10.25 MG

(Announcing The Wandering Inn x Aleksandar Mitrovic Limited Edition Fashion Collection! This is a limited run of streetwear fashion clothing, produced by an expert [Fashion Designer]! Check it out now—stocks are limited so if we run out there won’t be more produced! A huge thank-you to everyone for making this possible and I hope you enjoy!)

 

 

 

 

A day after Elia Arcsinger’s memories played in the [World’s Eye Theatre], Nanette was still slightly smug as she strutted around the inn in her new outfit.

Christmas boots. Yellow raincoat—which was actually a yellow-fabric poncho that made water slide off it like, well, magic. A green t-shirt with the Little Crabs logo on it that she’d bought from Market Street, and light blue leggings that were patterned with tiny hats here and there.

It was such a fantastic fit that Mrsha stared at Nanette over her breakfast omelette. Mrsha had been down of late, and distracted, but Nanette was pleased to see her roommate—and everyone was being complimentary today.

“Whoa, Nanette! That looks great on you!”

Rose gave Nanette a double-thumbs up. She nudged Joseph, who had not really noticed, and he belatedly grunted something like that. Nanette did a twirl again for her admirers and got applause.

From the Antinium. Peggy glanced at Rose’s and Joseph’s expressions, then applauded and smiled at Nanette. A red-headed [Mage] lowered the newspaper she held. Montressa du Valeross eyed Nanette’s color schema and outfit, bit her lip, then beamed at Nanette encouragingly.

“Very stylish. Bezale, what do you think?”

The Minotauress lowered a cup of coffee and glanced up from what looked like a ledger of some kind. She nodded once and spoke loudly.

“I approve.”

Nanette glowed under their praise. More quietly, Bezale leaned over to Montressa.

“It’s good to let children pick their own outfits. And it is quite well put together. On a magical level.”

“Yeah, and we’ll let Lyonette give her lessons on…you know.”

Mrsha scribbled on a piece of paper.

Where did you get that clothing, Nanette?

“I treated myself to it. As a reward. Miss Rose took me into the city yesterday. The rain-poncho and leggings are special. I did a bit of enchanting on the t-shirt myself, though. Guess where the rest of the clothing is from?”

Mrsha squinted at said articles as more people came over, interested by the vivid colors. Even for a city like Liscor with good access to markets, they were clearly high-quality dyes and cloth. Mrsha cheated by sniffing.

“It’s from the Meeting of Tribes! Guess who’s arriving in Liscor soon? Honored Deskie!”

Rose gave the entire thing away, of course. Ishkr blinked and stopped serving tables for a second to slide over.

“Deskie? Really? Lyonette’s mad gambit worked?”

Everyone searched around, but Lyonette wasn’t here for breakfast yet. Nanette strutted back and forth as Rose explained.

“She’s coming, and she sent a bunch of her people ahead—Deskie’s old, so she’ll probably roll in on a carriage. They had tons of great fabrics like this. You should buy it! They’re in the Gnollish apartments and the 3rd District area.”

“So not on Market Street? I didn’t see that yesterday.”

Relc put in, waggling his tail excitedly. Rose winked.

“That’s because they’re not selling it in the open! Yet! Just go and ask; it’s amazing stuff.”

She indicated Nanette again, and the witch looked smugly at the newest arrivals. Two tousel-haired boys were coming for breakfast. Hethon and Sammial stopped when they saw her. Sammial, mostly because he hoped something interesting would happen; Hethon because he could appreciate clothing of any style. Especially clothing Nanette wore.

“Waterproof raincoat. And my shirt and pants. I could go swimming and be mostly dry when I get out! The pants don’t even slow me down in the water. I got the witch hats sewn on—I could swim a lap outside the inn like a fish!”

She looked a bit too self-satisfied, so Hethon muttered.

“Too bad you’re not allowed to do that.”

He received a huge scowl from Nanette at the reminder, because Liscor’s Floodplains definitely had too many aquatic monsters for Lyonette to countenance that. Nanette turned her nose up at Hethon.

“Well, I’m happy to dress for myself, even if some people can’t even compliment me on how I look. It’s too much to expect that from a noble, right, Mrsha?”

Hethon turned red, and Sammial hopped into a chair at their table as Hethon began to apologize in that way where you knew you were wrong but didn’t really want to say sorry. Mrsha didn’t reply to Nanette, and the witch frowned at her.

Normally, Mrsha backed up Nanette in bullying the two [Lords] or most things, but Mrsha was poking at her omelette again.

“Mrsha?”

What? Seen Rags?

“Rags? No—why are you and Rags hanging out so much? I know you two are ‘inn buddies’, but we have important things to do!”

Like what? School? It’s the weekend. I don’t have to do my homework today!

Mrsha held up a note defensively, and Nanette hissed.

“The wand?”

Oh. That. I’m sort of busy today, Nanette.

“With what?”

Things.

The normally energetic Mrsha had a pensive look on her face that might have been constipation, and Sammial and Hethon glanced at Nanette. Who was their fearless leader.

Which was odd…because they were both [Lords] of House Veltras, neither of them had known or liked Nanette and Mrsha before this, and so on and so forth. They hadn’t even been welcome to the inn. But after the Solstice, Nanette was always dragging them into ways to get the wand or do interesting things each day. She was a witch.

She was sort of cool. Plus, she was a decisive person, so they began to scarf their food as Nanette shifted her glower from Mrsha to the woman coming down the stairs.

Lyonette du Marquin took one look at Nanette’s outfit and had to admire the style. But the first words out of her mouth were—

“Miss Nanette Weishart, did you buy all that with inn money?”

Rose’s beam turned into a look of chagrin. Ser Dalimont and Dame Ushar flanked Lyonette as Nanette rose to her feet.

“Good morning, Lyonette. Thank you for complimenting my appearance. I can tell you and House Veltras’ nobility are equally courteous. As a matter of fact, I paid for it with my allowance.”

“You didn’t tell me. Or inform me you went out! As for the coordination…it’s lovely, Nanette. I wish you’d consulted with me. Who…who helped you pick the clothing out? Elia?”

The Named-rank adventurer looked mildly indignant at the suggestion. Nanette folded her arms, narrowing her eyes.

“I asked for Vaulont to go with me.”

Lyonette’s head spun accusingly, but the Vampire was on the night shift. And he was an approved guardian.

“It is a lovely wardrobe, even if the hats are a bit too overdone, Nanette. I just feel like I should know when you buy new clothing!”

“Oh? Are we sharing decisions now, Lyonette? Funny. I don’t recall you ever consulting with anyone else in the family for anything you do. Like with wands. You know, Ryoka said that she trusts me to do what’s necessary with the wand?”

“You called her? I told Ryoka—”

It was day…thirty-two of the wand argument. Everyone else stopped admiring the clothing and made themselves scarce. Hethon leaned over to Sammy as the two bickered, and Mrsha heard them whispering.

“Maybe we should have eaten in Invrisil, Sammy?”

“What? Why? Dad’s just as bad when he’s grumpy.”

The two were actually more immune to awkward arguments happening over their heads than most. Hethon nudged Mrsha.

“We had lessons yesterday. What happened?”

She took a while to respond. Then she grudgingly forked over a notecard.

Everyone saw Elia Arcsinger’s memories when she killed the Goblin King. And Goblin memories of when she killed them. Some Goblins tried to assassinate her.

“What? And we missed it to have etiquette lessons? I told Ullim—every time we skip the inn, something cool happens!”

Sammial exploded with outrage. Which distracted Nanette and Lyonette long enough to greet him, and they all sat down for breakfast.

“Mrsha, dear, you seem exhausted. Are you getting enough sleep?”

Mrsha didn’t mention her late-night shenanigans to her mother, but she was distinctly tired as she munched on her omelette. Under this scrutiny, though, she sat up and held out a notecard.

Merely pondering the mortal tribulations of this world, Mother. Good morning.

Lyonette gave Mrsha a quick glance, but then she smiled.

“I’m glad to see someone isn’t biting my head off. I was thinking we’d go into Liscor to see what this election nonsense is like. Or greet Honored Deskie’s people?”

“I’ve already done that on behalf of the inn. You could do something with that pile of Chemath Marble outside. It’s getting wet, and I’ll bet it’ll get mossy if we leave it out, Miss Lyonette. Or you could help Lord Ilvriss if you wanted to be useful today.”

Nanette’s comment made Lyonette stab her omelette. The two were staring each other down as Dalimont desperately called out.

“Miss Arcsinger! Good morning!”

Elia Arcsinger jumped and turned in her seat. She was there, as usual, looking impassively calm as she ate a red omelette. Calescent had been edging out of the kitchen to say hello; he sighed and stumped back inside as she rose.

“Yes? Can I do anything?”

“Not yet, Miss Arcsinger. Why don’t you join our table this morning? Calescent, you too!”

Dalimont tried to bring in reinforcements, but it wasn’t working. Lyonette put her napkin down.

“Nanette, I think there’s a fine line between indignation—which I understand—and outright incivility. Why don’t we choose which we’re planning on today?”

“I’d love for you to be civil and treat me like a person for once, Miss Lyonette.”

Nanette stood back from the table as Lyonette’s eyes narrowed. Mrsha slipped out of her chair and tried to slink away, but both women pinned her with a glance.

“Rags isn’t here today, Mrsha. Finish your breakfast with us.”

“Yeah, Mrsha. Back me up!”

Nanette beckoned as she took a step backwards. Lyonette frowned at Nanette as the witch backed up another step.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

“What? Nowhere! You’re the one who’s refusing to go visit the people who matter so much.”

“I am preparing to meet them on my own terms and—don’t walk away from me, Nanette.”

Nanette was backing up several steps as Mrsha halted. The witch gave Lyonette a puzzled glance.

“You’re the one walking away from—huh?”

She looked down at her bright yellow boots and hesitated.

“Wait, why are my feet moving?”

She held onto Relc’s table as a sleepy Valeterisa teleported into Relc’s lap. He jumped, then caught her with a grin. Lyonette was distracted for a second and stared at Nanette.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Nanette.”

The young witch was now leaning forwards like someone in an invisible headwind. Valeterisa and Relc completely ignored her as they greeted each other.

“Morning, Valley.”

Relc flirted with Valeterisa as she failed to open her eyes. She opened her mouth, and he inserted a piece of omelette into it. Valley mumbled.

“I don’t want to lay magical foundations anymore. Ooh, a summoning spell.”

She opened her eyes as Nanette’s feet left the ground. Relc twisted, and Lyonette’s mouth opened as Nanette suddenly went vertical; her boots were lifting off the floor, headed towards the entrance to the common room.

“A what? A—it’s them.”

“My boots! Wait, this is good? Don’t do anything silly, Lyonette!”

Nanette squeaked as she hung onto the table with all her might. Hethon and Sammial ran over to grab one hand; Dalimont seized the other, and then his boots began to skid across the floor. Nanette yelped.

“Wait! Wait, this isn’t the same—it’s—this is a witch spell!”

Lyonette had been calling for her sword, a crossbow, for Elia and Vaulont and everyone else. She whirled, and Elia lowered her bow as Valeterisa nodded sleepily.

“Witch magic. Is this an omelette? Relc, I don’t like green onion. Though, a magical fact is that Silvenia, the Death of Magic, does like green onions. Maybe it’s good for me?”

Nanette’s hands slipped out of Hethon and Sammial’s grip, and she went flying out of the common room as Ser Dalimont held onto her waist. The summoning spell was pulling them towards the portal door as the common room door slammed open. Everyone began running after her as Mrsha looked around and tried to slink aw—

“Mrsha! It’s the [Witches] in Riverfarm! Come on!”

Sammial grabbed her arm, and Mrsha groaned. It was going to be another inn-day.

She didn’t have time for this.

The [Palace of Fates] was waiting for her. Mrsha caught the eye of a Goblin sitting in the corner of the inn. Redscar raised his eyebrows and gave her a slight nod as Mrsha jerked her thumb at the hubbub. He nodded and tapped a finger on his wrist. She made a face.

She’d be there as soon as she could.

 

——

 

Rags was sleeping on the floor of the [Palace of Fates], wrapped up in a wyvernhide cloak. She was drooling and twitching occasionally—her dreams were of death and splintered realities, like a trail of lightning arcing ahead of her.

She was stressed.

She was almost out of time.

She woke up when Redscar nudged her, and she glowered at him. Rags wiped the drool from her cheek and defied him to comment. All he said was—

“Mrsha late.”

“Why?”

“Inn stuff. Flying witches.”

“I know they can fly.”

“No, flying horizontally. With boots. Nanette.”

He mimed it, and Rags stopped, but didn’t have the time to devote the mental energy to this one.

“Then I’ll hope Mrsha has time to make it. Otherwise…what time is it?”

Redscar scratched his head.

“Eh, morning?”

Rags rubbed at her face. She had a dread in her body, a nervousness—but she nodded. Two days, Saliss had said. One day down…

“Assemble the warriors. Tell the Trolls it’s today. You get ready for the trap. I’ll fly to Goblinhome in…six hours.”

“Yes, Chieftain.”

Six hours to find something more. Rags pushed herself up as Redscar handed her a floppy, yellow object. She squinted blearily at it.

“What’s that?”

“Breakfast omelette, Chieftain. You not eaten yet.”

Redscar reminded the Flooded Waters Chieftain. She stared at the omelette that was oozing bits of cheese and innards onto the ground, then at Redscar.

“…Couldn’t you have gotten a plate?”

 

——

 

The [Witches] of Riverfarm sat in conclave in a clearing in the forest, a natural space, where they had erected, of all things, menhirs. Big standing stones, ovoid in nature, each one decorated with a particular coven’s motifs.

A ritual spot; one of the central stones was adorned in the iconography of birds. Black feathers were arrayed around it, and a nest had been made at the feet of it. Another smelled of tea, and flowers bloomed around Eloise and her coven’s stone. She sat before the stone, on a cushion, knitting and smiling at Nanette, who stood in the center of this judgment of witches.

It was a very odd scene; non-witches had been excluded from the inner gathering, even Lyonette, who had departed once she understood her daughter was not being kidnapped by tree spirits and only being kidnapped by fellow witches. But there were tons of people watching respectfully from the side, including Mrsha.

Nanette was standing in the center of the gathering, eagerly describing her achievement with Elia and the Goblins yesterday. The witches listened, not in silence, but murmuring, trading objects, snacking…

This was a gathering of witches, after all. They didn’t sit like some high council, but more like a knitting group. Yet they were here to pass some kind of judgment or, as Witch Thallisa put it—

“Feedback time. Who wants to go first?”

Nanette stood there proudly, glancing around as the witches murmured. She spoke with a quaver of nervousness in her voice, but mostly delight.

“I didn’t know I could be summoned for a witch’s circle, Witch Thallisa. I abandoned my hat, you know.”

Thallisa was knitting as she sat there. Her hat, made of other [Witches]’ hats, was tilted so the spring air could blow through her wavy black hair. Her eyes glinted, and when Mrsha, being crowded by the excited Sammial, Hethon, Ishkr, and Visma, looked at her, Mrsha heard music. Wild and wondrous voices of hundreds of Gnolls at the Meeting of Tribes. Thallisa caught Mrsha’s eye and winked.

She was a cool [Witch]. Mrsha saw other people had come to watch this supposedly secret meeting of [Witches]. Younger witches, interested lookie-loos from Riverfarm, and yes, Visma and Rittane. Even Iskhr was here because he loved this kind of thing.

She’d been trying to sneak away for the last half-hour. With a sigh, Mrsha listened to Thallisa.

“You claim you’re a witch, hat or no, Witch Nanette. So be judged like one. Sisters, we have a witch about her first great meeting to reconcile. What say you of how she did it?”

Silence fell as the [Witches] looked up and stopped chattering. They glanced at each other, and then a lazy hand rose. A young woman lounging with her legs up against her menhir, Witch Alevica, called out.

“Alright, let’s get it over with. Nanette, your meeting sounded like it sucked. You barely got two sides to sit down and talk. You only did it because you borrowed Erin Solstice’s theatre and Skills, and you’ve got a big head. There, done.”

She grabbed a broom she’d been leaning up against the menhir and tried to fly out of the grove. She zoomed off as Nanette reddened and her eyes went wide.

Witch Alevica shot off to the right, through the trees, came flying back into the grove from the opposite direction, did a double-take, scowled, and landed.

“That’s not how I’d have put it.”

Witch Eloise murmured. Nanette searched around, her confidence visibly deflating.

“What? But I got Elia Arcsinger, the Goblin King’s slayer, and Goblins to talk! I showed them—”

The energetic Witch Agratha leaned over from her menhir, which was decorated with books and lit candles in unwise proximity to each other. She smiled gently at Nanette.

“We’re just giving you feedback, dear. Don’t take it personally. I think these group discussions are wonderful. It’s a way for all [Witches] to give you a bit of advice and to critique. It comes from a place of love, you know.”

Nanette relaxed slightly, and Agratha pursed her lips.

“With that said, I think Witch Alevica had a bit of a point. You were doing this gathering like your mother. Witch Califor could make peace between Drakes and Lizardfolk. And has.”

“Yes, exactly! And I was—”

Agratha spoke clearly over Nanette with a kindly smile that took little away from her words.

“She was Witch Califor and did it sometimes crudely, like someone holding up two naughty puppies and forcing them to make up. No one would say she was perfect. But you, Miss Nanette, are neither brokering peace in war or Witch Califor herself. I think you could do your job better. Now, let’s start with attitude.”

“My attitude?”

“Arrogance doesn’t suit you, Witch Nanette. And it’s arrogance we see.”

That came from a third [Witch] Mrsha didn’t know. The Gnoll girl winced as Nanette began to turn red.

“I’m just doing my best, and I didn’t see you—”

“Nanette, my girl, you reek of indignation and pride. And gold. A witch should do things that matter. But not think she’s always the only solution to any problem. Or should be accoladed for her deeds.”

Hedag interrupted, and Witch Thallisa raised a hand before more [Witches] could pile on.

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves. This isn’t meant to be a pile of dogs on our young [Witch]. I say it was well done. I say it was a splendid thought to combine Skills.”

The [Witches] murmured agreement.

“Oh, that? Absolutely. A wonderful Skill.”

“I’d like to see some memories myself if that theatre can allow it.”

“Splendidly done, there. Ah, one note: did you think showing the Goblin King to the Goblins might make them as mad as he was, Nanette?”

Mrsha peeked at Nanette’s face and saw the girl go scarlet. She began to argue, stuttering, which, Mrsha realized, was sort of the problem. Nanette could argue with Lyonette. Successfully, unsuccessfully, that wasn’t really the point. But [Witches] were her people. And they really didn’t tolerate you having an overinflated ego. Worse—they were trying to be nice.

 

——

 

“—I’m just trying to say that I’ve been doing my best to broker a peaceful solution to the issue of the wand and other matters in my domain! And I have been doing my best with little thanks to my class!”

An hour later, the meeting of the [Witches] was winding down, and Nanette seemed slightly, well, dismayed was a good word for it. Not beaten down; the [Witches] didn’t shout at her or tell her she was wrong.

It was closer to being hit repeatedly by pillows, like when Nanette and Mrsha played in their rooms. But imagine Hedag hitting you with a pillow, soft as it may be. Nanette had that sort of dazed expression on her face.

Petulant as well, but Witch Thallisa smiled at her.

“And we appreciate that, Witch Nanette. You are a witch in your own realm.”

“Exactly! Thank you!”

“Miss Lyonette is your guardian, who fears for your safety—rightfully, I imagine—and who has wariness of these strangers that I would deem appropriate.”

“They could have hurt us! They didn’t, and we owe them a debt—”

Witch Thallisa tipped her hat at Nanette. Her voice was spritely, and she kept the smile up, but Nanette’s retort stalled.

“Absolutely. I merely suggest, Witch Nanette, that some respect for Miss Lyonette’s point of view may be warranted? This is only as one witch to another. If you stand here and tell me upon your hat that your way is the correct and only way, why, I must accede. Isn’t that so, sisters?”

She glanced around and received sage nods from several of the [Witches]. Hedag winked at Nanette.

“Far be it from us to lecture such a learned witch in her ways.”

A ripple of laughter went around the circle, gently, and Nanette turned beet red. Thallisa’s gaze returned to Nanette.

“Witch Califor, your mother, was often right. Insufferably so, you know. She was an excellent witch, a Great Witch, and as we all know, a finer mother. But I suggest, Witch Nanette, you conflate being correct and having your way with what made her so exceptional. Her greatest flaw was that sometimes she was wrong, and when she was, she could not see it.”

They left that one hanging, and at this point, Mrsha felt like that settled that and began plotting her escape. The problem wasn’t having to be here to support Nanette. The problem—Mrsha glanced over her shoulder—

The problem was the Thronebearers. Or rather, Ser Dalimont.

Two Thronebearers. Ushar and Dalimont. One was almost always in the company of Lyonette, the other with the girls. Thronebearers, so different to Mrsha from the first days of them being silly [Knights] asking for Lyonette.

She had a healthy respect for their intelligence. Mrsha had debated slipping back through the door to The Wandering Inn and then heading into the [Garden of Sanctuary] to meet up with Rags for ages. She knew they were on a time limit.

Problem: if she did that, one of the Thronebearers would surely follow, on the basis that Mrsha needed looking-after more than Nanette did in Riverfarm, under the aegis of Emperor Laken and the [Witches].

Naturally, Mrsha could tell Dalimont to get lost and let Vaulont or Elia look after her. Elia would cover for her, but Mrsha knew better than to play her hand by asking.

Suggesting she didn’t want a Thronebearer around would tell their stupid, politically-savvy brains that she had something to hide. Then they’d try to ferret it out. So she had to play it cool.

Of course, the Thronebearers knew Mrsha had things to hide. They just assumed it was other things. They knew Mrsha and Nanette slipped out of their rooms at night, but Ushar had struck a deal with Mrsha. As long as the girls got up to ‘acceptable mischief’, they could get away with a lot.

If they left the inn, they had to tell a Thronebearer. Mrsha suspected they reported a lot of what the two did to Lyonette anyways, but she was also certain they couldn’t monitor her actions in the [Garden of Sanctuary] half as well as Lyonette would like. Let alone find her in the [Palace of Fates].

 

I could just tell Mother about the [Palace of Fates]. Or Nanette. Or someone. But when I do, they’ll take it away from me and do what they think is best. And I…

I believe it is my palace, even if that was a mistake. Therefore, my responsibility.

I am afraid.

I do not want to be the same Mrsha who makes mistakes and lets people die for her.

I wish Erin were here.

 

Mrsha thought these things as Nanette stomped out of the coven, tomato-faced. What she didn’t remember was the power of [Witches].

They could see her. So, Mrsha jumped as a tall [Witch] intercepted her.

“Miss Mrsha. I don’t believe we’ve met. I am Witch Thallisa. Do you require my services?”

She sounded like a piano playing in an empty bar. Her robes swirled around her, and Mrsha looked up into a sharp face that would have been perfect as a strict school teacher—if Thallisa weren’t so used to smiling. The Great Witch’s robes blew, and Mrsha held out a paw and shook the hand.

Hello! I’m Mrsha du Marquin. Your services, Witch Thallisa? Do you mean sewing magic or something?

She’d heard Thallisa was a gifted enchanter—and that she’d once flown a tree into a bunch of Clairei Field [Knights] to save Alevica. Nanette had said Thallisa was a Great Witch, like Hedag, Eloise, and Califor. Thallisa chuckled softly.

“That’s more of a hobby. True, I can enchant a piece of fabric to do wondrous things. But a new pair of boots doesn’t always solve a crisis. When it can—that’s when my craft matters. However, I am often just a friendly pair of ears. If you need to speak to someone, I could listen.”

Mrsha gazed up at the [Witch] and realized, belatedly, Thallisa was reading her emotions. Guardedly, Mrsha held up a card.

That’s very kind of you, Witch Thallisa, but I think…I’m fine. Sometimes we go through tough decisions. And I have people to talk to.

“Indeed? A [Witch] can be a unique pair of ears, but I shan’t press further.”

Thallisa tipped her hat to Mrsha, and the girl nodded.

I know. It’s very kind of you to offer, but if I need a [Witch]’s help, I shall surely seek you out.

The Great Witch left it at that, but Mrsha was suddenly aware of multiple pairs of eyes on her. She hurried after Nanette, heart pounding.

Why not tell them? Why not confide in Laken?

The answer was control. Rags had explained her reasoning to Mrsha, and it dovetailed with Mrsha’s own. The moment they told someone like Laken or a [Witch], they’d want to put their fingers in the pie. Who wouldn’t see the value of the palace? You had to trust them, and neither one really trusted Laken that much.

But even Lyonette or the others—changed things. Rags was seeking a solution in a rapidly-narrowing set of futures, and each variable she changed threatened to upset the board. She had to control variables. The backup plan. The…fallback plan was a bunch of pre-written notecards that would go to everyone Mrsha could find.

Lyonette, Saliss, General Shirka, the Troll Queen, Zevara, Olesm, heck, even Lord Xitegen. But if it came to that—they were in trouble. In a very real sense, only a few people mattered in this crisis.

Rags. Mrsha, for whatever she was worth. The Troll Queen. And Teriarch.

Very, very few other beings could make a difference reliably. Mrsha didn’t really think she mattered…except that she had a secret even Rags hadn’t uncovered. Her worry, the thing that had drawn the [Witches]’ eyes to her, was deciding what to do about that.

 

——

 

“Mrsha, I’m heading back to the inn. Are you coming?”

Nanette called to her, and Mrsha ran to catch up. The [Witches] watched, and after a moment, Witch Alevica flew down; she’d been taking a nap in the branches.

“I always thought Nanette would be a goody two-shoes [Witch]. I never thought I’d get to chew her out harder than my first circle. She can’t even see what that Mrsha is going through. Some [Witch].”

“Ah, well, she’s hatless. Don’t hold it against her.”

Hedag murmured, but her eyes were sharp as she scrutinized Mrsha’s back. Alevica raised the brim of her hat.

“Hold it against—? I’ll bet even if you didn’t have a hat, you’d see her! I’ve seen dying adventurers who look calmer than that girl. Shouldn’t you be running after her?”

“I have to know what the problem is first. Nor is she ignorant to us. She needs a subtle touch. One that she doesn’t feel is an adult grabbing her to fix all problems.”

Hedag murmured, and Thallisa nodded.

“My impressions exactly. If she won’t confide in her mother, well. Witch Alevica, you look thirsty.”

“I do? Well, I didn’t feel like drinking tea until it came out my ears.”

Alevica rubbed at her throat, sighing. She’d been practicing more of the Aklat Vunn language. Thallisa gave her a judicious nod as Hedag grinned.

“You should do something about that throat. Have a drink on me.”

She handed Alevica several silver coins, and the younger [Witch] shrugged.

“Fine by me. I’ll just—wait.”

She glanced around, and the [Witches] all beamed at her and tipped their hats. Thallisa murmured as she tapped her lips.

“I hear that inn does a lovely blue fruit juice in the spring.”

“Oh come on. I’m busy. I’m not the right sort. I don’t do well with children!”

“Says the woman raising three. I’ll finish sewing up that sunproof costume for your little lad tonight. Off you go. Remember not to make Miss Mrsha suspect anything.”

Groaning, Alevica flew after Nanette and Mrsha. She was just in time to hear the two start fighting.

 

——

 

Nanette was angry as she stormed away from the [Witches]’ circle. Her eyes were bright, and the tips of her ears refused to stop burning.

It was, perhaps, not the time to say something thoughtless. Unfortunately, Mrsha was lost in her own realm of problems.

“Can you believe them, Mrsha? Lecturing me about being arrogant? You don’t think I’m arrogant, do you?”

She hissed at Mrsha as they marched back to Riverfarm, Ser Dalimont doing his best impersonation of a walking statue. Every now and then, Nanette would shoot him a baleful gaze, and he’d move a step further back.

I think they were being sort of jerks, Nanette. I know you’re trying to be helpful and no one respects that.

“Especially Lyonette! I’m advocating for myself—which is very witchy. If I were ten years older, they wouldn’t lecture me! I didn’t see them pulling Erin into a circle.”

Except for the time they talked her into making a hat. And Wiskeria mentoring her.

Nanette missed a step, then glowered at Mrsha so hard the girl switched topics.

I must say, I’m admiring [Witches] more and more, Nanette. Your class does stuff. Important things. You never see a problem and think it’s someone else’s job. You’re invested. That’s really cool. And hard.

Nanette’s flush receded slightly, she developed a pleased look, and her stalking gait slowed slightly.

“Thank you, Mrsha. I can count on you being on my side. It’s part mentality, part…just trying to do things that matter, you know? Sometimes I think about getting my hat.”

Her gaze strayed to the place where she had left it, but then she shook her head briskly.

“—But I’m—I’m not ready for it. I’m a [Sariantfriend]. I’m doing things that matter. I am a witch! And I’ll be a great one because I didn’t need a hat or class for it!”

Her friend gave her an energetic nod and scribbled as Nanette’s chin rose.

Yeah! Do you think I’d qualify for a [Witch] class too, Nanette? I’ve been thinking about getting it, if I can.

Nanette slowed even further, and Mrsha walked past her absently. Dalimont, reading the notecard from behind them, winced.

“You want to be a [Witch]?”

I think I get the mentality. I don’t know about some of it, but I understand the ‘making big decisions’ part. I just feel like I could use it. I know I’ve got a lot of classes, but I could take a few levels. Respectfully, you know?

“Respectfully. You think you’re able to just earn that hat?”

Mrsha noticed the edge in Nanette’s tone too late. She peered up and scribbled hurriedly.

You sort of inspired me to it, Nanette. I know it’s a big thing. I’d take it seriously! Sometimes, I feel like I get the weight of the hat.

That was the last straw. Nanette snapped. She re-colored, jabbed a finger into Mrsha’s chest, and snapped.

“You—Mrsha, you don’t understand what the hat is like. You’re not a [Witch]. You can’t just pick it up like [Druid], [Emberbearer], or your other half-dozen classes! I’m a [Witch]. You can’t be one!”

That stung. Mrsha jerked and snapped back—well, wrote angrily.

Why not? Anyone can be a [Witch]!

“Not just anyone! Mrsha, you’re not [Witch] material. Believe me. It’s serious stuff. Do you think those other witches chewed me out? They’d tear you to pieces.”

What? Nanette, I’m being super serious. I respect [Witches]!

“Clearly, you don’t if you think you could be one. Mrsha, you steal food off people’s plates! You run around and don’t think of the big picture at all!”

The two were halted in the middle of a street in Riverfarm, having an argument that was half vocalized, half angry scritching.

I think I do think of the big picture. And I haven’t stolen food in months, aside from Relc because he thinks it’s funny. And Valeterisa because she gets mad. And—okay, I should stop that.

“Oh yeah? Where were you when I kept trying to convince Lyonette to do something about the wand? Don’t bring up my class, Mrsha. My class isn’t a game.”

Nanette, I just meant—

The [Witch]’s voice lowered until it was intense, and her green eyes flashed. The people on the street, Alevica, and Dalimont watched as Mrsha backed up, alarmed and hurt.

“My class is my burning mother. My class is a hat full of grief. My class is Belavierr and everything that matters. If you think you can be a [Witch], act like it first.”

Nanette poked Mrsha with each sentence, harder, until she nearly shoved the younger girl. Mrsha felt a spark of fury in her chest. She almost lashed out and wrote something, or shoved back, but she kept backing away.

I will then.

She held up the card, but Nanette was already storming away. Not for the inn, but for Witch Wiskeria, the only person Nanette wanted to meet right now. Mrsha stood there, gulping down hurt feelings, and saw Dalimont turning to her.

“Ah—my apologies, Miss Mrsha.”

He was clearly torn between her and Nanette. Mrsha thought and wrote.

Elia’s in the inn. I’m going back there away from Nanette. You’d better keep an eye on Nanette before she tries to fly away with Wiskeria.

That tipped the scales. Dalimont gave her a tight nod and tapped on a speaking stone. He murmured into it, and Mrsha walked towards the inn, still all messed up inside from what Nanette had said. She was so upset she got teary-eyed and wanted to shout, but then she got embarrassed when people stared at her and she thought they could see she was about to cry.

Mrsha stomped into the inn, and Liska glanced up from the couch where she was reading a book.

“Hey, Mrsha, how was the witch thing? Huh? Oh, fine, ignore me. I’m just the [Doorgnoll]. Some people, you know?”

She sighed loudly as Mrsha opened a door into the [Garden of Sanctuary] and vanished. Liska turned to a Human for validation, and he coughed.

“…Can we go to Invrisil now?”

“I’m working on it. Jeeze.”

 

——

 

In the [Palace of Fates], Rags was compiling her notes with her staff. Redscar was gone. He’d returned to Goblinhome to get ready.

Rags had, in fact, sent her best bodyguard to the mountains. Snapjaw, Poisonbite, Redscar…her lieutenants had to prepare. She’d kept some Redfangs on the off chance there was trouble, but the Goblins in the inn were few in number.

The ones in the [Palace of Fates] numbered just four in total.

Even in the Flooded Waters tribe, there weren’t many Goblins that Rags needed here. Trusted? Most of them, except for Gothica. However, if Rags had a full squad in here, it would have been just…

Taganchiel, Prixall, Redscar, Snapjaw, Badarrow—assuming he wasn’t in Baleros—and maybe a few other intelligent sub-officers for flavor.

More Goblins weren’t necessary. The [Palace] was confusing and could trick you into the wrong conclusions. Still, Rags needed someone to hold her notecards for her and to run messages between her and the outside world in case something happened.

So, one short Goblin was peering into the different doors, muttering grumpily about not finding the doors she wanted. Rags scowled at Fightipilota, and Goblinhome’s best flier stopped searching for fates in which she became a real [Fighter Pilot].

After her return from the New Lands, Fightipilota was the natural candidate to ferry Rags around with one of the Frost Wyverns who didn’t have a dedicated [Beast Tamer]. She was fascinated by the [Palace of Fates].

Rags got why Fightipilota was here. She was a decent Redfang, for all her quirks. She was less thrilled by the two excited Goblins who kept grinning at each other.

“Ahem. My notes on the Titan?”

“Oh. Sorry, Chieftain! Uh—uh—here! Rianchi, not that one!”

Dyeda and Rianchi. Rags had promised to show them different places, and a visit to the inn was an easy win for her. Ever since Rianchi had proven himself by running messages to her in the depths of the mountain, the other warriors had treated him like an asset. But not quite one they understood.

So they’d put Dyeda and Rianchi with Rags’ escort on the premise that they could deliver messages and be useful. Rags just wished they’d stop whispering to each other.

She accepted the papers with a long stare at Rianchi, who’d even brought his damn bicycle into the [Palace of Fates]. Rags had caught him riding down the endless hallways with Dyeda on his back like this was a joyride.

The chastened [Gearhead Cyclist] rubbed at his side as he fished out more documents for her and then held out a quill and ink. Rags sighed louder, then checked her notes.

Facts. She was up against a Mortemdefieir Titan, whose name literally meant ‘Death Defier’. Really promising. It was a being about forty feet tall—if assembled—and was currently in five parts, rolling around the troll caverns.

The being had been made by the ancient City of Graves and locked behind doors meant to keep it and other monsters from the ancient wars against the Kingdom of Trolls locked away forever.

Something during the Solstice had unleashed this Titan, and it was trying to link up. Which it would, sooner or later. When it did, it would kill the Trolls, then the Flooded Waters tribe, then 2nd Army, then everything else it could.

The Mortemdefieir Titan could speak words of magic, including instant-kill words, cast Tier 6 spells without preparation, was strong enough to crush mortal enemies to death, and regenerated from any wounds delivered. Fully assembled, it was fast, could use a blade—though it’d have to make one out of the corpses first—and could reanimate the dead.

It also had plagues of insects around it, which were more of a side-product of its killing aura than anything. Its beating heart sapped the life out of the living. The one benefit was that when it was ‘in pieces’, it was less intelligent and mobile. Again, once assembled, it upgraded its abilities multiple times.

Rags thought that was mostly it. Dyeda nodded encouragingly.

“Yah. We only all-dead-very-dead-unescapably-dead. So when we telling Pallass and Magnolia Reinhart so they can deal with it?”

Rianchi gave Rags a lot of nods and gestures at his wife to indicate her idea was good and Rags should listen to Dyeda. Rags answered with a sigh.

“We’re going to try to kill it ourselves.”

Dyeda gazed at Rianchi, and even Fightipilota glanced up.

“Uh. Why, Chieftain?”

Rags strode over to several doors she’d marked with a red paint. She tapped one.

“Scenario where we tell Magnolia Reinhart.”

She opened it. The four Goblins peered inside.

 

——

 

A howling undead Dragon breathed a cloud of insects skywards as the Titan walked down the mountainside. A [Lady] wept as she turned a glowing ring on her hand—

 

——

 

Rags slammed the door shut. Dyeda hesitated.

“Ooh. Yeah. That always happen?”

“One in three times. I don’t like those odds. Door two. We tell Pallass.”

Rags strode over to another door, yanked it open, and Dyeda peered inside…

 

——

 

Goblins were fleeing Wyvern Riders, hostile Wyvern Riders, as Drake encampments glowed across the High Passes. Half the mountainside was in rubble; another mountain was just gone, hollowed into a crater.

The Titan was dead—and so were three armies of Pallass. The Floodplains looked like someone had cast [Meteor Storm] on it multiple times. Because someone had. The Drakes—

 

——

 

Another slam. Rags turned to them.

“Pallass wins, but it loses too many armies. Either way, they usually decide we tricked them. In the really bad doors, they just feed the Titan new armies. Even in the best case scenarios, we lose people we like.”

“Like who?”

“Saliss of Lights. Grimalkin.”

Naturally, if Pallass heard about a Named-rank plus threat, they sent in adventurers. The worst part was…it worked. When they sent Saliss in, he almost always took out one limb of the Titan at least.

If you thought about this like a chess game, a game of sacrifices, sending in Saliss was always an optimal move. That just meant you had to be okay with Saliss dying.

Rags was not okay with any scenario. She wanted one where they won, where she didn’t gamble on anything.

She had a plan.

The Mortemdefieir Titan had a weak point, and one that Rags could exploit, in theory, at minimal risk to her tribe. She had set in motion the plans to capitalize on this and then maneuver her various threats against one another. Her Goblinhome Survival Plan looked like this:

 

1. Weaken the Mortemdefieir Titan.

2. Leak the Titan’s (and Kraken Eaters’) presence to 2nd Army.

3. Inform Teriarch.

4. Let Teriarch, with 2nd Army, take out the Titan (and Kraken Eaters).

 

It was the most workable plan. If Rags could take out one limb, let alone two, the odds of Teriarch winning became exceptionally high. With 2nd Army’s backup, he already had a 9-in-10 win ratio.

It just hinged on Rags taking a victory off the Titan. But she was nervous; she knew people would die even if she won cleanly, so here she was, trying to gain more intelligence in the hours before she had to descend into the mountain.

Rags wished Mrsha were here. The girl had no strategic gift, no valuable insights, but Mrsha…well, Rags just wished she were here. Lacking her, Rags went back to the doors.

“Fighti, stop snooping on other people’s lives.”

She snapped at the Goblin, and Fighti grumbled.

“It sort of fun. You know there lots of weird fates?”

Rianchi perked up. All this doom and gloom was getting him down, but he leaned over to Fightipilota.

“Ooh, like what? You mean like the weird ones with Santa Eldavin?”

“Nuh. Like…close-to-reality but not quite. There one where Ryoka the [Barmaid], for instance, instead of Lyonette. Also, everyone call her Ryoko which is really funny.”

“Psh. Hah! That true.”

“Yeah, yeah. Only, she really bad mother. Mrsha ends up getting raised by Selys instead.”

“Dat a bad mom. Dyeda is much better.”

The [Tattooist] shoved Rianchi as he tried to nuzzle her cheek.

“I’m not having babies right now. What about ones where Ryoka becomes good mother?”

Fighti grinned wickedly.

“Haven’t found one of them. Found one where she and Tyrion get married. You know?”

She began to make hand-gestures. Dyeda grinned as Rags searched for something to throw at them.

“Only, she bad mother to Sammial and Hethon too. Jericha raises them. And marries Ullim, which is weird. Ryoka not good mother.”

“Lies!”

The outraged [Tattooist], for whatever reason, seemed to be a fan of the Wind Runner. She ran off with Rianchi and Fightipilota to find a door that would rehabilitate Ryoka’s wronged name. With Rags’ notes.

In hindsight, it helped because they stopped annoying Rags. The Goblin Chieftain halted as she came to a new set of doors.

She could command them to show her whatever future she liked, with a few limitations she and Mrsha had observed. Here was one of them.

“Show me how the Mortemdefieir Titan was first…deployed.”

Rags closed her eyes and then saw a door lined with bones shaped into scales. She rolled her eyes as she opened the ivory door. Stay classy, Drakes.

A black void was her answer. Rags sighed.

“Well, figured.”

The obfuscation of past events seemed to apply to more than Goblin Kings. Major secrets would be hidden behind this barrier that let neither sound nor image through. Rags had obviously tried to find out how the Mortemdefieir Titan had been made.

No luck.

City of Graves? No luck.

City of Stars? Rags just wanted the <Quest> bounty—but nope.

Dragonlord of Flame looking good? Well, she’d gotten one of him sucking in his gut and preening in front of a mirror, but when she’d asked for his old wars? Nothing.

Anything before the Creler Wars, and indeed, even parts of the Creler Wars seemed off-limits. Rags had a strong suspicion it was Mrsha’s fault.

If Mrsha knew more of the world, or were actually Level 70, Rags suspected more fates would be open to them. Or maybe the [Palace of Fates] was genuinely this limited, but she doubted it.

However, there were tons of workarounds. After some thought, Rags spoke.

“Show me…a future where the Titan wins. Just after it’s killed all its major enemies, when it does something interesting.”

She found another door, made of rotting flesh, and gingerly took the handle. When it opened, Rags saw—

 

——

 

The Titan was sucking entrails out of—

 

——

 

She shut the door.

“Fast forwards to a part that doesn’t involve it despoiling the dead.”

The door opened again.

 

——

 

Even now, the malformed Drake’s face was rotting, flies buzzing around it, insects crawling between rotted teeth. Despite all the death it had imbibed, it was a rotting corpse.

A triumphant one. There it knelt, just past Liscor, where holes had been breached in the eastern and northern walls. The city was silent.

The people within dead or hiding or fled. No one to challenge him. Armies would come. This, he knew, so he knelt in an odd place past the city. By a hill of grass that was wilting away as his breath killed the land. A barrow mound, where everything had once begun. Liscor’s first dungeon.

And the undead giant was crooning a song.

“Skinner. Skinner? Where have you gone? Come out, come out, for I have a song. Don’t keep me, dear one, don’t make me wait long.”

Singing. His tone was like wet meat burbling, his voice deep and gurgling and filled with the hollow tones of the grave. Yet there was a tone. An ancient lullaby. The giant sang on.

 

♫ Mother, I have put our foes to rest

Skinner, craft me your crimson best

Snatcher, judge me not and let me pass

Stalker, an audience is all I ask

I have brought you a Giant’s shroud 

Tell me, Mother, have I made you proud? ♪

 

After a few more verses, Rags decided the giant was either ad-libbing or just sucked at singing. But she was entranced, fascinated, because the Titan was…asking for Skinner?

Skinner, that guardian of the dungeon? In hindsight, a weak guardian compared to Facestealer or the dead Stalker. However—the Titan grew frustrated and began tearing apart the crypt.

“Skinner! I have a Dragon’s corpse for you to wear! Come out! I need armor to bear upon my aching body! I know you’re there, little Skinner! I can hear Mother’s voice.”

He paused, then, as his arm wriggled through the crypt.

“Unless you’re dead? Unless you died? Hah! Hahaha! And little Mother lies in her grave! I hear you too, Mother.”

A few strides and he was by the rift down into the dungeon, poking his malformed head to bellow down into the deeps.

“I hear you wriggling in my head! But I was made before even you! Which of us rules the City of Graves? Is Snatcher dead too? If so—then I am coming down to greet you, Mother. Mother. MOTHER.”

His tone became mocking. Then he was digging down, shredding the earth, breaching the dungeon itself, and it began to shake. Rags sensed it unleashing its monsters against the titan as he laughed and began slaughtering them. Mocking ‘Mother’. Whispering what he’d do to her—

 

——

 

Rags closed the door. Mostly because the Mortemdefieir Titan’s suggestions were both disgusting and upsetting, and she really didn’t want to see if he made good on his threat.

But also, mostly, because she’d seen that black cloud of ‘you are not allowed to know’ approaching rapidly.

“So what have I learned? Hm. ‘Mother’ isn’t well-liked by this Titan. She was created after him…”

It seemed like there was more behind her than Rags knew—not that she knew much aside from Calruz’s ramblings and the suspicion that something was down in Liscor’s dungeon that was nasty as Creler eggs.

The Titan had been wary, too, of Snatcher, which made sense because Snatcher was dangerous as could be. It had come for Skinner like someone seeking help from a craftsman.

A craftsman? Rags pictured the Flesh Worm, made of layers of skin, and it fit in a disgusting way. Had Skinner been…a [Tailor] of the City of Graves?

It was pointless to speculate if she couldn’t pull more answers, so Rags went back to checking for more fates and clues into the Titan’s motivations.

She didn’t get much. Aside from the scenarios where he just kept rampaging, he mostly just went to the dungeon and got into it with the Mother of Graves. He didn’t…well, he didn’t understand anything.

He got Pallass was a city, but he didn’t even call it a Walled City. Just ‘City of Inventions’. He understood 2nd Army was full of Drakes, but aside from calling them his cousins and offering them a chance to serve him, he had few other opinions.

Teriarch he hated. ‘Betrayer’, ‘traitor of Chandrar’, and ‘sanctimonious Dragonlord’ were among the audible insults Rags heard when the two did battle. Which…fair? But she didn’t find any more handy clues, like the Titan disclosing a weakness to salt or something.

—And time was ticking on in that way it had when you were under pressure, crawling along until you took your eyes off a clock, then leaping ahead.

“Chieftain.”

Rags jumped and realized nearly two hours had passed since breakfast. Her stomach hurt, and she needed to use a bathroom.

“Anything, Fighti? Dyeda?”

She turned, hoping the other Goblins had found something, only to be greeted by a very downcast Dyeda hanging her head as Rianchi patted her hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“Dyeda is a big fan of Wind Runner. She really liked Ryoka on scrying orb.”

Rianchi said that as if it made sense. Rags gave Fightipilota a blank stare; the other Goblin was grinning with all her teeth.

“We searched and searched and searched, but there is no door where Ryoka Griffin is a good mother! Hah!”

The Goblin slapped her thighs and laughed, and Dyeda opened her mouth as if to argue, then stared at the ground. She sniffed, and Fighti’s humor left her.

“Is not that bad.”

Rianchi mouthed at Rags as Fighti tried to pat Dyeda on the arm and got a shove.

Is pretty bad, Chieftain. Very sad.

The Flooded Waters Chieftain resisted the urge to scream at them. She knew the other Goblins were stressed as well. She took a deep breath.

“I’m wasting time here. Fighti, I’m flying up to Goblinhome to get ready for the trap instead. Dyeda, stop crying. This is the [Palace of Fates]. Ryoka’s a bad mother, good mother, a Named-rank [Warrior], and the Archmage of Everything. There’s a door with every version of her.”

She waved a hand around irritably, and sure enough, a door appeared, and Rags yanked it open. A battle-scarred Ryoka was having a flexing competition with Calruz for reasons purely unknown to Rags.

Rags got the impression this door was as likely as ten lighting bolts landing in the same spot, but it was a future. She expected this would cheer Dyeda up, but the [Tattooist] gave Rags a wretched look.

“But Chieftain! I know that! I’m not stupid like Redscar! I said, ‘give me a door where Ryoka is a good mother’! Or bad mother! Or any mother! And there is no door!”

Rags just stared at Rianchi, and he added somewhat helpfully—

“Lots of doors where she sort of mother. Tries to take care of Mrsha, Sammial, lots of people. Even one where she tries adopting a skeleton.”

“Does not work well.”

All three Goblins shook their heads. Rianchi frowned.

“But none where she is Mrsha mother. Sort of weird. She always rescues Mrsha. Not one door where Mrsha goes krckch from Goblin Lord army—”

He drew a line across his throat, and Dyeda punched him savagely.

“Don’t look for that!”

“Just saying…”

The little argument didn’t matter at all, but Rags tilted her head, so befuddled by this nonsense that she strode over to a door.

“Ryoka. Good mother of Mrsha. Now.”

She yanked it open. And found—

 

——

 

“I’m sorry. Okay? Okay? Please don’t cry—”

A little Gnoll girl was crying. Crying as Ryoko prised her free and handed her to a somber, old Gnoll. Shaman Theikha of the Gaarh Marsh tribe brushed at Mrsha’s white fur.

“We must make sure no one sees this. And we will take care of her, Ryoko Griffin.”

“You promise? Mrsha, I—I can’t. You’re going to get hurt again, and I can’t do this with a Runner’s lifestyle.”

The little girl had a scar on one arm, still healing, from when a bad delivery had nearly gotten her injured. She was howling now, and Ryoko was choking on tears, but Shaman Theikha had been vouchsafed to her as one of the greatest Gnolls living. If anywhere would be safe for Mrsha, despite her white fur—

She was still howling as Ryoko burst into tears, and Theikha tasked one of her [Shamans] with mixing a dye as she came over to Ryoko to speak quietly. Her eyes were kind as she touched Ryoko’s arm and asked a question.

“Would you not settle down? If it is so hard, we can let both of you enter the tribe.”

“I can’t. I have to find—I—”

Ryoko was trying to turn away. She heard an anguished scream, now, from a mute girl and—

 

——

 

Rags closed the door and blinked. That…was not what she’d asked for. She frowned.

“I said a door where Ryoka Griffin is a mother. Not just to Mrsha, to anyone.”

She yanked it open, angry, and—

 

——

 

She was thirty-six years old and sweaty, tangled up in her bedsheets and blinking as someone ran a hand over her stomach.

“Not yet?”

“Darn. That was a good fertility spell too. And Skill. Do you think—?”

“The [Healer] said I was fine. W-what if I’m not?”

Ryoko gazed up, face anguished. She turned to the [Mage] sitting in the bed opposite her. He embraced her, worried.

“Maybe it’s me. I mean, I’ve never tried for children. Trust me to be the one Lizardfolk who can’t repopulate like a rabbit.”

He grinned awkwardly, and Ryoko tried to breathe. Tried not to feel like she was letting him—

 

——

 

Rags had no idea who the Lizardperson was, but she didn’t really want to stare at two naked adults discussing sex and possibly having more. She frowned at the weird speckle pattern around the Lizardman’s eyes. Like upside-down moons or something.

Rags shook her head. That felt like a divergent path, too, but again—she was getting weirded out.

“Ryoka. Mother!”

She yanked open a third door and stared as the other people in the [Palace of Fates] watched on. And it was always just—off.

Wrong. There was never a door where Ryoka was a mother in the sense of the word she should be. She was always—trying. Giving Mrsha to someone else. Standing apart. Trying. Failing.

The [Palace of Fates] seemed uncertain, which was very weird to the Goblins. Rags had mastered the [Palace of Fates] enough to summon doors, unlike Rianchi and Dyeda and Fightipilota, who were trying to reach her and Mrsha’s competencies. However, despite Rags’ requests, the doors were always not what she sought.

Close, though. Rags was purely annoyed, but Dyeda was inspecting some of the doors the angry Chieftain kept slamming. She lingered on the one where Ryoka was leaving Mrsha in the care of the Gaarh Marsh tribe.

“This one not bad. Not quite mother, but good mother. Sort of.”

It was a strange statement for Fightipilota and Rianchi to hear. The two Redfangs frowned at Mrsha, still howling in the background.

“She giving away Mrsha. That terrible.”

Dyeda frowned at Fighti, and her husband scratched his chin. He understood something of the Mountain City tribe, and Dyeda snapped peevishly back at Fighti, taking the other Goblin aback.

“Sometimes mother not ready to be mother. Is better if they know it. Or bad father.”

Fighti hesitated; the Redfangs had been taught by Garen Redfang, who, in turn, had drawn a lot of his opinions and experiences from the adventurers and civilizations he’d grown up in. But, it occurred to Rianchi, the [Palace of Fates] may have drawn on Dyeda’s opinion of what a ‘good mother’ was, at least for this door.

“She trying to be good. She protecting children, even if they not hers.”

That, at least, the other Goblins could agree on. Fighti frowned at yet another door.

“Maybe she just can’t have kids?”

Dyeda shook her head with a frown.

“Can’t be. Doors are for everything.”

“Oh yah? What about someone old-old? Can’t find a door where they have kids.”

“Hah. Okay. So there this one door where Tekshia Shivertail—you know her, old [Spearmaster]? She drink youth potion and then Octavia makes super-fertility potion, and after lots of drinking, she and—”

Fightipilota scratched her head.

“Huh. And magic fix everything in some timeline. Weird.”

They watched as Rags kept slamming doors, all of them hmming and trying to work this one out. After a moment, someone nudged Rianchi.

Hey, why are we watching Ryoka marrying Laken? Is that how we kill the Titan?

Rianchi whispered back.

“Nah, we’re trying to find a world in which Ryoka’s a good mom. Very hard. Impossible, actually.”

That’s pretty sad. I thought she’d be good at it.

“Yeah, I thought so too. Dyeda very sad about—”

At this point, Rags realized that Rianchi was having a one-sided conversation and spun and saw Mrsha there.

“Mrsha!”

The Gnoll girl gave her a wave; she seemed tired and sad, but the sight of Laken and Ryoka’s wedding being broken up by a furiously objecting Durene put a smile on her face.

Is this really important, Rags? What about the trap? Or did you find something?

Her eyes were alight with hope, but Rags closed the door slowly.

“No. Just a few more hints about the Mother of Graves. Dyeda was saying she couldn’t find a future in which Ryoka’s a good mother.”

“Any mother!”

Dyeda shouted, and Fighti called out well outside of elbow-range.

“Just proves she’s so bad she can’t even be one!”

That was a puzzler, and Mrsha tried the same thing as Rags for a few seconds. Then turned to Rags.

Maybe there are some futures so removed that they just don’t happen. Like there’s no future where you have kids, right, Rags?

Both of them turned and stared for a long time at a green door that had appeared behind them. Rianchi let the intrusive thoughts win and opened it just a hair…

He closed it fast and put his back to it, cheeks flushing with color. All the Goblins peered at him. Rags narrowed her eyes.

“Who’s in there?”

“No one, Chieftain!”

“Let me see! Don’t—oh.”

Dyeda elbowed her husband aside, opened the door, and then closed it fast. They both eyed Rags. She folded her arms.

“Who?”

“Uh. You looking very happy, Chieftain. And older. You probably pretty old! Fully Hobgoblin, too…”

“Who?”

“…Chieftain Garen.”

Rianchi winced, waiting for the Rags-explosion, but the Flooded Waters Chieftain just rubbed at her head.

“Yeah, this place can be stupid. There’s a door where Chieftain Garen marries everyone. Hey, palace, show me one where he marries Dyeda.”

The [Tattooist] blinked, and Rianchi ran over to bar the new door that had, appropriately, a tattoo of a Redfang on it.

“No! I don’t want to see it!”

“You jealous?”

“Yes!”

Mrsha, though, was giving Rags a full frown. She raised a paw, snapped her fingers, and held up a card.

Door where Garen marries everyone we know! With signs, please!

—The hallway was filled with doors. Rags turned, and her eyebrows rose. Rianchi lowered his arms, and Fightipilota began laughing.

Jelaqua, Erin, Ceria, Montressa, Krshia, Pisces—

Mrsha barked a laugh at that last one and dashed over. Fighti was laughing too as she called out.

“Look! Look, there Redscar! We have to show him!”

“Don’t! It’ll make him sad! Don’t be disrespectful!”

Dyeda ran after Fighti, and the laughing Redfang began yanking open doors. Right until she came to a halt and stared at one that said ‘Fightipilota’. That wiped the smirk clean off her face.

The [Palace of Fates] could cut you. Rags felt the brief moment of humor drain out of her, and indeed, Mrsha came back.

“Not as funny as you thought?”

…Pisces is a sad dude. It sort of makes sense, even though it’s really weird. Someone’s gotta love him.

Mrsha paused as she wrote.

Plus, he illusioned himself as a cute girl Goblin, and that wasn’t a really good idea.

Rags snorted despite herself, but then she just stood there, breathing in and out.

“It’s time to go. Unless you have something that can turn the tide of this battle on your own, Mrsha?”

She studied the Gnoll girl and waited. Mrsha du Marquin—hesitated. She stood there, uncertain, eyes flicking to Rags, to the doors, and then wrote.

You’re doing the ‘kill two limbs’ plan? Pretty safe, right?

“Safe is…not the word I’d use. But the best possibility. Anything, Mrsha?”

Maybe. But I am afraid of doing more harm than good.

The Gnoll girl held the card up, and her face was serious and pained—and Rags wondered why she’d ever thought Mrsha was an airhead with nothing that mattered to her. Maybe Mrsha had been like that, but…Rags heaved a breath.

“Then if I fail, I’m returning and we’re warning everyone. Agreed?”

If you fail, tell Dyeda and Rianchi. They’re staying here, right?

The two Goblins glanced up, but Rags had no need of them on a battlefield, and it would be a good use of their time. Mrsha nodded slowly and held out a paw.

Good luck, Rags.

The Goblin took the paw and shook it firmly. Rags felt better, but she had to ask as she looked Mrsha in her eyes.

“Are you sure there is nothing?”

Her response was a hesitation that rippled through all of Mrsha and then a card that made Rags shiver, as if she were looking at Erin Solstice and the [Innkeeper] had a white flag in her hands.

There is always something. But I fear the consequences of it more than even that Titan. Than all of 2nd Army. Wake the Dragonlord of Flames first.

—Well then. Rags stepped back and nodded. She turned on her heel and called to Fightipilota, and the Goblin fell in step with Rags. They left the [Palace of Fates], and Rianchi and Dyeda went into the inn to cover for Mrsha in case anyone was searching for her.

The Gnoll girl remained below and stood there a while, head bowed in thought. She hoped Rags was victorious. Because she was afraid.

Her paws were shaking. Shaking as she made the other doors vanish. She walked down a long hallway now, feet treading across marble, then soft grass.

Like…a garden. A hall-length mirror of glass reflected the tall grass as Mrsha walked towards a single door at the far end, battered and scarred and nearly blown to pieces with a familiar brass knob. In the reflection of the mirror, Mrsha saw herself, walking ahead, and a giant figure, stalking along, step by taloned step.

The Empress of Harpies, Sheta, bowed her head and gazed at Mrsha via the mirror. Bird talons. Dark blue wings, vast, half the height of the Mortemdefieir Titan, regal, wearing ancient clothing, born down by scars and time, her vast eyes blinking with the authority of one of the rare few who had reached Level 70.

Mrsha ignored her. The Harpy Queen watched as the Gnoll girl came to that door and hesitated before it. A single object ran from the door onto the floor.

A long root.

Blooming with yellow flowers.

Mrsha halted before this door, took a breath—

And then opened it and stepped inside.

 

——

 

2nd Army of Pallass. Shirka’s Slayers.

Each army had a name after the general. Whether it was accurate or not, you decide. Of course, they had unofficial names, but the ones on the books were simple.

Edellein’s Elites. Duln’s Defenders. Thrissiam’s Tenacities.

Each army had a style. Generals influenced them, but the nature of armies shaped who they were.

1st Army was always on the defense of Pallass. It usually meant [Lineholders].

2nd Army were attackers. Meant for city-on-city warfare.

3rd Army was mobile. Quick-response, but only within reasonable terrain. No mountain or swamp-fighting experience.

…And so on.

Circumstances had moved Shirka up from 3rd Army to 2nd Army, but she’d kept the army, if that made sense. New roles; not as big a mixup as you might think. Chaldion had still been in command, and he’d seen the right stuff in Shirka. She’d proven as much in several scraps against local Drake cities.

Now, 4th Army under Edellein was 1st Army…that was a weird one. Edellein’s Elites loved their high-level commanders, like [Lieutenant of Perfection] Comois. But they were also called ‘Pallass’ Bandits’ because they loved winning battles where they had the drop on the enemy. And looting enemy forces of all their armor and weapons and ransoming the prisoners off.

Not Shirka’s first pick for siege defense, but Pallass hadn’t been properly sieged since the last Antinium War. Edellein as the leader of Pallass’ armed forces?

Didn’t sit right.

Didn’t sit right at all with the [Soldiers], and they could be superstitious, surly, and even sometimes stupid, but they knew their leaders.

It wasn’t just higher-ups who had a problem with the promotion. General Duln was dead. Chaldion was…gone. Rumor was they’d found him screaming, gurgling on his own blood, unable to die, then some half-tailed lackwit had healed him up. He’d turned into a zombie, drooling, not saying a word.

Bad battle, anyways. Not a lot of [Soldiers] had actually been on the front, but rumors went around all the armies from people who’d been there. At first, everyone had assumed it was High Command doing some propaganda.

Ten thousand Draugr, really? Then they’d understood—no, Duln was dead. Chaldion was out. There really had been a damn war to end all wars.

It made the rank-and-file uneasy, so they talked. Wise officers let them talk just enough, then made them train to forget or reminded them not to gossip. Bad ones let the talk run rampant. But even the best officers couldn’t stop the muttering.

General Edellein. No Thrissiam Blackwing. Thrissiam…Thrissiam would have been a good commander. There was a reason he’d been 2nd Army’s previous [General] and sent to kill the Goblin Lord. He’d been the real successor to Chaldion. Edellein was a Blackwing; one of Pallass’ old noble families, even if that didn’t matter as much as in other cities.

Thrissiam had been General Thrissiam, sir, nevermind the surname. Did you get it?

It wasn’t just 2nd Army that thought this way. If you had to replace old Chaldion, then make it the next-best [General]. Shirka killed things. She was young, but so what? Better Shirka than Edellein. Both would tell you to go into the meat grinder, but one would pull you aside and give you a pep talk.

The other would tell you she wanted you to kill half a battalion before you retreated or she’d have your tail for supper. Which one did you want if you were up against Spearmaster Lulv?

Shirka wouldn’t replace old Chaldion. There was Strategist Esor for that. But if you had to replace the Cyclops, you needed a [General] and [Strategist] who worked like reidmoss oil and naphtha flames. One ignited the other; they were complementary. Put them together and you blew someone’s face off. Edellein and Esor were like a toad and a rock on top of the toad.

If you were ignoring Pallass’ best [Strategist]…Shirka listened to [Strategists], even if she cursed out Ulhouse in the middle of battle. She could take his input and work with it. She didn’t blindly follow, but she listened. Edellein only listened if you said something he liked.

Thud, thud, thud, THUD. 

Worry about their new High Command.

Thud, thud, thud, THUD.

Rumors about the Solstice. About Liscor. If they got leave, would they be allowed to visit? Or would the Goblin thing make that hostile?

Thud, thud, thud, THUD.

Ask if anyone had heard about ‘Goblinhome’. Any more reports? What’s the word?

Thud, thud, thud, THUD.

How long till lunch?

The sound in the background of 2nd Army’s march was the bootsteps of their army. One-two-three-four, with the fourth step just slightly harder than the first.

Not a stomp. Stomping wasted energy, and the army knew how to march. But just a slight bit harder step. Just a bit. And every [Soldier] did it, so it sounded like thunder.

If you were a new recruit to Shirka’s Slayers, you listened to that thud. You could ignore your fatigue, march to the hypnotizing thunder every four steps. Get lost in it.

The whispers and chatter weren’t loud; they were under orders to zip it. After all, they were climbing up winding passages in the mountains, following their [Scouts]’ trails and hopefully keeping off of the Goblins’ radar.

It meant marching fast, heads on a swivel, through one of the deadliest terrains in Izril. They’d had to fight to get this far.

First, they’d had to navigate through the foothills, avoiding both Liscor’s war and the main roads to keep out of sight. That meant night-marches, smearing your armor, and yes, even fighting through the Bloodfields’ perimeter.

They got it done. It might be that this wouldn’t help ambush the Goblins at all; moving an entire damn army was hard to hide. But it was also fair to say the Goblins probably didn’t have an exact read on where 2nd Army was, even if they knew they were coming.

<“Halt! Ten minute break!”>

A command ran back through the lines. A shout, with authority, from [Spearmaster] Gaellis himself. Only, not one out loud.

In your head. Shirka’s Skill. You got used to it. 2nd Army grumbled and talked amongst itself in silence. They still had some chatter discipline; too many unfocused minds was bad. But they talked like that.

Damn Goblins. Making us march out all this way just to kill them. Why couldn’t they be like the Goblin Lord and burn a few cities and come to us?

Broad laughter from whomever had thought that. But not much. That was from Line Battalion 13. They were passed up by a group of silent Drakes and fell instantly quiet.

Slayer Squads. Shirka’s army’s nickname wasn’t just for show. The Drakes who marched past the younger [Soldiers] were older, scarred.

Veterans of the 2nd Antinium War. You had a few main groups.

One. [Monster Slayers]. Decorated with their kills, with the more ‘unique’ sets of armor that gave them a look like Gnoll tribesfolk.

Two. [Antinium Slayers]. They didn’t make armor out of their foes, and none of them wanted leave in Liscor. It wouldn’t have been approved, even if they’d asked.

Three. [Goblin Slayers]. They were grim right now, and anyone who mouthed off about how this was going to be a day’s light work got blasted by them.

2nd Army had a few unique groups like that in the army that set them apart from others. The second was alche-squads; Drakes armed with alchemical bottles, [Battle Alchemists] like Saliss of Lights. You didn’t need as many [Mages] when you had a good [Alchemist].

One other unique oddity of 2nd Army was its [Spearmasters]. Spearmaster Gaellis was the best one. Level 46. He’d faced off against Spearmaster Lulv of Manus and had the scars to prove it.

2nd Army had three [Spearmasters]. They were always looking for more. If you thought you had the thunder, they’d let you train with them, join the spear-based regiment, but you’d get the shit kicked off your tail fast enough.

<“Break’s over. Move out!”>

Thud, thud, thud, THUD.

Thud, thud, thud, THUD.

Thud, thud—

<“Eyes up! Attack coming on your flank! Straight down the cliffs!”>

That was Shirka’s voice. The [Soldiers] on the march spun, and Strategist Ulhouse blared instructions.

“<Three spear-wedges there, there, and there! Bunch it up and brace! Don’t let them toss you over the cliffs!”>

Drakes slammed into position, bracing behind spears, and gazed up. They heard the first echoing roar half a minute later as a great beast bounded down the mountainside.

Passmaws. Eight of them leaping down after what they took as easy prey. Drakes and Gnolls braced, silent, and the roar faltered as the monsters saw not inviting targets, but three quiet wedges of troops. Hard to find any gaps or weak spots. Still, they leapt downwards, thinking to ram the [Soldiers] apart and hurl them down the cliffs.

Brace. Brace…

General Shirka’s Skills activated as the Passmaws landed, showering the [Soldiers] with rubble before darting in with swiping claws, trying to bite with maws big enough to chomp any [Soldier] in half.

[Prepared Strategy One: Shield Wall]!

One. Passmaws slammed their paws into shields that refused to buckle. Drakes grunted; spears rammed through fur, drawing dark red blood. The Passmaws recoiled; the ones biting couldn’t find any purchase aside from spear hafts.

One of the [Monster Slayers] called a target, and it illuminated the throat of the Passmaw as it reared back.

[Target Weak Point]! [Mark Target]!

Crossbows thunked.

[Prepared Strategy Two: Arrow Barrage]!

An agonized roar replaced by gurgling and hissing as air escaped perforated lungs. Another Passmaw bounded away, screaming, bolts studding its face and eyes. None of the Drakes moved.

[Prepared Strategy Three: Fireball Volley]!

[Battlemages], led by Captain Eirthe, threw [Fireballs] as the alche-corps tossed Blast Flasks. Three Passmaws collapsed, pieces blown out of their charred remains. The remainder were recoiling—the wedges split.

[Prepared Strategy Four: Mighty Cleave]!

Swords, axes performing huge cuts as the Drakes surrounded their foe. Every Drake, Gnoll, Dullahan, and Garuda got one cut each. Not that Garuda were in the rank-and-file most of the time. They got assigned to flying divisions.

The last Passmaw tumbled down the cliff, trying to escape; crossbow bolts hit the falling monster and turned it into a corpse rather than let it flee. Spearmaster Gaellis trotted through the ranks, seeming mightily displeased: he’d never gotten a chance to engage.

<“Good work. Alche-squad, disassemble. I want two groups watching for more monsters. If you attract attention, dump the corpses. The rest of you, move out.”>

The [Soldiers] cleaned blood off their blades, checked on the injuries, replaced spears, and moved.

Thud, thud, thud, THUD.

Thud, thud, thud, THUD.

Thud, thud, thud, THUD.

Thud, thud, thud, THUD—

They caught up to [General] Shirka. She was standing beneath an overhang, raising an enchanted spyglass to her face.

“Ancestors damn it, that’s got to be three mountains between us and Goblinhome. This wide arc had better get us the drop on them or I’m blaming you, Ulhouse.”

She was grousing softly and saying what was on every [Soldier]’s mind. The [Strategist], Ulhouse, who gave orders that made him a bastard, even if he was one of the good ones, replied equally softly.

“We’re not going straight up and down them. Although we could for fun, [General].”

That got him grins. The three mountains reached well past the cloud layer, and Shirka gave Ulhouse one of those half-grimaces that everyone knew was hiding a grin.

She wasn’t happy. It was hard for her to hide her emotions from her army at the best of times given her personality and the way they ‘talked’. She was probably not doing her mental speech because they’d tell how royally pissed she was. She’d been angrier than a Terandrian [Queen] sitting on her own crown, and word was she’d thrown half the command tent off a cliff yesterday when Edellein had told her to get a move on.

Stupid engagement? Stupid leader? 

It’d be the talk of the tents tonight. It didn’t matter. 2nd Army had orders. Shirka’s tail was in a knot.

“Tell me that Goblin Chieftain’s still hanging at the inn.”

“That’s what our spy says.”

“I don’t like it, Ulhouse. She’s onto us.”

“There’s no evidence of that, General. Unless someone told her, like perhaps Saliss—”

That earned him one of Shirka’s death-stares. She liked Saliss of Lights. The [General] hissed under her breath.

“We’re made. I can feel it. We should just roll siege towers up the damn mountains and starve them out. Something’s off. I don’t like…that mountain.”

She pointed to one that Goblinhome was on, or next to. Ulhouse eyed it.

“Because of the shape?”

“I don’t like it, Ulhouse. I don’t like this, I don’t like Magnolia Reinhart occupying the pass…keep an eye on the damn Antinium army. If they roll on our flanks, we fall back.”

Shirka sounded hopeful, as if coming to blows with the Seventh Hive of the Antinium was a good thing. Anything to prevent…she ground her teeth together.

“Ulhouse.”

“General?”

“Put all four ballistae in our camp tonight. Under invisibility. I don’t care what the [Engineers] say. I want them up and trained on the sky. This is when I’d blast us with Frost Wyverns.”

“Aye, [General].”

“And I want a slow approach tomorrow. Nice and slow. Watch for traps.”

The [Soldiers] listened as they marched past her. All the hesitation, all the caution from Shirka, who normally liked to be in the thick of battle without waiting…did it make them worried? Yes and no.

Bad orders. Maybe bad enemies, if you wanted to give the Goblins credit.

Bad [General]? No.

Bad army? No.

They said Liscor was the home of some kind of Goblinfriend. The sentiment didn’t play well with anyone who’d seen the Second Antinium War. You had a few detractors; Pallass was getting weird with people who’d met ‘interesting Goblins’. Relatives who said crazy stuff back home—in Pallass.

Didn’t matter. They’d fight other Walled Cities, monsters, Gnolls, anyone. Battle was tomorrow, unless it wasn’t. Keep marching.

Thud, thud, thud, THUD.

Thud, thud, thud, THUD.

Thud, thud, thud, THUD.

Thud, thud, thud, THUD…

 

——

 

The Mortemdefieir Titan had one, no, two weak points that Rags had observed over prolonged watching and re-watching of battles against it.

She had informed her lieutenants, the Troll Queen, and the Trolls of the weak points in a succinct strategy meeting. As well as her inclination on the risky way to cripple the Titan.

The Troll Queen, Dulat. She was a strange being. She played on her drums ceaselessly, directing and organizing the far-flung Trolls in their various enclaves.

Rags had no real view of their society, only that different clans seemed to lead and acknowledge Dulat as their ruler. She used the drums. She had no real ability to ‘see’ the different parts of the ruined kingdom she ruled.

She knew there were threats here—she played the drums loud. She knew her warriors needed to attack, retreat—she played the right notes.

Dulat was a lonely musician, a drummer playing to an audience she might never see. But when she hit her drums, the mountain’s heart beat.

Rags got the impression Dulat wasn’t always so…stressed. Some of her Troll guides had indicated that this was not how they normally operated.

Dulat sat, tap-tapping her Adamantium ‘drumsticks’, which were really maces, on the ground, keeping a rhythm even as Rags pointed to a diagram.

“The Mortemdefieir Titan is a creation of the ancient City of Graves. It is highly, highly intelligent. However, not all body parts are equally dangerous. Its head is the most dangerous; it is the thinking spellcaster. One word can cause magical effects. Dispel enchantments. Cause pain, blindness.”

Grim Trolls nodded; Rags saw their version of ‘chieftains’, mighty warriors armed with steel or the few enchanted weapons, standing with their arms folded. They regarded the Goblins warily, but not disdainfully. They called Goblins the ‘People of Kings’ and were well aware of the Skills that Goblins could have.

It was why they’d sent for aid.

Rags pointed at the chest next.

“The heart of the chest drains life from anything around it. Both are top-tier threats unless we have [Deathward] spells—which we don’t.”

She turned to Prixall, their [Witch], and the Goblin made a face.

“I can enchant…fifteen? I don’t know [Mass Deathward]. I would need a ritual for that, and if the chest is powerful enough, it would eventually break the enchantment.”

The fact that she could do any had given Rags pause, but she shook her head.

“We don’t need to anyways, because while the arms are mobile and can attack, they’re far less of a threat. Now, there are five pieces of the Mortemdefieir Titan.”

She waited for someone to make the connection, and Redscar frowned. He hadn’t realized it below, but now he was looking at a diagram…

“We know, Chieftain. Where other foot?”

There was the head, torso, left arm, right arm…and left leg. No right leg. Rags bared her teeth.

“Idiot lost it.”

In truth, she suspected it was still buried behind the doors or it had been destroyed. However, she pointed to the foot now.

“The foot is the weakest limb. If the Titan starts forming, it’ll grow a leg.”

She’d seen that too many times. The Goblins and Trolls shifted. Redscar shrugged and sighed as if to say ‘it’s always something’.

However, that missing leg was an opportunity. Because Rags flipped the diagram over and pointed.

“The Mortemdefieir Titan can die. But each body part contains a magical stone inside it. It’s big; the size of a Hobgoblin’s chest and round. Even cutting down to it is hard, and the location’s different in each one. It can also move about. However…if you shatter it, the part dies. Shatter one and the Titan gets weaker. When the last one breaks, it’s mortal.”

Although you had to kill it a final time. Not her problem—in theory. The Trolls instantly started muttering hopefully. They began arguing, and then Dulat raised a hand.

“One says she saw it.”

One of her Troll clan leaders was nodding desperately. She had an eyepatch and vicious cuts on her thick, grey skin. The Troll gestured at her scars, and Dulat translated from Trollish.

“She said she saw it on one hand. Just a bit—then the flesh closed. Then it did this—and ran away.”

The Troll pointed at the scars, and Rags nodded.

“If the Titan thinks it’ll lose a gemstone, it will retreat. And it’s hard to get the stones, let alone break them. Even if you yank one out, it’ll start regenerating instantly. But Redscar or someone armed with an enchanted blade can damage the stones.”

Every eye turned to Redscar, and he grinned. Prixall raised a hand.

“What Tier of magic, Chieftain? Because I can cast—”

“Tier 6. Direct hit on the stones only.”

“Okay, nevermind.”

The irony was that hitting the gemstones hard enough was far superior to trying to disenchant or break them magically. Actually, Rags’ entire vibe was that the Mortemdefieir Titan had been created to resist magical attacks; even the sustained bombardment of a Walled City would barely force it to regenerate.

Naturally, if they were meant to be used against other Walled Cities as well as Dragons. Dragonbreath?

“So what’s the plan, Chieftain?”

Snapjaw was grimacing, unhappy mostly because she wasn’t going to be a significant asset in this fight. The problem was her enemy was a rotten corpse and Snapjaw’s usual fighting tactic revolved around flying on Icecube—who was too fat to come down here—or eating her foe. Not exactly a good idea in Rags’ book.

Rags flipped the page and pointed.

“Cutting a stone out of the Titan is…hard.”

We’ll lose far too many Goblins and Trolls doing it in all the fates I’ve seen. She pointed.

“There is an opportunity, though. Whenever two parts meet—in order to link up, the core-stones have to meet and synchronize. Especially when the left arm meets anything.”

Her new diagram had the left arm and the left leg meeting. Those were her chosen limbs, and her audience once again had questions.

“Chieftain! Why them?”

Taganchiel frowned at the left arm, and Rags smiled bitterly, revealing the final clue she’d found in her fate-seeking.

“Because…the left arm isn’t from this Titan.”

A curious silence followed Rags’ words. One of realization, dismay, and then Redscar’s quiet laughter. He raised his hand.

“And what’s the chance the second Titan comes out of the ground, Chieftain?”

She met his gaze.

“Almost zero.”

He relaxed, and the tension eased a bit from the room. Aside from truly improbable futures, it looked like there was only one Titan—and one arm from another being. What would happen was that when the pieces linked, the two intelligences would fight, and the arm would be subsumed into the main Titan.

In fringe scenarios, the ‘other’ Titan won, so you might have an arm and a torso fighting a really angry head and its remaining limbs, but that wasn’t likely, and frankly, two Titans struck Rags as worse than one.

Still, Dulat didn’t miss the obvious danger in Rags’ plan. She pointed and spoke in rather good English.

“So the plan is to let leg and arm join. Then break them when they show weak stones. What happens…if we fail?”

Rags gave Dulat a nod and exhaled. Her heart was pounding terribly.

“Then…the Mortemdefieir Titan gets a lot stronger and will begin calling the other parts to it. If that happens, we fall back on Plan B.”

Goblin hand.

“What Plan B, Chieftain?”

“Hope a Dragon and a Drake army can kill it.”

There was a long silence as everyone regarded Rags, and then Poisonbite muttered loudly.

“Why that not Plan A?”

Rags tossed her stick to the side and rolled her shoulder and neck, sighing.

“Because, Poisonbite, if we kill the limbs, the stones are very magical and very valuable. They’re made of something called ‘seith’, and that much of it could power…anything. Second—if we send the Dragon and the army at the Titan, they might win. If they fail, we’re fighting a Titan, an army, and an undead Dragon.”

This was an acceptable risk. It was the most acceptable risk, and if they pulled it off…Rags searched around for objections.

“We have a battleground picked out. A nice intersection of tunnels, here. Flat ground with multiple places to flank the two limbs. Dulat is allowing the two limbs to get closer to one another and keeping the other pieces back with her warriors. They are going to meet in about two hours.”

She was trembling and knew they’d read it on her. However, Goblins knew fear. Rags studied them and the Trolls, who regarded the small Chieftain.

“We can win. Ready?”

There was no cheer, only nods, grunts, grins from the crazy, sighing from the cynics. Silence from most, determined and quiet. Rags turned to Dulat. The Troll Queen played a drumroll on the ground.

It sounded like the thunder of Rags’ heart.

 

——

 

A Dragon was…happy.

In his way, he was as happy as he ever was, and sometimes the young woman wondered what that meant for him.

He had lost everything he had ever known and loved. He had been a hero. A real, true hero. Even if he didn’t say it as such, she had found every book that mentioned him, and there were so many if you knew what to look for.

He had a hundred names. Literally. He loved the ‘pretend to be the humble mortal’ routine so much he’d done it countless times over the ages. The only thing that changed was the age he assumed. Once upon a time, he’d been a dashing Drake, then a middle-aged wandering hero, then a grey-haired and grizzled veteran coming to the aid of those in need in his pretentious, silly, well-meaning way.

By the time he’d posed as an old man, millennia had passed him by and he’d grown jaded of it all. He’d left the cares of the world behind, disavowed the petty, cyclical wars of hope and violence and triumph and despair that mortals fell into.

But each and every time, the Dragonlord of Flames would once again fly. He hadn’t always even been the Dragonlord of Flames. He’d given up the title more times than you could count.

That silly old man.

She still loved him. The young woman wanted nothing more than to cartwheel around him and annoy him until he snapped at her, lightly, and have him tell her stories. Only, she was much too dignified to do that these days.

And Magnolia Reinhart, when she looked in a mirror, remembered she wasn’t a girl of sixteen anymore, but the head of House Reinhart, if only in name, these days.

“I could do a cartwheel if I tried, right, Ressa?”

Her [Head Maid] had been chugging water from a flask. Ressa sprayed water out her nose and laughed so hard that all the other servants stopped and gaped at the unique display.

Magnolia envisioned kicking Ressa down a long flight of stairs. Then she resumed watching the Brass Dragon, Teriarch.

He was running laps around his cave, wheezing so loudly she could hear his occasional grumble as Rafaema essentially doubled his pace. Above them, a lazy brown Dragon was flying about, insulting Teriarch until the Brass Dragon blew flames at him.

Gentle flames—still hot enough to melt steel, but probably only a danger to Cirediel in his imagination. It still made the Earth Dragon veer away in a panic and hit a cliff. Instantly, a bunch of Pegasus Riders flocked to him as his voice rose in strident fury, and he swooped after the two laughing Dragons.

Yes, that was happiness. The most she’d ever seen from him. It was in how Teriarch stayed outside, regardless of how he grumbled.

Magnolia Reinhart had known the Dragonlord of Flames most of her life. Short as that was for a Human, she suspected she understood him better than most beings, even other Dragons. Maybe that was vanity; when she regarded Ryoka Griffin or Rafaema, she saw a copy of herself.

Did it hurt her feelings?

Yes, of course. It hurt immensely to feel like the old version and see him talking to them with that twinkle in his eyes she knew so well, or that respect she had once earned.

It hurt worst of all to know that it wasn’t entirely his fault; he’d well and truly forgotten her. Magic always had a cost. No…miracles always had a cost. He’d taught her that.

She liked to think she was better than pure, petty envy. That she could content herself with a few remarks she had earned. Nothing more. But some days, Magnolia Reinhart would look in dismay at the woman in her mirror.

Not because she was ugly or had aged poorly. She had a good weight, no matter what Ressa said would happen without her Skill; Magnolia hadn’t exactly gone to seed with her years, and she liked to think she cut a line between intimidating and charming that worked well with the right pink outfit.

—But only Magnolia, and perhaps Ressa, could see the blonde young woman turning cartwheels around an annoyed Dragon, laughing as she tried to learn sword Skills from his description. Holding the banner of her house aloft as she rode to war because she thought it would save her continent.

Bright-eyed, full of stars in her eyes, idealistic…naïve and foolish and also cold-blooded, willing to do whatever it took to make that better world the Dragon promised her could exist. Magnolia had a mixed relationship with her younger self, as any healthy adult had. Mostly…she still felt like that girl some days. She was just in a too-old body.

Another lap and the Brass Dragon was passing by Magnolia Reinhart, who sat under a pink umbrella on a chair, a cup of what could charitably be called tea in hand. He was panting, but telling stories. That was how you knew he was happy. When he was sad, he’d hide away; when he was in a good mood, he told stories, performed magic…she’d seldom seen him willing to put up with more than four hours of chatter.

He’d been weeks outside, in the air, with Rafaema and now Cirediel. She heard him wheezing as he ran.

“—so there I was, you know, quite flummoxed about the entire event. Did I want to tell them it was only an average set of gear for the time? No! They worked hard on it. It’s just—you know—enchantments. Once you’ve seen [Aegis of True Invincibility], it’s hard to be impressed by a breastplate.”

“That’s not a real spell.”

Rafaema protested in that coquettish way that put both Cirediel’s and Magnolia’s hackles up. But it was a child’s infatuation. There were—cracks—in the admiration that Rafaema was fixated on Teriarch with. Just like how Cirediel refused to admire Teriarch openly and kept needling the old Dragon, Rafaema seemed to sometimes stumble over the cracks in what she wanted to be the Perfect Dragon.

Magnolia knew how that went, and the only thing to do was let Rafaema see the truth at her own pace. Teriarch huffed as Magnolia rolled her eyes.

“He’s telling the Heartflame set story, Ressa.”

The [Head Maid] gave her a blank look. She was, Magnolia realized, listening with as much attention as the other servants.

“I don’t know that one.”

“Oh, come on, he’s told it at least three times to us.”

“I don’t remember every story he’s told…wait, I think I remember…”

Teriarch lumbered past them, still panting.

“I say, hasn’t this been eight laps?”

Rafaema ran a circle around him, chatting eagerly as he glared at her youthful vigor.

“No, nine! So you were there when they made the Heartflame set?”

“Well, the breastplate. As I said, they worked hard. Splendid alloy, you know. Even the Dwarves, the real ones, thought it was well-done, but that’s the thing. Well done. Not exactly a passing grade when you can break even the best Relics by sitting on them wrong.”

Cire called down from above.

“I bet you can, old guy.”

“Hush, youngster. Now, as I was saying, I suppose the Archmage of Drakes caught wind of it. Not my fault! She looked so crestfallen—then she was asking me to do a better job of enchanting the armor.”

“Which you can’t do.”

Magnolia reminded Teriarch, raising her voice. He swiveled to glower at her, then hesitated. A moment of uncertainty, questioning how she knew—a pained grin—

It hurt.

He ran on another hundred paces for Magnolia.

“—synergy. It’s always down to synergy. That’s what every new [Archmage] forgets. You can cast a Tier 7 spell? Good for you. Linking a bunch of Tier 5 spells together? Now that’s scary. And, well, humility. Did I expect them to go, hat in hand, to a bunch of other experts to make the Heartflame set? Honestly…no. Is there a reason it’s endured as opposed to the Dragonforged Set or the Gift of Ancestors or the…you know what, some of the names deserved to die out. Now, if you’re wondering what the set does, let’s first consider the Heartflame Breastplate, which, in my opinion, is being somewhat underused even in the context of the solo enchantment. Is it the best of the pieces I’d ask for if I had the pick? Well, again, contextually, the boots are terrible. All they do is give you [Speed] and [Freedom of Movement]. Terrible, just, urgh.”

“What, permanently? That’s, like, super Archmage, isn’t it?”

Cirediel’s voice was confused, and Rafaema agreed, whereupon Teriarch got huffy.

“Oh, I suppose it’s Archmage in the context of modern Archmages. But what happened to just applying [Extended Spell: Speed] every two hours? You young people can’t be bothered to put up enchantments every hour?”

Rafaema hesitated and gave him another one of those overawed looks that Teriarch thrived on.

“Um, Teriarch, most [Speed] spells last five minutes at best. And that’s with a good spellcaster. Fifteen minutes is the top I’ve heard of on a battlefield.”

“—Well, naturally, there’s a case to be made for all pieces. And am I saying a [Damage Shield of Flames] is the worst enchantment, especially for a Drake, let alone the buffs to Dragonbreath? No! But as I was saying, the helm was where they went to the Gnolls. Back when they were on decent terms.”

“Okay? I don’t know what that means.”

“Skill enchantments, my dear. Free Skills! Even competency with a blade. Now, let’s analyze the gauntlets. Or rather, the pithily named ‘Sol Gauntlets’. Aha. A play on words. Anyone? I’m seeing a blank stare. If I say ‘Sol Gauntlets’, you would say that reminds you of…anyone…? Sol. As in—oh, come now—wait, are you not understanding ‘sol’ as in the sun? S-o-l? Oh, so you were on the same track as—”

Magnolia was spared Teriarch’s rambling as he turned a corner of the mountain he was running around. She was smiling and unhappy, and in this moment, she was not closer to Rafaema or Cirediel or any of the other young women and men that Teriarch had mentored over his long lifespan—though it was mostly women as Magnolia understood it.

She was closest to a Goblin who wasn’t present here. Closest to a baleful Wyvern Lord eying the Dragons from far away, where he’d been exiled.

Sometimes, you had to admit, even if you loved him—Teriarch could be that ancient, painful Dragon to be around.

After the sixteenth lap, Teriarch collapsed on the ground, and in the cool spring air, he let off steam which gave his scales an even more mirror-like finish. Cire flopped onto the ground, complaining about his wings, though he wasn’t that tired, and Rafaema stood and tried not to visibly wheeze.

“—Just think, this is what can occur when one is civil! Scintillating discussion! Historical anecdotes! I have some about your ancestors too, the intelligent ones!”

Teriarch raised his head after a few minutes of panting, as Magnolia walked over, and shouted at the distant Wyvern Lord.

His response was a screech, the Wyvern Lord turning around to flip his tail up, and a bark of sound—an orb of frost breath blasted down towards the Dragonlord. Magnolia Reinhart began to twist a ring as Ressa tensed.

Teriarch slapped the ground with his tail, and a spell intercepted and made the frost burst a few thousand feet away from him. He grunted as the Wyvern Lord screamed again, but didn’t follow up with another shot.

“Clearly, all the intelligence went to his predecessors. I hate to admit it, though, but his breath attacks are fairly decent for his age. You should learn to do that when we practice.”

“It’s—hard.”

Rafaema was visibly embarrassed at being behind the Wyvern Lord in terms of her natural abilities, but Teriarch patted her on the head with one wing.

“Ah, well, you had poor instructors. Oldblood Drakes don’t breathe like we do. Now, one—ten more minutes and we’ll move on to breathing.”

He was in fine fettle and decent shape, happy, and Magnolia Reinhart saw him glance around today, as if he had forgotten something. He peeked at her, awkward, and then spoke.

“I wonder when that Goblin Chieftain will show up. I’ll wager our unhappy friend there might come down when he sees even she can be more reasonable than he. Have you seen her? Magnolia? Taletevirion?”

That last remark was aimed at a pile of rags, which stirred vaguely and revealed a very hungover, very much in pain Unicorn. Taletevirion glared at the sun blazing right over his head and muttered.

“Kill me. Heal…”

He laid on his back, hooves raised to the sky, then leapt upright as his bloodshot eyes cleared. The Unicorn tossed his resplendent mane, did a little jig as his silver hair caught the light, and he threw his head back.

“Aha! Where’s that Rxlvn? Great stuff. What’s this about another young woman you’re definitely-not-courting, Teriarch?”

Even Magnolia’s love of the last Unicorn in existence and his nature as a fellow immortal and companion of Teriarch didn’t inspire her to often seek out his company. He strutted around, sniffing at Ressa’s backside and trying to steal her personal drinking flask as she swatted at him. Teriarch was musing out loud.

“No, no, the little Goblin Chieftain. The one with the attitude. She left after one of my stories, which, I admit, may have gone slightly into the anecdotes.”

“Like all of them.”

Cire muttered, and not even Rafaema could nudge him in good faith. Teriarch gave him a reproving snort.

“I may have been a bit too historically-minded, but I would have thought she’d be back by now.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

The too-sweet tone came from Magnolia Reinhart’s mouth. She couldn’t help it. Teriarch was fanning his wings, absent-minded, in good humor. Taletevirion stopped chugging a morning shot of whiskey and gave Ressa a knowing eye. He didn’t stop or warn Teriarch, though. The Dragon was a hero of ancient days.

But he also, always, deserved it as well. Whatever it was.

“Well, of course, whatever there is to learn from a Dragon. I’m sure she’s aware of how many of us are left in this world. Goblins would be the most aware given their memories. She was quite insistent I get to the secrets of her people, which obviously, Taletevirion, I am not going to share blithely. But I assume she’d have more of an inquiring mind.”

He heaved a sigh and a shake of his head as he held out a claw to forestall the Unicorn’s arguments he assumed were coming. Taletevirion just gave Magnolia a side-eye. She smiled sweeter as a real note of sympathy for Rags and all the people like her rose in her chest.

For the Magnolias, the Ryokas, and the Ragses of every age—Magnolia kept her voice honeyed, stepping closer and drawing the Dragon in, much like a serpent moving to strike. She was a Reinhart when all was done and said.

“Why, Teriarch, you seem to have a high regard for Chieftain Rags. When you did rebuff her quite harshly. And she was desperate for knowledge at the time. Are you expecting her to return for guidance?”

“I wouldn’t oppose the notion. If I’m to mentor young Cirediel and Rafaema in some of the ways of our kind, I suppose I could allow a few hangers-on.”

Teriarch meant the Wyvern Lord as well, and Magnolia nodded, reasonable.

“Though Chieftain Rags is, in her way, older than all of the others.”

“Given how long Goblins can age? Hah! I think not!”

“And how old is she proportional to how long most survive?”

Teriarch was not entirely deaf. He noticed Magnolia’s tone, hesitated, and coughed into one claw.

“Well, yes, one supposes technically—where is the young woman? In her tribe? Let me just scry her. You know, I assumed she’d prevail on me if she had any real issue, which is why—”

“She’s not going to come back, Teriarch. She is going to live or die, and I do not know how or why. But if she comes back, it will only be to beg for the only help she expects from you. Death and fire. She will not come back for a mentor, an inspiration, for knowledge or a hero. She knows she won’t find one here. Not for her. Not for the Goblin from the Dragonlord of Flames.”

She hit the old Dragon where it hurt. His heart.

He took it like a veteran and held still a second, one bright purple, heliotrope eye wide and winking at her, like the dawn of light on strange and kindly planets he’d told her had never existed in the stars, but might in other lands.

Then he came back with a counterblow, swift and practiced, that world-weary snort of an elder to a pupil, his tone both kind and knowing.

“How many Goblins do you think I have met, Magnolia Reinhart? How many Reinharts? I have assisted so many. For better or worse.”

His head rose, and his bronze mane flowed like a river of copper under the sun. Cire and Rafaema stirred, gazing up at Teriarch with that youthful wonder.

Magnolia had seen it all before. His tricks didn’t work on her, doubly so because he’d forgotten she’d lived a lifetime of this. She held her ground, neither advancing nor retreating in front of his ageless scorn.

“So she is the same as all the other Goblins you let down.”

“I did not let them—”

Heat entered his voice, and the temperature around them rose a few degrees. Taletevirion was on his hooves, watching Magnolia. He gave her a nod of affirmation. Get that bronze lizard. Or so she assumed he was thinking at her.

“Out of the thousands, nay, countless millions you have graced with your presence and wisdom and aid, wanted or not, oh Dragonlord of Flames, how many have you told the secret of Goblin Kings to?”

His eyes held a flicker of bitter triumph.

“One. To my regret and to the suffering of the world. After that—”

“After that, you never tried again. And how many young women have you ever just told the truth of the world to? Be it the nature of Goblins, the names of dead gods, the reason the Gnomes died or the Elves vanished? How many, Teriarch, know why Winter Sprites fly every winter or what the Eyes of Baleros do?”

Rafaema had been sneering at Magnolia; the Lightning Dragon did not like Magnolia, perhaps seeing in her a reflection and comparison that bothered her. Or maybe she just hated the color pink. But now, her eyes slid to Teriarch.

He hesitated.

“I let those I converse with draw their own conclusions. From your statements, you appear to know the truth of all these matters. Which indicates I told you.”

His uncertain gaze swept over her, and she gave him a smile that revealed nothing.

“Everything I do know I pieced out of your ramblings for decades, old man. Out of hints and riddles and obnoxious non-sequitur statements and slipups that revealed more than you intended. Oh yes, I know why Goblins are the monsters. I know something of the dead gods, though you said they were well and truly gone.”

“I had it on the authority of Gnomes—”

“Gnomes! It took me two years of acquaintanceship before you told me they had existed. You gave me a Gnomish riddle and refused to answer questions on them until I solved it.”

“Hah, that does sound like me.”

“I started drinking when I was eighteen, despite knowing what it did to my family. Your cute Gnomish riddle stumped [Archmages] for decades.”

And it was a pun. There was a special place in Hellste for people who made pun-riddles.

Hellste, another place she had to work out existed and was real based on his ramblings. Magnolia Reinhart continued, her voice not angry. Just earnest. Earnestly frustrated, but so weary that it was more like painful, nostalgic reminiscing.

“You make each young protégé work to learn anything valuable, Terrium Archelis Dorishe. I suppose you think it’s kindness, and it has worked for you in the past, I assume. But the wise mentor routine drives each and every one of us to madness. That girl came to you, the last Dragonlord of this era.”

“Not the last, technically. There could be as many as—”

“The last Dragon she will meet who knows the truth of things. With death on her heels, searching for inspiration, for hope, for a miracle. Or just the truth. What she found was that knowing smirk and a bunch of self-aggrandizing stories. You let her down. You have time to ‘teach’ these young Dragons. You may even do a good job of it. But kindly do not have the gall to wonder why Chieftain Rags doesn’t return unless she needs something blasted with flames.”

There was an ooh from the Unicorn behind her. Silence from the audience, which included Oteslia’s and Manus’ protectors. The Dragons regarded Teriarch, and Ressa nodded once. Magnolia just waited. The Dragon held himself upright, crossing his two foreclaws together, his face troubled and pained. He knew how to lose gracefully, too, and exhaled.

“If that is your judgment of me, then perhaps I have let her down. I shall make amends—”

“No, you shall not.”

She snapped at him, and he blinked.

“But you said—”

“Leave her alone. Stop giving her false hope. Don’t walk up to her posing as an old Goblin. She’s rightfully suspicious of them, and you aren’t that good at acting. Don’t tease her with bits and pieces. Tell her what she needs to know or leave her be. This is not another one of your endless, wearying ages. This is an era with dead gods walking the land, an era where you died and were called back to do great and important things. Or have you forgotten your charge? Tell the children all the truth, Teriarch! Or once more, respectfully and kindly, do not bother.”

Magnolia Reinhart’s voice rose. The young woman adjusted her new, pink hat that annoyed the Dragon so much and tossed her head back defiantly.

Her [Assassin] bodyguard and friend, Ressa, lounged to the side, cleaning her nails with a dagger, hair dyed jet-black, eyeshadow and pale powder turning her face into a gothic mask before it was cool, crimson hearts drawn on her right cheek to count her kills.

Magnolia was in the here and now and, simultaneously, standing in the past. Young and old. She could see herself, wearing her flashy new pink hat in ages gone by, Ressa wearing her all-black [Assassin] outfit. The her of now wore all-pink, business clothing, and Ressa had adopted a [Maid] uniform and refused to admit she had ever had a tattoo of a crow with a bloody eyeball in its beak on her neck. She could see that Ressa, see herself; only Teriarch changed, as the ages flickered in Magnolia’s vision. If she turned her head, Magnolia Reinhart fancied she would see Ryoka Griffin, the Dancer of Chandrar, the last Harpy Queen, Dragons, Garuda, Selphids, and beings of every species lined up and nodding approvingly.

—The moment faded, and for a second, Magnolia envied Erin Solstice’s [Immortal Moments]. The Dragon’s mouth stayed open, and she knew she’d finally gotten through to him. Mostly because his voice became suddenly petulant and argumentative as she turned on her heel.

“H-hold on. I feel rather attacked. Sprung upon, you could say, just like a Lesegothian defense. A Frost Giant’s shield to the face. Where is this coming from, pray? I realize we are slightly hampered by the, ah, memory issues, but I feel like I’ve been as straightforwards as one can expect of me—”

“Oh, come on, Teriarch. She got you with everything I’ve been saying since I was a newborn foal. You were chatting up young Unicorns when the Vale Forest was still in the mile high tree club. Take the criticism like a big Dragon, and don’t make yourself look bad.”

Taletevirion interposed himself between Magnolia and Teriarch as the Brass Dragon tried to lumber after her. Ressa also blocked the massive Dragon, who tried to move her with one claw; she pointedly drew the Blade of Grasses and poked it between two scales on his claw.

He huffed at both of them.

“So I should give her a Relic-class artifact and a pat on the back? Here’s a magic sword and where to find Velan the Kind’s other key, good luck? Watch out for Yehthim?”

He was baiting, but Magnolia wasn’t rising to it. She walked on, calling over her shoulder.

“I still don’t know how the Halflings died, Wall Lady Rafaema, Lord Cirediel. At least, all the nuance around the final wars and whatnot. Some atrocities, yes, but I lost my timeline to that disaster years ago. If you’d care to exchange notes in a month or two, we could have a convivial night putting the pieces together.”

“I could do that.”

Even Rafaema was abandoning team Teriarch for the moment. She could see a rout in progress, and Cire nodded rapidly.

“Yeah, that’d be Archm—pretty cool. Cooler than hanging out with this dude who doesn’t tell us anything.”

“I am being slandered.”

“Indeed? Ressa, write all this down so it can also be libel. Though I believe the prerequisite for both is that I have to state falsehoods.”

“Hah! Got him again.”

The Unicorn pranced right and left, delighted, and Teriarch, by contrast, stopped huffing. He was a sensitive salamander, prone to getting his feelings hurt or jealousy if someone had more gelato than he did, mercurial, picky, arrogant, and all the things you’d expect.

But when you hurt his feelings, his real feelings hidden behind all that bluster and the layers of his hide and armor—he did bleed. He called out at Magnolia’s back, no longer outraged, but serious, voice rasping.

“If I have let you down so greatly, I apologize, Magnolia.”

She half-turned, and again, her lips moved upwards in genuine fondness.

“You were the best thing that happened to a young lady raised to be a viper amongst flowers, Teriarch. A fine teacher, inspiration, and so much more. I could not have asked for more.”

The but she left unspoken and slapped him in the face with. He dug his claws into the hard earth.

“—If you were that curious about Halflings, or if I left anything unsaid—”

“Do better next time.”

Now you walk without looking back. That’s how you achieve victory in this scenario. Magnolia strolled away as Teriarch stood there.

She was almost out of there as Reynold held open the carriage door, Young Women 1, Dragonlords 0, stop the count, full victory obtained, no prisoners taken, when he called out at her back.

Because he always had something. Always. And he was clever.

“—Whatever you know about Goblins is incomplete. You know the why, in broad strokes, but even if I helped you infer the truth, you don’t know that original story that reveals why they were called monster. You don’t know…the truth of why the divine are dead. Of why Elves schismed and went to war, the triumph of Gnomes. For I told no one. Not even my own daughter, not my beloved. Not even the Gnomes dared tell others the truth my mother told me.”

Magnolia’s foot stopped on the lip of the carriage door, and she closed her eyes. She had a Ring of Balefire Rays on her finger—a gift from Teriarch. If she twisted it and thought the activation-word, it’d hurt even him.

She turned her head slowly. The Dragon went on.

“She did it so carefully, too. In a place beyond the ears of any being to hear, far from the naked sky. In a room more secure than any Dragonthrone; dare I say it, more private than even The Last Boxes of Gnomes in a way. I know it. Chieftain Rags’ truth. But even more than that. Even the Goblin Kings might not know the truth that I do.”

You bastard. Magnolia Reinhart was no longer smiling. She gave him her own hard stare, her forest-green eyes serious.

“Then speak. If it matters.”

He hesitated, glancing around at Spearmaster Lulv, crouched behind a boulder, Mivifa of Feathers and Feathi, who were trying to stand behind Cirediel, the servants, some of whom were taking notes, Ressa, who had the most skeptical look on her face—he coughed.

“Ah, well, perhaps in a more secluded setting? At least, not with so many interlopers—”

Magnolia swung herself into the carriage, and Teriarch galloped forwards to lean on it and prevent it taking off.

“—Then again, trust is something one should earn. Maybe we should call Chieftain Rags, first, though?”

“Reynold, I have an obstruction on the carriage. Kindly remove it.”

Magnolia called from within, stuffing the first sweets into her mouth. Reynold got up and began to poke at the Dragon’s claw, and he relented.

“Oh, very well—stop that.”

He snapped his claws, and Magnolia popped out of the carriage and appeared in the air. She floated down to sit on a little cloud as Teriarch huffed and conjured more seats for everyone. He realized he had lost credibility, and the only way to win it back, especially for Rafaema and Cirediel, was to provide the truth.

He still had to play it up, conjuring a Unicorn-shaped bed for Taletevirion, but even the irascible old Unicorn didn’t stop Teriarch. He was giving Magnolia one horse side-eye.

Is he actually—?

She leaned over and whispered.

“You don’t know?”

“Me? You heard him. I’ve heard Dryads and Treants pestering him for details on Elves. I’ve met other Dragonlords, and once I learned to tell when they’re all hot air, I realized most of them didn’t know either. Most didn’t even know the question. He doesn’t even brag about this story. That’s how secret it is.”

Despite her incredulity, Magnolia’s skin thrilled to hear that. Were they actually going to hear a legitimate, first edition, unique Teriarch tale?

He sat in a ring of fascinated faces, as skeptical and incredulous as some might be, clearing his throat, brushing his mane back.

“Needless to say, this is the oldest story in, well, creation. This explains everything. Goblins. The disappearance of most Elves before the system of levels and classes even existed, and the entire—nature of the world. The last war of the divine. You could say that all the present unrest is due to the survivors of that war finally re-emerging. That is how momentous this tale is.”

“Which you know.”

Magnolia’s voice dripped skepticism. Teriarch huffed at her.

“Which was relayed to me by a third-hand source. My mother’s father witnessed the events. You see, even among Dragons, they were exceptionally long-lived, and I have outlived both’s lifespans combined, so this is actually the most authentic source you could ask for. Aside from whatever was written down. Or recorded. As oral storytelling goes, it’s virtually unchanged—”

“Aside from the fact that you can’t string together a linear narrative for more than five seconds. Get on with it or we’re all walking to Liscor!”

Taletevirion barked, and Teriarch’s return glare was actually fierce enough to get the Unicorn to shut up for a second.

“This is not an idle story, Taletevirion. This is the truth. I have been goaded to it. So…here I go. I am telling the story of this world. As it ended and began. The folly of gods. You know, I should redact their names. It gives them power. Though most players are legitimately dead. Needless to say that once you know this truth, you are bound in the same struggle as I am, and Erin Solstice.”

“As if we weren’t already. Continue, pray?”

Magnolia raised her brows. Teriarch nodded.

“Then—the truth. Let us begin with hubris. No, the creation of Goblins. You see, they’re called the ‘youngest species’ because unlike Selphids or Stitch-folk, they were created last. By the divine, not some other source. The last original species in the plan. Therefore, youngest. It’s a pedantic differentiation that tells you the age or knowledge of anyone who invokes the matter. Actually, you know, we first need to explore multiverse theory or you have no grounding on what I’m going to talk about—”

At this point, even Rafaema interrupted with a raised voice.

“Lord Teriarch, if you don’t intend on delivering a cogent narrative, I think we should all go and visit Lady Reinhart’s mansion.”

She gave Magnolia a dip of the head, and Teriarch bit his lip. Feathi snorted at him with a look of pure skepticism. In the distance, the Wyvern Lord had no idea what was being said, but he was flipping up his tail and mooning the Dragonlord.

“Fine. Direct. Once upon a time, there was no world. No universe. Or rather, just an empty void. A reality so pristinely empty it hadn’t even developed space-time-whatsit. I know the Gnomes had a word for it.”

“Physics?”

Magnolia used one of the terms Teriarch had taught her. He shook his head.

“No, even more elementary. Conceptualization. The basis for reality itself. Now, that was this world—but there were other ones. Other realities, each with their own set of rules and divinities. And one of them had an idea. His name—was Isthekenous. A survivor of multiple realities.”

Suddenly, he was doing it. Everyone glanced at each other, and Magnolia sat forwards. She’d heard Isthekenous’ name invoked once when Teriarch sat on a sword.

“Excuse me, what? Survivor of realities?”

Lulv growled, his hair standing on end. The [Spearmaster] didn’t truck with anything more metaphysical than his spear, and Teriarch gave him a nod.

“You heard me. Imagine a world-ending event. Everyone dies. The same can happen to…everything. Someone slays time. Or unmakes the fabric of the universe. Everything dies. A billion planets in their galaxies or a tiny universe. Reality is, after all, a term that defines a place with set rules. They can be big or small. What differentiates the two are the rules.”

“Like…”

“Like, young Rafaema, there is a reality where magic doesn’t exist. Period. No ‘bits of magic here and there’, magic does not exist. At least, unless someone brings it through a door, and even then, I imagine it’d be weaker or dissipate. Or jumpstart magic for the entire reality, but without outside interference, there is no magic in that reality. And another…I don’t know, everything’s stretchy. Teeth, trees, the ground—pull on it hard enough and it’ll stretch.”

Magnolia at least had grounding to understand multiverse theory. But Rafaema just gave Teriarch a vaguely cross eyed look. Cirediel was, somewhat sadly, the only other person who caught on.

“Yeah! Like each one’s a different kind of book. Different rules in each reality-place.”

Teriarch gave Cirediel an anguished expression.

“…Yes. That’s—quite good. So! If there are multiple realities, it stands to reason each one that is reasonably analogous to our own—and many that aren’t—have higher beings. These take many forms. But one commonality is a being shaped by faith. That is worshiped and has capabilities beyond any reasonable expectation. Omniscient, omnipresent, all-powerful. They possess the ability to bring back the dead, to call down meteors, to speak and make things happen. Essentially beings who have Tier 9 spells and would be Level 90 or higher. Beings who require worship, a people, to survive. Those are called gods.”

He was rather spitefully speedrunning his explanations, Magnolia realized. Multiple hands went up—Teriarch conjured a glowing panel in the air. It read:

 

Omniscient — Knowing everything.

Omnipresent — Being everywhere all at once.

Faith — 1. The belief in something or someone.

2. Within the context of religion, a belief, often without evidence, in the existence of a higher power, see ‘gods’, or of the tenats of said religion.

Religion — The organized practice of worshiping some entity or concept.

Worship…

 

Several hands went down. Many stayed up. Teriarch cleared his throat harder and glanced up at the sky.

“I can see we should go over the basics of realities, but since I am so long winded, I should skip to the inciting, ah, incident. Which would be, one supposes, the creation of what we call the system of levels. The Grand Design. You know what? Let’s start with Goblins and go back. Because their appearance coincides with, well, the final war. As gods had already made this world and brought over their peoples and were commencing the Grand Design’s launch…”

He stopped. Scratched at his chin. Glanced at his audience, who had all sat forwards suddenly, forgetting their questions. Teriarch stared upwards again.

“It really should be sunset. Or a moonlit night. Not the right ambiance. We could get in my Dragonthrone? No?”

He paused. Cleared his throat.

“So. The Elves…”

The Dragonlord stopped. He closed his eyes. Cracked one open.

“You know, Sprigaena, the last Elf, was there. She wasn’t even that important when—you have no idea who I’m talking about. Alright. The Goblins were created to—”

Magnolia’s heart was thudding in her chest, and Teriarch stopped. He laughed.

“I am so nervous. Why am I nervous? Maybe this was a poor idea after all. Am I stalling for time? Why am I hesitating here?”

“Get on with it!”

His audience shouted at him. Someone threw a rock at his head. The Dragonlord was breathing hard. He bit his tongue, snapped at them, eyed the many people whose respect was on the line, cursed, and gave in.

“Fine! The gods created them last of all! They walked out of the sea, and the first mortal people to ever lay eyes upon them were the Elves. None of the divine ruled Goblins; they were no chosen people.”

Everyone went silent. Abruptly, as if the Dragonlord had sucked the air out of their lungs. Mivifa on Cire’s claw. Lulv leaned on his spear, listening. Magnolia’s servants looked up, quills poised to write, but forgetting to for a second. Magnolia was transfixed…until she remembered one of her staff and glanced over and saw Ressa holding her hands gently over a squirming [Maid]’s ears.

Ressga, the little Goblin in Magnolia Reinhart’s employ, was trying to hear. She looked up pleadingly, but Ressa gently shook her head. Ressga stared at Teriarch as the Dragonlord spoke, and Teriarch’s expression was—longing himself. As longing as her face.

“Back then, there were thousands of them. Not tens of thousands; thousands. You may think that a small number of Gods.”

The word hurt them, but the Dragonlord’s voice was soothing. The context he spoke seemed to lift the veil that obfuscated the word. Not dead gods—they listened and understood. The truth was pouring out of every word, second by second, letting them unlock the puzzle in their heads they had never given thought to.

“Thousands. Far more than any singular pantheon normally holds. Ryoka Griffin told me there were religions from her world in which a divine being was in every object, or great and myriad religions with hundreds; this was no singular one. Rather, imagine refugees, lone wanderers, and yes, entire mighty groups joining together for the most ambitious project in history.”

“Refugees?”

Teriarch nodded to Magnolia.

“Oh yes. Laedonius Deviy—I am told that one is fallen, so it is safe to mention. There were threats to them, you see. The ‘rot between worlds’. Seamwalkers and their get, only on a vast scale. I suppose it is safe to mention the truly dead. First of all was Isthekenous. Next came Tamaroth, and with him followed multitudes. Not all the same scope and scale, you understand. The remaining six were always some of the stronger of the divine. Not the strongest, necessarily. But the most tenacious, or cunning, or…”

He began to pace back and forth, and the more he spoke, the easier it was to comprehend, the less ‘God’ hurt and you understood how it was said. The Dragonlord was reciting from memory.

“Each one had a nature, and the nature could change, but it informed their power. It is why the Three-in-One was so fearful. Who could face death herself? She was the last to arrive in the legends my mother told me. Three of the divine who claimed to be true gods of death challenged her for the title, and she bested them and made them her subordinates in her pantheon. She was so fearsome because while they defeated her, while she could be bested, she could never be slain.”

Lulv growled, his hair standing on end.

“Wonderful. Do they have…weaknesses?”

Teriarch ignored the question. He was lost now, eyes alight with excitement.

“I cannot tarry too long, but I was told they worked wonders. Not all were petty. In fact, some were gracious. Diotrichne, another ruler of the afterlife, presided over the first world they made. She refused to let mortals die and walked with them, talking and teaching and loving. It was Kasigna who restarted the mortal coil. And there were gods for all of us. Sauliset of Dragons. Vionte, one of the many rulers who claimed Humanity.”

“So Humans existed before the world? What? And Dragons too?”

The confused question from Cirediel dragged Teriarch back to the point. He exhaled, sighing.

“—Yes. Of course. When they formed this world, they were taking ideas and peoples from their own homes. There were…arguments over whom and what should be included, I gather. So yes, Humans in some form or other came here and joined the many races. Humans, Elves, Dwarves—true Dwarves—Halflings, Orcmen, Beastkin—a myriad of species in their millions, not the few tribes you see today—Kobolds—”

The list of names went on, and Magnolia had not even heard of some of them in Teriarch’s list. His eyes swept across his audience, and when they saw the wide-eyed Goblin, peering at him, his face was pained.

“And yes. Goblins were the last. Be it chance…no, design, I think. Not one of the deities who had gathered represented them, nor wanted to. Thus, as the great project of which I shall soon speak drew to fruition, the last species was created. And this was one of the first sins of the divine. Goblins were created to be monsters, and when the Elves, who lived in grace and magical might beyond all species, saw that, they began to behold the truth of what was planned. The first Goblins stumbled onto shore, out of the waves. And when they raised their heads, fearful and alone—the first species they saw was an Elf. On that day—”

His voice rose. His wings spread wide. Teriarch threw his head back, and illusory figures, small and pointy-eared, stumbled out of waves. Afraid, naked, cringing—until they saw fair folk reaching out to them. Magnolia gasped, and Teriarch looked up at the sky.

“Oh no.”

His narrative cut off. The illusions froze, and Magnolia leapt from her cloud.

“Don’t stop or I’ll murder you! You hopeless fool! Don’t you dare stop or—”

She was striding up to him to give him the slap of his life if he didn’t stop this stupid play-acting and dancing around. She knew he could tell a story! This was it! Then she realized Teriarch’s eyes were wide. With horror. He gazed upwards and breathed.

“No. Now I remember why—oh nonononono. That’s why Mother and I never—it’s coming.”

He was suddenly terrified. His head craned upwards, and Magnolia Reinhart whirled. She looked right and left, across the High Passes, thinking he’d seen something.

The doppelganger? An army of monsters? Something from higher up? The Necromancer?

But none of those things would make Teriarch terrified. For people he cared about, yes, but even if you brought Rhisveri, Belavierr, and Az’kerash riding Elder Crelers, he’d be afraid.

Not terrified. And he was gazing up. Straight up. At…

Magnolia shaded her eyes. The blue spring skies were shining overhead. Innocuous. A lovely day. The sun was shining, the Eater Goats were screaming, the green moon was beaming down at them—wait.

The moon?

It should not have been visible in the sky. Not with the sun out. But suddenly, it was there. Teriarch whispered.

“It’s happening again. I forgot about last time, but I knew. You goaded me into it.”

“Oh hey, the moon’s out.”

Cirediel observed as people got to their feet. Magnolia swiveled to Teriarch.

“What’s going on? Old man?”

He just kept staring.

“Take cover. Everyone get clear. He’s coming down.”

“Who?”

Taletevirion had realized something was actually off. He got to his hooves and craned his head up. Ressa jerked her blade out of her scabbard.

“Magnolia, come here. Now. [Servant’s Order]. Move.”

Magnolia felt herself moving and jogged away from Teriarch. But she kept her head raised, and she saw it as Rafaema fanned her good wing. The green moon hung full in the sky. An orb of glowing green without craters or visible markings. Then…it glowed brighter, and darkness swept over it.

It winked at them. And the air split. Teriarch screamed—turned to run—

A Halfling fell like a comet out of the heavens and hit him in the back.

 

——

 

He came down like a Tier 8 spell.

Taletevirion had seen Tier 8 spells wipe out his home. He’d seen Treants die. He had met other Dragonlords and, not to put too fine a point on it, had dueled the finest [Blademasters] in his long life.

He had never seen something travel from the literal moon to where they were standing that fast. It wasn’t even an impact that carried the velocity with it; if it had been that fast, it would have cratered a good amount of the High Passes.

It still hit the fleeing Dragonlord of Flame so hard the ground quaked. Everyone stumbled, and Taletevirion sensed avalanches beginning on all the mountains around them.

They’ll feel that one in Liscor. The Unicorn steadied himself and heard a scream from Teriarch.

“Run! He’s come to kill us all! Flee!”

The Unicorn was astounded. He’d never heard Teriarch panic like this before. The Unicorn glanced around and saw purple fires blasting upwards. A brass shape—writhing—but what was—

A short figure leapt off the Dragon’s body as the dust settled. He was glowing, semi-transparent, four feet tall.

Magical projection. Magical flesh. I can cut through him in a second. Some kind of bound summon. Taletevirion lowered his horn, pawed the ground, and—hesitated.

That’s no Dwarf. What the hell is—

The Unicorn searched his memory and came to a conclusion as Magnolia breathed the word.

“Halfling.”

A grinning Halfling stood, whirling a sling staff around his head, shortsword in the other hand. He wore what Taletevirion might have called leather armor, but which leather? It was festooned with pockets, he had a faded scar that pulled on one cheek, and the brightest and most confident grin Taletevirion had ever seen.

When he turned, the Unicorn’s heart hurt, and he had been born after the last Halflings died. For a second, Taletevirion hesitated—and the Halfling swept his gaze across the High Passes. Inspecting the world around him. Then he winked, shifted—and he was barefoot, toes dancing across the ground as he leapt.

The first stone flew from his sling-staff, and a second appeared in the whirling sling in a second. He launched two, and they hit the Brass Dragon lunging at him with his mouth open.

The Unicorn heard the stones hit Teriarch’s scales like thunder. The shockwaves split the air, and he saw the scales ripple like someone had punched a river of bronze. The Dragon’s lunge deflected; he went sprawling.

I’ve seen Giants try to punch him out of the air and break their fists. What the hell is in those stones?

The Unicorn was making a mistake. He never hesitated in a fight. It’s how he’d survived so many wars. But he was stupefied now, and it nearly killed him. He saw the Halfling cock his head, noticed a glint out of the corner of those crinkled, mirthful eyes—

The third stone nearly blew Taletevirion’s head apart. The Unicorn stepped left with the speed of a being who could step out of reality, traversing the green paths, another dimension that let him move unseen. Practically teleportation in itself. He felt the wind howling after the stone and sensed a hole in his mane.

Close. Wh—

The stone curved and tried to hit him in the flank. It barely lost any speed—Taletevirion spun and slashed at it with his horn. It sped up, and he missed—

Stepstepstepstepstep—

“—rot!”

Taletevirion burst out of a frantic dance of dodges as he finally managed to slash it apart with his horn. It numbed his horn down to the base of his skull. He felt the enchantment on it go dead, and his senses reduced to a normal horse’s for a moment.

Antimagic? Oh hells.

When he looked up, the Halfling was watching him. The same smile on his face, feet planted easily, whirling the staff. Waiting for Taletevirion to catch his breath.

He could have killed me already. Or maybe he’s sizing me up. Can’t let him throw again—

Taletevirion lunged forwards, horn pointed, a blade of magic extending his reach. He was a Unicorn, but he’d bested fencers with hands—even Zeladona had acknowledged his mastery. And he cheated—he’d seen Mivifa coming down in a dive with her sword in both hands as Spearmaster Lulv leapt from the side, spear spinning.

Taletevirion stabbed with his horn, going for the Halfling’s exposed throat.

The Halfling parried it. The Unicorn heard a muffled shout, a snarl—Lulv went tumbling head-over-heels backwards, and Feathi caught Mivifa as she went tumbling through the air.

“Named-rank threat! Rafaema, evacuate now! Get to the Manus squad!”

Lulv howled, and Mivifa shouted.

“Cire, don’t—”

Two Dragons exhaled as the Halfling turned. Cirediel sprayed acid mist as lightning roared from Rafaema’s throat. Taletevirion tensed with Lulv.

Which way would the Halfling go? Up? He’d be dead in the air. Left or right? He—

—Spun his sling-staff, and the twin Dragonbreaths parted in front of him. The Halfling had the time to look over and wink at Taletevirion.

“Aw.”

Then he scooped up the burning lightning and acid in his sling until it was a ball of roiling green liquid and lightning and threw it at Lulv and Taletevirion.

The Unicorn dodged.

The Gnoll did not. The howl from behind Taletevirion cut off with the smoke of ozone and burning fur. The Unicorn didn’t have time to heal or check on Lulv. He shapeshifted.

A half-Elf with a blade cut across the ground in a [Duelist]’s cut, and the Halfling flicked the blade aside with his shortsword. He whirled the staff again, and Taletevirion dodged—

“Aaaaaah!”

Rafaema had been heading into the fight. The stone knocked her unconscious. It hit her head, dented her skull-scales, and she just dropped.

“Raef! You—”

A second stone hit Cirediel under the chin, and he screamed as his teeth closed over his tongue. He actually remained conscious—Taletevirion moved around the Halfling, slashing, each cut of his blade meeting that glowing shortsword.

But he couldn’t stop that slingstaff. It snapped again, and Mivifa screamed. A shattering chime was the sound of her blade breaking as the antimagic stone hit it, then slammed into Cirediel. They all went tumbling down as Taletevirion panted.

“Teriarch! Help! Someone stop him or he’ll kill all of us!”

Why aren’t we dead? There was no time to think. Taletevirion danced, and he hadn’t danced like this against Tolveilouka.

The Wildcress Waves in the Breeze followed by a leap. A Diving Heron, and he spun into the Treant’s Branches. 

Swordforms he was sure no one, not even Teriarch, knew by heart. But even if his opponent didn’t know them—he was some kind of master just as alien to Taletevirion.

And he was short. Not to put too fine a point on it, but he was four feet tall. His reach was miniscule, but by the same token, it meant Taletevirion had to adjust for a tiny body. The Unicorn knew his long reach and legs would carry the battle—

Assuming this was how Halfling blademasters fought. The moment the Halfling planted his slingstaff on the ground and used it to vault into the air at Taletevirion, the Unicorn knew he was in trouble.

He’s fast! The Halfling kicked off the ground, and suddenly, he had mobility. Then he was attacking with his shortsword and staff, spinning off the pole, bracing with it, using it to seamlessly advance and retreat.

Like the damn monkey blademasters of Baleros! Hell, hell, hell—

The breathless dance nearly ended in the first rush of the Halfling’s advance, especially because he was still throwing stones from his spinning sling. Staff, sword, sling—and each time the sword touched Taletevirion’s own blade, the Unicorn felt like he was trying to lock blades with a hurricane. He was losing the sheer clash of blades.

The [Maid] helped a lot when she tried to gut the Halfling from behind. He noticed, and Ressa ate a blow from the staff that tossed her a hundred feet and broke at least one rib, but she jumped back in the fight after eight breathless seconds.

The two of them weaved and cut around the ground, trying to pin the grinning Halfling down. He was definitely enjoying this. He pivoted on two toes of his right foot, blocking Taletevirion’s blade with his staff, Ressa’s dagger with his shortsword.

“Okay, he’s showing off. New plan—jump!”

They leapt away, and the Dragonlord of Flames exhaled. The Halfling lost his smile, dropped his shortsword, and drew a shield.

These flames weren’t whirled away. Nor did Taletevirion feel them. Teriarch’s fire licked across the High Passes, purple and gold, flickering and evaporating the stone and soil it touched. Taletevirion caught his breath as he counted who was up.

Magnolia Reinhart, her staff—who’d wisely retreated—Teriarch, and Ressa.

The Dragonlord continued exhaling; he had two dents in his scales, and his eyes were aglow with malice. And fear.

He’d killed Treants with that Dragonbreath. The Halfling should be dead. Dead—but Taletevirion saw the flames parting and a glowing figure shift—

This time, it felt like six of those antimagic stones exploded in short-order, interrupting the stream of fire long enough for the Halfling to bound away. He landed, kicking purple flames off him, but Taletevirion was encouraged by the grimmer set to the Halfling’s face.

Okay, that hurt him a bit. The sling came up, and Teriarch bellowed.

“Begone! Don’t force me to—arrows!”

At first, Taletevirion thought he was shouting a warning before he realized the Dragonlord was using arrows from his treasury. A stream of magical arrows cut the air and began exploding, detonating Tier 5 and Tier 6 spells as the sling began to snap projectiles nonstop.

Magnolia Reinhart was shouting, but it was only when she amplified her voice that Taletevirion even heard her.

“Peace! Allow us to negotiate! Will you lay down your arms?”

She was directing her Skills at the Halfling and must have been using her aura this entire time. The warrior just beamed at her.

“I don’t think he’s here to negotiate, Magnolia. Get back! That idiot summoned him somehow!”

By ‘that idiot’, Ressa meant Teriarch. For once, Taletevirion had to hand it to the old Dragon.

Maybe telling stories is a really bad idea after all. Teriarch roared at them.

“He’ll destroy anything that mentions the truth! Last time, he wiped my memories after beating down three Dragonlords, including my daughter. Skills don’t work on him! He’s the Elves’ doing! He—ulp—”

The mention of ‘Elves’ made the Halfling’s eyes narrow. He flicked open one vest pocket, pulled something out, and tossed it. Teriarch dodged in an amazing display of agility, showing his training really had paid off.

Either that or he didn’t want to get hit by what looked like a tiny bird that grew larger with each foot of ground it covered. By the time it passed Teriarch, it was bigger than he was. It left a smoking, red crater in the side of a mountain, and magma began pouring out.

“Ah.”

Magnolia gave up on negotiations. She twisted the ring on her finger, took aim, and a glowing red line of light aimed at the Halfling. He turned his head, raised his shield—blocked the beam of light that tore the air open and left a glowing line on the ground. Magnolia stared at the Halfling’s unmarked shield, her ring, and raised her hands.

“I’m retreating. Ressa, don’t die.”

She ran for it. Taletevirion would have, in this moment, come up with a clever pincer attack to execute with Ressa while Teriarch locked down the Halfling. Unfortunately, Teriarch ran out of enchanted arrows.

“Sword! Oh come on!”

He tossed a Relic-class sword at the Halfling, and the next stone blew it to pieces. When the Dragonlord hesitated, a stone hit him in the chest. He reeled, and two more struck him as he tried to recover—Taletevirion lunged at the Halfling, trying to slow the barrage of stones.

He’s going after Teriarch. The Halfling had knocked out Mivifa and Cire, but each stone he threw at Teriarch was denting the scales of the ancient Brass Dragon. One of the toughest in the world.

Again, the dance began, but the Unicorn realized the Halfling had enjoyed his fun. His sword sent Taletevirion tumbling, and Ressa was slammed down by the staff so hard she left an imprint on the ground before she rolled away.

Whatever enchantment he has on his sword, it’s more than levelling the field. But he’s trying not to kill or maim us. 

If he was, Ressa would have broken more bones. Taletevirion saw the Halfling’s brows raise a fraction after he saw her leap up; he didn’t know how good they were.

He wasn’t omnipotent. Taletevirion hesitated, then abandoned all pretense at defense. He stood up, held his sword in a guard position, and walked forwards.

The Sentinel Plants His Blade. He calmly went for a swing with all the speed and skill he could muster. The Halfling grimaced, blocked with the staff, and slammed the flat of his blade into Ressa’s chest.

There went a lot of her ribs. She folded up, but Taletevirion thrust with his sword. A simple stab as a stone blew a hole straight through his shoulder and side.

Got you. The Unicorn collapsed onto his side, shapeshifting broken, trying to self-heal, staring at his enchanted blade that had gone straight through the Halfling’s chest.

Magnificent thrust if Taletevirion said so himself. The only opening he’d had or he would have gone for the neck in a beheading, but the Halfling had exposed himself. That was the thing about armor. Fancy or not, if you could cut through it…

The Halfling slowly grasped the blade as he dropped the shortsword. It vanished, and Taletevirion saw it reappear, sheathed, at his side. Calmly and without pain, the Halfling pulled the blade out of his chest. Or rather—out of his armor.

There was no blood on the blade. Of course, he was a summoned being of some kind, probably kept alive by magic. But it should have hurt. It should have—Taletevirion stared at the blade as it clattered to the ground and then realized what he’d hit.

“Oh—oh come on. Is your armor linked to another dimension?”

He hadn’t stabbed flesh. Taletevirion realized he could see a blade slowly sinking into the Halfling’s side. A throwing dagger; Ressa must have tagged him. It was entering the Halfling’s armor, tumbling into another dimension instead of hitting the Halfling’s body.

A wink was Taletevirion’s only reply. The Unicorn put his head down and hoped Teriarch had a plan. The Brass Dragon rasped as he rose to his claws.

“Enough.”

 

——

 

The Halfling’s sling sounded like thunder. Everyone was down or out of range of the fight; Reynold, Mivifa, Cire—he had woken up and was pretending to be unconscious—even the Wyvern Lord had swooped in, taken one look at Teriarch getting kicked around, and decided he didn’t need to be part of this.

The Dragonlord of Flame was bleeding. But he was still putting up a fight; each time a sling stone hit him, he flinched and his scales dented like metal struck by a sledgehammer, but he spat fire that made the Halfling warrior wince as he dodged or had to block. They circled each other, exchanging attacks.

Spells wove around Teriarch, snapping where the Halfling cut them or produced an object from his pockets to intercept or counter the magic. The Dragonlord growled twice.

“Don’t you understand the era has changed? They’re returning—”

A blow to his jaw that dislocated it until it clicked back into place.

“I am not your enemy! You know this!”

That damned, aggravating smile was his only reply. The Halfling didn’t care. No—he shook his head as Teriarch folded his wings, enmeshing himself in defensive spells. He mouthed something at Teriarch. Whether he was mute or not, the meaning was clear.

Doesn’t matter.

He was the guardian of forbidden knowledge. Invoke the gods too widely, touch on the secrets of the world—and the moon would send him to battle. Teriarch knew it.

The Halfling threw a black hole at Teriarch. Or something close. Vortex arrow? Teriarch was nearly sucked into—he pulled himself away and saw his blood flying through the air until the hole in the world closed.

They were in the throes of battle, now. Old warriors fighting on instinct. A Unicorn appeared in a streak of light, knocking Spearmaster Lulv aside. His charge left a trail of grass growing in the soil in his wake.

He hit the Halfling with an impact that shook the ground, and the blade rebounded as the Halfling grimaced. The Unicorn’s horn flashed brighter than the sun.

The Halfling dropped his slingstaff, and his shield shook as the horn slashed across it. He whirled and heaved, and Taletevirion went stumbling left. The Halfling pointed a finger and spoke a word.

“██████████!”

The word hurt. The silver fur across the Unicorn’s flank exploded in a puff of air. He stumbled, glanced down at his flanks, and saw parts of his body flake away in a gentle cloud of dust. Taletevirion’s horn glowed desperately as he collapsed, trying to undo—

“Wretch!”

Flames baked the Halfling for a second as Teriarch exhaled. Lulv’s howl exploded from his mouth as the wounded [Spearmaster] leapt towards the Halfling, heedless of the golden flames. Teriarch’s flames—

Vanished. The Brass Dragon choked as the Halfling threw something into Teriarch’s mouth. The second vortex opened in Teriarch’s throat, and a howling Dragon writhed, flickers of golden flame escaping from his maw.

A blade ran Lulv through the stomach, slicing through all the spear dances and Skills. The Halfling kicked the Gnoll off the blade and caught a dagger aimed at his chest. His third blow to Ressa made her limbs jerk. One arm twisted around in her socket; she landed, staring at a leg bent backwards.

The Dragonlord was the last. He exhaled again, and a flash of gold marked the vortex dissipating as it finally overloaded. Blood ran from Teriarch’s jaws, and he raised his head—a stone tore the air and hit him like a comet.

—He rolled back onto his claws with the impact. His side was dented in. He could barely breathe, but he still roared. Crimson lightning bolts rained down as the Halfling planted his slingstaff and caught one on it. The warrior waited as Teriarch swiveled to face him.

[Mass Ray of Disintegrations] dodged with a leap from the staff, two bolts parried with a sword.

[Meteor of Extinction] met a stone from that sling and exploded, unformed. The Halfling was charging at him, a tiny figure before a Dragonlord a thousand times his size.

He smiled like death.

The Halfling was too close—the blade sheared down Teriarch’s face, then his side. Blades meant to kill gods. The Dragonlord struck the Halfling and felt a claw break. He knocked the figure back a dozen paces and rasped.

“Enough. Enough. Leave!”

He spat a final tongue of flames at the Halfling weakly. The Halfling’s sword was back, and he walked at Teriarch with a calm, even regretful purpose. To silence the Dragonlord forever? Or to pull a scroll out and seal the Dragon’s mind until the next time he slipped up?

Whichever the case, Teriarch was snarling as the Halfling stopped, wary, and a loud voice interrupted them. Magnolia Reinhart cleared her throat.

“Ahem. If I may have your attention, sir?”

The Halfling turned. He raised his sling perfunctorily, then halted as he saw what Teriarch guessed was over a thousand of the most choice elements of his hoard piled on the ground. Magnolia and the rest of her servants were panting, but she stepped back as Teriarch nodded at her. He thumped his tail weakly, and the Halfling took aim as the ground began to glow beneath the pile of relics.

“Don’t. That spell circle is pre-written and has multiple contingency layers. Try to dispel it and you’ll just set it off. There are enough Relics—enough magical items there to blow any five nations apart. Remove yourself or I will destroy that moon.”

Teriarch pointed a wobbling claw at the green moon in the skies. He bared bloody teeth at the Halfling and spat some liquid on the ground. He hoped he seemed convincing.

“Withdraw, guardian of the Elves’ secrets. You’ve made your point. No memory spells. Just—leave, or we will both meet our ends here.”

He was tense, breathing hard, pain sounding all over his body, unsure how he’d kill this Halfling—he hadn’t even left a scratch beyond the Dragonbreath. However…he saw the Halfling glance at the pile of Relics and then at Teriarch.

The man stepped back and ran a hand thoughtfully through his hair. He leaned on his slingstaff, cocking his head at Teriarch, not afraid, but frowning, like someone making a difficult decision. At length, he shrugged, sighed, and nodded. He stepped back again, and Teriarch exhaled in relief.

Magnolia Reinhart just had to stride in at that moment, so fearless that Teriarch had to admire it—even if he thought she was a mad idiot. He moved a claw to halt her, and she jerked a finger and his claw halted. Her voice was a touch breathless, but when she spoke, she sounded precise, intrigued, not as if she were terrified for her life.

Calm under fire. Like the Quarass or old [Queens] with excellent diction as trebuchet stones were landing around them. That was class.

“Excuse me, sir. I hate to trouble you, and I would certainly not impinge on your duties. But I would be remiss if I did not point out your foes have returned. In fact, House Walchaís is providing the very knowledge you seek to hide. I should be delighted to tender you directions to their whereabouts.”

Even Spearmaster Lulv’s mouth was hanging open. Teriarch tried not to grin. No wonder I liked her in the past.

The Halfling stopped as his body stopped glowing and turned to Magnolia. She actually had a map.

“She’s worshiping your enemy. Kasigna—”

The word made the Halfling react so fast that Teriarch realized he’d been holding back. He raised a finger to Magnolia’s lips and was in front of her in the blink of an eye. She fell silent.

Then, Teriarch saw the Halfling frown and his face become serious and wrothful for the first time. He bowed his head, and Teriarch mumbled.

“Were you one of the ones who defied them? Were you there when Sprigaena broke from her kin and led the loyalists to war against the defiant?”

The Halfling looked at him. Just looked, and Teriarch bowed his head. To a being older than he was, who refused to speak. Magnolia just held up the map.

“Lady Bethal Walchaís is spreading this—worship of that one. Go after her. Here. See?”

She was circling House Walchaís with a pen, and even Reynold had to look at their mistress askance.

“Lady Reinhart—”

The Halfling inspected the paper. He regarded Magnolia as she spoke.

“The dead gods?”

He shook his head. Not his fight? He was forbidden to kill them? Or that he couldn’t? Teriarch tried to guess as he levered himself up onto one claw. He saw Lulv trying to sneak up on the Halfling and slashed a claw; Lulv fell back with a growl.

Magnolia’s face was bitter, as bitter as she had been when speaking to him of his failures.

“So that’s it. You’re intent on preserving this secret, even if the enemies of the dead gods need the truth.”

Shrug. Smile…the Halfling tapped his chest with a laugh and beckoned at Lulv, at Taletevirion, who was sobbing on his feet. He grinned and gestured, flipping his hand up and waggling his fingers.

Come at me.

No one moved. No one wanted to. Magnolia made one last entreaty.

“Then at least, sir, I entreat you in the interests of parity. If we are to be censured, what about others? May I cite Archmage Eldav—oh.”

Her eyes flickered. Teriarch groaned.

“So that’s what it was. Serves that idiot right.”

He conveniently decided not to think about the fact that Eldavin was him and so he’d ran afoul of this security measure three times. Magnolia Reinhart pursed her lips.

“How about Erin Solstice?”

“Lady Reinhart! Please!”

Reynold shouted, but the Halfling just raised his brows. Magnolia glanced at Teriarch’s expression.

“If anyone could provoke an interesting result, it would be her, Teriarch. And at the very least, I don’t see anything wrong with her losing a tooth or two. No? She doesn’t qualify?”

Apparently, Erin Solstice had been careful enough, and now it occurred to Teriarch that someone—Gnomes—might have warned Erin how to phrase things. Magnolia was holding out a hand, and it was little Ressga, the Goblin [Maid], who hurried forwards.

That provoked the second response that was different. The moment the Halfling caught sight of Ressga, he blinked. A look of hurt and delight crossed his face, and he fell to one knee and smiled at her.

Since they were of a height already, he gazed up at Ressga’s startled, nervous face, but the Cave Goblin was brave, jutted out her chin, and defiantly held something out to him. It was…

A picture. Of a rather impishly vibrant young [Lady], posing for the painter, while sitting on her husband’s lap. He had an amazing deadpan expression and his formal [Chevalier]’s outfit on. Lady Bethal had a gown that was black and red and more transparent with thin gauze than it was opaque.

This time, Magnolia held it up.

“Bethal Walchaís. Currently guarded by a few busybodies. I’m sure it wouldn’t make a difference. Barely a hop and skip north for you. I could provide a carriage if you are so interested.”

She waved the picture in front of the Halfling as even Ressa shuffled her feet, slightly embarrassed at the lengths her employer would go to. The Halfling just blinked at the portrait after giving a nod to Ressga. He took the picture from Magnolia with glowing fingers, raised his brows.

Then chuckled. Magnolia blinked down at him, and she saw the Halfling lifting the picture up. Admiring it. Not memorizing the faces. Rather, he smiled.

Nostalgia ran through the Halfling’s expression. He brushed his hair back and smiled. Like someone pleasantly surprised to see something familiar and different. He handed the photo back to Magnolia and shook his head.

“But they—”

Magnolia tried to continue arguing her case, but the warrior from the moon was done. The Halfling ignored her and swung around to Teriarch. The two locked gazes as the smile vanished. The Halfling stared up at the moon, met the Dragonlord’s gaze again, and then nodded. He held up one hand.

Two fingers curled up. He held up a third finger, then shook his head. Teriarch rasped.

“You bear no grudge for the first time we met?”

A bright stare revealed no answer. The two fingers waggled, and Teriarch saw the gaze sharpen. Fearless. Not vindictive. A warning was implicit in that glowing gaze, regretful and merciless simultaneously.

“I know.”

The Halfling gave him a nod, then he skipped upwards into the air. Only—his feet never touched the ground. He leapt back up to the moon so fast that he was there, then gone, leaving only the certainty of his presence behind. Only memories.

And the broken bones.

And bruises.

And frankly, a destroyed landscape.

Teriarch rolled onto his side after a moment and lay there, now wishing for death. He rasped.

“At least this time…I remember. Ow. Ow. No third chances. Is this—is this merciful?”

“I nearly lost a lung.”

“Shut up, Taletevirion. He probably knew you could heal it.”

Magnolia Reinhart slowly collapsed onto the ground as Teriarch wondered how long it would be until the pain stopped. He needed healing…everything, but there were the two Dragons to attend to, the wounded—

Dead gods. Dead gods—he was relieved, terrified, as he had been as a young Dragon, seeing the only other time the Halfling had been invoked. Three times they’d met, now.

Once to traumatize me and bring my mother’s story home to rest.

Twice, to prevent me from giving my own daughter that burden, for better or worse.

The third time because I can’t keep my big mouth shut.

Actually…Teriarch raised his head slightly as Magnolia began giving orders to her staff.

“Magnolia?”

She turned to him, and the Dragonlord of Flames gave her a weak and weary smile. He’d be out of commission for a while, he suspected. Just as well he hadn’t told this truth to Rags, eh? He couldn’t help but give her a bit of a knowing look.

“It seems some secrets are meant to be kept for a reason.”

She stared at him, blank-faced, then walked over and kicked him in the snout. Teriarch rolled over and lay there, panting, staring at the sky. The moon vanished, and the world was the same, as if nothing had ever happened.

After a while, a flying blue ant zipped over a mountain and spotted the devastation. Xrn, the Small Queen, searched around and saw three Dragons lying in heaps, a drinking Unicorn, Magnolia Reinhart tending to her servant, Ressa, and exhaled.

“Three? Wonderful. Now they’re breeding.”

She zipped backwards before the Dragon could do more than glare at her. She wasn’t ready for this battle. Of course, her appearance put a panic in Oteslia’s and Manus’ representatives, and they were all set to try and fight or negotiate with her until Teriarch sourly snapped at them that the Antinium had known about him since the First Antinium War.

He was dragging himself over to Taletevirion, who was trying to reattach one of Cirediel’s teeth that had been knocked out of his jaw.

“Uy oof. An oo ix it?”

Taletevirion had adopted his half-Elven form so he could hold the tooth, and he snapped as he inspected Cirediel’s bleeding gums. He was all business, a medic doing the rounds after a battle. Teriarch could tell how rattled the Unicorn was; getting kicked about by a magical Halfling from the moon wasn’t exactly normal, even for the two of them. He shot Teriarch a glare as the Dragon halted. Teriarch guessed he looked like a mess; he counted four dozen fractures on his scales. They’d heal, but dead gods it hurt. And the problem was…

“Hold still. You’re a Dragon; healing you is a pain, even if I wasn’t injured myself. You’re an Earth Dragon.”

“Ho hwat?”

Taletevirion tried to jam the tooth back up in the bleeding gums, then tossed it at Mivifa. Cire closed his jaw and stared at his reflection in a mirror anxiously as the Unicorn sighed.

“So healing is your area. That, or a Gold Dragon, those smug, vain…Water Dragons too. But I’m a Unicorn. I can fix up a missing limb if you hand it back to me, but you’re so magically resistant it’s like trying to force a needle through a brick wall with my eyeball.”

“But my tooth! You have to put it back! My smile’s ruined!”

Given how Rafaema was still knocked out, Teriarch had little sympathy for Cirediel as Taletevirion limped over. The Unicorn snapped at Cire.

“Stop moaning. It’s only your baby teeth.”

“Oh. So they’ll grow back? I have baby teeth?”

Cire relaxed, and neither of the older two immortals bothered telling him that Dragons didn’t have baby teeth like Humans or other species.

Teri winced as Taletevirion felt at his scales.

“How bad is it?”

“Eh, you’ve got shards of your own scales embedded in your flesh, but it looks like only the outer layers. They’ll come out. Seems like most spells bounced off your natural resistance. I don’t like that cloud he hit you with, and that vortex might have done weird things to your circulation. You’ll live.”

He patted Teriarch on the side. The Brass Dragon yelped and hissed at him.

“What? At least fish the shards out!”

“Don’t be a baby. Your skin pushes out pieces of metal or digests it. That’s the entire point of Brass Dragons. Eat a block of iron and two copper blocks for dinner. I need to check on your Lighting Dragon. I think the Halfling held back from doing damage to her brain, but you can’t tell with head-wounds.”

That shut Teriarch up, and he winced as he shifted and felt said metal shards digging into his skin.

“It’ll take ages to heal.”

“Suck it up. You’re the idiot who forgot you could summon killer Halflings from space.”

Teriarch limped after Taletevirion, and he really wasn’t hamming it up. He rasped, a bit triumphant.

“I knew it was for a reason. I knew I was cautious, but I didn’t know why, you see? I actually met him three times. The first was when I was a little hatchling and some Dragonlords decided to talk to us about the past. He came down and killed the old Dragonlord of Storms.”

“Third offense?”

“No…I think not? Maybe he mellowed out? Or maybe the attack matches the transgression? It certainly explains why I decided to drip-feed information to all my acquaintances over the years.”

The Unicorn rolled his eyes.

“Absolutely. No self-reflection needed on any other part. Listen, Teriarch, I’m not part of this little war.”

“Oh come on. You just saw—”

The Unicorn spun and jabbed Teriarch in the foreclaw. His eyes flashed.

“I’m not part of it! You heard my oath, and no, that’s not ‘new’, that’s older than I am! I’m not fighting Halflings, I’m not healing armies, I’m going back north to the forest after this.”

“You don’t mean that. You know Tolveilouka is here, and I’ve explained the odds.”

Teriarch replied quietly. Taletevirion avoided his gaze.

“Not my war. Those six whatevers weren’t there when my forests burned, on either side. My war is lost and dead, and I’m damned tired. Now, if you want to salvage this donkey dung day, you can have a chat with the young women you’ve let down and be honest about other things.”

He meant Magnolia and Rafaema, but Teriarch’s mind flashed towards the Goblin. Groaning, he felt at his side and realized he was leaking blood on the ground. Blood. Him. Even Rhisveri hadn’t done nearly as much damage.

He’d have to take off his exercise program for at least a week, and that actually didn’t feel as good as he thought it would. Teriarch was limping over to Magnolia to tender some kind of explanation and realized she was purring into a speaking stone.

“—Nonsense, Bethal. Has Thomast left you yet? Or your sister turned into a pile of reanimated bones? Don’t scream at me. That’s not a threat. We’re long past threats. I was simply asking if you had any proof your dear patroness was real. It seems she’s abandoned you, for all your little shrines.”

Magnolia listened with a half-smile on her face as a tinny voice snapped back from the speaking stone. She interrupted.

“—Bethal, you’ve always been prone to imagination. Clearly, you have nothing between you and my people but the Terlands. Oh, and loyal Thomast. Tell him to work on his deflecting projectile training. How many can he do at once? Eighteen? And do have fun with your new mistress. You’re serving her so loyally, I’m sure another hundred thousand Draugr will appear in a month’s time.”

She held the stone away from her ear.

“What threat? Good night, Bethal. And do remember me to your sister. I recall her sacrifice. A true heroine of the Sacrifice of Roses. I can’t imagine how she feels to be sharing a roof with a traitor, but—”

She didn’t wait for the explosion of words; Magnolia just handed the speaking stone to Reynold, who put it under a pillow and carried it away. Teriarch stared at Magnolia as she turned innocently to him.

“…Are you trying to weaponize that Halfling? Are you insane?”

Even for her, that was crazy. Magnolia smiled sweetly.

“Me? Never. I’m just encouraging Bethal to do what she does best. Which is raise the stakes. Come now, Teriarch, we’ve been handed an asset that I have to believe is slightly on our side.”

“He threatened to kill me if I tell the truth a third time.”

“So there are rules. Let’s drop him onto Roshal and see what happens. Everything you ever told me about Halflings led me to believe they were no worse a people than any other, and quite kindhearted at times. I can’t imagine an ally of the original Elves would be morally corrupt. What might he do if he ran into the lovely Naga or his new friends?”

—She had a good point. Teriarch had a muzzy feeling that Dragons had tried to weaponize the Halfling on each other, however few had ever known the truth, even in the past, and it had backfired in their faces. He didn’t base that off any exact memories, just a hunch about his kind.

“That one isn’t playing games, and frankly, if he were entirely on ‘our’ side, I’d have expected him at the Solstice, Magnolia.”

She frowned.

“True. I wonder why he didn’t appear for the genuine article.”

“Maybe he can’t harm them?”

Ressa was resting, having just had her ribs repaired by Taletevirion. Magnolia and Teriarch gave the [Assassin] such a look of surprise that the woman grimaced as Ressga adjusted some pillows for her.

“Don’t look at me like that. You saw the three-in-one at the Solstice. Blades did spit to her, and even that Faerie-Knight barely put up a fight. How d’you kill an army you can’t beat? You starve it to death, even if it means burning every field in a hundred miles.”

Wonderful thought. Teriarch rubbed at his brows. He needed to lie down, count how many artifacts he’d lost, and—

He felt the tremor before he heard it. The Dragonlord spun as the High Passes shook—the second time today.

“Oh no. Did Bethal already—?”

Magnolia looked up with everyone else, and Teriarch’s heart beat wildly, but the tremor wasn’t as strong as last time. It was more localized and—he realized—

It was coming from below. That mountain, there. He narrowed his eyes at what he thought might be…

“Trolkedruleth. Has something happened in the mountain?”

Magnolia’s brows shot up in instant alarm. She swayed slightly, bracing against one of Teriarch’s legs as he tried to cast scanning spells, but of course, there was so much magicore and other types of stone that it was virtually impossible to see down that far without preparation. He exhaled.

“I’m sure it’s nothing. And even if it is—something, it is doubtless a matter for the Trolls, who still hold the kingdom.”

He tried to sound reassuring as Ressga, Ressa, Magnolia, Taletevirion, and even a bleary Rafaema all turned to give him a skeptical look. Teriarch paused and cleared his throat.

“It couldn’t be anything serious. There’s nothing down there worse than what might come from the tops of the High Passes, frankly. And even then—no…well, there are the doors. But I’m sure that they’d never be breached—real Dwarves made them, you know. And even if there were remnants from the old Wars of the Deeps…”

He swallowed hard. Then gave everyone a confident smile.

“Bah, what are we talking about? Let’s get patched up and have some tea.”

He was sure, positive, that there was nothing to worry about. Teriarch began to chivvy everyone towards his cave, then decided it was a mess and that Magnolia’s temporary mansion was better. He was herding them into her carriage, trying not to favor his left side too much, trying not to think about old crimes and weapons of war that might survive about twenty-four thousand years of strife.

Not today. His scales were shredded. Vector points for his weaker flesh to be struck. Even a Gold-rank adventurer of the modern age could wound him if they got past his scales. But it wasn’t going to be a problem. He’d eat a damn bucket of copper ore and heal up in a week or two. Teriarch gritted his teeth.

Nothing’s wrong. Everything is going to be fine.

Even he didn’t believe that one.

 

——

 

A man returned to the moon. That was a good way of looking at him.

The man on the moon. It said everything, really. All anyone needed to know.

Very few had ever met him. He wasn’t really…there most of the time.

The Elves were not so cruel as to make him sit for eternity, alone, with naught to brood on but the past and his unending task. When he was not needed, he vanished and was only alive in the thrum of power in their work, in magic itself, and he neither dreamed nor felt time pass.

When he awoke, he knew his job. The execution of it was like a riddle.

Not the fighting. He was like a bigtall on top of the rumble mound with a stick, all his foes younguns trying to knock him down. He’d fought everything before.

Dragons. Djinni. Armies.

Yes, even Gods. Though he knew his odds against one of them in the flesh.

Three chances for those who offended. Or only one. Sometimes, none.

The riddle was the context of where he appeared. Was it a sneering conclave of Dragons? Someone inadvertently trying to create what should be forgotten? Always, it had to be grand in scope.

Something that would truly upset the work of the Elves. That was the prerequisite; if you were careful, you would never meet him. But that old Dragon…

Even for the man on the moon, it had been a long time. That old Dragon knew the truth, so he was watched, held to a higher level of scrutiny by whatever judgment the Elves had made. He, like anyone else who was timeless, should let the matter rest.

What had the woman said? The Halfling relaxed as he felt himself drifting away. In the time before respite took him, he understood.

They’re coming back. The Elves had feared that too. She’d asked him for help, called him to battle, but she couldn’t understand the plan. He was no avenging warrior to slay them if they did return. He was a warrior with a slingstaff.

He’d seen the war when it had been truly made and watched beings stand, miles tall, and slaughter Giants like gnats. Watched the heavens themselves rip asunder as beings wrestled and fought in conflicts he could barely bear witness to. Moons shattering. Pieces of the world torn asunder by the final blows.

He was a single sentry with one mission: to stop the moments when the truth was shouted across the world. And he could tell…

The end was coming. There was a fraying in the spells binding him. A strain in the air.

The man on the moon sat and fished out a pipe, even if it was just a memory of what he’d owned, and puffed on it. Smoke rose, trailing around in odd patterns in the low atmosphere of the moon, and the Halfling sighed.

This, too, was fine. The Gnomes had told him no plan would ever be complete, even when he volunteered.

It was enough to see the ages pass by. Though it hurt.

Man on the moon, they called him. Not all of them. The few beings who’d ever made it up this far had known his name.

The Moon Halfling, said the staring Lizardfolk who tried to get his attention.

Unwise, arrogant [Mages] who tried to claim this place had called him the Guardian of the Eyes of Heaven, but known his species, even brought one of his kind to ‘reason’ with him.

The man on the moon had begun later. When a begging voice from the world below called up to him. When magic itself was dead and only he remained, for the Elves had a mastery of it that had weathered that dark night.

A staring Void Dragon, weary, who asked what and who he was.

Man on the moon. So that was how he knew his people were gone.

Puffing softly on the pipe, the Halfling vanished and wondered when he would appear, land, and meet his match. Then, he was sure, he’d laugh and whoop and cheer as he met his long-awaited end.

It would be a glorious day, and he felt only a day had passed since he said farewell to the world he knew. A day of strange battles and sadness and heartache and decisions and death, but only a day; he could do this another year if he must. But he’d be happy when it ended and he met his match, whomever or whenever it would be.

For then, he’d know they were ready to discover the truth.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

Today, I am pleased to announce publicly a long-secret project: the fashion line that you can buy now, in limited quantities!

I already wrote a post for Patreons so they could order early, but I’d like to just say…I’ve kept this secret under my hat for over a year at least. Probably two? Doing stuff like this is hard (and I didn’t even do any designing except for asking for the Hammerad pants), and you just can’t talk about big projects until they come out.

I’m super happy with the products and ordered a ton for myself, and I hope you like it too. I won’t write on too long except to say that I like working with experts like Alexander. I like making new and creative things.

And I’m grateful for the support from all of you that makes this kind of thing happen. It’s quality stuff from a factory that does high-end streetwear, and if I ever see someone wearing it in the wild world, I’ll be delighted and probably too shy to come up to you. If you see someone else wearing it, just assume it’s me and don’t be weird.

Aside from that…oh yeah, the chapter.

This is going to be a month of events. I’ve been stressed about this chapter, and I am going to write off-stream and see what happens, but we have begun.

Some months are quiet. Some months matter. Go vote if you’re in Freedom Land, look out for new chapters that will be—something—and while you’re at it, subscribe to The Wandering Inn on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, uh…all the places.

And buy the merch. Or just read the chapter, but I hope something in all of this month will make you sit up and get your heart racing. We’ll see. November 2024. It’s gonna be big.

(If I’m wrong it’s only lame, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got good odds on something being correct about that statement.)

 

 

Stream Art: New Clothes by Artsynada! (It’s fashionable, I swear! My beta readers kept making fun of me. This is why I hired a [Fashion Designer]. I thought it was cool. Then someone drew it to show me what it looked like. It’s still cool. I’m going home.)

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Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/illudanajohns

 

Tales and Scales by Wing!

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Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/wingedhatch

Cara Art: https://cara.app/wingedhatchling/all

 

Rats by Chalyon! (For some reason they’re not bunnies.)

 

Apista and Duck Erin by XwriZ!

 

New Apista by Brack!

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Deferred Sustenance by BrazyaCanana!

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Deferred Sustenance by Bread!

 

Rats and Glorious Retreat by LeChatDemon!

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Stash with all the TWI related art: https://sta.sh/222s6jxhlt0

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/lechatdemon/

 

Glory and Halloween by Lore!

 

Magnolia, Baeris, Toren, and Gothica…as ducks…by Rocky!

 

Glory by Moerchen!

 

Sariants and Ressa by Jawjee!

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Pets, Mrsha the Usurper, and Glory by Fiore!

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