced at Pisces, and he pointed to Ceria. She grabbed Ceria’s pointed ear, but then Losve called out.

“I challenge the Horns of Hammerad to a duel. Service unto death.”

Heads were turning. Yvlon closed her eyes.

“You didn’t.”

“She means only one deadly battle, actually. Which, if you think about it, Ceria—”

“She’s wearing armor, and she’s got a greatsword. You do it. You parried her blade!”

“I’m not the one who asked if we could take the King of Destruction’s corpse—”

The people around the carriages were turning as Losve called out. Yvlon groaned as Colth ran over, his smile gone.

“You idiots. Tell me you didn’t just invoke a Chandrarian honor-duel. Who was it?”

“Ceria—”

Colth stomped on her foot so hard Ceria shouted in agony. Yvlon just groaned.

“She’s not going to relent, is she? Fine. Hold this.”

She handed her breakfast bowl to Pisces and rolled her shoulders. That was a lot of armor. So she figured she should—

Colth, Pisces, and Ceria dragged Yvlon back. Then they were running as the [Silversteel Armsmistress] protested.

“I can take her, and if it’s only one battle—”

“She’s a Death-General, and her helmet has a death-glare! She might be Level 50 or higher!”

Colth panted as Ceria screamed in Yvlon’s ear.

“Definitely above Level 50. She’s one of Flos’ top vassals—”

“Oh. In that case, I’m probably outmatched.”

Yvlon reconsidered. She turned and began jogging. The Death-General was striding now, but the Horns of Hammerad were experts. Losve probably thought she could catch them, but she wasn’t prepared for them to break into a dead run.

Trey Atwood didn’t know what Flos was thinking. To be fair, he didn’t like Flos’ decisions by and large, but the King of Destruction was good at a number of things.

Why Hraace? Why now? Why with the Horns? Trey didn’t get along with the other Earthers. Fair; he’d tricked them into coming here, but he didn’t think they were ready for war.

Teresa was. She was bouncing on her feet, all eagerness to prove she could be a [Hero]. A powerful class. Trey just thought it sounded stupid. As for the Horns? He didn’t know them. He’d like to talk about their Earth-person, Erin Solstice, with them, but he was wary. They were bold, though, bold enough to challenge Flos to his face.

He gave them that. Mostly, he was just happy to be away from Flos’ endless campaigns. And Gazi was with them.

She was nervous today, snapping at everyone to get ready faster.

“Where are the Horns of Hammerad?”

She asked as if she couldn’t see them with her eyes. Gazi kept adjusting her armor, and it was newly polished, despite the long hairline crack running through it.

“Gazi, is Hraace that big a deal?”

She glared at him, and part of his face turned to stone. Just the dead skin and dirt, but it made him brush at the faint stone that flaked away.

“It’s a huge honor. You don’t understand. A [Hero] would put me on the path to becoming the best of the Seven. Even better than Mars in time…”

“And if you do, I’ll have to work twice as hard to level! Hah! Good luck, Gazi! And you too, Trey. We could use a [Hero]. Mind you, I’ve heard they’re a pain to be around. I wouldn’t know. I’ve only fought them.”

Mars was standing with the carriages; Flos was elsewhere for the morning. He didn’t like goodbyes.

“You have?”

Trey turned, and Mars counted.

“I think I’ve killed three? Four? Low-level ones. Only one even had a title. They pop up sometimes. They’re dangerous, but only higher-level ones become a real threat. When they do…”

She rubbed at her side, grimacing.

“The Hero of Zethe was the real one. He held us back practically alone for a while when His Majesty was at his best. Tells you all you need to know, that. So yes, go and see if anyone is suitable. At the very least, they’ll make you stronger if they teach. And the more the merrier for that. Is everyone here?”

She ran an eye over the group. Trey and the Earthers—Lloyd, Maximilian, Alanna, a lot of whom he didn’t know personally—talking with the others in the back. Not only them, though. There was Gazi, of course, but also Nawalishifra packing all her tools in the back of the carriage.

Even the [Smith]—though Flos might have sent her just to be rid of her moaning about forging armor and shields. They were mostly ready to go. All save for the Horns…

And here they came. They were running up, and Mars grinned as Gazi pivoted with her iconic, scary smile. It was fake; Trey knew she did it to conceal real emotions or to scare people. She was wary of the Horns, moreso than he was.

“Horns. Are you ready to depart? We leave in—”

“Hey, Gazi, hey, Mars! Let’s go already! Nevermind, we’re on our way!”

The four adventures blew past Mars, Gazi, and the Earthers, including Elena, who waved at them. Trey saw Death-General Losve, over fifty Rustängmarder, and hundreds of laughing and pointing soldiers running after the Horns, who were in full sprint by now.

“I challenge the Horns to—”

Trey stepped aside as the Death-General ran after them. Then his head turned. The Horns were running for their lives now, and somewhere in the distance, the King of Destruction laughed. Trey just stood there and blinked until he heard a loud voice guffawing next to him.

Mars. She watched as an undead steed galloped out of nowhere, and Pisces leapt onto it. He pulled the other three onto its back as it labored to run, and the Rustängmarder charged, trying to encircle them. The Illusionist slapped her stomach.

“They are adventurers! Maybe not great [Heroes]—but they’ll be fun. I might have to tag along for a few hours, Gazi!”

Indeed, the entire camp was on its feet, cheering encouragement as the Horns tried to evade the angry Rustängmarder. Ceria conjured an [Ice Wall]; Death-General Losve phased through it, turning into green phantasmal energy, then swung her sword through a second wall, cleaving it in half.

“Oh dead gods, she’s scary! Faster, Pisces, faster!”

The distant scream made Trey’s lips quirk despite himself. He stepped towards the carriage, thinking this trip wouldn’t be boring after all. Even Teresa brightened up.

“I think I like that lot after all. They’re fun adventurers. Are we following or what?”

She nodded to herself, and everyone leapt aboard the carriages. Thus, their journey to Hraace began. It proved to be a fairly interesting trip, even before they arrived.

Teresa Atwood watched the silly adventurers with amusement and a bit of contempt. She knew adventurers, or so she thought. Mars had been one, and so had Gazi.

But they described adventurers as, well, treasure and glory-seekers. Not the same as dedicated soldiers who went to war, and it was war that Teresa knew and which had changed her.

Adventurers ran away. They were sort of famous for it, and the Horns were certainly riding on their single skeleton horse in an amusing way. The magical carriages caught up after six minutes, and Teresa leaned out the window.

“I’d ride faster if I were you. They’re right behind you!”

Her answer was a stream of expletives from the half-Elf’s mouth; when Teresa turned, she was reminded why the Rustängmarder were so feared and respected.

They didn’t quit.

When the Horns had raced out of the camp, you’d expect reasonable soldiers, even intense ones, to give up. Death-General Losve had merely been insulted; she’d let it go and harbor a grudge, right?

—She was almost on them. Running as fast as the galloping skeleton horse, and the rest of a company’s worth were riding hell-for-leather after the Horns. The only thing stopping her was a series of bone and ice walls and magical projectiles coming from the two spellcasters and Colth. Her sword kept cleaving through spells, and she only weaved out of the way of the odd spell.

“I’m sorry, okay? No duel! No duel!”

Ceria waved her arms urgently, and the rest of the carriages either cheered encouragement at the Horns or yelled for Losve to run faster. Teresa didn’t hear Trey’s voice, but she rolled her eyes as she sat back. The Horns were halfway up the crater’s basin formed by the meteorite and the cheering from the camp below made it feel like the festival was going one final day.

Cheering. Reim’s soldiers didn’t care if the Horns got hurt. The other Earthers thought this was a game. Only Elena sounded worried. Teresa knew Losve was serious. If she caught up, someone would get hurt.

That was reality, and Teresa didn’t hate it; on the contrary, she enjoyed the moments when her blood was racing and she wasn’t sure what the future held and she was terrified and alive. When she swung a sword, the world changed for the better or worse in a real way.

She was exasperated with people who didn’t take it seriously, with the other Earthers who thought it was a game, and with Trey, who thought she was simply glory-mad. Teresa wanted glory, to succeed, and to level, yes, but mostly…she stared at Losve hungrily as the Death-General leapt, swinging her sword, cutting a huge section of the earth apart. Ghostly green flames raced up, and only Colth’s Skill-enhanced kick saved the horse from being cut in half.

She wanted to do that. She wanted to matter.

“Losve!”

Gazi leaned out the window as the Death-General blurred back towards the screaming Horns. The Death-General turned her head, and the Horns relaxed—too quickly. Gazi shouted.

“If you do catch them, His Majesty will want to see the duel!”

“Acknowledged.”

“Damn you, Gazi!”

That high-pitched voice came from Pisces, Teresa thought. She cracked one eye open. For someone with such an interesting set of abilities—and that bell—he sounded so cowardly. Even the tough-looking Yvlon was just running.

They were out of the crater formed by the meteorite by now and racing across dry ground. To the north were Reim’s lands; the King of Destruction had camped near the border to Nerrhavia’s Fallen, which he’d been pushing into. The speed of this chase was taking them rapidly north, but whatever the [Necromancer] and [Supporter] were doing to their horse to keep it ahead of the Death-General was running out. It slowed just as they reached a border-city and clattered onto a street.

People turned as the Horns of Hammerad leapt from the steed a second before Losve cut it in half. She whirled, saw all four running, phased through a net Colth tossed at her, and advanced.

“Losve, don’t! I’ll tell the Quarass on you!”

Elena really was rooting for the Horns. Well, they’d released her from Flos. Teresa wondered what would happen now. Would the Horns gang up on Losve? They were still running, but aside from Colth and Pisces, who had movement Skills, they’d never make it. The crowds thinned ahead of them as they saw the pursuit—Teresa closed one eye as she watched, focusing a bit of inner power into her eye, trying to capture the next moments.

Losve was sprinting, sword on her shoulder, set for a swift attack. She’d been baiting them this entire time, wary of the Horns, waiting to see when they attacked. Surprisingly cautious. Now, she accelerated towards Yvlon, who seemed likeliest to fight back. The blonde woman threw a glance over her shoulder. She called out to Ceria as the half-Elf ran, raising both her hands and screaming. She wasn’t that fit—Teresa saw her momentum flagging already. One or the other in three…two…one…

Yvlon leapt as Ceria tripped, and Losve tensed. She brought her sword down, and Pisces twisted. He [Flash Stepped] into place, and Teresa saw it again.

A glowing tail appeared, and he tried to parry the Death-General’s strike.

This time, she was ready for him. The downward cut halted, and her sword vanished. It reappeared from the side, coming at Pisces horizontally. His eyes went round.

“Blade teleportation? Nice.”

Orthenon had taught Teresa a lot about combat, including concepts that were unique to Drath. Teresa watched in the world of speed she barely had access to—a [Warrior]’s privilege. She saw Pisces recoil, and someone vaulted his shoulders.

“[Redirected Balance]! [Copy Skill — Joveln’s Parry]!”

Colth swung a sword, and a copy of Pisces’ tail appeared as he parried Losve’s sword straight down into the street with one of his daggers. Losve reacted instantly, whirling her sword around for a cut at the two adventurers like the expert she was—and missed.

Teresa blinked. She stared at the four Horns, Ceria picking herself up, Yvlon bracing, legs unmoving, Pisces wiping sweat from his brow, and Colth blowing a kiss at Losve. They were standing still, but for some reason, they were keeping pace with her. But the magical carriage was moving…

“What the—?”

Losve was rapidly vanishing in the distance. She took a step forwards, hesitated, and kicked at something on the ground. Warily, she jogged around it, trying to catch up, and Teresa further leaned out the window.

“Ice?”

The Horns of Hammerad were sliding on a sheet of ice. The half-Elf, Ceria, leaned on one elbow, waving at Losve, as they shot away. The ice had to be virtually frictionless to accelerate them that fast. Indeed, even as Teresa watched, Ceria got up.

“Oh shit, she’s still coming. Skate! Skate for your lives!”

The Horns did just that. They slid through the city, leaving a trail of rapidly melting ice behind them as the enraged Losve caught up. But she was flagging, and not because she was out of energy. It was just…

Teresa blinked. She watched Pisces and Colth patting each other on the shoulder, Yvlon folding her arms, Ceria blowing kisses left and right—and the startled citizens of Reim. They had no eyes for Gazi, nor even the Rustängmarder, the beloved soldiers of the King of Reim.

Their eyes were only for the four ridiculous adventurers skating through their city and posing like the silly lot they were. It was the most cowardly, weird retreat that Teresa had ever seen…

She started laughing. Teres couldn’t help it. There was just something stupid about Losve chasing the four adventurers. What was she going to do? Race after them? Skate after them? The Death-General sensed it. Her glowing helmet’s lights dimmed slightly, and she came to a slow halt. Trying to stare impassively at the Horns as they waved at her.

The Earthers were all cheering wildly. How could you not? This was what they wanted. Not the King of Destruction’s grand and terrifying and real battles—it was strange magic, as silly as it was wondrous.

Teres turned to Gazi, and the [Sand Mage] nodded to the four adventurers.

“So that’s what Izril’s like?”

“No. Just them. And that inn.”

Gazi’s main eye was closed, and only one of her smaller eyes was watching the Horns, but she wore an exasperated expression with the barest hint of a smile. Elena whistled loudly as she cheered, and Teres sat back.

Okay, maybe they were worth getting to know. The [Necromancer] seemed like he was really good with a sword and handsome, too. Then she wondered what the Heromakers would make of the Horns. She hoped they saw something in her.

Escaping the Rustängmarder left the Horns tired, breathless, and bickering, but happy as they passed through Reim. Everyone blamed Ceria, but you had to admit—she deserved a shot at Flos after he’d snapped her circlet.

“Don’t do it again. Your big mouth has gotten you into trouble you couldn’t get out of once already.”

“Noted. And we’re still in Gazi’s company. Do you think there’s a chance we ditch her and try to go somewhere else instead of Hraace?”

Ceria panted as she wiped sweat from her brow and drank a mana potion. Colth glanced at the magical carriages, which’d slowed for them now that the chase was over.

“I doubt we’re evading her eye; she’s the worst person to try to sneak from. We might have to detour to Hraace. At the speed of these magical carriages, it won’t take more than two days of travel, even with breaks. Handy, that. We can probably get to Nerrhavia’s Fallen or Pomle to look for Pisces’ friends in…a week.”

“Damn, that’s so long. But better than anything else, I guess.”

The Horns slowed, and Ceria stopped casting her [Icy Floor] spell. The Earthers were all begging for a turn skating like that, but the Horns were done running. While it was very cool and inspiring to see them skate across dry Chandrar like that…they were adventurers. There might be little room in the magical carriages, but the Earthers were about to see what made real Gold- and Named-rank adventurers the successes they were:

Sure, you could skate across Chandrar. Or ride on Pisces’ undead horse with its saddle, gifted to him by the King of Jecrass no less, or even run if you were Colth.

Or, and hear them out—you could make an ice-chariot, attach it with a rope to one of the magical carriages, and put your feet up and enjoy the breeze.

The Horns of Hammerad enjoyed the breeze as they were given mildly outraged looks by the escort of Reim’s hard-riding [Soldiers] and the passengers in the carriages. They were adventurers. Riding was for chumps.

A few observations from the road. Yvlon Byres got a great view of Reim—and its holdings—as they headed north after the business with the Rustängmarder was concluded. It seemed only Death-General Losve held a grudge, or she had decided not to waste her forces’ time pursuing the Horns after they ditched her.

Which was good, because the Rustängmarder had a presence all over Reim. The dark-armored soldiers were everywhere. Not just joining Flos on campaign; they were laboring to upgrade walls, digging wells, all kinds of manual labor.

Or rather, they were doing it with their, uh, auxiliary forces.

“Undead. Look—that’s another group. Half the soldiers are dead. The ones digging, see?”

Pisces pointed it out to Yvlon; a group of sixteen with eight digging out a well or something. Yvlon shuddered, but mildly.

“Interesting way of forming a company. So the dead ones are free labor?”

“Doesn’t bother them. It must stink in that armor, though. It’s probably refrigerated to keep them alive longer. Smart. It cools the living and preserves the dead.”

Colth was observing the armored figures, who did turn and stare at the Horns, but offered no fight, even when the carriages stopped. They weren’t, uh, friendly, though, and Yvlon poked Ceria again.

“One more stupid comment…”

“I’m fine, really. And I’m not stupid today. I think. Though the circlet’s definitely damaged.”

Ceria poked at it, and Yvlon realized she could see the circlet today. It was cracked in dozens of places, but ‘intact’ on Ceria’s brow. Yvlon almost groaned, but given how pathetic Ceria had been post-shattering…she just raised an eyebrow.

“Is it no longer working as well?”

“Actually…I think it’s working better. It was pretty desperate not to be destroyed, so I think it unlocked more functions. I’ll try it out soon, but it’s more in recovery-mode right now.”

Was that good or ill? Yvlon almost wanted to break it again and toss the pieces to the ground, but to her surprise, Ceria pulled the circlet off her head, tossed it in her bag of holding, and pulled something else out.

“Alright. Time to switch.”

The Crown of Medain sat on her head. Yvlon Byres’ mouth opened—and Ceria adjusted the legitimate crown, set with three massive jewels, the golden metal rising like waves. It was definitely bigger than her circlet, but she moved it right, left, and then brightened up.

“Hey! It’s not heavy! Feels nice, too. I thought it’d suck without padding. How do I look?”

The rest of the Horns looked at her, and water dribbled out of Pisces’ mouth. Colth met Yvlon’s eyes, and she shrugged weakly. She was the one who’d failed to give it back to Perric.

“Um…the jewels are too much.”

Ceria produced a mirror and studied her face.

“Yeah. I can see that. Maybe I’ll see if I can remove them without damaging the enchantment? We could use more travel funds.”

That was purely bait. Yvlon ignored that, and Ceria, as she lay back in the chariot. Her reflection was on Death-General Losve.

I could have taken her in a fight…maybe. She’s definitely over Level 50. Me and Ceria?

Maybe not.

How did you articulate the difference between a Level 40 [Warrior], which Yvlon was, and Level 50? Yvlon would put it like this:

She was capable of moments of extraordinary, impossible feats. Like her [Aspect of Iron], which allowed her to charge into a storm of arrows or whatever she wanted and survive. It was a crazy Skill that Silver-rank Yvlon would have wet herself to fight against.

If I had that, I would have been able to kill Skinner…maybe. Again, Yvlon realized it wasn’t that simple. He could have ripped off her skin and armor and maybe even her metal arms. He truly had been dangerous in his own way, especially with those [Terror] gems. And in that sense, that was Yvlon. She was Level 44. She could destroy an ordinary foe quite, quite fast, but a single arrow when her Skills weren’t up would kill her.

Much like Skinner, who had died to ‘mere’ Goblins when his armor had been stripped away.

But Death-General Losve? She’d kept up with a racing undead horse enhanced by Skills, sliced through walls of ice and bone effortlessly, and threatened the Horns all without using a ‘big’ Skill. The difference, Yvlon thought, was that a Level 40+ [Warrior] had moments of extraordinary power.

Level 50+ was always at that level.

She wondered what Erin was like now.

Anyways. Yvlon knew it wasn’t just a ‘hit Level 50 and change’ kind of thing. She was stronger physically than she’d been at Level 30. But Losve and the other followers of Flos Reimarch frustrated her. Every time she thought she was stronger, a new wave of incredible foes appeared.

Perhaps this was how Ceria felt. Yvlon closed her eyes, sighing, resolving to train harder when they got to Hraace…just in time for Ceria to blast Yvlon out of the ice chariot with a geyser of water.

“Oh tree rot. Sorry, Yvlon!”

The [Armsmistress] whirled in a confusion of water, air, and then the ground as she hit the earth. She lay there, ears ringing, as rain pattered down and voices shouted around her, and she reflected that Level 30 Yvlon would have suffered greatly.

She was merely…winded.

Ceria hid behind Pisces when the chariot came back to pick her up. Yvlon, who wasn’t mad, just raised her eyebrows.

“It was the Crown of Medain! I swear! Apparently, it can cast spells! [Summon Water Geyser] is one of them! Sorry!”

“I see. Well, I’m glad it hit me instead of Pisces. Does anyone have a towel?”

Yvlon got back in the chariot. Ceria flinched, but Yvlon calmly shook water out of her ears and checked how far she’d flown. A good fifteen feet, and she’d hit the ground hard.

“What was the radius on that?”

“Pretty large. She blew half the chariot apart—I got Pisces. Sorry, Yvlon.”

She nodded at Colth, who had saved Pisces from her fate. Ceria fiddled with the circlet, and all the Horns peered at her.

“Okay, that jewel does that. This one does—”

Yvlon was about to politely tell Ceria to watch where she was casting spells when she stiffened, and Pisces swore as something encircled them. Swift bands of magic; Colth tried to dodge his, then stopped.

“Armor spell. Feels like…[Stoneskin]? Dead gods!”

Yvlon, incredulous, felt at her body, and sure enough, her skin was tougher. Colth swore as he felt at himself.

“What’s the range? I bet it’s at least a squad. Company? That’s a crown of a powerful [King] alright!”

“Multiple kings. High King Perric apparently forged that crown out of the nations he conquered.”

Pisces interjected, and Ceria and Yvlon regarded him; he shrugged defensively.

“I looked it up. It did not say what the effects of the crown were, but it did claim it was Relic-class.”

Colth rubbed his hands together, delighted.

“Not Relic-class maybe, but high-artifact. No wonder he’s so mad. Do the green one now.”

The gems, green, blue, and red, were each huge and differently sized; when Ceria activated one enchantment, it lit up the corresponding gemstone. Rather simplistic in Yvlon’s opinion, but she assumed it was on the level of Perric’s ability to memorize the enchantments.

The green gemstone produced nothing so fancy as the [Stoneskin] enchantment or [Water Geyser] spell at first, to the Horns’ disappointment. That was until they heard a series of shrieks, glanced up, and saw a bunch of bird-shaped, twisting spells in the air. Ceria whistled.

“Air spirit. Looks like he’s got crowd control, summoned minions, and defensive enchantments. Shame that [Stoneskin]’s so…generic. Yvlon barely needs it.”

“Some may call me the Silver Killer of Chandrar, but the truth is I’m hardly that tough, Ceria.”

Pisces snorted, and Ceria laughed as she took the crown off. Well, it looked like she had a new set of gear, although…and Yvlon hated to admit it…

“It’s not as good as her other circlet.”

She confided in Colth’s ear, and the [Supporter] grinned at Ceria.

“One gives her three Tier 4 spells, albeit boosted, the other lets her free-cast her Frostmarrow Behemoth or another huge spell as well as other tricks. Relic versus merely the crown of a ‘High King’.”

Yvlon shook her head. Ceria was busy trying to find out if the Crown of Medain had any other interesting effects. The commotion certainly kept the Earthers’ eyes on them. When they stopped for a lunch at one of the cities, the Earthers were all over the other Horns, and that suited Yvlon just fine.

She wanted to stretch her arms and legs and take a look at Reim. What Yvlon didn’t realize was that this little jaunt to Hraace would not be as simple as dodging a Death-General or surviving a single Tier 4 spell.

They were being followed by real monsters.

Reim was…odd. At first, no one understood it among the Horns. The Earthers had already observed it so were less focused on that; they were clustered around the Horns, Ceria and Pisces for choice.

Yvlon was, apparently, intimidating, but Pisces as the [Necromancer] was cool, and Ceria as the half-Elf was cooler. The bemused [Necromancer] was having a conversation with Maximillian and Alanna.

“Yes—yes, I do raise undead, but no zombies for preference. Just Skeletal Champions or the like you saw with His Majesty.”

“That’s so creepy. I mean—sorry!”

Alanna clapped her hands over her mouth. She apologized to Pisces, who just blinked at her, bemused.

“That’s racist, right? Do [Necromancers] get a lot of hate?”

“Er…you could say that. We are not well liked in Terandria or Izril.”

“Wow, that’s so—Wistram hated them. They were always talking about this one [Necromancer] who got a bunch of people killed in the Libertarian faction. But I think it’s pretty cool. Walking Dead, right, Maximillian?”

Pisces hesitated, and Maxmillian nodded.

“Ever seen a zombie apocalypse?”

“You mean…a million-strong zombie army? No…”

“I bet you’d be awesome for that, right? You could start a zombie civil war?”

It was so weird talking to Earthers. Some of them had this—mix of unique ideas and unseriousness, if that made sense. Colth was patently fascinated, talking to the Earthers who were less-than-cautious about discussing where they were from. Lloyd was trying to flirt with Ceria.

They weren’t all like that. Elena was giving the others exasperated looks. She had the air of someone like, say, a pre-inn Joseph or Imani. Someone who’d seen things.

Teres and Trey were far more observational, cautious. Yvlon strode away from the group and surveyed Reim, the capital city of the nation named after it.

“Black marble towers. Chemath. No wonder everyone wants it.”

It was surreal to see the famed city of the King of Destruction, not in its heyday, but a revival. Some of the towers were broken, but the ones that had shot lightning down to destroy armies still rose over the city, and the people were…fascinating.

Vigorous, but worn, Yvlon would say. Some clearly seemed like they’d seen better days, evidence of former malnutrition or hard years giving them that characteristic of those who had endured much. Wrinkles too deep, or scars—contrasted with healthier bodies.

Clearly, if they had been hungry, they weren’t anymore. Reim flowed with commerce, mainly, Yvlon noted, spoils of war and goods from countries Reim had vanquished.

Stone from Hellios, Belchanese books and magical items, Ger’s pottery and myriad of alchemical ingredients, and of course, arms, armor, cloth, all looted from Nerrhavia’s Fallen. If you wanted for work, you could find it simply in transporting the goods to various places in Reim. Or join the army; Yvlon saw children running around, a boy of perhaps four toddling and giggling, waving a stick at a shrieking girl.

“I’m Mars! Mars! You run from me!”

She was screaming at him, but he was too excited to listen and bit and slashed at her as she whirled away. Not many youths above thirteen were present. Yvlon suspected they were either soldiers or working a trade.

Two more factors made Reim fascinating. One—it had rained on the way in, just a patter, but it meant the fields were green and blooming, even if the rest of the area was still arid and dry. Yvlon had heard all nations south of Jecrass were dry…but she supposed rain happened.

She realized something else was up when a few cautious folk of Reim bowed to her.

“Adventurer, will you buy anything? Is His Majesty headed north? Do you have news of him?”

They didn’t realize who she was or the company she kept; Yvlon glanced at Gazi and found out the Gazer had vanished, heading towards the palace. The Earthers were eating by the carriages, fed by the people. Yvlon bowed back, smiling politely.

“I’m Yvlon Byres, of the Horns of Hammerad. I don’t believe His Majesty is heading north. I think he’s still bound south for his campaign.”

She omitted her pre-prepared speech, but for once, it seemed it was, uh, necessary. The group of citizens starting towards her stopped, eyed her arms, and then took a few steps back until they were eight paces away.

“The Silver Killer of Izril herself? It is an honor!”

A visibly pregnant woman in her early thirties beamed at Yvlon, and she bowed, keeping both hands folded in her apron. Her husband, a man around her age, seemed alarmed as Yvlon held out a hand—but he was bold. He shook it and laughed.

“Did you meet His Majesty? He’d have a place in his army for a warrior so fierce.”

Yvlon hesitated…and sighed.

“It’s true I’m a member of the Horns of Hammerad, a Gold-ranked team. Some may call me the ‘Silver Killer of Izril’, but I assure you, the truth is I’m hardly so dangerous…”

It actually worked slightly. They drifted nearer after that, but only, surprisingly, to peek at the Horns.

“Is Ksmvr of Chandrar not here? I should like his autograph—and yours, Lady Killer! I am Meif, a humble citizen of Reim.”

The woman blushed, and Yvlon felt amused and sad Ksmvr wasn’t here. The man, who turned out to be a [Stonemason] helping repair Reim, washed his hands as he regarded Pisces.

“And that’s the Bane of Roshal himself? He doesn’t look like a man who’s slaughtered a hundred [Slavers] of Roshal.”

There was that rumor again. Yvlon frowned at them.

“I think our reputations in Chandrar have been vastly inflated. Pisces hasn’t killed more than…five [Slavers], I think.”

She had to add up the ones from sea. Unless they meant lesser [Slave Guards], in which case, he maybe had killed a hundred. But the [Stonemason]’s wife protested.

“A hundred [Caravan Masters], I heard! If it’s merely those of Roshal, he’s had to have wet the ground with a thousand corpses at least.”

“I don’t think Pisces has killed that many people in his life. I don’t think I have.”

They gave her such incredulous looks that Yvlon changed the subject.

“—How is Reim?”

“Oh, ever-growing. Fruitful, but so much work to be done. It’s a shadow of the city it was. Come eight more nations fall, and it’ll look something like it did when I was a girl.”

Miss Meif murmured, and her husband nodded. Reim looked fine to Yvlon, but they seemed to think it was a paltry thing. Still, Meif cast her eyes over the children playing and pointed out the boy.

“That’s my youngest, Badl, and I’m due with another in a few months. They keep us busy—good thing we’re filled with vitality from His Majesty.”

She was indeed gravid, seven months pregnant and nearly ready to term if Yvlon was a judge—she was not—and Yvlon murmured as she watched the boy.

“A healthy specimen. How old is the lad?”

He looks sort of annoying to be around. The poor girl he was chasing kept having to dodge him biting at her.

“Oh, he’ll be a year in a month.”

Yvlon blinked. Impossible. She stared at the boy.

“He looks to be four years. He’s a fully grown toddler, not bare able to walk.”

Children stood by year’s end, of course, but they wouldn’t run like that. This boy was far, far too big. But Meif just chuckled.

“His Majesty’s returned, Lady Killer. Tell me, how long ago did you think since I conceived this little one?”

Yvlon focused on her.

“Seven months?”

“Three! Two weeks in, I developed a bump, and my, wasn’t it quick? Of course, I was trying for another, and it wasn’t that much of a surprise.”

She winked at her husband, and he turned red. Yvlon just stared at Meif’s stomach.

Children were growing way too fast. Indeed, even Reim’s citizens seemed a bit surprised. Meif confessed to Yvlon.

“My parents had all their children when His Majesty first began his kingdom, but they described it all as faster by a third. This is half again as quick…I suppose His Majesty has levelled up.”

“One…supposes.”

It was purely disconcerting to Yvlon, and she had no hair on her arms to stand up on end, but her metal skin rippled anyways. She was glad of an interruption, which was Gazi appearing to hand her a meat-filled piece of bread.

“Eat. We’re to be riding soon.”

Yvlon took the bread and chewed as Meif and her husband fawned over Gazi. The famous adventurer was cold and smiled, not inhospitably, but they withdrew fast, and Gazi stared at Yvlon with one huge eye.

Pisces and Ceria had a history with Gazi; Yvlon did not. She only knew Gazi as a famous adventurer, so she tried to be cordial.

“Reim is quite impressive, Adventurer Gazi.”

“You needn’t stand on formalities with me, Yvlon Byres. It is a letdown except in war. Come six more nations…”

“I heard as much. Would it be that impressive?”

Gazi’s eyes swept Reim.

“…In its heyday, the city never expanded beyond the walls, for Drevish built them for war. But there were tents, bazaars, set up for tens of miles riding in. Great warhosts at any time, and [Kings] and [Queens] seeking His Majesty’s favor would stand next to commonfolk elevated to great station. Rulers of distant continents sent their finest and tread carefully, even if they were at war with us.”

Her magical eye seemed to see something Yvlon could not, softening, then swung back to Yvlon, and that pointed smile returned. Yvlon realized she was baring her teeth. The two stood together.

“I wish I had seen it in its glory. His Majesty was most impressive.”

“Yet you faced him down boldly, just as then. We used to make sport of such challenges, which we had by the hundreds.”

Yvlon smiled wider at Gazi.

“I’m sure I would have been no match. I apologize for any rudeness.”

The Gazer’s smile could have cut glass.

“Even back then, I am sure I would have remembered your name had you lived. You would have fit right in in that era of blood and battle.”

“Oh, no, I’m hardly so dangerous. Ha-ha.”

“I am the least of His Majesty’s champions myself. Ha. Hah.”

“They’re going to murder each other.”

Gazi and Yvlon trying to be polite was hilarious to Ceria. She was almost done with her sandwich, jovial and ready to keep moving. She was relaxing in the back of her ice chariot as the Earthers begged her to ride with them.

Ceria’s approach to this tricky situation where she didn’t want their presence—or the risk factor of them falling off the wagon by being incautious and hurting themselves or dying—and balancing their fragile feelings was to look each person in the eye and say:

“No. Absolutely not.”

No smile. Wave hands to shoo them off. It was mean, and Pisces gave her an askance look as he began to board the chariot; he was nicer than he liked to pretend.

Ceria was able to well imagine that since they’d be riding for hours at a time, she’d have to spend time with, say, Maximilian asking her about half-Elven villages, or one of the girls asking how she got her face or hair to look so…half-immortal, or some other conversation Ceria didn’t want or need with nowhere to go except to throw herself off the chariot at high speed to get away.

In fact, she had predicted their next stop might well be over three hours away based on their current speed and the fact they’d skip Jecrass; the next nation on a map with a city was likely that far. How did Ceria predict that?

The circlet was back. She was back to being intelligent, and the backlash from Flos’ stupid trick with her circlet was mostly mitigated. Ceria had a bit of a headache, but compared to her literal impairment from the last two days, this was fine. Why was the damage reversed? Well, because as Flos had noted, the circlet wasn’t destroyed.

It had repaired itself…somewhat. It was still ‘fragile’ in her mind, and it needed more time and mana to finish repairs. Mana that it had actually taken from Ceria. With her permission.

Negotiations with the circlet had revealed some interesting things it was keeping from her. Ceria had cut a deal: more power, more access, less Minotaur crap, or she’d ensure a piece of the circlet got left behind in the King of Destruction’s camp. That would cripple the Relic, possibly permanently, but now she had a magical artifact that stopped giving her as much trouble.

End result? Same Ceria, potentially more combat powers. She was looking forward to trying them out, but hopefully not on Gazi, thanks. The half-Elf cracked one eye open, grateful for the [Freedom from Morality] spell; it meant she didn’t feel bad about making the Earthers all sad and glum. They weren’t Erin. Erin wasn’t Erin.

Sometimes, you wanted to be free from morality. It meant she could also look at a familiar banner of chains, see a caravan rolling out of Reim, and look a [Slaver] of Roshal in the eye and wave and blow them a kiss. Pisces’ face was set; Colth was trying to distract him.

“Hey Pisces, Ceria got us those water flask souvenirs that Larracel herself would kill for. I’ll sell her one of the water flasks for the inn so she can hydrate all of Izril’s nobility. Think your inn crowd wants something here? Pisces?”

“It’s fine, Colth. I am…not going to start a fight. I am aware of how much trouble we’ve already gotten in.”

Ceria closed one eye as she saw Pisces turn away from a line of people being led away. She surveyed them and saw battered armor on some, rougher skin, and in the front, a very loudly protesting, attractive man and woman.

Stitch-folk all. Looks like two officers and a bunch of soldiers who couldn’t afford a ransom. Might be politics that the Silk ones got sold off.

Here was the other side of the King of Destruction’s war. Ceria wondered if the Hemp saw him as a liberator given he was selling prisoners of war off. But the people in Reim barely batted an eye. The prisoners, except the Silk ones, seemed resigned to their fates. Ceria?

She felt nothing at all. She kept the circlet firmly on her head. She didn’t want to know what was in Pisces’ eyes as he looked away—then turned back, as if to memorize each face that passed him by. Colth got in the way, and the [Necromancer] growled until Colth touched his shoulder.

“Don’t memorize their faces. There’s nothing you can do. His Majesty will act if we cause trouble, and Roshal will too. Don’t add the faces, Pisces.”

Gazi Pathseeker had stopped arguing with Yvlon and was watching them. Ceria glanced at her, and the half-Gazer’s eyes roamed away. Pisces’ voice was rough.

“Why not? You are.”

“That’s my job.”

Mercifully, the [Slavers] were rapidly heading away. Not just because they were full up on [Slaves], Ceria thought. They were giving Pisces and Colth a wide, wide berth, and the wide eyes on some of the [Guards] and sweat on their brows made Ceria think they knew who was watching them. Her heat-sensing abilities let her check their relative body temperatures.

They’re running hotter than everyone around them. They’re scared.

Good. Ceria waved at the [Caravan Master] and got a tight nod from a Stitch-woman with a veil and enchanted sarong. The Ice Squirrel blew another kiss, then made another gesture. She pointed up at the sky, then opened her hands in an arc. Like a rainbow…

The [Slaver] turned dead white, kicked her horse, and the entire line of [Slaves] were yanked forwards at a trot. Ceria laughed as they fled until she saw Pisces and Colth glaring at her. She pointed at the circlet.

“I’m just tweaking their noses. No extracurricular activities, you two. They don’t start anything, we don’t start anything. Sneak off at night or visit another bar and I’ll icewall you in your tents.”

The glares intensified, and Ceria sighed.

Someone had to be cold, here, not in their emotions. They’d see more of this, she had no doubt. She only broke off from thinking of the threats that might await them elsewhere in less-friendly realms when someone approached the chariot.

“Miss Ceria? Can I ride with you?”

“Piss off—oh, wait, it’s you. Uh…sure.”

Elena waved, and Ceria thought she was the smart one. Well, she did seem to like the Horns—for good reason—and she clearly got that Ceria had no desire to be in the carriages, smushed in with Earthers asking her about being a half-Elf and magic. Ceria shrugged.

“Sure, why not? Chariot’s big enough, and we’re not doing much. I warn you, I’ll be snoozing or studying most of the trip.”

Not much else to do, even in a magical carriage, really. Even Gazi looked bored as she and Yvlon shook hands and headed back to the carriages. Ceria closed her eyes, and Elena hesitated. Her voice rose, suddenly higher-pitched.

“Oh. Um. I wouldn’t say that. Looks like you have company.”

Ceria sensed it before she heard the gasps. Like…a great thunderhead sweeping down upon her, crackling with lightning, in her head. Only, it wasn’t her imagination. She cracked one eye open and gazed upwards.

It looked like electricity itself in Ceria’s magical vision. Power trailing off the woman floating down in lines of force—her eyes lit up, and Ceria’s heart leapt in her chest. Despite her ice magic, the circlet, Ceria swallowed hard as Amerys, the Archmage of Lightning, Illphres’ old companion, shot down from the sky.

She could move at the speed of lightning itself. She left a trail of green through the sky until she stopped, her robes fluttering around her. When she did—she pointed one finger down.

Straight at Ceria.

“We never had a chance to talk, Ceria Springwalker. Fly with me.”

Ceria sat up, slowly, suddenly itching for the wand at her side. But Amerys was smiling. Just…

Smiling. Static electricity built in the air, making anyone who touched metal jump and swear. Her presence was like thunder. Ceria searched for Yvlon, for Gazi, whom she did owe a debt for the spellbook. For Pisces…but he was swallowing and staring around. At the woman who’d galloped in and was pointing at Yvlon.

“Hoi, Horns of Hammerad! We’re not to war till tomorrow at the latest. I saw you sent Death-General Losve back in such a slump she buried her head in the sand and won’t come up! What say you and I duel, Yvlon Byres?”

Mars the Illusionist swung a sword up, and Yvlon stirred. Ceria swallowed again as Amerys beckoned.

Monsters indeed. And worse—they were bored.

Amerys assured Ceria that she could transport all four of them after the magical carriages.

“Oh, they’re fast, but I’m faster. It’s just that I don’t deign to ferry anyone around, even Mars, unless there’s a good reason. She took a fancy towards your Silver Killer. Don’t worry—she’s kinder than I am, if it’s not war.”

The carriages were moving again, but Yvlon and Mars were trooping up to the palace to have a sparring match—alone. There would have been tons of spectators, but Mars had insisted. Curious for such a flashy woman.

Ceria was sitting on a mobile cloud as Amerys lounged in the sky.

Flight magic. Definitely way above Ceria’s magical grade. She’d heard the best Archmages of the era could cast [Levitate] or [Flight], but even Valeterisa didn’t fly like Amerys. Valeterisa could move anywhere in the heavens she wanted at good speed.

Amerys could flash across the world like a bolt of lightning.

Ceria had seen it. She had been a girl in Wistram—well, more of a girl—when Amerys had been another Archmage, picking fights at dinner with Illphres, flying around, bored, and, Ceria realized, unhappy with the absence of her king.

Now…Amerys looked older. She was clearly weaker from her imprisonment; she had to lounge on the air, and Ceria had noticed how she sat or barely kept upright even in the camp. Her muscles were clearly weak, but she would flit from place to place so fast she left afterimages.

Battlemage. A true battlemage, not Falene’s class. Ceria had heard the tale of how Amerys had broken out of Wistram when Trey had told it back on the Sand at Sea, and she could believe Amerys had dueled multiple Archmages before making her escape.

Even with her circlet on, if they fought, Ceria was putting all her money on Amerys. It’d be too fast. How did you stop lightning? Well, ice armor, but how thick? Amerys could throw [Grand Lightning] as fast as Ceria could fire [Ice Spike]. Her aim was nearly as good as Illphres’; they’d used to line up and blast rocks every morning.

“Oh, calm down. Stop being jumpy. I told you, you’re Illphres’ apprentice. I liked her as much as anyone in the academy. I thought we should chat, mage-to-mage. You’re as close as I’ll get for reasonable conversation, and after Flos snapped that circlet, you were out of it during the festival. Let’s wait until Mars is finished beating your friend about, and then I’ll keep you company for a day.”

“Don’t you have, uh, work to do?”

Ceria bounced up and down on the cloud, and it felt…springy. Oddly, unnervingly, weightless. It was strong enough to support her, but strong in the sense of a million tiny particles, not one whole material. In fact, if she poked a hand into the cloud, she could part it.

Amerys watched Ceria stick her arm down.

“Careful. Pull the cloud apart and it dissipates or you’ll fall through. I can fly as far north as I want and bring Mars back for a battle within three hours. It’ll tire me out a bit, but I could reach Izril by sunset. Even Terandria, if I had to, within twenty-four hours.”

Dead gods, that’s fast. Beyond Courier-level fast. Ceria licked her lips.

“Done that much?”

Amerys shrugged lightly.

“Realistically? No. It’s tiring, and I have to keep focused the entire way. Plus, during war, it’d leave me at the mercy of anyone who senses me coming. But I can do it.”

One step and she moved like a bolt of lightning, appearing with a thwoom of thunder a thousand yards distant. She spun lazily, her body trailing after her, and stepped—she was back in front of Ceria, the wind blasting around her.

There was a dancer’s quality to the movements. Ceria wanted to say it was like [Flash Step], but if Pisces could do that…and Amerys was a mage. She didn’t fight with a rapier. She could zap you with lightning bolts. How did you even fight her?

Amerys leaned down as she floated overhead, her hair leaf-green, her eyes bright like lightning itself, intelligent and speculative.

“That’s the look of a real [Mage]. Someone trying to imagine fighting me. You should have stayed at Wistram. I should have taken the time to hand you that damn book. Told the council to let you stay. I should have—but I was too tired. Too weary of Wistram. I gave you no thought, and it was just as well you left. Illphres would be proud.”

It was much like what she’d said on that fateful voyage north on the Sand at Sea, but Amerys had been so exhausted then and distracted by Flos. Ceria’s lips moved.

“Thank you for the book. Well, thanks to Gazi. Even if it was late.”

She touched her bag of holding where her master’s tome had been restored to her. Amerys’ smile was bitter.

“I owe that brat a bolt from my spellbook, whomever it was. Thank Gazi.”

“I’d rather not. I owe her a blizzard spell.”

Amerys didn’t throw her head back and laugh like the other vassals or Flos himself. She was still, as Trey had once observed, more of a scholar. She pursed her lips, then pulled out a bottle of wine of all things and poured it into the air.

Or rather, a bowl made of air, which she handed to Ceria, then another which she drank from. It was expensive wine, Ceria realized.

“Well then, let me apologize to you and you thank me on Gazi’s behalf, and we shall consider debts partially settled. I truly was grieving Illphres’ death. She wasn’t ready.”

Of all the times not to have her circlet on…Ceria felt a moment of anger and froze it in her chest. She smiled politely.

“She was a [Mage] of mages. She dared to try.”

“She wasn’t ready. I told her. She was afraid to adventure and come back a decade later. Afraid to lose her spine. I was not confident we could win—and I think, now, we would have lost even if I had gone. She wasn’t ready. It is abundantly clear that is true.”

More anger froze. Ceria shrugged.

“That may be true, but I admired her for it.”

Amerys poured more wine, beyond generously, and took a huge gulp. She raised her eyebrows at Ceria.

“Oh, of course. You’re very much as she was. Freezing everything that displeases you, including your feelings. She didn’t realize she was terrified, I think. [Cryomancers] freeze themselves as much as their foes.”

She…could tell what Ceria was doing. The half-Elf recoiled, then snapped.

“And what do lightning mages do?”

“Dissipate. Turn into slugs without charge or focus. Dissolve into pieces of pointlessness, as I did for too long after Flos slumbered. They got me in Wistram because I was soft. Look at me, Ceria. I haven’t changed since you were a girl. Now how fast you’ve climbed.”

Amerys drifted forwards and pointed at her face, rueful. Ceria blinked as Amerys inspected Ceria’s hand, her robes, her gear.

“Nice robes. Are they from the Crossroads of Izril? Beautiful enchantments—I’d give them to Nailihuaile, if she were alive, and force her to analyze them. That hand…sacrifice from your adventures?”

Ceria nodded, blinking again. Amerys sighed.

“Good trades for how fast you’ve improved. I’d trade my hand for ten levels. Do you have more clothing from the Crossroads?”

Ceria was, in fact, wearing the colorful red-and-white dress that burned if you spun around. From the City of Shields. She showed Amerys her bag of holding and couldn’t resist taking out a few of the dresses. Amerys whistled, and her eyes went round.

“You got these…?”

“From a maze. Turns out if you tell it you’re naked, it’ll give you free clothing.”

“And you stole all of it. Dead gods. Magic from the City of Shields. Do you have any more? Is it all in here?”

“Well, I didn’t have time to put it anywhere, and I don’t have a home base, really.”

Amerys gazed ruefully at the palace of Reim and jerked a thumb at it.

“That’s mine as far as it goes. The rest of my possessions are in Wistram, never to return. I’m as poor as I was as a student. I wish I had a magical base too, but I was never good at stationary magic, you know? Well, these are amazing pieces of clothing.”

She lifted the bag of holding, then stuffed a bra back into it. Amerys handed Ceria her bag of holding to avoid the resonance effect from having the two spells overlap.

“Mine’s mostly empty. Good potions in there, a few scrolls—wait, I should take my spellbook out.”

She took a personal tome out, for some reason, and put it into Ceria’s bag of holding. The half-Elf hesitated as Amerys leaned back.

“Wait…”

Amerys floated away, searching through Ceria’s bag of holding.

“Thank you for the trade. See you.”

She flew off, leaving Ceria behind on the cloud. The half-Elf stared at Amerys. She stared at the bag of holding, emblazoned with the King of Destruction’s seal. Her mouth opened wide.

“Come back here!”

She thought Amerys was joking, but the Archmage of Chandrar really was zipping away. She flickered into the distance in a trail of zig-zag bolts of lightning. She only stopped and came back as Ceria put on the bone-white circlet.

“Oh, fine, fine. Flos would make me give it back. Stop casting that.”

The hail of ice needles forming over Reim halted, and Ceria snatched her bag back. Amerys took her own bag of holding back with ill grace, then grabbed her spellbook. Or tried to.

Ceria had a hold of it—she’d been hoping Amerys wouldn’t remember. The two had a tug-of-war in the air, and then Amerys clapped her hands.

“Tell you what: give me a pick of any…three pieces of clothing you have, and I’ll give you an hour to scribe anything you want from my spellbook. Deal?”

“No way!”

Ceria yanked her bag of holding closer to her, and Amerys pursed her lips.

“A day for each article. Come on, now, they’re not that valuable, and I’m twenty levels higher than you.”

“You’re not even fifteen, I’ll bet! There’s no way you’re Level 60.”

Amerys’ eyes flickered, and she flipped over to stare at Ceria darkly from her front.

“You whelp. I hit Level 40 when I was twenty-nine years old.”

“You’re talking to a half-Elf. I was born before you. I knew [Light] before your mother learned what an orgasm was.”

“Hah. She still has no idea I’ll wager.”

“Oh, that’s sad.”

The two were bristling at each other, electricity and frost pushing back and forth, waiting to see who’d grab what, like two vultures circling one another. One clearly stronger than the other, but the dissonance in Ceria’s head resolved itself when she realized how Amerys was acting.

Stealing anything she could? Haggling for magic? It was all but confirmed when Amerys’ eyes flickered to the place the carriages had sped off.

“That Pisces. Does he know magic I wouldn’t? I don’t really want to pull a Valeterisa and seduce him. What if I traded spells? Colthei’s a famous [Supporter]; is there even a chance he’d have magic I wouldn’t? That’s an honest question.”

Ceria lowered her defensive slap-hands and peered at Amerys.

“You’re just like me.”

“…The lone, sane member of a group of insane warriors? Deeply troubled by parents who stick around way too long?”

“No, my mother died pretty soon after I was born, and my grandmother died as well. You’re as insecure as I am.”

Amerys’ eyes flickered. The Archmage of Chandrar, one of the world’s premier spellcasters, sat bolt upright in the air, frowning at Ceria. Then she drew her wand fast.

“Tell anyone and I’ll blast you to smithereens.”

Ceria met those eyes—and then they shook hands. She caught Amerys’ hand and made her give back one of the bras she’d taken out of Ceria’s bag of holding.

Yvlon lay on the ground and decided if Level 50 was continually powerful, Level 60 was…something else. She couldn’t figure it out. If she were Level 50, she might have had a chance.

Mars stood over her, grinning.

“Had enough?”

“Not—”

Yvlon burst upwards, swinging fast, arms exploding with metal spikes. It was nearly impossible to dodge that many unpredictable pieces of metal moving in every direction—some even hit Yvlon’s own armor. She’d stabbed herself twice with her arms—but Mars was too fast.

She danced back, slashing with her sword, parrying the metal, ignoring the swings of Yvlon’s fists, then cut once. She sheared through a dozen metal barbs and stopped at Yvlon’s throat.

“Twenty-nine. Go for thirty?”

“I can’t…hit you. That sword’s too sharp.”

Mars tossed the sword over the shoulder, and it landed with a collection of weapons she’d beaten Yvlon with. Sweating, Yvlon bent, and the severed metal of her arms flowed back to her body.

She hadn’t known she could do that—but she hadn’t had someone cut her arms like that so many times before. Blood spattered the ground too—her blood.

It had come from her arms, before she’d realized she needed to stop circulating it or she’d lose it every time she took a blow. Mars raised her fists.

“These, then.”

Yvlon hadn’t been waiting for it, but she’d sort of been hoping. Pride had kept her from asking. Spear, axe, sword, even whip—Mars had enchanted items, an armory of weapons and armor she could switch among. They were so high-grade that Yvlon’s old Sword of Weight wouldn’t have held a candle to them.

But if it was just armor and fists…Yvlon raised her fists, steading herself.

“Ready.”

Mars let her come, posture open, relaxed—today, she was blue-haired, cropped short, tall and lithe, like some fantasy heroine, a cloak of red around her revealing armored chest. All an illusion, Yvlon knew. She threw a punch straight for Mars’ chest, a jab, expecting Mars to block or parry.

Not for Mars to pull her fist back and punch straight into Yvlon’s fist. Both women saw the impact coming and put their weight behind their fists.

They collided with a slam Yvlon felt in her entire body. A shockwave of sound and metal—Yvlon stared at her arm.

Crunched up to the elbow. Metal compressed into a silly-looking—

Her hand. It began to reform, and then she realized Mars’ other hand was raised—

Yvlon guarded with her left hand. Mars’ fist deformed the metal and sent Yvlon down.

“Your arms aren’t strong enough. I’ll give you that you’re tough, mentally. But you’re not nearly as skilled as some. Monks of Sottheim can flip around in combat and hit you from all angles. The metal can be surprising, but Takhatres is fast enough to dodge all of it.”

A boot kicked Yvlon so hard she rolled and got up—Mars came at her like that fellow Alber. Each time she hit Yvlon’s arms, she moved the metal, even punching a hole out of the top of Yvlon’s forearm one time. It was terrifying—and she was fast, strong, tough—Yvlon hit her once in the chest and didn’t even think she slowed Mars down, didn’t even think the woman felt it—

Complete. She had no weaknesses. Yvlon couldn’t even get a read on her style. Mars stood over Yvlon as the [Armsmistress] stopped the bleeding from a gash on her stomach; the gauntlets had cut deep.

“Is this…payback for yesterday?”

She panted. If so, she could take it for the lesson. Mars blinked, then shook her head.

“Oh, that? Death-General Losve’s pretentious. She really did put her head in the dirt. Some kind of custom where she is from. It’s hilarious. If I were mad, I’d have thrashed you then and there for challenging Flos, nevermind his orders. This is different.”

“What…then?”

Mars pointed up at where Amerys’ single cloud was hovering. Ceria was up there. Yvlon hoped Ceria was having a better time than she was.

“Amerys is a bit different, but we mean you no ill will. I don’t like you. I don’t hate you, Yvlon Byres. I just wanted to see how close you are. And give you some friendly advice, one woman to another.”

“I’m not very close to you if you’re looking for threats.”

Yvlon spat some blood out and wiped at her nose, also bloody. Mars inspected her, not giving her a hand up as Yvlon reached for her enchanted water flask.

“Wait. Is that a magic water flask? What’s it do?”

“Water tastes like lemonade.”

Mars brightened up instantly.

“I used to have one of those! I need it. I’ll trade you for it.”

“…Take it.”

Yvlon tossed it at her after pouring water over her face. Mars took it and gulped happily.

“Ah. Adventurers have the best stuff. I always loot them first. Well, this justifies all my good intentions. You’re nowhere near ready. Toughness you might be closest to—that trick with the iron body was nice.”

She’d kicked Yvlon so hard her blow had deformed Yvlon’s stomach—then she’d had to bend Yvlon back before the [Aspect of Iron] wore out. What would have happened if Yvlon had morphed back with a giant footprint in her stomach…

Yvlon just shook her head. But Mars knelt on one knee as Yvlon sat up.

“Nowhere near ready. But you’ve stepped where I have along our path of blood. Here’s my advice: when you meet other warriors, know they’ve done it less. It’s their first time, or their third. You have been there before, and that will often make the difference. You define the battlefield more than you think.”

The panting, Izrilian woman met Mars’ gaze and tried to focus on the words. They were plain and simple, like Mars, but they made sense to her.

“I’m just one woman.”

“For now. Soon, you won’t be. I am the battlefield. I will it; it be done. Remember that. There’s the lesson, paid for by lemonade water. Do you have any more flavors?”

Mars sighed happily. Yvlon hesitated.

“No, I got it from a [Merchant].”

“Shame. The other Seven and His Majesty would have loved one. Any questions?”

She waited, the [Vanguard] who was now the strongest warrior of Chandrar. Yvlon gazed up at her and decided questions about her form or…anything so simple were stupid. She heaved herself up onto one shoulder.

“Everyone…calls me a woman of metal. It was not my intention to become one. But it seems like I might, in time. Is…is that going to make me weaker?”

Mars’ eyes were hard. Not unkind as she spoke, but just impassive, judging.

“Who can say? Metals can get tough. Adamantium’s hard to cut. And there’s always a higher level. Here’s a better question. Did you dream of this level or beyond?”

Yvlon gritted her teeth. She blew a bloody booger out and wiped it on the dirt, wondering if she had the guts to ask for thirty-one beatdowns.

“No. Just the will to not break against everything so far.”

The Illusionist’s chuckle was the first since they’d met, and it was realer than her loud laughter. She stoppered the canteen and beckoned to Yvlon; the [Armsmistress]’ arms were raised, and she was set, determined.

“Woman of metal indeed. Come on, then. Until you drop.”

Yvlon went for a punch and saw Mars coming at her so quick—

—getting up was—

Swore she’d stop when she saw Mars just flinch. Just flinch. Just—

Applause made her wake up.

—Being pushed into the ground by an arm she couldn’t move. Terrifying. Terrifyingly strong. Worse than an Adult Creler.

“You’re giggling too much, little killer.”

Her arms kept squishing. Stronger. Stronger—

She kept appearing in that white dreamscape, pulling out of it, rising—

[Silversteel Armsmistress Level 45!]

She woke to someone pouring something on her face. Something wet, which Yvlon licked; it was a healing potion, she was relieved to realize. Mars emptied the bottle, heedless of the waste, as Yvlon sat up fast.

“What?”

It was evening. The sun was bloodshot, and the ground was covered in a lot of red splashes. And bits of metal. Mars, illusion and all, squatted there, face rueful, almost impressed, envious. She spoke as Yvlon reflexively raised her fists, but didn’t punch back for once.

“When you hit Level 50—if you hit it, Silver Killer—that will be the last time the voice speaks to you without a gift. Lest you ask for more for any one level, that is. Weak arms, fragile body, slow, not skillful enough. But the will is good. Very good.”

She stood and casually began to walk back.

“I’ll ride back, as I think Amerys is still chatting up that half-Elf. Congratulations, Yvlon. But remember—”

Mars tilted her head back and fixed Yvlon with one serious eye.

“I have your measure, now. Don’t fight His Majesty. Or next time, I’ll kill you.”

Then she was off. Yvlon Byres stared at her, then put her head back down and promptly passed out. And a voice spoke, just to spite Mars, apparently.

[Skill – Absorb Blow learned!]

“Dead gods, she’s beating the hell out of Yvlon.”

“Yep. Ooh, your friend’s tough. Did she really beat an Adult Creler with one arm?”

“Yeah. What does Mars do when she’s mad?”

“I’ve seen her beat a [General] to death with his horse.”

“What, like the actual horse?”

“Pick it up, hit him with it. Poor horse. Wasn’t much left of the general afterwards, either.”

Ceria and Amerys were eating snacks, a bit too chattery and ‘we are friendly’-ish for either one’s comfort. They kept eying the other. Ceria had a grudge, and she was intimidated and desperate to learn; Amerys was much the same, but she was rightfully arrogant and superior—

They were not the same. But the similarities rankled them. Both ate snacks and drank wine at any hour. But Ceria stuffed huge bits into her cheeks like, well, a squirrel, and Amerys ate in a refined manner, or tried to, but got visibly annoyed when Ceria ate more snacks.

They were discussing magic as Mars beat Yvlon into the ground hour by hour. Ceria hoped Yvlon didn’t get permanently hurt, but Amerys had said Mars was an expert, being a former [Gladiator]. They were going over what Ceria knew, or rather, didn’t.

Which was a lot. Even with the circlet and Illphres’ spellbook, there were holes so large in Ceria’s understanding of magic that Amerys was patently incredulous. However, Ceria’s circlet let her grasp a lot of what Amerys was talking about with intuition, and Ceria was making a floorplan to try to expedite her understanding of magic.

By contrast, she didn’t have much to offer Amerys…aside from the clothing—which Amerys was trying to study—her own observations of unique monsters like Skinner and Bograms, and frankly…well, kinship. Mage-to-mage.

“Parasol Stroll has virtually no [Mages] of Wistram, and they’re not my type. All devoted to battle.”

“And you’re not?”

Amerys rolled her eyes.

“I’m why many nations have magical academies and legacies. I’m not just war.”

“Uh huh.”

“Pass that dip.”

“Ate it all.”

“You’re not tasting anything.”

“Sure am.”

Ceria took a sip of wine as she chewed, one cheek full of food. Amerys made a face.

“You don’t even know how to do spell circles right. Are you really a mage of Wistram?”

She threw that one, and Ceria, no longer freezing her emotions because Amerys had called her on it, was appropriately barbed. She snapped back.

“I guess I’m not.”

Amerys flicked one wrist up.

“Peace. I only meant…”

She tapped her chest.

“Do you think I am? A mage of Wistram?”

“Of course I do. You’re an Arch…”

Ceria trailed off, because truth spells did exist, and the truth was…Amerys laughed as she placed a hand on her chest.

“That’s right. Archmage. Archmage without the class. I can’t even tell you what the upper floors look like.”

“You don’t think you’re a real [Mage] of Wistram either?”

“Illphres didn’t. Or at least, she had doubts.”

That was how they were the same. It gave Ceria such a strange rush to realize Amerys shared her perspective of Wistram—that they were all hobbled by Cognita’s dominion. And yet, Amerys had a look of faint envy in her eyes.

“You have the title. You get to call yourself that.”

“Me? Don’t be—you mean because of Cognita? I wasn’t more than a stupid kid! Any [High Mage] could have destroyed me!”

“Who else is more deserving of the title? Feor? Don’t make me laugh. The only thing he remembers of the upper floors is when a master let him up to make him scribe scrolls. She saw something in you.”

“She saw something in Pisces.”

Amerys waved this off.

“We are both ill-fitting of our titles, yet. Although you are far more ill-fitting than I am.”

“Yeah, yeah. Show me how to do a spell circle? The circlet lets me understand.”

Amerys traced a spell circle again, the proper kind like the Mage of Rivers had done, and Ceria nodded. Amerys covered her mouth as she yawned, then snapped her fingers.

“Give me your robes, the ones you’re wearing. They’re not enchanted in a harmful way, clearly. You project fire as you spin? I want to try.”

That was how Ceria ended up changing clothes on a cloud and standing there with replacement robes on as Amerys spun in the air, leaving a trail of wispy fire behind her. They were one of two dozen sets of clothing given to Ceria by the Trial of Shields, and she hadn’t figured out what the other clothing did, by and large.

These ones projected faint flames, mostly red, but sometimes yellow or purple or pink, around Amerys as she spun. It was, perhaps, some kind of clothing meant for a ceremonial dance or just to look good. Or so Ceria had thought.

Amerys, though, might not have had the athleticism of Mars, but she could still rotate with magic, and she began to spin, now, whirling downwards. She spun like a top, faster and faster, and the dress began to give off more and more flames. Ceria’s mouth opened as she peered over the cloud—and she saw the flaming ring around Amerys ignite. The Archmage of Lightning whirled faster now, like a tornado, and Ceria swore as she saw—

A blazing tornado formed over Reim and shot downwards to earth as citizens looked up and took cover. The Archmage of Lightning landed, and flames roared around her, blazing upwards in roaring geysers as she spread her arms, the red highlights on her robes flaring with brilliant light. She laughed, pointed; the flaming tornado arched by her command, roaring overhead as everyone ducked, baking the air and landing in the distance like some wrathful worm of pure fire—

“You still can’t have it! It’s mine! I—I want something good in return for it!”

Ceria shouted feebly over the cloud. She had a sneaking suspicion that dress had belonged to a [Monk] or a [Dancer].

It was like that, really. Not teacher-and-student; Amerys refused to give the robes back despite Ceria’s swearing, pointing out that in no scenario would Ceria ever be able to spin at that frequency. It was just—older mage, younger mage.

“I’ll lend you my spellbook all day tomorrow. It’s payment for all the magic lessons. And I’ll throw in, uh…the rest of this wine.”

Ceria had a hand clamped over her bag of holding to avoid more articles of clothing vanishing. Amerys was a damn big bully trying to get everything Ceria had out of her no matter what.

…Ceria refused to find anything to compare in her past actions with Amerys’. But she was somewhat gratified to learn the Archmage of Lightning was in the same boat as she and Pisces were.

“So you don’t have any knowledge from Wistram? Archmage Eldavin?”

Amerys sat on the Mage’s Guild in one of Hellios’ cities with an unconscious Yvlon floating in the cloud next to them come nighttime. She was taking them north, and she scowled.

“Nothing. Oh, Eldavin’s courting me. He wants to make up, says that it was old Wistram that trapped me, and I can learn. From him. But I have to play nice. No making up and agreeing to help talk Flos down? No magic. I’d rather eat Takhatres’ sandals.”

Which meant she was actually falling behind the magical race and resented it. She kept watching Ceria as the half-Elf fused death and ice magic, making a Frostmarrow Behemoth.

“That’s not fair. Fusing magic should not be that simple.”

“Well, I can do it even with the circlet off my head.”

“That’s the kind of spell theory Valeterisa would sell her legs for. Do it again.”

Ceria did it again. Trade and trade about. Amerys enchanted another piece of wood to float and smirked at Ceria’s scowl.

“You can’t master [Levitation] overnight, even with that magical Relic. It’ll take a year of study at your level.”

“Really? Bet. The circlet says three months dedicated to that spell alone. I don’t have time to learn just that one spell, but I’ll add it to the lineup.”

Amerys’ smirk vanished. She took a deep breath.

“If I wasn’t sure your brain was being slowly eaten by that thing, I’d steal it. Fine, since we’re both magic-deficient by the standards of new Wistram…”

Both of them scowled at that. Amerys got up as something rumbled to a halt outside the Mage’s Guild and stretched. Ceria had been wondering why they’d stopped here for a rest, but she got it as Amerys pointed down.

A magical carriage, one of the new ones from Wistram, was letting a passenger out. The passenger, a merchant who’d come down from Medain in a day, froze as Amerys lifted a finger. The carriage rose slowly, and personal-defense spells tried to activate.

“Attention. This is a magical carriage of Wistram. Any attempt to stop this vehicle will result in your painful demise and a report of your organization, guild, or nation to Wistram Academy. Step away from the carriage. Step away from the—”

Amerys winked at Ceria and grunted.

“Heavy little thing, isn’t it? We might need two or three to figure out, but since there are spares—want to blow the door off or deconstruct it some other way?”

Ceria blinked.

“Deconstruct…? You’re going to disenchant it?”

She’d never even considered it! But Amerys just bared her teeth.

“Foolish of Wistram to put a bunch of spelled vehicles where I can grab them. We’re [Mages], Wistram has magic we don’t know—what do you want to do, let them have it all?”

Ceria stared at Amerys, then the protesting carriage. She cracked her knuckles and drew her wand.

“Let me blow a wheel off first, just because. That voice gets so annoying.”

He had a nightmare of being a [Slave] again. Hrome. That bland [Slaver] appeared in the dreams as often as Riqre and Igheriz. Why?

Well, Riqre had been monstrous, but he had died, torn apart by the horrors he’d made. In his nightmares, Pisces always imagined he’d come back…that was horror. Igheriz was always with Cawe, dead, but at least, in his dreams and waking, Pisces could sit up and remember that falling rainbow, the Death of Chains, and know how it had ended.

Hrome was the one he’d killed. The most terrifying face of Roshal of the three, because he’d thought he was a decent man. He’d been ordinary. In those dreams, Pisces sometimes forgot this wasn’t normal, that there were places in the world Roshal would never, could never exist.

He was just doing something like sweeping a room or cleaning tables, mundane tasks, but with that collar on his neck. And whenever Hrome entered the room, he’d flinch. Not because something bad would happen, but because of the possibility it could and there was no stopping it. A long dream like an eternity…

This time, the dream ended differently. For the first time, Hrome entered the room and Pisces turned, broom in hand. The man’s bland, confidently ordinary face turned uncertain, and Pisces reached up.

The collar was gone. He half-turned, confused, and the King of Destruction smiled. He stood on raging waves outside of a dark harbor and pulled apart the metal, padded collar with his hands. He said something, Pisces wasn’t sure, and reached down. The [Necromancer] reached for his hands, then gazed down.

Cawe, the [Slaves] of yesterday, Droppe, Eloque, and so many more were trailing on a chain below him, still ensnared, linked to those gates and that harbor. Pisces tried to pull them up, turned to ask Flos to do so and break those chains—and the King of Destruction was gone.

Then Pisces was trying to tread water, pulling, pulling, as he sensed beings of chains slithering through the water around him, trying to drag him back. He saw a slitted gaze as a great serpent’s head rose…

—Pisces woke out of the dream, covered in sweat. He sat in his tent a second, breathing hard.

“A new dream. Wonderful.”

He scrubbed at his face, his disheveled hair, and couldn’t tell if he liked that one more than…no, it was better than the last one with Hrome, which was horrific far beyond it. This one hurt. It was guilt and relief and worry—the [Slave] caravan from yesterday flashed into Pisces’ mind.

I should have done something. I drew a sword against the King of Destruction, not them.

I couldn’t, I can’t fight every battle.

I have to find Eloque and Rophir and Droppe and Bearig and Merr first. I’m sorry.

He meant that for the ones he’d seen go. Pisces sat there until the feelings faded enough for him to lay back. Despite his sleep, he was exhausted. He longed to go back to sleep, but noise had roused him from his bad dream. When he couldn’t stand the loud voices and the occasional crack of what sounded like miniature bolts of lightning, he crawled to the entrance of his tent to give whomever it was what-for.

Pisces opened his tent flap to find Ceria and Archmage Amerys sitting outside his tent, poking at the glowing mana-fragment of a wheel from one of Wistram’s carriages as the muted vehicle warned them that they were being reported to Mage Rievan of Wistram, who would review their case.

Fragments of mana were dissipating in the air, and the Archmage of Lightning was floating around the wheel, arguing with Ceria about how it was made.

“Is it really just condensed mana and air? Air mana? That’s not possible.”

“Says you.”

“Says most of Wistram.”

“Well, the circlet says you just need lots of mana and to run spell circuits through the rest. Almost zero loss, highly efficient, lightweight, and requires no effort aside from the mana cost.”

“But how? How?”

“Form a blob of mana and shape it?”

Pisces stared at Ceria and Amerys until one of them caught sight of him. Ceria waved him over.

“Pisces, come and look at this. It’s completely wild. It’s like…well, my cryomancy or your bones, but made of mana. Super crazy!”

Amerys folded her arms.

“Inefficient. There’s a reason [Mages] like Illphres and I used natural forces. I know you learned [Summon Tidal Wave], and I’ll grant you, it’s necessary in Chandrar, but Illphres taught you to make real ice for a reason.”

“Really? And what’s that?”

Pisces rubbed at his eyes as Amerys pointed at Ceria.

“Ever run out of mana in a fight?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“How often?”

“More times than I’d like. Pisces, get over here. Breakfast’s there.”

Ceria waved him over. Pisces opened his mouth and closed it as Amerys shot back.

“Every fight? Mages who summon their elements burn mana twice or three times as fast as you do. And it’s often not as good. Ever seen someone unmake a summoned bolt of lightning? I could wave my hand and dispel a lot of [Elementalists]’ magic.”

“Oh. I’ll bear that in mind. Well, this carriage is pure inefficiency from that standpoint.”

“Exactly. Waste of mana. You could bind air instead; it’d be a trickier binding spell…”

Ceria sniffed in a passable imitation of Pisces. He pinched himself. This bright, silly, unreal scene was at odds with his dark dreams. He almost cherished it…but it was too damn bright. Pisces retreated like a snake, back into his tent.

“Obviously. Or make it out of ice. Stone. Anything, really.”

“Quite. Mana is just for the caster’s convenience. Or if you have a lot of silly [Mages] who can waste the mana on it.”

“Yeah! Fuck, they’re so far ahead of us. Who is Eldavin?”

Ceria clutched at her circlet and gnawed at it as Amerys kicked the wheel. Pisces lifted a finger. He looked between them, then closed his tent flaps and went back to sleep. When Ceria noticed, she pointed it out to Amerys.

The Archmage of Chandrar’s gaze was not unsympathetic. There was a reason Ceria had asked to do their magical work right outside Pisces’ tent. With great tact, care, and empathy…relative to Ceria and Amerys’ ability to generate such things, Archmage Amerys cast a spell.

The Archmage of Lightning produced a full thunderclap of lightning right next to Pisces’ tent.

He got up.

Ksmvr of Chandrar, who was now Ksmvr of Baleros, stopped swearing and trying to fight the air sometime in the afternoon. He’d been bouncing off the trees as the Calanferians had been marching—literally. Vofea caught up with him.

“Is it okay now, Ksmvr?”

The Satyr seemed nervous, and Ksmvr, the [Brave Skirmisher], [Animal Friend], [Antinium Explorer], [Dancer], [Tree Collector], and [Teammate], turned.

“I think so. Her health has stopped decreasing, so Yvlon has clearly fought off the threat and recovered with a potion.”

[Monitor Attribute (Health)]. He’d been frantic all afternoon, and Rabbiteater could see why. Something had been attacking Yvlon non-stop, according to Ksmvr. The Antinium made fists.

“If I find out who it is, I will hurt them muchly. No, not muchly. I shall do them such grievous and dastardly injury that…”

“That they’ll chop off their balls and eat them just to feel less pain! We’ll bugger the bastards with the sharp end of their swords and leave them bleating that their father’s father never kissed a girl!”

Vofea stomped a hoof. Ksmvr turned to her, struck. He patted her on the head.

“You have a way with words, Rookie Vofea. That is almost approximate to my rage.”

“Thanks.”

Ksmvr punched his fists together darkly. Rabbiteater wandered over, munching some travel rations under his helmet.

“It must have been some monster, eh?”

“One cannot imagine what it was. But Yvlon triumphed; she always does. Comrade Pisces, on the other hand—just cannot get enough sleep.”

“That’s rough.”

“Indeed. It is, it is.”

The conversation petered out in that way of awkward non-sequiturs between people who didn’t know each other that well. Rabbiteater kept walking as Ksmvr grumbled about substandard pillows for a moment.

“I have often postulated that substandard sleep leads our team to loss of performance, Vofea. Feather pillows deteriorate over time, and aside from Comrade Yvlon’s pillow, the rest of my team occasionally complains about the quality of their camping gear. I had postulated a fur-based pillow was perhaps more fluffy, and had thought about sequestering Gnoll-based pillows until I was informed this may be a faux pas in Gnollish culture. Since you are here, we might experiment with pillows based on your own hair for future improvements.”

He stared pointedly at the Satyr’s body, which was indeed brown and furred in most places, aside from her palms, midsection, and face. The half-Goat fae’s response was to insert a leaf into her mouth and chew on it.

“…Yer truly all about your team, eh? Not a thought in your head but what Pisces would do, or Ceria or Yvlon or Colth. ‘Tisn’t there something else that Ksmvr has an opinion on himself?”

Ksmvr folded his arms.

“I am merely being the best [Teammate] I can.”

“One without a soul or personality. Better to have a pet rock. Here.”

Vofea bent down and picked up a stone on the jungle ‘path’ everyone was treading. It was mostly crushed leaves, snapped branches, stomped vegetation from the column of hundreds of [Soldiers] ahead of them. Calanferians in their gold-themed armor sweated and swore, slapped at bugs, and generally suffered as they marched through the jungle.

They were on the move, abandoning the Throne’s Will to avoid more attacks from the Iron Vanguard. It was not a pleasant journey, and they were lost; even if they knew vaguely where they were, any reasonable civilization was a dot in the middle of this treacherous terrain.

Wagons that had been meant for the New Lands rumbled in the rear along with more makeshift ones pulled by men and women and horses; many Thronebearers had been forced to vacate their mounts for the purposes of transportation instead. Marching in their armor had to be exhausting, but the real worry was their cargo.

They had a lot…but food and water would vanish day by day on the loaded wagons. Parts of the ship, a piece of the hull, for instance, sat on one of the wagons, soot-blackened and charred, and the Humans had taken everything they could carry, but it was not a promising start into Baleros.

The two Horns of Hammerad knew it. Rabbiteater knew it. Seraphel was probably the only person who was optimistic, mainly because her circlet kept the bugs from gnawing on her.

Ksmvr’s mandibles snapped a dragonfly out of the air as Vofea held the rock up.

“I am a full member of the Horns of Hammerad, Rookie Vofea, and you will not insult me.”

“I’m not insulting, just saying as I see it. What’s Ksmvr want to do?”

“Rejoin the Horns of Hammerad. After rescuing Erin.”

“And then?”

“Whatever the Horns of Hammerad deem fitting. Likely recovering our stolen sword and Pisces’ comrades, then a return to Izril.”

“And then?”

“Adventuring. What is the point of these questions? No…I suppose you should understand our mentality.”

Vofea sighed loudly.

“Seems to me, even when I was a flying Winter Sprite, all the Horns of Hammerad had things they wanted save for Ksmvr.”

That comment attracted a stare from the weary, trudging Calanferians to their left and right, who wondered if they’d heard Vofea right, but Ksmvr snapped back.

“My lack of desire is economical to the desires of the rest of the Horns. With one less member offering personal opinions, the other three—four desires—are therefore magnified.”

“Oh, and I’m sure they love that. Tell ye what, Ksmvr. You’re a good [Teammate]. Almost as good as Rockerton. The newest Horn of Hammerad! He’s even better than yeh are. See?”

Vofea dangled a dirty rock with flecks of quartz at Ksmvr. It had a worm on it. Ksmvr snapped his mandibles at a second passing dragonfly and crunched.

“You are not allowed to recruit new members to the team, Rookie Vofea. Also, that is a rock.”

The Satyr protectively covered the rock’s…ears.

“Don’t say that! You’re being prejudiced against rocks. What if you met a living mountain, eh? And Rockerton’s a better teammate than you are. He’d do anything for the Horns of Hammerad. We can even throw him to his death.”

“I am prepared to lay down my life for my teammates. I would happily die for them.”

Ksmvr bristled as he glared at Rockerton, whose zeal was as yet untested. Vofea scratched her head as she grabbed another leaf to munch on. Unlike the rest of the mostly Human contingent, Ksmvr wasn’t shy about eating bugs, and Vofea could ingest leaves or whatever else Satyrs ate…which according to her was most things.

“And your team loves you saying that, I bet? I’ll tell Captain Ceria that next time she sends a [Message].”

The [Brave Skirmisher] hesitated.

“You will not. I am merely expressing my mentality to you. I do not wish to…alarm Captain Ceria, who has expressed her opinions on this.”

“Then I’ll tell Yvlon.”

“No, you will not.”

“Why not? I’m a Rookie. I have to consult my elder teammates for advice.”

“I am merely—my zeal is cautioned by my awareness that my loss would be a detriment to my team. I do not seek out death, and therefore, my priorities in any hypothetical disaster scenario are not prescient to the team and makes me practical, unlike Rockerton, who yearns for death. So there.”

Ksmvr folded his arms, palpably relieved, and Vofea chewed on the leaf, then spat it out.

“Eugh. Had bug eggs on that one. I reckon you’re the most grumpy and least fun of the Horns to be stuck here with, Ksmvr. Shame. But maybe that’s why I’m here and not dead!”

She brightened up at the thought.

“I’ve to teach you how to live a little. I’m good at that. And then I can throw myself in the way of an arrow or such, and you’ll be there with your team, ready for whatever comes.”

So saying, she turned and chucked the stone into the jungle. The stone vanished instantly; the ground and trail were dark, so dark even by daylight the Calanferians had lit torches; the canopy overhead was so thick and high that they felt like they were walking in shadows.

“Rockerton!”

Ksmvr’s mandibles opened in horror, and he raced into the undergrowth, but returned a minute later empty-handed. He gave Vofea a dark look as she strolled along, poking her in the chest.

“You are to quit throwing away auxiliary members of the Horns of Hammerad, Rookie Vofea, and stop talking about dying. It is very downing.”

“Fine. Let’s talk about the future.”

“Very well.”

“Not about the Horns of Hammerad or what happens when we get off Baleros.”

“Okay…”

Ksmvr fell silent. Vofea eyed him.

“Do yeh have a girlfriend or such?”

“Do you…have a hobby?”

“Does adventuring count? I collect trees.”

Vofea stared at him, and Ksmvr defensively hunched his shoulders.

“I have a wide and colorful life due to my job! Do you have a hobby and partners?”

“Uh, not anymore since I said farewell to all I knew and loved to come and die, but sure. Last of them was a Faerie Dragon—not a Dragon of the Fae, a Faerie Dragon…he was very small. We blew bubbles and played pranks and ran about the Hoimlesca Marches until a pixie stole him away. My hobbies? Eh, the last one I took up was slinging stones for fun. Which is why I know how to use it. I spent centuries painting, though. Never any good, but I colored caves and trees with paint until I was told off for it. Lots of angry folk who complained I was messing up their homes. Always Dragonfolk who complain, as if a bit of paint doesn’t wash off!”

The Satyr put her hands behind her head and beamed at Ksmvr, who walked forwards, mandibles open, until he stumbled.

“That’s…very commendable. Well, you seem to be amply self-entertained. But your combat scores are lacking! We shall train this evening.”

“Fine, fine. But ‘tis more to a good adventure than just fighting!”

“Like what?”

“Good eats? Good conversations? Admiring vast vistas? Trading and sighting new wonders to write down on maps? Places unseen filled with wonder and mystery and old kennings?”

She seemed hopeful, excited by all this, and Ksmvr grumbled as he kicked one of Rockerton’s cousins.

“In my experience, fighting is the most important quality so that the rest may endure. Very well. We may do some of the rest. Speaking of which, does your future sight see anything?”

Vofea squinted around the area and spoke after a moment.

“Eh…Hundredlord Cortese is going to have a itchy bump on his nose after that invisible mosquito finishes sucking his blood?”

There was an oath from ahead of them and a slap. Everyone else began instantly slapping exposed skin and swearing harder. Vofea turned back to Ksmvr.

“Future’s too hard these days, what with me being properly mortal now. I can see other things. Like magic ‘n sharpness and patterns.”

“Such as when you found me in the water at sea. Your sight is an asset. If we are ever reached by the Titan’s forces, it may come in handy. Or when entering dungeons.”

Ksmvr mused. The Calanferians here weren’t completely isolated. Help from home seemed far away and, frankly, dubious given they’d have to pass the Iron Vanguard, who held the seas, but closer to home was the Forgotten Wing company, who seemed at least amiable towards them, as opposed to the other Great Companies.

They were deep in Lizardfolk terrain, and every now and then, the advance [Scouts] would report what looked like movement through the trees. Niers had told them in his last [Message] spell to not broadcast where they were, to try to get to a city, and that he’d send what aid he could their way. But he was embroiled in two wars against the Dyed Lands and the Jungle Tails company, and so no one had exactly expected much.

Rabbiteater and Ksmvr expected more than the rest, actually. The Hobgoblin had been listening in on their conversation and turned his head as Ksmvr scratched at his chin.

“Yes. You may well be useful, if your kin can locate you. Can you signal them? There are—allies of ours who may find us faster if so.”

Vofea shook her head.

“I can’t find them; they’d find me through the weft and passage of my fate. Lady Shaestrel can, if any still can see. I wonder if the others will take to their mortal forms. Being a Winter Sprite’s nice; you have the powers of ice and you can be a fun little shit, but they’ll be weak, now. Their other forms are stronger.”

“…Other forms? They’re not all Satyrs?”

“Hah! Wait, you thought they were? Nah, nah! They’re all fae of different kind. Lady Shaestrel is part of the Faerie King’s courts, but the rest…”

Vofea once again began to try to describe the lands of the fae, but she was interrupted by someone jogging down the line. A ghost, Strategist Veine, running a message through the [Soldiers], who stepped aside for her, though she’d happily just phase through them.

“Ser Rabbiteater, Lady Seraphel and Ser Thilowen send word. The jungle gets more and more inhospitable ahead. We may prevail on some tunnels we seem to have found, but we’d take Adventurer Ksmvr’s insights too. They seem…artificial and possibly inhabited.”

Rabbiteater peered up, and Vofea and Ksmvr followed him to the head of the group. The jungle did indeed seem to rise around them, the canopy growing higher, and the light dimming. The [Captain] of Throne’s Will was swearing as he talked at the head of the halted army.

“—not a landsman, but there are spiders twice the size of my hands out there and plants that take bits out of you too. It might not strike a man in armor hard, Your Highness, but anyone without won’t go far.”

“These tunnels look ominous, though. Can we not send a [Message] spell inquiring about what they are?”

Seraphel was gazing at a network of odd openings in the ground. Stone tunnels, like the twining, twisting roots, but somehow less…organized than that. Huge openings large enough to let in multiple people abreast, widening and delving not that far down, but under and along the ground.

They were…eerie. In a way that no one could articulate until Ksmvr spoke. He hopped up onto a tree branch and almost fell before sidling over to where the branch was thicker and would support his weight.

“Fascinating. They appear to be a network of tunnels in odd patterns. Incomprehensibly joined together.”

Indeed, these ‘root tunnels’ refused to move in organized patterns, at least that Rabbiteater could see, even after climbing a tree to get a better view. From where he was standing, the branches of one tunnel came together in a ‘Y’ shape, and they split unevenly, joining into longer branches, but, at least from his limited vantage point, not having a reason why they split off. Multiple entry points to…release water?

An invading army would like the multiple entrances, but there weren’t enough—nor were they symmetrically placed openings—to make this an optimized travel network, either. Regardless, no one liked the tunnels. They were unsettling to the eye; Rabbiteater was reminded of seeing that in animals he’d skinned and eaten and did not appreciate the scale.

They were nestled against vast trees that were dark and grey and, Rabbiteater realized…

“Stone.”

An entire forest of trees that had petrified with age filled this section of the jungle, as the undergrowth thickened and intensified until any progress forwards would be made hacking through thick vegetation. Or…you could walk into one of the tunnels.

“Someone has to know what these are.”

Seraphel insisted, but Menrise just shook her head.

“I can ask…and transmit a [Message] spell telling everyone where we are. Otherwise, we have to ask if anyone knows Baleros or has a book referencing the spot. Anyone have knowledge? Any Thronebearers?”

The question went down through Ser Thilowen’s people, but the Thronebearers, knowledgeable about courts and customs and cultures, were at a loss. Random tunnels in the middle of a jungle were not things they’d think to encounter, even at the furthest remotes of their jobs.

“It’s a maze, Your Highness. Better to enter, I think. We’re at the mercy of these damned bugs with no alchemist to work something up to keep them away!”

The [Captain] had over fifty bites on his exposed skin and face and was patently desperate for any reprieve, and most of the Calanferians seemed to agree. However, Seraphel hesitated until someone piped up.

“I dunno about the wherefores or whys of it being made, but yon tunnels whiff slightly of big brained folk. You know, the squishy-heads who eat your grey stuff and lift rocks with their minds? Do you have those here?”

Vofea. The Satyr bounced on her hooves, sniffing the air, and Badarrow wrinkled his nose.

“What that mean? What grey stuff?”

“Brains. People what eat your brains and suck out the insides?”

“Oh. Goblins?”

“Selphids.”

Cortese hissed. The entire group fell quiet, and Seraphel bit her lip, her interest suddenly becoming a patent wariness. Ksmvr bounced from tree to tree, higher, and announced in a loud voice.

“There’s no discernable way forwards for anyone save an adventurer. Progress will stymie on foot. On the other hand, I am looking towards the bay we were at. I believe it is the bay.”

He hopped even higher, and Cortese called up.

“Likely your imagination, Adventurer Ksmvr! Even from a height, you could not see more than the ocean! The treeline covers it.”

A distant call came back after a pause.

“True! Unless I were looking at a very large sail. A warship, I believe. We may be hunted.”

That decided the group. Seraphel turned, and Rabbiteater grunted. He wished Lyonette were calling in, because aside from her, there were no secure [Messages]. And right now…they began to enter the network of strange tunnels one by one. Vofea brightly stepped ahead, still sniffing the air.

“Smells like they made this place with their brains. What do some of the King’s guests call it? Psychic power? Mind-power. D’you have mind-folk here? I know your lot stole everything. Every way and ken of power, from old magic to cheap sorcery. Eh? Hundredlord Cortese, do you have mind-folk here?”

“Adventurer Vofea?”

“Yeah?”

“Stop talking.”

The tunnels of ancient Selphids delved down across the jungles as the Humans entered, whirling, nervous thoughts coalescing in the darkness lit only by fire. Just thoughts, growing, and shifting in the dark. But that was Baleros. As Ksmvr observed sagely as he entered the depths—

“I am sure my team is in far worse peril. And if they are not, it is well-deserved rest.”

For the rest of the Horns of Hammerad, the Heromakers of Hraace awaited.

Author’s Note:

I’m back from my trip! I went to Vancouver, Canada for a wedding which was quite lovely, and I had a great time over there.

The curse of Canada has ended because I think Vancouver’s great. It has an efficient airport, public transport, taxis, good food, and nice people.

Then I came back home, and I had to get to work. If this chapter is shorter, well, I lost a few days to travel, but I also worked ahead and have something of a backlog for next week, which is good! I am…if not tired physically, still getting back into the swing of things, but I feel ready for the fight.

What am I fighting? Laziness. Will I succeed? Well, next week will have another chapter, and I hope you enjoy the fruits of your votes. I have a bunch of notes from my trip, and at least one entire chapter’s outline was written while eating a Quiznos sandwich. Was it a good sandwich?

…Not really, but was it amazing for outlining chapters? Yes. Life works like that. I want to start writing, and I just wish I could inject motivation into my veins and remove fatigue and muscle pain the same way. Actually, I hate needles, so I wish it were pill-formed. That’s all from me right now, but I hope you can tell I have a pep in my step. Shame I write with my hands. See you next chapter!

Pisces and Yvlon by Cloudwatcher!

Horns of Hammerad by Lime!

Pisces by Nanahou!

Colthei by DoodleMystic!

Moodeng, Innworld version by Artsynada! (If you don’t know who this is, look it up on Google.)

Sheta by Brownie!

Horns by Yura, commissioned by Robin!

Ceria vs Creler by Anito!

Cerias by Wing!

Some Kind of Mrsha I Don’t Know, by Bobo Plushie!