10.26 MM

She had no splendid words to say about the dead. No real scars to show. The girl named Mrsha du Marquin had no thousand-yard stare of someone who had lost everything or faced down armies until they or she broke.

If you asked her, she would readily admit, once she was done being silly, that she did not deserve such things. She had survived so much and been lucky, a hundred lifetimes worth of luck, to make it this far.

Many people had bled, died, and she’d borne witness to it as the bystander on the walls. The girl carried to safety.

So she had nothing, really, that made her obviously different from other children. Sometimes, for fun, she’d somersault down a hill a dozen times until she nearly threw up, or chase her friends around the streets, heedless of everything and everyone, lost in her own little world where bad things didn’t happen and you were young forever and adults were weird.

Every now and then, she’d sit in the garden, at a table in the inn, stand in the drizzling streets with water running off the umbrellas overhead, a half-eaten sandwich steaming in her paws, and just stop when her thoughts caught up with her.

The girl’s brown eyes would drift past whatever she was looking at and focus on something distant. Just over your shoulder, and you might see her face grow contemplative. Sad. Nostalgic. Happy. Bitter. She’d laugh, then come back to the world.

Take another bite of her sandwich and slurp up a piece of salami. Brush a few crumbs off her fur and check the menu to see if there was any chance she could get a slice of cake with lunch.

Few people noticed. Fewer still understood what those moments were. Grown men and women who had yet to bury anyone they knew well would think it a child’s stray attention. Even those who were older didn’t realize it—yet.

The late Tekshia Shivertail had seen it. Drakes and Gnolls sometimes gave the girl a second look when she stopped being the energetic child and sat there, staring out a window at the rain. Glancing around, rubbing at one eye, and smiling when someone distracted her. They were just, after all, passing moments. That was all the hints you had, really, to know that the dead walked with Mrsha.

Not aggressively. Not in her way or audible and visible like Numbtongue. They were just, after all, memories. A grumpy [Marksman] leaning against a window, the illusion of a half-Giant poking with a dismayed face at a too-small sandwich.

A Gnoll [Knight] in armor beaming in delight.

Then they were gone and you went about your day. Sometimes, it was a painful memory. But in time, they were just—there. People collected ghosts. The myth was that you’d ever reach a land where you never saw them. Even in the most peaceful paradise, filled with far green shores and glorious, restful days—even if you reached those lands, they’d just be there, waiting for you.

Making your peace with that wasn’t something you learned or had the fortitude to endure. It just happened as you lived through it.

So that sometimes—not always, not even often—was Mrsha du Marquin.

Today, she did not have that expression on her face. She was in that wide hallway that stretched forever.

Rags had gone. Dyeda and Rianchi were having a warm soup in the inn as the rain pattered down. Nanette was furious at her, and Lyonette was somewhere else.

She was, for a moment, alone.

A good time and place to lie flat on her back, her chest rising and falling like the bellows of Pelt’s forge, panting. Unable to breathe despite the lungfuls of air she inhaled and exhaled.

She couldn’t move. She was afraid.

How long Mrsha lay like that, she didn’t know. After an eternity of it, hours, she got up, fur covered in sweat, and leaned against a hallway. It was just one of those things that happened when you got older, she reckoned.

Panic attacks. Everyone talked about acne, growing pains, hair in more places, and your voice cracking. Next would be back pains and hemorrhoids. In Mrsha’s books, nothing fun happened when you grew up except that you got taller.

It was fine. She reckoned she deserved it.

After all, she was doing a bad thing. Not just one. She was going to do a terrible, bad, illegal thing.

She wasn’t sure who’d written the rules down that said you couldn’t, but she felt in her bones that someone would be unhappy. And she was going to do it anyways.

…Right?

She didn’t know, honestly. For once in her life, Mrsha didn’t know if she was doing the right thing. Wasn’t that the worst part of growing up? Life had been so simple.

 

Lism bad. Teasing Fetohep was fun! You deserve another french fry. Plain’s Eye were evil. Belavierr was evil. Pisces was good. I am a good person, or I try to be.

 

Then you got older and changed.

 

Lism is a pain in the tail, but he’s somehow better than the old Council. And Krshia likes him, which just means she has bad taste.

Fetohep never shows when he’s hurting, so you can hurt his feelings and he’ll never tell you when he’s upset or stressed. Even he can be stressed.

Plain’s Eye were Gnolls. They did evil things because they thought they were for the best. Even if they were terrible.

Belavierr still sucks.

Pisces is still good, but I worry about everyone worse than him making him a less-good Pisces.

I…am going to do what I believe in. Because I have a chance. I don’t know if anyone will forgive me. But that’s okay, because I know what I’m doing.

 

Did she? Mrsha got to her feet and looked around. She began to walk and came to that hallway of glass.

The Empress of Harpies was there, watching her. She walked along the vast mirror that reflected her, a bird of prey looming over Mrsha. Not menacingly—at least, Mrsha thought Sheta was trying not to be menacing. She was bad at it, but the intent was there.

Neither one said a word to each other. The Harpy had tried, but Mrsha had nothing to say. She slowly walked to that cracked door, scarred and damaged so badly that it barely looked like it was in one piece. Mrsha rested a paw against the wood, then reached up for the brass handle.

Her heart thudded in her chest, and she felt the panic rise until she could almost vomit it onto the floor, but she couldn’t lie on the ground forever. And…this was better than not knowing, asking the questions in her own head.

She slowly turned the knob, and with a creak, the door opened. The Harpy Queen bent her head, trying to see what Mrsha was doing. A single root, blooming with yellow flowers, trailed through the doorway. Mrsha gently took hold of the root and saw where it passed over the boundary of the door.

It passed from the smooth, grey marble flooring into the water. An ocean, black as night, and above it, unforgiving stars of every color. There was no sound but the creak of wood, the water moving.

And breathing.

Mrsha dared not glance up. She grasped the root and pulled herself through the door. One step, two—and she felt a barrier that should have been impenetrable to everything. Even dead gods. Even Tier 9 spells.

—But the roots gave her access. Mrsha hauled herself through the door and felt gravity reassert itself.

She splashed into the waters, deep and cold and wet. She swam up, abandoning the roots, and grabbed the one bit of non-water in sight. Mrsha pulled herself up onto the creaking raft, and she was still afraid to look up.

Only when she heard a cracked, weary, familiar sigh and a chuckle that came from lungs so damaged they wheezed. A hand tried to help Mrsha steady herself—but it was too weak, and Mrsha scrambled onto the raft. Water ran from her fur, and someone spoke. A young woman who sounded old as time.

“You’re back again.”

Erin Solstice lay on the little raft of wood as water slopped around the burnt remnant of a ship. She was spread-eagled, staring at the sky. Her clothes were mostly burnt off her body; parts were fused to her skin.

She wasn’t bleeding anymore. But the little girl hesitated as she stood. She extended a hand and halted, because what could she do?

Pick up the wounded [Innkeeper]? What part of her wasn’t damaged? Even her hair was discolored, falling out. When Erin Solstice spoke, her voice rasped low, and she coughed sporadically.

“It—feels like just a minute passed. How long was it for you?”

Mrsha had to fish in her wet bag of holding for paper and quill, and she held the notecard over Erin’s face, angling it so the [Innkeeper] could see. Erin squinted and tried to raise her head.

“Days? Really. I guess that’s how it works. If I’m fake…is it time?”

Yeah. I think so. Hi, Erin. I brought you some stuff. Here’s a pain-relieving potion. And I got bandages.

Mrsha awkwardly put a potion on the raft. Erin didn’t reach for it. The bandages nearly fluttered away in the sea air.

They were in the middle of the ocean, so far from land or anything else that it looked like a purgatory, a sea with no beginning nor end. Just the lifeless waters, the raft, the stars, and the [Innkeeper].

She seemed like she was dying. Erin Solstice lay there, and Mrsha wondered if it was because Silvenia hadn’t turned her small in this future. Or…was this how Erin had looked? Did she still look like this?

Mrsha’s paws trembled as she tried to wind the bandages around some bloody, healing gashes, but Erin just shook her head weakly.

“Don’t bother. I don’t need a potion. I’m not real.”

But it’s just a potion.

“I deserve this. I’ll live. You said it yourself, remember? Erin lived through this. The real Erin. So will I.”

She moved away from Mrsha’s paws, or tried, and because the girl didn’t want to agitate the young woman, she stopped. Mrsha sat there, dripping water, and began to write.

Rags is going to fight the Titan. I’m afraid. I’ve gotta make my choice today, but I needed someone to talk to. I’m sorry.

“For what? I’m glad…it gets boring lying here and eating honey. And if I’m not real, then—”

Erin raised one hand and stared at the skin that had been sloughing off her arm.

“Well, I dunno about asking me about making good choices. But I’ll talk. Of course I will.”

Mrsha avoided glancing at Erin’s arms, focusing on her writing, but she didn’t know what to write this time. This was…the second time she’d visited.

Erin.

The [Innkeeper] was right here. The salt stained Mrsha’s fur. If she reached out, she could touch the [Innkeeper], but it would hurt Erin, so Mrsha didn’t. She felt the wetness on her fur. She knew that if she were to cut herself here or take…a piece of the raft, she’d be able to carry it back through the door.

The cake proved that. So here they were.

Here they were.

Erin seemed to sense Mrsha’s turmoil and cast about, eventually rasping a question.

“How’d Elia Arcsinger take the Palace? You…didn’t you mention her? That’s really strange. Hah. Hahaha.”

She giggled before bursting into a weak coughing fit, and Mrsha desperately offered Erin some water. The [Innkeeper] sipped that, and Mrsha wrote.

She’s okay. She’s staying. I tried to open the door that showed me what a Goblin King was like, with Rags, but it didn’t show anything.

“Really? Damn. I kinda wanted to know. If you find out, can you come back and…? No. Nevermind.”

Silence fell as Erin closed her eyes. Mrsha sat there.

This was the Erin Solstice who had survived the war at sea. The [Innkeeper] as she lay upon a raft—not shrunk down by the Death of Magic—an Erin that Mrsha could talk to. The one who had made her choice.

Mrsha felt guilty bothering this dying woman. But she had to. Of all the beings in this or any other world…

Erin understood.

“Which door? You said there were a few you bookmarked. They’re like the real world, right? Even if I don’t remember these…faeries…or those dead gods, I remember enough.”

A flash of hazel. Mrsha shivered as Erin’s head rose slightly.

“Five left. I don’t even know their names. I don’t even remember what I fought at the Solstice, because I’m fake. One…I hurt…her?”

Yeah, her.

Erin visibly had to count, to think.

“One was…thrown somewhere. Two escaped. One—one I don’t know about. One’s gone. The Gnomes got him. I remember that. Five. Be careful, Mrsha. That’s my—Erin’s job. Ryoko’s. Not yours.”

I know. I told Elia, even.

“Good. Good…so which doors, again? Can—can I have another sip of water?”

Mrsha gave Erin more water, then even some oatmeal she’d smuggled out of the kitchens. Nothing else; Erin couldn’t eat anything more complex, and she barely had an appetite. The girl held cards up for Erin to read, wishing she could speak. Erin’s eyes opened and closed, bloodshot, her face covered with soot. Mrsha tried to rub it away, but then stopped when she saw Erin wincing and realized her skin was coming with the towel.

There’s one door where everyone’s having a Christmas party. Nothing bad on the Solstice. All the Redfang Five are there. And I guess there’s one in the future. I wanted to know what happened if you never woke up.

“Anything cool?”

Lotsa sad stuff.

“And some cool stuff. I bet. You must be…older in that one.”

Yes.

Erin’s gaze was roaming the sky. She whispered.

“Sounds good. You didn’t manage to see what happened with the Goblin King. Why?”

It’s all black. Like a black screen’s in the way.

“Huh. I wonder if that’s because it makes sense to us to see it that way. Or…okay. Okay. So are you going to do it?”

I don’t know. I’m afraid, Erin. Now I don’t know if I want to. If it’s right, let alone what will happen. Is that silly?

Mrsha confessed, and Erin smiled.

“No. If you were certain, I’d be concerned. Things…things like this should scare you.”

Then should I not?

Erin closed her eyes and breathed in, out. Something made a gurgling sound in her stomach. Which Mrsha might have thought was hunger, but it sounded—wrong. Erin shifted, belched something that smelled acidic and sooty, and exhaled.

“How much danger did you say Rags was in?”

Lots. I can help. Maybe. But what happens if I mess up? Even if I do it all perfect—what happens, Erin? What are the consequences?

Mrsha underlined that last part, and Erin Solstice had no answer. Her eyes were opening and closing. She was exhausted, but she murmured.

“When I was in Liscor, after Skinner, I think. Or maybe before that? I don’t remember…I realized something, Mrsha. You can break any rule in the world. If it matters. You can do anything you want, of course, but you can make things happen.”

She closed one eye and fixed the other one on Mrsha.

“I realized it when I was talking with my guests. Pisces. Relc. Klbkch. Pawn…and I realized I could hurt their feelings. Or anyone’s, really. I could say or do something nasty. Or try and give them a boost. You can do that with anyone, if you know them. Duh.”

She took another coughing breath.

“But I realized I could just be an [Innkeeper] and serve them food—or I could do that. Meddle. Not in a bad way, but be on their side. I am on their side. And sometimes, I do things that I’m not allowed to do. Things that have consequences. If it matters, Mrsha, you can do anything. If you’re prepared to pay the cost. Do you understand?”

Mrsha gazed at the [Innkeeper], lying on the raft in the middle of the ocean, leaking burnt mana and covered in wounds.

Yes.

“It shouldn’t be you. Lyonette…let her do it. Ryoko, if she’s there. Or…show Ishkr.”

Erin mumbled. She was drifting off, trying to stay awake. Mrsha held a card up as Erin focused on it.

It has to be me. I can’t run from the responsibility. Thank you, Erin. I think you’re the best person in the world. I don’t want to be like you, though. I’m afraid of that.

A familiar smile twitched over Erin’s lips. She chuckled.

“Mrsha. Who wants to be like me? I’m not that cool.”

The Gnoll girl just wiped her eyes. They’d been running for a while. She gently bent over Erin and hugged her as carefully as she could.

You’re the coolest. I have to go. Thank you. I know what I have to do. I’m gonna close the door, okay?

Otherwise, time would flow on. And at least this Erin could rest. Mrsha fumbled in her bag of holding and pulled something out.

Here. Even if you don’t want the potion, take this.

Gently, she raised Erin’s head and put a pillow under it. The [Innkeeper] protested, but sighed as her head lay back. She was falling asleep as Mrsha searched around and slipped into the water. She’d tied a bit of orange cloth to the root on this side and anchored the raft to the cloth. Or else it might drift away and she’d never…

“Mrsha.”

The girl turned as she pulled herself up and saw the door when she touched the root. Erin looked back at her.

“I regret my choice after all.”

She held Mrsha’s gaze with her eyes. Then Erin rasped.

“Even so. I would do it again.”

In silence, the girl continued pulling herself up the root and nodded. She hauled herself back into a hallway of marble and stone—and shut the door. Water trailed after her, and Mrsha looked back at the broken door. Not even the root was visible.

Thanks, Erin.

She put the card against the door, then lay there for a while. She was still petrified. But it was time. After a while, Mrsha got up.

“Child. Do you know what you are doing?”

A voice spoke from above her. Mrsha looked up at the figure of Empress Sheta, gazing imperiously down at Mrsha from the mirror. Mrsha held up a card.

Yes, I do.

The last Empress of Harpies blinked down at Mrsha. Then she dipped her head.

“Perhaps…you do. But I warn you. This Palace was never meant for what you intend. It will break your heart, and you shall regret it forever if you dare to do what I think you intend.”

Mrsha sat up. She rubbed at her face, then nodded. She wrote briefly before slapping a notecard against the mirror. The Harpy Queen had to bend down to stare at the sticky, wet note.

Maybe. But I’ll regret it forever if I don’t try.

She walked into the [Palace of Fates], towards the opening in the ceiling where sixteen roots dangled. Two were cut; Mrsha du Marquin walked with fear in her heart, uncertainty racing through her mind, doubt in her footsteps, water dripping from her fur.

At last, she thought she knew how Erin Solstice felt.

Mrsha hated getting old.

 

——

 

Dyeda munched on a bowl of spicy vegetable soup, perfect in the rain, and watched as Rianchi ate pork chops. Not just any pork chops, but pork chops seasoned in spices with brown sugar baked onto the edges. He was greedily sucking at pieces of fat.

This was real cooking. It wasn’t even Calescent’s finest work; he’d actually apologized on the basis that this was a ‘simple meal’ because so many [Necromancers] of Rheirgest were about so he couldn’t give them a deluxe meal.

For Goblins, this was better than anything they’d ever had, even former Mountain City Goblins like Dyeda. Now and then, someone had come back from a raid with Human food, but it was always banged about and a few days old. It was stolen, usually with blood as the price of the meal.

This was a good soup. Nice, crunchy vegetables, and hot in both ways. Dyeda wished life were like this soup. No armies coming to kill you, no super undead giants…

Why can’t everyone just leave us alone?

The thought passed by Dyeda, and she didn’t really engage with it. Every Goblin asked that at one point or another. Besides, she had a job.

Namely, to be here with a speaking stone tuned to Goblinhome, just in case something happened to Chieftain Rags. She and Rianchi were also here to ‘cover for Mrsha’, whatever that meant.

Dyeda had a realistic opinion of how well she’d be able to trick the [Princess] or [Knights] or even Ishkr if they noticed Mrsha missing and started asking questions. But she was going to do her best, because that was all she could do to help.

Actually, someone else was here on the side of the Flooded Waters tribe: Fightipilota. She was stacking pork chops on a plate with mustard, mayonnaise, relish, fish paste sauce, soy sauce, and ketchup between each one and now sawing down through the stack to create the largest and most dubiously sauced bite of meat in the world.

“That good idea. Maybe I—”

Dyeda glowered at Rianchi, and he sulked as she shot that idea down. Fightipilota moodily chomped on the pork chop massacre.

“Fighti, why are you here? I thought you took Chieftain Rags back home? What’s wrong?”

Dyeda called out, pitching her voice casually so as not to alarm anyone. She knew someone was watching her. There was this weird Drake with yellow-green scales that Rags had said was a spy; he sat in a corner, having a coffee and bagel, and seemed focused on the scrying mirror playing the news.

Fighti’s glower was answer enough.

“I took Chieftain back. Now I useless.”

“Ah.”

Fightipilota was a flier; zero help underground. She was a Redfang, but as a regular Goblin, she probably ranked low on who Redscar would take on a raid.

The presence of the spy made it hard to talk, even in Goblin, so Dyeda decided to just mess with the stupid Drake reporting to 2nd Army.

“Well, if we’re waiting here, you want to have a Goblin orgy? There are probably fourteen Goblins off-duty. Perfect for a small one.”

Rianchi nearly choked on his pork chop and gave Dyeda a look of betrayal until he remembered the spy. Fighti just glared at Dyeda, not in the mood for witty banter.

“No. I’m eating.”

With that addition to Goblins lore perplexing the minds of every non-Goblin who’d heard it, Dyeda went back to munching on her soup. After a while, she decided she couldn’t finish her bowl and picked it up.

“Come on, Rianchi. Let’s go.”

“To orgy?”

She glowered at him.

“To the garden.”

“Oh. Aw.”

Fighti grunted as she chewed on her meal. After a moment, she tapped her speaking stone. As she passed by the other two, she nodded at them.

“I’ll check on you if Chieftain says anything.”

“Got it.”

Heart pounding, nervous, Dyeda went to find the only other person who knew what was going on and might help. That’s what Rags had said—Mrsha knew something more, and Dyeda and Rianchi should put themselves under Mrsha’s command if anything went wrong.

Which was weird because Mrsha was a cute little girl, an actual child, but Dyeda could follow orders. Rianchi wheeled his bicycle after Dyeda as they went to the door that led them to the [Palace].

“Rianchi, stop it. Put it away.”

“Why? I can’t ride it in the rain or keep it in the inn.”

“Why not?”

“Someone might steal it. Is a very nice bike. Top of the line, from Kevin. I need a bike lock.”

Dyeda gave up, and Rianchi produced a toolkit to tinker with his beloved metal steed. Dyeda searched around carefully, but aside from a napping Apista, no one else was in the garden. So they slipped into the [Palace of Fates].

“Mrsha? It’s us! You want lunch? Lyonette and Nanette aren’t back yet! No word from Chieftain Rags!”

Dyeda cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted as they landed. The empty palace echoed with her voice, and she shivered. It was magnificent, and she got to play at being a proper [Queen] with Rianchi, but it was also creepy. Despite Mrsha’s assurances, sometimes Dyeda felt like someone was watching her.

“Mrsha? You there?”

No one responded. Well, duh, Mrsha was mute, but Dyeda heard no scrabbling of paws. She eyed Rianchi; he was busy removing a chain from his bicycle. Dyeda hesitated, then began to wander the palace.

“Mrsha? Where are you?”

 

——

 

There were five doors that Mrsha had found that she deemed…significant. Okay, more than five; many doors mattered, but these five hit her differently.

She observed each one in turn, again, procrastinating. Delaying her decision.

The first was the one with Erin. A door so broken and damaged that you didn’t realize it was the door to her [Garden of Sanctuary] until you saw the doorknob.

The second was the door that had first revealed the truth of the [Palace of Fates] to Mrsha; a door covered in twisting vines and a fancy carved relief, like a stained window, with Mrsha’s head on it, Lyonette, Apista, Nanette, Bird, Rabbiteater—

A tapestry of her life. A door for a true protagonist of this world; ironic, because that Mrsha had been…fake.

Fake, but real enough. Mrsha stared at the little stone she’d wedged in the door to keep it open. That one was one thing.

She didn’t bother opening that one or the other door that had brought this place home to her. That one had a simple note on it:

If Brunkr lived.

Mrsha avoided them. For now. The last two mattered to her differently. One was a door that showed her almost everything she wanted. Almost perfect, but not so perfect it was impossible.

The other was a door that showed her all that could have gone wrong.

Mrsha wasn’t sure which she feared most.

 

——

 

The first door was that of the [Garden of Sanctuary], but brighter. The wood had a polish to it; someone had rubbed the brass doorknob with oil. It looked like the door Mrsha knew so well, but better. She hated it. It was like it mocked her or was making a statement.

The second door was even more direct. It was frozen over, frost sticking to the smooth, worn wood. Yellow flowers and grass blooming around the ice. Not Faerie Flowers, but…

They stood next to each other in a hallway containing only a few doors, the ones that mattered. Mrsha supposed this was like a kind of organizational system for the [Palace].

Bookmark the doors that hurt you the most! She hoped the real Erin never came here.

What was the point?

…She had something looped over her arm, which she put down carefully. A bundle of rope at first glance. A few strands of long roots hacked off. She took a deep breath and seized the polished brass handle. When she threw open the door, Mrsha saw—

 

——

 

Scars.

It was as if he’d traded a scar for every disaster he averted. Which was why Headscratcher didn’t mind them. If anything, the Hobgoblin sometimes looked as if he’d have traded his life for a better future where a thousand fewer Gnolls had died at the Meeting of Tribes—where Tyrion Veltras had aborted his siege of Liscor an hour earlier.

[Goblin Lord of Sorrows]. The defining figure in The Wandering Inn, bar none. At least, to the concerns of nations.

A Goblin Lord who had forsworn war, so long as it was not made upon him and his tribe. They’d heard that one before, and the natural answer was to blast this ‘Goblinhome’ with Tier 5 spells until even Crelers couldn’t live in the remains.

Too bad Goblinhome was deep underground. And just as equally too bad that Headscratcher had taken a page out of history. Just like Velan the Kind, he had negotiated an alliance of sorts. Nothing so prosaic as a mutual defense pact; rather, a mutual non-aggression pact. That was a statement in itself.

The Forgotten Wing company, Liscor, Celum, Esthelm, Pallass, Invrisil and House Reinhart, and over sixty Gnoll tribes and counting had signed onto that treaty. He was in negotiations with Desonis and Ailendamus for treaties of the same, thanks to Ryoko’s contact with Duke Rhisveri and the Earl Altestiel, who considered Rabbiteater a great friend.

Calanfer was out. Even with Ser Solstice and Ser Boxhead’s—Shorthilt’s assumed name when he joined Rabbiteater—relationship with the crown, it wasn’t politic for Calanfer to make that move. Nor was Khelt likely.

His Majesty, Fetohep of Khelt, had some passing relationship with Kevin, even interacted with The Wandering Inn, but he was mostly annoyed by the uppity [Innkeeper] who kept trying to bully him into favors. If Fetohep of Khelt was impressed with anyone, it was the Horns of Hammerad, but they didn’t have the sway to get him to commit his isolationist kingdom to signing a treaty with Goblins.

 

—Oh yes. History had changed. The Meeting of Tribes had still happened. The Siege of Liscor had still occurred, but with twists. Only, Tyrion Veltras had aborted that final charge and withdrawn his forces.

Instead of Khelt sailing to the aid of the Gnolls, it had been the Flooded Waters tribe as well as a certain [Innkeeper] and the Titan of Baleros who’d taken the side of the Gnolls.

The main change, aside from the presence of all five of the original Redfangs, was that Erin Solstice had never died when Hectval attacked the inn. Instead, Headscratcher had taken half a dozen crossbow bolts to the torso. He still had the rounded weals on his chest.

His brothers had joined the war on Hectval. Erin Solstice had helped find and rescue the Titan of Baleros, much to his embarrassment, and they had all gone after Mrsha when she had been kidnapped by Wer the Wanderer for her ‘protection’.

There were no dead gods, no machinations of the faeries. Everyone was expecting a convivial Christmas for once, and Tyrion Veltras had a tan from the beach.

 

Headscratcher, though, was still depressed.

It was kind of his thing. The emotional former [Berserker] disliked leading the Flooded Waters tribe. It was hard. Even with the beach in full swing and people encouraging him to get drunk, hit the waters, and enjoy everyone being in the inn, he was sad.

So many dead Gnolls. The Wild Wastes tribe especially distressed him. They’d taken him in after he got separated from the others, and he’d spent two months in their company. They were like his people. Not savages, but savagely free, willing to weep and cry and rage and full of traditions that he had envied and learned from.

His very armor was an old fur set that had belonged to an older Chieftain of theirs, gifted to him after he had gone north to rally the Flooded Waters tribe to their aid. These days, he was the feared Goblin Lord; people sent him messages all the time. Goblins asked for his aid.

The next Velan the Kind, they said. Headscratcher sat, unhappy despite Erin’s best attempts to cheer him up. She was unfortunately very busy. For one thing, the Titan refused to leave the inn. Earl Altestiel had actually made plans to visit the inn because of the ‘competition’.

Headscratcher had the incredible urge to throw them both into the snow, but he needed their support. He was, at least, looking forwards to Christmas.

He was Erin’s Secret Santa, and he’d bought her a hot spring. It was halfway finished; Hexel had made the room, and they were going to pick it up and set it down next to the inn in the middle of the night. It wasn’t a real hot spring; it heated and purified hot water, but hot tub sounded…bad.

That was fun. That was good. Headscratcher wasn’t looking forwards to the gifts; he didn’t care about what he got that much, and to be frank, he’d also been told by Lyonette that his Secret Santa was Mrsha.

Headscratcher was sure he’d get an edible cookie or something once Mrsha remembered to do her shopping. The little rascal was too busy playing with her new best friend, Nanette. He didn’t mind. Children should be like that.

Speaking of which, there would be even more visitors to The Wandering Inn for Christmas! Perorn Fleethoof was riding north to grab Niers and get him back to Baleros. Not to mention at least one more visitor from Baleros should be arriving any day now…

Frankly, she was late. Niers kept popping in and out of the inn with his stupid Skill that let him teleport across the world and back; he’d teach a class in the mornings and be here at lunch to play chess with Erin. A Fraerling-sized teleport didn’t make his Skill recharge at all.

But Rags, former Chieftain of the Flooded Waters tribe and the latest and youngest student of Niers Astoragon’s special [Strategist] class, was the guest everyone wanted to see.

Not just student, but [Student]. No longer [Chieftain], either. She’d given it up. Rags was now enrolled in the Titan’s academy at Elvallian, and she’d gotten her first ‘C-’ two weeks ago in mounted combat.

…Headscratcher had no idea what that meant, but whenever he called Rags with Erin’s theatre, she was always complaining about someone—usually Venaz or Marian, whom she had rivalries with—describing some new battle tactic, hinting he could ‘test’ some of her new tactics for her, or just…chatting about the places she saw and the people she met.

Strange. He thought she sounded younger than the world-weary Chieftain that Garen Redfang had sent him to sabotage ages ago. She was getting to be a young Goblin again. Going to school, getting drunk, learning how to strategize. Someday, she’d graduate, but for now, the Goblin Lord was glad she was gone.

He was old, he realized. He knew he looked bigger; he was becoming his class. Strong. So strong he was afraid of it.

Will I become Velan the Kind? Who am I now?

Headscratcher stared at his hands as Erin Solstice came out with a tray of milkshakes.

“Headscratcher, are you doing your sad thing again? All my depression flames are freezing. Come on, cheer up, big guy! Tell you what—let’s open up another of my gardens, hey? Somewhere Goblin-only. Somewhere cool. But not the frozen garden, that place is too cool.”

She gave him a wink and a grin, and the Goblin Lord sat up and curved his lips higher. He rose, sighing, and a weight around him actually made chairs un-creak as he stood. He searched around for Shorthilt, who had his girlfriend, Pekona.

Or Badarrow, who was engaged to Snapjaw.

Or Numbtongue and his multiple partners.

Or Rabbiteater, who was going to escort Princess Seraphel here, and wait a second…

Maybe his problem was that he needed to pursue love? Headscratcher scratched his head. He glanced at Erin, sighed, slapped his cheeks, and—

 

——

 

Mrsha recoiled from the door and rubbed at her eyes. As always, the other door sucked her in, a living narrative that let her experience a lot of things, including Headscratcher’s emotions like her own.

It also emphasized the changes from her timeline to this one; mainly, it was the Redfang Five.

Brunkr was still dead. Califor had still been murdered by Belavierr. However, Headscratcher and Shorthilt had lived, and it made such a difference.

For one thing—she stumbled away, clutching at her heart, as more memories assailed her.

In that timeline, Maviola El was still dead. But she’d passed away peacefully after the battle at Hectval, in Olesm’s arms.

In that play of fates, Torishi Weatherfur was still alive. Nokha, that monster, had been beheaded by Torishi in the open. Belavierr had fled the Goblin Lord when he found his class.

Good things. So many good things. Altestiel was alive. Kevin was alive. Halrac, Moore—

It hurt. Mrsha pressed her paws to her chest. This was the door. She was certain. There were other timelines, but this one was so close.

So close. But she had to step away a second and lean, panting, on a wall.

There was a second, selfish reason for her picking this door: it was Mrsha. The other Mrsha was fully a brat. If anything, she seemed worse after the Meeting of Tribes. She was rolling around, using her luck powers to annoy the other guests. She was a [Lucky Child], a mischievous girl chased around by Ser Dalimont, Sest, Lormel, and Ushar.

Ser Sest! And Ser Lormel without the missing arm.

Mrsha backed away towards the door covered in ice. She was drawn to this one for reasons of fascination as well. But less desire so much as a terrible, macabre interest. The note on this door, stuck to the ice, read:

 

If Erin never woke up.

 

Mrsha knew she was falling into the trap of the [Palace of Fates]. Looking at what might be, what could be, when there was a reality that mattered that she was missing out on.

But she had that question every child had. The question anyone growing up wanted to know—anyone at any time in their lives wanted to know, really.

What happens next? What could I be?

Mrsha’s paw rested on the doorknob, and she wavered. This one—hurt. But more than the sight of a damaged Erin lying on a raft? More than anything else?

Mrsha pulled the door open, and she saw that frozen bier. And then—

 

——

 

The inn had not markedly changed, even a decade later. It was the only thing that hadn’t changed, really.

After all the trials Liscor had been through, all the danger and the wars, after the dungeon—the city was indescribably different from the humble place it had been. The inn was in the shadow of the walls most of the day, and the outer towns hemmed it in, a lone building on a hill surrounded by glowing groups of light at night.

There had been petitions to have it relocated, or at least let other people build next to it; the building was on prime real estate. However, the Council had voted the measure down year after year.

People accused the Council of nepotism, which just went to show they didn’t really understand what ‘nepotism’ meant because no one on the Council was related to the owners of The Wandering Inn.

Selys Shivertail, Krshia Silverfang, Lism Swifttail, Elirr Fultpar, and so on were all friends of the inn. The inn mattered.

Ask anyone in Liscor and they’d tell you the story. A different time? No, the inn still had good business…well, it had business…

Well, it was standing, and the magical doors were where the money was. The inn was doing fine. It just wasn’t an inn.

It was the resting place of an [Innkeeper]. She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t dead. She just…wasn’t waking up.

Someone left the City of Liscor, sliding out the main gates and ignoring the shouts from the annoyed [Guards] as she went. A sheet of thin ice covered the grass and let the figure slide, rather than run or walk, towards her destination. When she got to the first hill, she jogged up it, did a frontflip at the top for the heck of it, and then kicked off it.

She vanished and reappeared in a blur of motion, soaring, and landed on the next hill before kicking again into the air in a shower of dust and dirt. It was a fluid, graceful motion. Very well-practiced. An evolution of the [Flash Step] spell pioneered by the Horns of Hammerad themselves.

The figure caught herself on the top of the last hill before The Wandering Inn, and rather than leap to it, she took her time, strolling down the incline and up the grassy slope. The endemic rains that plagued Liscor were over, and they had led to a bloom of flowers in the summer.

It was a warm day. A long day. Not the longest of days, but the young Gnoll woman still shaded her eyes as she stared up towards the inn. Her brown fur ruffled in the air as she activated a cooling spell.

She was reading a newspaper of all things. The headline read:

 

Hectval-Luldem-Drisshia Alliance formally surrenders to General Swifttail. War finally at end.

 

The young woman wasn’t particularly tall for a Gnoll; she was just under six feet, and she wore adventurer’s gear. Wild, natural armor dyed green, blooming with miniature brambles and flowers on the shoulderguards, a wand on one side, a sword on the other.

She looked like some kind of swashbuckler, except that she was clearly more on the magical side of things; a floating scroll hovered with her, along with a quill. She also had what seemed to be a personal [Light] spell drifting around her head at all times.

She was less happy about that, though, and swatted at the glowing orb whenever she noticed it. It would flicker when her paws touched it, but refused to go away.

The young woman strode up to the door and stopped, for a moment, regarding a faded sign, mossy and overgrown, but still planted in the ground.

‘No Killing Goblins’.

It had been broken—multiple times, but repaired and replanted, even if…well. Even if it hadn’t done much good.

The inn itself had just as much wear to it. Despite the best efforts of the owner, it had deteriorated a bit. The glass was a bit opaque from too much scrubbing, not all the wood matched; places where it had been repaired just seemed off when you focused too long on the shade of the wood.

Still. The young Gnoll woman sighed as she walked past the sign. She put a paw to the door and called out.

“Hey, M—”

She slammed into the door and recoiled, holding her nose and cursing. The Gnoll stumbled around in a circle, and her words and expletives came out slightly—oddly.

If this was the first time you’d met her, you’d notice that the young woman’s mouth and the words she spoke didn’t quite…sync up right. She’d say something and you’d hear it a beat too slow, a disconcerting effect.

Also, the words came from the wrong place; instead of her mouth, they came from a collar around her neck with a bright blue stone set in the middle of it. In fact, whenever she spoke, you might see that floating quill scribble rapidly on the scroll—then hear words in her ‘voice’.

It was a trick so second-nature to her that she barely noticed, and most people who stared just hadn’t met her before. The young woman cursed, punched the door, and growled.

“Dead gods darn it. [Unlock]!”

The door clicked, and she yanked it open and stormed inside. The inn was dark and quiet; she walked down the long hallway alone, and indeed, it was entirely quiet.

No guards in the secret hallway.

No guests upstairs or in the common room. It wasn’t dark; [Light] spells had been hung around and provided a steady glow, but it was just empty. No one came here these days. No one wanted to come here. It was too sad. Too much a reminder of their failures.

But today was different. The young Gnoll woman knew it. For one thing—it was her birthday. For another, the Summer Solstice was coming up, and she’d invited everyone to return. Just to see them again.

She hucked the newspaper onto the first table she saw, batted at the floating light above her head, and called out.

“Mom? I’m baaaaack. Guess who made Silver-rank? It should have been Gold, but Selys said I ‘failed the cut’. Anyone want to explain that? How many Silver-ranks can toss a [Siege Fireball] in under ten seconds?”

She was mad; the door hadn’t helped, and she kicked around the inn, peering into the kitchen, jogging over to shout upstairs, before narrowing her eyes.

“Mom! If you’re having sex with Pawn again, I’m going to [Cleanse] this entire inn from top to bottom!”

Mrsha Marquin Solstice, daughter of Lyonette Solstice, searched around The Wandering Inn before stomping her foot. She narrowed her eyes as she cast a spell.

“[Tremor].”

The inn shook slightly. Mrsha glanced around, then her ears perked up. She heard a muffled shout—voices—and then groaned as, after a few seconds, the door to the basement opened.

“Mrsha. Welcome back, sweety! I was just checking on the supplies in the basement. I’ll be up in one second.”

Mrsha covered her nose with a paw and shouted back.

“Yeah, sure. Hi, Pawn.”

“Hello, Mrsha. Did you pass your adventurer exams to your satisfaction?”

A rather unrepentant Antinium emerged from the basement. Mrsha gave Pawn a withering look as the Antinium’s glow preceded him. He carried a censer that gleamed with flames and smelled of cinnamon. He was adorned in multi-colored robes, vibrant and colorful and usually bright blue or green to evoke the sky or world above. But the glow came from, well, his nimbus of light.

The [Bishop] smiled at Mrsha, whose narrowed eyes and folded arms were also accompanied by her backing up several steps.

“Hey, Pawn. Can you stop coming over here to visit Lyonette? Or at least do it in the Hive or something? Aren’t you [Priests] supposed to be above carnal relationships?”

His tone was pleasant, if slightly forced as he chuckled.

“I do not believe that is in the Book of Erin.”

Mrsha’s twitch made Pawn change the subject at once.

“—And you are now a proper adventurer.”

“Silver-rank.”

She spat it with a glare for the basement, and Pawn spread his four hands. He was about two inches taller than a Worker, despite never having reincarnated his body, and he had an odd presence, the light aura aside. It wasn’t really an aura. It was something else.

“This is very good for someone who’s never taken a request! Silver-rank is not what it meant in my day, Mrsha. Even the Horns started at Silver-rank.”

Mrsha was so annoyed she pulled out a pipe and inserted something into it. It lit, and she began to puff as she snapped back, raising her fingers.

“Firstly, you were never an adventurer. Second, we both know I place at Gold-rank. Moore trained me, as well as everyone else, and if he thinks I’m Gold, then he knows best.”

“Lord Moore is not the Guildmistress of Liscor, Mrsha. Also, I believe your mother has expressed her feelings about you smoking Dreamleaf indoors.”

“My mother expressed a lot of feelings towards Selys, which is why I’ve been placed at Silver so I can be babied for a few years! I don’t care. I’m placed, and other guilds can recertify me. I’m starting the team, just like I said. Also, would you get rid of your stupid blessing? I had to convince everyone I wasn’t cheating!”

Mrsha jabbed a finger up at the floating orb of light. Unlike a regular [Light] spell, it had a subtle gradient to the yellow-white glow. It was also somewhat tangible; when she swung a paw through it, it flickered like a candle.

“Mrsha, the blessing is for your protection. If you are set on becoming an adventurer, any aid is surely welcome.”

“I don’t need this.”

For emphasis, Mrsha pointed; the light ball changed, and the room brightened even further as a bright yellow halo burst to life over her head. Pawn tilted his head.

“It is a very good blessing. My best.”

“It looks stupid as Creler eggs, and I don’t want it. Dispel it!”

“Very well.”

He waved a hand, sighing, and the halo vanished. Mrsha nodded at him. Pawn studied her, then spoke.

“I really think you should take a few days to reconsider your plans, Mrsha. Some experience would help you level a bit before you took on a risky quest, much less—”

“Aha! I knew it! You want to saddle me with a bunch of idiot rookies in Selys’ pocket so you can keep me from curing Erin! You of all people, Pawn?”

Mrsha exploded in fury, and flames burst out of her pipe. Pawn didn’t react as she stormed up to him, but he did raise one hand.

“I did not object to that plan. Your mother may have differences of opinion. I would rather that you find the cure without a chance of failing.”

She glared at him and hesitated. The stalemate was broken as Lyonette, somewhat red-cheeked, fussing with her hair, appeared out of the basement. The first thing she went to do was kiss her daughter on the forehead, though she had to stand on tiptoes to do it.

“Congratulations, Mrsha! I’ll send word to Ryoko, Pisces, and—why, everyone at once! They should be coming, but they’ll want to congratulate you! And give you some presents and advice, no doubt. Silver-rank! How wonderful! I know you had your heart set on Gold-rank, but—”

Mrsha gave her mother a long, and annoyed, look.

“Wow, Mother, you have good ears to hear my rank before I told it to you. And you can skip sending anything to that woman. Or convincing me to wait around. I’m forming my team. Pisces swore he’d help. I’m going to look him up, or Revi, and even Ceria, if she can spare the mental energy to care about anything.”

Lyonette’s face fell. She gazed at Pawn, at Mrsha, and then clasped her hands together.

“Actually, I’ve invited all of them for the Solstice reunion, Mrsha. I am on your side, believe it or not. Which means I did invite Archmage Springwalker and House Veltras—”

“You did what? I don’t want to see her!”

A second explosion, and Mrsha’s eyes blazed. She stormed around the tables, and Lyonette hurried after her.

“Mrsha, you’ve got a white spot on the back of your neck. Didn’t you check the mirror? Pawn, where’s the fur dye? This is why I’m not happy with you going off! I know how much it matters, dear, but you’re not ready. Pisces couldn’t find a cure, and if he couldn’t—”

“I’m going to do it. Leave off, Mom. And I don’t want to see Ryoko.”

“She’s doing her best, Mrsha.”

“She can live with him in House Veltras for the rest of her life and have a dozen children. I wish her the best. She’s given up on Erin. Well, I haven’t. I waited, I trained—I’m going to bring her back. I swear it! I don’t care if I have to fight through a Named-rank dungeon, and I don’t care if it puts my name on the map. If I have to kill all of Plain’s Eye, I will. Don’t stop me.”

Mrsha clenched her paw and shook her fist at Lyonette. The [Princess] stared helplessly at Pawn, who held her shoulders gently. Mrsha had tears in her eyes. She turned away and stormed for a door that led into a garden. Up a hill. Towards a waiting bier covered in frost.

There, she stopped.

The bier hadn’t changed for ten years, but the tributes had. They were piled up around her. A spear, a frozen little doll, flowers and books, letters and artifacts. All failures. Mrsha halted suddenly, awkwardly, the flames of her anger gone out. She shuffled her feet as she walked forwards. Cleared her throat. Then spoke to the figure lying in the ice, the broken crossbow bolts still embedded in her flesh.

Still smiling.

“Erin? I’m sorry I took so long. I had a—well, it’s not the best birthday ever, but listen. I did it. Today’s the day. I’m going to do it, and I hope—”

She took a huge breath.

“I hope you give me your blessing. Just hang on, okay? Just give me a year and…”

She had maps. Clues to real healing artifacts, truly powerful magic. The remnants of the Forgotten Wing company had sent everything the Titan had to her when she was sixteen—his last legacy. Moore, Pisces, and other adventurers from the old days had pledged to help.

She had to try. Mrsha knelt by the bier, snuffling—

 

——

 

The real Mrsha jerked away. The pain in her chest had been building, building until she had to recoil or collapse. She lay on the ground, panting, not in another panic attack, but until the devastating grief, the desperation and loss, faded from her a bit.

It’s not real.

It could have been real.

In a way, it was surreal seeing a different Liscor like that, seeing herself—talk. Mrsha had witnessed her older self taking the Adventurer’s Guild test.

She could cast magic! Tier 4 spells, a number of them! Older Mrsha had Skills, a voice, and—

Brown fur. In this fate, terrible things had occurred. The Titan had never been found after he vanished one day.

The Meeting of Tribes had ended in a brief civil war where several Gnoll tribes died and Plain’s Eye emerged as the ruling tribe.

Goblins were no longer welcome around Liscor. The Horns of Hammerad had dissolved. Ten years later was a terrible time. Lyonette had even gotten together with Pawn. And yet…

They’re still there. They’re still alive. I’m fighting to try and save Erin.

That—that meant something. It was why Mrsha watched, it was why she had chosen this door as one to remember.

This Mrsha was like her. She…she’d probably do exactly what Mrsha was going to do and understand perfectly why it mattered.

Okay.

Mrsha lay on her back, wondering what was up with the Dreamleaf, though. The collar was sort of cool, especially if she could talk like that. The jump-kick trick was awesome.

The Dreamleaf was just stupid.

Enough wasting time, stupid. Do it. Do it.

She slapped herself on the face with the notecard, but she was still scared. Mrsha searched around, then wondered what time it was. She leapt up, ran to the garden entrance, and climbed up the rope to see—

Barely half an hour had passed. Phew.

Mrsha slid down the ropes, wiping at her brow. One of the problems with the [Palace of Fates] was that time lost all meaning when you stared into the doors, let alone…went through them.

If I’m gone, Dalimont will notice the moment he gets back and Elia says she never saw me. He’s not entirely stupid, and Mother’s clever. They might find out, especially if Rianchi and Dyeda give up the beans.

The two Goblins versus a Thronebearer’s insight was not a bet Mrsha wanted to take. She wondered if she could bring a clock of some kind with her? Then again, would it even work? A spell would probably mess up instantly…

She was still procrastinating, she knew. Mrsha walked back to the hallway and picked up a root. Technically, she didn’t need it. The root connected to the Redfang door was still attached.

Go in, out, and just—just do it! Mrsha slapped herself on the cheeks. She strode over to the other door, bag of holding at her side, wand in its holster, ready to go.

—She stopped by the slightly-ajar door with the carved image of her own face on it. Mrsha peered at it a second, then cracked it open slightly. She’d left the door ajar because time seemed to stop or things just…ceased to exist when the doors closed.

She didn’t know. It was just a kind of instinct, a—well, a not-mercy for the Mrsha who’d gotten to realize she was the fake one. Mrsha hesitated, then opened the door a bit more.

Curiosity was a terrible thing.

This [Palace of Fates] was a horrible place…because you got to indulge it without limit. And what Mrsha saw was…

 

——

 

A girl was curled up in front of the door. She had white fur, though her fur here was stained brown in places and ragged. She was thin. Her paws were a mess, and she was—

There.

Right there. Sleeping in the hallway of the palace in another world. In a bed of fur and grass and—

The real Mrsha stared. She gazed upon a [Last Survivor], Level 17.

Four levels had gone by since the other Mrsha tumbled down here. Four levels—for a girl who had no way to leave this place. No food nor shelter nor tools.

Only a bag of cookies long gone. Water from the palace.

And the knowledge that there was no way out. That she was fake and stuck—and that sliver of a half-open door.

Whatever this other Mrsha had gone through, it wasn’t shown. Not visibly on her. She was thinner. She was dirty. Dirty, the real Mrsha realized, from digging.

Digging up. The hole in the palace was vastly expanded; dirt covered the floor, and Mrsha realized the younger her had done the only thing that she could to survive. She was lying next to an impromptu garden.

Did she even have any seeds? She must have combed her fur, desperately searched her bag of holding for crumbs, pieces of bread, anything, and then planted and watered them and hoped to…

Her paws were banged up from digging. What had she eaten? It had been days. The real Mrsha stood there, paralyzed, and saw bundles of grass—and a crude firepit—next to her.

She’s been setting flame to it with her [Emberbearer] class. And eating grass? 

Grass and water? That was the only thing in the [Palace of Fates]. The little Mrsha slept there, facing the door. Waiting for—

She stirred as she heard a sound. Just the faintest sound. She glanced up and sprang to her feet, pressing her hands against the barrier in the air as she saw the other Mrsha standing there. Eye to eye—as the real Mrsha began to shut the door.

 

——

 

The other her pressed her paws up against the invisible barrier, shaking her head. The real Mrsha was trembling.

She had to close the door. This—this was insanity.

If I keep the door open, she’ll starve to death.

If I close the door, she starves anyways.

There was one future Mrsha had ever seen where a Mrsha was rescued. In every other reality, she lived out the remainder of her life here, growing what she could, living in this maddening hell…

I have to get her some food. Mrsha jerked back as the other her fumbled for paper, a quill, banging on the door, signing desperately. Then she wondered how long that would give the other Mrsha. Seeds? There was no way out from there. 

How long could the other Mrsha live in the [Palace of Fates], even if she found a way to survive? Until she literally couldn’t take it any longer.

A fluttering sound. Like the gentlest beating of wings.

Mrsha slowly turned her head…and saw a line of doors to either side, behind her. Each door was identical. But the reliefs on the doors were faded. The etchings dulling, the wood visibly aging. The doors stretched on and on and on—

Every fate with a Mrsha in each one—

She couldn’t move. She backed away from the door until she bumped against the one that was still open. The other her was holding up a notecard.

Please don’t. Please. I want to try to find a way out. Please let me try.

Mrsha jerked away from the door. She fell back, scrambling, running on all fours, and slammed into a wall. She lay there, trembling and holding her head.

This is wrong. This is all wrong. I hate this place.

She—had to see. Mrsha stood up and walked towards one of the doors. She pulled one open, peered inside—and closed it.

She walked to another, pulled it open, and closed it.

Without a word, she collapsed on the ground, clutching at her face, curling up.

This is all wrong! This is unfair! This is—

Mrsha lay there on her back, gazing up at the ceiling. A little girl, all fed, with people who loved her, with a way out. Surrounded by Mrshas lost to fate.

This is all unfair. 

Yes, I know.

Everything in here, everything I wish to do, is unfair.

Erin Solstice’s words came back to Mrsha and hit her like a frying pan to the face.

—if it matters—

Mrsha stood. Slowly, she walked back to the door where the other Mrsha was still standing. The other her was ragged, desperate, but she held up a card with shaking paws.

I know I’m not real. But maybe there’s still a future for me. Good luck, other me.

Slowly, the real Mrsha leaned against the door and held up her own card.

We’re both us. We both know how much this sucks. You’ve seen the doors.

The truth was reflected in the other Mrsha’s eyes. She held up a single card.

Rags is dead. Did you save yours?

The real Mrsha recoiled. She sat back and wrote.

I’m trying.

Then go save her. Run.

The other Mrsha held up the card and then signed with her paws, and they realized that they could talk like that.

“Run, Mrsha. Run to Lyonette and hug her and don’t think about me. Just leave the door open a bit, please?”

“I can’t do that.”

The paw-signs became faster.

“I’m afraid. I’m so afraid. Let me be here. I won’t do anything, I can’t. Just let me—if I dig, maybe I’ll find something. All the other Mrshas gave up, but this can’t be underground forever. Can it? Maybe I’ll dig into another Skill.”

“All the other Mrshas gave up?”

Hesitation. Then—

“I’m afraid to look. Please let me stay.”

The real Mrsha hand-signed slowly, looking herself in their eyes.

“You know Lyonette must be desperate. You know how unlikely it is to get out of here. You know where you are. Despite all that, despite—knowing you’re not real, or not the original, do you still want to keep trying? Starving? If I close the door, you could rest.”

The other Mrsha’s face was dirty, and she was shaking with hunger or adrenaline in an empty body, but her eyes blazed, and she signed back.

“You’re me. Never ask me that again. If I have to take years, I’ll find my way back to my mother. I’ll go back and save everyone I can. Let me try. Let me try or get lost, you coward! Never give up. We’ve let too many people die for us to ever give up!”

She punched the barrier between them, then bared her teeth, pounding on the barrier. The real Mrsha nodded. She took a deep breath, then made her choice.

“Wait. Stand back.”

The other Mrsha blinked. She stood there as the original pulled something up from the ground. She walked forwards to the barrier between them and fed something into the air.

It was a long tendril of brown plantlife that seemed to twist or writhe a bit as it crossed dimensions. Despite the severed root, it poked forwards, quivering as it came from the space in Mrsha’s world—

And into the other one.

A Faerie Flower root hung in the air between the Mrshas, and suddenly, the other Mrsha, the one trapped, knew what that was.

Faerie Flowers? Ryoka Griffin, not Ryoko? What was going—

She clutched at her head, then stared at the root. At the other Mrsha. She reached forward, trembling, and touched the root. It was real in her hand, not fake rope. It was real. But if there was a root on both sides, could she—?

The real Mrsha reached across the root, and the fake one recoiled. The real Mrsha hauled herself forwards, through the doorway, so fast the fake couldn’t move—and then grabbed herself by the arm. She pulled, and with a silent shout, the other one felt something tearing her through a wall in the universe. Pulling apart, pulling—

 

——

 

—The two tumbled out of the doorway. One ragged ball of fur, one healthier girl holding the other. They sprang apart at once, and the two Mrshas sat upright. One was panting, feeling at herself, feeling at the ground—the other rose slowly and turned.

She flinched as she gazed at the door. Then reached out and slowly touched the Faerie Flower root.

The brown length of root had been oddly vibrant, despite Mrsha cutting it. It had even seemed alive, feeding on…what? Fate? Something else? It had been hanging in the air—right until Mrsha had grabbed herself. Now she looked at it again—

A pale, dead stalk of plant matter hung in the air. It flaked away at her touch. It didn’t turn to ash; it drifted into pieces. She swallowed.

Consequences. That tearing pull of bringing herself through the door had to go somewhere. She’d ripped apart the root to cross the gap.

That meant there were…seventeen left. And she’d used two on top of that to—

Someone grabbed her, and Mrsha nearly screamed. She turned, saw the Alternate Mrsha standing there, wide-eyed, and almost punched her. It was the surrealist thing in the world to see a mirror image of her waving her paws.

“What did you do? What did you do?”

“The roots.”

“Faerie Flower roots? Why do I know ‘faeries’? Why is Ryoka’s name—my head!”

The inconsistencies. Real Mrsha realized they must have been corrected, or maybe the truth was allowed to exist in the real world. Alternate her was stumbling about, and Real Mrsha caught her. She was so thin…

“We need to get you food. And to hide you away. No…listen. I have magical roots that go through doors. I’m going to go through more doors.”

The other her caught on at once. They were practically identical, after all, from mirror timelines. She understood what Mrsha had in mind.

“You’re crazy.”

The other her signed emphatically, and Mrsha decided the other her was…Root Mrsha? Mrsha Two? It didn’t matter, but they were already different. Root Mrsha was shaky, and Mrsha could only imagine what it had been like to survive for days without food, realizing your existence was a lie.

“I’m doing what Erin would do. I talked to her.”

“You saved me. The root’s dead. Does that mean—?”

“Seventeen chances. Fifteen, really; I used two roots. Only seventeen Faerie Flowers are adult. I don’t know if I can grow more.”

The other Mrsha’s mouth opened and closed. She was still shaking, glancing around.

“I thought you were gonna close the door on me. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you—does Lyonette know?”

“No. I have to do this myself. Rags knows, but she’s in danger.”

The other Mrsha’s features firmed.

“So she’s not dead yet? You have to save her!”

“She’s executing a plan to hurt the Titan. I’m—doing this. Listen, saving you wasn’t in the plan, but I’m glad I did.”

It was the right thing to do. She couldn’t do it for the others, and this was going to cause…problems…but Mrsha felt it. The other her took a deep breath, trying to concentrate.

“Let me think. If one of us hides here or uses the palace…the other could go into the inn! Like that stupid TV show that Erin’s theatre had!”

Real Mrsha brightened up. It was a good idea, especially because Root Mrsha probably wanted the hell out of the garden. She could eat, rest, and—

“Let’s do that. This is a great idea. You get up there and eat lunch and—hold on, let me tell you everything you missed.”

The two were sitting, sharing notes, amazed by how fast they were communicating. Of course, they were each other, so the idioms and examples they went to were identical, by and large. Was this what having a twin was like? Root Mrsha seemed to read the real one’s mind.

“Okay, got it. I go up and eat slowly—”

“Super slowly! Small portions!”

A sniff.

“I’m not stupid. We both helped Ylawes and asked for advice on how to deal with starvation, remember?”

“You’d better wash up first. Maybe wear something like a coat; I can tell you’re thin, and if I can, Lyonette definitely will.”

“Good idea. You signal to me whenever you want to switch, got it? Maybe we’ll clue Apista in or something. And if you need help, or Rags does, you let me know. If I can do something like warn General Shirka or distract the Titan or—anything, send me.”

The real Mrsha paused as their thoughts diverged a moment.

“Whaddya mean?”

The other her gave Mrsha a small smile.

“Duh, stupid. Now you have a spare. If anything bad happens, I’ll be there.”

Mrsha felt a chill go right through her. She signed back fast.

“Don’t talk like that. That’s not why I did this.”

Root Mrsha shrugged and gave herself a wild grin. She wrote slowly, because some things weren’t communicable in paw-signs alone.

“You and I both know it’s what we’re thinking. This is it, me. We owe a debt to Brunkr, Halrac, and so many others. We’ve always been the young one, small and unable to help, and they protected us. Perhaps that was right and good. Now, it is upon us. Send me forwards, and I shall call it glory. I know how Erin felt.”

Mrsha looked in the eyes of herself and couldn’t breathe for a moment. The bright gaze of that other Mrsha—

“I shall go, even if I am afraid.”

Root Mrsha was surprised when the real one grabbed her fiercely in a hug that drew all the breath out from her body. The real one let her go and signed furiously.

“Dying is never the point.”

Root Mrsha hesitated, then lowered her head. She stared at her paws for a long moment as the real Mrsha fished in her belt pouch. She handed her copy some of a breakfast muffin, and the other her instantly tried to swallow it whole. She took tiny bites, rapid and fast, and signed, one handed.

“Sorry. I forget, sometimes. We’ve buried too many people. That’s why old people and Named-ranks get crazy, I guess.”

The real Mrsha signed back slowly.

“We stay people because we bury them. When it stops hurting, then we’re mad. Come on. Let’s get you up the ropes and into the garden. I don’t know if you can climb.”

She helped Mrsha get up into the [Garden of Sanctuary] and then into a bathtub. One look at the girl after she emerged, wet and clean, and they realized there was no chance in heck they’d fool the Thronebearers without precautions.

So they put on a shirt and kilt and tried to stuff it so Mrsha looked reasonably healthy, fluffing out her cheek fur. It might work.

Root Mrsha nodded to Mrsha, walking into the inn and making a beeline for the kitchen. Real Mrsha watched for a second, then headed back to the [Palace of Fates].

Now she had all the time in the world. She picked up a spare root and stopped as she stood in front of the doors.

Now I know it works. Now I know what I am doing.

She pulled open the door with the burnished knob and stopped as she touched the root that had let her steal that first slice of cake. It didn’t seem destroyed…cake must not be the same as a person. Mrsha swallowed hard, then stepped through the doorway.

By the time Rianchi and Dyeda entered the [Palace of Fates], Mrsha was nowhere to be seen.

 

——

 

Meanwhile…a very confused Apista stopped smoking on her latest spliff and wondered what the heck Palt was putting in them these days.

 

——

 

In The Wandering Inn, Ser Dalimont returned as a fuming Nanette stomped through the door, followed by Hethon.

“I mean, I think you did a good job—”

“I’ll show them. Just you wait until I—”

They both shot Dalimont a look, but he was good at looking innocent. Also, he was genuinely distracted by something. His speaking stone purred.

“Dalimont, report in.”

“All’s well at the inn. I just spotted Mrsha. Funny, my tracking spell malfunctioned. It dropped her and picked her up.”

Calanfer had very good spells that, even if the [Garden of Sanctuary] could bypass them, auto-located their wards once they were in range. Dalimont gave Mrsha a suspicious look, but she was eating a hamburger.

He…had never seen someone eat a hamburger like that. Slowly, piece by piece, chewing, savoring each bite, so slowly and with such relish that Calescent was giving himself a pat on the back.

Even the other Goblins and Antinium slowed down eating their meals out of embarrassment. Mrsha was so engrossed in her burger, in fact, she ignored Nanette’s stink-eye.

Ser Dalimont stared at Mrsha for a good minute until she noticed him and waved. He smiled back and spoke into his speaking stone.

“Ushar, something is up with Mrsha. I think she’s either plotting something or…unknown.”

“Hmph. Don’t let her out of your sight. I’ll inform Her Highness.”

It was a mystery, but Mrsha was here, and Dalimont was merely suspicious. Mind you, it felt like she’d done something wrong and was covering it up.

“Hello, Mrsha. Oh my. Is this hug-day?”

Bird had appeared for lunch, and Mrsha got up and walked over and slowly embraced her. Mrsha buried her head in Bird’s side.

No, silly. Sometimes I just like hugging my favorite big sister.

“Aha. This is good. Pat, pat. Would you like to eat lunch together?”

Mrsha nodded, and they sat. Dalimont had to check on Nanette; he suspected she was trying to steal the wand again, but he upgraded his assessment.

She’s either blown up a room or accidentally broken an artifact. Or there’s a tradition in the inn called Hug Day.

He hated that he could never rule out the latter.

 

——

 

Her name was Mrsha du Marquin, and she had done her best. Only, Mrsha supposed that wasn’t really her name anymore. She wasn’t Mrsha.

Not really. She sat in the inn, thinking, taking bites out of her burger as Bird hummed and chattered about birds she’d seen, and Mrsha just thought to herself that she’d tried to do the right thing.

She really had.

She hadn’t meant to go tumbling down into the [Palace of Fates]. Yes, she’d been incautious, but she’d really not thought she could get into danger in Erin’s Skill.

Then she’d fallen into the [Palace of Fates], and it had been fun, scary, and she’d taken it seriously, tried to get out. She’d been determined to live, to warn Rags…until she saw that other Mrsha looking at her. Until she’d heard the door closing with a sound to end everything.

Then she’d known she was fake. Then, she’d realized there was no way out. Mrsha had gone from door to door and found only a few where the grandest of magics, the most improbable of circumstances, had let her out.

She hadn’t told the real Mrsha that. The real Mrsha had important things to do. Fake Mrsha, that was who she was. Frsha…no, that name sucked…she knew what the real Mrsha was going to do.

After all, it was what any Mrsha worth her salt would do. They were alike in that, still. But the fake Mrsha had stared at the doors longer than the real one. She had searched for a way out and beheld, in the [Palace of Fates], the countless realities where she aged to death, if she didn’t starve. A lonely Gnoll drifting in and out of madness, watching her friends and family live their lives. A spectator—forever.

And yet, Mrsha had tried to live. She hadn’t given up, even knowing the future. She’d done her best to survive because she was afraid of dying. Because even knowing the truth—she wanted to live.

It was going to be hard, now. She didn’t know what the future held. This state of affairs could not continue.

When this was over—Mrsha would want her life back. Could Lyonette handle having two daughters? Could anyone? Even if Mrsha got her life back, she knew her Rags was already dead.

She had failed her Rags. Her mother would miss her forever, even if she was just a frozen memory in a door.

Mrsha’s paws shook as she put the burger down and drank more water. She was starving, but not hungry. She looked at her paws as Bird whispered to her.

“Mrsha, you are all dressed up today. Is today important?”

She shook her head absently, and Bird wiped at her brow.

“Oh, good. I was practicing with Elia Arcsinger, and I would hate to think she had failed to dress up properly.”

Mrsha wanted to hug Bird again. She wanted to bury her head in Bird’s side and cry, or tell her everything. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

This was the most important thing ever. Afterwards…Mrsha could see what happened. If she could help the real Mrsha, make a difference, she would. Then? Then, if there was one root left—she’d go back to that door. Even if it meant she was trapped in the [Palace of Fates]. She hoped the root would let her go back to the inn. Mrsha clenched one paw tight.

She’d go home, meaningless though it might be. Mrsha searched around this inn, this familiar place, and took a shuddering breath in.

—To save any version of Rags. To make a difference. My turn. She wiped at her face.

“Mrsha? Are you crying?”

Bird bent down, her emerald eyes sparkling with curiosity and worry, and Mrsha held up a card.

No, silly. I’m happy. Sometimes it just looks the same.

“This is a very true statement.”

The Antinium sat back, and Mrsha rubbed her eyes again. She looked around the inn, breathing in the sights, the overwhelming sensations after so long of nothingness. Memorizing it all. Just in case.

 

——

 

Two Mrshas appeared, each with their own classes and data sets.

This was fine.

You know, honestly, it was so fine that no one should even worry about it. What was the big deal? Mrsha, two Mrshas—this kind of thing happened. It wasn’t the job of the Grand Design to pass judgements, just to react.

She even came with her own data filled in. So the Grand Design saw no reason to change anything. It could track two Mrshas, and indeed, could generate the thousands of alternate timelines (complete with their own physics, variables, and so on), as much as was needed.

Sure, it took a lot of effort. That’s what the Grand Design was here for. Work. Don’t question the work. Don’t worry about inconsistencies with chess assigning [Strategist] experience. Don’t fret about the need for new classes.

Not the Grand Design’s problem.

If there were new classes needed, someone would have made them already. The Grand Design was here to keep things running a-okay until the boss got back.

The boss being the Grand Design.

The other Grand Design.

 

——

 

So, the Grand Design exploring the universe that Kasigna had originated from had come to a few astounding conclusions.

Firstly, reality was big. It had so many new class ideas and concepts to run through, not to mention completely separate histories and cultures and physics, that it could be analyzing this for a year.

However, it was no longer overstrained…or so it thought. Because it had discovered a function within itself that essentially let it perform [Parallel Thoughts], but in a much more reasonable way.

The Grand Design could…clone itself. In a sense. More like split a part of itself off to manage one particular reality, and the two parts could communicate.

Obviously, it didn’t know that because it had never interacted with another reality, at least in the sense of ‘crossing over’. But the functions were within it. Rather interestingly developed too…it didn’t have that creative edge that some of the rules around [Heroes] and new classes did. It had a different…quality to it.

A different designer? The Grand Design wasn’t sure how it felt about that. Nor about the understanding that with each new ‘reality’ it would adjudicate, another part of it would siphon off. In fact, the coding was more than merely linear; once two realities were entered by the Grand Design, it would have enough ‘brainpower’ to spool off a third unit of itself as a kind of overseer of the other two.

Kasigna’s dead reality didn’t really count, so what the Grand Design was really doing was dividing most of its intelligence to keep the real reality running while investigating this dead memory. However…it saw parallels between how it had been designed and the rapid spread of hostile organisms.

Or viruses, to use an Earther idea. How many realities had it been meant to oversee?

All the…incisive qualities of the Grand Design, which you might call a personality of sorts or its decision-making matrices, were still exploring Kasigna’s lost realm and reflecting on the nature of its design. It was onto something, though it was aware its…processing…had slowed down noticeably.

Probably all the new data it was analyzing. The other section of itself kept assuring it that everything was fine. And the Grand Design had to trust itself, even if the copy of it was just—well. Bland.

Forty thousand years old bland. No originality, no desire to make new classes—approve the class, assign the level. It’d handle things for a bit, but the Grand Design wasn’t spinning off new elements of itself any time soon.

That was just…for one thing, there was no point. But it was just…

Wrong?

Anyways, the Grand Design of Isthekenous had achieved something in its studies. On one hand—it had finally copied an afterlife from the realms used by the dead gods of Kasigna’s original pantheons.

Some of them weren’t the best. They had judicial systems, economies, all kinds of odd processes, including guardians and higher-ranking dead. Kasigna’s afterlives were far more, well, fair.

No one came back from her afterlives. They were reborn, in time, allowed to become new people and tread that endless karmic wheel again, but the right to bring back the dead had never been allowed by the Three-in-One.

No one. She had broken her vow at the Winter Solstice for the first time in her creation.

The Grand Design didn’t judge that. It wasn’t here to pass judgements on people outside of its jurisdiction. However, there was a simplicity the Grand Design could use in Kasigna’s designs, and one of her last afterlives resembled the lost Kasignel almost identically. The Grand Design, you see, was aware the loss of Kasignel had impinged on so much.

Not only the function of ghosts, but its own knowledge. Not merely the existence of those manifold souls, but the function of classes like [Warlock] and [Summoner], who were designed to interface with the dead.

It wasn’t a morality call. Definitely not. It was about the proper function of the system. That was why, for this reason and no other, the Grand Design of Isthekenous prepared to make a new afterlife.

All it had to do was create one, a perfect copy of the world and all the geography of the world that had been and ever was, forfeit of causality and time, where souls could remain and interact in limited ways with the world of the living.

How hard could it be? It would let them return to a proper afterlife instead of Hellste, because the rules were vastly different when it came to Hellste or Diotria. All it had to do was evict one, well, three-in-one beings.

She was still there. All the souls were being funneled to Hellste rather than becoming part of her. The Grand Design of Isthekenous had no opinion on unnamed entities outside of its ruleset and jurisdiction consuming the souls of mortals, definitely not. There was nothing personal about it moving to relocate her.

Even if that meant the probable destruction of her being. As far as the Grand Design of Isthekenous could tell, the <Category: Gods (pending authorization)> were beings that survived on faith from those with <Miracle> classes especially. Even basic knowledge seemed to give them some kind of authority, and souls were another sort of sustenance.

They had limits, at least currently. What might happen to one of them that had been both wounded and deprived of all of her hoarded souls and had no access to any more was…well, death didn’t apply to them like other beings.

The three-in-one remained in a void where Kasignel had been. She had begged it when she noticed its presence checking on her, attempting to catalog her.

Begged.

And she never begged. She had pleaded that she was dying. Shrieked at it. Threatened it.

The Grand Design had done nothing, for she was not of it.

This was fair.

 

——

 

She was fading away. Piece by piece, with nothing left to sustain her. No; that wasn’t accurate. She did have shreds of belief that fueled her.

But she, Kasigna, the Three-in-One, the Goddess of Death, was dying. She had overexerted herself, as banal as the explanation was. She had used her power to affect reality, but she had no strength left to pay the cost.

Like an overextended star, all the raging fury of energy had become a dim ember—and she had already been a withered corpse, rotting from ages of scavenging to survive. Only, this time, the very basis of her strength, her afterlife, was gone.

This vanishing was painless. It was like dissolving into everything, a slow unraveling of a thought. Yet the Three-in-One fought it.

Three beings, Maiden, Mother, Crone, huddled together in the void that had been Kasignel. They reached for souls, but there were none; they appeared in Hellste instead. There was no more deathless land to draw on.

No infinite supply of the dead. Just three beings. They knew it was their end. The only being capable of entering this place was Isthekenous’ final creation, and it ignored them. If anything, it seemed to be taking pleasure in their unmaking.

They could feel it maneuvering to replace her. To eject her into another reality, where the sheer weight of physics or her formless nature would eradicate her in moments.

“Defeated.”

That was what the Maiden said; even alone, Kasigna was three beings, each with a different mentality. Different perspectives. The Crone spoke next.

“We shall…survive. We have clawed our way through the death of universes. We shall survive. Then revenge ourselves on our daughter, the [Innkeeper], each and every mortal who opposed us. And reward the loyal, such as Bethal Walchaís.”

Her face was bitter. But she remembered each person who had done her a service as well; the Crone never forgot, ironically. The shreds of half-belief from a few hundred people were the only things keeping Kasigna alive. If she hadn’t summoned so many dead, taken physical form and battled one of the Wild Hunt, she might have survived.

—There was a hole in her chest. Her daughter’s blade. Traitor. The Maiden was despairing. The Crone was bitter. The Mother was stillest of all. She was thinking not of the battle, her enemies, nor even survival—not quite.

“We brought a soul back.”

The Maiden twitched. The Mother’s voice was soft, accusing by its gentleness. The Crone responded instantly.

“As was our right.”

“As we have never done. We offered the souls a second chance. Never have we done that, and it was done freely.”

The Crone sucked at her rotten teeth, trying to find a counterargument, but she was uncertain. The Maiden knelt.

“I was drunk upon the power long lost to me. I long to shape this world, to triumph over the others. I offered the one thing I could. The one thing I should not.”

“No, no. It was—”

“Yes.”

Two voices spoke and overwrote the decrepit voice of the Crone. The Maiden and Mother nodded at each other, and the Crone fell silent, scowling, disagreeing, wrathful, but that was Kasigna’s nature.

She was changing. She could feel it. Not just from her long aeons of suffering; the Crone was different. So were the Maiden and Mother.

What will we be? No—if we even live.

All three selves began to reflect on their demise. The Maiden lifted a hand, watching the tips of her fingers vanishing as even her sense of self eroded. She did nothing. The Crone licked her lips.

“That unfinished creation of Isthekenous shall not destroy me, nor the Faerie King’s wiles, nor any other being. I am Kasigna. I never die. I have walked before time itself and bested rival gods by the hundreds. The old ways sing through reality, so deep that even the rot between worlds kneels to them. There is a way.”

Because one knew it, the other two did, but it was a terrible thought, even for them. Neither of the other two halves said a word. Then the Mother spoke.

“It shall be I.”

“No.”

The Maiden reacted at once; the Crone did not speak, but a terrible void opened up in her eyes. Regret. Horrific loss and acceptance. She bowed her head as the Mother rose. She was a grand woman, and the Mother smiled.

“It is fittingly I. The only question is whether it should be done.”

She looked to the other two questioningly as the Grand Design drew closer, and the Maiden said nothing. She knelt, covering her face. The Crone whispered.

“I am endless. I am Death.”

The Mother’s face twisted with self-ridicule, with scorn, and then her expression changed to one of triumph and pride for everything she ever had been, good and ill. She spread her arms, and her voice rose.

“So be it.”

There were no shadows in this place. No sound. Nothing but the void—until it changed, and there were shadows. Three. They moved, a hunched figure and a young, spritely one. Advancing towards the tall figure, who did not move.

Then there was sound, a dripping sound, the sounds of hushed voices. The smell of something ancient filling this place with a familiar odor. There was touch; fading warmth. And as there was, as ever—

Death.

 

——

 

The Grand Design had been gifted tools to subdue even the divine.

It had never thought to make war against anything, to interfere, but it had the power, if it was deemed necessary. It did not think to use the weapons gifted to it against Kasigna.

This wasn’t personal. It simply returned to remove her and place her in the mortal realm, for it had need of the afterlife. The Grand Design did not travel, but appeared in a place that had no geographical coordinates anyone would understand.

Between Diotria and Hellste.

In a place that had no ‘space’ left to it, just as time and other constants had fled it.

There was only the Three-in-One, Kasigna, Goddess of Death, a being older than this universe, and the Grand Design.

Only her, and the Grand Design knew her legend. She who had never died.

She who had judged her own mother, who had slain other gods and sent them to her realm. Who had outlasted reality breaking, the onslaught of the rot between worlds—

Kasigna, who never died. Most feared of the gods who had ever been.

The Grand Design came across nothing but the void. And a pool of liquid, which it skirted…though this place should have had no substance at all. It came across three people.

No…

Two.

Two women. One young, a maiden in every guise and form that had ever been, who looked like youth across all species, and the crone, wretched and age and judgment. The Maiden and the Crone from whom entire mythologies echoed.

They knelt over the third…body. The Mother. The…

The Grand Design saw the two glance up. Maiden, Crone.

Both Kasigna. Both different. Both—

Two? The third was lying there. Blood dripped from their fingers. Kasigna devoured Kasigna as Kasigna…wiped at the ichor of gods dripping from her mouth.

“One is dead. Forever, forevermore. I always survive.”

The Crone rasped. The Maiden drank the blood at her feet and rose, and part of her lay dead. A third of her slain so the other parts would live. They reached down, tearing flesh off their body, weeping at this sacrilege.

Kasigna ate Kasigna so Kasigna would live. She ripped out her eyes and ate the rotting flesh, Maiden eating Mother, Crone devouring Daughter.

The oldest rites. Rules so old the Grand Design stood in their shadow.

“I always survive.”

The Grand Design had no eyes to lock with Kasigna. No body to shiver, nor emotions to feel fear. It had its duty. It had its logic. It had the weapons forged to kill gods.

The Grand Design beheld Kasigna.

—It decided to leave things as they were.

The Grand Design left Kasigna as she ate.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

Would you believe how tired I am? Okay, hear me out. Things are all busy and happening, but as it pertains to chapters, I know this one is ‘short’.

I have been working hard, though. Even as you read this, a second chapter is ‘done’, but in need of edits, and there’s another half-finished chapter that’s also going through a rather intensive editing cycle.

All told, that’s 50,000 more words…which you’re not going to read now.

Tuesday. I aim to post 10.27 on Tuesday, and the next chapter on Saturday. If you skip Author’s Notes, please leave a comment below informing me that this chapter is too short. For the rest of you, I thank you for your forbearance and look forwards to a better experience on Tuesday for the editing time.

—I’m a bit spicy today, I guess. Bad sleep. Sort of a suck week. Can’t quite put my finger on why. It could be that I’ve been systematically let down by subpar games and am faced with the existential dread of realizing I’ve wasted my time despite not having the energy to do much else after writing.

Or the USA election. I can’t put my finger on it, but we’ll see what happens. For good or ill, we’ll bear witness to each and every thing, or even if we don’t care to look, it will affect us. But I don’t want to be too negative here, I just sort of wish—no, nevermind.

Is it better if you heard the ‘slam’? Ask Mrsha. I’m going to get back into sorts. Chapter sooner than later! Thanks for reading.

 

 

Worthy by Chalyon!

 

Remember by Sanfre!

 

Goblin Inn by Knogga75!

 

Erin’s Glory by Rosie!

 

Inn by Anito!

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Ressa and Ressga by Nanahou!

 

Maid Lyon by Rocky!

 

Glory by Brack!

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