Heroes of Hraace (Pt. 3)

<This chapter was released in two parts! Did you read Heroes of Hraace Pt. 2 yet, or click on Latest Chapter and come here? Double check your reading spot! –pirateaba>

 

(Innktober has begun on The Wandering Inn’s Discord! New artwork will be shared across social medias the entire month! Look forwards to some amazing art!)

Day 3 — Captain Apista by Brownie!

 

[MelasD, a fellow web serial writer, has launched their first webcomic—Amelia the Level Zero Hero! It’s live now on Webtoon. Please check it out! It’s always exciting when I see someone enter the webcomic space…]

 

 

 

 

Maximillian ran.

A sandy-haired young man.

Over the sand.

Running on sand was hard work. Running on hot sand under the bright sun sucked. Running for more than a mile sucked for a guy who didn’t run outside of the gym, and he said so.

“I…can’t…keep…”

His pace flagged. He’d been running for six miles already in simple sandals and a training uniform, which was just a toga designed not to fall off him in vigorous exercise. Idolions lazed or swam on the beach as he passed.

Maximillian began to slow and walk—and a chorus of voices made him jolt and run faster in sheer surprise. He turned his head, and twenty Mentors of Hraace were running behind him, cheering their lungs out.

“Not yet! One more mile! One more mile, Max!”

“You have it!”

“You can do it!”

“Oh, come on, guys—”

He tried to protest, but he didn’t have the breath in his lungs for that, and they were beginning to—sing.

[Inspiring Chorus]. Maximillian ran, though it might have been the sheer embarrassment on his red, freckled face from having your personal cheering team lustily singing your virtues.

And there was an audience! Tons of Hraacians were watching the training and cheering and clapping as well. Maximillian ran another thousand paces, then began to give up again. He tried to, despite all the pressure on him.

The instant they saw him flagging, a calculated strike group broke from the cheerleading squad. Four young women running to his left and right.

“Come on, Max. One more mile! Then you can rest!”

One blew a kiss—and then accelerated past Maximillian. Her running form was excellent. And it might have been rude to Max’s sensibilities to say he kept running just because a pretty girl was running faster than he was…but that was pretty much it. When even that failed to distract him from the burning in his lungs, a drum began to beat.

A jogging [Drummer] lowered the tempo, but kept Maximillian running to the beat. The [Inspiring Chorus] was replaced by an [Uplifting Cheer], and like that, they coaxed another mile out of him. And another.

Seven, eight, nine…ten miles, and they let Maximillian collapse. Which he did, practically on the spot.

Ten miles was not much for a City Runner, maybe, but it was damn impressive for someone who hadn’t gone for a run since he’d been on Earth. And he’d taken the ten miles fast.

“I’m so dead…let me die.”

Maximillian gasped, but before he was even down, he’d landed on a blanket, and one of the Mentors held a leg.

“You did great, champion! Now, catch your breath. Breathe with me. In, out, in…how are your lungs? Taste like iron?”

“Yeah. It hurts like—whoa, whoa! What’s going on?”

“Massage.”

A [Masseuse] was working the muscles in his legs as Maximillian lay down, and ameliorating the damage that would have kept the young man hobbling around like an invalid tomorrow. He squirmed, but one of the [Trainers] had a fruit beverage after a bitter draught of refreshing medicinal liquid. They were calculating how much water he needed.

“We’ll be doing arm exercises in a second. Ever lifted weights, Maximillian?”

“Yeah…but can I get a break…?”

“Absolutely! Just let us set up—our [Instructor], Jasrene, will demonstrate the form.”

Said attractive young lady was about to demonstrate the form of lifting weights, which the Hraacians had worked into their regimens, and Maximillian decided he did have time to watch a young lady pumping iron.

It was the second day of training, and this was pretty much how it had been yesterday. After a short rest, the Mentors got Max up and had him lifting weights. It wouldn’t be hellish training all day, either.

They wanted him to play discus later, which had the added benefit of training his overworked muscles and also letting him have fun. Work in huge, filling meals, massages, and alchemical treatments on his skin along with ample sunscreen, and it was the most intensive and customized workout session that any of the Earthers had seen.

—And that was Max’s training. He was going through a complementary basic fitness course that Hraace offered to people they found worthy or who paid for it in quieter times. Maximillian and the other lower-level Mentors broke off from his exercise regimen to watch Gazi’s training.

She was armorless, in the skin-tight bodysuit that she tended to wear under her armor and seemed—harassed. She was running, dodging, ducking, even using the surf to try and mitigate the storm of people trying to beat her to death.

With fists, true, and padded arrows, but they were coming at her hard. No less than sixteen [Fistfighters] were swinging in a melee she was trying to get out of, and her eyes were spinning nonstop as several [Archers] free-fired arrows into the melee. And just to spice things up, every now and then, someone lobbed in a jar filled with cloth bags that exploded in every direction.

The goal was to get Gazi ‘used to taking hits’. According to Pedagogia Araxia, Gazi had a lot of bad habits that came from wearing her nigh-indestructible armor. Her famed fighting style meant she deflected a lot of projectiles with her claymore, but she used her armor to tank the rest. If her armor broke—that style would get her wounded quickly.

What was the therapy? Eating a bunch of punches, apparently. Gazi blocked a punch to her gut, swayed out of a flurry of blows, and kept her arms moving, deflecting punches, dodging, using her opponents to block each other.

However, she wasn’t allowed to attack back, and even the famous half-Gazer couldn’t block a literal melee centered on her. She staggered as someone punched her in the shoulder, then almost turned into an elbow before dodging back as it clipped her head.

It looked like it sucked, but Gazi didn’t utter a word of complaint, just doggedly trained. By contrast, Ceria was all complaints.

“This is stupid and I hate it.”

“Come on, Ice Squirrel, right at me! Donut! Do-nut.”

Her trainers were waving a donut on a fishing hook at her, and Ceria blasted it out of the air with an [Ice Spike]. They swapped it out for a fried fish pilaf. They were waving it on the other end of a platform they’d rigged up.

It was a simple contraption. A twenty-foot stretch of space over padded cloth bags. Ceria’s job was to get to the other side. However—and this was the trick—she was supposed to skate across the balance-beam in increasingly difficult ways.

Even a straight balance beam could be tricky when Ceria had barely enough space to put her foot down. But the Hraacians had made the path wobbly, forced Ceria to maneuver at sharp angles…and they were motivating her with food.

The scowling Ice Squirrel went for the skating attempt again, tried to do a curve along a wide arc, and went flying off the balance beam to laughter and applause from the watchers. There was a reason Hraacian citizens liked watching the training. Ceria picked herself up, slapping away hands reaching for her.

“This would be easier if you didn’t kill my legs with all those stupid squats and exercises.”

She snapped, and the [Trainers] were a lot less nice with her than Maximillian. One half-Elf put his hands on his hips.

“You need to build muscle, sister. Besides, when will your balance and posture matter most? When you’re fresh or after you’re fighting for your life? Come on, show us what a Gold-rank adventurer can do.”

“You do it if you’re so fancy, brother.”

Ceria snapped at the tan half-Elf and instantly regretted it. Because he immediately strode up the platform and then, after raising his hands for cheers, skated the entire course on one foot, even doing a twirl midway.

They had to be able to at least demonstrate the things they wanted their trainees to do. And the Mentorship was clever; the food was just a ploy to get Ceria to drop her guard. Seeing a half-Elf blowing kisses from the other end of the platform and smirking at her had the annoyed [Cryomancer] climbing onto the platform in seconds.

 

——

 

Training took many different forms. What Elena was most fascinated by was the relationship between the Mentorship and Colth.

They hated each other’s guts.

No, that wasn’t right. Intense rivalry was closer. The moment Colth had revealed he knew the secret of [Heroes], and then that he was pretty much good at almost everything, the Mentorship, who were also polymaths and practiced excellence through variance, had been trying to prove they were better than the [Ultimate Supporter].

Accordingly, they didn’t train Colth so much as let him tag along and watch the way they trained everyone. The same for Elena; she was relegated to the support squad for the Horns, which was actually training enough.

Keeping on your feet and learning how to not get in the way of the Horns was a skillset. Even as she watched, a younger member of the Mentorship, a ‘Follower’, darted forwards with a cloth to dab at Pisces’ brow.

She did it so deftly that he barely noticed; the first day, he’d been uncomfortable, but right now, he was focused. He stood in a practice-court, bone rapier raised, looking left, right. Two [Duelists] were facing off against him.

Both had silver bells, and they were attacking in two different styles. Zeresian Wavefencing and Pheislant’s swordforms—they looked largely the same to Elena, impressive and fast, but Pisces was clearly learning a lot from the other styles.

Let alone the way they tried to press him from both sides and forced him on the defensive. It wasn’t just sword-training. When Pisces tried to flop down, his posture was instantly corrected. Someone even tilted his chin up so he was facing the crowd, and they were trying to get him used to makeup.

“I do not need accoutrements to my face, thank you!”

Pisces was resisting and trying to fight them off, but they were everywhere, like octopuses with a dozen arms each, and Elena called out.

“But Pisces, just a bit of eyeshadow? It really works!”

“Exactly. Stop fussing.”

Colth out-elbowed a [Makeup Artist] and grabbed Pisces’ chin, trying to apply a bit of makeup with a brush. Pisces lost it, flailing his arms and shouting until Colth backflipped away. This, too, was a kind of training, Elena suspected; they were seeing what Pisces was comfortable with. She, herself, was taking notes on how they were applying makeup and the tools the Mentorship was using. Then she went to check on how Yvlon was doing.

“One, two, three, four—that’s right, keep the punching going! No, no, don’t pull that arm back! Again! Don’t stop! Pretend this is someone you want to beat to death. Not a single break. Who was that monster again?”

“Bograms.”

“Bograms. Now—hit him!”

Yvlon began punching harder as a [Trainer] held up padded gloves, absorbing the punches in a series of blows. Every time she wasted a movement or hit weak, they’d correct her. Sweating, she watched as a [Martial Artist] showed her another way to, well…brutally hit someone in close-quarters combat.

Yvlon Byres had always been a good [Warrior], but her lessons had been in swordswomanship, not hand-to-hand combat. They were teaching her how to rush an opponent and beat them down with her knuckles in the most efficient method possible.

“Should I disable my enchantments? The ones Elena gave me?”

“Nonono. You’re training the form, not your muscle, Miss Byres. Arms are good. I want you to speed up this time. One miss and anyone above Level 40’s gotten away. Remember—you’re doing this with spikes when it’s the real thing. So I want you to twist.”

Elena winced as Yvlon nodded. But the [Armsmistress] was the most focused of the Horns, and she began another combo of punches—fast.

Her arms had always been fast, but they were still silver-steel constructions; raising one to punch took effort since they weighed probably twice as much as real arms. Right now, Yvlon was throwing punches so fast they flickered, and the [Trainer] had to swap out after one combo to let his arms rest.

Yvlon’s arms were engraved with the Ksmvr icon and the fancy floral work that Elena had helped her draw up a few days ago. Her arms were fast and more importantly—light. When Yvlon collapsed to let people dab at her face and offer her a drink with a straw, Elena lifted Yvlon’s right arm experimentally.

Light. Light as her arms. It was due to Elena’s Skill.

[Beautician]. Of course she had some. Yvlon panted.

“This…is a pretty good Skill. What was it again, Elena?”

“[Vanity]. I mean—it’s a vanity-Skill. [Vanity: Lighter Than She Looks]. Makes sense, right? I can also cover a bruise or a zit or…this is probably what you want. There’s a few other interesting ones.”

“This one will do. Okay…okay…let’s go.”

Yvlon pushed herself up, and the [Trainers] holding the practice mitts had to call for backup. They were getting worn out.

Reinforcements came in the form of Delitandra, who was among the better Mentors of Hraace. It seemed like Hraace kept the mentorship young and energetic; there were plenty of old trainers, but the Mentorship was youthful.

“The Silver Killer’s like to gain a level from her training, or a Skill. Ask the Pedagogia if we have any useful warrior Skills for her to train on; it’s a waste to just teach her hand-to-hand moves.”

Delitandra took the training mitts from the trainer and beckoned; she blocked the rhythm Yvlon was being drilled in as well as anyone else. Elena edged over to the group around Delitandra and spoke.

“You’re all amazingly fit. Does the Mentorship train you?”

One of the sweating trainers, a Garuda, clacked his beak at her with a grin.

“We vie for the role. Anyone can be a trainer or instructor, but the Mentorship’s different. You have to be able to keep up with anyone the Pedagogia deems worthy. So you might leave home for months or years, even decades, to be by their side and tutor them. You have to be good at everything.”

“Got it. And Delitandra’s one of the best?”

“Of the current Mentorship? Of course. She’s skilled at everything she does, but she hasn’t found anyone worthy of training…until now, perhaps. She’s asked the Pedagogia to be assigned to the Horns of Hammerad.”

That made Elena worried, but she filed that away to tell Colth. She smiled innocuously, but with a hint of worry.

“I’m not sure the Horns will go for that.”

The others assured her airily it wouldn’t be a problem.

“It’s a huge honor, and the Mentorship can take care of themselves, even in war. If they slowed their trainees down, they’d be worthless. Besides, Delitandra practically has to follow the Horns. She’ll beg Captain Ceria on hands and knees if she has to. Her fortunes are tied to whether they do well or fail.”

“Because of her augury?”

The Garuda [Trainer] clarified.

“Because of the Pedagogia’s augury. It practically canceled Delitandra’s. A [Hero] or someone worthy of the title from the Horns? They’ll be one of the most important people Hraace has worked with. If the Pedagogia’s right, Hraace benefits, and Delitandra will be the one guiding the Horns and will guarantee her place at the top.”

“And if she’s wrong, she gets to witness the Pedagogia missing the bet of the century.”

So that’s how the Mentorship played politics. It was surprisingly bloodless; Elena knew it would have its share of backstabbing and treachery, but she liked how it was gambling on success, not trying to murder people for sleeping with your ex. The Garuda gave Elena a knowing look.

“If you want to stay with the Horns, Delitandra would be good to know. And it’d be good to train your physical regimen…you’ll fall behind whomever’s sent without. Delitandra! Physical crash course for Miss Elena?”

The [Beautician] realized she’d fallen into a trap and raised her hands, trying to smile as Delitandra and Yvlon broke off.

“That’s fine. Miss Yvlon also could use some practice running. Put Elena into our course. Rhir’s soldier as her standard. Start with stretches.”

“No, no, I really don’t need—”

Too late. Her own cheering squad appeared, and Elena began to sweat already under the burning sun. But at least she knew she’d keep from getting a sunburn and probably…benefit from the intensity. Hraace could push you without you feeling bad in most cases. They even had Nawalishifra learning from smiths and talking metal with a hint of a smile.

Only one person seemed to be having a bad time. Not in socializing, given she now chatted with most of the Horns and even practiced her sword skills with Yvlon and Pisces and even Ceria, though the half-Elf mostly just messed about in the evenings. No, it was her training which dissatisfied…

Teresa Atwood.

 

——

 

On her third day of eating the foul-tasting pills and cultivating, then being taught to draw out her inner energy, Teresa found the Pedagogia and demanded an upgrade.

“I want better lessons. This isn’t fast enough. You’re the Mentors of Hraace—teach me something powerful.”

The Pedagogia was teaching Pisces swordplay. Actually, she’d been learning his salute copied from the Trial of Blades, but she finished pressing him with a series of needle-fast thrusts, then turned.

For such an older woman, she was way too fit, and she gave Teresa a long look.

“Orthenon himself wouldn’t mind cultivating his spirit for a few weeks, Teresa Atwood.”

“Well, I never said I wanted to be a master of his techniques. What’s the best lesson you’ve got? Teach me that. I need to improve. Please.”

Araxia rubbed at her chin as she studied Teres up and down.

“We could make it harder, but there’s no guarantee you’ll learn. Five days. It will feel terrible. And we will not be as kind.”

“Sign me up.”

Teres bared her teeth, and the Pedagogia smiled. It was not a nice smile; she could be the empathetic [Teacher] who uplifted her students like the Mentors. Or, as now, the remedial lessons teacher from hell who weeded the unworthy out of her class.

“Very well. In that case…Delitandra!”

She shouted across the beach, and someone swore; it seemed like Araxia had her designated punching bag for unpleasant work.

“Yes, Pedagogia?”

“Teresa Atwood desires a lesson. Teach her the King of Destruction’s first lesson from us. She is to follow your group around as you train Miss Byres and Lady Pathseeker. As a helper. Well, she can just keep up.”

Teres’ face fell. She had to do what? The Pedagogia waved her away, and Delitandra gave Teresa a nasty smile.

“It’s a lot of roadwork—running. They’re both Level 40 [Warriors], and your file says you’re not exactly blessed with swiftness Skills. Sure you want to learn? You can’t fall behind even if you run on bloody blisters.”

“Fine. As long as this isn’t a prank.”

“Oh, it’s not. They’re six miles that way, past Maximillian. Let’s run. Oh, but you’ll need to carry our work-pack first. It’s fifty pounds.”

They took off, and Pisces, who was drinking from a very tasty energy drink, commented to Araxia as he continued his far more pleasant training.

“It…seems you aren’t very well disposed to Teresa or Delitandra, Pedagogia.”

He commented neutrally, and Araxia snorted.

“One’s a girl who wants to be thrown into a fire. She shouldn’t blame me for treating her as she wishes. As for the other…uppity brats who think they can do your job better are a tiresome thing. Delitandra has to prove she deserves more authority, and it is no easy task. It is one thing to be skilled and capable; we are all that. She has to prove she has an eye for greatness and it chafes her because that is difficult, to see and nurture what everyone else misses. She’s my niece, you know.”

“Ah.”

Pisces lifted his rapier and then realized he’d forgotten to ask what Teresa was learning that was so valuable but difficult. Pedagogia Araxia pressed him in a duel with a smile, then turned.

“I think we should put the evenings towards statecraft. Prepare a ballroom. Pisces is quite able, but learning to interact with the nobility will be good for him. Oh, and find as many charming women as you can. I can see Colthei’s comment about learning to flirt.”

Pisces searched around wildly for Colth so he could cast [Deathbolt] on the damned [Supporter], but Colth was busy watching Nawalishifra smith. Later on, red-faced from having some very forwards women demonstrate the dangers of courtship to him, Pisces was wiping lipstick off his cheek when he saw Teresa Atwood.

He winced—watched for another ten minutes—winced again, and wondered if this was more deliberate cruelty than training. Then again, she had asked for it.

 

——

 

After five days, Trey Atwood caught up with Teresa and told her to quit.

“Come on, Teres, you’re going to die.”

His lungs were burning, and he was miserable; they were putting him through basic physical fitness, and it was killing him to run for so long. Despite their massages and treatments, his arms hurt, and he had to admit…it felt like his biceps had gotten bigger already.

But Teresa looked like she was dying. She was keeping up with the support team, namely Delitandra’s, which was assigned to Yvlon and Gazi, the two highest-level trainees. You’d think that was less intense than the training the two women were doing, right?

Wrong. Trey hadn’t realized it until Elena had pointed it out to him, but the support staff for athletes often had to work as hard as the athletes themselves.

For instance, yes, a grimly determined Yvlon would be running across the ground, arms and legs pumping, being cheered to do her best by an entire group of shouting Mentors.

…Who were running right behind her, because they had to keep up. And sing, cheer her, hold out flasks of water, and even do somersaults, flips, and tricks to distract her. And carry gear.

No wonder the Mentors of Hraace looked like athletes. They were. They kicked up a storm of dust as Yvlon ran even faster, and amidst their group, well, stumbling ahead of Trey, was Teresa.

She was fit, a [Blade of War], but fitness in battle didn’t mean the same as cardio fitness in running, and it was running they were doing. Pure, hellish roadwork on a level way beyond Trey and Maximillian’s loads.

The two young men had started with ten miles a day to get themselves up to snuff. They were now doing fifteen miles each day—a lot—adding one mile per day. Trey had heard the Mentors saying they’d pushed Yvlon to forty-eight miles.

Gazi to fifty.

This was on top of the other training and exercises they did; the evening run on the beach was hell. The morning run wasn’t bad, but the evening run was when you were running back, having only had whatever snacks the Hraacians had fed you, at the end of your cycle, ready to eat, watch whatever they had prepared for performances, and then sleep like the dead for ten or more hours.

Teresa had been keeping up for five days now—without the customized food, drink, and breaks to make sure the trainees maximized their returns and minimized self-harm. She had bleeding blisters on her feet, chapped lips, a stumbling gait that said her muscles were screaming or torn—and Trey was keeping up with her, which sort of said how bad condition she was in, given that he was a [Mage] and she was a [Warrior].

Then she threw up. Trey backed away with a shout, and the trainers following him dodged, but it hit Minizi in a long stream of puke in the wind—Teres heaved and kept running.

“Aw. Teres.”

“Go—away—Trey.”

She was still going. Trey hadn’t realized Teres was this determined. She’d always loved stuff like football and tried hard, but he’d never seen an athlete in her. Then again…she’d never had the talent for any kind of sports or athletic scholarship.

“Teres! They’re just trying to get you to quit! The Pedagogia doesn’t like you—”

Mostly because you’re being you.

“—just stop! Alright?”

Delitandra and the running, cheering trainers certainly didn’t even look back once at Teresa, who was dying as she lagged behind. Teresa swiped as Trey tried to grab her. He finally caught her shoulder and slowed her—she fell to her knees and threw up again, but only tossed out water.

“She needs a drink. Water. Delitandra’s moving away, Miss Teres.”

One of the trainers with Trey tossed a water flask down, and Teresa grabbed it, tried to drink, and it came back up instantly. She tried to force it down as Trey reasoned with her.

“Teres, there’s no point to this. Seriously. Stop, would you? Go back to cultivating or training with the sword.”

He was improving; he could tell. The Mentorship had plenty of spellbooks, and he’d been really studying Golems and trying to make Minizi stronger. Trey had been experimenting with skeletons, or rather, bones after his training with Viltach, but he hadn’t a good understanding of the skeletal structure, which was hard to replicate even if you knew what it vaguely looked like.

Pisces, though, could both show Trey how each bone linked up and provide perfect examples to crib off of. Which was a lot more fun than staring at dead bodies. With his help, Trey had replicated a quasi-skeleton, and Minizi was now five foot two and looked more nimble. He only realized Teres was glaring at him and trying to wheeze when he heard the whistling.

“…re you…zy…ly on about this?”

“Uh, what was that, Teres?”

Someone was running back along the beach as exhausted as Teresa. Yvlon Byres was wheezing through her lungs, and she was ready to drop, too. The Mentorship was tired; they’d been keeping up with Yvlon, and the Silver Killer slowed as she saw Teres swipe the flask at Trey, spattering him with water and perhaps some backwash vomit.

A [Hero] watched too, observing. Watching the King of Destruction’s chosen vassals and the team that might harbor a [Hero]. He saw a lot of his daughter in Teresa Atwood too and didn’t like how it manifested. But what she said next—surprised Doubte.

 

——

 

“Are you stupid, Trey?”

When Teresa finally managed to make words, she glared at Trey. She was trying to get to her legs, but they were wobbling so bad she couldn’t really stand.

Completely exhausted. Yvlon knew what that was like. She wasn’t that bad—yet. Her body was burning with exhaustion, but Teresa was still trying to get up.

Yvlon had honestly thought the girl would quit, but she kept forcing herself up with her hands, looking silly, but no one was laughing. Only Trey seemed to think it was ridiculous.

“Teres, come on. This is pointless. You’re hurting yourself.”

Her hair was a mess over her face, and she glared at Trey like she wanted to stab him.

“And? They’re trying to teach us something…Flos learned from them, Trey. Something real. Araxia said if I kept up…something people from Earth can’t do. So what if I bleed and pee red? So what if the skin on my feet falls off? That’s something worthy. Stop being spoiled and fuck off.”

Trey lifted his hands, backing off as Teres splashed water at him and finally got to her feet. He was exasperated.

“Fine. Be that way. But if you get hurt, don’t blame me. Oh, and if it’s worth doing, why isn’t everyone doing it?”

He stomped off back the way he’d come. Minizi followed—after running over to push Teres in the chest. Not hard—but she went over like a pile of sticks and tried to get up, cursing. She flopped around weakly, and at this point, Yvlon Byres had had enough.

She strode over and stopped besides Teres. She didn’t like Teres. But it seemed to Yvlon that she was also someone who didn’t dislike Teres, which was a rarer camp to be in. When Yvlon gazed down, she saw someone in a misery of pain, her limbs betraying her, guts still trying to heave out the water she’d drunk, in agony.

But she was still trying to stand.

“I have to do it myself.”

“I know.”

Yvlon waited. Teres rolled onto her front, opened her mouth, and retched…then pushed herself onto her knees. She struggled up onto one foot, then another.

“Thirty-six miles back. We can get you a stamina potion, Lady Killer, but if you have the will, it’d be best to keep running.”

Delitandra’s tone was neutral, but she was watching the two of them. Yvlon’s legs were wobbling. She’d tried to copy Gazi today, but the half-Gazer had run forty miles out…and forty miles back.

They were all pushing past any sane limit. Yvlon had sworn never to take Ryoka’s job lightly again. Running sucked.

Teres finally got up. She looked ready to die, and indeed, one of the [Trainers] following Yvlon produced what looked suspiciously like a healing potion. Yvlon wiped at her brow, and sweat had eluded her.

“More water. You two need to keep moving. One minute or your bodies won’t keep going and you’ll fail.”

“I hafta go. Don’t mind me.”

Teres mumbled, and Yvlon shook her head.

“I don’t. Mind you. You’re doing what you think is right. Keep trying if it matters. Even if you die.”

…The pep talk sounded better in her head, but Yvlon meant it. She strode away a second to talk with Delitandra and came back to see Teres taking a step, then another. First, it was a walk—but then she forced her legs into a jog. Then a run.

Maybe she was a silly girl from Earth who had fallen in with the King of Destruction and a love of war. Yvlon didn’t know. She was a silly adventurer who’d gotten her friends killed in a dungeon and survived by dumb luck and running faster.

In Teresa, the Gold-rank adventurer thought she saw a silly woman who’d rip her arm off fighting rather than quit, then pick it up and hit the enemy with that because it was all she had left.

…She didn’t dislike Teresa’s mentality. The [Blade of War] was making a whistling, panting noise.

“You don’t…have to run with me…back. This isn’t muscle training. Something else.”

She mumbled. Yvlon nodded; her legs were shaking, and her vision was getting blurry. She reached up and punched herself in the side of the jaw until she tasted blood. Her steps firmed.

“I know. I asked to do what you’re doing when I heard. So did Gazi.”

Teresa’s head rose. Neither woman said anything else; they just tried to move faster. They had no breath for the rest.

 

——

 

“Do not slow down. Thirty miles left.”

Thirty? It felt like they’d already run thirty! They hadn’t eaten lunch on the fifth day. Yvlon and Teres were running on empty, running on blood and flesh that might have once been feet, running on sand—sand, which got everywhere, which shifted underfoot, which tired you out—

There was a known phenomenon in running called the ‘Runner’s High’ where the agony of a run turned into endorphins, where you hit a zen state and ran amazingly well, deep into a marathon.

Teres and Yvlon hit the high. Their strides lengthened. The pain in their legs turned into a blaze of energy, and they felt like they could run for ages and accelerated.

They hit the brick wall at the end of the Runner’s High and crashed out. And kept running. 

Legs stumbling, barely able to move. Delitandra jogged in front of them, and she had a stamina potion she was drinking to keep going.

“Run! Run! If you don’t move, you’ll fail! I said get up and run, you pathetic warriors!”

Yvlon got up—and ran. The willpower to do it was the same she’d tapped into time and again.

 

The will to hold a door in place as armor burned through her flesh and bones.

The will to break a Creler, to see it damned and dead.

The will to face down death so her team would escape the Village of the Dead.

 

She ran and felt something snap in her leg. She ran and felt blood blisters pop, and there was no light at the end of the tunnel nor end to it. She moved her legs faster, faster—against their will. Once more uncaring if she lost her legs.

I am a woman of metal. I must run because it matters.

So she ran. The only thought Yvlon had was this. It took her will and her experiences and desire to keep her legs running.

She couldn’t fathom how Teres kept up.

 

——

 

First, it was a jog. A lumbering, stumbling gait. Then a run, crisscrossing the sand, seeing the city beyond, the waves lapping on the ground, then they were moving faster, faster.

“Delitandra—tendon.”

Someone called, and Delitandra saw it. Ruptured from stress, maybe. She saw more twisting at the limits, saw a leg stumble, one of their heads drop—

Then they started sprinting.

They should have dropped. They had no more sugar in their veins, no more energy. Their legs were incapable of pushing out more force, but both women began sprinting. One of them started, and the other followed, unwilling to be left behind. They sprinted, and the Heromakers of Hraace were the ones to fall behind.

Exhausted [Trainers], [Runners], experts in their own right fell behind, cursing, shouting, celebrating, and whooping—Delitandra ran. She ran with the same feeling they had, the gift only the best members of Hraace’s own had learned, the Pedagogia’s first lesson to the boy who became the King of Destruction.

“Yvlon! Teresa! Stop! Stop!”

It took them nearly five minutes to even hear her voice. They were tearing across the beach, so fast that a City Runner on the highway road fell behind. Delitandra shouted.

“This is it. This feeling. This certainty. You’ve broken your physical limit. [Memorize Performance]! Now stop, stop before you tear the muscles out of your legs!”

They slowed, glancing back at her, confused, and Delitandra threw something at them.

“Healing potion! Drink!”

“But our muscles will—”

“You’ve turned them to blood and damaged them! Drink!”

They drank, one after another, then almost collapsed where they stood as their muscles began healing, but they stood. Of course they did. Delitandra explained as a few more trainers caught up.

Everyone was panting; Yvlon’s mind was addled and on fire with pain, and yet she felt like she could run harder, and Delitandra’s Skill was doing something to her head. Locking this strange feeling into place with a certainty that Yvlon had that she could do it again.

I need Delitandra’s Skill for when I spar. Then she tuned into what Delitandra was saying she’d done.

“This…is not a Skill. It can be a Skill, but you don’t need it. It is the will to force your arms to limits beyond what they should pull or push or grip. It is the strength to run even when your legs have no right to, on broken, shattered bones, when you would otherwise drop. The King of Destruction learned this.”

It was how he’d first broken a Djinni’s collar, part of the secret behind his unending strength. Yvlon panted as Teresa wiped at her mouth.

“—What? What? That’s not…that’s just working hard.”

The [Trainer] sighed in exasperation at Yvlon.

“No. It is forcing yourself to a state other warriors cannot. You’ve surely reached it before. When you tore off your arm and kept fighting, for instance?”

Or when she’d been sparring Mars? It was indeed the same feeling. Yet Delitandra was explaining.

“You may reach this moment too, Teresa. Lady Gazi certainly has; most [Warriors] know this. But you cannot activate it at will, can you?”

“No…wait, hold on. I think I can now. Or do whatever I did with my arms.”

A smug smile followed a nod as Teresa felt at her legs and arms.

“You can. It is not just running; that is simply the easiest and least-damaging way to learn it. But to lock it in your head to activate at will, rather than in desperation, that is our gift. Now, where is Cassiedre? Someone call for her. Even so, Yvlon, Teresa, you did well to reach this state in training. Few can. Lady Pathseeker was able to, but I doubt your companions have the extraordinary will. And, uh, self-destructiveness. You two…here, Cassiedre! We need a demonstration.”

A young woman ran up, beaming, and Delitandra pointed to a [Tumbler], one of the Followers. Not high-level or as skilled, but she had mastered this limitless feat.

“Cassiedre, show them. Do a handspring.”

The girl of sixteen did a handspring, lithe and nimble, leaping from her legs to her hands and springing back to her feet. In a single motion. Then, with a nod from Delitandra, she took a running start and began doing handsprings across the ground.

Sixteen consecutive handsprings, and Teresa panted as someone showered water over her and handed her a flask. The Mentorship of Hraace were congratulating her, with respect, but she was still blank.

“That’s it? But…”

“You could do it too. Though you’re not flexible. But if you will it—it shall be done.”

Yvlon’s head turned at those familiar words, and Delitandra spoke.

“Watch.”

—Cassiedre wasn’t stopping. She hadn’t stopped doing handsprings down the length of the beach. She was on thirty-seven now and flipping back down, up, down, up—so fast that her world had to be a blur, but she kept moving.

At seventy-nine handsprings, they began to understand. Teres and Yvlon stared at the figure still blurring in motion, ridiculously nimble, and then at Delitandra.

“She’s got to stop sometime.”

“No. She could do handsprings forty miles in a row. Or rather—try. At some point, her arms will break or muscles tear from the strain. But her body will literally break and render itself unable to move before she stops. Someone stop her. She can die simply from how the blood rushes around her head. It is a dangerous ability, and you need practice…but you have done it.”

Few people ever mastered such abilities. Delitandra gave the two a grudgingly admiring look; it had taken her years of training to complete this hellish course, even knowing the prize. Yvlon wiggled her metal foot as Teresa wiped at her mouth.

“So we’re now able to…just do things?”

“At cost. But yes, remember that feeling. The Mentorship of Hraace has taught, or tried to teach, this very ability to all whom we decided to train. Even Torreb did not understand it.”

Or rather, he didn’t want to push to this mad point. It made no sense to him. Delitandra’s lips curled.

“We have also had those who stole the secret from us. But only we teach it well, no matter what the Titan of Baleros may attempt.”

“I feel…it. Like willing yourself to take a blow, but different. But I can’t just do whatever I want. Like—”

Teresa stood there, then flexed her legs. She frowned, crouched, then did a jump which turned into a backflip. A high jump, and she landed, arms outstretched, mouth open.

Delitandra grinned and sighed as Yvlon jerked.

“That’s what I was warning you about. You’ve likely hurt your legs. You two will need to stretch, to train your muscles to absorb such deeds, or you’ll hurt yourself badly each time. Miss Byres, you can do the same, but don’t—argh—”

 

——

 

Ceria Springwalker was archly eating some ice cream as she stood on her conquered skating course, feeling rather proud of herself. Her legs hurt like hell, but she’d done the trickiest obstacles that Hraace could throw at her, and she was smirking at the [Trainers] who couldn’t even do the final course.

She only turned when she saw Yvlon and Teresa coming back across the beach. Ceria began to wave and call out to ask if their hellish course was worth it—when she heard a shout.

The ice cream cone in Ceria’s hand stayed there and began to drip in the heat…and then fell out of the cone. Ceria paid no mind. Her mouth was open as she saw Yvlon tumble past her.

“Ceria! Look! I’ve gained a new Skill! Or something—”

Ceria loved her friend. She really did. Yvlon Silver Killer Byres, prickly, grumpy, loyal to a fault, dangerous and wonderful in her way. Metal foot, metal arms, a solid, rooted character.

Like a battering ram you hurled into enemy lines and watched explode into a ball of furious anger and metal.

Not the kind of person Ceria expected to do a triple flip through the air, double cartwheel, handstand, and then an improvised raiz—spinning flip across the hips along the horizontal axis.

Ceria glanced at Pisces, rubbed her eyes with the ice cream, then slapped herself. There was no way training could—this was like Ryoka! The laughing Yvlon was joined by Teresa, who ran so fast she hit a rounded seawall marking the end of the beach, ran up it, and did a backflip off it, rotating four times before she hit the sand.

The two women were high-fiving and cheering as Delitandra ran, screaming at them to stop. Ceria saw Yvlon do a handstand, spinning kick, land on her legs, and heard a faint crunch as Yvlon’s flesh-and-blood foot twisted.

The [Armsmistress] stopped. She stared at her foot, and Teresa stopped cheering and felt at an arm she’d been whirling around. With a pow of sound, it dislocated.

—And that was why Flos didn’t teach that skill to just anyone. Ceria heard the first shout of agony, then picked the glob of ice cream off the sand. She licked it, then spat.

“Peh. Sandy.”

 

——

 

Yvlon and Teresa were out of commission with Gazi for the next four days, which, when you considered the abuse they’d put their bodies through, was pretty short.

There was a lot of aftercare involved after learning their trick, which the Hraacians called ‘surpassing one’s limits’. Which reminded Yvlon of a Skill that Ksmvr said he’d gained…had he possessed a Skill version of this all along?

Either way, learning it as an ability meant that the Heromakers kept checking in on Teresa and Yvlon, making them repeat the ability very carefully, just so it locked into their minds.

You would assume that both women would be restless with their forced immobility, but they had things to do. Whether they enjoyed said things…

Teresa got to meditate and practice her internal something. Yvlon?

Yvlon got the hardest lessons yet, which the Heromakers of Hraace themselves were sweating over. After all, they enhanced their clients’ strengths, but also shored up weak spots. Like giving Ceria more athleticism, teaching Pisces a lot of the fencing studies he’d dropped from his years of neglect—

And there was a great attempt made to fix Yvlon’s weak spot. Which she assumed was ranged combat.

They meant diplomacy.

 

——

 

“Hello. My name is Yvlon Byres. Now, some may call me the Silver Killer of Izril, but the truth is…”

A [Bard] was tearing chunks out of his hair at the end of the third day, and Delitandra had a look of actual amazement on her face.

“Stop saying it. Why do you keep saying it?”

Yvlon was red-faced.

“It’s a habit. I can’t stop it. And it’s very convenient—”

“You. Are. A. [Lady]! How did you—where is the tact? The decorum? Let’s try again. I am an angry [Farmer]. Why did you just destroy my fields? You were killing those Crelers, but my crops—”

The [Bard] whirled into an [Instant Disguise] and began aggressively shouting, and Yvlon held up one hand.

“Move aside, sir. I need to check on my team.”

“Move aside? My livelihood is ruined!”

“I’m terribly sorry about that, sir. We’ll pay for damages. Where’s Ksmvr in this situation?”

“I demand—”

Yvlon grabbed the [Bard]’s head with one hand, and Delitandra had to break in. She exchanged a look with the other Heromakers, and they whispered amongst each other.

“Do we insist she goes to a [Thought Healer]?”

“If Berr the Berserker can’t fix this…”

“I don’t think she’s actually angry. I think she likes being this blunt.”

They all stared darkly at Yvlon, who looked innocent. Delitandra hmmed.

“You said you were a [Gladiator], and I reviewed some of your bouts. What if…we treated everything like that? Let’s see you knighting, Yvlon.”

The woman hesitated and flushed.

“I’m not very good at—”

“Gladiator Yvlon! I’m an adoring fan! Charm me?”

Delitandra jumped into Yvlon’s arms, and for once, the [Armsmistress] didn’t instantly drop her, snap, or punch her in the face. Awkwardly, Yvlon put a weak smile on her face.

“Er—I’m just the Silver Killer, miss…?”

The Heromakers of Hraace glanced at each other. Then they began revising their lesson plan. This could work! It could work!

 

——

 

Teaching, or rather, reteaching Yvlon any shred of diplomacy was so hard that half of all the Mentorship had taken a crack at her by the time she had recovered. Progress was…slow, but they had sworn to fix her attitude or die trying.

Twelve days into their training, Yvlon finally shed the crutches she’d had to wear to head to the temple.

She had a mind to ask the Pedagogia about the ‘Melded classes’ that she had apparently become part of. Yvlon was used to going where she pleased, so she just ascended the steps, trying not to force herself through the pain.

According to all the Mentors, Yvlon needed to listen to her body. She could force her body to do a backflip whenever she wanted. Whether that was a good idea…your nerves gave you pain and your muscles refused to fire not because you couldn’t do something, but because continuing was a bad idea.

“As you gain more Galas muscle, you will become even more fearsome, and when you use this ability, you’ll surprise even the most dangerous foes. Selphids know it as Rampaging; you’ll find an upper limit at which you can force your body in a fight before giving yourself permanent damage.”

Brief moments of superhuman strength Yvlon would take. She thought Hawk had a similar Skill…but she’d gained hers for free.

“Pedagogia? I was wondering if I could access the Mentorship’s library…”

Yvlon strode into the mostly abandoned temple, since everyone was busy training, and saw there was a curtain drawn over the audience chambers. She pulled the curtain aside and entered, on the basis that no one was stopping her.

A man with brown hair and faintly white roots was standing before the Pedagogia, who was pacing back and forth. When he turned his head, he had strange, pink eyes and was vaguely familiar.

He made Yvlon stop at once. He had some kind of aura or presence that was familiar, and she instinctively tensed. The Pedagogia whirled.

“Yvlon Byres! This is a private audience, please! Honored guest, forgive me.”

He turned away without a word, and Yvlon backed up.

“My apologies, Pedagogia. I’ll wait outside—”

“No, no, please. You wanted the library, no doubt? In the city. Find Delitandra.”

Both waited for Yvlon to go, and she awkwardly walked backwards, then stopped. She snapped her metal fingers with a ringing sound.

“Oh. The Hero of Zethe, isn’t it? Well met.”

Doubte’s shoulders hunched, and Araxia closed her eyes. Yvlon, a veteran of entanglements, paused.

Right, make the connection later and tell your team.

She turned to go. A hand fell on her shoulder, and she glanced back into the [Hero]’s eyes. Yvlon smiled at him. With her teeth.

 

——

 

The Heromakers of Hraace knew their business, Ceria decided. Not on the basis that she’d learned some kind of esoteric warrior-technique accessible but not readily masterable across most species.

No, Yvlon’s new abilities were sort of weird. And it said something that Pisces and Colth had both tried to gain the technique and given up—Pisces after he’d thrown up once, Colth after six times and two days of peeing blood, which he seemed to think wasn’t normal or healthy.

Ceria had run two miles and given up. But progress was relative, and actually, Ceria could argue she’d benefited more from Hraace than anyone else.

…In that she’d lost twenty-two pounds and was looking at herself in a mirror and wondering if she could buy whatever they’d used on her. She suspected Skills, but she knew they’d been feeding her some kind of pulpy juice whenever she needed a drink. And they’d cooked whatever she wanted, but kept presenting her with what she suspected were healthier, more filling versions of whatever food she wanted. Stuffed breams and sushi, tricking her stomach into thinking it was full.

Losing that much weight kept Ceria a lot lighter on her feet, and she felt like she had stronger calves and ankles. The Mentorship seemed to think they’d done a decent job on her conditioning and eased off the physical component. They were letting the [Mages] study.

In Ceria’s case, it was hard because she had Illphres’ spellbook and the circlet, which had effectively given her a cryomagic book and walking teacher on par with any you could get in this day and age. But Hraace still had their methods.

It was some kind of incense that sharpened your concentration. A useful drug combined with a room for lounging in, devoid of sounds or distractions. Colth was studying the drug; apparently, it could be used for effective studying or make you ponder seashells for an entire day.

On request, Ceria had taken this time not to study magic—she could do that anywhere—but to read historical accounts of great [Ice Mages] and other spellcasters. It was like being a kid and reading the one book of Tales of Adventure and Woe each half-Elf had in her village. She remembered it bittersweetly; her grandmother, Leila Springwalker, would take her around every twin full moons to badger one of the other half-Elves.

Because Ceria was so young, and because Leila brought a gift, the other half-Elves would tolerate this sudden and unexpected interruption to their day and fetch out a well-thumbed copy of the book. You’d get everything from Tales of Adventure and Woe, Edition #14422, to edition #8002…only later had Ceria realized how extraordinary some of the books were, given the current edition was past thirty thousand.

Someday, a brave [Historian] would have to raid the Village of the Spring and make copies of every book they had. Ceria would read the ancient books, many rewritten or rebound by their owners, in the big cottage on the hill where her occasional teacher and her grandmother’s old friend or whatever she was, Tserre, lived.

The surly half-Elf would sometimes teach a very young Ceria a spell and offer her a cookie if she had the ingredients. She’d never get up to play any games, but when Ceria was very small, she’d read the books for her. Actually…Ceria wasn’t sure if Tserre had gotten up in the last decade she’d known the old half-Elf.

Half-Elves.

—The point was that Ceria was trying to improvise from the books, but even with the incense and Hraace’s techniques, she kept going back to memory lane. With a sigh, she closed the book and decided to check on Pisces.

Along the way, she ran into Teresa, and because Yvlon seemed to have warmed to the crazy kid, Ceria gave Teresa a try.

“Hey, Teresa, how’s it going?”

Teresa had been in the middle of some kind of meditation, cross-legged, hands in her lap, forming circles with her thumbs and forefingers, breathing slowly, and, Ceria suspected, cultivating her inner power or whatever that was.

At Ceria’s over-loud voice, she jumped, twisted, and stood with a scowl.

“Not very good. I’m not the best at cultivating. I think I’ll go back to sword-training. I’m not going to improve as fast as I did with that training. Let alone level up again.”

“Oh, you levelled? Yvlon didn’t, but she’s over Level 40. What’s yours?”

“33. What’s Yvlon’s level?”

“No clue. Over Level 40.”

Teresa scowled briefly, and Ceria felt that twinge of not-quite envy at how fast Earthers levelled. Only a twinge because Teresa was no Erin, and Ceria still out-levelled her. For now.

“Walk with me? Do you know where they’ve got Pisces training?”

“Uh…outside, I think. Near a graveyard. It’s good for his mana. Plus, he kept sneezing from the incense.”

“Sounds like Pisces.”

They strolled out across the beach where the Mentorship was still training everyone. Ceria got why they’d been allocated only four weeks even for Gazi and the Horns. You could get used to this training and even Hraace’s luxurious treatments. Teresa was silent for a while as they walked; Ceria just put her hands behind her head.

“I would have thought you’d want to talk to Trey. I get that you don’t like me or Flos, and I know Gazi fought with you in the past.”

“Hm? What? No, only Colth dislikes you. I don’t really care about you or your brother. Even Gazi’s not much of a grudge, for me at least. We’re not trying to kill each other.”

Teresa opened her mouth.

“And Flos?”

“He’s a [King]. Better than some because he likes me, I guess, but I’m not part of his war. We’re sightseeing Chandrar, not getting entangled. You’re all right. I can see why Yvlon likes you. You’re almost as stupid as she is.”

“She’s—impressive.”

“And dumb.”

Teresa glanced around for Yvlon, but the warrior was also on a do-not-exercise list, and Ceria had seen her heading towards the temple.

“No, she really is amazing. I want to be like her. Or Mars or…”

Ceria eyed Teres indulgently. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard Teres’ opinions, albeit mostly in the context of her and Trey having it out, but she asked the obvious question.

“You’re all-in for the King of Destruction, huh? And you’re set on levelling. Look, I get it. I want to level too. I’m racing to keep up with my team. But Trey’s got that anti-slavery thing that he and Pisces and Colth are bonding over. Yvlon’s tougher than her metal arms and twice as stubborn. She’s also lost a lot, so she works hard because of it. What kept you running even when you were throwing up?”

Teres glanced sideways to see if Ceria was mocking her, but then ducked her head.

“I wanted to be like her. Or Orthenon. I’d try to become Amerys, but I’m not good at magic. Isn’t that enough?”

“Seems odd you’re that determined. You’re going to war and risking death to get stronger?”

She had something of an adventurer in her, in that case, but Teresa just stared at something in her mind’s eye.

“When I first met them—the King’s Seven, I mean—after he awoke, they were superhuman. The first time you see Takhatres run, he’s faster than you can believe. Flos lifted a boulder overhead and chucked it just to show off how strong he was. I walked over and had to keep pushing at it to make sure it wasn’t a trick. It took Trey a while to believe it, but the moment I saw it, I wanted that. And then when they told me I could do that? If I levelled?”

Ceria nodded as they crunched along the sand.

“My village was like that. Boring, same-old things all day. We had a guy who handled trees because they got in the way and no one could be bothered to do anything about them. Half-Elves in dingy clothing, doing the same thing, day in, day out. And every now and then, my grandmother—who was sick—would find a rabbit in our gardens or trip over a rock or something she didn’t realize had appeared. One time, she kicked a tree out of the way because it was pissing her off.”

Teres snorted, but nodded, eyes lighting up.

“I want it. I want to outrun Orthenon or beat Takhatres in an arm-wrestling competition. I want the Seven and Flos to respect me. Trey wants to change their minds, but he doesn’t matter. I said that to him…we never had a choice, he and I. We were always going to turn into this. We appeared in His Majesty’s court, you know.”

“Whoa. Talk about luck. Or not?”

The [Blade of War]’s smile was wry.

“I got a good lesson: if you’re high-level, you can do whatever you want, good or bad. When I go home, to Earth, I want to be someone who can change the world for the better.”

When I go home. Ceria fumbled in her bag for a snack. A Heromaker appeared with one of those pulpy fruit juices and a ball of something tasty and crunchy—flavored seaweed wrapped around a nougat core? Ceria snacked.

“Mm. So you think you’re going back.”

“I think I’m going back, and it’ll be a war between the worlds unless the right people are talking. And even then, there’ll be strife, and I want to make sure our dad stays safe, people I like stay safe, and—”

Ceria saw Teres touch her sword’s hilt—

“—I’ll be important. Fate of the world stuff. I know it sounds silly, but otherwise, I’ll just be a citizen of the United Kingdom; no one will ask what I want, just how I can be useful, if at all. That’s what it was like for Trey and me.”

“He seems to have taken to it as well as you.”

The [Chaos Schemer] was reserved, polite, and, Ceria felt, dangerous. Clever and good with magic. People listened to him; he had the ear of rulers. Perhaps the mark of them, too. Teres was the lesser of the twins at this moment. Teres’ lips twisted.

“You can’t help it. Neither of us have tried to run away, you know. Even at Wistram…well, Trey was worried for me. But it’s impossible. Maybe I’d make it this time, but I tried maybe forty times when I was first getting to know Reim.”

“Really?”

That was interesting. Teresa just shook her head.

“They weren’t big attempts like stealing a horse. I kept poking around the palace, seeing if there were maps or ways to ferret food away or even just get out of sight…no way. The servants, Orthenon, the soldiers, even the animals felt like they would just appear and watch me. I didn’t even bother telling Trey; I realized I’d have to outrun the entire kingdom. Then I started hanging with Flos.”

“And he swung you around with his way of thinking? Mind-tricks?”

Ceria had heard that the Blighted Kingdom had a charismatic king who could predispose you to liking him. That again came from her grandmother, who had a dim view of him and had liked their standoffish King of Myths.

To her surprise, Teres shook her head.

“What, mind-control? Flos hates that. I’m not sure if he can do it or not, but he’s just…generally likable. Like an old-style hero or general. I keep hearing Trey say he’s Alexander the Great…or Napoleon…I don’t get the Napoleon similarities. Anyways, it’s not that. He’s just—imagine being with a guy who always says what he thinks, all the time, at maximum volume. Flos thinks loud. You can either agree with him or not, but you always know how he feels.”

Like a giant boulder moving through a snowfield, shaping everything around it. Ceria nodded to herself; it checked out with what she’d seen. Teres looked wistfully at her sword, at Ceria, then the harbor they were walking past.

“I wish he respected me, though. I’m trying to impress him. I’ve volunteered to fight in the vanguard, to take risky missions, but he trusts Trey more than me.”

Ceria saw the graveyard higher up along the beach and sensed Pisces’ presence up ahead. She turned to Teres as a bunch of ships were being loaded at Hraace’s ports. More were heading out across the coast, north.

To the New Lands of Izril. Chandrarians and everyone else. She swore she could see the King of Destruction’s ships; even he was on the rush to the New Lands, though he couldn’t afford many ships given his wars.

“Eh…it’s rough. Bit of advice, though, from a Gold-rank adventurer? It’s okay if you don’t want it.”

“Sure.”

Ceria leaned over. Her smile was huge and cold, and she was earnest. Just not necessarily nice. She whispered to Teres.

“You’ll never get out of his shadow if you’re near him. All this following him around? Sort of pathetic. But mostly, he’ll keep you safe and you’ll always look up at him. Your brother left; that’s why Flos respects him, because he’s a kind of equal. I stood in the shadow of people I respected. My grandmother—great grandmother, technically—my teacher, Illphres, and so many others. Now they’re dead. I can pass them.”

Of all the people that Teresa Atwood had talked to and argued with, even among the Horns, it seemed that for a moment, Ceria’s words and the half-Elf’s smile, full of age and time, shook Teresa the hardest. She halted in her steps—and Ceria strolled on, whistling.

When Pisces began raising the undead, both of them gazed up and started running.

 

——

 

Pisces Jealnet was being offered necromantic spellbooks and was a bit…tetchy about it.

“I just feel that I have sufficient magical acumen without any established spellbooks, as a point of fact.”

He realized he was being defensive to the well-meaning instructors, partly because he had low self-confidence on the matter. Even with Az’kerash’s tutelage, Pisces was keenly aware he had gaps in his necromancy education as a result of only learning from other amateur [Necromancers].

Happily, Hraace was nothing if not good at flattering.

“No one would argue you’re anything less than a stellar [Necromancer] in this day and age, Adventurer Pisces! Most of these spells are superficial to your abilities. Why bother with [Pale Touch] when you can cast [Deathbolt]?”

“Erm, indeed, indeed. I suppose, then, I could compare and contrast any useful spells…”

“We have a small list here and plenty of death-magic! Ah, but if you could avoid raising any bones of the deceased? We have quite a lot of bones already.”

They’d procured them, mostly from butchers and whatnot, and though they were lower-grade, Pisces had restored his six Skeletal Champions to mostly full strength. Now he was mostly concerned with trying to generate more Stellar Ivory, making sense of his ability to reanimate structures as well as people, and mastering any new spells.

—Unfortunately, the spellbooks only went up to Tier 3 magic, as most did. There was one Tier 4 spell!

Animate Bone Horror. Pisces paged through book after book and came up with a short list of spells he cribbed into his own spellbook.

[Bony Protrusion]—good for making spikes.

[Spiritwrath Orb]—some kind of fast-moving orb of angry death magic, a good lower-tier version of [Deathbolt].

[Empowered Minion]—classic boosting of skeletons; Pisces would make it a priority.

And [Death’s Ground], a Tier 3 spell that seemed to be an area-of-denial technique to prevent [Earth Mages] from casting spires or destroying the area around you.

“Quite decent, I suppose. A shame you don’t have any spellbooks above Tier 4. I’d wager I could learn a Tier 5 spell with time.”

Pisces made a show of appreciating each spell, neglecting to mention that Az’kerash had left him with spellbooks and instructions, if rather specialized ones.

Delitandra was very apologetic.

“I am sorry that our collection is so limited. The Necromancer’s depravities in Terandria reduced sentiment for spellbooks, and we did lose them in wars and when we had Terandrian rulership…they purged spellbooks of necromancy, among others.”

“Or looted them.”

A dark comment from one of the Mentors, and Pisces winced inwardly because he felt slightly responsible about both issues…looting of artifacts and spellbooks was a time-honored tradition. However, he did feel slightly suboptimal merely learning, well, spells.

All his big talk with Amerys, and Pisces was just learning magic without that innovation he’d been practicing from the Djinni’s spellbook. It occurred to him…this was an ideal moment to practice.

“Well, perhaps simple magic is more adaptive, Trainer Delitandra. Can I see…the Reanimator’s Guide to Basic Summoning again?”

It was produced with some surprise, but Pisces had skipped over the first sections in embarrassment. The truth was that even writing basic summoning spells was something he was suboptimal in; Az’kerash hadn’t even bothered to teach that. But when Pisces saw the book…

“Fascinating, fascinating. There are multiple ways to animate the dead? Well, of course, I knew that…”

—His method, casting an animation spell while waving his hand and saying something flashy, was actually only one of many. You could, for instance, write a rune on a body, and it would naturally animate over time.

Or create a summoning circle, a bound ritual place to reduce mana costs. Or even draw a mass ritual circle. The book was still for beginners, but Pisces was moved to try a technique none of his friends had ever known.

Bone-circle summoning.

The process was simple, and in fact, Pisces had already done a larger-scale vision of this with his creation of Ivery, his first Skeleton Lord. He created an octagonal frame of bones, linking it all up with death-mana running through the loop, added an addition of bones to the outside rather than the inside—he hadn’t known you could do that—and then activated [Animate Dead] through the circle.

The reason you attached the magic to the outside via the bones was so that the rising undead on the inside—a skeleton with flashing red eyes—didn’t ruin your hard work as it arose. It swept upwards in a slightly showy manner, seizing a rusted iron sword and swinging it around.

The Heromakers of Hraace applauded. The skeleton sauntered forwards, a being of undeath, a soldier of dread armies! It tried to shove one of the Skeleton Champions aside and got a backhand that promptly knocked its head off its body.

Why did all his skeletons have so much personality? Pisces scratched his head and suspected it was because he liked them that way. Anyways! He judged the mana costs were almost halved for doing the animation this way after a few more summoning and dismissing attempts.

Not bad, even given the initial setup cost in magic and time. If I’d had this back in Ailendamus, we would have saved so much energy re-raising undead! Then again, if I were back there…

He’d have taught Feren, Gewilena, and the others far better necromancy than they’d practiced. Pisces sighed, then began theorizing.

“This is a perfectly acceptable way to summon undead! A useful little trick for me—”

“If you would like a refresher in necromancy basics, we can certainly find an instructor, Adventurer Pisces—”

Delitandra offered, and Pisces blushed again.

“No, no! I just meant I was going to explore the magic itself! You see, my studies with Archmage Amerys—”

He paused, but didn’t get any applause to his mild disappointment.

“—have shown that magic is infinitely mutable if you freecast, rather than use magic ‘as it is’. So, for instance…”

He was breaking down the [Bone Circle: Animate Undead] magic in his head. It was like…slowly removing layers of a simple object or opening a tin can to reveal a complex and far more intricate level of magic beneath.

This is Tier 1 magic, but in its way, it feels harder than studying [Invisibility]. It’s as if modern spellcasting is simplified so that even a Level 4 [Mage] can cast magic. If we had to learn it like the Djinni or Unicorns, it’d take a decade of practice just to cast [Light Arrow]!

And yet, their mastery of the magic would be so complete. Pisces was uncomfortable at the notion he was employing so many shortcuts. However, at the very least, he was gaining understanding, such as…

“Hm. Well, there’s not much to alter in the, ah, ah, bones themselves. Obviously, I could upgrade or make the circle a permanent fixture, and revising the spell into a higher grade version for more powerful undead is elementary.”

He was trying to show off to the Heromakers, or at least, make it feel like he wasn’t wasting their time. They were very good at seeming like whatever he was saying was important, but Pisces just bet he was letting them down. So, somewhat desperately, he picked at the spell and had an idea.

“—But there are superfluous components! I say, what if I just remove this part…here…and then…?”

He scuffed at part of the bone circle, then reconnected the spell. For the first time, Delitandra’s eyes lit up with real curiosity and interest, and Pisces gave her a smile.

“Now, we test the animation spell, shall we?”

“What did you do?”

Pisces poured mana into the bone circle, a bit more than he needed, actually, and frowned. Nothing happened. He coughed, cheeks turning red, as the magically inclined [Trainers] glanced at each other.

“I—well, I thought—maybe I erred in the alteration? I just saw this unnecessary part of the spell.”

“[Necromancers] have used all the spells in this book as a staple for thousands of years, Adventurer Pisces.”

A few bones were rising into the air from the nearby pile, and Pisces wiped his brow in relief. He gestured to the circle as the bones began to rattle, and then he frowned. It was drawing no more power from him; he’d just given it enough to animate maybe four skeletons, rather than one. But…was it pulling from the graveyard around it? Yes, it was!

Death magic was flowing into the bone circle like a vortex. Pisces’ mouth opened. Dead gods, he was a genius! It was such a powerful flow that it actually had a physical effect on the world; the air seemed to darken and grow colder, and one of the Heromakers shivered as it flowed past him.

The power kept increasing. More bones started flurrying into the circle and then around. Then Pisces saw every untethered piece of ivory floating or rolling and rattling towards the circle. He heard a clacking sound, turned, and saw a Skeleton Champion had put a hand on its greatsword.

“Pisces?”

Delitandra saw it too and turned to him. Pisces licked his lips.

“Wait, that’s not what I expected. I only disabled the control spell that binds the undead to me. To save mana costs?”

“The what?”

Every head turned towards him. Pisces took a slow step back.

“Well, it’s only supposed to summon a skelet—”

A shriek split the air, and a pale-green light burst upwards from the circle of bones—along with thousands of bones, femurs, ribcages, skulls—in such a blast of air and power that it sent Pisces sprawling.

He gazed up, open-mouthed, as the wind howled up with the death-magic. Everyone on the beach whirled and stared as the spell sent more and more ivory raising higher…higher…forming the first white mass of ivory, then a jointed limb surrounded by dark shadows. Five curling fingers of bones, lowering to claw at the ground—

The arm of a gigantic undead giant struck the graveyard, and Pisces realized this was no skeleton. This was—

“Stop the spell. Stop the spell!”

Delitandra was shouting and trying to dispel the magic; another [Trainer] hacked at the circle, and their blade bounced off, turned black where it had struck the magic, and then snapped in half. Pisces tried to dispel the magic as well, but he realized, to his horror, it wasn’t his magic any longer.

“Rogue magic.”

He’d just created a self-automating spell, the kind you heard about in legends. Not just that—he was looking at a spontaneous spell summoning what he was almost certain was…

A Bone Giant. Which was amazing. Incredible! Right until he saw the arm and head appearing, saw a giant yellow eye swinging towards him with malice, and recalled that this wasn’t under his command.

It was funny, really. Pisces hadn’t ever really been under threat from an undead; he’d even slain Skeleton Lords in battle. Tolveilouka didn’t count; regular undead didn’t scare him. He was the [Necromancer].

For the first time, he experienced the same robes-wetting fear other people did. The animation spell was getting stronger, and Pisces had a sudden thought as he drew his rapier and began hacking at it with Delitandra.

Wait. After summoning the Bone Giant, will the spell stop? Or will it keep sucking in death magic until it collapses? I just disabled the control spells. No one said this would happen!

No one teaches freeform casting to rookies for a reason.

It was beginning to suck his mana into it. Pisces backed away fast, and he heard a shout.

“Pisces! What are you doing?”

The Bone Giant swung an arm, shattering gravestones, sending the Mentorship running—but an [Ice Wall] blocked it before it could hit one of them. Ceria appeared, firing [Ice Lances] one after another into the Bone Giant’s head.

Her spells didn’t even crack the reinforced bone. She backed up.

“Circlet’s screaming you just created a ‘death spot’. Not a good thing. Break the circle!”

“I’m trying! Get Colth! Get Yvlon!”

Pisces was hacking at it again, and Ceria blasted the circle with ice magic, swore—

“We need enchanted weapons or a high-Tier magic spell! Not death magic!”

She looked at Pisces. She specialized in cold and ice projectiles. He did death magic. They turned to Delitandra.

“I can only cast [Fireball]! Watch out!”

The Bone Giant swung its arm again, and everyone scattered. Pisces saw it was half-formed now, dragging itself forwards, and he bared his teeth.

“We have to stop it. [Shatterbolt]!”

He flicked his ring, and the skull fractured around the spell, then began to repair. Ceria licked her lips.

“Okay, time to level. Delitandra, evacuate the area and get Yvlon and Colth. Ready?”

“Ready. [Drain Death Mana].”

Pisces held out a hand, and the rushing wave of death mana flowing from him and the surroundings halted. A smaller gust of it entered him, reinvigorating him, and the Bone Giant’s glowing pupil narrowed in outrage. Colth had his sword in one hand; Pisces’ Skeletal Champions formed up.

Ceria raised the Crown of Medain to her head, grinning. Teresa Atwood strode forwards, sword drawn.

“Ready!”

Pisces and Ceria turned to her. Ceria opened her mouth, then shrugged. The three warriors began advancing as the giant skeleton raised one fist overhead. It was already able to reach a hundred feet into the air; Pisces sensed its mind, its authority.

Rogue undead. It wanted them all dead, and it knew Pisces could stop it. It took aim at him. Then the two yellow eyes swung past him and narrowed to pinpoints at something else. It switched targets abruptly. Swung its arm as Pisces sensed something coming along the beach at incredible speed. He glanced sideways and saw a man running full-tilt past Colth, Yvlon, and Gazi. He drew back an arm and threw his sword.

Pisces saw Doubte, the Hero of Zethe, raise his arm and then something kicked him off his feet. He landed, wind and sand blasting him, and didn’t see what happened. He did see the Bone Giant’s head explode and the fragments of bone blow out of the back of its head.

“Whuh?”

The [Necromancer] stared up at the sky. Pieces of bone and dust followed a tiny, glowing object—the trail of debris following the weapon that had blown through the Skeleton Giant’s head.

Then the shockwave that had hit him blew the rest of the Skeleton Giant apart. Pisces’ mouth stayed open as the thrown sword halted in the air and zoomed back slower. It dropped down, and the Hero of Zethe caught it. He landed, bringing the sword down on the bone circle.

It exploded with a shower of bones and death magic. Doubte swept his sword around, destroying the circle, and then sheathed the blade. He looked at Pisces, as bones began raining down, and Pisces recognized those iconic pink eyes and remembered Doubte from the ship voyage.

A femur landed on his shoulder, and he flinched. Doubte flicked his eyes around—at the staring Teres, sword raised, Ceria, who was still gaping at the supersonic sword trail in the air, and the Heromakers of Hraace.

He turned to the people watching in the distance and grimaced. Before the cheering could start, before anyone said a word, Doubte strode over, grabbed Yvlon’s arm, and raised it into the air with his sword. By the time people had come running to cheer Yvlon and ask what the hell had happened, he was gone.

 

——

 

Pisces was nursing a lump on his head along with the bruise on his shoulder and his wounded ego. The bump came from his team hitting him.

They’d been clearing up bones and apologizing all morning, and the Hraacians were largely forgiving. It seemed like accidents in training were common, even if Pisces was on the far end of that scale.

What kept the Horns distracted, though, was Hraace’s guest. When they finally got a moment to talk, after the bone cleanup was mostly done, Colth grabbed them and hissed.

“That’s the Hero of Zethe. He’s supposed to be dead. He’s probably one of the most influential people on this continent, and his name is—”

“Doubte. We’ve met.”

Colth stopped, a look of naked surprise on his face, for once. Ceria elaborated.

“On Sand at Sea, when Fetohep took us to fight the Drakes. He was there.”

“He was? I never saw him on the scrying orb.”

“Guy’s good at hiding. He certainly made it look like Yvlon took the Bone Giant out. What the heck was that? Did he just throw his sword so fast it created a shockwave?”

Pisces nodded rapidly, still shaken.

“I—I object to that as well as spellbooks not listing the possible dangers of altering simple animation spells! Swords are not that aerodynamic!”

“You’re just not throwing them hard enough. That’s a [Hero] for you. The [Hero] of this era and the last one. The others don’t even come close, even the [Clown].”

Yvlon frowned at Colth, and he bit his lip. He was shaken, though he was trying to act cool.

“He’s a monster. Definitely over Level 50. Why’s he here?”

“He’s asking the Pedagogia about something. I walked in on him, and he was asking me not to tell anyone he was here. I think he’s trying to keep a low profile.”

“That’s low?”

Yvlon shrugged at Pisces, whose voice was higher pitched than usual.

“He must have thought it was a critical threat. We can certainly ask him what he’s about.”

“Carefully!”

Colth interjected urgently. He was both excited and worried and scratched at his back as if it were itching.

“Dead gods, between Jaganismet, the Quarass, the King of Destruction, and the Hero of Zethe, we’ve run into practically every major threat in the north! But what makes you think he’s coming back or even wants to chat with you, Yvlon? No offense, but he ranks above most Named-ranks.”

It was their captain, Ceria, who replied, steadiest of them all, with that wide grin that said she knew something crazy was about to happen. She fixed Pisces and Yvlon with a considering eye before nodding, turning to Colth.

“Because we knew each other from Sand at Sea, Colth. That’s worth something. I also bet he has opinions on a team that might have a [Hero]. From what I know of him—he’s not a big fan of more people with his class. And last of all? We’ve got his sword.”

Everyone turned to Yvlon, who did indeed have Doubte’s sword buckled at her waist. After a moment, she drew it. It was a bastard sword with a black hilt of polished stone and a long, bright blade that made Colth sigh.

“If he doesn’t come back, can I have it? That’s mithril metal and, what, Chemath Marble for the handle? It’s got to be unwieldy!”

“It’s balanced perfectly. I wonder what enchantment it has.”

Yvlon murmured, swinging the sword carefully. Pisces held his hands out.

“Let me hold it.”

“No, me! I’ve gotta chop something down with it.”

Ceria grabbed at the handle and tried swinging it; everyone ducked, and she accidentally hit the wall of the tent with the blade. Instantly, there was a tearing sound, and the Horns of Hammerad threw themselves flat as something cut around the edge of the tent, where the tip of the blade had struck.

The entire top of the tent tore upwards, and Colth picked himself up as Yvlon seized the blade.

“[Mighty Cleaving] enchantment. Dead gods, the first time I’ve seen that. Let me try to cut the surf in half with it.”

“No, my turn—”

 

——

 

Doubte of Zethe had a headache. Partly from the stress of nearly being revealed, the words the Pedagogia had had about his daughter and son—but mostly about the Horns of Hammerad.

He’d just watched them chop the waves up with his sword for the last hour and hadn’t found a moment to get his blade back. He sat, hoping no one recognized the famous blade’s enchantment, as the Pedagogia finished hearing a report from Delitandra.

“It seems even Pisces did not understand the necromancy he was working. We shall leave it at that; it is proof, if nothing else, the Horns have potential. Though to alter a basic spell so powerfully…be certain no one else ever mentored in death magic does the same.”

Chastened, Delitandra bowed, and Doubte leaned over; they were having an outdoor banquet. He had barely touched the rich food they’d put out for him, and he had his hood up and was deflecting attention from himself as hard as he could.

It was working, ironically thanks to the Horns and Earthers, who were trooping back to the tables to eat. He spoke in a low voice.

“It may be fundamental, how he changed the spell, but no ordinary [Necromancer] could simply create a natural death’s door, Pedagogia. The world resists such changes. He must have a Skill with authority over death in some way.”

“Really. That would do it?”

Even Araxia didn’t know everything, a fact Doubte well knew, and she raised her brows. He nodded tightly.

“Authority matters far more than merely controlling undead. The world acknowledges him in some way. He is dangerous. I have eradicated natural death’s doors before. Left unchecked, that could create a threat any Named-rank adventurer would struggle to halt.”

“Just as well I foretold his team would become important, then.”

The Pedagogia’s voice was smug. It struck a nerve in Doubte as he reached for a giant shrimp, and he had to hold the piece of meat gently to avoid crushing it between his fingers. She acted as he imagined her, and much like his own handlers, with that all-knowing tone of voice…

Araxia’s glance was sharper, though, than Dolaa’s or Teombirthez’s had ever been, and Doubte’s face was too slow to school to impassiveness.

“Ah, I forget myself in front of my esteemed guest. Your distrust of Hraace and our ways is in the sand of your soul itself, Doubte. What can I do to earn this trust? If not for you, then for your children you hope to place in my care?”

He tried to smile at her, naturally, and feared she was as good a dissembler as any of the old monarchs had been. He’d met many; it felt like the newer generation was blunter, quicker to act, though.

The King of Destruction had cut a bloody swathe through rulers who had gotten to where they were by cunning diplomacy and sharpened knives employed sparingly. They had all been under the mercy of Terandrian rule after the last crusades…even the Quarass, who remained sharp and insightful as she had been, had struck him as grandly complacent. He’d remembered her daughter, too, who had not been fit to be the next Quarass, full of ego and treachery.

The new Quarass was more vicious than the other two, and more active as well. As for Hraace? In his day, it had been in disgrace, even more than now; they had raised two [Heroes] to fight Terandrians, and both had died. This Pedagogia was at least more successful than her predecessors.

“If I am…wary, Pedagogia, it is only due to my desire to be anonymous. I am well aware of Hraace’s abilities. I would be content to place my son and daughter into your care, and offer you fitting remuneration for your services.”

She tapped her lips, then picked up a plantain with chopsticks she adeptly wielded and munched on it delicately.

“So you said. You would pay us. This is the first thing we must settle, Doubte, for you know we take little payment.”

“Given that I would ask so much…”

“We teach whom we please, as we see fit. If I read your words, Hero Doubte, you would envision yourself in Hraace, doubtless mentoring your son and daughter as we teach them. It is impolite for me to say this bluntly, but no; that would be a disaster. We would have no authority beyond what you allowed, and you would never let them become what we know they can be.”

“[Heroes], you mean?”

The question came out smoothly, but Doubte’s hand, buried beneath the carpet, crushed sand in his grip. The Pedagogia chewed, swallowed, and drank from a cup.

“Not necessarily. I would judge both, but the children of [Heroes] seldom rise to the same class, except to carry the mantle. We shall not hope for that with you, obviously, but my studies indicate they make for poor [Heroes] in many cases, regardless.”

“Warriors, then, or great leaders. I know what Hraace teaches. They are my children. I do not want them thrust into such roles.”

“We do not do it against their will.”

“But you train them for that role—just as I was trained to mine. I will pay your price for you to give their abilities an outlet, to let them master their strengths, and in return…”

She was shaking her head. Not without pity, but Araxia leaned over as the Horns saw whom she was talking to and halted. Ceria waved; Doubte ignored the Horns as they sat down. This conversation was warded, but he lowered his voice anyways. Araxia did not.

“No, Hero Doubte. As I said, it would be a disaster. You are overprotective of them. I see it; it is a fatherly thing to do, but I do not let [Generals] nor [Kings] interfere with my training. Indeed, if I agree to this, I will insist your offspring come to Hraace now, with no delays. It may be over late as it is.”

“My eldest daughter is sixteen. She has plenty of time—”

“It is too late, Hero Doubte, to instill humility in her, to ground her expectations in the world and herself. Too late to make her a proper, well-adjusted person instead of a contained whirlwind in a too-small bottle. Which is what I do know, from my studies and what I see. Your son you describe as even worse, but the two are clearly bursting to become adventurers, to prove they are the son and daughter of Doubte. Doubte, the Hero of Zethe! They wish for glory, and you know as well as I how it will come to them and change them before they regret it.”

The words were sharp, pointed, and struck him in the heart. He bit one lip as Araxia went on brutally.

“I know your tale, I know how poorly you were used. You do not want that for your children? Good! But you did not raise them as I would have.”

“I kept them away from anyone who knew them. I taught them in a safe, secluded place—”

“Where they never met a peer! Where they knew your story and grew up dreaming of what might be theirs! You planted ambition in them, Doubte! Almost better to let them grow in the lap of luxury and become jaded to it. It would have been best if they had peers they can respect. Tell me, in this village you refuse to name—do they have friends? Equals? Or do they look down on the children who cannot compare with them in any meaningful way?”

Silence. Araxia picked another plantain.

“I am not basing this off of first-hand experience, but literal accounts in books, Hero Doubte. I will take them and try to teach them, but it will be difficult, and I must do it alone.”

“I cannot agree to that. I do not trust you.”

He grated, and she raised her brows patiently.

“Yet you come to me. Which implies you are so desperate because you are losing control and you have nowhere else to turn. What happens when they begin to run away?”

“They cannot…I will look after them.”

“Even a [Hero] cannot be everywhere. Consider what happens if one of them were to speak your name and let your nation, or any nation, realize your daughter is roaming about with some of your talent.”

He did consider that in his darkest dreams. Doubte tried to change subjects, to buy time. Just like he had once studied strategy, then been forced to employ it with living, breathing people who died and moved like puppets under his command.

Hero of Zethe, the boy who’d first cleared the mines, then slain Zethe’s enemies, led armies against their foes…then seen foes within and led rebellion against the rulers. He had watched his nation splinter, succumb to infighting, and rescued it time and time again without ever desiring to rule. Each time he tried to step away, they needed him, and men and women died without his action and cursed his name for failing them.

Until it was too much. Until he had to break or flee and pretend he was dead.

He had bled a thousand bodies’ worth of ichor into the sand, taken more scars than he could heal, even with the greatest potions. He had been used by people he trusted, knifed in the back by almost everyone he had loved and known. He had stained his hands black with gore killing enemies, only to realize he perpetuated misery.

And they wanted to give that burden to more?

“You named a [Hero] among the Horns of Hammerad. Why?”

“I foretold one appearing. Not created.”

She held up a finger, and Doubte growled.

“It is a terrible burden.”

“I know.”

Her eyes. He avoided them, but couldn’t help it. Araxia’s voice was clear and, against his will, he thought, as honest as her thoughts.

“Doubte. I would have retired you long before you vanished. I know the weight of a [Hero]. I do not seek to make one in the Horns. I did foretell it, and I may be wrong or somehow misguided—but I tell you this: I have seen no one in my decades as Pedagogia of Hraace, not one, I would give your weighty burden. Not one to choose to put Chandrar’s hopes and sins on. Yet they arise. If you are wroth with me—what of the Empire of Sands?”

“What of them?”

His eyes jerked up, and he saw her weary green-grey eyes sharpen.

“So you did not sense them? I thought you could. I am told the Empire of Sands has created one.”

“Fools.”

He clenched his hand again, grating. Shaken. Doubte shook his head.

“I—am distracted. There are many things that interfere with that particular sense.”

“Rhir?”

He didn’t answer, but feared his silence gave it all away. Araxia’s face was quite disturbed.

“Foolishness abounds! People think of the time of the Hundred Heroes of Terandria as if it were a great and glorious age. Not that they were so desperate that such classes were needed. Nor do they wonder how terrible those men and women were! Send your children here, Doubte. I implore you.”

“What will you do with them? Humble them first? Shock Neirute and Calithe into obedience?”

Doubte savagely drank from a cup, and now he heard how distrustful his voice was, how bitter. Araxia looked mildly shocked.

“I would do no such thing. I think placing Neirute among the best of the Mentorship and letting her be a young woman among people who are skilled and talented may serve. For Calithe? It may be indecorous, but I would prevail on the best Gold or Named-rank of sound judgment I could. He is a young boy who wishes glory.”

“You’d let him fight?”

“I would let him journey with his heroes and see the truth behind his dreams. If he longs for it, I would see if he can train and humble himself to the work. If he is still impatient, unwilling to learn, I would earnestly come to you before doing anything more drastic.”

That…actually sounded reasonable. Doubte hesitated and exhaled, swayed despite his inner turmoil. He took a gulp of wine and actually tasted it.

“I will consider this, Pedagogia. At the very least, I thank you for your time and secrecy.”

“It is owed to a [Hero], by Hraace if no one else.”

She smiled wanly at him, and he actually nodded and smiled back at her. But then Doubte’s eyes stole to his watchers. The Horns, the Earthers, and to Teresa Atwood most of all.

Yes, she reminded him of Neirute far too much. If she could benefit from Hraace’s training…well, his eyes focused on the sword that Yvlon Byres wore on her side and then them. He had one more loose end to tie up.

 

——

 

“I would prefer it if you did not mention my name, or that I am alive, to anyone you meet. I am dead to the world and prefer it that way. I rode with His Majesty of Khelt because I deemed the cause important, but on Chandrar, I would like to disappear.”

The request from Doubte was reasonable, understandable, and he himself was an unassuming man for a living legend. Unlike Flos, who radiated a certain knowledge of whom he was, Doubte seemed to be a conflict—that of a man trying to be ordinary, bland, a nobody—

And his eyes. The danger radiating off him that the Horns could feel. His deeds, swirling around him much like the wind.

Doubte of Zethe gazed from face to face as he accepted his sword, and Pisces bowed.

“I, ah, apologize for that incident with the skeleton giant, Hero Doubte, and I thank you most profusely for your help! Of course we shall keep your secret.”

“Thank you.”

The man smiled at Pisces, his eyes studying the [Necromancer]’s face. They lit on Pisces’ chest, his rapier and bell, his bag of holding, the rings on his hands—picking out each detail at once, and Doubte offered a hand.

“We did not speak long, but I was sorry to hear of your captivity. You are capable, Necromancer of Izril. Beware making more death’s doors. They are gaping vacuums if left unchecked.”

“Death’s doors? I don’t know the term.”

Doubte scrubbed at his hair, frowning as he thought.

“Most have been eradicated. I was told they were more natural in older days. Like Giants and other mythological monsters, magic wanes, so they occur far less frequently. Yours was small, but could grow. It is a mark of talent.”

“It’s…an honor to hear that.”

Pisces flushed, despite himself, and clasped Doubte’s hand belatedly. They shared a smile, and Doubte nodded.

“I am sure you could have slain the giant—I merely sped up the process. Thank you for your silence.”

He turned to the tent flaps, a brief passing shadow of a bright myth meeting a Gold-rank adventurer who had seen the truth behind the legend, a faint smile upon both’s lips. Then Doubte hesitated because Ceria was blocking the way with Yvlon and Colth.

Pisces turned, and Doubte realized, belatedly, that unlike the rest of his team—

The [Necromancer] was the reasonable one.

“Doubte! Good to see you again! You can’t go so soon! Let me buy you a drink for taking care of the Bone Giant. Our crazy Pisces gets into so much trouble…what brings you to Hraace? You’re a spellcaster swordsman, right? Got a spellbook? I’d love to swap spells. Let’s share a few stories, eh?”

Ceria nudged him, a huge, shit-eating grin on her face, and Doubte hesitated.

“I—am afraid I cannot stay. It is good to see you, Captain Ceria. But I must be riding back the way I’ve come.”

“Nonsense! Come on, one drink? Yvlon’s a huge fan of yours too, and we might never see you again!”

“Quite possibly—”

Doubte sidestepped Ceria, into Yvlon, who was giving him a real Drake smile.

“I’d love to spar, Doubte. My name is Yvlon Byres. Now, some may call me the Silver Killer of Izril, but the truth is…”

He eyed the smile. Tried to get around her, and Colth had his hand out.

“Hero Doubte! Colth the Supporter. From the Adventurer’s Haven? Named-rank. I’d love to ask a few questions to a living legend.”

“I—really have to go.”

“Yes, he really has to go, everyone. Let’s not crowd—aaaah! AAAAH. My scrying orbs!”

Pisces tried to move Ceria out of the way, then doubled over and lay on the ground, clutching at his legs. Ceria rotated her elbow.

“Sorry, Pisces. Doubte, come on, we’re all adventurers here!”

“I am a [Hero].”

“Hero, adventurer—let’s talk about the Mines of Zethe! We have a contract in there, and you know what they say, knowledge is not-dying. I’ll buy you as many drinks as you want. One night! Say, are you married?”

Doubte almost jumped over Yvlon, who was boxing him in, and edged away from Ceria. He paused as what she’d said rammed home.

“Yes. The Mines of Zethe, you said? Don’t go in there. The Chemath Marble isn’t worth dying to the beetles. They’ll kill Gold-rankers like flies.”

“Really? What’ve they got? Armor? Numbers? Abilities?”

“All of the above. I barely survived killing the Beetle Queens, and my friends and trusted companions died down there with tens of thousands of soldiers and even ancient Golems! I would rather send you against an Adult Creler than tell you to go down there! Four Adult Crelers, one for each of you! And where is Ksmvr?”

Doubte’s color was up, but Ceria just kept smiling. She rubbed her hands together.

“Well, we can take one Adult Creler no sweat, so are we one fourth of the way there? One half? It seems to me like you should really talk us out of it, Doubte, or we’ll get ourselves killed, and you can’t have that on your conscience.”

His glare was actually a physical thing; it lit up the replacement tent and pushed Ceria back an inch—right up until Yvlon took Doubte’s hand and shook it.

“A huge honor. I know it’s an imposition, but we are adventurers. One sparring match?”

He looked at her, then Ceria, and then Colth, who was right in the door flaps, clearly ready to intercept Doubte if he got past the two of them. Ceria and Colth had huge smiles on their faces. Yvlon had that tight-lipped smile and face she thought was ‘social’.

…Doubte had never felt a greater desire to hit someone in the last sixteen years.

“One sparring match, then.”

He spoke lightly, and Ceria’s eyes flashed in triumph as Colth cracked his fingers. They filed outside, and Ceria’s voice rose.

“Excellent! Do you need protection spells?”

“I don’t. I’ll keep from hurting you.”

“I like that. You hear that, Colth? We can do our best. Hey, Pisces, come on!”

“My scrying orbs.”

He lay there until Colth came back to drag him out.

 

——

 

Only when he drew his sword did Doubte seem to catch himself and wonder how the hell they’d gotten him into this sparring match.

He wavered, but Gazi, Trey, Teresa, Elena, the Earthers, and the Mentorship of Hraace had gathered on the moonlit beach to watch. Only them; they’d cast a darkness spell to enclose the area, but there were still far too many people for his liking.

“I don’t think this is appropriate, Horns of Hammerad. With respect, I have little to gain from this, and I don’t think I will be that instructive.”

Ceria gave Doubte a huge smile as she stretched; Yvlon was pointing at him as Colth drew on his hand, and Pisces was wincing and holding his groin as Skeleton Champions rose.

“If you run, Doubte, I’ll tell all of Hraace you were here.”

The half-Elf replied sweetly. He frowned. Her face froze over with her [Ice Armor] spell, and she laughed at him.

“Knock me down and I’ll shut up.”

To be fair—they really made it easy for him to want to spar. The Horns spread out as Doubte exhaled. And a bit of competitiveness entered his tired eyes. When Pisces saw that, he was reassured. Rude as Ceria was, there was a warrior here.

And no one, least of all him, could deny that they wanted to see what a [Hero] could do.

There was no gong for the fight. Delitandra had one, but she never got the chance to hit it. Yvlon Byres took a look at Doubte, set with only his sword drawn, a simple traveller’s cloak fluttering around his ordinary clothing, unarmed save for the blade, and charged.

Her fist elongated towards Doubte, then exploded in spikes all the way down her arm. For a second, the onlookers stared in horror.

“Dead gods, Yvlon! Don’t kill him!”

Elena screamed from the sidelines, cupping her hand to her mouth. She leapt to her feet as Doubte was impaled by half a dozen silver spikes—until the wind blew and revealed his cloak, pierced by the spikes, but he was unmoving; a blade of metal passed by his face, but he hadn’t even twitched.

“Okay, that’s super cool.”

Maximillian was recording the entire thing on his phone. Doubte glanced at the phone, frowned at it as Yvlon charged with a shout. She raised her other fist as the spikes of metal prepared to fire again—

Swung and missed.

Doubte was gone. Not ‘gone in the blink of an eye’, but he’d pivoted under the spikes so fast she couldn’t catch him, slid over to Maximillian, and grabbed the phone.

“What—hey!”

Two taps and the phone turned off. Doubte handed it back.

“Please don’t record me with that phone.”

Elena frowned. How the hell did he know what a phone was? Then she saw Yvlon swing. Doubte ducked the punch from behind without turning his head and threw an elbow. Yvlon doubled over with a loud oof.

His fist came up, and he pivoted to punch her—

And side-stepped the first spike of ice that flashed through the spot his head had been and between two Earthers. They leapt aside belatedly as Ceria opened fire.

“Hey, spectators, get behind a [Forcewall] or something, because we’re starting! Pisces, do something!”

The [Necromancer] fired a single [Deathbolt] as Doubte blurred away, side-stepping. Yvlon whirled, and Colth leapt at Doubte, twin shortswords slashing. A grin on his face at odds with the look of concentration on Doubte’s.

“Colth!”

“[Team Attack]!”

Yvlon leapt, both arms exploding into nets of razor-edged metal, not to hit Doubte since Colth was on him, but to block his escape. Ceria fired three [Ice Spikes] as Pisces halted, ready to lunge.

Excellent positioning. The Hero of Zethe was boxed in on two sides with any escape sealed by Ceria and Pisces. He was on the backfoot, sword moving to parry one of Colth’s blades, head turned to clearly see Yvlon in his peripherals, and the ice spikes coming at him—

All in a flash of action so fast the watchers aside from Gazi, Trey, and Teres, and the Mentors could barely follow. But Doubte had that quality of a high-level warrior.

He seemed to be moving in his own time, and even though Colth was fastest of the lot, Doubte was a stage ahead. He saw his position, exhaled—and used a Skill.

 

——

 

“[Blade of Zethe].”

Pisces was tensed, ready to move, heart hammering in his chest oddly. Because it was a duel? Because he was up against Doubte? He didn’t know what to expect, but when Doubte used his Skill, the blow came first—the words later.

It was a slash so fast and hard Pisces barely saw it. He [Flash Stepped] left, parrying the blade, and nearly lost his sword because of it; there was no way he could have stopped that blow without [Joveln’s Parry], and even with it he might have failed.

The blow bisected a Skeleton Champion with a bow in its hands, and left a cut at least half a dozen feet deep in the ground.

Dead gods! Pisces was breathing hard as he swung his rapier up, seeing a notch in the bone-altered blade he quickly repaired. The power of that Skill was like Yvlon’s [Arc of the Moon] Skill, but arguably faster!

Even so, he was fine, and he saw Doubte standing still, sword at his side, and—

Not under attack? Pisces blinked. He’d assumed Doubte had used the Skill on him, but the rest of his team was—

Colth sat up, two dozen yards away, and spat blood from his bitten lip; he leapt to his feet from the place Doubte had kicked him. Yvlon lowered her arms; a cut had nearly gone straight through her braced arms, nearly severing both before halting. Ceria peeked up from her [Ice Wall] and stared at the cracks going almost all the way through it.

“What the hell was that? He got all four of us?”

Doubte was watching Pisces, glancing at Yvlon’s repairing arms as Colth lurked into a shadow, moving to flank. Pisces sidestepped left as Ceria snapped two [Ice Spikes] at Doubte, which he slashed in half with lazy slashes of his sword.

“Not all four. He hit all nine of us, Ceria.”

“All nine? Wh—”

Ceria turned and saw all but two Skeleton Champions were down. Two were riven clean in half by a diagonal and horizontal slash; their bones were trying to reform as another staggered upright, visibly dented along the rib cage. All of them showed damage, even the ones still in one piece.

The [Blade of Zethe] Skill had hit everyone. It was like some kind of insane multi-attack against anything Doubte could reach. Pisces felt a sweat break out on his brow.

Okay, he’s definitely over Level 50. That was an insane Skill! That was—

“That’s his Level 20 Skill. Get ready. On three!”

Colth’s whisper came through a speaking stone he’d given Pisces, and the [Necromancer] stiffened. His Level 20—?

[Heroes] didn’t strike Pisces as quite fair.

 

——

 

Delitandra had a scrying mirror in her hands as she tried to connect to Wistram or any television network in the world. She’d waited until Doubte was distracted; he had eyes in the back of his head.

But the world had to see this. The Horns of Hammerad, whom she’d backed, were fighting a [Hero]. It would add to their already-famous names.

Delitandra was trying to get the moving fight in the frame of the scrying mirror, as well as herself.

“Damn—is it on yet? This is why you need that stick! Hello, world! I am Delitandra of the Mentorship of Hraace, and I am bringing to you the spar of the century! Here we have none other than the Horns of Hammerad and the Hero of Zethe himsel—”

She was just speaking into the mirror as the connection stabilized when Pedagogia Araxia did a flying jump-kick and hit Delitandra so hard her niece keeled over and lay on the ground in so much agony she was silent, mouth open, clutching at her side.

Araxia caught the mirror, cut the connection, and flicked it to a supporter.

“Keep recording. But don’t transmit anything. The Horns of Hammerad don’t need this imagery—yet.”

Her eyes remained focused on the battle, and she smiled as she put a foot on Delitandra’s back. Not yet—but dead gods. The King of Destruction would have paid good money to see this.

 

——

 

Yvlon Byres charged. It was her main attack; she had no ability to fight at long-range. She could elongate her arms, morph them, but at the end of the day, she excelled where her strength and adaptable arms could come into close-range fighting.

Unfortunately, Doubte wasn’t in the mood to prolong the fight. He was glancing around for Colth as the [Supporter] circled, invisible. When Colth leapt out of Doubte’s shadow, blades crossed to draw, Doubte whirled.

He deflected Colth’s blade, tossing him back into the onlookers with sheer strength, threw up his offhand, blasted Pisces with a mass of flames that sent the [Necromancer] yelling backwards, and cut one of Yvlon’s arms off.

It was effortless. Yvlon stared at her stump spurting blood along with Doubte, and for a nanosecond, his eyes opened in horror. He must have thought the blood meant she felt it or that her arms were still real; he deflected a trio of [Ice Spikes], turned his head, and she raised her arm and tried to spurt blood into his face to blind him.

He ducked it, spun away, but didn’t hit her; Yvlon sealed the blood running through her limb, picked up her arm, and put it back on. Then she went after him again.

“Come on, come on—he’s fast!”

Doubte was too fast for the Horns to lock onto and surround; he evaded Pisces’ Skeleton Champions as Yvlon raced after him, and he went for Ceria.

She’d given up trying to tag him with [Ice Spikes], let alone [Ice Lance]. Instead, the [Cryomancer]’s pale blue eyes were glowing. She was drawing the heat out of the air, and frost was growing on his armor when he leapt, slashing through her first [Ice Wall]. Pisces leapt on him with blade swinging.

Doubte sundered Pisces’ rapier, but the [Necromancer] had cast [Deathbolt] with his offhand. Doubte saw it coming, raised his own offhand, and swatted the [Deathbolt] straight into Yvlon. She slowed a step, and he turned on Ceria, who swore, fired an [Ice Lance] point blank, and watched him slice it in half and come up, sword hilt twisting to slam into her head.

And Colth stabbed him.

It wasn’t deep, and Doubte was whirling the moment the [Supporter] appeared, but Colth’s armor, made with Stalker’s hide, had hidden him. Unlike his stealth Skill, this was real invisibility; he slashed across Doubte’s back, opening up the plain clothing and drawing a red line.

“Got him! Don’t hurt him badly, Colth!”

Ceria leapt away, skating backwards along the freezing beach as she cast [Ice Spike]. Colth was slashing at Doubte in close-combat as Yvlon finally caught up, and the [Hero]’s blade was a whirl, parrying both blades and blade-arms, as Pisces assembled the four Skeleton Champions who’d put themselves together.

When he saw Doubte whirl and scatter Colth and Yvlon, Pisces sent the Skeleton Champions in. They charged with a clatter of bones and stopped Doubte for about two seconds. Then Pisces was [Flash Stepping] away, firing [Deathbolts] as on the other side Ceria shot as many ice spells as she could.

Neither one had a chance of hitting the [Hero]. Pisces knew Ceria was still lowering the temperature on him from the way he raced after her, which meant it was Pisces’ moment to now open up with the big spells.

…Which he had.

Definitely.

Bone Behemoth? Too slow and unwieldy, he’ll cut it or ignore it. Bone Horrors? He can cut through bones with ease. [Shatterbolt]? If I can’t hit him with [Deathbolt]…[Arc of Midnight] is slow—

It was the same problem Pisces had sensed against Bograms. Rapier was one thing, his undead another, but he lacked the pivotal punch of Yvlon, who was already rolling up. Colth as well. Even Ceria had big ice magic, but Pisces?

He could…animate a structure? He was a [Necromancer of Reclaimed Grandeur], but he didn’t know his new class. Not yet. He could use [Monumental Animation]…wait, was that why the Bone Giant had emerged? But what could he do against Doubte?

There was no Maze of Shields to animate, no Crossroads of Izril. Pisces bit his lip as Ceria leapt onto the waves and began skating out to sea, thumbing her nose at Doubte. In response, he kicked a wall of sand at her with such force Pisces heard her coughing and swearing as it hit her.

Pisces had to do something. The [Hero] was either getting bored or mad; he saw Yvlon and Colth running at him and used another Skill.

“[Sword Art: The Great Desert Howls].”

“Yvlon, Colth, look o—”

That was the last thing Pisces heard for a while. When he picked himself up—again—he saw a vortex of wind, a tornado, blasting upwards diagonally, following Doubte’s thrust. And a tiny silver figure, which was Yvlon, falling into the sea far beyond Ceria, who turned her head back to Doubte with a lot less confidence as he faced her. Colth was still flying, being tumbled helplessly through the air.

“Pisces! Good time to do something! Circlet—let’s do it!”

Ceria had switched to the Crown of Medain for the start of this fight, but she pulled her repaired bone-white circlet onto her head. Her eyes flashed as Pisces closed his eyes.

“Activate the—shit—”

The sound of ice shattering marked the moment Doubte leapt across the waters and headbutted her straight down into the surf. Which left only Pisces. His Skeletal Champions charged across the beach to buy him time as Pisces saw Doubte walking towards him.

When he’d drawn his sword against the King of Destruction, he’d been summoning…something. He hadn’t known what at the time, but the Stellar Ivory…

…Floated out of his bag of holding as Pisces recalled that desperation. That flash of need to fight. Doubte had brought it out, and now Pisces saw bones swirling again, trying to match an image in his head.

An idea. A concept. It might be wrong. It might be weak. But if he were to fight monsters—Pisces understood, now, what he had been trying to make. It was wrong and not strong enough yet. But his eyes opened as he saw the vision of a new creation.

Pisces began to summon his latest undead. Unfortunately for him—the Hero of Zethe took that moment to punch Pisces straight in the jaw. The [Necromancer]’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed, and the undead with him.

Doubte paused, breathing a bit hard, and eyed the bone creation that began to break apart.

What the hell was that?

The Horns of Hammerad were down, and Doubte rubbed wearily at his brows. Well. He turned to go, satisfied, vaguely, with that display.

…Until he saw the Ice Squirrel rising out of the water on a frozen throne of ice, the Silver Killer walking out of the surf, liquid dripping from her arms like dark blood, and Colth the Ultimate Supporter’s arrow hit the ground in front of him. Doubte turned, and Pisces—

Well, he was still unconscious. The Horns stared at their unconscious [Necromancer], and Ceria shouted.

“Time out! Round two in one second!”

 

——

 

Doubte had fought better.

He didn’t mean that the Horns of Hammerad were any ordinary warriors, of course. They deserved their ranks, but the fact that only Colth had landed a blow fit; Named-ranks were Doubte’s threats in a warzone.

But he had fought better. He was a [Hero]. There was no class who matched him at his level. Or if there was, Doubte had never run into it.

Also fair to say was that this was no battle to the death. Doubte never underestimated people when they were fighting with their lives on the line. He could still remember the days when the most unexpected of foes could best him, like the time a boy had met a Garuda drinking in the pub and nearly been gutted by Chandrar’s finest [Spearmaster].

Yet and yet. That wasn’t what set the Horns of Hammerad apart, what gave Doubte’s skin a light sheen of perspiration in the chilled night air and even provoked an odd sense of…intimidation.

It was their earnesty, the way they gathered around in a group huddle after reviving Pisces, and the clear hiss he heard from Ceria as they planned a second match. So much so that he’d forgotten he’d never agreed to it. What they said, what Doubte had never actually heard before, was—

“Guys, what in the name of Erin’s sock drawer are we doing? We’re getting flattened by one [Hero]. Come on, get it together.”

“He’s so damn fast, Ceria. And I was trying to figure out my new undead—”

Pisces muttered. Colth cut him off with a hiss that Doubte still heard.

“Stop experimenting and get your head in the fight, Pisces!”

“Right, sorry. But if we can’t surround him and he uses his Skills—”

Yvlon whispered to Ceria.

“Let me get my hands on him. I just need an opening.”

“Any of us need an opening and we’ll get him. Got it, Pisces? If you can’t figure out a spell, hit him in the brass orbs.”

The rest of the Horns nodded, and Pisces stole a glance at the Hero of Zethe. He sniffed and wiped at his nose.

“…Do you think he can hear us?”

“So? We can take him.”

They believed it. That was what left Doubte genuinely shocked. He had just conjured a tornado with a blade art. Most warriors, even Gold-rank adventurers, took one look at that and decided they were outmatched.

But Yvlon was staring him down, and Colth was grinning. There was no fear in Ceria’s eyes, only a kind of delighted menace. Even Pisces just straightened and nodded, as if he were worried this would hurt or they’d injure Doubte.

They believed it. This was no bravado; it was in their very souls. It was—

They faced Doubte, and he was the one who wavered. For he was the Hero of Zethe.

He.

Cheated.

He had been granted powers that he desired, then came to regret. The power to understand. The Skills that had ultimately broken his faith in his nation and people had kept him alive against the greatest threats. And he was using them now. He didn’t just hear the Horns’ talk and take it at face-value.

He heard their thoughts.

The [Hero] of Zethe could read minds and hearts. When he gripped his sword with two hands, he could tell that the Horns were spreading out and even got the battle-plan; they’d open up with a volley that was a feint for a four-person charge into close-range melee. Ceria would activate [Stoneskin] and Yvlon her [Aspect of Iron] Skill; they’d literally take him to the ground and ‘Bograms’ him.

Doubte had an image of an invisible monster being beaten down from all sides as proof of what that meant. But he was also listening to their individual thoughts, which only added to his sense of…odd intimidation.

Yvlon’s mind was like a piece of metal being beaten by everything. Grief, pain, uncertainty—but all it revealed was more metal. Metal all the way down, baked in the glow of rage. And her thoughts were—

“I have to beat him. He’s like Mars. Hit him. Hit him. He’s no Tolveilouka. If I can’t kill him, I can’t protect anyone else. Just grab him. Grab him, Byres. Grab him and lose your temper.”

Doubte shifted, uneasy, as waves of unstable rage bubbled up under the container of her will.

Don’t let her grab you was his analysis. The second mind was even more disconcerting.

“—can’t animate that. It’s not right. Why do I think of…? Is that even combat-viable? Hit him in the brass orbs? Where does that expression even come from? But if I can’t even best a single [Hero] with my team, the Necromancer or Yazdil will be insurmountable—”

The Necromancer? The Necromancer of Terandria? He was alive?

There was a reason Doubte stayed hidden. He learned too much. And Pisces was viewing him or the Naga as a threat? That…did put Doubte into perspective. The half-Elf, Ceria’s mind, was even odder. Her mind was running cool, and as he touched it, he sensed something strange, like a vast presence under frozen ice. A presence running through the crystal stream of her thoughts, the waters brilliant with intelligence…hiding something else.

“I should keep in touch with Doubte. He’d make good backup if we ever went up against Cognita. Real second-stringer energy. I wonder how fast she’d kill him.”

Then the second consciousness surfaced and, to Doubte’s alarm, spoke.

“He is in your mind.”

“He is? Damn, no wonder he’s got us! Quick, think of eating roaches! Eating my own shit! Think of being stabbed in the face!”

Ceria’s grin shifted as she figured out his trick. Unnerved, Doubte made a mistake and kept probing the final Horn of Hammerad. He touched Colth’s mind and heard an odd, polite voice.

“Hello, Hero Doubte, Colthei is not available at this moment to answer any questions. Please try again later. AND PREPARE TO DIE, YOU PIECE OF SHIT.”

This time, it was accompanied by a real psychic stab that made Doubte recoil and wince. Two of the Horns had psychic shielding? At least when he tried to read past their surface-layer thoughts. But each one looked at him—and straight through him.

Like he was some kind of stepping stone to their real goals. He was the Hero of Zethe! Greatest warrior of his era.

The Hero of Zethe felt—old. And for once, less than confident in his victory.

Then the Horns of Hammerad came at him with a combined shout of wild bravery and madness.

Adventurers.

 

——

 

Doubte of Zethe left Hraace with a promise to consider their offer, a few light bruises, and a copy of the recording of his sparring match with them.

He’d extracted a promise from Araxia never to share the recording except with his permission and accepted the fight recording to show his wife. He made the mistake of stowing it with his regular possessions, where he would bear it back home…but forgot that his children might find it.

However, that was a story for another time. The story of right now was Teresa Atwood wistfully throwing stones into the sea. Doubte had practically ignored her, along with Gazi’s requests for duels after the Horns.

“Life’s not fair, Trey.”

He just eyed his sister. Minizi was swinging her sword, trying to fight an oversized crab that had crawled onto the beach; they were having a duel for the ages in the surf. She was as pumped as Teres was after the battle.

Trey just looked over his shoulder at the aftermath of the spar. He stared at a half-Elf who had been buried up to her feet in the sand by one of Doubte’s Skills; the Mentorship had finally dug Ceria out, and she emerged red-faced, gasping, and swearing.

They still hadn’t found Colth from wherever Doubte had blown him. Yvlon was being tended to as they tried to reattach both severed arms and her foot. She was mostly just glaring as she sat, denuded of all but one whole limb.

Pisces, the one in the best condition after he’d woken up because Doubte had taken it easy on him, was glumly gluing together one of his glaring Skeleton Champions’ heads.

“[Heroes].”

Trey shuddered.

 

——

 

Twelve days after their training began, Mrsha called. It was not the first time she’d appeared, and the little Gnoll girl found the Horns nursing their injuries from yesterday’s sparring with Doubte.

“She’s so cute!”

That was an exclamation from one of the Earthers, which normally would have put Mrsha’s teeth on edge, but the girl seemed busy today. She scribbled a note as Ceria twisted around, mid-munch.

“Mrsha? Hey, there you are! What happened to daily check-ins? Elena, get over here!”

Hello, Ceria, it is I, again. I have been slightly busy, for which I apologize profusely. Weekly check-ins are more practical at this stage except in special cases like Ylawes. Is everyone alive? You have a black eye.

“This? I just got punched by, uh, a training partner. We’re in Hraace.”

Mrsha noted this down. She squinted as Elena dashed over. Instantly, Elena dropped to one knee to wave a hand at the spectral Gnoll girl.

“You’re Mrsha, aren’t you? Hello! I’m Elena. I’m journeying with the Horns of Hammerad. They got me out of the King of Destruction’s care…have you talked to Cara? Can you take a message to her?”

Mrsha blinked and began taking furious notes as Ceria tried to clarify. The [Beautician] was so frantic to get the information across that Ceria grinned as Pisces was slowly dragged out of his bedroom by Yvlon and Colth, still wrapped in his sheets.

“Don’t worry, she’s not on a time limit, Elena. Mrsha can run a message to your friend, unless she’s permanently warded, right, Mrsha?”

The Gnoll girl held up a card.

As a matter of fact, good sir or madam, I am busy today for reasons I cannot disclose.

“Oh? Everything alright in the inn?”

Mrsha fumbled a few cards, and Elena read them as the girl picked them up and tried to wave at the other Horns at the same time.

 

Mother, I am going to be just outside the inn with Chieftain Rags, today. I trust that is acceptable? Can I not have Ser Dalimont or Ushar? The Goblins make fun of him, and I am uncool.

If I am not in communication for my weekly check-in, please assume Nanette will take the responsibilities over as she is able.

 

The girl hurriedly snatched the cards up and held one out to Ceria, who read it.

“Selys has left Liscor? Whoa. Inn’s okay except for weirdness with—you hired who?”

“Whom, Ceria. Mrsha, hello. Have you heard anything about Erin or seen Ama? I was—they hired Elia Arcsinger?”

Mrsha patiently placed a few cards on the ground summarizing events in the inn as the Horns exclaimed. Elena was more focused on Cara, and Mrsha scribbled on a card and held it up.

I will second your message to Cara O’Sullivan if I can, Elena. Should I have her contact you via [Message] spell or should I just reassure her you’re well?

Elena turned to Ceria.

“Wow, she’s so…erudite. That’d be great. I need to prepare the message with a few special phrases so she knows I’m okay. Can you give me five minutes?”

Mrsha nodded, shifting from foot to foot, occasionally tapping a card or writing an explanation as Pisces, Ceria, and Yvlon asked questions. After she’d caught them up and written down Elena’s message verbatim, she held up the final card.

It’s good to see you all. The inn’s like it always is—don’t worry, we’re doing everything we can in Erin’s absence. I might not check in at the usual time, but I’ll message you when I can. And contact Cara, Elena!

She smiled, and Ceria glanced at Pisces, who crouched down.

“And Lyonette and Ishkr are both well? The inn is well-defended, Captain Todi and Elia Arcsinger aside?”

So I believe. You stay safe, Pisces. I’ll tell Ksmvr you’re all okay except for the bruises.

“No, don’t tell him that. And…tell us if he’s not doing well. I know he’s hard to contact in Baleros.”

Yvlon interjected, and Mrsha nodded. She vanished without further ado, and instantly, Pisces turned to Ceria. They exchanged a wordless glance, and Colth spoke.

“She seems oddly stressed. I’ve only seen her a few times, but normally she’d be asking about Hraace and demanding to be made a [Hero]. Think it’s trouble?”

“If it is, she wasn’t warning us. It might just be drama. Like Selys leaving the inn?”

“Want to bet it’s low-level?”

Ceria muttered, and Pisces bit his lip. Yvlon was the one who squared her shoulders.

“Nothing we can do about it but trust our friends are there. And Elia. When we get back, we’ll have to find a proper guard instead of her.”

Ceria punched a hand into her fist.

“Right. Agreed. Let’s focus on getting what we can out of Hraace. Doubte kicked us around like Bronze-ranks yesterday. Everyone needs to try harder—except you, Pisces.”

She grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back. Pisces spluttered as Ceria nearly strangled him.

“What? I worked as hard as everyone else! It’s not my fault he hit you all twice as hard as me.”

She gave him a knowing look as Elena began to pursue Yvlon to do her hair. Ceria leaned over.

“I saw what you were trying to summon when Doubte was fighting us. That’s your new undead?”

Pisces blushed instantly, squirmed, and began to talk rapidly, but Ceria threw an arm around his shoulder.

“I have a special appointment for you. Hraace’s got everything. You take a visit to them; I’ve got a date with an [Enchanter] about my clothing.”

Delitandra was waiting to take Pisces to a set of buildings by a natural outdoor pool and what looked like outdoor gardens near the edge of the city. He stared at her, then at the rest of his team, before he realized where he was booked. Then he protested, mainly on the grounds that—

“I’m not saying I don’t need a session, but truly, what about Yvlon? Colth? Ceria?”

Delitandra and several muscular men and women gently herded him towards the building, smiling.

“We tried, and they all threatened to hurt us, Adventurer Pisces.”

 

——

 

Nawalishifra didn’t like lying on beds or couches or walking while talking. Instead, she suffered the conversation only while she was allowed to sieve iron ore, a process in making the pure metals she worked with. She obsessively filtered the iron again and again, even washing it with an alchemical liquid that wouldn’t corrode the metal—wasting a lot of the iron to maximize its purity.

She spoke, distracted, in a snappy, argumentative tone of voice, but the [Thought Healer] just sat there and talked, reasonable and calm. Not ‘soothing’, which Nawal would have taken to be patronizing, but at a slower tempo, like someone having a slow debate.

“I made a mistake with my vow. There, that is my great issue, and you may note it down and let me go, very well?”

Nawal confessed after the fourth day of this…whatever it was. She didn’t need it. She would have preferred to be learning more techniques in the forges or making metal, but they’d insisted, and Trey had talked her into it.

“What’s the mistake, Nawalishifra?”

“The mistake is—Zeikhal’s sands, but I was a fool with nothing between my ears but grief and the damned blade I made—the mistake was swearing not to forge a blade! A fool’s vow, but one I must keep because I have forsaken all other oaths. Do not tell me it is silly! I know it is. I hate making shields and armor and—jewelry.”

Nawal’s voice was filled with contempt. She tossed the cleaned iron ore down and picked up her hammer, tapping the container and compacting the ore. The [Thought Healer] made a neutral sound.

“Is this a lack of interest in forging those objects or forging in general?”

The former [Smith] of Clan Tannousin shrugged.

“I have not made a blade since I vowed it, so I do not know.”

“But you told me you loved the act of smithing, of making pure metals in your clan’s traditions. Can you not feel that when you make your shields?”

“No. So perhaps it is all bile on my tongue and coating my forge. Bile and imperfection and rot, like scaling, and it is being baked onto my soul. Fix that, then, with your words and Skills.”

The [Thought Healer] waited as Nawal filled a new container with more iron to process. She’d been given mithril and other rare minerals and metals from the fallen meteor. But she was working with iron.

“We all lose interest in our professions from time to time, Nawal. Passion is hard to maintain. You have suffered a great betrayal. But tell me—we’ve talked about your error at the siege of Reim, forging the cursed blade. Did you think on any other mistakes that were made?”

“What, my clan lying to the King of Destruction? I say again, we were fools and I was the [Smith]. There’s nothing else to say.”

Nawal thought she heard a man’s voice in the healer’s clinic, a familiar one. The [Necromancer]? She nearly drew her veil across her face again; her [Thought Healer] was a woman, so Nawal had left it off. But then she wondered what the point was; she was not a Tannousin.

She was just Nawal. Her movements slowed, and the [Healer] interjected, probing carefully, but like someone with a poker, trying to untangle something dangerous and sharp from a bush of pointy, yet fragile brambles.

“Your father made the Naq-Alrama ingots that were flawed, Nawal.”

“I bear Tannousin’s shame. I should have seen the flaws; I helped him prepare the materials. I covered up their worthlessness.”

Nawal responded so fast that the [Healer] said nothing and let the [Smith] listen to her own words bouncing back to her. Savagely, Nawal hammered the iron dust in the new container.

“He was dying. He was a great [Smith]. One of Tannousin’s finest in living memory!”

“I’m not trying to imply he wasn’t, Nawal. But…let me ask you another way. Did he do nothing wrong?”

The [Smith] said nothing, eyes darting to the woman, to her work, as if trying to evade a trap. The [Healer] went on.

“We are the Mentorship of Hraace, Nawal. We record history and spread stories. If you had the ability, how would you write the events that led to the disaster at Reim? Would you put any blame on your father or take it all upon yourself?”

It seemed like Nawal was trying to draw in on herself. She hunched over, trying to hide away, drawing her veil…but when she looked around and saw the closed door, the room meant to be comforting with no one else to hear her, the words spilled forth like a crack in the stone.

“It’s not fair. He was never a perfect father or he would have named me a [Smith] and let me forge the steel under his guidance. He always had hopes for my worthless brother, who tried to sell me like a [Slave]. But he taught me how to hold the hammer. He made great Naq-Alrama steel. Why can I not remember him for that? Why—did he leave me with all this to carry?”

She raised the hammer to smash the iron ore and table to bits, then lowered it, arm shaking. The [Thought Healer] sat there as Nawal wiped at her eyes.

“Which matters more to you, Nawalishifra? The metal being impure or how your father, your clan, treated you? I’m sorry. It’s a harsh question.”

Nawal choked back a wet laugh and shrugged. She tried to smile, but her face was twisted up, and she had to put down the hammer to scrub at her face.

“Metal is harsh. The forge is harsh. You know the answer. I…I care about the metal, because that was the only way I had respect from anyone else. Now I’m alone. Trey and Teresa are the only people who even care for me.”

“And Venith Crusland.”

“I am alone, with three people who would speak my name when I am dead, with a vow I don’t want to keep—what am I supposed to do?”

Tears were running down past her veil, now. Nawal stumbled back, and the [Healer] urged her into a chair. She sat there, hiccuping, trying to stem the unsightly tears, until she felt better. She would have continued, but the [Healer] declared this was more than enough today.

She took Nawal outside, where the [Smith] could sit, drink one of the fruit drinks, and even dip her toes in the swimming pool. Nawal, who had grown up in the great desert, couldn’t swim, but swimming lessons and the water were a good distraction for her.

She sat there, sniffing, wiping at her eyes, thinking of all the things that had led her here and the healer’s advice.

I can be anything I want, now. I can leave it behind. But to do what? Nawal tried to imagine making a living making armor in another city or continuing with the King of Destruction. And she was honestly only doing that for Trey and Teresa and…

Her thoughts were in such a muddle that she didn’t pay attention to her surroundings or the sweating glass of chilled Prelon juice until someone stormed out to throw himself into a chair by the pool.

“—And furthermore, I would like to point out that ‘confutation’ is a perfectly reasonable, nay, elementary word to use in regular discourse! Nor are [Necromancers] generalizable in the means you describe! We are highly idiosyncratic individuals, and we often animate undead purely based on technical achievements! There is no assumed, personal relationship between our creations and our personalities or past traumas! The Necromancer is a banal example! So is the Putrid One!”

He shouted at someone who decided that pursuing Pisces at this time was unnecessary. The [Necromancer] folded his arms and fumed for a solid minute until he realized Nawal was sitting there, staring at him. He nearly leapt into the pool.

“Oh, er, the smith! Nawalishifra, isn’t it? I, ah, didn’t see you there. Good morning. I was just—this is a quite objectionable facility, isn’t it? Too prying. And their classes! Is this some kind of charity location for [Healers] who failed to cure the body?”

He was fired up. Nawal almost said something mocking, until she remembered how she’d first interacted with this place when Trey had gotten her to come here. Instead, she nodded neutrally.

“They are…hard to talk to. I have been here for the last few days. What of you?”

“I just came here because I was forced to. Escorted practically at sword-point. All because Ceria saw—well, what are you here for, Miss Nawalishifra?”

He used her full name, which she appreciated. She answered honestly and was amazed how it felt good to say.

“I am here because my clan abandoned me, because I no longer care for my work, and because Trey is afraid I will throw myself into the sea and drown.”

Pisces hesitated. His eyes flickered, and he rubbed at his chest for some reason.

“That’s, er—a compelling reason. I have, ah, a few reasons to be here, one supposes, but—you seem to have a promising future. You’re quite high-level, or so I understand, Nawalishifra?”

She shrugged.

“I wouldn’t throw myself into the water and drown.”

“Ah, exactly!”

“It’s a waste of water. I’d walk into the desert.”

“Aha…well, it is good to talk to people about this sort of thing.”

Pisces swallowed, and Nawalishifra had the distinct impression that if she tried to get into the pool, he’d throw himself at her. She smiled at that. He was definitely Izrilian; few people asked so much about her so quickly as he and Teres and Trey.

“If it is not rude, and sands of Chandrar sweep over me if it is, why are you here, Adventurer Pisces? I would have thought the half-Elf with the broken circlet that addles her mind needs this place more than you. Or the woman with weak metal arms.”

The [Necromancer] looked gratified at this semi-compliment.

“Ceria? Yvlon? That’s what I said, but they were apparently obstreperous about the issue. As was Colth. Being the reasonable member of the team prone to civil discourse, I seem to have been made the scapegoat.”

Nawal squinted at Pisces. He spoke like a [Mage].

“I don’t know that word. Obstrep…? And what is a scapegoat? What monster?”

He blinked at her, then flushed for reasons beyond her.

“Er, I apologize. I meant they threatened to stab or punch anyone who took them here, and a scapegoat is…not a monster. It’s the person saddled with an onerous—a chore no one wants.”

“Ah. I am a scapegoat for my clan’s sins.”

“I see…er…well, if you don’t mind me asking, you are the famed [Smith] of Clan Tannousin, aren’t you? Naq-Alrama steel?”

It was funny. All her comments to Trey about the fame of her clan and his lack of knowledge had made her so mad—until he’d revealed he’d come from another world. Now someone did know her reputation, a foreigner, and she felt none of the vindication and joy and pride. She answered Pisces matter-of-factly, giving him the rundown on her clan’s famous metal.

She expected him to be bored and vanish, but to her surprise, Pisces listened with a keen ear.

“Ah, so it does degrade? I thought, when I saw the King of Destruction harm a Djinni with the metal, when he was immolated—I thought it was a symptom of its incompleteness.”

“Partially, but the metal wears down faster than Adamantium or mithril. Hence why blades do not endure over millennia. And you cannot enchant them…”

He was nodding. By now, he’d told her something of his nature, a [Necromancer], and paused as if expecting her to be horrified. They were having a conversation by the poolside, and Nawal had moved to dipping her feet in the water.

“You know, there’s a famous [Smith] in Esthelm we were acquainted with. A Dwarf.”

Nawal almost rolled her eyes. Here came the silly comments. Everyone knew a [Smith] and fancied theirs was as good as Tannousin’s clan. Then again…given how everyone had failed so royally, she supposed they were. Nawal had asked banal questions of the [Necromancer], so she nodded with a fake smile.

“Does he make great metal for you? Your rapier, which broke in half? Yvlon’s…fantastic arms? Other bits of metal for your team, who wears leather?”

Pisces sat there with a thoughtful look, scratching at his chin.

“You know, it occurs to me we never prevailed on Master Pelt for anything. I don’t believe I thought I could afford his work, and I wasn’t using my rapier as well.”

Nawal stopped sipping on her drink.

“Pelt? As in…Pelt the Hammer of Deríthal-Vel?”

“Ah, so his reputation isn’t exaggerated?”

“E-exaggerated? He’s the greatest smith living! He and Forgemaster Taxus, if he’s still alive, or Demastel—they’re the legendary team who forged the best metal for over a century! He could forge Naq-Alrama steel! He has done! You met him? I thought he was working at Pallass in disgrace! A worthless drunk!”

“Er, yes, well. He moved. I think he’s back to forging Adamantium, actually.”

“He is? I mean, I knew that, I write his apprentice. But you actually know him? Tell me everything!”

The [Thought Healers] were, of course, monitoring their two charges, waiting for Pisces to cool down, but also hoping for at least a favorable interaction between him and Nawal. If they had started fighting, the two would have been brought back to their sessions.

Nawal practically climbing onto Pisces’ chair to shake him repeatedly was…well, they continued listening mostly because Delitandra thought this was all fascinating. And if the [Smith] and Pisces entered an intimate moment, they’d also be fulfilling Adventurer Colthei’s rather difficult request…

 

——

 

There was no intimacy beyond the two finally trying the pool out as they chatted. Pisces was regaling Nawal with tales of Pelt and a strange [Innkeeper] that he had to be making up. She said as much.

“This woman you speak of, Erin Solstice, is more like a Djinni, no—a Jinn, the half-mortal beings of magic. She did not do half the things you claim.”

“Ah, but she did.”

His eyes lit up when he talked about her. And Nawal almost believed there was a silly, charming young woman in an inn who could talk to legends and pull magic out of her literal flaming hat. She kicked her legs on the edge of the pool, nervously holding to the edge, as Pisces finally came out with why he was here.

“I suppose I’m…here because I was made a [Slave] for a few weeks. A highly unpleasant experience.”

Nawal reached for a veil she didn’t have to draw over her face to hide Pisces’ embarrassment.

“That is painful, so I am told. I am…sorry to hear it.”

He nodded tightly, and she realized he hadn’t taken off his robes because there was something on his chest, visible from beneath the sodden cloth.

“I was talking with the [Thought Healer] assigned to me—and it did occur that perhaps I had an edge case scenario around my father.”

“Oh, was yours a…disappointment too?”

“He beat me when I failed to live up to his expectations.”

“Ah. Mine too.”

Pisces nodded, relieved.

“A petty man, but hardly the kind of thing I need to receive healing for. He did—his actions as well as that of others led to the death of my only friends when I was a boy.”

“Ah. Oh.”

“—And I suppose I have guilt from Wistram, when I caused a magical accident that murdered one of my friends and killed dozens of others. Or my persecution as a [Necromancer]—but this is hardly anything special, for an adventurer, you understand. The main reason I was here was because my Captain, Ceria, saw that I was animating a new undead that—uh—well—looked potentially like someone I knew.”

The [Smith] stared at him. Pisces reddened, coughed a few times, sniffed once, and spoke before lowering his face into the water and blowing bubbles out of his mouth.

“The—the [Innkeeper].”

So he had tried to make an undead in the shape of the same woman he had described who was definitely alive? Nawalishifra counted on her fingers, then twisted around.

“…Is the [Thought Healer] still around?”

“I’m perfectly fine! Yvlon, now, she could benefit from this entire moment—”

Pisces tried to stop Nawal, but the [Smith] was rising to find a [Healer], and he flailed about in the pool, shouting at her and the kindly [Healers].

“It is not a maternal complex! I do not have abandonment issues, nor is it sexual! Ignore all other [Necromancers] as examples!”

 

——

 

That evening, Pisces and Nawal returned from their time in what the Earthers called ‘therapy’, chatting rather amiably. Ceria had come back with productive news too.

“Hey, guess who’s got enchanted clothing left and right? This half-Elf. And look—”

She pulled down her robes to expose her chest, and Nawalishifra instantly recoiled along with Pisces. Ceria pointed.

“Enchanted bra.”

“…What?”

Pisces had a dubious look on his face, but Colth, Yvlon, Nawal, and Delitandra all nodded as if this was natural and, indeed, good. Ceria grinned.

“Turns out my clothing is a mix of stuff from all over. I don’t even think this is Drake—they’re not, uh, exactly as gifted as other races in that area. Want to know what the enchantment is?”

“…Go on.”

Ceria pointed at Yvlon.

“All your hard work, Yvlon, to learn your fancy ‘techniques’, and what I have here is the [Mage]’s answer to everything. Bra of Athleticism! Watch this! Backflip!”

She leapt up and did a perfect standing backflip, tucking into a ball and landing with arms spread wide. Ceria’s grin of delight lasted all of a heartbeat until she grabbed at her legs.

“Tree rot, it hurts!”

Delitandra spoke helpfully as Colth opened his mouth.

“What we were also told was, much like Adventurer Yvlon’s abilities, the enchantment allows you to do anything your mind can picture. The cost to your muscles is entirely your own.”

So in short, Ceria was capable of doing a backflip and ripping all the muscles in her legs. She pulled herself up, wincing.

“The other clothing is just…as…good.”

“Sure.”

“No, really. It is!”

Pisces patted Ceria on the shoulder with the smiling, condescending air of someone who had gone to therapy once.

“Ceria, I respect your apparel immensely and would never question the validity of your choices or your gear.”

She kicked him in the leg, and they went to have dinner with Nawal. She found she was in good company; no one minded when she got snappy or picked on Yvlon’s arms. The rest of the Horns seemed to be egging her on, actually.

Such days could not last forever, but Nawalishifra thought a few more weeks…wouldn’t be that bad. And Hraace was filled with activities, even night ones. Like going on a boat-tour to see fishes in the harbor, or a Hraacian favorite, some kind of room where you met and talked to a hundred other strangers to see whom you fit with. Then engaged in a one-night stand.

Nawal did the boat tour.

 

——

 

Ceria did not do the boat tour. She didn’t respect fish except if they were on her plate. She was drunk—an issue of some concern to the trainers assigned to her because Ceria had discovered that she could drink all she wanted and helpful people would hydrate her and give her hangover cures.

She was wandering down the beach, having lost her tired escort, when she ran into Teresa again. The [Blade of War] was skipping stones into the waves.

Okay, she was throwing the stones hard enough to blast waves apart. Which looked so fun that Ceria began doing it with ice spells.

Teres turned to Ceria with mild relief. In truth, she seemed lonely. The Earthers stuck together; no one really stood out to Ceria aside from Elena, but then again, she had been avoiding them. She didn’t need to meet another Kevin.

And Trey, the only other isolated Earther, had stuck to Gazi like a…thing that stuck to other things. Ceria didn’t know. She was drunk.

She was also wearing the bone circlet, and she had the distinct impression her inebriation was pissing it off. If it was messing with her mind or using it, being drunk was probably making it a lot harder to enact its dire plans or whatever.

“So what’s up?”

“Nothing. I was just thinking about what you said about being away from Flos.”

“Oh, awesome, are you going to run away?”

“No. But I could—join another warfront or something. He’s going to have to fight multiple fronts at some point. Or I could become an adventurer. Or just…see some of the stuff Trey keeps moaning about. A’ctelios Salash. Make sure they’re still quiet, or look at Roshal with my own two eyes. I don’t really want to.”

“Afraid of what you’ll see?”

Teres bared her teeth.

“I’m afraid I’ll think Trey’s so right we have to do something now. Flos can’t afford to piss off Roshal. If you’re going to hit them, do it when you have a continent at your back.”

“Aha, compromises to keep winning. See, that’s practical. I like you.”

Ceria was having a hard time standing up, so she leaned on Teresa. The [Blade of War] sighed, but kept Ceria up.

“Got any ideas?”

“Sure. Apply for the Horns of Hammerad. We could use a new member, and we’ve already got Elena. I figure with six, the odds of someone I like dying goes down pretty good. We’ve had a good run since Liscor’s dungeon, but you never know when you need a luck sink.”

Teresa dropped Ceria, and the Ice Squirrel lay face down in the sand.

“I meant a serious—nevermind.”

“Muy nam seriouf.”

Ceria spat out some sand and gazed up at Teresa. Her smile was cold.

“Don’t do it if you want to live. But I’d take you. Level or die.”

Teresa began to stiffen up, adopting that hardened exterior of someone who had faced down the displeasure of powerful people and survived war. But then Ceria’s cold expression broke just a tiny bit.

“…I actually sort of mean it. You’d be good for Pisces. I sort of wish I’d stopped Colth from harassing you.”

It was Teresa’s turn to turn red, and not with the drink.

“I didn’t push him or anything! I just—”

“Yeah, we were watching.”

“You were watching—”

The half-Elf sat up and brushed sand out of her hair.

“Just a bit after you two practiced. I thought it would have been fine. Colth had this stupid idea of hooking Pisces up with someone older and getting his heart broken. But Colth thinks he can manage everyone. He’s another smart idiot.”

She took a sip of her drink, which was mostly water since the ice had melted, and sighed. Teresa shrugged, glowering at Colth’s name.

“Well, yeah. I think he tried to talk the Pedagogia into a one-night stand.”

Ceria sprayed the drink out into the surf and started laughing. She rolled around, spilling her drink everywhere, then got up. And when she looked at Teresa, it was respectfully.

“Okay, Colth deserves his title as Colth the Eternal Virgin. He cannot do romance. But you—there’s a world where you join the Horns of Hammerad, Teresa. Pisces or not. You’re a bit stupid and impulsive and reckless…but Yvlon’s everything you could be and so much worse. If you’re not afraid of dying or losing a limb, I’ll take you. And honestly—after that first night? You could have won Pisces over.”

For a second, the young woman hesitated, as if Ceria’s amazing sales pitch had actually swayed her. Then she turned away and shook her head. She blushed in the darkness, but sounded pleased and grateful for some reason.

“—I like Reim. I like Flos too much, even if he is a monster in the history books. I want to be part of this—just better. As for Pisces, I didn’t want to feel like I rushed him into anything. He’s hurt. I get that. Like I said to him—I want to be needed, you know? I want to make a difference.”

“The sword makes a lot of differences, forever.”

The [Cryomancer] had gone cold again, but towards everything. She pointed a finger at her face.

“So does my class. It just feels like if you wanted to make people happier—”

Teresa shook her head reflexively.

“Non-combat classes can’t stop people like Flos or the Emperor of Sands, no matter what people say about their soft power. The best of the Seven who never fought was Drevish, and they sent his head in a box. I want to protect people. And kill people who deserve it. I almost wish Reim needed me…”

She sighed wistfully, and an idea popped into Ceria’s head. The half-Elf’s eyes lit up, and she ran it over and through the circlet. This wasn’t one prompted by intelligence alone; the circlet thought it was a really stupid idea. But this was a Ceria-thought, based on her friendship with Erin and the inn. Teresa was kicking at the sand.

“Maybe the Quarass will have an idea or…”

They sat, watching people on the bay admiring the glowing fishies, and in the distance, Ceria saw a flicker of light. She raised her head, casually, and pointed.

“Oh. More ships heading to the New Lands? Is that Reim?”

Teres half nodded, distracted.

“Yeah. It took so long because Flos had to negotiate safe passage and ships for his troops. Lots of people from other nations have already landed. See how they don’t have our flag up? Flos wants them to mingle with the other colonists and, uh, just find him dungeons and explore the place. He’s mad because everyone else has the jump on us and are settling land.”

“And dying thanks to the magic-less ground thing. And the shitty growing.”

Teres’ head snapped around.

“The what?”

“Nevermind!”

The half-Elf had forgotten that other people didn’t have reliable intelligence from the New Lands. The half-Elves and Drowned Folk were keeping things close to their chests, but Mrsha had talked to Ylawes’ team. Ceria rolled into the surf to distract Teresa; when it washed her onto the beach, she coughed and saw Teresa standing there.

“Izril sounds like fun. Your team is fun. Chandrar is grand and old; I wonder what Trey and I would have been if we’d appeared on Izril or Terandria?”

“Oh, you’d have fit in with the Humans. You’d be boring. Chandrar has multiple species who intermix. Half-Elves, Dwarves, and Humans are all Terandria’s got. And we keep to ourselves, mostly.”

Teresa smiled at that.

“And Izril?”

“Mean, greedy Drakes, brave, loyal Drakes. Gnolls who can be standoffish and weird or generous, and Antinium. Scary bugs with hearts like children. New Lands filled with danger and things no one’s dreamed of. Dangerous as hell, the Crossroads especially.”

Ceria glanced up, and Teres’ eyes shone as she stared into the distance. At the ships, at something her imagination caught fire from. Ceria lay there for a moment—and then a smile crept over her face.

That bastard broke my circlet. I never figured out how to pay him back for it.

Slowly, menacingly, Ceria rose to her feet, and Teres regarded her, sensing the half-Elf’s intentions or, perhaps, just seeing her smile. Teres put a hand on her sword’s hilt, but Ceria just raised her hands.

“Hey, Teresa. You know, I’m pretty sure Gazi’s on that boat.”

She pointed to one where a terrified Nawalishifra was rocking it as Trey and Gazi and Minizi tried to keep it steady. Teres frowned.

“So?”

“She can’t swim. She’s too heavy in armor. And she’s not that fast—for the Seven. There’s no one else around except some lower-level soldiers as an escort. If you wanted to, you could run.”

“She’d catch me. You can’t outrun Gazi’s eyes.”

Teres folded her arms, but her eyes lit up slightly, and she followed Ceria’s gaze. The half-Elf smiled as she pointed at something else in the distance. A dark sail and the lights of flashing deck-lanterns communicating with Hraace’s harbor.

“I bet they’re on a one-way trip. No time to turn around, and you’re still Flos’ vassal.”

Teres went still. She glanced at Ceria, and the half-Elf thought she wouldn’t buy the plan, but instead, Teres just shook her head slightly.

“It’s got to be thousands of feet out of the bay. Even with my new ability, I can’t reach it before it pulls out of harbor.”

Ceria began giggling. When Teresa Atwood looked at her, the [Cryomancer] bent down. She threw up. Then she wiped her mouth, and her eyes glittered.

“Teresa, you’re speaking to the one [Mage] who can catch anything at sea. Tell me—do you want to go on an adventure?”

The young woman stood there, hair blowing in the wind. She watched the half-Elf, who raised a skeletal hand to hers. Then to the open sea.

“Do you have a pen and paper? I need to write a message.”

 

——

 

That night, a ship slowed as it left Hraace’s harbor, hugging the coast before entering the open sea. A commotion at the harbor interrupted the polite messages between the ship, Nelgaunt’s Folly, and the harbor.

Distant shouting, practically inaudible over the creak of the ship and the wind and surf. No one on deck paid much attention. The soldiers and colonists were trying to see the famous Lady Gazi Pathseeker before they headed out. They were mostly asleep when there was a crunching sound—the temperature dropped—and someone shouted an alarm.

“Ice? Iceberg!”

When the passengers raced onto the open deck, they saw their ship was trapped. The water around them had turned to ice. The [Captain] spun the wheel futilely, calling to the wary soldiers.

“We’re under attack! [Mages]! Unless it’s some kind of ice monster? Get the axes and free the ship!”

Before anyone could move, someone pointed.

“Look! The ice spell’s coming from the harbor!”

Indeed, a solid line of ice was stretching out from the bay. It was like a vast hand of ice had reached out across the waters and snared the ship. The surprised crew came to the sides, and one of the [Mages] lifted a finger to their head.

“Incoming message! From—Lady Pathseeker herself! She demands we free the ship and refuse to take…Lady Teresa Atwood on board? And to ‘shoot that half-Elf’?”

Everyone turned to look at him, before someone pointed. That was how they saw the final passenger heading for the New Lands.

Teresa Atwood had a pack on her back, barely more than a few possessions, and she was running over the ice, so fast that she left a spray of frost behind her. Someone was skating next to her, exchanging a volley of ice spells with a furious Gazer.

Ceria Springwalker was laughing. Bows rose on the deck, but the leader of Reim’s soldiers raised a hand.

“Hold.”

“But Lady Pathseeker’s orders are—”

The commander of Reim’s soldiers took one look at the mad Gold-ranked adventurer leaping off the frozen waves, turning the water to ice as she skated next to Teresa.

“She’ll sink our ship if we engage her. That’s a Mage of Wistram and a Gold-rank adventurer. Prepare to receive Lady Atwood.”

Someone found a ladder. Now, Teresa was almost at the ship, and at the far end of the ice bridge, a furious figure was running as fast as she could. But Gazi Pathseeker was too slow; Ceria was cutting the ice bridge’s magic, turning it back to water, and a short Golem made of sand was trying to slow Gazi by clinging to her legs.

“Trey!”

Teresa vaulted onto the decks in one movement and whirled. She shouted back the way she’d come at a figure on the beach. But the distant [Mage] just raised a staff and fired a single [Light Arrow] into the sky. Then a dozen, the arrows spiraling up. The arrows exploded, and Teres realized they weren’t [Light Arrows] after all. They were made of glass, filled with light, and they exploded in the sky, sending trails of glowing glass and magic raining down…

Like fireworks. Teresa leaned over the railing as people flocked to her, asking what was going on.

“Teresa! Want me to grab Trey if I can? My team and I can probably take Gazi out!”

Ceria skated past the soldiers, aiming bows at her as the boat began to break free of the rapidly melting ice. But Teresa just called back, a laugh in her tone.

“No, he doesn’t want to go. That stupid prat’s got a crush on Gazi!”

The [Captain] missed a step going down the deck and crashed onto the planks. Ceria’s cackle of laughter was followed by her blowing a kiss.

“Good luck! Tell Flos this is my revenge. And have fun! Level or die!”

In response, Teres drew her sword. She saluted Ceria, and the [Cryomancer] skated away. Then the ship continued, even as the [Captain] tried to argue with Teresa. But she was the King of Destruction’s foremost servant here, and they were already on their way.

That was how Teresa Atwood left Chandrar for a time. When she stood at the prow of the ship, staring ahead and glancing over her shoulder, even the enraged Gazi had to admit—

Even from far away, she looked happier. And free.

 

——

 

“Let all those who hold chains—beware! You wouldn’t stop me from freeing Teres to go on an adventure, would you, Gazi? Not you, hm? Huh?”

Ceria was getting full of herself, so none of her team stopped Gazi from kicking the half-Elf back into the water by the time she skated back. But Pisces couldn’t help but feel like he’d seen something positive, Ceria’s part in it aside.

“I hope she runs into Larracel or someone nice out there. It’ll be good for the kid.”

Colth commented as Yvlon stared at the departing ship. The [Armsmistress] sighed.

“You realize that we could be on that ship.”

“Yeah, but we have to get Pisces’ friends back. And…other things. Like the sword.”

Yvlon nodded, but the Horns followed that distant ship with their eyes for a while. Gazi resheathed her sword and finally kicked Minizi off her legs. She glowered at Trey, but with no real rancor in her expression.

He was smiling wanly as well, still waving a hand at his sister. Gazi growled at Ceria, who squeezed water out of her hair and sodden robes.

“Well, His Majesty shall know of this, Ceria Springwalker. We shall see if he prizes you as much after this or orders me to teach you a lesson. Myself, though, I shall be glad when you are gone and out of my responsibilities.”

With that somewhat ominous statement, she whirled and stalked off. The Horns exchanged a look as the ships returned to shore. The Mentorship was entertained as much as everyone else, and the Earthers were asking Ceria to do that again so they could skate.

Nawal just rolled off a boat and lay on the ground, shaking, ignoring Elena’s attempts to help her up.

“I…I would like to not do that again.”

She was more afraid of the water than anything else. The group moved past her, mostly heading to their beds, as Gazi’s eyes rolled up in her head and she grabbed Trey, dragging him away.

“You shall deliver the news, Trey. Cast [Scrying]…”

The Horns were standing around, asking Ceria what had prompted the decision aside from spite and a spur-of-the-moment thought, when Elena walked over.

“Hey, guys—Ceria, you’re a mess. You need a bath and shampoo before your hair stiffens with all that salt. Can I do anything for you all tonight?”

She kept doing the same thing as the Mentorship, and Pisces was awkward about it, but Yvlon and Colth were more used to it. Yvlon raised one arm, grimacing.

“I think I have algae growing on my arms. I can’t get it off. Can you find some kind of cleaner?”

Colth nodded.

“And we’re mostly training tomorrow, I think. Same old. See if you can book the Pedagogia; I’m hoping to ask her questions about other nations.”

Elena noted this all down as Nawal tried to get to her feet. She stumbled after them as the Horns slowed to let her catch up. They passed by a figure sitting on the ground, a young boy, who waved at them.

“Excuse me, Horns of Hammerad? This way, please!”

“No more activities tonight, thanks. Unless any of you are down?”

Colth called out with an airy wave of the hand. Pisces glanced at Ceria, who demurred.

“Hot bath and more drinks. Elena, you can do my hair, but only if we get in one of those bubbling magic hot tubs. With a drink.”

The [Beautician] chuckled.

“You can twist my arm.”

They strolled on as the boy waved at them.

“No! Horns of Hammerad? With me, please!”

They ignored him; plenty of the Hraacians were keen to get their attention because the Horns got most activities for free, but they also tipped well. Pisces was trying to explain the undead thing.

“Listen, it’s not sexual, the Erin undead. I just thought of something that could take Flos on and—well, I must have thought of her. It’s not an exact copy of her, either! That would be suboptimal.”

Everyone looked at him. Yvlon’s mouth opened and closed.

“Pisces. Why would you lead with that disclaimer?”

“I’ve had allegations made—”

Colth patted him on the shoulder.

“No one cares, Pisces. What I want to know is how does a single Erin-fetish-undead stop Doubte? Focus your energies on a better undead.”

Ceria nodded, face deadpan.

“Yeah! Like Draugr Erin or Skeleton Lord Erin.”

“I was struck by pure inspiration! Once I get enough Stellar Ivory, you can see—”

Yvlon’s grip on his shoulder intensified.

“Pisces. I don’t want to see whatever you think of her. I think the [Thought Healers] need to sit down with you tomorrow. And you definitely need to get this out of your head before we meet up with Ksmvr and Vofea. They’re too young for this.”

“It is not untoward at all!”

The Silver Killer folded her arms with a doubtful glare.

“Is it not? All your undead are naked.”

Colth and Ceria oohed as they came to this damnation of Pisces’ character, and he was so red-faced he nearly tripped over the boy sitting in front of him.

“Horns of Hammerad! Please, this way! I have been paid, so please do not waste time before Lady Pathseeker comes back!”

Ceria turned indulgently to the boy.

“Hey, little sprout. We’re sort of busy, but we appreciate people trying to give us a good time in Hraace. How about you take this and we call it even, okay?”

She handed him a gold coin. Rather to her surprise, he flicked it back with a sneer.

“I do not abandon my task for pay! And I have been paid, through the Guild, many thousands of gold coins more than that! By the Queen of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, no less!”

…Huh? The Horns of Hammerad stopped walking and turned. In the darkness, the boy was hard to make out, but he couldn’t have been more than…thirteen? He was young, bare-chested with long baggy pants on, and he had a turban wound around his head.

And he was sitting…and had gotten in front of them somehow. Pisces blinked and cast a [Light] spell, then realized the boy was sitting on something.

A carpet, to be more precise. It wasn’t on the ground, either. The carpet was…hovering.

The flying carpet edged forwards, a massive one. Yvlon recoiled, and Colth’s eyes lit up. He glanced towards the temple. Ceria raised her eyebrows.

“Oh wow, a genuine flying carpet. Hey, kid, did you just say Nerrhavia’s Fallen?”

Yvlon groaned.

“Yisame.”

“The Queen of Nerrhavia’s Fallen herself?”

The boy stood up, nodding. He gestured at his carpet, thrusting out his chest proudly.

“This is Reizue’s Dream, one of the last great flying carpets of Chandrar! I am Buler, though my name is unimportant, and I have ferried around legends of Chandrar such as Orjin, the Strongest of Pomle! It is my duty to carry you, the Horns of Hammerad, to Nerrhavia’s Fallen, and may your legend meet the honor of this passage!”

He delivered this all with the youth and confidence of a boy, but the pride and gravitas of someone far older. Elena squeaked.

“Guys, how’d he get here? Did he fly from across the continent? On that? Flying carpets are dangerous! The Quarass told me she’s died on one at least seven times!”

The boy did a double-take, studying Elena up and down, and Colth whirled.

“He must have flown in at night. There’s no way the King of Destruction wants us to just up and go—though he does want us in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. There’s no faster way to get there. I say we go!”

Pisces blinked. He remembered his carpet ride from Pomle, against his will, on smaller carpets. It felt like déjà vu, but this time…

“Now? But we’re being trained by Hraace!”

“Do you want to waste three more weeks when Ksmvr and Vofea are in Baleros and your friends and our goals are moving further away?”

Colth demanded, looking to Ceria for confirmation. She was rubbing at her chin.

“…We’ve got all our possessions on us, more or less. We got good training, but if we’re getting a free carpet ride—hey, kid, you can’t just come back in three weeks?”

“Reizue’s Dream is not a carriage service! I cannot promise where I will be or whom I pick up!”

Buler snapped back, taking umbrage to the flippant comment. Ceria regarded her team.

“Thoughts?”

Yvlon beckoned at the others from the back of the carpet.

“What are you waiting for? Let’s go! The sooner we’re in Nerrhavia’s Fallen, the sooner we can get to Ksmvr!”

That decided Pisces, and Colth was already climbing aboard. Ceria leapt up with a laugh and turned.

“Elena? Last call. We could even put you on Teres’ ship north.”

The young woman hesitated, but only for a moment. She hopped onto the carpet, stumbled as she realized it was sturdier than she’d thought, and turned to Ceria.

“I want to ride a flying carpet at least once in my life. Okay—Buler, hello! I’m Elena. Sort of part of the Horns and—”

He took them ten feet off the ground, and she squeaked. Everyone’s stomachs dropped, but Buler moved the carpet with ease, showing off as he whirled it.

“About time, too! I kept out of sight of Gazi the Omniscient, but I was afraid she’d cut my head off for daring to steal the King of Destruction’s guests! Let’s go! South to Tyrant’s Rest and ach! All the Djinni of Merreid!”

He shouted as a flaming arrow shot past them, and the carpet dove. Everyone ducked, and Pisces heard a horn blow—then a furious shout.

“They’re escaping! Lady Pathseeker! Here! Here!”

Reim’s [Soldiers], the ones who had come with the Earthers, were running down the beach at them. Someone fired another arrow, and Yvlon blocked it with her arm.

“Keep the fire away from Reizue’s Dream!”

Buler screamed in a panic, and the Horns leapt up. More people were racing onto the beach, they realized. The Mentorship of Hraace.

“Wait! Come back! We are not done with you!”

Pedagogia Araxia and her people cut right and left, trying to encircle the carpet as it rose, avoiding arrows cutting off its path overhead, but Buler just turned and streaked down the beach. He tilted the carpet, skimming the sands, clearly intending to outrace the crowd and then get into the air. Everyone tilted.

Ceria grabbed the carpet with an oath as Yvlon calmly anchored herself with a metal hand. Colth was fine, holding onto a pale-faced Elena, but someone else went rolling down the side of the carpet, and Pisces flung himself across to grab her by the leg. He pulled Nawal back up and then stared at her.

“Nawal? What are you doing here?”

“What’s going on? I thought this was another nighttime activity?”

She shouted, turning her head, then ducked as someone fired a lightning bolt. Buler shouted.

“We go! Hang on!”

A shout from below.

“Wait, wait! We have—”

The carpet took off, and a dozen figures leapt for the edge as Reizue’s Dream shot skywards. Pisces heard shouts, felt gravity pulling at him as he clung to Nawal, and then they were in the air.

Far away from the soldiers, who halted, swords drawn, and the single figure of Gazi the Omniscient, who stood, main eye glowing as she watched them leave. She lifted her claymore, and Buler sped them away from her at speed, clearly fearing her eye. Pisces felt the carpet right and then heard Nawal’s frantic voice.

“Where are we going? What’s going on?”

The Horns looked at her. Elena, meanwhile, was pointing.

“Uh, we have boarders—”

Colth’s head rose, and he groaned as he realized someone had, incredibly, leapt onto the carpet as it took off. Delitandra and five Mentors of Hraace were panting, and Buler’s head whirled in outrage.

“Stowaways! Hold on while I—”

Delitandra threw up a hand.

“Wait! We’re with the Horns of Hammerad as well. We are the Mentorship of Hraace, and by order of Pedagogia Araxia, we are to follow the Horns.”

Buler’s eyes widened, and he gawked at the Horns. He clearly knew what this meant. Colth glanced at his teammates, then whispered in Ceria’s ear.

“I can throw them off the carpet. We hit them with a [Featherfall] spell, they’ll live.”

Ceria folded her arms as everyone turned to her. Delitandra smiled and bowed.

“Captain Ceria, we are adept at many tasks, and we know Chandrar by heart. In Nerrhavia’s Fallen, we would be invaluable for navigating the Court of Silks and Steel.”

The half-Elf scratched at her chin, stared at the cloudless sky, then nodded.

“Eh, sure. Nawal and Elena need minders if we’re taking them, and we can always use spare bodies.”

She winked at Pisces, and Nawal began panicking.

“Nerrhavia’s Fallen? But I’m supposed to be with the King of Destruction! With Trey and Lady Pathseeker!”

Colth looked Nawal in the eyes, and the [Supporter] asked one question.

“Why?”

It stumped Nawal, so much so that she stood there for a good fifteen seconds, then sat down. Pisces glanced at the others, uncertain.

“We could drop her with a [Featherfall] spell…”

But they were already far, far away from the capital and moving at incredible speeds. Colth shook his head.

“I only meant doing that to people we don’t like, Pisces. A bird-monster could kill her or we’d never know where she lands. She’s with us. At worst, we hire Reizue’s Dream to take her back.”

Pisces sat down, then stared about. Everyone was windblown, breathless, and suddenly—they were out of the King of Destruction’s clutches. Heading to Nerrhavia’s Fallen, arguably as fast or faster than even the magical carriages. Indeed, that was the first thing Ceria asked Buler.

“Is this going to get us to Nerrhavia’s Fallen faster than those magical carriages?”

He spat contemptuously over the edge of the carpet, so it didn’t fly back and hit his passengers.

“Those things? Hah! We’ll be three days flying, nonstop, adventurers. Nothing and no one save teleportation is faster than Reizue’s Dream!”

“Except Mihaela Godfrey, the Courier of Izril.”

Colth sat next to Buler and got an outraged look. The boy shot back.

“Can she carry a hundred passengers, nay, two hundred, altogether?”

“No, but the Adventurer’s Haven can carry over two thousand.”

“Hah! I know you, Colth the Supporter, who is Named-rank, but not, I think, greatest of legends. That inn is a waddling one-legged camel compared to this carpet!”

“Larracel’s inn serves breakfast and free bread.”

“I have provisions in a chest of holding back there! This carpet has carried Torinba, the Scorpion of Scaied! It has fed nine Kings of Chandrar as they planned war at once, and no less than fifty-two of the Thousand Lances of Kaaz!”

“Larracel’s hosted eight Archmages in her inn…how fast does this carpet fly? She’s the biggest I’ve ever seen, and I lived on Chandrar!”

“There were only two bigger, and one crashed and burned on the Glass Straits, a thousand tears for the Procession of Monarchs, and the other retired because no one dared fly her. Reizue’s Dream can reach Merreid in a day, or, if the winds are with us…”

The two began arguing as if they were friendly rivals within moments. Pisces was trying to stand up and not quite daring—he was terrified of going to the edge of the carpet. Unlike Ceria, who was sticking her head over the side and staring down.

“Whoa, there’s the vertigo…circlet, turn off vertigo. Awesome. Hey, Pisces, come over here!”

Yvlon was sitting in the center of the carpet, pale-faced despite her determination, and Pisces looked at Elena, who had crabbed over to Nawal, who was annoyingly not airsick, only afraid of the sea. As if a bit of water was worse than falling thousands of feet to her death.

In the silence, as Pisces considered his new companions and Delitandra approached Yvlon with a mixture for airsickness, Pisces voiced what he thought was a salient comment.

“Um. Everyone, I had one question. Am I remembering wrong or didn’t we attack Nerrhavia Fallen’s armies before we escaped? I recall a lot of [Fireballs]. And I think Yvlon hit the Great General, whatshisname.”

Everyone turned to him. Colth covered his face as Buler’s eyes lit up, and Yvlon sat up slightly.

“Oh, right. We did do that.”

—They had no idea what awaited them in Nerrhavia’s Fallen, but they went. Mostly because Buler refused to turn around.

 

——

 

The King of Destruction was not a happy man.

And he was saying as much to Trey as he learned the Horns had absconded with Elena—never mind his promises—and put Teresa on a ship to the New Lands.

He seemed to mostly object that they’d skipped their stay in Hraace, that the Pedagogia had found a [Hero] candidate among them and not his people, and that he wouldn’t have a chance to make them meet with him on the campaign again.

Trey…mostly ignored Flos while he watched Gazi, who’d let all this happen. Teresa’s escape was one thing, but he saw her standing there as Reizue’s Dream took off.

A magical carpet. A gigantic magical carpet that Gazi’s eye had missed.

A gigantic magical carpet that she was not pursuing, instead holding her claymore aloft.

“No, stop. Don’t go. Alas, they’ve escaped.”

Gazi’s voice was deadpan, and she sheathed her blade after a second and turned.

“A tragedy.”

Trey raised his eyebrows at her, and Gazi winked one eye at him as she went to apologize to their king. It occurred to the [Mastermind] that Gazi was a bit of a schemer herself, and she might have every reason to help the Horns—partially because she liked them, and partially because it would mean Flos would have less reason to saddle her with shepherding them around.

He hoped they were safe wherever they were ultimately bound. Nerrhavia’s Fallen didn’t strike Trey as the best nation to be in, even without the war. He wished the same for Teres. But then Trey wondered what his future had in store.

Also…where was Nawalishifra?

 

——

 

Two days later, the Horns were bored of air-travel. Mostly because, views aside…there wasn’t much to do. You could talk, admire the view, sleep, and, uh…that was it.

The only time the carpet landed was for food or the bathroom. Buler refused to land otherwise, and he’d even tried to insist on only a few rest-stops at his timing. Ceria’s threat to poop on the carpet had changed that.

Mind you, Buler was a decent flier. He was young and full of the legend of his carpet and potentially a bit heartbreaking when you realized he was so young because his entire family had ridden this carpet to their deaths.

The Horns were nice to him, and Elena coaxed Buler into letting her cut and style his hair; they swapped stories of their adventures with the ones he’d heard from his passengers. Buler liked the Horns, especially Yvlon, whom he treated with more respect than anyone else.

It went…Yvlon, Pisces, Elena, Nawalishifra, Colth, the Heromakers of Hraace, Pisces’ shoes, Ceria.

The Heromakers were a kind of servant or follower, despite Buler’s high impression of them, and Nawalishifra was famed in her way, more than a foreign Named-rank. Elena, Buler just liked.

The Silver Killer of Izril and the Bane of Roshal, though, were real stories to Buler, who kept asking Pisces how many slavers he’d really killed. He refused to buy that Pisces had only killed one, technically seen three dead.

The reason for that was soon to be apparent, but Yvlon was even more famous to Buler, and Ceria was trash. The reason for that was because he was clearly a huge admirer of Pomle and Orjin, the Strongest thereof, and their war against Nerrhavia’s Fallen. He kept insulting the nation of Stitch-folk and mentioning Orjin’s deeds, which he claimed to have witnessed personally.

Ceria had made the mistake of asking who Orjin was, then saying, ‘oh, him? Grimalkin 0.5?’

That had pretty much established their relationship in the first hour, and Ceria had only made it worse by antagonizing the boy’s pride at every turn.

Anyways, they were midway through the second day and passing down the coastline as Buler shouted.

“Honorable Horns of Hammerad—and Ceria—we are skirting the lands of New Khelt, for a mighty [Vizir] rules there and will stop even Reizue’s Dream in his arrogance! If you look down, you will see the Ekhot Straits, a dry land populated by few oases. It is not as hard to cross as the great desert, but caravans would beware straying from the known routes.”

He was acting as a tour guide, and Pisces glanced down and saw the ground was indeed…dry. And flat. And dusty. The oasis was a tiny thing from above, a patch of darker sand and a bit of green in a deathtrap for anyone going through it on foot.

Pisces didn’t envy that kind of travel. Reizue’s Dream really was a luxury; they might fear aerial threats, but Buler was sharp and had good reflexes, and they were fast. On the ground, you had to deal with the heat, terrain, monsters, thirst, and—

“Uh oh. Bandits.”

Colth pointed out a commotion at the oasis before anyone else. Buler changed track, avoiding it.

“Indeed! It seems another caravan falls prey to attackers. This one…may have come from Nerrhavia’s Fallen, heading north. Ambushes near watering holes are common.”

As they approached, the Horns saw a tangled trail of pack animals in a long line and the glints of swords and even a [Fireball] as people fought. They were too high up, but Buler dropped them lower to see, still well out of arrow range.

“Poor souls.”

Yvlon murmured, seemingly minded to intervene, but Colth held out a hand.

“We can’t stop for every problem, Yvlon. Besides, the caravan doesn’t look outnumbered. Battle’s equal; I think the raiders bit off more than they could chew.”

It was true; the caravan was huddling up, and Pisces saw a group of [Guards] forming a defensive line. They were protecting their cargo as riders on horseback—Stitch-folk, he assumed, or Humans—tried to get in close. The caravan was shielding its goods, though, and he saw the line of…people…huddled in a circle…

The picture below changed instantly. Pisces saw the [Slavers] of Roshal for what they were at the same time as Colth, and they froze. Buler called out happily as he took them even lower.

“Aha! I’ve seen this time and again. More attacks on Roshal! It happens all around Nerrhavia Fallen’s borders. Your people, Adventurer Pisces.”

“My what?”

The boy turned innocently and flinched at Pisces’ gaze.

“Y-your people. The freed [Slaves] and the like. The ones attacking caravans in your name…”

He looked between the Horns as they gazed at him. Then Pisces turned.

The attackers were losing. The [Slavers] were too well-armed and numerous; the surprise attack had gone for the captives, but without freeing them, the Stitch-folk were being cut down. He didn’t realize he was on the carpet’s edge until Colth spoke.

“Pisces, we have a single moment of grace. Roshal hasn’t gone after us openly—if we go after them, we ruin everything.”

The [Ultimate Supporter]’s eyes were calm, but there was a bleak, wild howling behind them only Pisces could see. The [Necromancer] stared down, and he swore one of the [Slaves] was staring up at the carpet passing high overhead. Pisces caught a flash of color: green.

A tunic? Or a Garuda’s feathers? He didn’t know, but he was staring down, head craned, wind rushing around his face as Buler screamed something at him. Pisces looked over his shoulder to tell the boy and Colth it was fine, he was fine and they were just going to fly on—

He saw a carpet high overhead, swerving downwards towards him, and the empty sky above. Pisces looked down and realized he was diving, diving headfirst straight out of the air.

“Aaah!”

He almost began to flail and panic—until someone dropped past him. Colth, as if he were dive-bombing, daggers drawn.

“Kill the [Slaver] or he’ll activate their death collars! I knew you were my team! Let all those who hold chains beware!”

Pisces was about to scream at Colth that this was a mistake, he’d not intended to do this, and this was crazy. Then he looked down. The [Slavers] hadn’t seen him, but the ones in chains had. Pisces wondered how they looked.

Not nearly as impressive as a falling rainbow, he bet. He closed his eyes as he remembered that and his promise—and then opened them.

“Skeleton Champions—arise!”

Bones flew out of his bag of holding, and Pisces cast another spell as the fighting [Slavers], nearly a hundred strong, looked up at last. Did they see two crazy adventurers coming towards them, one screaming bloody oaths, daggers in hand, the other raining down bones as he cast [Featherfall]?

No.

They saw a falling shimmer of colors, streaking down through the air, a burning promise under the bright sun.

Blades dropped from nerveless fingers. Roshal’s own looked up and shrieked in horror as they saw the symbol of fear. Then they realized it wasn’t Czautha, Death of Chains—merely two insane adventurers and an illusion spell.

Pisces hit the ground and drew his rapier. Colth landed on top of an archer atop a covered wagon and drove the blades straight through the [Archer], carved a hole in the top of the canvas, and dropped inside. The [Necromancer] aimed his sword at a pale-faced [Caravan Master], who pointed at him with shock and, he thought, recognition.

One adventurer. There were enchanted blades among the [Guards]; they had archers on the wagons, a heavy escort of armored warriors. This had been bait for a raid on them, and they were ready to kill. Multiple [Mages] locked onto Pisces—

And then the first Skeleton Champion hit the ground. He was lighter than a person, and the sturdy bones merely raised a cloud of dust before a glowing, blue-eyed warrior strode forwards in full armor, holding a greatsword in place.

Whumph. Whumph. Whumph.

Three more Skeleton Champions landed, each one armed, as the [Slavers] drew back. Someone moaned.

“The Bane of Roshal! It’s him! It’s—”

An arrow struck a helmetless [Slaver] through the head as the Skeleton Champion armed with a bow fired, twisted—and landed on its back. It lay there, stunned, and the final Skeleton Champion hit one of the wagons and exploded in a shower of bones.

Pisces winced. Then he shouted.

“Attack!”

His skeletons charged as the raiders howled and raced towards him. Pisces ducked the first arrow, and then he was locking swords with a [Slaver]. Madness. Madness—he knew he was outnumbered and surrounded.

Then he heard the screams from the right and grinned. 

The Silver Killer had hit the ground.

 

——

 

“Take me down!”

Yvlon’s order came the moment she saw her teammates drop. Buler was protesting.

“Reizue’s Dream is sworn not to enter combat! I cannot! I—”

She grabbed his arm.

“Take me down or I will cut this carpet into pieces.”

He took one look into her eyes and the carpet dropped. They were circling the battlefield now, and Yvlon whirled.

“Ceria!”

“Aw, come on. We are making our job in Chandrar so much harder. Did we have to? I guess those’re our boys.”

Ceria hadn’t moved. She was sighing as she stared over the carpet’s edge. Yvlon made a sound not of disgust, but just exasperation.

“It doesn’t matter why. They’re fighting. Kill everything that looks at them wrong.”

Elena, Nawalishifra, Buler, and the Heromakers stared at Yvlon. She strode over the carpet as it sped barely fifteen feet off the ground. Yvlon started running and leapt.

When she hit the ground, the cloud of sand made Ceria wince. The [Slavers] had only a second to see a metal-armed woman emerging from the cloud and then see her arms morph into blades—

“Ooh, nasty. Buler, you can take us up.”

Ceria watched, shading her brows, standing on the edge of the carpet as Reizue’s Dream rose in a hurry. Buler was staring down at the battle in awe, but he had enough wherewithal to watch for flying projectiles. And his audience.

The Heromakers of Hraace had produced bows and were, to Ceria’s mild surprise, firing arrows into the fray, placing their shots well. Delitandra hit an [Archer] through the shoulder, and Ceria turned to her.

“Are you allowed to do that?”

“We are the Mentorship; we fight for our chosen clients. We have broad immunity.”

Delitandra winked, and Ceria chewed on a dry snack bar she’d been eating when this all went down. Nawal and Elena were watching, unable to do much from their vantage point, but Buler was watching her.

“Not doing anything, oh, glorious Captain?”

He glared at her, as if Yvlon threatening to cut his carpet in half and making him enter the conflict was less offensive than Ceria’s current pacifism. Ceria licked her fingers.

“I thought you were supposed to be impartial, kid.”

She was adjusting the circlet she was wearing, patting down her robes, checking her belt pouches to make sure they were secure. Buler sneered at her.

“I may be, but all know that Orjin of Pomle began his war against Nerrhavia’s Fallen when he dared to free [Slaves]! He would not be idle, but you may watch from the safety of the carpet.”

The half-Elf [Cryomancer] gave Buler a big, friendly smile as their carpet passed over the battle, just low enough to let the Heromakers keep loosing arrows. She winked at him and adjusted her circlet.

“Just so you know, kid, I’m the mean, amoral one of the team. I do the things that are nasty, and I’d have let us all fly over these [Slavers] because my team matters more than this. [Freedom From Morality]. Cursed circlet. Doesn’t mean I’m free from knowing my team. Or caring about them. Also, I like height. Everyone else fights at close range. Me?”

She spread her arms.

“I’m the spellcaster. Circlet? [Battlemage’s Focus].”

Ceria jumped as her circlet flashed. Buler swung his carpet around, and they all saw a laughing, falling half-Elf drop out of the sky. A half-Elf wearing that circlet that had been damaged, which had promised to give her more power…if only she saved it.

She fell, arms spread wide, and cast her first spell.

[Palace of the Ice Queen].

Ceria was straight over the [Slavers]’ heads. A shadow appeared, blocking out the sky, as the [Slavers] looked up and saw the final adventurer dropping on them.

The Ice Squirrel.

 

——

 

Her mind sped up. The world slowed around her, and Ceria was laughing.

This was the power of the circlet. Water was rushing around her, freezing to ice as vapor burned into the blue sky like mist. She pointed and shouted.

“[Summon Tidal Wave]!”

A twisting stream of water shot down out of the air as she abandoned the palace she’d conjured and put her feet on the frozen slide she was conjuring. Arrows were already coming up at her; men and women were fleeing—

The frozen palace of ice hit a cluster of [Slavers] and crushed them flat with an impact that shook the ground. Pisces recoiled and looked up. He saw Ceria sliding down on a crazy, twisting ramp of ice, arrows and spells flashing past her.

“Ceria?”

She flashed down, past a group of warriors, and blew them a kiss. The wave of frost coated the armed [Slaves] and [Slavers] in a moment, freezing them in place.

Sorry, innocent slaves. She had to lock them down. Ceria saw a [Rider] on horseback coming her way; she ramped upwards, flipped over the flailing sword, and fired an [Ice Spike]. Ceria landed, then kept going, skating faster than she’d ever dreamed possible.

[Wings Upon Ice]. She conjured a sword of ice and slashed. A second [Warrior] blinked at the blade that had cut through a steel sword.

Whoa. [Royal Slash] was good. Ceria windmilled her arms as she curved and nearly lost her balance and then kept going. She was…laughing, and it unnerved the [Slavers] almost as much as the others.

Blood spurted from a dozen wounds as she hurled a hail of razor-sharp icicles at everything she passed, and coated her skin and robes. An arrow hit Ceria in the throat, and she recoiled—her [Ice Armor] flaked away to reveal the cold, blue ice, then reformed.

The blood froze into crimson frost as she kept skating ahead. Straight at the [Caravan Master]. Another [Mage], who raised her staff and fired a bolt of lightning straight at Ceria.

It bounced off her armor, sending her sprawling, still sliding, and the cracked ice on her front was knitting back together as the [Mage] whirled the staff. She tried to impale Ceria with an [Earthen Spire], but the ground was black and filled with death magic; Pisces lowered his hand as the [Caravan Master] stared at him.

Then their magical barrier cracked as the first [Ice Lance] hit it. The second and third shattered through the protections, and the [Caravan Master] turned to flee. They raised their staff and halted, hands outstretched, mouth open.

A statue of frozen flesh reached out helplessly, and Ceria slid past the [Caravan Master]. She pointed her wand back, and her final [Ice Spear] blew the ice into bloody, frozen chunks.

 

——

 

The Horns of Hammerad had attacked so fast Delitandra barely had time to pull out a scrying mirror as Pisces dropped. But she had the spell set up before he landed, and this time, with Pedagogia Araxia’s full blessing.

“This is Hraace, requesting pickup to any television network. Adventurers in combat. Horns of Hammerad.”

She waited five seconds until she sensed the connection stabilizing, then adjusted her hair, smiled, and began to shout.

“I am Delitandra of the Mentorship of Hraace, and we are watching the Horns of H—”

For the second time, someone interrupted her. Delitandra whirled, but too late. Elena Othonos grabbed the mirror and held it up expertly at arms-length.

Perfect selfie position, from a [Beautician]. And her hair was most excellent.

“Hey, everyone! I’m Elena with the Horns of Hammerad and they’re killing a bunch of bandits!”

She held up a peace-sign with two fingers in a ‘v’, and Delitandra almost grabbed the mirror—but the other Mentors grabbed her. Elena saw an image appearing in the mirror.

“Er, hello? This is unprecedented, but we heard ‘Horns of Hammerad’ and—wh-where is this? Ah, this is Sir Relz of Wistram News Network.”

“Hey! We’re in Chandrar.”

The Drake was trying to shuffle his papers and get a read on what was going on.

“If you’re just joining us, people, we seem to be watching a battle. I know the Horns of Hammerad, and we might see a bit of a fracas or—oh Ancestors! The blood! Someone get a censor!”

He’d just seen Yvlon hit the front ranks of the [Slavers]. But as the carpet angled, now giving the viewers an amazing angle on the battle, Relz began putting pieces together.

“Wait, is that…those symbols are…Roshal? The Horns of Hammerad appear to be attacking a sovereign nation.”

Delitandra reached for the mirror again, sweating, but Elena just blinked and laughed.

“What? Roshal? They illegally held Pisces captive. They’re murderers, assassins, and slavers. What are you, some kind of Roshal apologist?”

“Wh—me? I’m presenting the news, young woman. I don’t have a stated position on Roshal. They’re Chandrarian. But why are they attacking? And is…is that Ceria Springwalker skating down on a ramp of ice?”

Elena checked over her shoulder.

“Yeah. Hey, Cara! I’m doing okay!”

She waved into the camera with her biggest, most dazzling smile and then focused on Sir Relz.

“Why are they attacking Roshal, did you say? Sorry, I’m on a flying carpet.”

“Yes! What did they do?”

“It’s Lundas, Sir Relz.”

“Lundas? Yes, it is Lundas. What does that have to do with—”

“It’s always a good day to kill [Slavers].”

And what was Sir Relz supposed to say to that? The Horns of Hammerad continued fighting below as Elena took over Relz’s job of narrating. And they saw it.

 

——

 

They were Stitch-folk. At first, Pisces hadn’t been sure, but when he saw the first [Rider] recoiling from the unexpected entry of the adventurers, he caught the unmistakable sign of stitches and taut, brown skin. A figure with a veil over their face.

“Merr?”

—It was just a moment, and the figure leveled their sword at Pisces as they rode towards him, then did a double-take. It nearly got the raider killed by another [Slaver] until Pisces shot the attacker with an [Arc of Midnight] that slashed them straight through the torso. The swearing Stitch-woman tugged her veil down and waved her sword as she stared at Pisces.

“Bane of Roshal? I thought—here! To the Bane! To the Bane!”

The other raiders whirled on their mounts and raced towards Pisces as the [Slavers] tried to reform. There was shouting of dismay in the distance, and someone pelted over, throwing a javelin as he shouted.

“Xanthei! There’s another caravan coming—”

“Reform! Reform here! Free everyone you can and prepare to fall back! Grab the horses!”

The [Rider] kept shouting, swinging her sword around, and Pisces realized the riders were literally swirling around her. Some kind of command Skill? It drew in the freed [Slaves] fighting with weapons, and when she pointed, they began streaming forwards. Towards the caravan they were raiding.

They were fighting the [Slavers] with barely more Skills than [Power Strike]. Pisces ran forwards, followed by his Skeleton Champions, shouting.

“You—there! There!”

The grinning skeletons raced forwards, shoving past the mortals who backed away to let them fearlessly assail the [Slavers]. And [Slaves]. They were being forced to fight alongside their captors or die, and Pisces shouted in horror as he saw the leader riding down on a boy armed with a spear and no armor. She swung down.

“No!”

The boy fell, and Pisces saw no blood coming from the body. Only an unconscious figure slumping as the camel kept racing. When the sword swung again, there was blood.

[Rebel] Skills. They weren’t hurting the [Slaves]—just knocking them out. Pisces breathed again, then turned his head to the rising dust cloud. Pisces shouted.

“Colth! Yvlon! Ceria! There are more [Slavers]—”

He saw the column now, riding hard at them. An entire second caravan, if not as large as the first. Someone growled in his ear.

“We have them.”

The Silver Killer broke away from the caravan, running full-tilt at the [Riders]. They, correspondingly, split away from her, riding for any other fight on the field. What neither they nor Pisces expected was for Yvlon to speed up.

She started gaining on the horses. Now, they were running in full retreat until the leader of the mounted [Slavers] realized they had to fight. They moved in a tight circle, converging on Yvlon, and she tensed, bringing up her arms. Behind her, a green blur leapt into place.

“[Team Attack]! Silver catapult!”

Colth grabbed Yvlon and linked arms with her. She swung him around like they had in the Trial of Shields—then he planted his feet and threw her with a roar.

Straight at the [Slavers]. A screaming, blonde-haired woman with arms like razors coming at them too fast to dodge or swerve—

“Infantry on the way! Lots of them!”

Colth roared, and someone shouted.

“I’m on it! They’re loosing arrows! Give me a boost!”

He whirled, turned, and then grabbed Ceria as she slid past. Colth threw her as well, sending her shooting forwards at insane speed, skating on her ice, then drew his blades. He charged after Yvlon into the fighting.

 

——

 

The half-Elf didn’t know when she stopped firing [Ice Spikes]. She just realized there were too many targets. Too nonoptimal.

“None of them are high-level. But there are a lot of them. [Summon Tidal Wave]—yeah, that’ll do.”

Water was rising from the oasis, joining the magical waters rushing after her as she sped towards the line of warriors on foot. They were loosing arrows that glanced off her ice armor—she pointed, and an [Ice Lance] spell took out an officer in a shower of blood. But she only had two hands.

She had two brains, though. Ceria tapped her circlet.

“Work harder. I’ll aim. I’m better. You shoot. [Autocast: Ice Spikes].”

They began to form in the air in front of her and fire, hitting the column of warriors one after another, and they raised their shields and came to a stumbling standstill. Ceria could see the second caravan, now. She sped past the warriors and exhaled.

“Ceria! We’re coming—”

Pisces’ voice in her ear. Ceria’s voice was cold. Her body was freezing. The ice magic…she drew on it harder, freezing everything. Her armor. The ground. Her magic.

“I’ve got this.”

A rolling wall of water poured forwards, over the faltering soldiers on foot. They looked up and cried out, bowled over by the tidal wave. Drenched, disoriented by water on dry Chandrar, the [Slavers] began to rise. Then a kneeling woman with a spear cried out. Her hands were frozen to the muddy ground. Ice was creeping up their legs and armor. The half-Elf turned back to look at them.

Freezing. Dozens, then the entire column began to…stop. The luckiest of the ones who’d dodged the tidal wave and most of the water merely felt the freezing cold, numbing their hands, tried to tear metal off before it stuck to their skin. The second caravan looked up as their breaths misted in the sun. They saw the Ice Squirrel skate past them, then water following.

A field of frozen water, surrounding them. A battlefield of frozen ice. Then she turned, ensconced by a wall of ice, and began firing her ice spells. She halted in place submerged in a glacier’s ice, literally engulfing her as they shot arrows and spells at the iceberg. Spears of frozen water downing screaming figures who writhed—and froze. Bloody icicles of death.

—By the time Yvlon raced over a dune to help Ceria, half the [Slavers] were dead. The Silver Killer took one look at the frozen, grinning [Mage]. Then she bared her teeth and charged.

 

——

 

“Oh no. What are they doing now? Mrsha? Someone get Mrsha—no, wait, it’s too bloody.”

Nanette was clapping as Lyonette and the guests of the inn watched the carnage. Lyonette was trying to shield Nanette’s eyes; the young witch bit her fingers.

Captain Todi was laughing and swearing as the rest of the inn cheered the Horns on. And despite her worries about the politics—Lyonette couldn’t keep a smile off her face.

 

——

 

Cara O’Sullivan was laughing. She was seasick and worried as hell about the future, but she pointed at Elena and shouted so loudly the entire ship she was on vibrated. The [Beautician] was mugging to the camera, and Cara heard the cheers of her band.

“You beautiful bitch! What are you doing?”

The Singer of Terandria shouted. And she knew they were watching.

 

——

 

Roshal was scrambling to call into the show with Sir Relz—but Elena was being picked up by Drassi and other networks. Shaullile was telling them to cut the entire broadcast if they had to.

She saw the danger of the young woman. Far more than a pretty face. But it was too late. The broadcast was going worldwide.

From Baleros to Rhir. The Titan of Baleros was saving a copy of the recording for Ksmvr and Vofea to see and wondering where all the fun Earthers had gone while he got Geneva and Ryoka. In Rhir, the Demons were shouting for the Death of Chains to come and watch.

As always, it was the Death of Magic who flew the recording to Czautha herself, with that grin of delight that usually only appeared when someone was dead or dying.

The Death of Chains often took conclave with her people, freed Djinni, who sat on cushions or in the air and talked.

Argued, really. Incessantly. Made huge paintings or diagrams or to-scale models of buildings and concepts, proposed forms of government, among other things, and then began to argue about how they should vote or guide themselves.

It was called the Djinni’s Maze by other Demons, mostly because the ramshackle hodgepodge of ideas made by the beings of magic were buildings squished together, courtyards and interdimensional spaces that got tangled up after being damaged by the Blighted Kingdom’s bombardments or fell into disrepair after the owners lost interest—or died—and were shoved together each time the Demons relocated.

The Djinni sat in a circle, heatedly, coldly, or otherwise elementally discussing their visions for what would never be. A nation, for the days in which they would rebuild after this war was over and they had a chance to become a people again.

Many knew that that promised day would never be. The vision of a nation unto Djinni had died ages prior, and they would never occupy the same place in the world.

But some believed, and they came and spoke, even those without hope for the future. Because the dream was enough. Addictive and painful, beautiful, like the shattered pieces of glass that lined the Djinni’s Maze.

For you see, they built these images and buildings after what they knew: the same designs as the edifices they had raised for their masters. Then innovated, reaching for something unique to them…

Czautha turned from a debate over pets as Silvenia touched down. At first, she was annoyed, thinking this was a call to arms or a meeting…then she saw the television and recognized the green-haired man.

“Colthei?”

Many Djinni, including the young Azam, clustered around the scrying spell, and Silvenia held it up.

“Wait, wait. Let me rewind it to the good part…remember this child you saved, Czautha? Just wait and see what he does.”

Everyone watched, eagerly gathering around. Because there was only one thing to do besides conflict, which was to observe the outside world.

Or see the latest magical wonder Silvenia had cooked up or stolen, but anyways.

Czautha watched the moment replay. The Death of Chains was silent, and everyone waited for her response.

Her gaze focused on Pisces. It would have been a lie to say that her eyes filled with instant recognition. But she did remember him. She found not the face familiar, for Humans looked so alike, nor his white robes or even his magic. It was when the rainbow bloomed out of the sky that she made a sound.

“Oh.”

“He’s stealing your symbol! Colthei’s little friends. I met him, you know. Briefly. You may have seen him at the Gnolls’ tent? He was with the [Innkeeper] as well. Do you think I should charge him a fee via Colth? Czautha? Oh, and the half-Elf’s not a bad [Cryomancer]. Nice crowd work. And she’s got something that’s letting her cast [Autospell]. Every Archmage in Wistram will probably want to murder her for that.”

Silvenia was greatly amused and running commentary to the interested Demons. She turned her head and saw something she didn’t expect.

What might you expect of Czautha, the Death of Chains? A smile like the very clouds lighting up with magic? A laugh as deep as triumph itself, booming with delight?

Tears?

The Djinni said nothing as she stood there, her cumulous body flashing with magic. Her sword and shield hung on her back. She said nothing—but water glimmered in her eyes and ran down her cheeks.

She wiped at her eyes as she saw the rainbow, that imitation of what he thought she looked like, the [Necromancer]’s tribute to her, illuminating the sky. The symbol he’d chosen to remember.

Czautha wept, and the Djinni watched a mortal, just one more, shining the cause that so few believed in. Across the world, burning through a million scrying orbs.

Silvenia stared at the Death of Chain’s tears. Then, silently, she fixed the scrying spell in place, backed up, and then flew away as quietly and fast as she could to get Serinpotva or someone else. The Death of Chains just watched, hungry, suddenly. A starving woman drinking in that brown-haired figure.

She didn’t need the Mentorship of Hraace to tell her what she saw.

 

——

 

It was still him, in the end.

But different.

Each and every time. Pisces Jealnet still had the same body. The illusions weren’t new. But now he was falling out of the sky with a rainbow at his back.

“It’s just Skeleton Champions instead of skeletons. That’s all.”

Selys Shivertail went to turn off the image of the Horns several times. She sat in an inn in the north, a rather nice one where she was waited on hand-and-foot. At this moment, though, she wished she were in a different inn—and then wrenched her face away. But she kept watching.

Wishing she were sitting behind a counter so, after this battle, she could heckle a certain sniffy [Necromancer] and talk to him. She rubbed a claw against a smudge on the scrying orb.

 

——

 

So many of his friends. So many erstwhile enemies, or—frankly, people who had never cared too greatly about him, now saw him again and took note.

“See if they have an availability for more work when they return from Chandrar, Ressa. An entire team instead of just Colthei. Put them in my good books.”

“You only have one, Magnolia. And it’s small.”

Ressa commented, and Magnolia waved her hands at her as she watched. She wore an indulgent smile as Yvlon screamed.

“I think Shallel’s earnest little girl has finally grown up into her own woman. Is that…calm? I thought she studied under Berr?”

The [Head Maid] cast a critical eye at the scrying orb and shrugged.

“She hasn’t lost her temper yet. She’s just shouting.”

“Oh my. I shall have to invite her to tea sometime. Ressa? I think I need a snack. Gingerbread cookies? With strawberry jam.”

That was Magnolia’s only comment.

 

——

 

The Necromancer was saving a copy of the scrying spell. But since he’d left his castle, he had nowhere to store it, so his Chosen and undead watched him creating an undead receptacle for the memory spells out of one of the Skeleton Knights.

A rather unhappy Skeleton Knight found itself watching the recording of the Horns of Hammerad’s battle through the inside of its own crystal skull…as well as a memory crystal embedded in its sternum capable of replaying events in color as well as projecting them.

That was fine. But then Az’kerash began running his own commentary about the battle and how effective Pisces’ spellcasting was purely on practical terms—and even Devail began to get a bit…

Jealous.

 

——

 

As for Nerrhavia’s Fallen? The Court of Silks was abuzz with disapproval as Prince Zenol, weary and wounded, raised his head with a glow in his eyes. But the [Prince] was nothing compared to the Queen of Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

“They attack a caravan from our nation in the open! Izrilians or not, Your Majesty, it is disgraceful. Er. Your Majesty?”

Queen Yisame realized she was staring at the image with an expression of rapt adoration only after a moment. She unclasped her hands and spoke, rather than reply through her speaker.

“What? Be silent. Those are my guests. Prepare a welcome.”

The Court of Silks focused on her, and the minister who’d made the mistake of voicing what he’d thought was the safe opinion stuttered it would absolutely be done, excellent showing from the adventurers.

 

——

 

There were plenty of people who didn’t see the Horn’s moment, for there were so many and some people didn’t have access to scrying orbs.

Such as a miniature Erin Solstice. Or Ksmvr. However, there was one person, or group, that viewed the Horns with a bit more familiarity than most.

Even if King Nuvityn had never met them and had reservations about the allies of Erin Solstice. But his foremost [Mage], Tserre…

She and Prildor stood in front of the scrying orb, staring at the image of the ‘Ice Squirrel’ killing [Slavers] of Chandrar. Nuvityn wondered what it was like for them to see what they thought of as a little girl they’d fed sweets murdering men and women while laughing.

Then again, could you murder a [Slaver]? How would he even adjudicate the matter if someone had slain a caravan trespassing in Erribathe, taking his citizens? No, by the law, it was murder. [Slavers] were people, after all.

So you pardoned every action taken as justifiable. If he were writing laws. Nuvityn turned to his advisors.

“They seem to be fairly competent, even for Gold-rankers.”

He meant it as an aside; Prildor’s mouth was open and he hadn’t said a word or possibly breathed for the last minute.

“Is—that’s her. Isn’t it? Tserre?”

He turned his gaze to the older half-Elf, and Tserre spoke; she was sitting on the lip of her walking cottage, and her voice was almost as cold as the half-Elf’s magic on screen. Cold…save for the way she never stopped watching Ceria.

“Flashy. She’s leaving herself exposed and taking far too many hits, armor spells or not. Why ice magic? Elemental magic as a half-Elf or any species leads to irrevocable choices. I don’t like that circlet. And her spell variety seems low.”

“She seems quite capable to me. For her age…”

“Bah. Let’s keep moving. She’s a strong [Mage] for this era. I would have taught her [Autocasting] without needing a relic for it.”

Everyone turned to Tserre, and Nuvityn strongly suspected every single [Mage] had just decided that Tserre was in need of fresh tea, companionship, and gifts. He just exhaled as he watched the orb another second.

“It seems they are moving further from us with each passing moment. Let us resume our march; we have a long way to go to catch up.”

 

——

 

—And that was how the Horns of Hammerad came to Nerrhavia’s Fallen. After they had cleaned up, of course. They stood amidst the ruins of a caravan, a burning flag of Roshal behind them.

A bewildered [Necromancer] having his hair tousled by a grinning Colth with blood splattered all over his face. Yvlon Byres, striding around with gore-covered arms, smiling at flinching [Slaves] as if she couldn’t understand why they were so afraid of her. The cackling Ice Squirrel posing on top of a wagon.

Horns of Hammerad. On show for the world to see. And for a group of people, mostly Stitch-folk, who took one look at the image and shouted.

“Bearig! Bearig, Rophir, Qshom—it’s him! He’s back!”

“Who? I’m getting my face on—who is—”

A man stumbled forward, saw Pisces, and let out a huge cry. He pointed, and the camp turned on him. He whirled and hugged a little half-Elven boy and twirled him around.

“He’s back! Pisces! Find out where he is, and we have to send word—someone send a [Message] to Merr!”

He was back. Just like he’d promised. The [Rebels] began cheering, just like the ones in the scrying orb. They were surrounding Pisces, shouting his name and title.

Bane of Roshal! Bane of Roshal! The confused [Necromancer] looked at them and then exhaled. He had returned, to danger, to peril, and to the place of his trauma and loss.

But this time, he wasn’t alone.

 

 

[Arctic Cryomancer Level 40!]

[Conditions Met: Arctic Cryomancer → Relicbound Arctic Cryomancer Class!]

[Skill – Magic, Freeze obtained!]

[Skill – Metamagic: Elemental Variation (Cryomancy) obtained!]

[Spell – Summon Frost Elemental learned!]

[Spell – Conjure Whiteout Blizzard learned!]

[Spell – Snap Freeze obtained!]

 

[Conditions Met: Half-Elf → Boreal Half-Elf Species!]

[Condition: Body – Icy Flesh obtained!]

[Skill Change – Lesser Frost Resistance → Greater Frost Resistance!]

[Skill – Greater Frost Resistance obtained!]

[Condition: Feet – Nature’s Passage (Snow) obtained!]

[Bound Spell – Form Change: Snow Wraith obtained!]

[Bound Spell – Freezing Gust obtained!]

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

I debated splitting this into two parts…no, wait. I knew this was better as two parts because it’s 55,000+ words, but I debated releasing both parts at once.

Lots of debating with beta-readers, actually. They really liked the chapter, and I hope you do too! But they kept saying things like ‘split this up’, ‘don’t die’, ‘all your deadlines are self-inflicted’, and reasonable things.

I…just felt like I wanted to deliver the whole chapter because it’s how people have experienced it and enjoyed it. And because I ‘only’ delivered 20k last week.

I may have a problem with how much I view as acceptable to deliver, but I’ll cut you a deal. If I feel like I’ve worked so hard, I’ll ease off the gas for next Saturday’s chapter. Give myself more time to get ahead.

But I am proud of this one. Some days, I’ll push hard, but some days I will, with great effort, work less. In order to work and deliver more quality later. I hope you like this poll chapter and I’ve got more stuff to tell. Also, Innktober! It’s awesome and in the Discord server, so check it out! Subscribe to one of the feeds, YouTube, Instagram, etc., and you’ll see daily posts of art! See you next chapter!

 

 

Day 1 — Inn by Artsynada!

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/illudanajohns/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/illudanajohns

 

Day 1 — Inn by Brack!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

Inn Thief by Rocky!

 

Ama’s Kitty by Moerchen!

 

Crazy Human by Chalyon! (Without bunny ears!?)

 

Glorious Summoning by Wing!

Wing’s Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/wingedhatchling/

Wing’s Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/wingedhatch

Hatchs Cara Art: https://cara.app/wingedhatchling/all

 

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