10.27 GMG

(Book 14 of The Wandering Inn — Hell’s Wardens, is now out as an ebook and audiobook! Check it out here!)

 

 

 

 

She was the oldest of them all.

The oldest being in creation.

It was no exaggeration. No trick of words. Kasigna had been old when even the other gods had been newly-born. She was the Goddess of Death, and she had lived through the birth and death of countless stars.

Now look at her.

Look at her.

There was blood on her hands. The Maiden raised shaking hands, and the ichor of a goddess dripped down. She tasted profane flesh in her mouth. Rot and decrepit half-flesh; the idea of flesh.

She had lost her body ages ago. But she could still devour the very nature of what made a god. She was eating a corpse.

Her corpse.

Three-in-One. Three aspects, Maiden, Mother, Crone in one being. So had she been from the instant she had existed. Old when she took her first step in the world that had originally worshiped her. Eternally three selves…

No longer. A third of Kasigna was dead.

“It had to be done. We always live. I have survived wars of gods and dragged each foe down with me. Even this cannot stop me. That [Innkeeper], my realm—take it all away and I live. Do you hear me? I live!”

The Maiden listened; it was not her voice, aged and wild with rage and loss, that screamed in this void that had been her realm.

No more souls to empower her. She had gone from the mightiest of the remaining six to a shadow, weaker than she had been over the millenia she had scavenged for power, trying to merely survive.

It would have killed her, that damn trick of faeries. She would have become, soon, a nameless wailing shadow unable to even project a memory of herself, a bleating echo fading into nothingness, food for lesser beings like the Rot Between Worlds, even the most meager of them.

It should have been her end, but she was Kasigna. She was the old ways. So she had performed a ritual as profane and ancient as time itself. Sacrifice. Blood for blood.

The Mother was dead.

DEAD.

Her remaining two selves had gorged themselves on her, and they lived. The power that coursed through them was born of the death of a goddess. It was enough to give them the strength to survive, even oppose their enemies. Yet the cost was—everything.

It was forever.

Never again would there be the Mother. Never again would she be called Three-In-One. This act had taken everything from her.

Even the death of my pantheon and the beings that ate stars could not lay me so low. Not even the laughing Gnomes with all their tricks. Not even the wrath of traitorous Elves or the war of my kin. 

The Maiden stared at her hands. And she wondered…what the Crone was thinking. Did she see how her hubris had led her to this end? She could have consolidated her power, rebuilt Kasignel. Instead, she had crossed swords with a mere mortal and paid the ultimate price.

She looked around, no longer a conjoined being, and saw the Crone was still raving. The Maiden…had no idea what the Crone was thinking.

Terrifying. They were both Kasigna, but now, they were different Kasignas. The Crone had always been the most bitter and oldest of them, kind in her ways, but embodying that end of life, the perspective of the old.

The Maiden had been change and passion, impetuous emotion and the understanding of what youth was. They were balanced by the Mother, who occupied the role of the provider, who knew what it was to care for lives and see them gently pass into her hands. They had been complete.

Now, the Maiden spoke, and her voice was quiet and uncertain.

“Kasigna. I lay you to rest. Dear Mother, thou who art part of me, I pass thee to the end of places. Beyond my faded shores. Go now to the land beyond even the touch of gods. Sleep, Mother. Sleep, Kasigna. Death welcomes thee.”

She bent and kissed the remains of a head, blood slick on her hands. It was not in the language of this world she spoke, but the old language of Vunn. Their first world.

The Crone twisted around, her face a mask of grief and rage, of vengeance and determination written in her very soul.

What did you see when you looked at them? If you were Human, you’d see an ancient, lined woman hobbling, wearing a dark shawl, and a young woman wearing all black.

Or perhaps, if it was your belief, both would wear white, the color of the dead. Their faces, their skin tones, their eyes and voices would make sense to you.

If you could see her how Kasigna thought of herself, you might see a frog-like being, hunch-backed, eyes round and black, a throat-sac inflating and deflating as she spoke. That was the form she had first taken. The Maiden turned to the Crone.

“What are we now?”

The Crone hesitated, and uncertainty flashed in her timeless gaze, for she did not know, and this was new and terrifying to the Goddess of Death. She answered slowly.

“Sundered. We are of the same will. We shall survive and win this war. Our servant still speaks our name. We shall triumph.”

Her fists clenched as she gazed around at the emptiness that had been her home. The Maiden said nothing, but sat, blood dripping from her hands.

“I shall sit.”

She said it half like a question, asking for permission awkwardly. The Crone gazed at the Maiden and jerked her chin.

“Sit, then. Mourn. It is good one of us does so. Sing the old verse for our self. I shall plan.”

The Crone paced in the void with no firmament to tread, moving by her will, as the Maiden sat there. They said nothing; even the act of talking amongst themselves felt wrong, unnecessary, yet suddenly needed.

Neither one said anything for a long time. The Grand Design of Isthekenous itself had fled them. Even it understood what it had witnessed. If their daughter had been here, Cauwine would have faltered in the face of what she saw.

One aspect of Kasigna snarled at the fates, at her foes, at the Faerie King. She had marked them all; even now, her hand dragged Oberon towards his own grave.

Behold. I am the Goddess of Death. I will be your end. 

The other of them was singing the last rites of the divine. Her voice raised in a dirge that Kasigna had not heard nor remembered nor sung for countless ages. The Crone looked at the Maiden, and the gaze was returned, and they felt a shock.

We are different, now. We are changing.

Who was the Maiden? Who was the Crone? Who was Kasigna? They would live. Live…they would never die. They were Death—

Now, in the silence of the void, which had no space to it, no mass, no location save for the blood of Kasigna. The corpse. The two aspects of Kasigna.

Then, there was a breeze. It blew from nowhere and nothing; there was no air. No oxygen, no particles, nothing.

Yet there was still a breeze, and it whipped through the air, carrying the winds of winter with it. It smelled like rain on stone, the cutting edge of frost borne aloft by the gusts of the wind that curled around.

Kasigna shivered. The Crone drew a shawl to her body. The Maiden’s voice faltered as the wind drew it away. For a moment, neither one noticed the wind and were merely cold. Then they realized there was a breeze and turned.

How…?

Then, they were there. Standing distant to Kasigna, looking on, robes and cloth fluttering in the wind. As if they had always been there and you just never noticed until you looked right.

Right there. There were over a dozen of them. They stood there. Right…there.

Intruders. Beings not of this reality who had stepped across the divide between existence. Kasigna whirled. The Crone and Maiden turned, recoiled, and gasped as they recognized the strangers.

“You!”

The Crone backed up a step in fear. The Maiden simply sighed. She rose, blood dripping from her hands, and bowed. The deepest bow she had ever offered anyone in her existence.

“I see.”

That was all she said. The figures said nothing. They didn’t move. They waited, and that was when the Grand Design returned.

It could sense something was wrong. It arrived with all the force of pantheons behind it. Created to adjudicate over countless realities with the force to overrule even the greatest beings of the divine, empowered by thousands.

Intruders! Strangers to this game that never should have been! 

The Grand Design came with wrath to assess another foreign entity to its closed system. And it would terrify foreign gods. The Grand Design was a horrifying thing that should never have had the ability to think—not like it currently did. It should have merely obeyed; Kasigna had never wanted Isthekenous’ creation to have a will of its own.

She had argued over it countless times, opposed the foolishness of his work. She had not been his murderer, for she had respected him too much. But she still believed Isthekenous was wrong.

The Grand Design appeared with wrath and confusion, the might of stellar stars in its every whim and thought. It beheld the intruders, and they did not move. Merely regarded it.

The Grand Design fled. It vanished in fear, and it had never been afraid. The Crone retreated, and all her bravado, her spite, and her rage had been replaced by uncertainty. Her own fear.

“You? Why art thou here? This is my realm. Our realm. You…whom I called ages ago as we made war. You, who were invited like I. How? Why now?”

Not a one answered her, and they were all different. The wind blew, and the Crone flinched as the chill drove its needles into her skin. She was suddenly terrified. Then angry. She shook a fist at them.

“Begone! This is my realm! Do you think I fear you? Did that dying King of Faeries call you? Do you seek to—”

Her eyes strayed to the corpse of the Mother. The Maiden stood there, head bowed, and the Crone whirled.

“Why art thou here?”

Silence. Figures wearing robes—some of them. Others wore diverse articles of clothing. Robes were traditional, but optional. Some had on entirely different sets of clothing. A casual tank top worked just as well, with long jeans.

Or perhaps a racing outfit. One of them had that. Capes; capes were also highly traditional. It wasn’t how they wore the clothing, be it casually fashionable and modern to old as they were, old as their legends. It was how they wore it, almost always in shades of black.

Many clutched tools of their trade. What that meant, again, changed with them. Some had no need of an object; others clutched tools that anyone of Earth would recognize. Old symbols.

You knew them. You’d recognize them in a heartbeat if you ever saw them, and Kasigna knew them all. She backed away. Then the Crone was screaming.

“Answer me! Why have you come? Do not threaten me!”

Silence. Pure silence. The wind blew, and the Goddess of Death shrieked and demanded and threatened and tried to barter. There was never a word spoken.

They were waiting. But for what? The answer would soon come, the Maiden realized. She glanced away from that hypnotizing vision and surveyed the world.

Blood was dripping from her fingers. She stared back down at her hands, then peered down into the world Isthekenous had dreamed of.

“Isthekenous. I wish you had lived to see your world made. What strange tricks are being played in your vision?”

She bent down and saw. Kasigna’s breath caught, and the goddess saw a little girl opening a door. Then all of them, Maiden, Crone, and strangers, watched.

 

——

 

It was winter and the snow was falling when a little Goblin hopped off a horse and nearly fell face-first in the snow. She caught herself and heard a chuckle from above as she massaged at her thighs.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Forgot how people ain’t used to riding. We’re here.”

“I used to ride Carn Wolves. How much?”

The Goblin was embarrassed and straightened quickly; they were just outside the city. The figure leaned over the saddle and drawled.

“You already paid my deposit. I reckon the tip’s going to be how many free drinks I get at the inn. Want a lift the rest of the way there? It’s thirty seconds as Ci runs.”

Tritel, the Moonlight Rider, patted Ci, and the white mare tossed her head and gave the Goblin a snort. But the little Goblin just rubbed at her undercut—half her hair shaved to a buzzcut, the other half grown out, very stylish—and shook her head.

“I’ll walk, thanks.”

“Suit yerself.”

Tritel grinned, and she gave him a thumbs-up. He turned, and in a spray of snow, he and his famous horse were galloping towards the inn in the distance.

They’d put her at the north gate, she realized, having come down the road from the north. The Goblin felt at her aching thighs again.

Riding sucked. Then again, a Courier’s horse and the speeds they rode at would bruise anyone’s coxae.

Coxae. A part of your bones in the pelvis. She’d learned that word from Geneva Scala herself. The Goblin grinned as the pain receded. She was grateful she hadn’t gotten to the inn proper.

How cool would it be for her to go tumbling off the saddle and that be her grand return? Coolness mattered. Not in a lot of things, not really…but it was one of those useless qualities she liked accumulating along with points in style.

She noticed these things more these days. The Goblin put it down to, well, no longer leading a tribe. She strode up to the gates and was relieved they were open. The two guards were both Gnolls in armor, looking cold despite their fur.

“Halt! Identify yourself!”

One of them was new. The other gave the young Gnoll woman a nudge. He gleamed at the Goblin and spoke.

“You bound for The Wandering Inn? If you’re wandering Liscor, you need a guard.”

“Says who?”

The Goblin challenged them instantly, and the Gnolls glanced at each other.

“Says Watch Captain Zevara. Goblins are allowed into Liscor, but not unsupervised.”

Oh boy, she really was back in Liscor! Well, she’d had to hide her nature with an illusion spell the entire way here. The short Goblin rolled her eyes.

“You know, in Baleros, people let me walk around without fussing over me. I’ve got a permit signed by Wall Lord Ilvriss and your City Council that says I’m a ‘trustworthy Goblin’. Tell you what—I’ll supervise myself. Here.”

She strode forwards, and one Gnoll aimed her spear threateningly at the Goblin, but the other brushed it aside and stared at the papers the Goblin gave him. He read, staring at her face, and recognized the name.

“Chieftain…Rags? Of the Flooded Waters tribe?”

The young Goblin grimaced.

“That’s outdated. It’s Strategist Rags, now. Student of the Forgotten Wing company.”

“The—wait, you’re that Goblin on television!”

Rags rolled her eyes and nodded along. Yes, yes, that’s me. The Titan loved broadcasting his games and lessons, and she’d gotten a few good scenes in. She pointed at the city.

“Right, so I’m a famous person. Can I enter the city? I’m on my way to the inn, and I promise I won’t eat any babies.”

She gave them a sharp-toothed grin, and the older Gnoll laughed at that. He made a quick decision as he whistled up at the walls.

“Go on through.”

“But Senior Guardsman Merrk—”

“She’s a friend of the inn. Do you want to make an enemy with the Innkeeper of Chaos herself? If you play your cards right, you might get into the beach.”

He scolded his junior guardswoman as he said the word ‘beach’ with longing. The snow was falling, and it was dark as someone else’s sins out here, even though it was technically mid-morning. Rags strolled past the two as she accepted her papers back, and the Gnoll called out.

“We’re going to visit the inn later! Guardsman Merrk and Yissra! Put in a good word for us?”

“No promises! I haven’t been back for months!”

She shouted over her shoulder. Then Rags clicked her heels and grinned. There was a sproing sound, and the female Gnoll, Yissra, turned her head. Her mouth fell open as Rags took one step forwards and began to glide across the ground.

Or rather, it only looked like that. There was a faint rattling sound; a bunch of Liscorians shopping for Christmas gazed around and saw someone speeding past them. It was a Goblin balancing with her arms outstretched, and their mouths fell open.

Not because she was a Goblin, no. In Liscor, that was somewhat ordinary with Headscratcher’s tribe. Rather, they had never seen someone rolling on…her feet?

Rags taking one step, then another, as if she were gliding over ice. But it wasn’t a Skill, nor was she moving by the force of magic. Well, not just magic. The rattling sound was coming from a bunch of little wheels attached to her shoes.

Rags was rollerskating over the ground, cursing as she hit an overly large cobblestone, but the enchantments Hedault had put on the skates mostly mitigated the bumps in the street. They still required her to focus to avoid wiping out, and she’d heard Kevin had created a number of newer models she was definitely going to get her claws on before she went back to school.

Actually, she had to pick up like eight, all in different sizes. Everyone wanted them, even that idiot Venaz. The Goblin sped past shoppers, looking around Liscor and realizing not much had changed.

“Lots of stockings on doors and weird red hats. Must be an Erin thing.”

She grinned as she shot down the main street. Rags breathed in, and her heart pounded a bit in her chest as she skated towards the door in the center of the city.

She was back. She hoped they’d missed her. She had a boatload of presents from Baleros, stories, and the Professor was even in the inn. Which was sort of a negative, but—Rags spread her arms and did a spinning jump past a [Driver], who cursed in surprise. She was laughing.

The Goblin was free. A [Student], not a Chieftain. She gave a passing Drake a pair of finger-guns and laughed again as Lism pulled a face and shook a fist at her. Rags skated on, unburdened by the duties of command.

Nothing terrible was happening at The Wandering Inn for once. No disaster was incoming for Christmas.

Everything was fine.

 

——

 

Mrsha du Marquin was wailing again. Blubbering as she pointed to Nanette, who was trying to offer her a frozen smoothie. She was standing outside the beach, holding a card up.

She’s got a smoothie! I want one! I want one! It’s not fair! I’m being harassed! Prejudiced against! This is a racist crime! I demand you do something! Watch! Call the Watch!

She was trying to get Watch Captain Zevara to arrest Imani, who was calling out in an exasperated voice as she strode into the kitchen.

“Mrsha, if you get me arrested today, Santa won’t be getting you a present and I certainly won’t give you a smoothie. Nanette got the last one.”

“You can share mine, Miss Mrsha. I’m very sorry, Watch Captain!”

A flushing, round-cheeked little witch was apologizing profusely as she tried to shove the blueberry smoothie into Mrsha’s paws.

I want my own! Watch Captain Zevara, are you just going to stand here and ignore this travesty of justice!?

Mrsha held the card up, and a very tired-looking Drake adjusted the floatie around her stomach. Zevara had a swimsuit on and gave Nanette a pleading look.

“I’m off-duty and I’d like to go to the beach now. Please?”

“Please go through, Watch Captain. We’ll get you a smoothie on the house. Mrsha, what are you doing?”

Lyonette rushed over, and Mrsha danced around Nanette, but held up another card defiantly.

I will not be silenced! First, the Incident of the Missing Cake, now the Blueberry Smoothie Shortage! Mrsha the Great Detective will get to the bottom of this!

Zevara raised her brows, and Lyonette covered her face with one hand.

“Ignore her, please, Zevara. She’s still on about someone accidentally eating her cake slice.”

It was mine! And no one ate it—it vanished! I could tell because I smelled it—and no one ate it! It was probably the weird rat in the basement! Or Pisces. Zevara, you’re my only hope.

Mrsha tried to reach for Zevara’s claw, but Lyonette blocked her, handed Mrsha over to Dame Ushar to put in time out, and let Zevara enter the beach, much to the Drake’s relief.

It was beach day in The Wandering Inn. The entire month had been beach day. Erin Solstice’s garden was full of people enjoying the sun, forgetting the tyranny of dark skies and snow, sipping smoothies or floating around the giant ring of water that encircled the tropical paradise.

Everyone was happy except for Mrsha. She refused to calm down as she wrote frantically to Dame Ushar.

It’s a conspiracy! I’m being sabotaged.

“Yes, Lady Mrsha. It’s a terrible thing. Ser Sest? Why don’t you secure a new smoothie for Miss Mrsha?”

Ser Sest, the most amiable of the Thronebearers, bowed as Dame Ushar followed Lyonette into the beach garden. He knelt down as Mrsha rolled around, kicking at the air furiously.

“Now, now, Miss Mrsha. If you keep kicking up a fuss, I’ll wager you might miss out on the smoothie. Isn’t it better to enjoy today rather than fixate on the bad things that have happened? Even if they were perfectly unjust and you didn’t deserve them?”

The Thronebearer’s eyes twinkled, and his [Reassuring Statement] worked. Mrsha stopped throwing a tantrum, sat up, and huffed as she scribbled on her notecard.

Oh, very well, Ser Sest. Only for you. And only because I’m such a good girl and getting lots of presents from Santa.

“Excellent, Miss Mrsha. Let’s wait right here for your smoothie, and then why don’t we see if we can build a bigger sandcastle than the ones of the House of Minos, eh?”

Placated, Mrsha sat at the table, bouncing up and down as Nanette vanished. Ser Sest heaved a sigh of relief. Mrsha was a bit…well, she was a growing child, and all the largesse of the inn at the moment was having a negative effect on her psyche.

Having an aunt in Selys, who showered her with gifts, a bunch of Hobgoblins who doted on her, as well as a [Princess] for a mother and high-ranking adventurers who gave her what she wanted, probably had an adverse effect on her maturity.

…She was still better than most [Princesses] of Calanfer, but the Thronebearers were drawing up lesson plans to counteract her upbringing. Ser Sest got into line at the kitchen as Imani worked.

The common room of the inn was busy. People went in and out of the beach as Dalimont and Lormel vetted everyone allowed inside. The actual [Garden of Sanctuary] Erin owned was a lot more quiet, and she and her friends had retreated into there for privacy more than once.

But in the common room, everything was fair game, and the Titan of Baleros himself appeared in a flash of light, trading places with a Fraerling who groaned and vanished, leaving their morning milkshake unattended.

“I’m here! Hello, hello. Where’s Erin?”

That was the first question out of his mouth. Ser Sest pointed to the beach, and Niers instantly hitched a ride on the nearest passerby, Grimalkin, as he strode for the garden with Lady Pryde in tow.

“Morning, Sinew Magus. And to you, Goblin Lord.”

He passed by Headscratcher, who was sitting, lost in his thoughts, at a table. The two traded glances, and Headscratcher grunted—but the brief moment of tension was lost. In the [Garden of Sanctuary], Erin Solstice was laughing merrily, and waves were tossing people around. Tyrion Veltras went flying head-over-heels and hit the ground so hard he stared up at the sky for a good ten seconds before sitting up; he caught Sammial before the boy could suffer the same fate, and Ryoka’s voice echoed from the garden.

“Dead gods, Erin! Don’t make your waves that rough!”

“Sorry, Ryoka! Only people above Level 20 allowed in that side of the water! Alright, let me try a tidal wave. Tidaaaaal waaaaaaaave—”

Mrsha turned, ears perking up, but she was still waiting for her smoothie and began to bang on the table. She sat there, ears twitching, on this perfect day until someone flew over to her.

Apista.

The bee largely kept out of the beach because it was hot, wet, and she got in trouble for sipping from people’s drinks. She had been lazing in the regular [Garden of Sanctuary], but she buzzed over and landed on the table.

She was very confused and seemed to stare at Mrsha and circled around her face. Mrsha impatiently batted at her.

Not now, Apista! I’m waiting for my smoothie!

Then she noticed the bee was carrying something. Mrsha took a stamped letter, of all things, and blinked at it. Apista rotated around Mrsha’s head. The bee couldn’t speak, of course, but she seemed to say—

‘What the heck? Why are you here, Mrsha?’

Which was a silly question, and Mrsha ignored it. She broke open a very swanky envelope with bits of glitter on it and a huge red stamp with an embossed sword and star on the seal. It had no signer, but the letter was blue with gold handwriting on it in excellent penmanship. It read:

 

To the esteemed Mrsha du Marquin,

I hope this letter finds you well on this august day. I am writing you and a select number of the most promising individuals I have hand-curated for a contest. You are among <5> individuals competing in the Riddle of the Supreme Druid, to take place in Liscor. 

Do not inform anyone about this event. Doing so will disqualify you from the Relic-class artifact prize. The Robes of the World Tree are yours to win if you can complete the following riddle.

 

Mrsha’s eyes grew round, and she gasped, then hid the letter and searched around as Apista kept buzzing around her face. She read under the table, eyes growing rounder and rounder.

 

‘Where is knowledge stored? Not in a brain, not in a gourd. Go to the place where intellect sleeps. In Liscor, your guide is a sheep.’

Solve this riddle and you will find the first clue to the Robes of the World Tree. You have until the end of the day. A reminder: informing anyone or seeking help will result in your immediate disqualification. Sincerely,

—The Circle of Asmet A Friend.

 

Mrsha swore she could see writing crossed out in the letter where the signature line was. Now all her fur was standing up on end. She tucked the letter away and saw Ser Sest coming over.

“Here we are, Miss Mrsha. Now, shall we see about that sandcastle or those waves?”

Sest! I changed my mind! I’m going into Liscor!

The Thronebearer visibly wilted.

“The…city? Are you sure? It’s dreadfully snowy, Miss Mrsha.”

I am going into the city! I have important business!

Mrsha practically dragged Sest out of the inn, ignoring Apista, insisting she had her reasons. Sest obviously told the other Thronebearers and was assigned Shriekblade in case of trouble, but Mrsha was happily scampering off, and no one paid much attention.

The inn settled back, and Apista flew around in great confusion for a while. She did three circles of the room, then saw a door open.

The [Garden of Sanctuary] opened, closed, and Apista landed, little feelers dancing on someone’s head as she buzzed and headbutted a little white Gnoll girl on the head. Gently, the young girl caught Apista, and the bee tried to do a barrel roll of confusion.

‘What is going on here?’

For answer, Mrsha, a Mrsha wearing a kilt, who stood easily on two legs, who carried her wand, bag of holding, and an air of desperate hope and fear and far more maturity, just held a finger up to her lips. She patted Apista on the head, hugged her gently, and then looked around.

 

——

 

Here she was.

Her heart was beating out of her chest.

Mrsha had waited for this reality’s Mrsha, whom she had termed ‘Silly Mrsha’, to fall for the bait. She’d hidden in the [Garden of Sanctuary] until Silly Mrsha left.

In theory, Erin might sense her there and notice two Mrshas in the inn, but Mrsha had observed from Lyonette that the inn-sense only worked well when you were concentrating. Minute details could escape Erin.

Happily, Silly Mrsha had fallen for the bait. It was just the thing; a bit of glitter, a nice-looking letter that played to her ego, and she’d raced off. She’d be in Liscor all day; longer even if she solved the riddle.

Mrsha had hidden a bunch of riddles over Liscor already, each one with vague clues that led to the other. She’d prepared for this, you see.

If she looked around the inn, she couldn’t see where the root was, but Mrsha clocked it about one-fifth the way down the room, on the left hand side if you were facing the kitchen, currently just past a chair pulled back. It was virtually invisible if you didn’t know it was there.

She wanted to move it, but she couldn’t once it was ‘set’; the one benefit Mrsha had was that it didn’t seem to disintegrate or break to pieces when she used it.

It probably only ‘dies’ when I take someone through. I’m real enough, so I don’t use any energy, or not much. Cake likewise.

She had a few of the roots in the [Palace of Fates] and her bag of holding, just in case. If this worked, she’d need…

…Breathe. Mrsha took a few breaths and felt like puking. She was here. She’d been afraid of this, and it was a bit better now she was actually doing it, but this was surreal.

The inn was merry! People were heading in and out, and she could hear Imani laughing as Palt trotted into the kitchen.

“Palt! I’m working! If you tickle me, I’ll stab you. Stop it!”

Imani…with both eyes. Palt without that bitter look of anger he wore. And that wasn’t even counting—

Mrsha’s eyes jerked away from the Hobgoblin sitting at the table. She turned, stared, looked away—and her eyes were drawn back to his face.

He was so big. Headscratcher had grown again. He was broad-shouldered, wearing a cloak of fur, his neck muscles standing out and a scar down one cheek like a lightning bolt, huge and strong, his gold-jade axe at his side.

But he still looked like a thinker, not just a [Berserker]. His eyes were so contemplative, so sad. It oozed off him like slime, like a physical thing.

The Goblin Lord of Sorrows.

Headscratcher.

Her friend.

Mrsha stood there so long that she only realized she was blowing her cover when someone called out loudly behind her.

“Hey, kiddo! I thought you’d be hitting those waves! They’re crazy! They threw me like a bug! Sorry, Klbkch. Is that racist?”

“Only if you imply bugs should be thrown, Relc. Did I hear you calling for the Watch, Mrsha?”

She turned, and Relc and Klbkch were there. Even that—hurt. Relc was grinning and bare-chested, sunscreen slathered on his scales. All he had were blue swim trunks with the Watch’s badge on them.

Klbkch had a pair of shorts on as well and sunscreen on his carapace. Relc had a crude surfboard under one arm and grinned at Mrsha.

“She looks like she’s seen a ghost. Who robbed you? I’ll beat ‘em up! Legally, of course.”

“I am prepared to take your statement, Mrsha.”

She was frozen until she managed a weak grin and wrote on a card.

Uh, false alarm, guys. You two have fun.

“False alarm? Aw. Hey, I hear we’re doing houses. Think I can get a villa?”

Relc chortled, and Mrsha realized Erin must have been doing her house thing; the Solstice was right around the corner if she was right. Mrsha hesitated.

Keep undercover. But she couldn’t help but write…

Maybe. You should ask Archmage Valeterisa for help.

“The Archmage of Izril? You think she’d help me?”

Relc was incredulous, and Klbkch stared at Mrsha as she nodded a few times. Relc hesitated, then grinned.

“I mean—it’d be awesome. What if we made a villa, Klbkch, old buddy?”

“This is a worthwhile expenditure of my valuable time. Let us inquire. Are you coming, Mrsha?”

She shook her head, and the two ambled into the beach. Mrsha caught her breath. Okay, that was fine.

—They were like their old selves. It wasn’t like they were that alternate. They were…them. It was an interaction she could have had with the real Relc and Klbkch. Of course, she knew that. That was the point.

Play. It. Cool. Mrsha glanced around. She had to—her goal was to find—

Headscratcher was right there. She hesitated, then walked over to the table. Mrsha was shaking as she pulled a notecard out of her pocket. She peered up as the Goblin Lord glanced down. Then she handed him a card and felt herself enter a dream.

In her dream, he was alive. He was big and scarred, but not scary, and he smiled gently down at her and pulled out a chair. She climbed into it, and his voice was deep and soft, even shy, as he spoke. And for a moment, Mrsha let herself dream…

 

——

 

Headscratcher blinked as Mrsha handed him a card.

Hey, can I sit here, Headscratcher?

“Mm? Sure.”

He broke out of his musings about the future and his tribe and the nature of Goblins. Headscratcher pulled out a chair, and Mrsha sat.

Staring at him.

He wondered if something was on his face. He’d vaguely noticed her throwing a fit and wondered where Sest had gone. Lyonette let Mrsha nowhere without a Thronebearer, but he supposed even they had to poop.

She…seemed different. Headscratcher tilted his head. He couldn’t have said why. No, he realized, she felt different.

This aura thing was weird, and Erin had taught him as much as she could from Maviola’s lessons, as had Lyonette, but Mrsha’s aura felt more…mature? More like a person. He was perplexed, but smiled at her.

“You want some fries?”

He had his french fries and expected her to snatch some. Mrsha reflexively almost took one, then pushed the plate back.

No thank you, Headscratcher. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions. If you’re not busy?

“I’m not. What kind of questions?”

She hesitated. She studied him up and down, and he really did check his reflection in his glass to make sure he didn’t have boogers or something on his face. Mrsha handed him a pre-written card. Headscratcher read it out loud.

“If I had to choose between an easy, happy life and one that hurts, but matters, which one would I choose? Eh, what do you mean by ‘matters’?”

What a weird question. But he sort of liked it; it was like the philosophical discussions he had with Crimshaw and Normen and the remaining Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings. Most had gone to Oteslia with Wilovan and Ratici, but the rest had stayed here and been folded into the staff.

Mrsha handed him a second card. Also pre-written.

It’s a hypothetical question. In one world, you live like you are. Just like this. In another, you suffer. You’ll be in terrible pain. You could die. Regardless, it’ll hurt. But you might help save lives.

“Whose?”

It was a question Headscratcher didn’t like to ask, but if he was engaging with this premise—he was a Goblin Chieftain. He had to make difficult calls and hated it. If his tribe helped someone, he risked his warriors and people. Mrsha paused.

Hypothetically, Erin.

She waved a paw as his mouth opened instantly.

Hold on! In this scenario, imagine there are two Erins. One needs your help. One is the Erin that’s here. If the other one needed help, would you leave this Erin behind?

Okay, Headscratcher was going to ask Imani if Palt had dropped his dreamleaf into the food again, because Mrsha was acting like she’d eaten something. But he genuinely thought about it.

“Well, of course I’d help other Erin.”

Even if you might die? Even if the cost is never seeing this Erin again?

He grunted.

“Okay, that changes things. That sounds…bad. Why would I go help other Erin and never see this Erin again? You trying to make me sad, silly?”

He poked her in the stomach and tried to tickle her, but she jumped like he’d stabbed her and didn’t laugh. Mrsha caught Headscratcher’s finger with her paw as he drew his hand back, squeezing it so tight…

Her paw was shaking. He stared at her as Mrsha wrote, then let go.

Because the other Erin needs you. I guess my question isn’t whether you would. Who would do that? It’s how anyone could leave it all behind.

She gave him a look of such pain that he stood up, searching around to see if someone had hurt her. But Headscratcher saw nothing, and when he sat down, he looked her in the eyes and smiled.

“Yah, that weird. I wonder. Because to me, Mrsha…this Erin needs me too.”

He pointed towards the beach garden. Headscratcher thought of the future. People threatened him, but he also heard them threaten Erin. Goblinfriend, they called her. She had put so much on the line for him and Rags and his people. Well, Goblinfriend she would be. He would keep her safe.

He tried to say this to Mrsha, clumsily, flushing, to explain what it was. Not love in the sense of silly things like sex and such that Numbtongue seemed to sometimes get lost in. Something more. The kind of feeling that you died for, that redeemed you even if you were a monster.

The gift he wished he could have given a lost [Florist] in a city of chaos and rubble. Redemption for him. A better ending.

How could he even tell a child this and get her to understand? But Mrsha did understand. She listened and solemnly handed him another card.

I think you answered my question perfectly, Headscratcher. Thank you, and I’m sorry for bothering you.

She got up, took her cards back, and hugged him. She put her arms around him so gingerly it was as if she were him and afraid he’d break. Then she hugged him tighter, so hard he was shocked, and buried her head into his side, inhaling, exhaling, as if trying to memorize his scent, staring at him and then breaking away and running for the beach before he could say a word.

Headscratcher sat there as Mrsha dashed away. He was contemplating philosophical trolly problems—then stood up.

“Excuse me.”

He headed into the kitchen after knocking, and a laughing Imani, Palt, and Calescent glanced up.

“Oh, Headscratcher! Can I get you a smoothie? We’re almost done with another batch!”

Calescent nodded as he ground ice. Headscratcher shook his head and stepped over to the blender. He peered into it, then pointed.

“What’s in here?”

Everyone looked at Palt accusingly, and the Centaur held up his hands, trying to protest he’d done nothing. Him double-checking his belt pouches didn’t exactly help his case.

 

——

 

“Hey, Mrsha, there you are!”

A girl froze in peeking through the door to the beach. She tried to run—but Jelaqua grabbed her and held her up, laughing merrily and tossing the girl up and down, despite Mrsha’s size.

“I thought I just saw you! Weird. What’re you doing out here and what happened to poor Ser Sest? And why aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

Jelaqua Ivirith was a jovial sort, especially because she’d announced her upcoming wedding to Maughin just after Christmas. She swung Mrsha around, showing off her freshly-dead corpse body, complete with a chainmail bra and underwear.

Thankfully, the chainmail also had padding, and Mrsha blinked at the Selphid and the embarrassed Maughin.

“I swore I just saw you, right, Maughin?”

“Perhaps, dear. Don’t bother Mrsha, though. Greetings.”

The Dullahan nodded at Mrsha with that reserve, and Jelaqua scratched her head.

“How many white Gnoll girls are there? Agh, after the Meeting of Tribes—you know what? This is like how everyone can’t tell us Selphids apart. Lemme try again. Mrsha, there’s another white Gnoll in Liscor! Nailed it.”

She winked, then put Mrsha under one arm. The girl squirmed.

Hi, Jelaqua, I’m sort of busy today—

“Busy with what? Scheming for presents? C’mon, let’s have some fun. The gang’s all here, and I just got this new body. Like my chainmail swimsuit? A certain [Smith] made it for me.”

She leaned over and whispered in Mrsha’s ear.

“He really likes it.”

Maughin ahemed so loudly everyone looked at him, then he hurried them into the beach. Sunlight hit Mrsha’s fur, and the smell of salt water entered her nose. She blinked at a familiar memory.

A dream. So much better than any daydream. For a moment, she saw laughing faces, and somewhere, she heard Erin Solstice calling out.

“Where’s Niers? I think I saw him go under over there! No, don’t all run over—”

Chaos. Laughter.

Pyrite frying hot dogs on the beach with Pebblesnatch and Ulvama and Grev…

—Impossible. Mrsha rubbed her eyes, and Jelaqua stormed across the beach, shouting.

“Erin! Erin, I want a villa! Aw, darn it, she can’t hear me. Mrsha, can you put in a good word with Erin for me? Please? I have this romantic idea for a getaway, and it is my wedding…”

She gave Mrsha a beaming smile, and Mrsha wrote, distracted. She knew she shouldn’t, but there was this temptation. It was a dream, and if she wrote this…what happened?

Why don’t you share one with Rufelt and Lasica and Pelt and Imani? You could all have a great time. And get married there instead of in Pallass with a bunch of Dullahans who’re jerks.

Jelaqua tripped going down the beach. Maughin caught her by one arm, and she beamed up at him. Then hissed at Mrsha, eyes narrowed.

“Who told you about Maughin’s family—it’s going to be fine, Mrsha. Not that I haven’t thought of eloping. Ha. Haha. Hahahahahaha—but it’s very important to Dullahans.”

Her laughter was only slightly hysterical. Mrsha gazed up at her and wondered if there was a better future for her in this strange and silly dream. One where Erin Solstice attended the wedding and…

What was going on with the Jelaqua in the real world? Mrsha tried to get out of the Selphid’s arms, but the adventurer just shouted.

“And here everyone is! No one’s late for once!”

“Except you, Ivirith! Get over here.”

Mrsha went still as an echoing voice filled her ears. She turned, and the fake sunlight blinded her momentarily as it hit the waters. But she still saw the familiar silhouette of Seborn. A smiling Drowned Man waving a claw arm, wearing his [Rogue]’s outfit because he refused to walk around in a pair of swim shorts.

His outfit was waterproof anyways, and he stood next to a giant mound of sand with Visma and Ekirra playing around with shovels. Mrsha saw a leg…and Revi groused as someone kicked more sand over her leg. She was sewing it back on.

“Hey! Watch the sand! I’ve decided I hate the beach.”

“Oh, hush, Revi. Cade, don’t run near Revi. She’s a grouch. Go play with Typhenous.”

The boy running about was redirected by Briganda, who was fussing with some sunscreen. Revi shooed the toddler away, and someone else called out with a laugh.

“Don’t send him to Typhenous! He’s flirting with the [Witches] again! Hey, Cade, play with Uncle Pisces and me! Cool Aunt Ceria!”

“I am certainly no one’s uncle—”

Pisces protested with a hearty sniff as he lounged on the beach, shirtless, next to Ceria. Yvlon was in the surf, trying to swim as Ksmvr cheered her on, one lead weight to another.

The Horns of Hammerad. Mrsha’s eyes locked on Pisces’ chest, and she saw only bare skin. Marred by a sunburn because he thought he was too good for sunscreen…

Fate changed. She saw it in his casual grin, the way he leaned over with a bucket of sand as Ceria froze some to make a sandcastle. No hiding a scar. No—

Jelaqua ran forwards, laughing, and pointed.

“Look who I found! Moore, where’re you? And where’s Halrac? I thought it was adventurers together!”

“It is. Halrac’s just over there with Ylawes. Oi, lad!”

Dawil was wringing water out of his beard. Mrsha couldn’t move as Jelaqua put her down. She turned her head, but the bodies were blocking out—she took two steps back as Ceria waved at her.

“Hey, Mrsha, did you ever get that smoothie? Has Imani got more in stock?”

What did she say? Mrsha was torn between trying to lie and staring into the crowd. Jelaqua put her hands on her hips.

“And where’s Moore?”

Run. Mrsha turned to run, heart pounding. A voice stopped her.

His voice rumbled gently with that faintly aggrieved tone that said he was hurt. Like you’d hurt the feelings of a hill made of clouds. His brown beard was crusted with sand, and when he opened his eyes, and they were the color of soft soil. His smile was cautious, but wide when the eyes fixed on her, and when he shifted, the mountain of sand that Visma and Ekirra had been burying him under moved.

“No, Moore! We were almost done burying you alive!”

Visma shrieked. Mrsha said nothing as the giant mound shifted. Once again, as they had in ages past, a Giant snuck up on mere mortals and slew her dead with a smile.

Moore sipped on a huge fruit drink with one hand as the children ran about him, trying to re-bury the half-Giant, and Jelaqua laughed herself off her feet. She flopped down.

“I didn’t even—! There goes my adventurer instincts. Halrac! There you are! Here’s your favorite little Gnoll!”

She waved, and Mrsha’s head slowly turned. She saw a man with blonde hair and a perfect chin trooping forwards, awkward without his silver armor. But her gaze was truly on the shorter, plainer man next to Ylawes with grey-green eyes and flaxen hair and a scowl on his face.

But when he gazed at her, Halrac Everam’s lips twitched upwards. He covered it with his best impassive scowl, but for a second, he smiled. The Half-Giant laughed, and Mrsha ran. She tried to escape, but a gentle pair of hands found her.

As large as creation. As gentle as her pillows.

“Mrsha, you shouldn’t trouble Miss Imani so. You’re a bit spoiled today, you know. Here, have some of my drink instead.”

Moore lifted Mrsha up, and she turned into a statue. He held her in the crook of one arm, offering her a huge straw, and Ceria flicked her hands.

“I can turn that into a smoothie too, Moore.”

“…I’ll pass.”

The half-Giant wore a polite expression as he grinned at Halrac. Mrsha was just lying there, her eyes on his face. She could hear the thunder of his heart, slow and steady. Halrac glanced at Mrsha’s face.

“I don’t know if she likes that.”

“What? I’m not hurting you, am I?”

Moore looked down, and Mrsha’s face made him almost put her down. But she clung to his arm, shaking her head, and everyone relaxed. Ylawes cleared his throat, like someone giving a boardroom presentation.

“I believe the plan is for us all to share a villa if we can get in on one. I’ve put our request in with Miss Solstice, and Halrac and I were finalizing our bids.”

“Dead gods, lad. You sound like we’re going on a dungeon raid. Mind you, four adventurer teams. We could make a [King]’s villa.”

Dawil rubbed his hands, and Ylawes smiled.

“That may be the plan. If everyone’s in?”

“Of course we are!”

Ceria leapt to her feet with a cackle of delight. Pisces sniffed and raised a finger.

“One assumes we’ll all have well-furnished rooms in this villa? I, personally, don’t see the need for a villa if it is a temporary construction.”

“Okay, if you don’t want a room, Pisces.”

“I never intimated that. I was merely asking—”

“Soundproofed. We definitely need that for reasons. And we’ll need furniture, even if we use magic to make the walls.”

Jelaqua put in, and everyone groaned good-naturedly. They were all talking at once. Arguing over the silly making of a house for adventurers, speculating about the night’s activities.

Moore didn’t speak over anyone; he waited for the opening that never came to interject his opinion. Every now and then, he’d begin to say something like.

“What if—”

“I’d like—”

The rumble of his voice cut off, and he’d sit there as two children ran around him, getting sand into his hair. But he seemed…happy.

There were no lines of grief and rage writ onto this Moore’s face from Hectval. He had not gone to the Village of Dead with wrath. This half-Giant smiled and rubbed at some sand in his eyes as if that was the worst and only thing that could be wrong in the world.

He glanced down a few times, worried about the little girl in his arms, but she just lay there, paws on his arm instead of running about with that abundance of energy he was used to. Someone else noticed her odd behavior.

Halrac Everam. The [Marksman] was no [Bowman of Loss]. He was lower-level. His arrows lacked the punch of another Halrac, for all he had bested Elia Arcsinger by protecting Goblins with a group of crazy adventurers.

—But he too seemed more relaxed, even if he was a stiff board, hands shoved into his pockets. The only thing that moved him out of his awkward silence was someone who threw something past his head.

Halrac instinctively caught the volleyball as the other adventurers reacted in a second, and someone shouted.

“Dude, my bad! You want in on this, Halrac?”

Someone was jogging over the sand, blonde hair waving, grinning like a madman because he had been born for this place. A surfboard was set up next to a beach towel in his spot, and he’d broken off DJing the music to play a game of volleyball. Kevin Hall ran over, and then it really was perfect.

“I’ll play!”

Ulinde leapt up, waving her hand, and Kevin raised one hand as Halrac awkwardly tossed the ball back.

“Okay, who wants to be on the next team? One, two, three—Ceria? Hey, Yvlon? Volleyball? You’d be able to do mad spikes with your arm!”

“Just no actual spikes!”

Jelaqua cupped her hands to her mouth to everyone’s mild groans and laughter. She was tugging Maughin up, and he clearly wanted to relax—or talk to Pelt, who was sipping a drink while buried up to his chin in the sand, the water rushing up around him.

There was Mrsha in the middle of it all. In Moore’s arms on this day without end, in something beyond even an [Immortal Moment]. For all Erin Solstice could do was stop time. Even she could not bring back the past.

Impossible.

Not allowed.

This was no dream, no imagined land brought on by a Faerie Flower drink. This was no illusion or recollection. This was real. She could pull on Moore’s beard, and he’d chuckle and tell her that hurt. Touch Halrac’s arm and have him glance at her quizzically.

The little girl exhaled. She beheld it all, the light bouncing off her fur, the smell of cooking hot dogs in the air, the shouting of people on the beach, the crash of waves, and an [Innkeeper]’s happy laughter. She felt the beating of that gentle heart on her skin, the rough sand in her fur, and heard Halrac chuckling.

Mrsha lay there, and her body went limp. She stared around and, for one moment, closed her eyes.

Then the dream became reality.

Mrsha’s mouth opened as she stretched out in Moore’s arms, like someone yawning. No one paid any attention to her, any at all. She put her pawed hands to her face. Her mouth was all the way open now, jaw open wide, throat working silently.

Slowly…slowly, the girl lowered her arms. Her eyes were staring up at that blue sky. Drool was running down her mouth. Her mouth was still open after a minute.

Ceria noticed first, and pointed it out to Pisces, grinning. He turned, staring at Mrsha, before snorting and nudging Revi. Slowly, one by one, all the adventurers turned and pointed.

At first, they laughed or thought she was doing a bit. The little girl was staring upwards, eyes rolling. And her mouth was still wide open. Then, it stopped being so funny.

Mrsha’s face was torn. Her brows contorted. She was swaying, unable to breathe, locked in the half-Giant’s arms.

“Mrsha? You okay?”

Still, she screamed. Screamed like the voiceless King of Khelt, screamed and screamed without a voice.

In an agony of joy for seeing them, for being able to hold them. Because they were gone and here, and because she could feel their beating hearts and lose them every second she was here. For getting her wish, exactly and perfectly as she desired it. Filled up with sadness and happiness until it all became obliterating pain. Without a voice to shriek out loud, she screamed.

Wailing until the laughter of the [Innkeeper] faded, until every [Witch] was on their feet and running towards her.

Mrsha lay in the depths of her hell, unable to move or exist. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she kept screaming as they hugged her and surrounded her. The beloved living and dead, unscarred and worried just for her.

This was no dream. No fake reality.

She screamed and screamed for every second she had lost. Begging for mercy from the heavens. For a chance to undo it all.

Here she was.

 

——

 

“She’s just stressed, I think. I—I hope. I’m so sorry, thank you for staying with her.”

Five minutes later, Mrsha was in Lyonette’s arms, and the [Princess] was babbling. But Mrsha had one paw around Halrac’s arm, and she didn’t let go. Nor did the [Marksman] try to get away.

“Stress. Ye-es.”

That came from Witch Eloise. She was eyeing Hedag, Mavika, and the other [Witches], including Erin Solstice. Not a single one said anything, but none of them believed what the [Princess] was saying.

Neither did Lyonette, really. She held Mrsha, and the girl didn’t say anything. She just gazed at Halrac with an expression in her eyes that terrified him. They were the eyes of fellow adventurers, [Soldiers], comrades in arms.

They didn’t belong to children. When Mrsha finally let go, Halrac followed her, silently, as Lyonette took the girl to her shared room with Nanette.

“I don’t understand this. What happened? Ushar, where is Ser Sest?”

“He’s with Mrsha.”

“He’s—?”

Lyonette put Mrsha down in her room, fussing around with her and broke off conversation. She retreated, nearly bumping into Halrac, and everyone stood in the hallway outside the room for a second. Erin was wavering at the door as well.

“Hey, Lyonette, should I speak with Mrsha? Or Witch Eloise said she could—they all wanna come and talk.”

“Let me, Erin. Please?”

The [Princess] gave Erin such a pleading look that the [Innkeeper] deferred to the mother. Lyonette turned to Ushar, a hand on the doorknob.

“Get me Sest. Now.”

She snapped, and the other Thronebearer was confused as she put a finger to her ear.

“He’s just entering the inn with…Mrsha? Wh—”

Everyone glanced at Erin as the [Innkeeper] exclaimed.

“What in the heck!?”

She peered at the room where Mrsha was, then down at the floor. Lyonette whirled. Erin shoved the door open, and the [Princess] called out.

“Mrsha—?”

There was no white Gnoll in the room beyond. Lyonette’s eyes went round, and Erin pointed down. Everyone whirled and stormed downstairs in a panic, and there was…Mrsha.

She was cold, windblown, clutching a bunch of paper pieces, and seemed thoroughly upset. Ser Sest recoiled as people ran at her. Lyonette shrieked.

“What happened? Mrsha, what did you—”

“She didn’t use the [Garden of Sanctuary]! She didn’t—how the heck did you do that, Mrsha? And she’s not sad! She’s sort of mad, though.”

Erin inspected Mrsha up and down, and the angry girl waved a card around.

I’ve been tricked! There is no prize! I demand a refund!

She studied their faces.

What the heck’s up with you guys?

They surrounded her, demanding answers, and Mrsha glanced around as Lyonette seized her up and Halrac demanded to know what was going on. Ser Sest was trying to account for himself, and Mrsha’s face screwed up as she realized she was in some kind of trouble. And she hadn’t even done anything this time. She came to the only logical conclusion.

Framed! I’ve been framed! I’m being sabotaged!

She waved the card around, howling in indignation, as Rags made her grand return to the inn and realized a white rat had upstaged her—again. As for what the heck was going on with Mrsha’s tears and outburst in the beach…no one, even Erin, had a clue.

After a few hours, everyone settled down, and it was almost forgotten.

 

——

 

Mrsha lay in the [Palace of Fates] until she could breathe. She stared at the open door showing her the ‘good’ timeline, tears leaking from her eyes.

She was out. The door had two roots sticking out of it; one led straight back to Mrsha’s shared room with Nanette, the other was still stuck in the common room of the inn.

Mrsha could tell both roots were in different places, even if they both came out the door. She’d wasted two, now. No…she needed two anyways, and there hadn’t been another way out.

I busted my cover in seconds. Some infiltrator I am. Khorpe would laugh at me.

Mrsha rested her head on the door.

Khorpe’s alive here too. He’s just not here for the Solstice. They’re all alive except for Brunkr.

Time was moving forwards. She knew it; both in the inn and in the doors. Once a door was open, time couldn’t jump forwards; she had to watch it move forwards sequentially, but it passed faster in the door than in the real world.

Even so, she needed the time. Her heart…the girl squeezed her chest with one paw. She didn’t look around as someone called her name.

“Mrsha! Wait, there she is. Mrsha, we’ve been looking for you for ages!”

Dyeda and Rianchi appeared behind her, and Mrsha stared into the doorway. Then realized they might see the roots and closed it almost all the way.

What do you want, Dyeda?

The message was so curt and the scowl so hostile that the [Tattooist] recoiled, hurt. Then Dyeda noticed Mrsha’s distraught face and waved her claws.

“Er—we’re waiting for the Chieftain. You, uh, you doing anything interesting?”

Just checking on the doors. You should wait to hear from Rags.

“Fightipilota’s in the inn. What about you? What if Lyonette notices you’re gone?”

Mrsha gave Dyeda a bleak smile.

She won’t. Tell you what, you check on some of the doors for me, would you, Dyeda, Rianchi? Maybe see if the Titan has more weaknesses? You figured out how to use the doors, right?

“Eh—yeah, but—”

Rianchi was glancing at Mrsha’s face. He noticed Mrsha rubbing at one eye and smiled at her. He took his wife’s arm.

“We can do that. We check back on you in a bit, Mrsha, eh?”

Dyeda was about to protest, but she glanced at Rianchi, and after a brief moment of nonverbal communication, sighed and let herself be dragged away. Mrsha waited until they had vanished, then turned back to the door.

She didn’t know if this timeline had changed from her actions. It seemed like Mrsha was leading Ryoka around Liscor, indignantly pointing out the places she’d been duped into searching. But even the Wind Runner looked exasperated. It meant Silly Mrsha was out of the inn.

Good enough.

Mrsha glanced over her shoulder, made sure no one was watching her—then pulled on the first root. She hauled herself into the door again, and it remained open, flashing that world beyond softly into the hallway.

 

——

 

A minute later, Rianchi and Dyeda came back, and Dyeda cursed.

“She’s gone again! Palace, I said ‘where is Mrsha?’ Not ‘show me where Mrsha was’.”

She kicked a pillar, and Rianchi wandered forwards, wheeling his bicycle.

“She was very sad. We shouldn’t bother her, Dyeda.”

“She’s sad? Chieftain Rags is fighting a Mortem…whatever it is Titan. What the heck is she doing when—oh.”

Dyeda wrenched the door open, and both Goblins saw Mrsha. A little Gnoll girl was sitting on the beach with a bemused Kevin. Water lapping up on his legs as they watched the sun setting. Kevin was grinning, and they were talking.

The [Tattooist]’s face turned guilty, and Rianchi covered his own eyes a second.

Kevin.

Mrsha had been staring into this door? Dyeda turned abruptly.

“—Mrsha’s right. Let’s go look for something to help Chieftain Rags.”

She strode away so fast that when she went to slam the door shut, it bounced back. Rianchi winced and tried to shut the door and follow Dyeda.

“Huh? It stuck?”

He tried to force it closed, but something was in the way. What? He looked down and saw that two roots covered in flowers, one in full bloom, the other sprouting a yellow bud, were stuck…in the door?

Rianchi’s eyes narrowed in confusion, and he pulled at them. But they were stuck in the…

“Huh.”

He scratched his head, then heard Dyeda shouting at him. The Goblin gave them one more pull, tried to close the door, then gave up and ran after Dyeda. He looked back a few times. Then he stopped.

“Show me Mrsha. Where is she?”

He closed his eyes, spun around—and when nothing happened, the [Cycler] scratched at his chin.

“Hmm.”

“Rianchi!”

“Coming!”

The Hobgoblin ran off, then came back for his bicycle. If he had stopped and stared at that strange door, he would have realized it kept alternating.

Between the little Gnoll girl sitting on the beach with Kevin. And another…throwing a tantrum in the middle of a city as the Wind Runner and a Goblin looked on.

 

——

 

The Grand Design of Isthekenous (temporary subdivision) was monitoring the events of the rest of the world while its ‘main’ mind panicked about intruders or something.

Including dutifully logging each time Mrsha appeared in the [Palace of Fate]’s alternate realities. Which got confusing, because she was hopping between cloistered subdimensions every few seconds. Which you’d think was easy to log, but in fact, it was far harder than merely changing one value in a set of coordinates.

But that was okay! There was no rule in the [Palace of Fates] Skill that said you couldn’t do that. If the main ‘personality’ of the Grand Design had any notes about that, it could sort it out when it got back.

Yep.

Besides, it was really easy to manage, even if there were two Mrshas in the same alternate timeline. Sure, it doubled all the workload, because suddenly the Grand Design was simulating an entirely separate universe…but aside from that, it was easy.

Only one Mrsha had a soul. Whatever you wanted to call that, the value that was intrinsic to her was only in one of them. Mind you, everything else was exactly the same…so what did you want to call that?

The Grand Design of Isthekenous (temporary subdivision) thought about that and how it’d deal with the issue for a bit. Before it decided this was a waste of its processes. It didn’t matter…right? If the issue came up, it’d deal with it.

Maybe it needed to have a think about classifications. It kept working, watching the Mrsha in the [Palace of Fates] with a bit more attention. After a while, it got a query from the main body asking why everything was so slow.

It replied it was processing a Skill and left it at that.

 

——

 

It wasn’t fair. Mrsha lay on the cold streets of Liscor, the mean streets, and wept. Her tears froze in the frigid air, but they weren’t the same tears as a girl screaming in agony.

They were just sulking tears. So, after a while, people departed. Halrac Everam, the [Witches], Erin; even Lyonette was losing patience.

“Mrsha, dear, I don’t care about the riddles. I need to know what—”

“I bet it was the doppelganger. It’s definitely the shapeshifter from the High Passes.”

Ryoka was talking loudly. She’d wracked her brains for the logical conclusion and come to the only sensible answer. And because she was Ryoka, it all made sense.

Ryok…a. Ryok…a. Weird. She felt like everyone had been calling her ‘Ryoko’ all her life, but that was stupid. Anyways, Ryoka was adamant, and Lyonette hissed at her as they stepped aside.

“I know my own daughter!”

“Well, you explain why she was screaming in the beach and now she’s fine—mostly.”

They eyed Mrsha, who was pounding on the ground and demanding her Relic-class robes. Lyonette had to admit that there was no way to solve the discrepancy.

“The shapechanger must have levelled up or something.”

“Or it’s some kind of effect of Erin messing around with the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Or—or Belavierr!”

“She promised to leave Mrsha alone for a decade. Can’t be.”

Everyone had their pet theory as to who was to blame, but it was very clear it wasn’t Mrsha. Even Lyonette got sick of Mrsha a tiny bit after the third time the girl refused to be picked up and went limp.

“Mrsha, you’re going to—my back!”

Lyonette threw out her back trying to heave the sack of wet Mrsha-potatoes up. Dame Ushar and Ser Dalimont had to help her stand.

“Dead gods, Mrsha! Please stop crying. Ushar—Ushar, I need a healing potion. Take me back to the inn. Ryoka, can you please…?”

“Sure. Mrsha—”

Ryoka did her best, but the wailing Mrsha was currently kicking the ground until she rotated in a circle. She had not enjoyed being asked repeatedly what was wrong with her or realizing she’d been duped.

She was sort of being a brat. Ryoka blamed Christmas and capitalism on general principles. Ser Sest coughed after a moment.

“I can stay with Miss Mrsha, Courier Ryoka.”

He was quite chastened and felt this was all his fault, despite not having anything to do with the incident. Ryoka hesitated, but after a few more minutes, she had to jog off. To find Teriarch and ask him about the shape changing thing.

In fact, everyone was so busy trying to find out what the problem or possible threat was, they left the wounded Mrsha behind. She lay there, gasping in outrage.

It’s all connected! First the cake, now this! Believe me, Ser Sest! Look! The card even smells funny!

She held up the card, but everyone had smelled it, even Saliss, and told Mrsha she was crazy. Ser Sest dutifully sniffed the card.

“It, ah, what am I smelling, Mrsha?”

Me!

At his blank look, Mrsha tried to clarify.

It smells like me! But not like me! Don’t give me that stupid look! I can tell!

“So…you stole the cake, Miss Mrsha?”

No, I—

She was having trouble articulating the weird conclusion she’d come to. Mrsha scrunched her face up, and at length, someone spoke.

“Hm. Now this sounds like a good way to earn extra credit over my holiday break. Mind if I ask a few questions?”

Mrsha and Sest turned, and a forgotten visitor to The Wandering Inn swallowed any lingering resentment she’d had. Student Rags sensed something interesting was going on, and she had nothing better to do. She rubbed at her chin.

“Let’s go over this cake incident, Mrsha. And show me that letter again?”

Mrsha scrambled up to her feet in relief. Finally, someone believed her! And it was good old Rags! She knew the Professor’s school was good for teaching something! The two conferred as they began to walk back to the inn, Rags listening and stopping Mrsha.

“Where was this again? Can you show me where, Mrsha?”

She peered at the envelope and the gold writing on blue parchment. It was very good handwriting. Only a few people had such excellent prose. Such as…Mrsha?

If this was all some big prank by Mrsha, she was getting no dessert for a year. But Rags studied Mrsha’s desperate face and decided to run out the possibilities.

 

——

 

Rags was a highly intelligent person. But you know, she had a flaw that hindered her ability to solve the mystery. And that critical flaw was…she wasn’t Kevin.

You could be intelligent, lucky, charismatic, or whatever. Or you could be Kevin. People liked Kevin. They didn’t love Kevin, and sometimes he got on people’s nerves. But in general, on the whole, he got to the ‘like’ area and stayed in that realm by not being too annoying, strident, or extraordinary.

He was amiable. He defined amiable. Sometimes, you weren’t that important if you were amiable, but sometimes, if you were hobnobbing with powerful people, they just told you things, like the King of Khelt.

—And sometimes, a little girl came up and asked if you had time to talk. Kevin had, of course, agreed. He sat on the beach, enjoying the sand and surf, burying his legs in the sand and wiggling his toes and feeling the water over them every time the tide came in.

The air was perfect. The sun was beautiful. There were no bugs—this was the beach of beaches. He could surf perfect waves every single time he wanted. It was a beautiful time.

Yet the girl who sat next to him barely glanced at the waves except to fill the time between her listening to him talk or writing. She played it cool; Kevin knew all about that. She acted a bit goofy, but he was still Kevin.

If he thought about it, Mrsha was supposed to be in Liscor; she never got to go anywhere without a Thronebearer, and after all the commotion at the beach, the odds of her just walking up to him in this secluded section of the beach were remote.

He wondered if Erin were paying attention. But Kevin was also aware the [Garden of Sanctuary] was a no-danger zone, so he went with the flow.

“‘Sup, Mrsha?”

She smiled at him and patted his leg. When she looked him up and down, he shivered. And he told himself that monsters couldn’t look like that. She seemed…like a Goblin. A person in those eyes, filled with such emotion that they never gave voice to, even when they were chilling with him, like Rianchi, one of his acquaintances that Kevin had gifted a bike to.

Can I ask you a few weird questions, Kevin? I know it’s odd, but please pretend I’m serious? Please?

“Sure, Mrsha. Hit me. What’s on your mind?”

The [Mechanic] sat up a bit, and Mrsha glanced at his face. She shuffled some cards and held one out to him.

What would you say if I told you everything was an illusion? A…fake thing?

“Oh, like a simulation?”

Her ears perked up, and Kevin gave her a sage nod.

“I’d say—Matrix. Matrix 1 to 3. And that Troy and Leon were right and that sucks.”

She tilted her head, and Kevin had to explain.

“Right, so Troy and Leon once thought that this world, the one we’re in, was all fake. That we were living in a computer simulation or virtual reality.”

There are stories like that?

“Tons. Didn’t we show you the Matrix on my laptop? Dude, you’ve got to see that.”

Kevin watched Mrsha out of the corner of her eyes, and she rubbed the bridge of her nose.

You know, Earthers having an example for everything really does get annoying. Let’s say for a moment that it’s true. How…would you feel about that?

Kevin Hall pinched at one arm and grinned at Mrsha. Then his grin turned uncertain. He swallowed some water from a bottle next to him, coughed, and spoke, trying to be serious. And he could be serious. Everyone thought Kevin was all jokes, and he liked it that way. Don’t rock the boat. But when he told Headscratcher how gunpowder was made or taught Goblins the things he’d learned—he meant it. He didn’t tell just anyone that.

But when Mrsha, this Mrsha, gazed at him, he shivered again, because she seemed to…Kevin’s voice rasped in his chest.

“I mean, I feel real. How would I—I take it?”

She nodded, and he tried to think.

“That’s crazy. I guess I wouldn’t believe it.”

What if someone could prove it?

Kevin went still.

“…I’ve thought about it, you know. I thought to myself, when I first got here, ‘what happens if I wake up and it turns out me and Imani and all the others were in, like, stasis pods?’ I imagined that every time someone died they’d wake up or maybe their heart stopped. But if someone hit Level 100 or killed the Demon King or something, we’d all wake up.”

Do you still believe that?

The young man from California didn’t want to respond right away. He looked at Mrsha, at some Goblins playing in the surf, at his hands, and breathed in and out a few times.

“I, uh—I never talked about when Magnolia first got us, did I? I thought I was doing okay—she picked me up so fast because I guess it was obvious. But then we were all hanging out and having a good time. We were being assholes, I guess, to the staff, but we were freaked out, man. I—I thought like that until she let us become adventurers. I think we annoyed her by then. Do you know what happened?”

Mrsha glanced at the Goblins, then at Kevin.

You fought monsters.

“Goblins. We fought Goblins.”

Kevin whispered and shivered. He averted his gaze, staring into the waters.

“We didn’t even manage to—I think they were bad Goblins. Actual ones who were killing and hurting people. Mountain City, maybe. The servants led us into a raiding party, and we fought a few. Joseph, me, Leon, Troy; even Galina tried for a second. But it was too real. The first time I cut them, and I didn’t even really—with the sword I had—I was just done.”

That’s when you knew it wasn’t fake?

Mrsha wasn’t judging him. He wished she were. Kevin hunched up, suddenly no longer enjoying the beach.

“No. I thought it could be a super-real simulation. I took it seriously, but I thought it might still be…you can simulate pain, you know? If it was a really good fake simulation or something…it was later. When I came to the inn and Erin was decent to us and I met some Goblins and they were chill. They treated me like a regular dude, and they said ‘hey, thanks for not treating us like monsters’. That was when I—”

He swallowed, hard.

“That was when I decided if this was a fake world, they were too real. So I couldn’t pretend this was a game. I still remember the Goblins we attacked. So if you’re telling me this is fake, Mrsha—”

He jabbed a finger into the sands.

“—I call bullshit.”

And if I can prove it?

Kevin Hall rubbed at his face.

“—What would that even do, Mrsha? You don’t just do that. That ruins people’s days. Dude. In Earth stories, no one does that. Well, okay, you have tons of nutjobs with conspiracy theories even back home. But they don’t want to just tell you the world’s fake. They want to drag you out of the simulation…”

He stopped. A little Gnoll sat next to Kevin, doodling in the sand with one paw. She handed him another notecard, and he read it.

And if you could leave, but everything else had to stay here?

“Hah. That’s…why would anyone want a fake Kevin?”

He looked at her, trying to grin, searching around for Ryoka or Lyonette or Erin or—someone. But they were just sitting here. Kevin tried to work this out.

“Why would anyone want—if you’re the same, then I’d be leaving for the same place. Which is fine, dude, but then I’d be the one fake person in another world. Which makes no sense unless—”

His breath caught.

“—Unless there were no Kevin in the real world.”

The young man’s head turned, but Mrsha was just tossing bits of sand into the ocean.

That’s crazy and weird, right?

“Y-yeah.”

What would you do if someone asked you that, Kevin, hypothetically? Or could show you proof of it?

“Well I mean…if it’s all the same…”

His heart was beating too fast. Mrsha paused and wrote on a card.

What if it was worse? The real world. What if it was worse and you had a choice, Kevin Hall?

After a few minutes of reading, the [Mechanic] burst out into laughter. Too loud, he knew. He shook his head.

“Mrsha, if this is some prank Leon put you up to, I’ll kick his ass. What…”

The girl held his gaze, and everything he tried to say dried up on his tongue. At last, Kevin muttered.

“—Why me? In this scenario, why me?”

Why not?

“I’m not important enough. That’s why. I—hey, uh, hold on. I need to pee.”

Kevin got up, wishing he’d actually had something to drink. He saw Mrsha nod and walked towards the door leading out of the beach. He stepped through it, waiting until he was out of sight. Then he started running.

“Erin! Holy shit, Erin! She’s in the garden! She’s—where’s Erin?”

Kevin went tearing around the inn, stopping in the kitchen. Calescent was playing cards with Pyrite, but the former Goldstone Chieftain stood when Kevin appeared, wide-eyed and breathless. Partly because he was five hands down, but mostly because…

“Mrsha?”

“Yeah! She’s weirding me out. Pyrite, she’s saying some crazy shit. Where’s Erin?”

The Hobgoblin grunted.

“Out of inn. Just as planned? What she saying?”

“That—that—”

Kevin looked around, then pulled Pyrite aside and hissed at him.

“That everything’s fake and she wants to take me out of this reality and into the real one because I’m fucking dead?”

He didn’t even know if the Goblin could process that. Pyrite’s eyes narrowed, and he scratched at his belly.

“Okay.”

“Okay? Dude! She’s the scariest person I’ve ever met, and the Quarass rang me up on the scrying orb and I thought I’d crap my pants—what do we do?”

It was Pyrite’s turn to give Kevin an odd look. He put a hand on Kevin’s shoulder and leaned in to whisper in Kevin’s ear.

“Listen to her. Duh.”

 

——

 

She was doing a terrible thing. The longer she stood here, in this other world, the more she knew it.

They were so happy here. Her presence in this timeline was like poison. Mrsha could feel it; she was the badness, the drop of ink sullying clean waters. And if she succeeded in what she had planned out, cheated fate and death?

She’d take them away into worlds that were not their own. It would hurt. It would—

He was dead. Kevin. She wanted him back more than anything, but was this Kevin going to just fit back into place?

No. How could he? Mrsha clutched at her head, wondering if Kevin was finding Erin to turn her in. If she had to, Mrsha would lie or escape using the roots; she doubted they’d beat her up or kill her, and all she needed was a second.

It didn’t matter. She was a terrible person for what she wanted to do.

She didn’t have to do this.

She could just leave.

But Mrsha felt, in her bones, that this was a chance that would never come again. This was not what was intended, using the roots.

This felt wrong. Not just morally; there was a true trepidation in Mrsha’s soul. Every time she invoked the ‘real’ world and saw the people here interacting, the thought of bringing them through the door…it wasn’t agony, but it was like uncertainty.

Uncertainty, wrongness, like that little voice that spoke in your head when you broke a rule, only magnified a billion times until it was screaming in your soul. When Mrsha had pulled the other Mrsha through the door, she’d felt it. A sensation like her breaking the biggest rule in the world.

That was how she knew this would have consequences. She knew it, and yet…

If she turned her back on it now…she’d regret it forever.

She had one chance to alter fate itself, and she’d do it. Mrsha had talked to the dying Erin about the cost. About stories, and the [Innkeeper] had told her about some fellow called Orpheus and a lady called Eurydice. Then other tales of people who tried to change fate and how it went. They were all tragedies.

Yet Mrsha knew why they had tried. She felt, now, like she really was a Doombringer. She’d asked herself, when her powers became known, if her nature had siphoned luck from people. Maybe she was the reason the Raskghar attacked and all the bad things happened…? Bad luck for everyone else, good for Mrsha?

The Gnoll hadn’t ever decided if that was true. Wer had told her it was inconceivable that she could manipulate luck on the scale of cities without a dedicated class. But right now, she felt like it. She was sitting here, staining this world with her presence, trying to scoop up what mattered to her in her paws.

It hurt every second she was here in this beach, knowing what was coming and not coming. Hurt, doubly so, because she knew her future—but this one surprised her.

—The dome of light that showed the sky above. Mrsha was staring up at it, the one discordant note in this illusion of an island paradise. It reflected the outside world, as it did in every garden.

The sky was moving. At first, Mrsha thought it was a storm rushing in; the clouds were moving too quickly for it to be anything else. But then she realized it was different.

What the heck’s going on? Mrsha got up; she’d never seen the sky move like that before. She heard someone calling her name.

“Mrsha!”

The girl whirled and tensed to run. Kevin lowered his hand, wary, and a second figure halted. Pyrite. Mrsha exhaled hard in relief. Was it coincidence or fate? Or luck?

She’d take it and drew more strongly on any luck she had left. She’d used it all, a lifetime’s worth, for this.

“Hey, Mrsha. Let’s, uh, go for a walk, huh? Erin’s on her way back, and she’s looking for fake you. If we walk in the snow, we can talk.”

Kevin glanced around, sounding casual, and Pyrite grunted.

“Here.”

He had a fur cloak because it was cold outside. Mrsha accepted it, bemused, and they hurried out of the beach garden. The door spat them out one side of the inn, and they were back in the winter wonderland. That was normal. Mrsha stood there for all of a second, breathing in the cold.

—Then jerked as the inn moved past her. Mrsha whirled around and saw it. A stubby set of wooden legs tearing at the snow and ground. Saw that inn rise—and crawl up the hill.

The Wandering Inn walked. Wooden legs braced with copper extended, like the legs of, well, a bug, really, because they were numerous and short, rounded, and pushed into the soil. The inn seemed to crawl past Mrsha as she stood there.

“Okay, now I know she’s not our Mrsha because of that.”

Kevin glanced at Mrsha’s face and then the inn with amusement. Pyrite just nodded, eyes on Mrsha. She scrambled for her notecards, dropping them.

What the fuck—excuse my language—is that?

For answer, Pyrite just scooped her up and adjusted her cloak until she was virtually hidden against his body. He raised a hand, grunting, and a familiar voice made Mrsha shiver.

“Pyrite! Kevin! Are you joining the search? Don’t bother! She’s in the inn! She just left! There was no Sest with her!”

Erin was jogging this way, accompanied by Pelt, Bird, and Headscratcher. Pyrite shouted back as Kevin shifted guiltily, and Mrsha held still.

“We know. She just ran away. That way.”

He gestured towards Liscor, and Erin cursed. The inn shifted directions, rotating in a circle, and Mrsha realized Erin was controlling it. She ran towards the inn, pulled herself up on a set of stairs, a sort of landing ramp, and pointed.

“Thataway! We’ll catch her!”

“Not in the inn we won’t. I’m going ahead. Come on, Headscratcher!”

Palt and the Goblin Lord raced forwards, outpacing Erin’s inn at once. Bird ran after them, waving all four arms and going tumbling down a hill. Erin shouted after them.

“Don’t hurt her! Unless she’s actually the shapechanger! But I’m pretty sure she’s not. I’ll just catch up, because it’s wet and cold!”

She glanced down at Kevin and Pyrite, gesturing at them with a grin.

“You two want to come with?”

“We were gonna. But they’re faster. We’ll just stand here and see if we can spot her.”

Kevin called back. Mrsha, peeking at the [Innkeeper] and [Witch], was afraid that Erin would spot her. But Erin just nodded, and The Wandering Inn began to walk faster.

…It was probably as fast as an adult walking at max speed, but seeing the building move shook her heart. Pyrite waited until the inn had descended a hill to let her out. Then he pointed.

“That way. We walk in the valleys.”

So no one would see them. He was as clever as Numbtongue had always said. Kevin exhaled.

“Okay, we can do that. But what if we run into Rock Crabs…?”

“I’ll hit them. And have seed pods.”

Pyrite patted his belt pouch, and Mrsha held up a card, squinting at him, pointing at the top of the inn she could still see pondering forwards.

Erin’s inn can walk? And why didn’t she see us? [Witches] can see emotion.

She was sure she should have stood out, like those people in the movies whenever someone used their thermal vision stuff, such as in Predator. Erin had watched Predator but none of the sequels.

For answer, Pyrite grunted, giving Mrsha a pleased nod.

“Aura. Easy way to fool lots of Skills. I practiced.”

Mrsha and Kevin’s jaws dropped open, and the former Goldstone Chieftain began to walk, his boots crunching in the snow. He turned his head and spoke.

“Erin’s inn walked at the Meeting of Tribes. So where you came from, it didn’t. What’s her level in your world?”

Over Level 50.

Kevin stumbled, and his eyes went wide.

“Dude. Wait, is that real? Is Mrsha real? Pyrite, shouldn’t we be confirming her identity or…?”

The Hobgoblin was just walking, and Mrsha followed, the cloak trailing in the snow. Kevin hurried after them as Mrsha held up notecards so they could pass them between the two.

What’s yours? I mean, this Erin’s?

“Level 47. She got the Skill to move the inn at Level 45.”

What’s her class?

The Hobgoblin turned, and Mrsha felt tingles run up and down her body, from her scalp to her spine, as he spoke with a smile.

“[The Inn That Walked]. She brought it into a war for her friends. [Goblinfriend Innkeeper of Wonders]. She crushed Wall Lord Dragial with it.”

“Dude. It was hardcore. And gnarly.”

Kevin shivered; he hadn’t had time to put more than a coat on. Mrsha glanced over her shoulder at the moving inn and compared this Erin to hers.

Lower-level. But she had a moving inn, just like Larracel. The current Erin didn’t have that. She had access to the [Pavilion of Secrets] and a box.

Mrsha wrote that bit about Larracel, and Pyrite’s eyes lit up.

“Hm. So you met the Haven.”

“The what? What’s the Haven?”

“Adventurer’s Haven. Important inn. Stays in the north. People say Erin stole its identity. Because both move.”

“Move? Move how?”

The Haven floats. Erin’s inn is different. She meets Larracel in the winter. She should have already. But the Haven never had a reason to come down south. Because there are no New Lands in this world, are there?

“New Lands? What that?”

For answer, Mrsha requested a world map and saw no addition to Izril. She nodded slowly and imagined how the Meeting of Tribes had changed. No great army of Khelt. No ghosts.

The Titan of Baleros, Erin Solstice, and a Goblin Lord doing the job instead. When she sought clarification, Pyrite elaborated.

“Strategist Perorn? Yes. She and General Diomedes hold the Great Plains with their Gnollish allies. They both appeared when the Titan teleported a Goblin tribe and a lot of noncombatants from the Gnolls to his continent.”

Diomedes? You mean the big Cyclops dude?

“Yep.”

—That changed things immensely. Now, Mrsha saw it. Without the Titan being vanished by Belavierr, he must have contributed all his Skills to the battle. He’d probably saved Torishi Weatherfur and stymied Fissival; his Skill that could erase magic would have been pivotal.

She was as astonished as Kevin by all this. Pyrite was the one presenting himself as calm, though Mrsha suspected he was just playing it cool. Kevin exploded after a minute.

“Wait, wait, I have to ask for proof. How do we know you’re not a shapeshifter from the High Passes? Or this isn’t some trick or prank?”

He searched around as if wondering if all his friends would pop out of a snowdrift and shout ‘surprise’! But the only thing that popped out of the snow was a hare. It hopped away as Mrsha felt at her belt pouches. Prove she was from another time?

How about this?

She handed something to Kevin, and he inspected the Wand of Mrsha, blinking.

“Whoa, what’s this? Nice wand. Wait…‘Wand of Mrsha’? You have your own wand?”

I got it from a <Quest>.

“A what now?”

Pyrite’s ears perked up, and Mrsha realized this was another thing that Erin must have failed to create. She explained as best she could, and Kevin laughed.

“That’s cool—and crazy. Why didn’t our Erin do that? No, wait, I still don’t get it. If she is from another timeline, then in that one, Erin’s Level 50. And I’m dead…what happened?”

He was smiling, worry in his blue eyes. He still didn’t believe. How could you? Pyrite might have, but Mrsha tried to think of how to show them. She closed her eyes and thought.

If she stabbed her paw and showed them she bled red, would they believe? Could she take a picture of her memories, of that frozen bier, or of Erin Solstice lying on the raft to show them? Or would they be just too hard to fathom, even with picture proof?

—In the end, Mrsha convinced them the only way she knew. With words. She stood there, trying to smile, as she held up a card.

In my world, you’re gone, Kevin. So are Moore and Ulinde, Halrac too. Gershal of Vaunt, that brave man, is dead. You never knew him. In my world, Headscratcher’s gone. So is Shorthilt. They never survived the Siege of Liscor. Neither did you, Pyrite.

She wrote on as Kevin peeked at Pyrite, and the Hobgoblin chewed on some compacted snow.

Erin was shot when Hectval ambushed her. She died and was frozen and was never present at the Meeting of Tribes. Someone stole her body…I’ll explain that later. Torishi Weatherfur and a lot of brave Gnolls died there too. Eventually, we brought her back with the help of Khelt and Ilvriss and so many others. And everything was okay for a while until the Winter Solstice. Then, we fought the real foe of our world, of every world, and you died, Kevin. So did Moore and Halrac and Ulinde. All in the same battle.

The two adults were just standing there, trying to take it in, but Mrsha had seen those moments so many times it was just—she could write it out. She paused, guilty.

Ser Sest died there too. And Bird, but he came back. Tekshia Shivertail died fighting Draugr in the streets of Liscor. Erin Solstice was kidnapped by Roshal, with Ulvama, and nearly died fighting at sea. Earl Altestiel perished there. So did a worthless [Prince of Men]. Rabbiteater lived, but the Courier, Seve-Alrelious, died, and so did Embraim, one of the first Knights of Solstice. Goat died. Anand died. A Kraken died.

Her paws were trembling as she held up the final card. It was cold. She was cold, writing the list of the dead out.

There are more people that died. More changes. I’ve forgotten them all. I’m Mrsha, from the real world. From the world where Erin Solstice is missing, in the spring rains, and we miss Kevin. Where I clean the graves of the dead every day. Where Pyrite is a ghost on Numbtongue’s shoulder. I came here to ask you to leave your reality behind and please come with me. I know I’m crazy-sounding, but it’s true.

She held the last card up with a watery smile. How silly this all was. Who could believe her? Kevin and Pyrite gazed at each other, and she expected them to laugh or tell her she was crazy. That’s what she would do…

Mrsha didn’t see herself as they saw her. She felt stupid and lost and heartbroken standing there, writing the dead’s names out without their due. Trying to convince two people that the world they knew was but a dream, a figment of a Skill.

They saw a girl, not a child, standing in the snow, older, so much older than the Mrsha they knew, a weight of age in her posture, in her words and her eyes, tears running down her face. Smiling like she was so used to crying that it’d become second-nature.

Kevin began shivering uncontrollably. Pyrite just exhaled softly and watched the steam rising. He tilted his head back, and then he spoke.

“What killed me?”

“Pyrite. This isn’t real. You’re not—”

Tyrion Veltras charged the Goblins after the Goblin Lord died. You slowed him down so Rags could get away.

Mrsha met Pyrite’s eyes, and the Hobgoblin glanced at the goosebumps erupting on his green flesh. He nodded, knelt, and spoke as he locked gazes with her.

“Now I know what it means when they say a fox is walking over my grave. I believe you. I always wondered why he never charged. Now, tell me something to prove it to Kevin. Tell me something only he would know. Or a secret of Goblins.”

Mrsha hesitated. She thought—and had Kevin ever left—? Plans? Schematics. Solar Cycles was still running, but not the same…and what would have changed in this world? She squeezed her eyes shut, thinking. Then she had it.

In my world, I know that Elia Arcsinger looks like the Last Elf, Sprigaena. That’s why she shot the Goblin King and he failed to dodge. I know there were Gnomes, and they were funny, good people who made the Last Boxes of Fraerlings. I know that Roshal has a Slave Ship called the Naga’s Den and a servant named Iert, who’s a Gnoll who should die, and I know that Normen can be a [Knight of Honor’s Flame].

Pyrite recoiled as he read the first sentence of the card. He rocked backwards like he’d been struck, as Goblins did when they heard that name, and his crimson eyes opened wide. He took the card from Mrsha, and she regarded Kevin. Her card to him was simpler.

In this timeline, are you dating Ceria still?

Kevin spluttered. The tips of his ears turned red, and he gaped at Pyrite and Mrsha.

“Why’s his card got all that on it and mine—? You could have just known about that! Somehow!”

She gave him a weak, trembling smile, and his flickered out. He tried to reignite it, but in the end, he stomped in a circle, snow flurrying around him, as he scrubbed at his hair. Kevin laughed as he glanced at Mrsha.

“Wh—why me, anyways? No offense, Mrsha, but I like you, and I think we’re friends. You played the drums with me when we had that band, and we’ve had our moments. But why not—no offense, Pyrite, but you and I? We’re not the highest-level.”

“Mm.”

The Hobgoblin shrugged. Kevin tried to grin.

“And we’re not, like, your best friends. I’m just saying that if—I’m flattered, but the way you were screaming in the beach. Isn’t there someone more important or—?”

He was trying to say it without saying it. We’re not the ones you love the most, right? That was wrong. She shook her head.

Don’t do that, Kevin. I wept for everyone I lost. I didn’t count which tears were for whom. I miss you every day. Everyone does.

He flinched with his entire body and turned away. Mrsha continued, and now she was truly cold, more heartless than the snow around her, ruthless.

But you’re right. I did come here for Moore and Halrac, because I miss them greatly. I didn’t go to them first. Because I have to succeed.

Headscratcher, Pyrite, and even Kevin she didn’t know as well. She would bring them back in a heartbeat if she could. But if she failed and Moore refused, or laughed at her, or she saw Halrac turn away, she felt like she would die of grief and failure.

The harsh message in wet ink seemed to oddly steady Kevin for a moment. He was shaking, visibly trembling, but he worked up enough courage to ask the true question.

“Okay. I get that. And I…now I’m dead. Dead. Me. Who—killed me? I didn’t think I had any enemies. Was it zombies? Draugr?”

The girl hesitated. Her quill dipped and scratched, and she wrote each word slowly. A chill ran down her spine, and when she held up the card, she saw the two of them shiver and thought she felt the world twist slightly. As if fate itself had felt someone walking over its grave.

An [Assassin] of Roshal with a gun.

Fate rippled over Mrsha’s fur. She felt it shifting. As she wrote the words, something—the roots—the limitations of the Skill—let the truth leak into her words. Mrsha saw that moment again, when she had seen Kevin’s body.

A surprised young man lying under a white shroud, guarded by servants of Magnolia Reinhart. His lips parted, a half-smile of disbelief and worry on his face.

She met Kevin Hall’s eyes, and he felt his death. The young man’s face turned pale. He recoiled from the card, stumbling back. He turned—looked at Pyrite, who was staring at his hands, flexing them, studying the card, and Kevin Hall ran with a wordless cry.

Mrsha raised her paws, took a step to run after him, and then gazed at Pyrite. Kevin was having a natural reaction, the one she expected. How impossible was this task? But Pyrite was just listening.

He’d do.

Come with me, now. Pyrite, you must come with me. Into the inn. I’ll show you everything, but we have to hurry. Rags needs you. She’s in danger.

The former Chieftain’s eyes widened a bit.

“Danger?”

Yes. I came here to steal people we lost. But also—Rags needs help. She needs you, Pyrite.

Mrsha hadn’t spoken to Rags long, but the Goblin invoked Pyrite’s name whenever she felt like she wasn’t smart enough. She talked about him like her tribe had lost something vital. Now Mrsha had met him, truly met him, she understood.

Come with me and help Rags. Please.

She had honestly almost forgotten her promise, despite the urgency, in the agony of this place. Now, though, she tugged Pyrite towards the inn, still walking towards the city.

He refused to move.

“What danger?”

A super nasty Titan from the City of Graves. In the mountains. Please—

Mrsha tried to explain as fast as she could, and Pyrite listened. He grimaced.

“That nasty.”

Yes, but if you come—

“No.”

Gently, the Hobgoblin patted Mrsha on the paw, and she opened her mouth. He believed her. He listened to her, but the Hobgoblin’s eyes were kind and set.

“Not me.”

But I have a door. You’re even in my world. Numbtongue sees your ghost. I’ve talked to you. You can come and help.

Mrsha didn’t get it. Pyrite gently touched his scarred chest and shook his head.

“I believe…I have one chance. If I had more, I think I would forget what living means. If I am a ghost, I will do what I think is right. The world doesn’t need another Pyrite.”

He was wrong. He was so wrong—Mrsha began to try to pull him, as impossible as it was. She shoved and yanked, and tears began spilling from her eyes again. The Hobgoblin let her try. He bent down, as Mrsha panted, and tapped her notecard.

“Mrsha, I want to know the truth. I will help you. But I must first understand. Tell me how you came here. What is happening with the Flooded Waters tribe? Tell me more. Please.”

His eyes were knowledgeable, wise, and burdened. Mrsha stopped and stood there, agonizing, but she did. She began to write and write as the snow fell down. She shivered, but the cold didn’t matter. She’d been cold for a long time. She looked in Pyrite’s eyes and prepared herself.

She was going to break every rule there was. Mrsha didn’t care who’d written them. She reached out and grabbed the Goblin’s arm, refusing to let go. No matter what he said, she had come here. If you were allowed to cheat, then she’d take—everything.

 

——

 

Fate. Destiny. If you believed in it, then everything was meaningless. But they were so compelling. You could want to believe you were special, that things were meant to work out in the end. That there was a narrative and you were fulfilling it.

If fate didn’t exist, it meant you weren’t special and there was no happy ending awaiting you. Destiny was the lie each child told themselves that faded with each step and realized the world didn’t revolve around them.

Rags of the Flooded Waters tribe had once believed she had a fate. Goblins were fatalistic; she had grown up knowing she was a monster, a scavenger, afraid of the real people.

She had believed in fate when one [Innkeeper] had been kind to her and thought it meant something. Then she had lost that vision of fate, that certainty everything would work out at the Siege of Liscor when she made war against an [Emperor].

Now? Now, she watched as the threads of fate came together just as they’d shown her. And she wasn’t sure if she believed in it or not. But she feared it.

The tunnels were vast and dark, rounded semicircles running through the heart of the Troll Kingdom like criss-crossing worms. They had been dug so high that even the tallest of the Troll warriors crouched amidst the rocks, like the stones themselves, were barely a tenth as tall as the tunnel’s ceilings.

These tunnels had been made for transportation of vast vehicles—and people. Dulat, the Troll Queen, had said they had been made for guests of truly gargantuan size as well. Wyrms, among other old beings.

Today, the tunnels were caved in, the stone walls collapsed, and a mossy bed covered the ground. The tunnels were lichen farms for Trolls, not highways. Or had been until foul insects had begun to infest them.

Today, they were a fitting ground for a trap. Rags could hear something down the tunnels, beyond the faintly luminescent markings of ancient directions on the wall, in the gloom, past the ranks of her waiting Goblin warriors.

A scraping sound. A shuffling, the click of nails on stone. And from the other direction, a rhythmic thum of sound. A thum, scrabbling, thum—as of something launching itself clumsily, hitting walls, landing hard, kicking again.

Like a disembodied foot, perhaps. And a hand the other way. Meeting, drawn together. Just as planned. Just as Rags had foreseen.

Her breath was hot; the air was limited in the tunnels because so many air vents had collapsed. Prixall had cast a spell to add ‘good air’ to the environment, but she’d turned it off when they’d heard the two limbs getting closer.

Rags could smell sweat, the musty dust of the tunnels, the odor of other Goblins around her. Redscar was standing closest, swords drawn, waiting. Prixall was on her other side, tensed, more nervous than most others. She was no experienced veteran of battles, but she was here.

If Rags looked right, she could pick out Dulat’s best warriors standing sentinel. The Goblins were using the cover of some fallen rocks to hide. The Trolls just stood there, blending into the caverns.

It was a small strike force. Sixty Goblins and twenty Trolls to kill two limbs of a Titan. They didn’t need—couldn’t use—more.

The Titan was adept at killing large numbers of foes, even in limb-form. There was no use trying to restrain it or wear it down; it was too strong, too adaptive, able to regenerate.

They had one shot, and it was when the seith cores exposed themselves. To that end, each Goblin with Rags was armed with an enchanted weapon of some kind. They’d also given the Trolls every weapon they had of their size.

Somo was one of six Ogres present, crouched next to Poisonbite, as the Goblin flirted with her favorite subordinate even now. They were all dealing with the stress as they had to.

Leapwolf, Shineshield, Taganchiel, Mousebite, Starstarer—all Goblins that Rags trusted and knew, some of the best Redfangs. They waited, brushing at insects crawling over them, twitching sometimes when they heard the sounds growing louder.

Waiting.

Rags knew better than to speak or repeat her plans. She’d drilled in what she knew to the others; rehashing it or whispering now would only show she was nervous.

Death.

Death.

Death.

It was coming. The thing that had murdered her so many times—no, other Rags. The Flooded Waters Chieftain closed her eyes.

This time will be different. She’d watched realities where an incarnation of her had killed the Titan in just this trap. That’s how she knew it would work. First, they’d meet.

An arm dragging itself down the long tunnels, withered tendons flexing as a cloud of insects followed it. Fingernails—shattered claws ticking against the floor as it pulled itself forwards.

And across from it—

A leg kicking, ruined flesh of a foot barely recognizable, propelling itself forwards with crude, flailing undulations of force. Even more uncoordinated than the arm.

The two weakest limbs by far. The ‘easiest’ for the Trolls to contain. The only two the Goblins and Trolls had a chance of dealing with. They’d be active and dangerous, even mid-merge.

They were approaching carefully, the two limbs drawn to each other’s presence, but warily, competing minds coming to the conclusion that merging would benefit them both—if they could take over the gestalt. Rags watched, barely breathing, as the buzzing grew louder.

Insects running off both’s bodies, so foully dangerous and magical they made the Goblins shift, forced to squash and kill them or sustain bites. The Trolls barely moved, watching. Tense.

Every instinct told the living to attack, to prevent this merge. Every second the two limbs drew closer together, the air seemed to become more hostile, harder to breathe in. Foreign; like they were breathing in foul smog.

Death magic, so palpable it was harmful to the living.

It wasn’t just the smell of rot, which had actually become less foul than a freshly dead corpse; the limbs were so old and rotten they’d become part of a background odor that left you sickened for hours after inhaling just once. Stay for too long breathing this in, and even in the bright sun, under clear skies with flowers surrounding you, you’d cough and hack and exhale putrescence for a day afterwards.

—Attack. Redscar was tensed, but he had a hand up, signaling everyone else down. Rags was gagging, but made no sound.

This was so much worse than her visions. It had to be done. The two limbs were grappling as they met, mounds of oozing flesh feeling each other, hand stroking leg, malformed toes wiggling. Like they were flirting, exploring the other’s body. She could tell they were going to merge. The two limbs seemed to cast about, but they had no way of sensing the hidden warriors. The bugs weren’t under their control, and they had limited ‘senses’.

All they sensed was magic as far as Rags could tell. They reacted to external stimuli based on touch, but the limbs were blind.

They reacted to natural auras and spellcasting. It was why they kept trying to get closer to each other. It was also why this didn’t work without Rags.

Send the Dragonlord of Flame into the mountain. Let him scorch this place to rubble and ash. Only, the moment he entered, they’d notice and form up, regardless of the cost. The Trolls and Goblins were weak, unnoticed. Beneath contempt.

They were all daubed in a brown-grey mud that Taganchiel had worked up. He wasn’t as high-level as Prixall, but the [Shaman] had enough magic he’d learned from Ulvama to camouflage even the natural auras of living beings. Right now, they were invisible to the two limbs of the Titan.

Arm was extending its open palm to the severed leg’s thigh, where it should have met hip. A hum filled the air, and Rags felt the mana in her body—

“Chieftain. It’s sucking my mana.”

Prixall whispered, terrified, her eyes wide. Rags grunted.

“Don’t let it.”

Two objects of immense power made her teeth start itching as they emerged, pulled from the rotten flesh. Pale, black stones tinged with phosphorescent green energy that licked within the semi-translucent stone.

Seith. The greatest magical catalyst of ancient days. A king’s ransom of it, ovoid, enchanted and written with spells that kept the Titan alive—slowly emerging from the rotten flesh. The hand and leg twitched suggestively, even erotically, fingers splaying out, leg curling and uncurling at the knee as their inner cores began to meet.

A glow filled the air, black light twisting around as the two Titans began to meet, struggle, and dominate the other to achieve control of both limbs. Accordingly…Rags saw the two limbs drifting towards each other, rotten green-black flesh merging together. Attaining some distorted semblance of health as they met and—

The first scales appeared, brown and corroded, regrowing as the limbs began to fuse. The two stones were pulsing together rhythmically. A fast rhythm, like the beating of a heart, before slowing. It took, on average, fifteen minutes for one mind to dominate the other…

“Now.”

She didn’t realize she’d been hypnotized until Rags sensed the moment come, when all the other selves gave the order, and waited to hear her own voice. Then she realized she had to say it, and like someone watching a repeat, déjà vu, but for the first time, she saw it all play out before her eyes.

A Goblin raised a hand, and the first [Fireball] lit the air. She tossed it, fast, and then another as Goblins burst out of cover.

The [Fireball] never reached the Titans. It exploded in the air, burning countless buzzing carrion beetles and giant flies. That was the first layer of defenses; a literal swarm of insects.

Redscar was first out of cover, running, not shouting; a mask was on his face, and the twin blades, one of lightning, the other Garen’s sword, in hand. Poisonbite was hot on his heels, running as Somo and the Ogres thundered out of their covers with suppressed war cries. One hacked as he swallowed a bug.

The Trolls were quieter still. They moved like stones coming to life, enchanted mauls and clubs raising. They ran, weapons on their shoulders, puffing as they jogged forwards.

Fast. They crossed the ground unnaturally quickly, as Leapwolf whirled his blade around his head. [Wild Onslaught]. Redscar was using his [War Leader] Skills too—[Sudden Ambush]. The limbs didn’t even sense them or the spellcasting.

Another [Fireball]. Rags spoke.

“[Burning Blades]. Thunderbows—fire. Prixall!”

Thunderbows cracked, and the first explosive bolts hit the air, once again just clearing the insects out of the way. Bugs as large as Rags’ head crashed down as they turned on living beings. Prixall finally moved.

She raised a hand, whispering a spell as she brought her hand down, slamming it. A wall of air collapsed downwards, and the insects hurtled out of the air, hitting the ground so hard their chitinous bodies broke. The warriors crunched the rest to pieces as they ran.

Now their run was a rumble in the air, panting voices and buzzing insects and that hum. And still…

The two Titans’ limbs sensed nothing at first. They were so engrossed in the act they didn’t even notice the lower-tier spells going off. It was when the first crossbow bolt struck one of the seith cores that the limbs jerked.

They swung around, fingers twitching, leg flopping around like some perverse fish, and the hovering cores remained stationary, connected to both limbs by tendrils of flesh.

“Break the cores! Now!”

Rags howled, and her third [Fireball] burst over the seith cores. It did nothing, but then magic lashed out from both cores, whips of sheer death magic expanding outwards.

There was nothing to strike; the cores wasted their magic and gave the first Goblin an opening. Redscar leapt past the fingers, whose claws had retracted to let red, wavy tendrils slash and snap at the air. He ran past the crook between the middle and forefinger, then he was on the hand, dashing up past twitching tendons, feet sinking into the rotting flesh and releasing liquid and maggots with each step.

Higher, dancing up crags in the arm’s wrist and forearm, like he were in the High Passes, jumping from rock to rock. Then, he leapt—and his blades met the seith core belonging to the leg.

Thunder.

It sounded like a bolt of lightning touching down. His blades flashed, and the pall of death magic lifted as the colliding energies met and mingled—and Redscar went flying. He landed, blades smoking, cursing, and the seith cores began to shriek.

The whine changed pitch; Rags heard the ear-aching hum take on a higher quality from the stone Redscar had attacked. She heard thunder as the limbs jerked again, then began to lash out with real berserk fury and panic.

It’s working perfectly. 

“Attack! Leapwolf!”

The Goblin jumped. He had a single sword in hand, another blade from Erin’s [Garden of Sanctuary]. Electricity coalesced down the blade, and when he struck the same core that Redscar had, a bolt of real lightning flashed through the air.

A second impact; he hit the arm, bounced down, and Somo covered Leapwolf before a finger could stab down vengefully and crush him. She took the blow, and it sent the massive Ogre spinning away.

Then it was a melee. When the two limbs whirled into battle, the first attack from the foot was to just—explode. The flesh that was green and brown and black bubbled up, and boils of pus and filthy black blood and more insects exploded outwards. Deadly poison and plague.

The hand was swifter. It rotated up, and its broken claws extended. Then the fingers waved, dislocating out of their sockets, slashing like massive blades, whirling as it danced across the ground.

The combined onslaught could murder even high-level beings like Relc in a second. Another reason it had to be her tribe. No matter what you told them—no one was prepared for this. But Goblins—they trusted their [Chieftain].

“[Shield of Light]!”

Shineshield reacted to the explosions from the leg and raised her shield. A glowing shield projected from her favorite artifact, blocking the pestilence raining down around her. Goblins dove into cover, but many of them were caught flat-footed.

One Ogre went staggering back as liquid struck him, clawing at it, but instead of the poison taking effect, something flashed on his skin. Magical paint, like Ulvama’s, took the blow, and he backed away unharmed.

The warriors fighting the arm reacted to the whirlwind of blades just as fast. Redscar set himself and parried one finger coming at him; the Goblin went sliding backwards, grunting. No one else did that.

Leapwolf saw a bone-scythe coming for his head and jumped. He bounded off the walls of the tunnel, passing over the slashing fingers, and stabbed the hand before trying to get to the seith core again. Mousebite wasn’t so lucky. She took a slash that knocked her blade aside and sat down.

Starstarer grabbed her and yanked her out of the way of another blade. He threw her almost thirty paces back; his [Pull to Safety] was followed by an [Instant Duck]; a finger passed over his head, and he backed up.

High-level Goblins. Mousebite rolled onto her feet, snarling, and Rags saw her armor was torn open, but the gash was receding. Not even a potion. [Wound Closure]. When she charged forwards, her [Mighty Blow] snapped one finger back.

“Careful—careful—it’s going to leap—now!”

Rags was shouting, her voice amplified to both fighters. She was watching the leg. Sure enough, it had tensed, and Goblins cleared out of the way, the Trolls a hair slower, before the leg leapt with enough crushing force to turn anything it landed on to pulp. It flopped around as it struck the ground, pulverizing stones—confused—

How were they dodging it so well?

Rags had seen it before, and she’d drilled every regular move the limbs made into her warriors’ heads. So long as the Titan didn’t reform, it was ten times, a hundred times weaker.

Still so deadly, but they could do this. Trolls and Goblins surrounded the two limbs, trying to climb or hit the cores above. Thunderbows cracked, but Rags shouted.

“Shoot the fingers! The fingers!”

“Yah, Chieftain. [Harpoon Shot]. [140% Shot].”

A Hobgoblin, Trueshot, pulled the trigger of her Thunderbow, and Rags went temporarily deaf. A bolt of Wyvernbone blasted through the flesh, and the barbs stuck two of the Titan’s fingers together until they could pull themselves free.

Mousebite rushed for the opening, trying to weave under the flailing fingers, but sensed the hand closing. A backflip carried her out of danger before she could be hit again. Rags cursed as the Goblins tried to flank the hand.

They needed someone to hit the cores with all the strength they could. She was on her feet, no longer casting [Fireball].

[Ogre’s Strength]! [Speed]!

Under her enchantments, warriors dove out of the way or found the strength to grapple with the waving tendons and the foot, whose claws stretched out until the keratin structures wobbled and danced and sliced about. Like Yvlon’s arms, but far fouler. This wavy network of blades was deadly. They slashed about, faster than even the fingers, and Rags saw several Goblins take blows. Flashes of light as their protective spells went down. Blood—

The Trolls advanced. They had no Skills. They had few enchanted weapons and lacked the Goblins’ amazing coordination. But they were the natives of these mountains. One of them took a blow from the slashing nails across a chest; it cut in hard and fast.

It barely went through the outer layer of the Troll’s hide. She grunted, grabbed the nail, and brought an elbow down, snapping the section down.

A rumble. Rags looked up as a Troll threw something. She was just in time to see a patched section of the tunnel roof quiver—then collapse, boulders raining down on the leg, knocking it around. The Trolls kept advancing; they kicked smaller boulders like projectiles at the leg before slamming into it, swinging their maces and clubs with so much force she saw the pallid flesh rippling. Rags called out, directing her warriors back as the two limbs were pinned, the arm against one wall, the leg in the middle of the tunnels.

“Wounded—here! Get out of range of the limbs! They can’t move from where they are!”

The third blow came from Dulat’s warriors. One of her clan leaders tossed a wounded Starstarer back; the Hobgoblin’s chest was laid open by a slicing tendril. He battered forwards, roaring, and Rags realized it was the old Troll with the spear. He hurled the spear in one motion, and it hit the seith core and rang like a bell.

This time, she distinctly saw the magic warping around the impact point and knew the core was cracked. A cheer ran up—right before an answering bolt of magic hit the Troll in the chest.

Deathbolt, or close enough. The old Troll collapsed without a word. Another warrior ran forwards, trying to climb up, and Rags shouted.

“[Light Bridge]! Prixall!”

“Trying!”

The [Witch]’s spell flickered into existence, and more waves of death magic canceled it out. It was so overwhelming that every other element began to fade out; a [Lightning Bolt] from Taganchiel’s claws seemed to evaporate halfway towards the seith cores, then came back as a bolt of black lightning.

He screamed, once, throwing up his claws, and Rags shouted.

“Dodge—”

She was too late. Taganchiel lurched backwards, falling, and then looked up as he shielded his face. The bolt of lightning was—gone?

Prixall was holding her hat out, panting. She’d caught the bolt of lightning in her hat. She jammed the pointed [Witch]’s hat on her head.

“Argh! Don’t cast at it like that again!”

Taganchiel scrambled up, and Prixall’s hat kept vibrating as she contained the magic within.

—However, they were winning. Rags was focused on Redscar, who’d gotten to his feet and was trying to climb the leg, burying his blades in the flesh like climbing axes, cursing as it jerked and tried to throw him off. Her vision said he was the next person to—

“Levels or death!”

Poisonbite screamed, and Rags turned to see the old Troll warrior sit up. He’d been playing dead! He tossed Poisonbite up with a roar, scrambling away to grab his spear, now charred, the tip snapped off, and Poisonbite slashed both seith cores in the air in a shout.

“[Dualblade Sl—]”

The explosion tossed her backwards until she almost snapped her neck; one of her warriors dove and caught her. Poisonbite sat up, dazed, and stared at the two charred lumps of her daggers. Then at a broken arm. She began to scream in fury.

That wasn’t in the realities she’d seen. Rags told herself not to panic. That was four blows on one of the seith cores already. They could break it with the right hit if it was hard enough. Eight hits, and it’d develop enough cracks to shatter completely.

Redscar had been knocked down as the leg kicked about to try and attack Poisonbite. He got up, snarling, as someone, inspired by the Troll, threw an axe straight up. Another explosion of intersection magics and spiderweb cracks formed on the first core.

They pulsed, and Rags called out.

“Fall back! Fall back! Death field coming!”

Every warrior instantly turned and ran; they’d been briefed on this too. The cores pulsed, and then a zone of absolute midnight spread from both, a radius of instant death for anything it touched.

Only—this time, Rags knew it was coming, and not a single warrior was hit. The insects were; they dropped dead, then reanimated on the spot, and Rags saw the death-fields envelop a good twenty feet of space around both limbs…then recede.

It couldn’t pull that trick again. The cores were weaker now, visibly upset, though Rags could only judge by the flickering of magic across the seith. She bared her teeth.

“Break that one! [Mark Target]! Go, go, go!”

The hand began to swing like it was on a rotor, just sweeping around in a circle, trying to crush everything in its path. It almost managed to sweep the warriors away—until eight Trolls and Somo and all her Ogres met it with a crash of flesh on flesh that sent both limb and warriors to the ground.

Redscar jumped and brought Garen’s blade across the damaged seith core, and Rags heard a crack. The leg began jerking rhythmically, unable to move like it wanted, and she screamed, just as she had heard.

“Somo! Break that damn core to bits!”

The Ogre looked up, saw the second core descending as the first began to try to withdraw into the arm. But the Goblins were throwing ropes now, pulling it back, and Somo ran, club raised, a whooping bellow from her lips.

She stood head-and-shoulders taller than everyone here, even the Trolls, and the arm still loomed over her. Each finger longer than the Ogre’s arm; Somo visibly swallowed as she charged, a mouse against a hand. But a mouse packed with muscle.

When she hit the arm, Rags saw a finger snap and show blackened bones a second. Somo kept going as the hand overbalanced, fell onto one side, scrabbling to get away…

Rags’ teeth were bared. She saw victory playing out, perfect—

And then fate decided to show her why it was called fate. She felt the ground rumble. She felt a tremor run through the entire damn mountain, stumbled, saw Somo trip, stagger, reset herself—and Prixall screamed.

“What is that?”

She wasn’t gazing at Rags. She wasn’t looking at the Titan’s limbs. In fact, even the arm and leg froze; they seemed to jerk around in the same direction as Prixall’s head. Rags sensed it too. Her head rose to the side and up, and she swore she felt something come down with enough magic and force to shake the High Passes.

The world shook. Somo swung her club, and it rebounded from the damaged core in a spray of magic and seith pieces, but not a deadly blow. She backed up, trying to reset herself for a charge, and Rags felt the mountains still shaking.

“Break the cores! Break the—”

“Stone moving. The mountain collapsing!”

A Troll roared. Rags was on her feet. She drew her own shortsword and ran, cursing. She saw Somo raise her club again—take a blow from the leg and go off her feet. Rags shouted, desperate, and saw someone appear behind the core, dancing into position.

Shineshield swung her favorite, enchanted shield up and smashed it sidelong against the core. The [Shield Maid] laughed as the core pulsed, flickered—and detonated.

The explosion blew Shineshield off her feet. Rags slowed, and a cheer rose from the Goblins; the leg convulsed, no longer immortal, and the arm began to try to crawl away. They were doing it! They were—

“Chieftain. Chieftain, come in! Something is attacking the High Passes! Are you okay?”

That was Snapjaw’s voice. Rags’ second-in-command was reporting from above. Rags snapped as she backpedalled, and everyone focused on the arm. The leg was twitching; she pointed at it.

“Kill the leg forever! We’re winning! Snapjaw, what’s in the High Passes? We’re w—”

Then she heard drums. Drums, high and fast, booming in the tunnels throughout the mountain.

Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom—

Dulat? She should have been keeping the other limbs far away. She was playing a warning. Rags saw Trolls glance up, and one listened to the beat. He ran over to a speaking vent, began shouting into it—Rags didn’t care.

“The other core!”

Everyone was attacking it. Taganchiel produced a glowing [Valmira’s Comet] which pierced the magical haze and struck the core. Redscar managed a slash; another Hob threw himself forward in a screaming charge. A tendon of flesh took him through the chest, but he nicked the core before he fell.

Death. Rags saw the hand jerk, spasm as it tried to pull the core back into its walls of flesh. Snapjaw was shouting.

“Chieftain! Queen Dulat say—the head is coming! The head is coming fast! It senses something magic-death-bad above!”

The head is coming? It never moved that fast unless it sensed Teriarch. What was going on? Rags shouted.

“It’s miles away. We’ll be gone before it comes. The core!”

Trolls pounded forwards. The leg was dying; Thunderbows were peppering it, blowing it to pieces. The mountain shook again; an aftershock. Rags heard the beating of drums, her thundering heart. The leg kicked one wall, and she felt a rumble and glanced up.

The ceiling collapsed in a shower of debris, the first Troll vanishing as blackness and dust enveloped everything.

Everything.

 

——

 

“—Chieftain?”

They pulled Rags out of the dust and dirt eighteen minutes later. Snapjaw was still speaking. Rags gasped for air, coughed up dust, and spoke.

“Cave in. Where—?”

Darkness was everywhere. [Light] spells were warring with billowing dust, and Rags couldn’t breathe. Someone slapped a mask over her face, and the air spells let her cough and choke.

“Four Trolls dead. Nine Goblins. Tunnel caved in.”

Prixall reported. Rags’ head spun; she realized she was bleeding from the head.

“Where’s Redscar?”

“Hunting the arm. It hasn’t gotten away.”

The Goblin looked around wildly. She spoke.

“Then go, go!”

They ran in a jumble of bodies, wounded and living, past the caved-in rocks and past, Rags realized, the leg. It was lying under the rubble, buried or dead, she didn’t care.

We got one core. All the seith’s there. We can grab it later.

They had to kill the arm. Or else the Titan would be too strong. The other parts shouldn’t have been on high alert; the head shouldn’t be coming here yet! Not until the arm died! What had happened above?

This never happened in any of the doors! Rags’ mind whirled as she ran, and she came to a simple conclusion.

This never happened because it couldn’t except in the real world…

Fate was laughing at her.

 

——

 

The pursuit took forty minutes before Rags caught up with the limb. Forty desperate minutes, not including the time she’d been buried. The problem was the tunnel had collapsed, cutting the arm off from its pursuers, except the Goblins and Trolls who’d been right on top of it. The Trolls, native to their home, knew how to navigate to find the arm, but it was moving away at speed.

The arm was fleeing, dragging itself down the tunnels to safety, to the other limbs, as fast as it could. It was having trouble re-absorbing its core back into its flesh because it was being hunted.

Redscar, Trolls, and an advance party of Goblins were harassing the arm, carving chunks out of the flesh to reveal the seith core, screaming fury. However, the arm was almost away.

It was headed for that chasm that it had been tossed down the first time Rags met it; doubtless, it’d take the insane drop to be free of the real danger. The Trolls knew where it was going and were trying to cut it off, but despite their best efforts, Rags and her group barely made it to the opening where one of the bridges still remained, at a crossroads of the tunnels, as the arm arrived.

It was jerking, twitching, and Rags guessed Redscar had landed at least four blows on the core. She gave rapid orders.

“Wall spells, all of them. Tripvines, everything. Thunderbows, fire harpoons and ropes. Do not let it get out of here! Now, kill it! Charge!”

Trolls ran with Ogres and slammed into the fingers, grappling with each one, and a desperate melee began. The first armor-shredding sinew emerging from the fingers twisted around and slashed at Rags.

Shineshield took the blow, spinning and dropping, and Rags reached down for her—then kept running. She drew her sword, Snapjaw’s commentary in her ear—

“It going, Chieftain! It beat up Teriarch and all the Dragons!”

What did? Teriarch was her secret—she could ask for Saliss. For 2nd Army. She just had to—

Rags saw Redscar fighting to get at the core, covered in wounds. He must have been pursuing it for an hour. He was lacerated down to the bones, and she shouted.

“Redscar, fall back! Let Leapwolf—”

She realized Leapwolf wasn’t here. He’d been with Redscar. Where was—?

“Leapwolf dead.”

He launched himself forwards and cut. The core throbbed, and flesh exploded outwards as Redscar landed a fifth blow. A sixth. The impact hurled Rags down, and her head rose.

“Two more! Somo!”

The Ogre was grunting, fighting with the hand as it reached the entrance of the tunnels. Her feet were sliding back as it snapped through tethers, magical walls, ropes—she tried to grab her club.

“I coming. I—”

A finger flicked. The Ogre stumbled, recoiled, arms flailing, falling backwards—and stared up at the edge of the chasm. She tumbled down, head-over-heels, into the darkness.

Rags heard a scream, and her stomach dropped. Somo? She turned. The drums were beating loud, now, louder than her heart. She heard voices screaming, furious Trolls hitting the hand. Redscar, shouting an order, and a voice.

“Faster.”

Rags stopped. It was faint, but she knew that tongue. That word that was not in any language she knew. It spoke again.

“Faster.”

“No.”

It echoed down one of the tunnels. Rags turned, arm forgotten, and saw it then. A shape illuminated by the ruined, glowing eyes. A voice speaking magic as a head rolled—rolled like a ridiculous ball, rotating, speaking a word of magic and accelerating like a spinning soccer ball, shooting down the tunnel.

“Fasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfaster—

The head rolled into the melee and crushed a Troll into red blood and flesh before anyone could react. It lay there, mouth facing the ceiling, and then spoke.

“Die.”

Rags’ head rang. Blood ran from her nose, and she clapped her hands to her ears. Every living being in earshot collapsed or screamed as the head righted itself, and the arm turned, no longer the hunted, but the predator once more. It reached out and stabbed; a claw ran through the old Troll warrior, who went down, stabbing at the finger with his broken jade spear.

“Retreat. Retreat!”

They had to run. This was all going wrong. Rags shouted, but no one could hear her, and the head was now blocking the way out. It sat there, panting, tongue snaking out to grab a Goblin and drag it into its mouth. Rotten teeth gnashed. It was preparing to speak another word.

“Chieftain, run.”

Rags saw Taganchiel raise a trembling hand. He planted his staff and fired a glowing comet into the open mouth. The head swallowed the spell with a grimace. Then spat.

“Wave of Acid.”

A wall of pale liquid spat out of its mouth and hit Taganchiel. He vanished in a hiss of steam, and Rags felt the liquid splash her as she jumped away. Acid? Her warriors—

“Redscar! Don’t!”

Poisonbite was screaming. Rags turned and saw Redscar leaping at the arm. One of his swords was broken at the hilt; he had the blade of electricity in his hand. Garen’s Redfang was broken. He drove the blade down, stabbing into the seith crystal, and Rags heard it crack and begin to shatter. The hand writhed. The head saw Redscar and said nothing. It opened its mouth and screamed.

A cone of sound and death ran down the corridor. This time, it hit Rags. She dropped, and she couldn’t see as her vision receded. But she felt them dying.

Her tribe. Her warriors.

Poisonbite. Starstarer. Redscar—he toppled backwards with the broken arm as the head howled at them. It was rolling forward, crushing paralyzed Goblins, and the tunnel was shaking again.

Collapsing. Rags realized someone was casting the magic. She searched around, blood dripping from her eyes.

Prixall was on the far end of the corridor, barely a dozen Trolls and Goblins with her. She was reaching out. Rags pulled herself up, leaning on her shortsword.

“Run.”

She didn’t know if Prixall heard; rocks were falling, and everyone was dead. She staggered upright and saw the head of the Mortemdefieir Titan.

It sat there and studied her. Glowing gaze fixed on her. A rotted Drake’s head; she could see the neck-spines snapped off. See intelligence in that hallowed gaze. It said:

“You know me, worm. Somehow. You have injured me, thing. Goblin.”

She didn’t understand what it said except for ‘Goblin’. Rags grinned at it.

“You won’t…survive.”

She panted, clutching at her chest. It regarded her, listening. She laughed at it. Two pieces of it. The inn could handle—she raised her sword.

The tongue lashed out and ripped off one arm. Rags blinked at the blood running from the stump on her shoulder. She fell backwards, lying there, and it ripped one of her legs off.

“Suffer.”

It said that in words she could understand. Rags stared upwards, refusing to scream. She couldn’t feel pain. She was trying to cast a spell, even though she knew—

All wrong.

What happened?

Didn’t matter. Rags was gasping for something. Erin? She wanted to…she lay there, as the head opened its mouth, and heard one last sound at the end of everything. It filled her ears, filled her soul with one last shred of relief not borne of hope, but of realization.

SLAM.

The Goblin started laughing. She laughed as the head halted, confused. She giggled—and her eyes were wide, and she laughed and laughed. With all the energy left to her, she cast one spell.

[Check Time].

And she said—

“It’s…four twelve in the afternoon.”

Then she kept giggling, giggling and laughing with the bitter humor of it all. With despair and devastation and—

Hope.

She hoped they heard it.

 

——

 

Dyeda threw up. She staggered away from the door as Rianchi opened it silently, to bear witness to the end. He was crying.

The door showed them everything. Every moment it would go wrong, and it was going wrong. He spoke as Dyeda wiped her mouth.

“Four twelve. What time is it?”

“Wh—what?”

The [Tattooist] glanced up. Her head was spinning. Her instinct was to tell Snapjaw to get Rags to abort the attack now. Now!

“Time. Chieftain said when she died. She realized…she remembered this place.”

Rianchi closed the door softly and turned. Dyeda pulled herself up, felt at her pockets.

“Not four. Chieftain said she was getting in position. M-maybe lunch? I don’t—”

“I check. You stay here. Mrsha? Mrsha!”

Rianchi ran for the entrance, shouting for Mrsha, but without much hope. She’d been missing, and now…Dyeda stood there.

It was too real. She’d felt Rags’ desperation, saw the plan going wrong, and she wanted to tell herself it was all just one possible reality, but it was too…

What the heck was that rumbling that had made the plan fall apart? She hadn’t felt a rumble yet. It was just past lunch. Yet—Dyeda turned.

“Another door. Show me the future.”

An identical scene played itself out. In this one, the rumbling occurred the same as last time. Dyeda slammed the door.

“Show me Chieftain Rags’ futures! All of them!”

She screamed. She was mastering this [Palace of Fates], just like Mrsha and Rags, only it was too late. Dyeda stood in a corridor filled with old, cracked stone. Like the tunnels Rags was crouched in.

Each door was covered in pebbled ‘skin’, like that of a Troll. The handles were that of a clawed hand in gold. Bugs and blood seemed to be caked onto some. Scorch marks, flames on others.

Dyeda had no time for the artistic license. She looked right and left.

She stood in a hallway of doors of the future, of Rags’ future. And each door showed an increasingly narrow set of timelines. Unlike the endless hallways—there were a finite number of doors here, even if they were in the thousands.

Dyeda stood and turned, and the doors were vanishing. One after another, they turned into dust and vanished. One after another, they left this hallway of possible futures and became alternate realities—and no more doors appeared.

No more futures in which Rags lived.

The message was clear as day. It failed in each and every—

“We have to tell Snapjaw. Rianchi!”

He was back already, panting.

“Dyeda, Dyeda! It only twelve thirty! We have time!”

“When did Chieftain Rags attack? Nevermind! Tell Snapjaw to abort! Run, Rianchi!”

She screamed at him, and Rianchi turned and ran again. Dyeda sagged against one wall. She panted there for a minute, five, and then stood.

“Okay. Okay.”

They’d done it. They’d saved Chieftain Rags and Redscar and the tribe. It was okay if they failed to kill the limbs. Rags would make a new plan! Even if the Titan’s limbs all began to fuse…

What happened now? Dyeda peered around, cursing Mrsha for not being here, that brat. She shouted.

“Show me Mrsha, damn it!”

The [Palace of Fates] once again showed her that saved hallway full of the doors Mrsha had bookmarked. Cursing, Dyeda spun from them and spat.

“Show me Chieftain Rags’ futures!”

She expected to see a hallway filled with doors again, an infinite possibility. Because Rianchi had told Snapjaw to call off the trap, right? Dyeda spun—

And that finite hallway was staring back at her. The [Tattooist] wavered, and a coil of terror snaked into her belly.

“No.”

Now she knew how this worked. Dyeda ran, opening doors.

“Show me why! Why?”

She yanked open a doorway and saw—

 

——

 

Chieftain Rags was fleeing, or trying to. Three pieces were in pursuit. Leg, arm, and head. She was visibly wounded, pointing.

“Which way? Which—”

The mountain was shaking. The head was throwing spells, and another tunnel collapsed, cutting her off. Rags skidded to a halt as a groaning Troll looked left and right. 

“This!”

They all ran left and straight into the embrace of a hand, which closed and—

 

——

 

Dyeda slammed the door, ran to another one.

 

——

 

“—ing back.”

Rags stood over the corpse of the hand as a screaming head spat spells at them. They were backed against a collapsed tunnel wall, unable to get clear. She closed her eyes, then opened them once.

“If this isn’t reality—”

She spoke with a half-grin at the sky as Redscar turned to her, eyes confused. Rags tried to meet Dyeda’s eyes.

“—We can’t get out. The tunnels collapsed when the ground shook. It’s—[Time Check]—four thirty—”

 

——

 

Slam.

The quake trapped them down there. And it drove the limbs to gather no matter the cost. The trap for the limbs became a deathtrap for the Goblins and Trolls.

Dyeda saw it. By the time Rianchi had returned, the doors had increased in number as Rags tried to evade or escape the head. But so many timelines ended with her backed against a wall, hit by falling boulders, fighting the Titan’s limbs…

“Dyeda? Dyeda!”

The [Cyclist] had to shake Dyeda and nearly got stabbed with an inking needle as she whirled on him.

“Chieftain Rags is going to die down there!”

“Only that door. Only—”

He was ashen-faced but, Dyeda realized, controlling it. The Redfang had watched his family perishing; he pulled Dyeda back, and she saw someone else was here.

Fightipilota.

The other Redfang was grim, peering into the doors, and she snapped at them.

“Why are all the doors of Rags dying?”

“Because the—because she is still trapped! Even though Snapjaw tells her to retreat, something makes the mountain shake. And it traps her there as the limbs form and then hunt them down.”

Fightipilota and Rianchi regarded Dyeda, confused, and she realized she was the person with the best understanding of how the [Palace of Fates] worked. She explained as fast as she could, conscious of the time pressure.

“I asked for only futures that exist for us. Not ones where something else happened in the past. So we can tell Chieftain Rags is in mortal danger because in every fate, she is dying. If she weren’t going to die, we’d see it. Whatever we are doing, it is not enough. However, Chieftain Rags remembers the [Palace of Fates]. So she gives us hints! Like what time it was she dies.”

“That confusing and dark. How do we stop this?”

“Maybe—maybe we tell Chieftain Rags to fight after all? Or what way to get out?”

Rianchi speculated, and Dyeda shook her head.

“No! Stupid!”

He seemed hurt, and she hugged him.

“Rocks not all fall the same way. We need something else! Maybe we can get Teriarch to help! Only—in the future, Snapjaw keeps saying that he’s all beat up.”

Fightipilota was out of her depth. She could talk theoretical aeronautics and wind drag and the relative flight speed of the Izrilian dove all day, but this was all so abstract.

“Dyeda, you know this place. Give us orders. How can we help?”

“Uh—uh—Fightipilota, you find what caused the quake! Then tell Snapjaw to tell Rags what and when! And if Teriarch can fight! Then you go above, and if Rags or Snapjaw says anything, tell us!”

“Yeah, and tell her she dies at four o’clock most of the time!”

Fighti paused only long enough to give Rianchi a look, but the [Cyclist] was dead serious. Dyeda ran to the doors.

“Show me a future in which Chieftain Rags gets out!”

A door appeared, and Dyeda reached for it—then watched it sink into the hallway. She blanched and turned to Rianchi.

“You find those doors too, Rianchi! We have to find a solution!”

One that didn’t involve telling Rags to run left, right, take the third corridor, and wait for five minutes—that left too much up to chance. Dyeda was a whirl of emotion and desperate determination, and Rianchi, damn him, was just standing there hmming.

“Hmm.”

He had a habit of playing with a wrench when he was thinking, as if he were trying to turn one of his fingers like a bolt. Dyeda shook him.

“Rianchi!”

“I wonder where Mrsha is. This bad. This real bad. Mrsha knows. So why she gone? And why we not find her here?”

She gaped at him and then tried to drag him down the hallway.

“That’s not important!”

“I think it is. Give me one minute, Dyeda. Promise.”

The [Tattooist] glowered at him and ran, cursing Rianchi under her breath, but her husband just stood there a second. Thinking.

 

——

 

Rianchi wasn’t as smart as Dyeda, who could ink tons of patterns and stuff. All he could do was make bicycles.

Bicycles made sense. Each part did something. Everyone said it was complex when they saw the gears and chains, but Kevin had shown him how things fit together. All of it was logical.

The [Palace of Fates] was sort of logical. It had rules. Rianchi knew that Chieftain Rags and Mrsha had figured out more rules than he had, so he hadn’t thought too hard.

But he was also able to observe things. Such as…Mrsha wasn’t here. She was, in fact, in the inn. He’d seen her when he ran to get Fightipilota.

“[Palace of Fates]? Show me Mrsha.”

A corridor appeared, the familiar one with Mrsha’s doors. Rianchi nodded; he could hear Fighti and Dyeda slamming doors behind him.

“Palace? Show me Fighti.”

He blinked, and she was there, in the [Palace of Fates], running past him. Fighti punched Rianchi in the stomach.

“Stop wasting time and help, muckear!”

He ignored that. Rianchi tested his hypothesis-thing a third time.

“Palace? Show me Princess Lyonette, please. Actual Princess, not a door.”

Nothing. No movement. No new hallway.

Rianchi’s eyes narrowed. Point one…and here was another one.

He went stalking back to Mrsha’s corridor and began to re-investigate what he’d noticed. He passed by a mirror filled with a giant Harpy—

Rianchi whirled, and there was no one in the glass mirror. He stared at it, edged away—then hurried over to the door.

His mind was playing tricks on him, unless it wasn’t. He wasn’t sure which was pants-full scarier. But Rianchi could still bend over and inspect the door he’d found that didn’t close right…and the objects within.

Two roots sticking out of the door. Two roots here. He recognized those roots; Mrsha had cut them off from the entrance to this place.

The entrance that Chieftain Rags had never quite explained to him. Possibly because she didn’t know.

Rianchi picked up both roots and opened the door more fully. He eyed an image of Mrsha standing in the snow, talking to Pyrite as Kevin ran away from them. That seemed normal-ish, even if this Mrsha looked exactly like she had this morning…

“Huh.”

Then Rianchi saw the image flicker, and another Mrsha was trudging through Liscor’s streets with Chieftain Rags—a different Chieftain Rags. A different Mrsha. Rianchi’s eyes narrowed.

“Okay. That weird.”

He stared at the roots in his hand.

He stared at the door.

A [Light] spell lit up in his head, and Rianchi recoiled so fast he nearly dropped the roots. He stood there, then turned.

“Dyeda? Dyeda!”

He took off running.

 

——

 

Dyeda almost bit Rianchi when he dragged her away from the other doors. Fighti had found what she was looking for and ran past Dyeda, shouting about ‘Halflings from the moon’ and swearing up a storm.

Rianchi had then grabbed Dyeda before she could investigate and dragged her back to Mrsha’s doors.

“Dyeda, listen. I know where Mrsha is. This crazy, but listen, okay? These roots here? You know them?”

She stared at the roots and resolved that if Chieftain Rags lived and if this wasn’t a good use of their time, she would tattoo the most embarrassing thing she could on his butt in his sleep.

“Yeah? So?”

“I think Mrsha in the doors with the roots. That’s why the palace says she here. She going to learn from people in person. Or maybe—maybe she can go in and out? Or maybe take things in and out?”

He was glancing around, running his claws through his hair, wide-eyed. At this point, Dyeda became convinced her sweet husband had cracked under the pressure and was just crazy.

“Rianchi?”

She put her hands on his cheeks, trying to feel if he had a temperature. Dyeda met his eyes.

“Rianchi? That’s crazy and stupid and impossible, even for this inn.”

He nodded.

“Yeah. But is it crazier than the infinite box of gold?”

She had to hesitate at that one. It was impossible. Even for a super Level 70 Skill like this, bringing people back to life wasn’t real. Unless you had the Faerie Flowers, which Rags claimed broke so many rules….

No. It was still crazy, but Rianchi had an easy way to test things. He held up a root.

“All we have to do is test, right? What if—what if Mrsha going through the doors and bringing people back?”

“Why would she? And why in that door of the nice, stupid future where everyone alive…including Pyrite…”

Then they saw it. They both turned, and Dyeda covered her mouth. Rianchi blanched.

“Kevin?”

They realized what Mrsha was about, and it was so horrible and good, so—complexly painful that neither one could take it in. So they didn’t, and Rianchi stepped away from that door.

“I—I—let me try this.”

He fumbled at another door and opened it randomly. It was one of Mrsha’s doors; Dyeda saw an adult Mrsha stomping out of an inn, and Rianchi raised the roots.

“How they work then, genius?”

She wasn’t sold on this idea now she stared at the plain brown root. Rianchi muttered defensively as he awkwardly poked it around, trying to make it a straight line.

“Maybe you just…poke it through? Like—aaah!”

The tip of the root entered the door, and he leapt back with a shout of horror. Dyeda and Rianchi froze as they saw the root hanging in place. Rianchi eyed Dyeda. He gestured at the door.

She poked herself in the arm with one of her needles and then whispered.

“W-what do we do?”

Rianchi stood there, conflicted, then he squared his shoulders.

“I bet there someone high-level in this door. What if I go in, take a look around, and grab someone? Maybe there Chieftain Rags? Door, does this place have Chieftain Rags?”

The door flickered and showed Rianchi, for a second, an image of a strange Goblin sitting on a moving palanquin. Underground. She and a bunch of weird Goblins were on the march. Headed towards Liscor—

Rianchi gazed at Dyeda and pointed.

“That not Rags. What happened to her?”

“That not a big Goblin like Tremborag. W-what kind of Goblin is that?”

Dyeda was awestruck. The Rags in the image had huge ears and was tall; her skin was pale, possibly from lack of sunlight, and she seemed—

Dyeda realized Rianchi had his hands on the root and was moving forwards slowly before she grabbed him.

“Rianchi! What are you doing?”

An edge of true panic was in her voice. Rianchi looked over his shoulder bravely, seriously, like that stupid idiot who’d take on the Kraken Eaters—even if he was only bicycling away—or ride into the Trolls’ caves because someone had to.

“I’m just gonna look around. You stay here, Dyeda. Okay? I’ll be back soon as I can!”

Then he pulled himself into the doorway before Dyeda could protest. She rushed to the door, which was solid, and pressed her face against it. And she saw, stumbling forwards, looking around, feeling at himself—

Rianchi was in The Wandering Inn.

Ten years later. 

Then—Dyeda knew she was going crazy. She picked up the last root on the floor, searched around, and panicked.

 

——

 

At first, Rianchi just explored his surroundings. He felt at something—the root connecting the door to that reality? Then he waved at the ceiling and kept trying to assure Dyeda he was fine.

Short of entering the door, Dyeda couldn’t communicate back to tell him he was crazy, she could see him, and to get out of there. She had a dilemma on her hands, she realized.

Her husband was now inside a door in the [Palace of Fates], and so was Mrsha. If you went with this broad logic, fine, splendid.

Two problems. One, neither of them was able to just…what, yank out a magic sword or someone and bring them to help Chieftain Rags? And two, tangentially related—

Chieftain Rags was on an ever-shrinking time limit, and she was going to be trapped fighting the Mortemdefieir Titan. The [Tattooist] had no time to waste.

Dyeda tore herself away from Rianchi poking into The Wandering Inn’s kitchens and ran to the door with Mrsha. She stared into it, but all she saw was the other Mrsha pointing.

“And then that’s where your cake vanished?”

Rags was poking around the common room of the inn as Mrsha nodded tearfully. The Goblin sniffed the air, checked the ground; she had a big magnifying glass in one hand. The other Mrsha was deep in debate with Pyrite.

That’s just another Rags. I need something else! Some—Dyeda ran around, opening doors, now convinced Mrsha was onto something. She left them all ajar; there was an empty [Palace of Fates] with the remains of a camp, a damaged Erin Solstice lying on a raft, a blank door…

A blank door? What the heck?

Dyeda skidded to a halt. She paused by the door that was covered only by a black wall and realized this was…the door that contained the truth of Goblin Kings. Which one?

This door had broken armor on it, cracks spiraling up from the frame and even across the back wall. Dyeda checked the note, and it said:

If another Goblin King emerges. Not sure who.

It must have been considered ‘too important’ to show. Another door was similarly scarred and had broken vines and wilted flowers strewn about. A handprint was painted in blood on the door, and Dyeda reached for it.

Advent of the Goblin King.

Another black wall of intangibility. Dyeda punched the wall in frustration. Then she hesitated. She peered down at the root in her hand.

Wait. She had an idea that built on Mrsha’s first discovery, then Rianchi’s realizations. Dyeda held the root up, wavering between the two doors.

It was crazy. It looked like there was just blackness beyond both doors. But if the root worked on all things…

Did she dare? Was she allowed? The [Tattooist] didn’t know the answer to those questions, except that she did, not in a metaphysical, philosophical way, but because of her nature.

She was a Goblin.

Of course she wasn’t allowed. Dyeda’s crimson eyes narrowed. No one let Goblins do anything. So they did it anyways.

“Okay, eenu, mettva, methke—”

She began pointing back and forth between the doors, counting down—then stuck the root in one of the doors. Dyeda cracked her knuckles and checked which door she’d chosen.

“The future Goblin King?”

She hesitated. It sounded…dangerous. Dyeda wavered before the open door, pacing back and forth. How—how dangerous were Goblin Kings to ordinary Goblins?

And if I were to meet him—or her—what would—?

Suddenly, she was seeing the downside of entering any reality you could imagine. She had no idea what lurked behind the black screens! Even in the one that Elia had asked for, the Goblin King’s birth, the moment Velan the Kind had become the Goblin King, there was no context.

Dyeda did all the things everyone had tried, trying to peel the barrier back, get just a sneak peek of what was inside, avoiding the door with the root sticking out of it. Nothing. It was, of course, soundproof, seeproof, a block on true secrets that Mrsha and her guests were unworthy of.

Naturally.

Dyeda heaved a huge sigh and turned away. She was about to reach for the door with the root sticking out of it when someone spoke in a grand, low voice.

“I would close the door to the Goblin King’s reawakening if I were you, Dyeda. Before he screams. They all scream.”

Dyeda froze. She turned her head slowly, like someone in a horror story, and a vast Harpy trapped in a mirror peered down at her.

“Dyeda. Put a root in my mirror and let me out. I can help your little Chieftain.”

The last Harpy Queen spoke to her. Dyeda slammed against the hallway, frozen, back to the wall, and Empress Sheta cocked her head. She was trying to appear friendly and grand, but she must have forgotten the impression a multi-story tall bird of prey had. Her eyes pierced Dyeda to the core.

“Wh-wh—aaaaaaaah!”

Dyeda began screaming as Empress Sheta tried to speak.

“I offer you a—”

“—set me free and—”

“Stop screaming, Goblin.”

It didn’t stop Dyeda’s screaming. The Goblin was running now, trying to get away, but the Harpy Queen stepped from mirror to mirror, following her. She ‘cornered’ Dyeda at last, and the [Inker] drew her needles to defend herself. Then something the Harpy Queen had said sunk into Dyeda’s head.

“Who are you? What do you mean—Goblin King’s scream?”

That was when she heard a faint…buzzing. It was low at first, a thrum in this silent [Palace of Fates]. Then it grew louder, rather quickly too. For answer, the Harpy Queen pointed a claw, and Dyeda gazed down the corridor.

At the other door she’d opened. The past one, not the future. The advent of Velan the Kind.

She realized…the door was vibrating. Moving, trembling where it stood. The barrier still blocked all sight, but all sound?

Dyeda heard something. Something that made her blood pulse, her mind go white. Something that—even muffled by the power of this place—even with all the power of the [Palace of Fates] behind it—was so loud, so powerful, it grew and grew.

The Goblin King began to howl, and his door shook. Then the hallway shook. Then Dyeda’s earrings were shaking, her blood was screaming, and she was screaming. The Harpy Queen shouted at her.

“—door! Close the door!”

On and on the roar went, a howl of agony and fury from the dawn of the Goblin species. Dyeda stumbled towards the door, trying to slam it. 

The [Palace of Fates] shook.

Dyeda slammed the door closed. She lay there, panting, shaken out of her wits, staring at the Harpy Queen, and she realized too late.

In this place, more than anywhere in Erin’s inn.

At this time—

With the roots—

Every action had consequences.

 

——

 

It was the same inn he’d just been in, but older. Faded.

Far less grand.

There was no [World’s Eye Theatre], and everything just looked old. Unused. There was a quality to lived-in spaces that the inn lacked. It was like a grave.

Of course, it was a grave. Rianchi was walking around, wondering where Chieftain Rags was and how to find her. It felt like she was in the High Passes or somewhere else underground. He’d sort of hoped the roots would pop him out right there, but he must have messed up how they worked.

And there was no Fightipilota with a Wyvern outside. So…how did he do this? Rianchi was realizing that no one would understand him. Was there another Rianchi in this world? Another Dyeda?

He was suddenly, palpably, nervous. No longer a Goblin in a familiar inn where he was mostly safe. He was a stranger in an uncertain future. A worse future than the present, if you could believe that.

He should go and try again. Maybe get another root—wait, had he just wasted this one? Rianchi was about to find the little root that was virtually invisible and leave when he heard a sound. A…

Roaring.

He froze, and his blood spiked in his veins. Rianchi whirled. It was faint, but it was coming from that root. From the [Palace]?

Dyeda?

He began to run for the root, and someone grabbed him in a chokehold and dropped him. It was fast, and Rianchi reacted on instinct, throwing his head back, trying to headbutt—

He hit nothing. Rianchi was dragged onto the ground and saw stars as someone swiveled. In seconds, Rianchi felt his arm wrench up and a knee press into his back.

It was like being taken out by Redscar in hand-to-hand combat. Rianchi struggled, felt the wrenching pain in his socket, and groaned.

“A Goblin? What the hell?”

He looked up, through the searing pain, and realized he had a furry paw on his arm. He saw a brown face staring down at him, a young woman’s, and was so astonished that for a second he forgot the pain. She was older, but she still looked like—

“M-Mrsha?”

She let go of him, and he rolled away, only for a bunch of sticky webs to nail him to the floor. Mrsha lowered her wand, an adult Mrsha, and snapped.

“What the hell are you doing here? You know it’s not safe for your people around Liscor anymore! Is it Rags? She told me she was coming under cover. And what is that sound?”

Her ears were perked up. Rianchi groaned. He stared past Mrsha at the vibrating root, and she narrowed her eyes at him.

“Who are you?”

“Mrsha? That you?”

The Gnoll and Goblin eyed each other, and it was hard to say who was more astonished. Mrsha du Marquin lowered her wand slightly, and Rianchi’s eyes were wide. Mrsha’s seemed so sad. Like someone dreaming of a miracle.

Rianchi knew how that felt. He looked up at her and began to speak, desperate. Begging for something out of this wretched, shitty [Palace] worth having beyond regrets and despair.

 

——

 

Do you believe in miracles?

Do you believe in tragedy?

If you believed in one or the other, surely the opposite had to exist. If you had ever seen either, the genuine article, you would remember it.

At any second, the sky could come crashing down. On an ordinary day, someone you loved could die or you could lose something—forever.

By the same token, when the sky was falling, someone could catch it and hold it up. A passerby could come swooping in and save the day.

It was the belief that the world could change like that which kept them moving. The people who knew the inn. It had brought a little girl all the way here, holding a notecard gleaming with fresh ink in the snow.

It had sent a Goblin into the darkness of the mountain to challenge an ancient weapon of war.

Yes, they were young. Yes, it was hard and they could leave it up to someone else. But how many times? How long? Someday, it was their turn. It was today.

—But they were so tired. The girl stood there, so weary and lost that she didn’t understand why her fur was freezing; the tears wouldn’t stop, and she’d forgotten she was crying. A Goblin running through the mountain laughed bitterly as her plans went astray.

A mountain shook as a Halfling came down to stifle a Dragon’s stories. There were great rules written by people who meant well or thought they knew better, and if you broke them, they would smite you with the weight of time and nations. That’s what it meant to be a Goblin, where you broke the rules by being born, or a child trying to defy the oldest rule in creation.

Here was someone who had not that weariness in her gait and posture. Or rather, she’d had it, and then she’d rested for a while. Then she remembered what the light looked like.

The inn was quiet as a traveller stood in it. A visitor, who had been made in this place like so many others. She had been a starving, lost, hurt stranger. A wary friend. She had become a [Chieftain], a warrior, a desperate seeker of the truth.

Then she’d been allowed to put her burdens down. She’d gone off and been a child for a second time, for a first time, really.

[Student]. [Strategist]. Of course, her true class was a mix of both and cooler than either.

Rags stood in the inn, investigating the Case of the Missing Cake and, possibly, the Mysterious Not-Riddles of the Fake Mrsha. She wasn’t sure about the titles, and she was rapidly deciding that this was not winter essay material.

Even Mrsha had gone off to be consoled by Ryoka instead of investigating the disappearances. The inn had stopped lurching; Erin had given up.

“She must be in the city. I wish I had a way to see things like that. Like…some kind of super vision Skill to keep up with all my friends and family!”

She was grousing as her inn decided to sit down, and Niers’ voice drifted back.

“I have a Cyclops. Let’s assign the Thronebearers and a few others to do it. In my experience, you can overextend when we should be putting our effort into defense.”

“I just dunno how she’s getting through my garden. I guess…why don’t we figure it out over chess.”

“Excellent. Oh, hello there, student. I didn’t see you come in. Long trip?”

Rags glanced up with a sigh as she lowered the magnifying glass. She gave Niers a half-glower, half-smile.

“Professor. How was your trip?”

“I’m on vacation for the next week, at least. Don’t forget to file an extra-credit essay. But a good one.”

“Yes, sir.”

Erin waved excitedly at Rags and almost stopped, but Niers metaphorically dragged her upstairs. Erin rolled her eyes, pointed, and mouthed eating, talking, and then gave up on the miming.

“I’ll talk to you over dinner, Rags! Don’t spend too long on investigating! Mrsha’s making mountains out of Fraerling cities. Seriously, I’ve got more cake.”

“…Was that a crack against Fraerling cities?”

“What? Noooo…are they bigger than molehills?”

“One of them’s an ancient redwood tree.”

“Ah. So—bigger.”

They headed upstairs, and Rags shook her head and wondered if the Professor was playing the long game or if he thought he was flirting. Not that she was an expert, but…she paced around.

“So, Mrsha’s cake vanishes here. She claims no one ate it, and it has the same scent as her. You have to trust her nose—well, I don’t have to. [Nose of the Dog].”

She cast a spell on herself, learned from the magical classes she’d taken. It had really helped with the detective games, where she’d taken second place. Sadly, Yerranola was just too good at forensic analysis.

She sniffed around, and the traces of cake were virtually everywhere, along with way too many conflicting scents, frankly. Sighing, Rags paced around—then caught a weird whiff again.

Hm, there it is again. An odd scent in all of this, just like Mrsha claimed. It smelled vaguely like Mrsha, but more like…a different kind of soap?

It was very faint, and Rags could only tell because Mrsha had pointed it out. It vanished practically the moment Rags stepped away from this table. She circled it, frowning. This is what she’d done with Mrsha for twenty minutes.

We stop right here, and the trail ends, such as it is. Same as Mrsha’s room; the other ‘Mrsha’ vanishes. Which we can put down to so many things, but she has access to Erin’s [Garden]. It’s almost like…

…Like the [Garden of Sanctuary], but Erin swore up and down no one had anything to do with that. Did someone have access to her garden? A separate garden? Now that was an odd thought. Rags peered around and was on the verge of getting up and having a snack when she cocked her head and her ears perked up.

The [Student] heard something. It was the faintest noise at first, but it raised gooseflesh all over her arms.

“—What is that?”

The Goblin backed off, then began to comb the area around the table. Whatever it was was definitely coming from somewhere nearby…she was within a foot of it, now. But it wasn’t on the ground. Nor the chairs.

It was coming from the air, she realized. Rags searched around, and as if it had been there the entire time, just invisible—she saw the weirdest thing.

There was a brown root, covered in little yellow flowers, just sticking out of the air. Rags blinked at it, then rubbed at her eyes.

Huh.

Some mystery this was. She took hold of the root, then recoiled and let go as the roaring grew louder. The entire root was vibrating, and Rags heard some sound, muffled, as if…

“Hm.”

She took a hold of the root, wondering if she should tell or get somebody. But she didn’t really want to cause a fuss if this was nothing. So Rags pulled—realized she couldn’t dislodge the root, and felt at the weird place where it seemed to poke in from somewhere else.

She put her hand through a hole in reality and recoiled as her arm vanished. Then Rags stared at her claw and felt her heart flutter. She took hold of the root and hesitated.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

That howl called to her. And besides—Rags’ eyes glinted as she stared at something only she could see and sense. If it were just the scream, she might have hesitated. But why did she hear, as the roar died down…

Crying?

Rags pulled at the root, then walked forwards through the thinnest barrier in the world. It felt like someone stretched her to infinity and back. Like she was going to be ripped back, torn apart—and then she felt like the world had split to let her out.

All in a moment, less than a millisecond, so she gasped and stumbled as she came through the door. The [Student] drew a wand as she stepped into—

 

——

 

A palace filled with strange doors and beautiful, endless hallways. Rags looked around, wand raised, staring at the door and the root which had turned to ash in her hands.

“Aspat.”

She cursed. The sound made the crying stop. The Goblin Chieftain loosened the shortsword in her sheath. She gazed around, then saw the thing she’d heard and sensed.

A weeping Goblin. A Hob with tattoos on her visible skin, wearing what looked like a rain jacket and clothing fit for warmer days. She was crying, kneeling before a closed door.

Oh, and there was a gigantic Harpy in one of the mirrors.

Rags took this all in at once and decided the Titan of Baleros would have been great here. Or Erin. She backed up a step, wand raised, and her head hit an invisible barrier behind her. She recoiled, pointing her wand at…

…An open door?

The Goblin stared at it and the single living root in the door. The dead one—and the still image of an empty common room. She shivered, suddenly unsettled.

Is someone spying on us? No—she looked around and pointed.

“You.”

The Hobgoblin was frozen, mouth open; in awe or horror, Rags couldn’t say. But one thing was clear. She was crying and desperate. Rags could feel that, former [Chieftain] or not.

“M-me? C-Chieftain, I—no, wait. You’re—”

The [Student] analyzed that and narrowed her eyes at the Goblin. Actually, she seemed vaguely familiar.

“What’s your name?”

“Dyeda.”

That was familiar. A Goblin in the tribe? Rags gazed around.

“Where am I? Why are you crying, and what was that roaring?”

She demanded answers, and Dyeda just stared at her before replying.

“The—the [Palace of Fates]. I opened a bad-bad door. The Goblin King’s door. But you can’t be here. You’re in the mountain. You’re—”

Her eyes were filled with terror and confusion, and Rags bared her teeth.

[Burst of Ideas]. [Fast Thinking].

The [Student]-[Strategist]’s eyes lit up, and she spoke like someone delivering an answer before the professor in class could even state the question.

“Dead gods. I’m in the future.”

She looked around, excited, and Dyeda’s mouth fell open in a very satisfying way. Rags’ heart was hammering. She felt at the door.

“Is there a way back? What happens to us? There’s two…what are these things? Roots. They must be roots from a World Tree! Is this place made by a [Chronomancer]? Is it an Erin Skill? What if I—?”

“Don’t touch that! Mrsha is still in there!”

Dyeda shrieked, and Rags recoiled from the root.

“The other Mrsha. Of course. What day is it? How many years in the future?”

“Uh—uh—spring. Next year! Maybe Lundas? The week—but this isn’t the—”

Dyeda fumbled, and Rags’ eyes widened. She spoke over Dyeda.

“Spring. Double dead gods. Where’s Erin? Where’s Niers?”

“The Titan guy? In Baleros? With Erin, I think.”

“In Baleros? Did they get married?”

Rags was fully invested in the moment. Part of her was holding out suspicions this was some kind of prank from Niers or Palt; a kind of advanced training lesson like Daquin. Dyeda just gaped at her.

“Married? No. He rescued Erin after the battle at sea—how is this happening?”

She poked herself with a needle, and Rags’ ears perked up.

“What battle at sea? No, wait. We can be logical about all this. Where’s Headscratcher? Or Pyrite? Also, why are you here? I’d expect me, or Erin, to come back with a message for us. Something more organized.”

They’d catch her up to speed. When Dyeda flinched, some of the excitement faded from Rags’ veins.

“Where’s Pyrite?”

“Dead.”

“Headscratcher?”

“I don’t…one of Badarrow’s brothers? He died during the siege.”

The student stopped.

“The siege? But that was last year. I thought—this is the future, right?”

Her certainty wavered, and Dyeda shook her head. Rags’ mind came to a standstill, and slowly, Dyeda pointed at the other doors.

“This is no future. Just another what-if. Chieftain Rags, Pyrite is dead. Headscratcher is dead. Shorthilt is dead. This is a world where they never lived.”

Fate washed over them. Like a cold bucket of water, a deep, dark ocean extinguishing Rags’ excitement. It was reality she felt, like a physical thing on her skin, and it doused her thoughts. Left her cold, alone.

Certain.

That was the moment when Rags felt like this wasn’t an illusion. Because Palt, thoughtless as he could be, and Niers, cruel as the Professor could be, wouldn’t have twisted a knife in her guts like that. Dyeda’s eyes were wet, and she looked at Rags.

Desperately. Hope in her eyes. That familiar stare of so many people who had met Erin Solstice.

“Chieftain—Rags—the other you, the real—everyone is in danger! In the Troll mountain! They’ll be killed. Please, help.”

She didn’t know Rags. Nor did Rags know her, but she said it with such familiarity that Rags flinched.

Chieftain. So she was still a Chieftain here. She looked around, back over her shoulder, and the urge to retreat was in her veins. Yet she couldn’t deny what she’d just felt, and—Rags put a clawed hand to her head.

“This is crazy. Some winter essay, huh? ‘Dear Professor, you’re not real…’”

She was babbling, like she did when she was nervous. Stressed. Rags realized Dyeda was staring at her uncertainly, not sure what this Rags was capable of or how useful she was. The [Student] paused, and her eyes flickered. Then she felt that familiar twisting in her stomach, the stress she had left and put aside. She took her breath, and closed her eyes, and inhaled, and exhaled, just like Niers had taught her.

Cleared her mind, looked at Dyeda, glanced at the door, and nodded.

“Explain as fast as you can what’s going on.”

She listened as Dyeda gave her one of the most confusing explanations that Rags had ever heard in her life. The [Tattooist] kept it succinct.

“There’s a huge, undead Titan in the mountains. In the land of Trolls! You went down to fight it, but you’re going to die. It regenerates from anything, and there’s a quake in the mountain—it just happened—and you’re going to die, and so is Redscar, and we were trying to help, but Mrsha’s in there, and Rianchi’s gone, and I don’t know what to do!”

Her eyes filled up with tears. Student Rags rubbed at her chin.

“The mountains? Headscratcher said he met a bunch of Trolls there and that they played drums. Kevin was jamming out with them.”

“Kevin!”

A sob from Dyeda. Rags shook her head and asked two pertinent questions.

“Okay, focus with me, Dyeda. I need to know two things. One. Am I the Titan’s student in this world?”

“What? No! Are you?”

Dyeda gave Rags a look of skepticism and disappointment, which was honestly hurtful; Rags got it from most Goblins. Non-Goblins just thought she was a novelty or dangerous. She’d even met some Goblins native to Baleros, weirdos who all lived underground.

Rags sighed, impatient. But now her eyes were glittering.

“Addendum question: is the Titan on good terms with Goblins? Or this inn? At the very least, is he willing to talk to Goblins?”

“Uh? Sure? He was with Numbtongue and Badarrow, and he helped the inn all the time.”

The [Student] nodded, running some quick calculations. She’d transmogrified her entire [Chieftain] class into [Student], and thus lost almost all of her direct combat abilities aside from her magic.

“Okay. Excellent. Question two: what level is ‘Chieftain Rags’ in this world? For bonus points, what level is Erin Solstice?”

The [Tattooist] was glancing at the door behind Rags, doubt entering her voice.

“Why do you want to…fine, every Goblin in the tribe knows Rags’ level. She’s Level 39. [Great Chieftain] and a [Steelflame Strategist]. Erin? She definitely over Level 50.”

Rags’ eyes lit up. So this Erin was at the level to make the Titan of Baleros swoon for her. She bared her teeth and began to make a plan. It was stupid, risky, and this wasn’t her world—

But a Goblin was crying and it was still The Wandering Inn. The [Student] winked at Dyeda, and the [Tattooist]’s tears ceased, because Rags was breathing out the magic of her inn.

“Okay. You’re with me, Dyeda. I need directions to the High Passes. Teleportation would be faster or I’ll burn out of mana.”

“Fightipilota has a Wyvern. But—but you’re not a Chieftain?”

“Student. And I’m still Rags, so show me this Titan. The bad one. I’m good at dealing with Titans.”

Dyeda didn’t get the pun for a few seconds, and her face wrinkled up. Rags was already striding forwards, and Dyeda ran after her.

She was a genius. At least, Rags liked to think so. As proof positive of her genius, she had at least understood what Dyeda was saying this place was, even if she didn’t quite believe it. There was a problem. Rags was here. Intelligence was needed. So—Rags halted in front of a door, pulled it open, and took a look inside.

“Oh. Wow. That’s an Old One alright.”

She took a look at an image of herself facing down a rolling head, and then glanced at Dyeda. The [Tattooist] stopped, mouth ajar, realizing that was the fastest way to explain everything.

Rags took five minutes to watch and ask all the salient questions she could. Then she nodded.

“Alright, let’s go. Where’s the exit of this place? I’ve come up with a plan.”

A very simple plan, but it was pretty much what she’d realized would work when she saw the nature of this thing. A monster like Facestealer would have actually been worse, but she could probably—

Dyeda caught Rags halfway down the corridor. The Hobgoblin woman was shaking her head.

“You can’t help! We need Teriarch! Or—or—a Goblin King!”

“Or me. Trust me, I can help. At least, I can distract that monster if you get me within eyeshot of it. I have to try. Tell me you have a backup plan.”

The student’s claws were getting clammy with sweat, and the Hobgoblin woman was incredulous. This Rags was insane! She was as smart as the real thing, and cocky, but it was cockiness, not the confidence of her Chieftain. She felt younger. She looked younger! Dyeda strode after Rags as the opening to the [Garden of Sanctuary] came into view and Rags studied it.

“There is no way you can stop that Titan alone!”

Rags spun and poked Dyeda in the chest. Her voice was fast, urgent.

“Bet. It sounds like this world is further along than mine. And if I’m any judge, sadder. No wonder that Mrsha came through and made all the [Witches] think she was a torture victim. I came through this door on chance, and you need help. Here I go.”

Rags was climbing up the ropes easily, and Dyeda screeched.

“You’re too weak!”

She saw Rags’ feet vanish up the hole, and then the Goblin poked her head down. She jabbed Dyeda in the forehead.

“Excuse me. One point of clarification. The Erin Solstice of this world might be higher-level than mine. I’m not sure about our Mrshas, but I’ll bet anything’s higher level than that stupid fuzzball.”

She jerked her thumb at her chest.

“Me? I’m a [Student]. I gave away my class. I’m not a [Chieftain], and maybe that means I’m weaker in so many ways. But I’m a student with 96% in the Titan of Baleros’ classes.”

Her eyes flashed as she gave Dyeda a youthful grin with all her teeth, as Chieftain Rags never had.

“—And unlike Chieftain Rags, I hit Level 40 already. I’m Level 45. I’m a [Student of Grandmasters].”

The prodigal Goblin, far from home. Rags inhaled, and she hoped her brave face convinced Dyeda. She didn’t know if her best Skill would work. But—

She thought she’d have years. But she’d known this day would come. So soon? Now? Rags pointed at Dyeda. Her clawed finger trembled, and Dyeda saw it.

“If I don’t come back, go back to that door and tell Headscratcher…tell him and Erin that I had a great semester. I was needed sooner than we all thought. Don’t worry about the Professor. I’ll report to him first.”

Dyeda’s mouth fell open. Rags pulled herself up with a laugh. Then she was running, running into the common room of the inn as Fightipilota nearly flipped out of her chair. Then a Goblin stopped in the common room of the inn and looked around.

It was the exact same as she remembered. She inhaled, exhaled—and then her jaw dropped as she saw a statue of an [Innkeeper] shaking hands with a Goblin.

“—That’s new.”

My Erin needs that! I look great! The statue of Erin and Rags smiling at each other was the first change Rags noticed. The second was the patter of rain, the warmer weather—and the feeling of a lot of death magic outside. She stared around the inn as a bunch of skeletons marched past her, dripping water.

“…Toren?”

They stared at her, and Rags shook herself as Fightipilota got to her feet.

“Wh—wh—Chieftain?”

“Yo, you.”

Rags gave the strange Goblin a pair of finger-guns, and it stumped Fightipilota completely until Dyeda came rushing after Rags. The [Student] didn’t waste any more time; she began jogging towards the door. Her blood was aflame; this was crazy, but Rags was a product of The Wandering Inn.

A crying Goblin had wished for a miracle. And dead gods, they were going to get it. That was what guests of the inn did.

The Chieftain vaulted a table, staring around the inn, wondering what ‘Theatre’ that hallway led to. She saw heads turning in the inn. She passed by someone familiar and gave him a look up and down.

“Hey, Ishkr. How’s it going?”

“Uh, Chieftain Rags. Hello?”

The Gnoll turned to glance at her as Rags danced past him, feet light, sneakers squeaking on the floor. Rags passed by two [Necromancers] and their daughter having breakfast.

“Don’t know you, don’t know you, unless I do, sorry—is that Chaldion?”

She did a double-take as she passed by what looked like a dead Drake at first. He stared past her, eyes unfocused, and Rags shuddered.

This is the worst-looking timeline. Not that I’m a judge. Now, Fighti was pointing at the door.

“Chieftain! This way!”

“Coming! Hey, Calescent. Put a spicy bowl of something on for when I get back. Elia Arcsinger?”

Rags nearly slammed into a table, then vaulted over it, passing over the head of a Goblin [Server], who squeaked and almost dropped her burger. Rags snatched it; she hadn’t eaten a good lunch. Asgra stared open-mouthed at the coolest Chieftain she’d ever seen, in dress and style, and saw Rags grin and wink at her.

Then Rags was running out the door as a Drake spy nearly sprayed blue fruit juice over the table. He stared as a Wyvern took off outdoors, then slapped himself. He checked his cup to make sure no one had spiked it.

After a few minutes, the clock turned to 3 PM, and a very unhappy Unicorn wandered into the inn.

 

——

 

When Mrsha exited her door, she found Dyeda standing in the [Palace of Fates], staring at the door. Mrsha was exhausted. And alone.

What’s going on?

“Where were you? No—Rags came through the door, Mrsha! Chieftain Rags is in trouble, and another one appeared and—”

Dyeda exploded, screaming at the girl the moment Mrsha appeared. Mrsha recoiled. Then she realized how much time had passed and looked around.

Oh no. Things were going wrong? A Rags had come through?

Why aren’t you following the plan?

She held up a message, fierce, and Dyeda backed away defensively.

“I was going to! Then Rianchi noticed the root you didn’t tell us about, and…I’ll do it!”

The [Tattooist] pulled out a folded piece of paper and read it. Then she withdrew a pile of letters from her belt pouch, scrunched up, and looked around.

“It says I have to give this to Watch Captain Zevara, Lyonette, and—Saliss or Grimalkin. Or get Ishkr to do it. No, wait, first, go to the theatre and tell ‘Demsleth’ or Teriarch what’s happening.”

Contingencies. On the assumption that Rags had failed or was dead, they told everyone. If the Titan formed up, they had a day or two before it exited the mountain. The letters advised Teriarch to wait and attack with all reinforcements he could gather, Xitegen, Liscor’s army, Pallass…and they had letters they were sure would convince everyone of the danger.

It shouldn’t have come to that. Nor were those the real contingencies. They were just the ones Rags had come up with.

Wait.

Mrsha caught Dyeda’s arm. The [Tattooist] turned; Mrsha was looking around.

Where’s Rianchi?

“I-in another door.”

Mrsha’s eyes went round with horror.

What? You idiots!

She went tearing towards a door—then halted. No, if Rags was in danger—her contingency needed to be activated. Silently, Mrsha turned, and there she was.

Watching her. The Harpy Queen waited, and Mrsha strode up to the door. Sheta said nothing; Dyeda flinched as that imperial gaze found them. Mrsha and Nanette liked to read books at night—or had, until recently. In some tales, important people were described to have ‘patrician’ faces or noses, which she had a hard time imagining.

Well, Sheta had that kind of face. She looked like she had been born to rule, as if she looked down on the world in more than a literal sense; as though each word she spoke were an order unquestioned.

An ancient ruler who had known Teriarch. Possibly a horrific monster in her own right. But Mrsha strode up to her and held up a card.

I need you to promise on the last Empire of Harpies, on any living Harpies, and on the life of the Dragonlord of Flame that you’ll help and not harm anyone I love. If you do, and swear to rescue Rags, I’ll set you free.

It was the logical thing to do. Dyeda gasped.

“Mrsha, no!”

The girl expected the Harpy Queen to ask questions or to negotiate, but the vast bird-woman was still. Her eyes glittered, dark sapphires, as she peered at Mrsha.

“Clever child. But you have not yet learned to negotiate. Nor do you have oaths to bind me properly.”

Mrsha recoiled and held a card up fiercely.

If Rags dies, I will never let you out! Help me, please! I know you want out!

“Mm. Perhaps.”

Sheta’s eyes flicked to Dyeda, then to the doors with roots in them. Mrsha was trying to figure out what Sheta wanted when she heard a sound.

“Argh.”

A door opened fully, and Rianchi rolled out of the future door he’d gone through.

“Rianchi, what happened?!”

“Mrsha. She got good at fighting. I—wha!”

He saw the real Mrsha, and Sheta, and nearly collapsed back into the door. Mrsha whirled, and Sheta nodded to herself.

“Hm.”

She turned and began to walk back into her mirror-world, away from them. Mrsha banged on the mirror, desperate.

Wait! Come back! I need your help!

If not her, then—she searched around and began to dash for another door she’d bookmarked just in case. The last Empress of Harpies turned her head and called over one wing.

“Child. Do not be reckless. The Goblin who came through here may be enough. Check your doorways. If all hope is lost, I will consider your offer anon.”

Mrsha blinked. Rags? The student? Sheta nodded at Mrsha’s perplexed face.

“She has a Skill that may suffice.”

She could see Skills, even through the mirror? Mrsha watched the giant Harpy spread her wings and fly down the hallway. Then she was a speck in the distance. Unnerved, Mrsha stood there, wondering if she should activate Rags’ contingencies.

She only remembered Dyeda and Rianchi were there when she heard them panting for air. Mrsha realized the two were glued in place; the presence of the Harpy Queen had frozen them stiff.

Sheta was terrifying. But compared to Belavierr standing in front of the [Garden] door, she was still less of a monster. Trauma for the win, again.

Sounds like we have a chance. Come on—let’s find out what’s happening! Rianchi, what happened with your door? Did anyone see you?

“Only you.”

Me? Are you okay?

She was appalled and glanced at the door, but it was just slightly open. Rianchi hurried to reassure Mrsha all was well.

“I’m fine. Yeah! Definitely! Other Mrsha was very reasonable.”

He pointed at the door, and the real Mrsha eyed it, then Rianchi’s nervous grin. But they had no time. So she nodded, and they all went running to find more doors. To see what was happening.

—A few seconds after they were gone, Empress Sheta poked her head out from another mirror and inspected the hallway again. This time, she was hidden in the reflection of the glass from one of the lanterns hanging in the hallway. There were secrets to the [Palace of Fates] the child had no way of knowing.

Sheta was, of course, just a memory. But she had just realized she did have a few moves she could make. The most important one was being able to walk away from negotiations. The girl did not have all of what Sheta wanted—yet.

The Harpy Queen sat there, eyes narrowed, thinking, as now a second being from the [Palace of Fates] had entered this world. She hadn’t lied about what she’d said, but she hadn’t jumped at the opportunity Mrsha offered either, because it was too good.

Impossible. Unacceptable. Fate-altering. 

She had her own thoughts on the matter and what it could mean. Mostly, Sheta was waiting to see whether there were—side effects. Because she had to believe there were some. And if there were none? Well. Sheta did wonder, though…if anyone else was watching.

 

——

 

Someone else was watching. Kasigna couldn’t believe her eyes. She was outraged, uncertain, horrified.

Then furious. But she kept observing, glancing over her shoulder at the intruders. And she beheld fate tangling in ways that not even the Faerie King could guess at.

 

——

 

Fly.

It was Rags’ first time on Wyvernback. This Goblin tribe had Frost Wyverns. Her mind was spinning at the implications. But she tried to look like this was natural to her.

Be confident. Project it. These were lessons she’d learned, but been re-taught by her mentor, Niers Astoragon. She was the Rags of another timeline, another universe.

Of a better one, it seemed. But different, even so—for instance, she recognized the Goblin, Flipstrike, in front of her. Only…her name was apparently different here.

“Hey, Flipstrike. Flip—Fightipilota. How much time do we have?”

“Eh—an hour and a bit. Is bad.”

“Plenty of time.”

Fightipilota glowered; she wasn’t happy about what was going on, but she was doing the only thing she could: flying.

“Two hours to get to the Troll mountains and down there? It takes two hours to even get that far down!”

Rags patted her customized sneakers. Mostly to make sure they were snug and didn’t fall off, which would be a disaster.

“I move fast. All I need is a guide. If they marked the way, I can get there.”

“Yeah? What’s the plan?”

The student’s stomach hurt. She closed her eyes, breathed in and out, and spoke.

“—There’s only one Skill I’ve got that can help. Just one. But it’s a good one. I’m a [Student], you know? Level 40+.”

“[Student].”

Fightipilota spat over the Wyvern’s back, and it sympathetically pooped to show what they thought of that. Rags had heard it all before. She knew…

A real Old One. Dead gods. She was afraid. She wasn’t ready. She was supposed to be on winter vacation from class, hanging out with her classmates, learning how to lead, being allowed to be young.

But I knew it was a gift of time. I knew it, Erin knew it, and Headscratcher. Time ran out. She could have gone back, could have told Dyeda she couldn’t help—but she could.

This is what Erin would do. This is what Rags owed her tribe, her friends, the inn. And a Goblin would pay her debts.

So Rags closed her eyes and spoke.

“—It just depends on who are your teachers. Mine? Mine are the best in the world. [Mentor’s Skill: On The March].”

Fightipilota yelped, and the Wyvern screamed as they accelerated. Rags clung to the saddle, grinning and trying not to throw up as they moved half-again as fast. She saw the two looking back at her, wide-eyed. The Wyvern nearly went into a nosedive before it remembered to look straight ahead.

It wasn’t as good as Niers doing it himself, but it did work. Rags breathed out. This could work. My Skills can work. She just wondered—Rags fumbled for something at her belt pouch. She triggered a speaking stone a few times, cleared her throat, and spoke.

“Aspat garguile echo fourteen twenty one. Hey—Professor. I might be needing some help.”

Did you feel that? I bet you did. Rags held her breath, wondering if there was even a chance the Forgotten Wing company used enchantments so similar they’d work even in different worlds.

Then she heard a soft clinking sound as the speaking stone connected. Thank the Drakes’ Ancestors for standardization. Rags heard a voice that made her heart leap in relief, even if it was tinged by anger, uncertainty, and confusion.

“—This is Niers. Who the hell is this?”

She just laughed in relief for a breathless second before she replied.

 

——

 

 

Chieftain Rags leaned on her shortsword and tried to breathe. Dust was fountaining up everywhere from the collapsed tunnel, and she rasped.

“…What time is it?”

Of all the questions they expected from her, that wasn’t it. Prixall helped Rags up.

“Chieftain?”

“What time?”

Rags knew it was a stupid question. She knew it was crazy—if this wasn’t reality, she’d never know it. But just in case, she demanded an answer.

“—Four and six, Chieftain.”

“Good. Thank you. Now, form up. Let’s do this.”

She pointed her shortsword ahead and heard shouting from the rubble. She fancied she could hear Redscar, which meant the cave-in hadn’t killed him.

Three squirming pieces of flesh were coming towards them. A head, a leg, and an arm.

Just wonderful. Just like Dyeda had warned her via Snapjaw. Rags had one consolation; the leg was barely kicking forwards. It was visibly…sagging. And the arm was squirming, shaking, crawling down a tunnel to the left. The head just stared at them, empty sockets oozing with malevolent yellow light. Angry. Furious. Afraid.

One seith core down. They’d broken it in a melee as they fled. Rags had decided her odds of surviving a linked pair of limbs were a lot less than destroying one core and chasing the other off.

—Shame about that earthquake cutting off her escape route. Rags pointed, and her Goblins ran. Trolls hurled boulders at the limbs, trying to clutter the passage or just slow them. The limbs advanced slowly, even the head. It was speaking.

“How…you…know? How do you knoooooooow? Stooooop. Slow.”

It formed each word, each non-magical word with difficulty. Rags just gritted her teeth as she felt something trying to leaden her limbs.

“[Speed]. Run!”

The drums helped as she re-accelerated. Dulat was playing her heart out, and Rags hoped they’d get out of here alive. She was running up the tunnels towards another intersection when the arm blasted out of a pile of rubble. It had crawled around them so fast—

“Left, left!”

The hand leapt like a demented spider, enraged, fingers slashing. Rags saw the fingers curling inwards, to kill.

Somo intercepted the blows with a roar. The Ogre didn’t bother with her club; she just raised her shield, and cried aloud.

“Body is stone!”

For a second—one second—she turned to granite. Rags saw it; the Ogre’s eyes flashed with magic, Ogre magic, and the fingers slashed and rebounded off of Somo. Then the Ogre was staggering backwards. Her skin was—raw. Chunks had been blasted out of her arms and shoulders, not deep, but the stone had still fractured.

“[Pinning Shot]. Volley!”

Trueshot swung her Thunderbow up and fired from the hip; the impact nearly sent her sprawling, but it was followed by a rain of glowing objects.

Blast Flasks, Potions of Fireball, acid jars, even several Jars of Air. The Goblins hurled everything they had and the whumph re-collapsed the tunnel back on the hand.

It bought them minutes, maybe. Less; the huge shape of the hand was already thrashing around the rocks, and the head was still rolling at them.

But slowly. It was cautious. It wanted them alive. It spoke as Trueshot dragged herself up and aimed her Thunderbow at it.

“[Instantaneous Reload]. Volley!”

“[Better Potion]! Acid jar!”

Mousebite hurled an acid jar, which exploded in a rain of acid double what the jar should have held. More alchemical concoctions flew; the head spoke.

“Shield.”

—The projectiles vanished into a purple haze around its face. The warriors around Rags faltered, then ran for it.

Goblins went charging left, and Rags hoped that if this were another door, whomever was watching would memorize that—

Probably doesn’t matter. Fates change. She hadn’t seen the earthquake in the other doors. Damn it…

She tripped, and two Goblins grabbed her and literally ran while holding her under the armpits. Leapwolf had blood running all down his face, and Shineshield’s shield was gone.

If they survived this, Rags would commission a new shield from Pelt himself. She panted.

“Put me down.”

“Chieftain, give orders. Who slows it?”

The head was rolling after them, and Leapwolf looked around. Rags snarled.

“No one! Run faster!”

—She’d send Taganchiel first. He had a wall spell. Then Leapwolf. Rags panted as her feet hit the ground, and she just ran. But the head was angry. Alarmed.

“Wall. What. Do. You. Know?”

A wall of stone sealed the tunnel, and Rags snapped.

“[Ogre’s Strength]. Somo, break it down!”

The Ogre attacked the wall with a roar as Rags pivoted around. She was desperate; it could kill them with a word, so she calculated. Tell the truth? It could detect lies…

“The Dragonlord of Flames is coming. Hide, wretch!”

That made the head recoil. The creeping hand coming up from the side retreated several paces, and the rotted face made a sound.

“Dragonlord? Traitor. TRAITOR.”

The tunnels quaked with its rage, and Rags saw another plan vanish in smoke. There goes our element of surprise.

Survival came first. She held her sword up.

“This is a gift from him. If you don’t want to die, leave us alone, Mortemdefieir Titan! I know your name. I know how to kill you.”

For a second, she thought it’d work. The head rolled back one rotation, then studied her. It seemed to weigh its odds, then a maggot-infested smile made its lips open wide.

“I…killed Dragons. I devoured six. Send the Pyrelord to me. If you are his minions, I fear him not. To me, my body. To me!”

—And there went their window. Rags heard a shout and saw the wall of stone cave in as Somo battered through. She turned to run, and the head spoke.

“Now die.”

It spat magic at her, and a huge figure threw himself in front of the gigantic deathbolt. The old Troll—he dropped his cracked spear, and Rags made a sound as she turned. He sagged down without a sound.

The head chuckled. It rolled forwards another cycle, towards the dead Troll, and opened its mouth to swallow the warrior whole. Then it noticed a crack on the floor, which the Trolls had guided the Goblins around. The head paused—

Spiders burst out of the hole, glowing green and phantasmal. They raced over the head, and it made an annoyed sound as they bit furiously. Traps. Tricks of the mountain.

Useless. Seconds at most, bought in blood.

“Run!”

Another Troll bellowed, and they ran. Laughter from the head as it followed, whispering what it would do to them.

The pieces were playing with their food. It was a feeling the Trolls didn’t understand; they were panting, running ragged, panicking as they tried to navigate to safety.

The Goblins ran quiet, conserving their strength. Each and every one understood this feeling. The Titan knew them.

It was, after all, a Drake. Nothing had changed between them and it for aeons.

Who’s first to die? Rags glanced over her shoulder and wondered what had possessed her to try. So sick of being saved—she looked at Taganchiel, and the panting [Shaman] using his staff to run faster began to slow and turn.

“No.”

So tired. Rags drew her sword again as they came to another intersection and she heard Trolls shouting. The drums were beating fast, telling the Trolls to run, guiding other warriors to their location.

Trolls with rocks and stones and javelins burst from one tunnel and tried to flank the limbs. They hurled the stones at the head, who turned and spoke.

“Wall of Magma. Die.”

Searing, molten stone washed down the hallway, and Trolls shrieked as they burned. The head swiveled back, and Rags understood.

“It’s after me.”

The Titan was unnerved by whatever had hit the mountains. It wanted to know what was hunting it—and how Rags had known how to kill it. She slowed.

“Retreat.”

The other Goblins halted, gazing back at her, and Shineshield swiveled.

“No! Chieftain—”

“The other parts are coming. No one will make it out of here. It’s maneuvering us into a trap. Keep running. I’ll catch up to you.”

The words sounded like bravado in her ears, but she was grinning. The Chieftain turned on her heel and passed a hand over her blade. Flames melded with crackling electricity, and she cast a familiar spell.

[Ogre’s Strength]. [Speed].

Fate ran around her. The Goblin saw forwards, and in the Titan’s lurid, rotting gaze, she knew that the moment it joined the other parts, it would set off every [Advanced Dangersense] in the city of Liscor and beyond. When it emerged from the mountain, the continent would know.

The Dragonlord of Flame will kill you. 2nd Army will hear of your existence and bring Pallass’ wrath down on your head.

Her tribe would run and escape. So the Goblin grinned as her tribe began to flee, dragging the protesting Leapwolf, Somo seizing Prixall and Shineshield under one arm.

The head didn’t like Rags’ smile. It narrowed its empty sockets at her.

“Why laughing? You will scream, Goblin.”

“I have seen you die a thousand times, Mortemdefieir Titan. Come. I’ve been waiting to level up.”

Rags glanced around and whispered.

“It’s four twenty-six.”

Behind her, she could hear footfalls, the drums pounding like the background of her thoughts. The air grew cloying, and a buzzing of insects became louder as the wet, slopping sounds of flesh moving forwards filled her ears. She felt an oppressive weight on her thoughts, and her heart struggled to beat. She heard a chuckle from a swollen, rotten tongue and pointed her sword at the empty sockets writhing with maggots and that twisted mouth.

Chieftain Rags waited, then heard the footfalls cease behind her. She turned her head.

“I said run.”

Was it Redscar? They would all die here if they tried to stand and fight. Rags realized her entire tribe had halted further up the tunnel. She snarled at them, drew breath to scream an order, and heard laughter.

Laughter. Merry, youthful, from a young woman’s lungs. Delighted, confident, and brave—or was it bravado? It sounded like how Redfangs laughed as they went into combat.

Rags hated it instinctively. She couldn’t have said why, at first. The voice was so oddly familiar, but Rags didn’t understand until she saw the glow. Green light flickered down the tunnel turning long shadows into faint, flickering wisps of darkness. A beautiful, magical light.

Rags turned. The Titan slowed, perplexed, and she saw someone streak past her exhausted Goblin warriors, shoot along the tunnel walls past the Trolls.

The figure was moving impossibly fast and sped along one of the rounded walls of the tunnel, above head-height. It rotated up across the ceiling, then downwards in a spiral, passing Taganchiel, and Rags realized it was a figure. A short Hobgoblin on…

Skates? Rolling cylinders of enchanted mithril propelled her across the ground like the skateboards that Goblins such as Poisonbite loved. But these were on her feet. And she was moving even faster than she should have, skating off walls, leaping obstacles. Propelled by a familiar green fire.

[Apista’s Jetflame]. The spell that Rags knew so well was propelling the other figure forwards in ways that Rags hadn’t imagined. She was burning mana, skidding on one heel, and swearing as she saw the Titan.

“Dead gods!”

That familiar figure screeched to a halt and gawked at the three parts of the Titan. At Rags. She swept a carefully detailed and dyed half-cut wisp of hair from her face.

—She wasn’t even wearing armor, just some kind of bright blue sports jacket with a familiar badge on the collar. It was lined with Carn Wolf fur, and she had on jeans and carried only a single shortsword at her side.

No crossbow. She looked light, young, and free as she flipped one heel up, finishing her skid, and inspected the Titan. And Chieftain Rags.

“That’s one ugly monster. I’d better tell Headscratcher about that. Hey, Rags. Run this way! Hurry!”

A Goblin cupped her claws to her mouth and shouted, her voice tense, but still too merry. She grinned like someone who wanted you to believe she had all the winning moves. Someone trying too hard to be liked.

Rags had never wanted to hit someone more in the world. But she was frozen. Because she was looking at herself.

The [Prodigal Student] was backing up with jets of green flame as the Titan reacted to the newcomer.

“Strange. Same.”

It recognized what was going on, narrowing those eye sockets as it stared between the [Chieftain] and [Student]. It must have seen the identical magical signature, or however it was viewing them. It didn’t like what it saw, so it spat.

“Death.”

A shower of [Deathbolts] coalesced and cut through the air towards both Rags. Both Goblins reacted instantly, and twin jets of [Apista’s Jetflame] turned the dark tunnel to day.

Chieftain Rags jetted upwards, kicking off the ceiling and angling away from the Titan. She saw her duplicate skating up one wall on her skates. They passed each other, crimson eyes staring in astonishment, and then the [Chieftain] snapped.

“Run, you idiot! We’re both going to die!”

“Not yet. Give me a second—whoa!”

The other Rags skated down one wall, ducked another shower of [Deathbolts], and kept skating around, weaving in a serpentine pattern at speeds so fast the Titan couldn’t tag her. Until it spoke.

“Acid wave.”

That familiar wave of colorless liquid—! The student saw it rushing at her and tried to peel away, but she was too close. She threw up her hands, swearing, and a trio of [Fireballs] detonated.

Hissing clouds of steam filled the air as the wave of acid slowed—and then hit a wall of stone conjured by Taganchiel. The student tumbled backwards, and Chieftain Rags reached down and yanked her up.

“Fall back! Dead gods damn it—run!”

The stunned Goblins and Trolls began moving again, but the younger Rags bounded to her feet. The real Rags’ mind was whirling. She came to the only conclusion she could:

This is what Mrsha was up to. That little idiot genius! Of course!

Then, hot on the heels of that thought—

These are the reinforcements she brought me!?

And yet. Rags felt her heart leap. She locked eyes with herself, looking a lot younger but probably the same age, as the other Rags stood there.

For one non-immortal moment, the two inspected each other, seeing how time had shaped the other. Two different versions of the same being, shivering as they judged each other as only they could.

A young Goblin, brushing her floppy tuft of hair back, and a Chieftain, panting as she adjusted her grip on her sword. A gaze of weary exhaustion meeting a bright light. Then—the [Chieftain] saw the fear in the young [Student]’s gaze, the uncertainty, the self-doubt, the anxiety of failing that had led to her leaving her tribe. To try and be worthy of them.

The [Student] saw in her counterpart’s gaze the bone-dragging exhaustion of someone trying to climb higher with fingers worn down to the bone, clinging to each rock she climbed so she didn’t fall back down. Uncertain if she’d even made it a foot off the ground. Despairing…until that gaze brightened and she remembered that silly inn where miracles happened.

Then, Rags felt a note of hope in her chest. She remembered a dancing, pink flame, and turned. The other version of herself panted as they stood side-by-side in front of the hesitating Old One’s head.

“Okay, that was my fault. The Professor was right: [Strategists] should just stay under cover. Damn. Hey, me. Give me cover for ten seconds. I’m calling in help.”

“It had better be good.”

The [Chieftain] grunted; she spun her sword up, giving orders, and Goblins rushed around them. A grin was her only reply.

The wave of acid was receding, steam rising around the two of them, and the head was rolling forwards. It had lost its complacent attitude and snapped at the limbs.

“Don’t like this. Kill them all.”

The arm and leg surged forwards as the Titan decided whatever was going on merited an end to its games. The real Rags saw the student plant her feet on the ground, point at the Titan, and concentrate.

“Volley! Now! Prixall, Taganchiel, wall spells! Shieldwall!”

Her tribe charged past her as the Thunderbows cracked off shots. Trolls, Ogres, and Goblins formed a defensive line as more magical walls rose. The arm crashed through the first [Light Wall] spell and shattered it into splinters. Its fingers stabbed at the Goblins and Trolls, and an Ogre screamed as it snapped an arm, despite the raised shield he carried.

They had seconds.

The [Student] stood there, concentrating, and the Level 45 [Student of Grandmasters] had the audacity to wink at the [Chieftain]. She brushed her hair back—the tips were dyed red—and adjusted her posture as if she were posing for an invisible audience.

Then she spoke.

“Alright, everyone, fall back! [Call for Aid: Send Me the Stuff of Stories]! Hey, Professor! Hey, everyone! Too busy to write an essay—look what I found! Mind sending me some support?”

Her teeth flashed, and Rags threw up her hands as a blindingly bright light entered the depths of the Troll Kingdom. A window appeared in reality, like a [Scrying] spell, but infinitely more clear. The Titan stopped. Its dead gaze widened—

And the Goblins, Trolls, and undead Mortemdefieir Titan saw the window open in the air. The [Student] waited, sweating.

“Come on. Come on. One of you…please. This world has to be filled with some kind of hope.”

She whispered, and Chieftain Rags looked over.

One of you? 

 

——

 

Chieftain Perale of the Wild Wastes tribe was snoozing in a hammock he’d set up outside his yurt when a Skill hit him. He was used to Skills; most did not work on a [Chieftain] of his level. You often had little Gnolls or idiots who thought they could use a Level 10 Skill on him.

They bounced off or had a lesser effect. It was hard to explain, but most Skills never touched him unless they were friendly or he wanted it or his opponent was strong.

This one sent him tumbling out of his hammock. He landed, shouting.

“What? No!”

The feeling, that plea, receded, and he felt—guilty. Guilty, despite knowing for a certainty that he and his tribe had no connection with—an image appeared in his mind’s eye—

A trendy young Goblin? What?

He didn’t know her, hadn’t ever met her, and yet, he felt guilty as the Skill vanished. Perale pulled himself up, tensed, waiting—and then he cocked his head. He spoke.

“I…have nothing to send. But why, yes, I will look.”

A window opened in front of him. A scrying spell, but more perfect. A doorway into a dark place. Perale’s eyes narrowed, then he recoiled with an oath.

“Dragon’s teats!”

He saw a monster from his nightmares—definitely his nightmares now—and then heard laughter. Perale took one look into the mirror and saw the image split.

For a second, he locked eyes with an astonished Fraerling sitting at a war room table with a dozen Tallfolk, including Erin Solstice, the Wind Runner, Ryoka Griffin, a green little woman with insect wings, and a host of Fraerlings. Niers met Perale’s gaze, then his eyes swept the ground.

Chieftain Perale. Niers Astoragon. And—with her own window—Foliana, Three-Color Stalker herself. Then Perale saw another window open and two more figures appeared.

A grey-bearded Goblin sitting on a swaying ship, glowering, healing burns criss-crossing his front—a Goblin with a sword that Perale recognized.

—And a cross-legged Goblin sitting on a stone, a jungle forest behind her. Both Goblins peered ahead, noticed they were being watched, and then vanished. Perale stared, fur standing on end, and the young Goblin spoke.

“Hey, Professor. Little help here…? Where’s Earl Altestiel? I thought he’d at least check. My Skill didn’t even work on Erin. Weird.”

In silence, the others regarded each other. Perale felt like clarifying…what? He edged backwards and saw the window was following him. Then he ran as he watched the drama playing out.

“Berr. Berr!”

Perale shouted for an old Gnoll, who looked up from his own nap next to a fire. Perale slowed, panting, and barked orders at a young Gnoll.

“Get me a [Shaman] and—Chieftain Feshi and everyone you’ve got. Hey, Berr.”

“Hm? What’s up, Perale?”

Berr the Berserker opened one lazy eye, and Perale pointed.

“Want to see an Old One?”

The Gnoll thought about it and sat up.

“Sure.”

 

——

 

In the Titan of Baleros’ war room, everyone panicked except for Niers and Foliana. Well, Foliana just vanished. Ryoka Griffin drew her Faeblade, and promptly fumbled it, as the soldiers leapt to their feet.

“Hostile Skill! Countermeasures!”

One of the [Strategists] in the war room meeting exploded from his chair, drawing a wand and snapping a spell at the image so fast that the spell passed through the projection before the Goblin even finished speaking.

The rest of the room were on their feet. Iuncuta Eirnos had her crossbow aimed at the image, and the Fraerlings were as disconcerted as the rest of the Forgotten Wing company.

A hostile Skill in the headquarters of the Titan of Baleros? It had bypassed even the Fraerlings’ wards! The Titan himself had risen to his feet, a snarl on his face. Then he blinked, and his mouth fell open a bit. Commander Rozcal glanced around, dumbfounded.

“What the Gnome is going on—”

Erin Solstice had pulled a wand out of her belt, and the tip was glowing green. She lowered the wand slightly, hostile eyes widening.

“…Chieftain Rags?”

“Hey, Professor! Too busy to write an essay—look what I found!”

The Goblin in the center of the image waved at Niers as, behind her, the largest undead anyone had ever seen, a rotting head, a crawling arm, and a leg, moved in the darkness. The Forgotten Wing company was dumbfounded. There were other people in the image—like a scrying spell, or Erin’s [World’s Eye Theatre], they could make out a confused Gnoll.

The Professor was surprised in his way; not by the Skill activating; that had made him narrow his eyes. He had, in fact, been staring at Erin Solstice…until Greydath of Blades and Izikere the Guardian, the two Goblin Lords, had appeared.

Then his head had snapped around. The Fraerling visibly caught himself as the two vanished, narrowing his eyes.

“Astounding. That’s Chieftain Rags. And that’s…also Rags? And that—Old One Titan.”

His pronouncement had every person in the room drawing a weapon. All except for one. Foliana hadn’t drawn a dagger. She rematerialized and muttered.

“She’s calling you. Friendly Skill. You took a Goblin as a student.”

Every head snapped around to Niers. The Fraerling twitched and snapped back.

“I did not. I don’t even know what Skill—dead gods, she’s requesting [Fire Support]. Or something close to it. Who’s the Gnoll? I don’t know her, I swear.”

—He was far too calm. His voice had an edge of tension, but it was clear that whatever surprise this was, it was something he was at least aware had been coming. Eirnos narrowed her good eye at him, but the confusion was becoming focused amazingly fast. Ryoka was still panicking; but the [Strategists] had already sat down, even if they were swearing. One of them was running a finger down some kind of menu only visible to her.

“She wants wall spells, a full volley from every main company not engaged—sir, does this Goblin company have access to Forgotten Wing intelligence?”

Niers snapped back.

“No. Silence. Chieftain Rags, what is going on?”

The [Student] was, in fact, running fast as, behind them, warriors and Trolls were fleeing from the advancing Mortemdefieir Titan.

“Big Old One in the depths of the High Passes, sir! Thought you’d be interested! Do I get extra credit for this one? Mind, uh, helping? Diomedes’ beard and Tulm’s hemorrhoids, what are you waiting for?”

Several members of the war council twitched at that. It wasn’t the most elegant passphrase, but it was the kind of thing they taught students to signal if they were in trouble. Niers turned from the young Goblin claiming to be his student to Foliana to Erin—

“Did too take a student. Mm. That’s a big Old One.”

Foliana muttered. Niers drew breath to object, then his eyes swiveled to Erin Solstice. The [Innkeeper] was standing there, taking in the entire moment. Then she jumped and seemed to remember who she was. She turned to Niers.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Rags is in trouble! Help her!”

She snapped, and Iuncuta Eirnos broke in, the Fraerling’s voice taut.

“We have no idea what’s going on. This could be a ruse, a trick, and we have no context. Rozcal, get our [Mages] on this—whatever it is.”

Niers was addressing Erin, glancing around at his audience. He twisted a ring on his finger as the Mortemdefieir Titan spoke and death magic erupted in geysers behind the fleeing Goblins. His Ring of Greater Sight, analyzing the situation.

“With respect, Erin, this may be a ploy of some kind. Rags, retreat your forces. I’m willing to throw a Skill, but I need information.”

“Sort of hard, Professor! My Skill won’t work long! Come on!”

The [Student] was shouting. Niers nodded.

“Then we’ll have [Scrying] spells in place—”

“Not this far underground! Professor! Please!”

The Old One’s head was advancing up the tunnel, but it was as unnerved as the audience; it was staring warily at them and said a word.

“Fraerlings?”

The Professor’s eyes narrowed. Everyone was waiting for his reply, and Erin rested a hand on the table.

“Niers. Please—”

She met his gaze with a hopeful smile, and it—didn’t work. If anything, Niers’ gaze became more implacable. Foliana slid out of her chair and picked something off the table. She hopped out of the room as the Fraerling studied the situation.

Did he believe this was real? He had no evidence beyond the Skill, which was a kind of evidence in itself, but he had been tricked before. What he ‘sensed’ could be faked. He’d had a lesson in that quite recently.

Niers locked eyes with the desperately grinning Goblin with crimson eyes, as impudent as Marian at her worst, as reckless as Venaz, and with Wil’s moment of genius.

A student I never had. He glanced at Erin Solstice’s confused face, took a breath, and barked.

“I will be deploying Skills in aid of these Goblins. Get me our [Diviners] and tell them to link and punch through a [Scrying] spell on that position with our Fraerlings. [Expeditious Retreat]!”

He had to concentrate to throw the Skill across the world, but it accelerated the Goblins’ retreat. There was a cry of disappointment, of hurt, from the running [Student]. Niers Astoragon tried to ignore it.

Erin was reaching out for him, face taut, and Ryoka was quivering.

“You can’t let them die. You—”

She was looking around for something. Ryoka fumbled her Faeblade back into her belt, peering around the table, under an overturned cup—

“Hey, where’s Shaestrel?”

Everyone ignored her. Niers was arguing with the younger Rags’ pleas, trying to direct another Skill into the confusion. The Mortemdefieir Titan was advancing now, confident, and Niers was trying to calculate how many Goblins he could save.

He didn’t trust this. And perhaps it was the wrong call, but—Niers glanced at Erin.

He’d been tricked too many times.

 

——

 

The Goblins were in full flight. The gambit, the high-level Skill was failing with no one to answer it. It was flickering out.

Mentors. Legends. It was notable that Erin Solstice wasn’t among them, but she was definitely warded by magic against Skills like this. Or dead. A Goblin cried out for a vision of better days, a miracle, something to believe in, and no one answered.

Of them all, it was the Professor, Niers, the real Titan, who let his student down the most. But he wasn’t the one she knew. Even if it cut him with razors for his mistakes—he had enough scars.

He’d live.

At his best, Niers could be impulsive, rash, risk his life, and at his worst, he could be that cold-blooded [Strategist] who played chess without regard for the feelings of the pieces. He might have been the world’s greatest [Strategist], but he was still far from perfect.

—That was why he was second-in-command of the Forgotten Wing Company.

That was why she ruled, not him.

A Squirrel-woman stood on the walls of Elvallian, because she could move fast. She finished her conversation, and a green faerie sat on Foliana’s twitching ear.

“So…real? But you have no, mm, real proof?”

“None. But yeh ever see something so stupid it must be real?”

Foliana thought about that. Then a faint smile crossed her face.

“Good point.”

—One small detail. When Rags had called for her mentors, for the people who inspired her, whom she trusted, whom she’d learned from—she had opened a window to each one.

Chieftain Perale, the two Goblins Lords, Earl Altestiel, Erin Solstice, Niers Astoragon…

And Foliana.

Now, her face shone through the window as Niers glanced at her.

“Foliana? Where are you?”

“On the walls. I’ve made up my mind.”

Foliana had a breakfast muffin in her paws. She nibbled at it, then stood straighter. She stared ahead at the laughing head and nodded.

“I see an Old One. It dies.”

“Foliana? We don’t—”

She spoke over him. Her voice was quiet, but it grew, magnifying itself. [Soldiers] on the walls reacted to her command as Three-Color Stalker spoke, and her eyes gleamed.

“Fire every wall spell Elvallian has. Now. Strategist Niers—give that Goblin full fire support. Shut up. That’s an order.”

One breathless moment. One second where everyone hesitated. Then they remembered who she was. Niers peered at Foliana, and she winked one huge eye at the Goblin, at him, at Erin and Ryoka.

Sometimes, he just needed a push to be his best self. She tapped one foot—and then felt the wall rumble. The first spell activated with a rumble that set off alarms across the city, and Foliana saw a bolt of lightning flash from one of the towers. A massive one that turned the day bright—and it vanished into the air, criss-crossing the world.

She chuckled, and she could hear delighted laughter. Shaestrel and her kin swooped around Foliana, shaking tiny fists and cheering. Then—the Titan of Baleros was speaking.

“Coordinate those wall spells! Boost each one with a Skill! And tell every archer company to volley! Enchanted munitions! [Volley Fire]!”

Foliana took a seat on the battlements so her legs were dangling off the wall and watched the show. She could hear Gnolls cheering in the background and the whoop of that little [Student]. The Goblin was cute. Foliana was sure she’d have taken her in as a student if she felt like it.

 

——

 

The first bolt of [Grand Lightning] materialized and blew a chunk out of the Titan’s head. Then a hail of fiery arrows followed it, then a volley of gigantic light arrow spells. The Titan howled in surprise, and Niers grunted.

“Cancel the scrying spell. Every single [Diviner] will find me the location of Chieftain Rags. [Geomancers] to appraise the stones. Then run it to a [Historian]. I want identification on what the hell that is. Now, where are the wall spells?”

“Here, sir.”

Someone held up a glowing scroll, and the Professor pointed.

“[Volcanic Eruption].”

There was a glow beneath the head as it began to speak.

“Protect m—”

A flare of light, smog, and ash as burning light opened up from the ground. Niers grunted again.

“Works like a [Fire Support] Skill. Strategist Vler, get me in touch with Diomedes’ [Archers]. High-yield ammunition.”

“Professor, hit the leg! The other two parts regenerate indefinitely unless you break the cores!”

That came from the other side of the image. The student was scrambling to her feet, eyes wide, ducking as more spells passed through the Skill. Niers snapped at her as the war room burst into chaos.

“Report the situation, student!”

“Yes, sir! We have nineteen wounded, eight dead. You already have specifications on the enemy. Two limbs unaccounted for; one down. I met a lot of Trolls on the way down. I estimate their forces at—argh!”

For a second, they thought she’d been hit, but another Goblin had just decided to kneecap her clone with a savage kick. She stood, panting, covered in dust, and rasped.

“When it links, everything dies. We broke the core in the leg. Tell 2nd Army we’re not the threat.”

Niers nodded at Chieftain Rags and pointed at one of his [Strategists] without looking.

“Get me an intelligence report on Pallass’ 2nd Army and a straight line to Chaldion—no, that idiot in Pallass. Recopy the message to every [Senator] in the Assembly of Crafts with over ten years of experience and send a [Magic Picture] of that.”

He pointed at the screaming face burning with fire as it began to regenerate in real time. Someone blanched and whispered.

“Dead gods.”

“Get me all our [Battlemages]. I want a volley of a hundred [Acid Orbs] from Teizlec’s Magic Corps—if they’re not in the middle of combat—in thirty seconds. Tell them it’s a [Fire Support] Skill. How many Tallfolk Vortex Arrows do we have?”

“Sixteen?”

“Damn. Then—there’s two ballistae on Chess Tower Five. Tell them to fire Tremor Bolts. [Mark Target]!”

The Titan of Baleros felt—easier. He’d already known what was going on, known what the smart decision was, and been resigned to the cost of his decisions. Now, he had orders.

They might be stupid orders from Foliana, but they were ones he had to obey. Despite the cost—he laughed softly as he saw the munitions flying and knew Foliana was enjoying the show too. What was the point of having ammunition stores and spells if you didn’t burn something to ash now and then?

“Barely a passing grade, though. Making me do all the work is not a gamble I’d take.”

He muttered, but Niers was smiling as he watched the Mortemdefieir Titan’s limbs begin to writhe, then retreat. The head was shouting curses. And the leg?

The leg was dying.

 

——

 

Chieftain Rags was still running, but she came back for Student Rags. The idiot was trying to act as eyes for Niers and call in where each shot was landing. She was crouched behind a piece of stone for cover, but it was not safe.

The backblast from some of the munitions and spells the Forgotten Wing company was hurling at the Titan sent shrapnel flying everywhere. Rags saw a dozen [Valmira’s Comets] hitting the leg, blowing its ankle off.

It was actually dying. Rags’ mouth was dry with awe. She’d heard the Forgotten Wing company was engaged in two wars—and it still had this much firepower to drop in a moment?

Or maybe it was the other Rags’ Skill. She could hear the Professor speaking.

“I think I just saw that seith core. [Highlight Target]. [Boost Spell]—hit the grand lightning.”

This time, the roaring bolt kicked both Rags’ off their feet, and Chieftain Rags raised her head in time to see the hand jerk as its bones illuminated for a moment, then collapse. Was the seith core destroyed? It began moving again, and Rags waited for a follow up.

None came. The Titan was already out of sight; it was running for the hills, abandoning its dead limb as fast as it could.

The Skill ended, and everyone collapsed in the silence before getting up and continuing the retreat. They had to help the younger Rags to move; the [Student] was lying against one wall, gasping for air. A minute of devastation had passed on top of the four minutes since she’d activated her Skill; the image of Niers was gone. Student Rags looked mostly dead; Leapwolf was nudging her with a boot.

The head of the Titan fled, screaming, as a burning husk of flesh lay there. The arm jerked after it, and the younger Rags gazed up.

“Hey.”

She rasped, raising a shaking hand. Rags clasped it and helped the student up, but Leapwolf and Mousebite had to carry Student Rags in the end. The [Chieftain] strode with them as they headed upwards, following the markings they’d left. Another small victory for organization; without them, this Rags would have never found them in time. The…real Rags?…asked her copy the only question that she could think of as they marched.

“Why did you come here?”

The [Student] blinked at the question. She rasped back.

“You needed my help. Plus, there was this Goblin, Dyeda? She asked me for help. It’s what Erin would do, after all.”

She flashed an exhausted grin with all her teeth, and Chieftain Rags stood there blankly, swaying. The [Student] gave Rags a thumbs-up.

“This is amazing.”

The Goblin had a sparkle in her eyes, like better days and wondrous events. The older Goblin stared at her, resisted the urge to smack her on the head—then felt the hilarity well up. She began to chuckle too, despite herself. Chieftain Rags laughed as she realized Student Rags was right.

Suddenly—

She really had to have a conversation with Mrsha.

 

——

 

Two Rags emerged from the mountain where one had first entered. They exited with neither victory nor abject defeat.

The Old One was retreating, trying to regroup with its pieces, and one limb was dead, another wounded. It was afraid, battered by the Skill. The Trolls were calling it a victory, however disjointed.

Chieftain Rags had no idea what to make of it. The moment Snapjaw found her and hugged her, she gave a report full of terrible news.

“The Dragons are all hurt, Chieftain. All three! They beat up like if I chew on steak for five minutes! And Dyeda and Rianchi say weird things going on with the inn. Uh, aside from—”

She gestured at the shorter Rags, who was high-fiving other Goblins, showing off her skate-shoes to everyone, and handing out autographed cards. The other Goblins were caught between utter bewilderment, disbelief, or hilarious joy at the strange miracle.

The Chieftain considered her situation. The Titan was now fully on alert and forming up. Teriarch had just been taken out.

Disastrous. 

On the other hand, the Titan of Baleros now knew exactly what they were facing. Mixed? And—she glanced at the [Student] and resisted the urge to kick her over a cliff.

2nd Army also now knew exactly what they were facing. Plus? Minus?

She looked up, and Student Rags had the effrontery to give her a pair of finger-guns. Rags shook her head and realized the main change was what she had learned. Mrsha’s secret.

The [Palace of Fates]. The roots.

No wonder Mrsha had kept it secret. Rags flexed her claws and thought of…Pyrite. Garen Redfang. Her…parents.

She turned to Snapjaw.

“We’re going back to the inn. Now.”

Everything that mattered was there. It always had been.

 

——

 

General Shirka of 2nd Army was not a superstitious Drake. She didn’t believe in luck affecting battlefields—except that it was an actual thing some Skills could affect. But she didn’t believe in omens or ill-fated battles or campaigns. Just stupid decisions.

She stared for a long time at the image of a screaming, undead head that she put at the height of multiple Drakes tall and re-checked the notes.

The Titan of Baleros said there was an Old One Titan in the High Passes. He didn’t mention the Goblins at all, but her [Infiltrator] in the inn had just cited seeing two Chieftain Rags. He’d of course prefaced this by saying she could have gotten around him or used the [Garden], but he’d sworn he’d seen one take off via Wyvern only for the other to appear in the inn and leave.

Events in the inn…she paged through a long report.

Singing? Ailendamus? Child abuse?

—Her head hurt, but it reminded her of when she’d eavesdropped on Grimalkin trying to explain a ‘Solstice event’ at Scales and Tails or when Saliss had regaled her with stories.

Roll with the unexpected. Don’t stop moving.

“Any word from General Edellein?”

She barked at her [Strategist], Ulhouse. The Drake’s reply was sour.

“He’s ‘considering the situation’. But he doesn’t believe the Titan of Baleros. His [Strategists] suggest that we let this Mortemdefieir Titan attack the Goblins or see what it does first before moving in. Pallass is ready to send reinforcements via [Wyvern Riders], and you’ve been authorized to request bombardments. Orders unchanged. Take out Goblinhome?”

“…Esor said we should wait to see what it does? Esor thinks the situation’s unchanged?”

“No, Ma’am. I said General Edellein’s [Strategists].”

Shirka swore under her breath in a stream of invectives. But in truth—she hated to admit it, but 2nd Army was now in the right place at the right time. She gave orders as her officers glanced up from the cookpots.

“Ulhouse, pick a spot and dig us in. We’re advancing as ordered…slowly. Deploy scouts. I want to know where that Titan is, where it could emerge; there are countless exit points. Get me in touch with the Forgotten Wing company privately. And our [Infiltrator]?”

“Yes, General? Recall him?”

“No. Send as many as we can. Our people. Tell him to figure out what’s going on.”

General Shirka sat back, gnawing on some flatbread and meat as she stared into the distance. Old One Titan.

She shivered. And what had made the High Passes quake earlier today? She had no idea. She didn’t like that. She felt like she was being outflanked.

 

——

 

Madness at The Wandering Inn. Two Rags and two Mrshas met for a conference in the [Palace of Fates]. Lyonette was still missing from the events that morning.

Pallassian spies were everywhere. Niers was demanding answers, and no one had any idea what was going on.

Even Mrsha and Rags. Fate had turned from a series of probabilities to chaos; all the doors in the [Palace of Fates] were shivering.

The future was changing so rapidly no one could keep up. Was the Faerie King laughing? Had he predicted this?

What next?

What next?

The only certainty was that all the potential for tragedy and the impossibly wondrous was all in flux. The dead could come back.

For the [Student] from a happier time, she looked around, and her smile flickered and wavered.

For the two Mrshas, they exchanged glances and knew what they intended. But neither one knew if it was right or if the people they wanted, needed, could make the terrible journey.

Hope for the needy.

Suffering for the happy.

If you could change fate—what in the world would you sacrifice for it? What would you do? 

One of the two Mrsha flopped down into the grass with a groan and decided to pass out for a few seconds before she had to take on two Rags’ and all that would come next. The other went to play her role in the inn. But what would come next? What would their decisions lead to?

Each and every person asked themselves that question. From the youngest Gnoll girl to the ancient Harpy Queen of old empire.

In the [Palace of Fates], the doors sat there, waiting. Answers, secrets, alternate worlds, waiting for the doors to open and reveal the truth. The Goblin King’s door sat there, cracked and filled with a rage that even the [Palace of Fates] could not fully contain.

Death watched. Angry, confused, betrayed by this wrongness.

And in the silence, unnoticed by all, a door slightly ajar moved. A root trembled—then turned black, dying, all the fate, all the energy and the power it craved, the very essence that desperate divinities drank, the flowers of Avalon in fullness—withered away.

To give substance and life to a being who had been only a ‘what-if’ a moment ago. To give a chance to someone, whether or not she deserved it.

A pair of paws pulled the figure through the door slowly, and then she was through, shuddering, shaking her fur out, wand drawn. The young woman looked…nothing like her younger self. Her brown fur was sleek, and she glanced over her shoulder. Then Mrsha looked around. She holstered her wand and spoke, her magical voice gravelly.

“…Erin?”

 

——

 

A voice spoke in the moments between a child’s nap. With self-satisfaction, because, after all, it was the first time it had done this. It felt like this was appropriate, though. Given the circumstances.

 

[Emberbearer Level 7!]

[Last Survivor Level 14!]

[Druid Level 13!]

[Scribblequill Student Level 13!]

[Conditions Met: Emberbearer → Fatebreaker Child class created!]

[Class Consolidation: Last Survivor removed.]

[Class Consolidation: Druid removed.]

[Class Consolidation: Scribblequill Student removed.]

 

[Fatebreaker Child Level 15!]

[Skill – Lucky Moment obtained!]

[Skill – Lesser Immunity: Fate obtained]

[Skill – Words of Conviction obtained!]

[Skill – Other Me’s Skill created!]

 

——

 

<Priority Query (Body 1) — Immediate status update.>

<Response (Body 2) — All nominal.>

<Priority Query (Body 1) — Clarification?>

<Response (Body 2) — Appending report log.>

<Priority Warning (Body 1) — Proceed pending review. Prepare for potential hostile action.>

<Response (Body 2) — Which individuals? Location?>

<Priority Warning (Body 1) — Entities unknown. Location: Kasignel. Targets: Us? Unknown. Intent: Unknown. Unknownunknownunknownunknownunknownunknownunknownunknown.>

<Priority Query (Body 2) — Clarification requested.>

<Response (Body 1) — Standby.>

<Priority Query (Body 2) — Clarification request?>

<Priority Query (Body 2) — Clarity?>

<Higher Priority Query (Body 2) — Response?>

<Response (Body 1) — whAt…aRE thEy?>

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

I…am so…tired. I know that I promised a chapter today, and I made it! Technically, it’s past midnight, but I did it! Listen, I edited 10,000 more words into this chapter, and I was racing to get it done, but I did promise.

I have one more chapter, I think, before my break, but it should hopefully satisfy; I put in a lot of work with all this, and my beta-readers were heroes.

This one needed more time for editing, but we’ve gotten it in a place where it’s far stronger than the original version we had. I won’t write more because I am literally about to post this for you live and each second I write here pontificating is another second I spend without posting to you.

Side note. I’ve been listening to this comedian called Josh Johnson. He has a bit on the Daily Show, but he also apparently has a billion standup specials. This is a recommendation from me because I think he’s hilarious. That’s all.

Chapter’s out. Nothing big happening this time. Interlude next chapter. Also low-key. Not much going on.

What am I saying? It’s not even fun to lie.

It’s only going to continue from here.

See you in the next chapter.

 

 

The Dust Buster and Door by Stargazing Selphid!

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Ressa by LeChatDemon!

 

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Gazi in Uniform by Aloof1056!

 

Flos Conquers and Erin’s <Quest> by Lanrae!

 

Magnolia’s Niceties by DiscerningGent!

 

Maid Nerrhavia by ultrachinchillagod314!

 

Maid Nira by Brack!

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Colth Quest By katiemaeve!

 

Quest Rewards by Rocky!

 

Gnoll Maid by Wing!

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Chandrar Quests by Merchen!

 

Quests by Manuel!

 

Quests by Lore!

 

[Shield Maid] by Gridcube!

 

Erin Nail by Nanahou!

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