10.28 N

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He remembered pushing a [Guardsman] down the stairs.

It was easy; the Drake was focused on Salkis as she ran, having skateboarded straight into a stall and demolished most of the woodwork. The owner of the stall was staring in dismay at necklaces—now pretty beads—snapped and rolling around. Splintered woodwork; a brightly painted metal skateboard lodged like a blade in the stall, five inches from her thighs.

“Halt! Halt in the name of Pallass’ Watch!”

The Drake came running after Salkis, not armed, not waving a weapon because she was just one of the teenagers who loved rocketing down the staircases on the banned skateboards. He didn’t notice Numbtongue until the Hobgoblin stuck his hands out and pushed.

It was a good shove; the [Guard] went over with a cry of dismay too loud. It wasn’t like he’d been stabbed or anything. He went tumbling down the stairs, and Numbtongue expected him to catch a railing or run into a pedestrian.

He didn’t. The Drake bounced as he rolled, claw outflung to grab for purchase. Numbtongue saw, for a second, wide eyes and an open mouth; the Drake went down four more stairs, hit an edge, bounced, hit the stairwell, kept going—

It was a long way down. Salkis grabbed Numbtongue’s hands as he checked the hood around his face. The ring she’d given him worked; it had somehow fooled even Pallass’ security. As had the papers she’d forged for him. But right now, he felt like a Goblin.

“Come on, Numb, let’s go!”

Laughing, she pulled him away, and he ran as more shouts rose and people pointed fingers at him. He glanced back once. The [Guardsman] was lying at the bottom of the stairs, sprawled out comically. He wasn’t moving.

Numbtongue kept staring at his hands all day afterwards. Salkis kept teasing him and laughing about the event with her friends, even when he pointed out she had nearly hurt that [Shopkeeper]. She hit him with a ‘so what?’, and he opened his mouth to respond and couldn’t bother arguing again. Then she took off her top while they were at a seedy club, and he forgot to continue arguing. One fight with a pair of day-drunks later, he’d forgotten the entire argument.

 

——

 

The first time he pushed a [Guard], he thought about it all day. The sixth time, he kicked a [Guard] into one of the Golems of Celum and ran like spit after Salkis, stopping only to catch his breath and undress her in an alleyway, high on the adrenaline. Heart beating in terror.

Those moments, he felt alive. Whenever he went back to the inn, he felt alive in a different way.

A negative, bad way.

They barely noticed him anymore. They certainly didn’t appreciate him. He felt like a stranger when he walked through those doors, if he wasn’t lectured, first.

Him.

And that was to say nothing of how he felt about her.

Erin Solstice.

 

——

 

“Whoa. Salkis. You’re crazy.”

That was what they always said when they saw his face, his real face for the first time. Salkis’ friends—or at least, the people she could actually tolerate—were a mix of highborn Drakes and middle-class; she actually knew very few [Thugs] and [Rogues], for all she claimed to be familiar with the underworld.

Kisne and ????. Mulg or Dulg or something. It sounded like that. They were a duo; Drakes, Kisne with bright yellow scales, neck spines trimmed almost to the base, and dyed scales in the form of a stylized ‘x’, a knife in the middle of it, on her chest, between her breasts. She wore low-cut shorts, a tube-top that exposed most of her body, and a light jacket, probably because it got cold. She carried two shortswords, which she prominently displayed at her hips.

???? wore fur hide leggings, and his scales were a more somber blue, but he made up for it with dyed scales around his eyes that made him look like a racoon, but he claimed were supposed to be draconic, like the flames drawn on the sides of his mouth. He was bare-chested except for another hide jacket. He boasted he could use a bow, but since they were in Pallass, he only carried a single axe, which kept banging on chairs in the bar.

Numbtongue didn’t memorize ????’s name, and he only remembered Kisne’s because Salkis kept saying it. He pulled his hood back up and replaced the ring and checked his appearance in his mug; a Gnoll stared back at him, scowling. The two Drakes drew back from him, and he sensed them checking their weapons.

They were Silver-rankers, or so they claimed. Both belonged to richer families; they adventured, but it was their gear that had allowed them to enter as Silver-rankers. They weren’t the same as the Horns of Hammerad. Kisne and Muld went on adventures when they felt like it. It was their occupation, but Numbtongue doubted that was how they paid for their drinks or entry to this bar.

He shifted in his seat as Salkis squeezed over closer to him. He sensed how smug she was, like the last dozen times they’d done the reveal.

“I’m crazy, Kisne? You’re supposed to be the adventurer.”

“He’s a Goblin. The Watch is going to arrest all of us!”

Pulg whispered nervously and glanced at Numbtongue, then around as he hunched his shoulders. The bar was noisy; everyone was listening to a [Drummer] and someone on a lute playing a cover of the Singer of Terandria’s music. Salkis rolled her eyes.

“Not unless you squeal. Trust me, no one knows Numbtongue’s even here. The ring’s beyond even the security of a Walled City. We’ve been here for ages and no one’s batted an eye.”

Kisne peered at Numbtongue, jerking her eyes away as if even staring at him was wrong. She spoke sideways, to Salkis.

“So that’s who you were running around with? Everyone’s talking about your new boyfriend, Salkis, but I thought he was just some Tribal Gnoll. You’re crazy. Can he speak?”

For answer, Salkis rolled one eye indulgently at Numbtongue. He scowled.

“No. I can’t.”

Kisne and Sulb jumped as if he’d poked them. Kisne flushed and began to apologize. He just sat there.

Angry.

Why today, he couldn’t have said. It was probably because yesterday he’d been mad too. And he’d been mad yesterday because he’d been angry all week. And he’d been angry for…months.

Sort of. Salkis noticed Numbtongue’s scowl and rose.

“Let’s get some drinks. Then we can talk.”

The bar wasn’t the fullest at ten o’clock in the morning, and they each got a shot of Firebreath Whiskey. Numbtongue didn’t like the whiskey, but it worked well for getting to the drunk stage of any day.

He didn’t always like being drunk, but he only seemed to remember that when he’d had something to drink. Then he was there and he might as well stay there. The Hobgoblin played with the beard on his chin, and Salkis felt at it too as they sat down.

They grinned at that; Numbtongue growing facial hair was very funny to him, because Goblins didn’t normally do that. Salkis said it made him look older. She murmured as Kisne and Tulp sat back down after a whispered discussion.

“Be nice to them. They’re okay. I went on a few adventures with them, and they’re not complete idiots.”

By that, she meant they weren’t law-abiding citizens, whom she disliked. After so long in Salkis’ company, Numbtongue had figured out what made her tick, more or less. Some of the things she hated were her family, the rules of the Walled Cities, and being told what to do.

“Fine. Are they a couple?”

Salkis’ eyes glinted as she glanced at Kisne. The Drake was staring at Numbtongue with open fascination.

“Off-and-on.”

That was more than enough reason for him to pay attention to Kisne’s exposed belly as the two began to ask all the typical questions of Numbtongue.

‘Are you that Goblin from the inn?’ Yes. It was easier just to pretend he was every Goblin they’d seen on television.

‘How’d you meet Salkis?’ Hard to say. She walked in the inn one day and they got to talking. She liked danger. Goblins were dangerous.

‘Aren’t you, like, against the Walled Cities?’ Numbtongue certainly wasn’t happy about being a Goblin in anti-Goblin territory, but he wasn’t afraid. And he wasn’t going to kill anyone, so the only way this became a problem was if you told someone about it.

Predictable questions. Numbtongue answered on auto-pilot, listening to the music coming from the bar. He tapped his foot to the drummer laying down an impressive set on the drums.

“Look, he’s got that drumset that Thien had. Four drums, cymbals up top—”

He pointed it out to Salkis in between Mule getting up to grab some drinks. Salkis frowned.

“Who’s Thien?”

“The [Drummer] who plays with the Singer of Terandria.”

The onyx-scaled Drake’s face went flat. She shifted in her seat, and the [Knifemistress] half-glared at Numbtongue.

“Oh, right. Your favorite musician. They’re not that good. You should get up there and kick the guy with the lute off. He can’t play. You should.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need to.”

Self-consciously, Numbtongue turned away. Salkis rolled her eyes as she pointedly glared at his gear. The Hobgoblin in disguise had on a yellow shirt with too many buttons and pockets and tight-fitting pants in black that Salkis had picked out for him. He thought he looked like Apista; she claimed it emphasized his attractive chest. He also carried a guitar on his back; it might attract attention, but it was less dangerous-looking than a sword, and frankly, better than a sword for him.

He refused to play it in public when she asked him to, refused to demonstrate he could play most of the time.

—When he did climb onto stage, to cheers from the younger audience of Drakes, Gnolls, Garuda, and Dullahans, it was after three more shots and much encouragement. And it was mostly only to riff with the [Drummer]. Lightning flashed from his claws and lit up the cheering bar of young renegades.

Watchless Bars, they were aptly called. Places where you could go and not feel under the thumb of more regulated establishments with ‘adults’ who’d call the Watch on anyone throwing a mug around. The Singer of Terandria’s music and alternative fashion like the stuff Salkis, Numbtongue, and the others were wearing were all in vogue here. [Skateboarders], [Cyclists], [Rebels], adventurers, and so-on mingled.

—When he played music, he wasn’t happy, but he did lose himself in it for a while. Numbtongue could close his eyes and play and feel electricity running across his claws and the guitar, lighting up the air. It didn’t make him as happy as he used to be.

Nothing did. But when he saw Salkis rocking out in the crowd, raising her claws to make gestures he’d taught her—and everyone copying her—he felt like he was among Goblins in a tribe for a second. So he thrummed the strings, and the lightning sang along with his guitar.

Then he remembered Kevin had taught him those hand signs and thought of the inn, missing a chord. No one cared. Numbtongue leapt off the stage amidst the cheering and saw Kisne staring open-mouthed at him. He grabbed her hand, and she almost recoiled as another song began, but then drew closer after biting her lip and gazing around.

At some point, they were grinding together in the press of bodies, and Numbtongue saw her flush under her scales and look him up and down. Remembering what he looked like; her eyes lingered on his ears, his eyes. He flashed a pointed grin and wondered what she looked like without her clothes.

 

——

 

Numbtongue paused for two more drinks at the bar, mixed cocktails. He ordered two, tossed some coins down, and the [Bartender] got to work. He leaned against the bar, aware Kisne was very interested in him and plotting whether or not they could go anywhere, whether there was a quiet back to the bar, or even a booth would do…sometimes, the ladies got picky.

Not Salkis. She was, in fact, the opposite of picky. They’d had sex more places than Numbtongue thought was hygienically wise. And they had an open relationship. Just like Garia and Octavia—whom he hadn’t seen in ages—

He’d been away from the inn awhile. It wasn’t pleasant there. Numbtongue leaned on the bar, impatient, and someone sitting and playing with a straw in a cup turned to him.

“Having fun?”

He ignored the speaker. Numbtongue didn’t want to talk to people, like Dulg or…whatever his name was. He’d gotten tired of talking with Salkis and Kisne. If he had another drink, he might begin to enjoy it.

“Mm. You’re not enjoying much. Also, you’re dehydrated. Have a cup of water.”

Numbtongue turned his head to glare and snap at—

A ghostly face met his eyes, and he almost recoiled as Pyrite gestured to the inviting cup of water. The Hobgoblin sat there silently, and Numbtongue rubbed at his eyes.

“Go away. I don’t want a lecture.”

He hissed as the [Bartender] glanced up at him, then went back to work. The former Goldstone Chieftain shrugged.

“Lectures? Not very Goblin. Poor girl.”

She’s a grown adult. She can do what she wants, and she likes me. Go away.

Numbtongue furiously thought at the ghost. The [Soulbard] grabbed both drinks and turned away. Pyrite called after him.

“Oh, not that. I mean, she thinks she’s going to have sex with a Goblin. Instead, she only has you.”

The [Bard] whirled with a snarl, but Pyrite was gone. He took a furious gulp from his drink, almost about to summon Pyrite back, even if he never, ever won arguments against the damn ghost…but then he thought of Kisne.

Kisne was a lot more interesting than Pyrite.

 

——

 

Wolg or whatever his name was punched Numbtongue in the face and tried to tackle him. The Hobgoblin was too drunk to feel it, but he’d also been too drunk to dodge. So plus and minus, there. He caught the charge, though, and kneed the Silver-ranker in the face. People jumped back in the bar, and the two fought and punched, ending in Numbtongue kneeling on the other Drake’s back and putting him in a chokehold.

“Numb! Stop!”

Eventually, Kisne broke the fight up, and Numb stepped away, cursing and panting. She shielded—

“Nold!”

Right, Nold—from him with two arms, eyes wide, as if she were afraid he’d go for her.

“He started it.”

The Hobgoblin protested, but people were trying to calm him down, asking what had happened, if Nold needed a [Healer]—and Kisne was most definitely not in the mood to hang out after this. Numbtongue turned away and stomped off, hands in his pockets.

A laughing Salkis caught him after only a dozen steps.

“Come on, let’s get out of here before those idiots actually call the Watch or something. You actually let him punch you?”

“I didn’t think he had the guts. You said they weren’t together.”

“Well…Kisne’s an idiot. Let’s go.”

They ran, somewhat drunkenly, out of the bar, and Numbtongue saw Salkis’ tail curl up in a familiar way. She peered right and left, and her neck-spines rose slightly, and his heart rose.

It seemed like he wouldn’t get punched in the face for no reason after all.

 

——

 

Life was much like sex, Numbtongue decided. It was a lot of fun in the leadup and during, but afterwards, you felt hot, sweaty, sticky, and the world sort of sucked.

After they were done, he rolled out of the cheap bed in one of the one-night tavern rooms you could rent for this explicit purpose and found Salkis puffing on a Dreamleaf cigar. He held out a claw. Salkis shook an empty case and shrugged.

“Sorry, you’re out.”

“The last one is mine. Give.”

He poked her as she sat, naked, on the window ledge, but she just batted away his hands. She was annoyingly fast; Salkis said she was Level 34, and she had the Skills to match. She said she’d gotten those levels from knife-fights and living rough, despite her noble upbringing as Salkis Blackwing of the famous Blackwing family of Pallass.

Numbtongue wasn’t sure if he quite believed Salkis was the same as Typhenous or the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings, but he had to admit, she did lots of illegal things. He paced over to another window and stood naked in front of it, scowling and folding his arms.

Yep, life sucked again. He hated everything he saw, from the grimy back-alleys of Pallass’ 3rd Floor to the sounds of banging and moans from above his head, to the nasty feeling of being intoxicated, but neither being happy about it nor smart as he knew he should be.

After a few minutes, Salkis noticed Numbtongue’s scowl and heaved a long, pointed sigh. When he didn’t reply or move, she called out.

“Are you still moaning about that [Guard]?”

“Nope.”

“Then…are you mad that you missed your shot with Kisne? I think I more than made up for it, didn’t I?”

She threw him a challenging look with that glint that said he’d be swatting away her daggers if he said the wrong thing. She had a temper. Numbtongue shrugged.

“If I got with Kisne, you’d try extra hard to outdo her.”

“True. How many of my friends have you seduced?”

He shrugged again. The [Bard] didn’t know if he liked that word. Seduced. He had once found a dictionary of words and taught himself how to speak and read the common tongue as a young Goblin. Seduced had the connotation of unwilling coercion to it. A suggestion that the other party needed to be persuaded into the act of something else.

He liked to think he was charming enough that seduction wasn’t necessary. He’d never heard complaints. Quite the opposite.

He was a [Bard]. He had a [Bard’s Charisma], among other Skills, and maybe that had something to do with it. But you couldn’t get everything you wanted with Skills alone. Numbtongue was fit, good at fighting, could play music, had excellent elocution and knew the meaning of the word, and he was a Goblin—a monster.

There was a certain subsection of the ladies that Numbtongue met—especially among Salkis’ friends—who thought that was a winning combination, and the Hobgoblin didn’t argue.

He just never felt as happy afterwards as he thought he should be. All the fun was right up till the moment burst—literally—and then the world went right back to sucking.

“It didn’t use to be that way.”

“What way? Hey, we should stop by Dragman’s Bar later. I have someone I’ve got to meet. Maybe we’ll see Kisne. We could go on an adventure with her, even Nold. Maybe round up Saphie and a few others? How about it? I reckon we’d make up a Gold-rank team. You and I, definitely.”

Salkis got visibly excited at the idea. Numbtongue was technically a Bronze-rank adventurer, but he shook his head.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“We’re not a Gold-rank team. We’re just the right level. Gold-rankers are different.”

“Come on, we’re both Level 30+. And you’re a Named-rank, practically. How are we not better than a Gold-rank group?”

She threw him a challenging look. Numbtongue’s voice and thoughts were elsewhere.

“Teamwork. We’ll die.”

“With your guitar and my gear—”

“No, Salkis.”

The [Knifemistress] grew angry at the word; her eyes narrowed, and her hands dropped to her daggers. He didn’t move. His tone and unmoving face swayed her; she turned with a disgusted sound and began to smoke harder on his cigar.

I need to go and get more from Palt. And visit the inn. Again. Lyonette is just going to bother me, along with Nanette and Mrsha and the others. And Bird’s a girl now.

The thoughts didn’t make Numbtongue happy. He glared out the window and had another thought.

I should go see Reagen. His cat. His cat made Numbtongue happy. Octavia would be—

Right. He remembered cuddling after sex and just lying there being better. In the past, after tussling with Garia in the hay in her barn—which was honestly a lot more pokey and uncomfortable than you wanted, but still, worth it—or in Octavia’s rooms in her shops, laughing and telling jokes with them.

It used to be better. When had it all changed? Numbtongue stroked his beard and realized he had to shave it to keep up that goatee look that Salkis said he should cultivate. He sighed and felt for a razor in his bag of holding.

It changed when Garia and Octavia got weird about Salkis. Neither of them liked Salkis. Actually, Octavia had been weird about Garia, which hadn’t been the worst until Garia became weird right back. They’d started complaining when Numbtongue went out on trips with Salkis, then got sulky when he offered to go on a trip with them to make up for it.

It had been bad before the Solstice. Or—not bad, but unfun to be around. But it had changed after the Solstice, with Erin gone and Bird ‘dead’ and so many people actually dead.

And me not on that ship. Numbtongue stared at his hands. Just a bit too slow to raise his hands. He thought about that too. Like the [Guardsman].

Archmage Valeterisa, demanding to know who would risk their lives to go across the sea and fight. Before he could raise his hand, Badarrow had stepped forwards and glanced back at him. 

A second too slow. Why did he feel like everyone blamed him for that?

Unfair. Unfair. Then they gave him accusatory looks every time he and Salkis came to the inn. Lyonette kept trying to boss him around, give him orders, and monitor where he was, despite them having settled that ages ago.

Nothing to do in the inn. Octavia giving him the cold shoulder. Graves and rain. Not knowing where Badarrow was and not fitting in his own home.

But that wasn’t where it had really started, oh no. That wasn’t why he was angry all the time. Without thinking about it, Numbtongue found himself drifting over to Salkis. She let him put his arms around her and hug her. Hard. Running his hands down her smooth scales.

She groaned, and he distracted himself with what he could feel, the smell of her sweat, the acrid tang of the Dreamleaf cigar. He took a puff on it, and it tasted sour. He tried to follow it away, the wisps of smoke bringing him to that alternate, better land that it promised.

Numbtongue lifted Salkis up and carried her to the bed over the snarls of splintered wood on the floor, and he focused on even that. He heard Salkis shriek and laugh and tried to drown out that thumping from overhead and his own thoughts.

Anything—to avoid thinking of the person who made him the angriest. Who was gone. And didn’t need him.

She had never really loved him, had she?

Erin.

Numbtongue stopped, mid-thrust, in bed, and gazed down at the panting, ecstatic face beneath him. For a second, he imagined paler skin, hazel eyes, not topaz, and brown hair. For a second—he imagined a familiar smile.

The Hobgoblin stopped and felt himself withering up. Salkis made a sound as he stopped—pulled out, and then rolled over sideways. She made a disgusted sound.

“Again? Come on—”

She rose, glanced at him, then stormed out of the room. The Hobgoblin lay there and stared at nothing at all.

A nervous [Innkeeper], arms laden with food.

A desperate woman holding a flag, tears in her eyes.

A guilty glance at him in the dark of an inn, across a table, as she looked away.

A frozen smile on a bier.

He hated her. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone from her inn; she was across the ocean and doing just fine. 

She loved Rabbiteater more than him. He wanted to tell Badarrow that. Don’t you see?

She never loved him. She never did and never would.

Numbtongue curled up more, head pounding, trying to bury his head under the stained covers. He wanted to pass out. He lay there, alone.

Alone.

No ghosts came for him. When he raised his head, he wasn’t in the inn. He searched for Salkis, but she was gone. So, as he had done before, tried to do for over a month, Numbtongue went looking for a drink, a fight, or company. And he found it, every time. The disheveled Goblin appeared to be a Gnoll, Drake, or Human.

His face changed, always mirroring the real him underneath. But what never changed was how he could walk into a room and attract the first insecure fist longing for an outlet. Or captivate someone enough to buy him a drink—regardless of gender—or strike up a conversation about the guitar on his back. Or simply offer someone a glance that had a flash of monstrosity in it, a poet’s soul mingled with a warrior and a monster, and draw them over.

Goblin? Such a simple descriptor.

Redfang? No longer.

[Bard]? Yes, but…

 

——

 

Numbtongue. Level 43. [Sybarite Soulbard].

New Skills: [Bard’s Charisma], [Gift of Amor], [Lover’s Proficiency], [Graceful Parry], [Partner’s Satisfaction Guaranteed], [Flicker Fingers], [Expert Weapon Proficiency: Sword], [Lesser Dexterity]…

Salkis stopped writing and scratched at her cheek with a quill.

“I think that’s it.”

Her reply didn’t make the two hooded figures across from her happy. One of them was younger; he was an idiot named Lesorel. The other was Vendyne.

Lesorel was a son of the walls from Oteslia, similar to Salkis. Noble-born, though Drakes didn’t use the same terms. It was close-enough; Vendyne was Human. They were, all three of them, united by common cause.

They were Bloodfeast Raiders. They sat in a corner of Dragman’s Bar, which wasn’t a place for parties even in the day, but for actual members of Pallass’ underworld to meet in relative secrecy and peace.

“You think that’s it?”

The other Drake pounded a fist on the table and got a warning look from Vendyne. Lesorel and Vendyne both had on nondescript clothing and cloaks, though Lesorel had to dress all in black; Vendyne just seemed like a common laborer or worker. Salkis’ brows snapped together, and she glowered.

“Shut up, Lesorel. I’m thinking. He only told me his latest Skills. And I’m only telling you because the boss wants to know. Whaddya think, Vendyne?”

She glanced somewhat challengingly at the second-in-command of the Bloodfeast Raiders, but warily. Salkis and Lesorel were the ‘young blood’ of the raiders. The hardened, veteran members were not the young noblefolk who joined their ranks for fun. Vendyne was dangerous, and he showed all new initiates what happened if they crossed him, even if they were Level 30 and had an artifact.

Accordingly, Vendyne didn’t posture. He sat, nursing an ale, and the younger raiders tried to copy his relaxed posture. What he said, after a gulp from his drink, was—

“No capstone Skill?”

“Nope. Just a lotta Skills. He was pretty mad about it. I think he got that mix of decent Skills instead of a big one. Well, a few are great. [Bard’s Charisma] makes everyone’s head turn when he activates it. And [Expert Proficiency]? He’s really good with a sword already. I still don’t, uh, know what the [Soulbard] thing does—”

Salkis was speaking fast. She wasn’t nervous—not exactly—but Vendyne coming all this way in person was stressful. And this was a job from Korizan. Of course, she liked Numbtongue.

—She just hoped the Bloodfeast Raiders saw his good qualities too. Salkis licked her lips when Vendyne didn’t explain. Then he jabbed a finger at the list.

“[Gift of Amor]? Do you know what it does?”

“[Bard] Skills.”

Lesorel scoffed, but Salkis nodded eagerly.

“I think it gives him a little buff every time he sleeps with someone. Especially, uh, someone new. I swear, he can be a wreck some nights, and then he’ll roll out of bed as if someone spent an hour on his hair. And he’s really fit…almost more than before we started going out together.”

“I bet you work him hard enough for that.”

Lesorel gave Salkis a calculating look up and down, and her hand twitched towards her side. She didn’t like Lesorel. Actually, Salkis didn’t like a lot of the Raiders when they weren’t hunting. She loved the hunts, the power, the thrill of that. Numbtongue was the second-best thing to that, and frankly, a lot more safe sometimes, which was annoying.

But this life-or-death feeling with Vendyne? That was enough to tolerate the stupidity of Lesorel. Salkis shot back at the Drake.

“Trust me, he gets a lot of exercise in that regard, Lesorel. If you want, I could introduce you as another friend. If you did a quarter as well as he does, you’d never want for company.”

“Hah. [Lover’s Proficiency]? He actually needs help in bed? That’s pathetic.”

The other Drake tried to scoff, but he shifted, and Salkis’ sneer made him flush.

“You’d be surprised. I’ll wager a lot of my friends had an eye-opening time with him. Some keep asking about Numbtongue. They’re too used to you—and if anyone could use [Partner’s Satisfaction Guaranteed]—”

He grabbed for her hand with a snarl, but she was too fast for him and yanked her hands back. Lesorel’s claw stole to a wand at his belt, but Vendyne turned his head.

“Lesorel. Drop it.”

The two stopped sparring instantly, though Lesorel kept visibly fuming. Salkis sat back with a smirk. Vendyne nodded after a moment and made a note.

“Multi-purpose benefits on [Gift of Amor]. That’s all the boss wanted to know. Here’s the real question: do you think he’s closer to us? Yes or no?”

That was a harder question, and Salkis fidgeted.

“Well, he’s a Goblin. So he’s already against the law, and he’s a great fighter. He’s no fan of the Watch; he has a few friends in Liscor, but I’ve been taking him on jaunts, and he’s wild. But he also has that [Knight] who the boss burned at—”

“Salkis. No locations. No names. Yes or no.”

The man’s eyes burned into her head as she turned her head.

“…Not yet. I’m working on it.”

Vendyne nodded as Lesorel snorted. The older man sat back, drained most of his mug, and stood.

“Keep getting information. From the inn as well as making friends with the people there.”

“They don’t like me there. The [Alchemist]—”

“Salkis. That’s an order. You’re reporting to camp at the end of the week. If you need anything, make a list. If you don’t, we’ll figure out what your next move is. Level up. And find out what’s happening at the inn; the word is something’s up.”

“What? But I—”

Salkis began to protest, but Vendyne was already leaving. Lesorel leapt to his feet eagerly.

“See you, Salkis. You’ll see me. On the scrying orbs tonight.”

He gave her a smirk, and she felt a shock run down her spine as Vendyne turned and gave the other Drake a warning look.

“Wait, are you taking him on an outing? There’s one now? How many is that?”

The Bloodfeast Raiders alternated who got to go on raids; you weren’t always called, and you had to make the meetups on time or be left behind. But Salkis hadn’t been called for a raid for three months. And the Raiders had struck half a dozen times. Vendyne’s voice was smoothly cold. There was no excitement in his tone, just menace.

“Times are changing. Impress the boss and you won’t miss another one. But do your job, Salkis. If you can’t, he’ll have to motivate you.”

That made her shudder. Punishment in the Bloodfeast Raiders was highly unpleasant. There was no quitting, except one way, and everyone saw what had happened to that idiot, Lien, who’d tried to walk away. Not that she wanted to, but punishment…

“I’m working as hard as I can! I didn’t have the [Corruptor] class until this year!”

“Then keep levelling. And find out what’s happening at the inn.”

Vendyne walked away. Salkis saw Lesorel wave cockily at her, then stride off, and felt a pang in her chest.

The Bloodfeast Raiders would strike by nightfall, and it would be a news story.

Part of her was furious she was being denied the chance to go on a raid. The other part…weirdly relieved. Obviously, Numbtongue had no idea of her allegiances, and in truth, she hadn’t sought him out because of that at first.

She’d just thought a Goblin that looked like him was worth chatting up. Only later did she realize someone in the Raiders had noticed, and orders came down from Korizan to start reporting in and to…persuade Numbtongue to get to their point of view.

She didn’t really know how. She was doing her best, but Salkis had wondered how she’d act if she came back from a raid. Numbtongue really liked Normen; the [Knight] was practically one of the last people Numbtongue still said he missed from the inn. Salkis thought that Ser Normen was as mean as a Creler and as impressive as anyone for surviving getting burned alive like that.

It was a weird, disconcerting feeling to like anyone but the Bloodfeast Raiders. The rest of the world didn’t matter; Salkis knew that. But she liked Numbtongue. Hated Octavia and Garia, the jealous ticks on Numbtongue.

Some days, Salkis imagined a world where she and Numbtongue had met without her being a Raider. She could have been a great adventurer with him. But—

She stood there, annoyed, until Numbtongue stomped into the bar and instantly started a fight with the first table he passed by. Then Salkis hurried over to him, smiling. He was the best part of this miserable city.

Salkis just didn’t understand why he was so damn grumpy all the time. The Numbtongue she had met at first had smiled more. Had told jokes. She hoped he’d snap out of this funk soon.

For now—she glanced at him as he threw a chair at a pair of Dullahans. She wondered how she’d suggest going to The Wandering Inn to him. Then someone hit her with a stray beer mug, and she decided violence could come first.

 

——

 

It was always Numbtongue who pulled Salkis out of fights first. Sometimes in a headlock because she refused to quit.

“They’ve had enough.”

Funny, coming from the Hobgoblin who had essentially started the fight. If not with words or actions, then with his presence. The [Tavern Owner] of Dragman’s Bar wasn’t an idiot; he kicked out both Goblin and Drake after getting the costs of damages.

Salkis was high on adrenaline after the scrap. She always felt alive when fighting. Compared to everything else in life, nothing was as ‘real’. Except maybe drugs. Fighting while on drugs was great.

She glanced at Numbtongue as he stomped out of the bar, rubbing at a few bruises on his torso. The two slunk back into the city like evicted, drunk rats joining a swarm of other rats, seeking the next moment of pleasure or sustenance.

That was how Salkis saw Pallass. It didn’t matter if you dressed up or had more money—you were just a primitive rat trying to look better than everyone else and get what you wanted—which was always something base.

Food, sex, power, money. It boiled down to that most of the time. Numbtongue called her depressing, which was ironic. She just—saw the world clearly. Korizan and the Bloodfeast Raiders understood that you could take anything you wanted, that the rules were just made up ideas.

—Which was why it was so strange that she and Numbtongue got along. Because, for a Goblin from a famous tribe of warriors, he actually respected most rules. She had thought he would be purely sex and fun and music when he used to split his time between mining, reading books, and cooking.

Not that she minded when he cooked meals for her; it was just—not a thing most men she’d associated with ever did. She’d introduced him to bars and a real nightlife. She was, after all, a [Corruptor].

Level 4. The class didn’t really work for her. She told Vendyne she was Level 14 because she didn’t want to get in trouble; he couldn’t [Appraise] her anyways. But it just…well, Salkis tried her best again as they left the bar.

[Influential Words].

“Why don’t we go visit your inn, Numbtongue? I bet we could get free drinks there.”

He grunted as he stomped along, hands in his pockets. She snuggled up to him.

“And your bed’s comfy. We could pick up where we left off.”

“Eh. Don’t want to.”

“Oh, come on. We’ve got nothing better to do, right~?”

She saw him scratch at his goatee, and then the [Soulbard] glanced at her.

“…Maybe. How long has it been since I went back?”

“I don’t know. A week? Two?”

A guilty expression crossed his face. He kicked along the street.

“Probably should. Okay, fine. Later.”

Victory! Salkis allowed herself a smug smirk until Numbtongue glanced at her and added—

“After you go home too. Your mom misses you, right?”

The Drake’s triumphant mood vanished.

“That loose, egglaying bitch—”

She meant Melika, the Garuda whom her father, Werdin Blackwing, had married. She was the definition of a trophy wife; it was even her class. That vain peacock of a Garuda always obsessed with pleasing her father or looking good in polite society infuriated Salkis. Numbtongue nudged her, cutting her off.

“Don’t talk like that. She’s nice.”

Salkis goggled at Numbtongue as they walked up from the 3rd Floor. She lived on the 5th Floor; wealth in Pallass didn’t mean you wanted the top floor. Not with the [Smiths] and [Alchemists] constantly setting up a din. Back in the old days when Pallass had been under construction, the 5th Floor had been the highest point. Now, old mansions littered the floor, and there were places only a certain cut of citizen could enter without getting dirty looks or being harassed by local security.

Old money and influence. [Engineer] families, the Blackwings who made military leaders and held high-ranking posts, and so on. Salkis hated it. Some of her friends came from the nobility, but they were, by and large, neurotic, disaffected like her with the lifestyles they’d been born into, and bored.

None of them had gone as far as she had until she’d joined the Raiders, but they were the ones Salkis had time for. She didn’t have time for Melika, let alone her father.

Salkis tried to steer them towards the elevators, going up and down to the left of the 4th Floor’s staircase. He pulled her back as other citizens patiently walked around them; the staircase was a flood of people moving up and down it. Rats in their cage in Salkis’ analogy.

She hissed at him, disliking the way people glanced at the public argument.

“I don’t need to go back. My dad will just throw a fit. I don’t see you saying I should see him.”

He’d placed her under house-arrest with her bodyguard after the Wyvern incident, but she’d known how to slip out, and she bribed her bodyguards. After meeting Numbtongue, she’d ditched the bodyguards entirely; they were lower-level than she was, and her father couldn’t stop her by force.

“He’s bad. Melika asked about you when I visited. She cares. Didn’t you say she used to get you out of jail before your father noticed when you were in trouble with the Watch?”

“Yeah, because she’s concerned about the family reputation. You know she’s only my stepmother because Werdin wanted the most attractive Garuda he could find. A Garuda. It scandalized the entire family because he couldn’t just have her as a mistress.”

Numbtongue shrugged.

“She’s pretty good at talking.”

“Yeah, she uses her mouth real well.”

Again, he nudged her with a big frown.

“Be nice to her. Just go back fifteen minutes and tell her you’re alive.”

“No. Let’s go to the inn.”

“I’m not going back unless you go back. She cares about you. Don’t ignore people who care about you. That’s not Goblin.”

He hit her with the ‘not Goblin’ comment, and Salkis had been around Numbtongue long enough to know that was a sticking point. Plus…she shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t like she wanted to join the Redfangs or Flooded Waters tribe, but she’d sort of begun styling herself as understanding Goblin culture. Numbtongue had shown her Redfang tricks, even how they did their warpaint, and she admired the Redfang Tribe. If she’d been younger and known they existed, she might have run off to join them instead of the raiders.

There was something so…pure about how they’d lived. Fight, die, protect your fellow warriors. But Numbtongue kept doing—this.

“You didn’t ever have a mother you hated in your tribe.”

She tried to counter as they headed up to the 5th Floor on foot. Numbtongue raised his eyebrows.

“Maybe not mother. Mine died. But I fought my father. He kicked me and nearly broke a rib. And there were Goblins I didn’t like, but we cared about each other. That’s different.”

“—Like who?”

“Uh. Grunter?”

“What? Grunter? But you said he was your leader and he died at Esthelm.”

She knew all the big stories about Numbtongue. Fed off of them. Numbtongue shoved his hands into his pockets; to her, he looked like Numbtongue, but to everyone else, he probably seemed like a Gnoll of similar build, fur dyed black where his goatee should be. He got looks from a few people; handsomeness translated via the illusion spell.

“He was. It doesn’t mean I always liked him. He grunted a lot. Burped. And he didn’t respect reading. Sometimes I’d have a book and he’d make fun of me. Or use it for kindling. Remember Orangepoo? You ever wonder how that smells? No one liked him some nights.”

“But they were your brothers.”

Salkis was bemused. She got loyalty to the group. The Raiders were big on loyalty to Korizan. She hated the other Raiders, some of them. But this sounded different. Numbtongue gave her a distant smile.

“Of course. I’d die for them. They died for me. Because we cared more than the other bits. But sometimes I punched them.”

“So I should punch Melika every time I feel like it?”

Again, the Goblin shrugged.

“I don’t know. Pallassian culture’s different. It’d be funny. I think she’d surprise you.”

And what did you say to that? The [Corruptor] ground her teeth together as they walked back to one of the biggest, sprawling mansion-complexes. It wasn’t one huge building, but more like a bunch of fancy apartments joined together. The Blackwing Family was extensive, but being Drakes, they didn’t want to have to share a building. So their compromise was an owned space that you entered through a little wrought-iron gate manned by a [Guardsman].

“Lady Salkis. Your father’s been searching for you.”

The Gnoll called out warily as he opened the gates for her and Numbtongue. The Goblin waved at the Gnoll; Salkis snapped back.

“He can keep searching. I’m just back to get something. Is Melika here?”

“She hasn’t left yet—”

Salkis kept stomping forwards towards the apartment second from the left. Though again, ‘apartment’ was a poor word; it was three floors tall, about fifty times the size of any family’s home in the rest of Pallass. The third floor was circular; big glass windows looked out across the city, and it had an opening in the center. A skylight that led down into an open garden.

Melika’s work; she’d remodeled the place to be inviting to anyone with wings. The second and first floors were costly wood paneling instead of marble with plants growing in bloom from window sills and decorative ivy twining upwards.

They had to pay a [Gardener] for all of this. It had won awards for being one of the best visages in Pallass. Salkis felt herself getting madder as she stalked towards the door.

She tried to ignore the repeated impacts in her side, but Numbtongue kept elbowing her until she turned and snapped at the [Guard].

“Thanks.”

She got a surprised reply, and Numbtongue patted her along the spines on her head. She bit at his hand, and he laughed as he yanked it back. He was big on manners too, at least to people like the gate-guard.

 

——

 

Inside the Blackwing home, the first thing you saw was a tree. The apartment was vast, and the second floor had this open area where Melika had torn out the floors so you saw this giant, growing tree. You could fly to any floor or walk up the open staircases which branched out to the rest of the apartment.

If you were coming from above, you could drop into this center area from the atrium; it was always open and annoyingly fresh. Plants everywhere.

Melika had people in all the time, so there were places to sit in the shade of the tree and a wall of books that stretched along the far wall.

Every time he came in here, Numbtongue just had to go over to the library and admire the books. They weren’t all just blueprints from [Engineers]—Werdin had a lot of connections to the Engineer’s Guild—some were works of fiction or tales from Garuda culture.

Garuda culture. It was all so…Salkis remembered her old house, and it was a fading memory compared to this modern, trendy household.

Well…trendsetting, she supposed. Not many places in Pallass had such an emphasis on plantlife of an open design. Plus, the damn tree wasn’t even a regular one.

It was a damn mango tree. Even now, orange mangos were hanging in huge clumps from the tree. Green buds were growing, and a member of staff was collecting some of the fruits.

“Ooh. Harvest.”

“Numb, I don’t want to be here if my father gets back. And neither do you. Let’s go already—damn it.”

He was striding over to the huge trunk, as if he wanted to climb up it. Which would be funny, but Salkis was purely unhappy being here. Numbtongue called over to her.

“I want a mango. Even the inn doesn’t have many. You get free mangos?”

His look was so accusatory she defended herself.

“It’s magically grown. Mango trees don’t get this big—and mangos get old.”

“They do not. You could eat a mango every day. You could have mango smoothies. Mango ice cream. Mango juice—this is a great idea.”

Salkis rolled her eyes.

“They get everywhere, the tree smells, we get bugs—not that Melika cares because she eats them when Werdin isn’t looking.”

“And mangos.”

Salkis stomped over as Numbtongue tried to shimmy up the tree trunk.

“We don’t even eat them! Melika donates them to ‘needy people’ in Pallass every week. Just to look good.”

“…So she’s giving people free mangos?”

The [Knifemistress] threw up her arms.

“I don’t like how good you’re making it sound! Come on, we’ll just get one from the kitchen—”

She broke off as a familiar, yellow-plumed figure flew out of the second floor. She had bright red feathers on her wings, green and even blue around her head—which Salkis knew for a fact she dyed. Melika Blackwing, wearing a fluttering dress that complimented her feathers, landed on a branch, plucked a mango, and tossed it down.

“Here you are. Salkis, my dear! I was so worried!”

She flew down, and Salkis groaned. Numbtongue caught the mango and waved at Melika. The Garuda was beaming, and Salkis folded her arms.

“I just came back so my dad doesn’t call the Watch on me. Let him know I came back, would you?”

“You can’t stay? I was going to a luncheon, but I can absolutely reschedule. Are you well, Salkis? Do you have enough gold? You’re not looking poorly—are you taking care of her, Numb?”

The Garuda flitted around Salkis, inspecting her, and Salkis resisted the urge to push her away. Then Melika favored Numbtongue with a smile, and he grinned as he chomped on the mango.

“I am. Your tree’s great. No one told me it made fruits.”

He’d visited first during the winter, so he hadn’t noticed what kind of tree it was. Melika’s face lit up, and she chattered—she was good at that, as a [Socialite].

“Thank you! It was an ordeal convincing Werdin to remodel this apartment. He stopped protesting when we started winning awards, but I thought—if it’s going to be a tree, it might as well have a purpose, don’t you think? It’s the Oteslian-modern style, you know. And it feels to me as though all the plantlife makes it easier to breathe, confined in this stone city. Don’t you think? Do you two have time to have a snack, at least? The [Chef] could whip something up.”

Numbtongue patted his stomach.

“Maybe…”

Salkis seized his arm.

“We have to get going. It’s good to see you, Melika. Try to keep my dad from going insane, would you?”

She glowered, and the Garuda’s face fell slightly, but she nodded.

“I will. He does worry about you, Salkis. But I know he can be controlling—I’ll tell him you were looking well. He’s been stressed about the New Lands, you know—”

“Tragic. We’re going. See you. Good luck on your luncheon or whatever.”

“Bye, Melika.”

“Farewell, Numbtongue, Salkis—”

The Garuda tried to flutter after them, but Salkis dragged them out the front door and shut it in her face. When they were on their way out, Numbtongue gave her a reproachful look.

“You were being rude.”

“I said goodbye, and I said good to see you! What more do you want from me?”

She snapped, hands on her daggers, ready for a fight. Numbtongue licked his fingers free of mango juice as he handed it to her. She took a bite and reluctantly savored the sweet fruit.

“I thought she was stupid when you told me about her. She’s smart.”

“She married into the family for wealth and status. Numbtongue. She’s like a thousand women, angling for a big catch.”

“Yeah, well, she hooked the right fish. I think she likes you. She covers for you—and she knows who I am.”

The Drake hadn’t noticed that, and she looked back worriedly. She had said ‘Numbtongue’, not his assumed name.

“Do you think she’s going to tell…?”

“Your dad? If she did, he’d have sent the Watch after us. Like I said—she’s nice. Next time, talk to her, would you? Good job.”

Another pat on the head. Salkis glowered. But then he distracted her by trying to lick her claws free of mango juice, and that made her forget to argue about anything. She—supposed he had a point. About some things. Salkis still hated Melika for taking over. If her actual mother were still here, she’d….

Melika was just Melika. They didn’t have to visit much. The [Corruptor] pointedly angled them towards the elevators. 8th Floor, The Wandering Inn. She had to get Numbtongue thinking like her. The inn was better; he was unhappier there. His smile faded as they ascended the elevators, and Salkis relaxed slightly. She sometimes felt guilty when she came home, or in his company.

She didn’t like that. It was a new feeling, wondering if she was doing something—wrong. She wondered where it was coming from.

 

——

 

It is the 21st day of the 1st month, Caelhic. Spring. The year is 24 A.F. The Floodplains are filled with rain. Lyonette du Marquin has journeyed to meet the beings who rescued her daughters during the Winter Solstice. Chieftain Rags has returned alive from the mountain. Two Ragses. The secret of the [Palace of Fates] is slowly being unveiled.

A Goblin and Drake walk into the inn, disheveled and smelling like cheap beer. Numbtongue finds Asgra cleaning a table and asks where everyone is. She peers at him and asks where he’s been.

He scowls at her. He’d been smiling before, but with each step into the inn, he seems to draw in more on himself. Glances from people who know him seem to dig into his skin like barbs. It’s the accusatory tone he hears, whether it’s there or not.

Numbtongue tells Asgra to mind her business. He asks where everyone is. Asgra sticks her tongue out at Salkis and points to Mrsha, who’s seated at the bar. Numbtongue sits down and orders a drink. Mrsha looks at him and tries to give him a hug as Sammial Veltras pinches his nose and complains about the smell.

Numbtongue blocks Mrsha with one arm. He perches there, pointedly looking around and asking where Lyonette is.

Ishkr does not serve him a drink. The Goblin glowers at Mrsha. She hasn’t done anything yet, but she’s looking at him oddly, and he expects to be lectured or harassed any second.

The thin girl stares back at Numbtongue, and he tells her not to mess around. He’s had a bad day.

Sammial tosses his drink at Numbtongue.

 

——

 

It is the 31st day of the 14th month of the year. Winter. The year is 23 A.F. The beach garden is a new hit in Liscor, and a massive Solstice party has been planned with notables such as the Titan, Cyclops, Lord Tyrion Veltras, Perorn Fleethoof, and Lady Pryde Ulta, among others.

Pyrite Goldstone stops at the bar just before dawn. He’s sleep deprived. A long night of thinking will do that. However, he slips behind the counter and begins mixing a drink.

Since the inn lost its dedicated [Bartender] in Drassi, Pyrite took over the role. He mixes up a coffee: a Pyrite-coffee. Which is to say, whatever coffee beans were burnt mixed with goat’s milk and an orange slice squeezed into the cup. Since he needs to think, he adds in a half-shot of stamina potion.

“Dead gods. The taste of that probably wakes you up as much as the contents. Can you do a second order?”

Pyrite doesn’t whirl or jump. He looks over, and Niers Astoragon tips an iconic hat at him. The oversized red feather is a bit battered from a night of fun, and Niers has a faint tan.

“Had fun in the beach?”

The Titan is still in swim-trunks. He waves a hand as he walks over to a shot glass that Pyrite fills with some of his concoction. He’s the spirit of casualness; it doesn’t fool Pyrite. The Titan is never casual around Goblins.

“Oh, a grand old time. We had a war between a few of the beachside mansions. Lots of couples being formed; I think there was a miniature war between Mrsha, Ksmvr, and various sides trying to help Senior Guardsman Relc and Archmage Valeterisa get together. And then I think Lady Pryde and Grimalkin had a mutual meeting of minds. Or a flexing competition. We’ll see on that one; it’ll make Pallass interesting, to say the least.”

He flashes a grin. Pyrite almost thinks he can see the gears whirring in Niers’ head, analyzing each situation, seeing the vulnerabilities and things to exploit. To Pyrite, Niers’ head isn’t full of clockwork parts, though, like Kevin’s Solar Cycles. Of course not. Niers is far too complex for that. Pyrite imagines a spider’s web of infinite complexity, balancing all the possibilities, interwoven—that’s one of Niers’ ideas folded up into that Fraerling’s miniature head.

What does the Titan see when he studies Pyrite? An overweight Goblin with a stained ‘Kiss the Chef’ apron on? Or perhaps the real power behind the Flooded Waters tribe? A Goblin who earned Greydath’s respect? 

That simple gaze as Pyrite sips his coffee is much like the flavor to Niers. Blunt and crude at first, but each part of it deliberately done; burnt beans because someone should eat them to avoid waste. Citrus? Cuts the bitter flavor and adds a tang. In a world of burgeoning coffee-enjoyers and Earthers, the Hobgoblin experimented and came up with his favorite coffee himself.

It’s not the first time the two have talked, but Niers feels as though something is up. He leans against the shot glass, using it as a perch as he scoops mugfuls of liquid out and drinks.

“I was up late.”

“Playing chess with Erin?”

“Just a few games. Talking, really. She was searching for Rags. You wouldn’t happen to have seen her, would you?”

The fact that Erin wants to talk with Rags more than Niers isn’t hurtful. Or so the Titan rationalizes. Pyrite shrugs.

“Nope.”

Sip. Sip. After a second, the Goblin grunts.

“I have a question, Titan.”

“Go for it. I’m a goldmine of answers and charitable with them. This is the best winter break I’ve had in…well, I don’t have them. I’m getting old. And soft.”

The Hobgoblin ignores this since it’s bait. He grunts, burps, and speaks.

“In Fraerling Cities, The Last Box. How many have you seen open?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Pyrite sees Niers freeze a second. The Fraerling is good, but he’s no actor. Niers slowly drinks down his mug, wipes his mouth, and laughs.

“Sorry, but they don’t open. I don’t know where you heard that, but…not every city has a box. And they’re all different. Each city thinks that their box contains something special. Open them all and see what’s inside. The last work of Gnomes, you know? Why?”

He waits, expecting Pyrite to come back with a reply, to probe for more information. It isn’t inconceivable the Goblin has heard of The Last Box from someone—Greydath—and Niers is trying to outthink the conversation, see what to share and what to gain in return.

But Pyrite isn’t in the mood for a game of wits. He has his answer the moment he sees Niers react.

The other Mrsha is telling the truth.

So he sips at his coffee and sighs.

“I just wondered what was in there.”

“So do we all.”

The Titan sounds jocular and relaxed and goes for another drink of his coffee. Pyrite thinks that four cups of his coffee is pushing the limit. 

If I ask if Paeth-on-the-Coast is a real place, he may try to kill me. No more confirmations. Pyrite must believe or he must not, and he has felt the girl’s words pulling at his very…what? Soul? The strings of fate that link him to his true death?

I am but a figment of a Skill, but I can think. If I think, therefore I am, as Troydel once said. But I am positive he quoted that without knowing the meaning. The real question is: if I think, what can I do that matters with the time I have?

He stands there, pondering and wondering where Rags is. Pyrite grunts.

“Coffee’s hot.”

“…Indeed it is.”

Downstairs, a rat scurries around the basement. It’s undead. 

The Necromancer is listening with half an ear, working on a Christmas present for Pisces; a real secret gift. He hasn’t abandoned his plans to take revenge, but the Horns have a promising career, and dead gods, it’s Christmas. He can wait a year or two and see how things play out…

Az’kerash wonders what Pyrite’s coffee tastes like.

 

——

 

Kevin Hall hasn’t slept either. He’s speaking. Rambling, really.

“What if she’s right?”

No one responds. Kevin paces down the floor, turns, comes back. He’s heard the expression ‘wearing a hole in the floor’ but never thought it was literal. Until now. His feet hurt. He’s been walking for hours, but he can’t stop.

“I can’t explain it. But she—she said it to me, and I felt I was dead. That’s not a joke. That—I know. I knew. If it’s a trick, well, fuck me, because I believe that more than I believe anything else in any world. You could convince me I was in a simulation or—or actually a floating brain in a tank. I know she’s telling the truth. Which means this place is fake. Which means if the Skill ends, we’re dead. And she’s offering me—me—a way out.”

He scrubs at his blonde hair. He’s sweating. He’s panicking, but worst of all, he just…he sits down on his bed.

“But why me?”

That part makes no sense. He and Mrsha like each other. They’re pals. She’s not his biggest fan. She loves his skateboards; he can see how she’d miss him. He’s flattered. But…Kevin looks up, and his gaze is lost. He’s not…

Halrac Everam sits there. Halrac. And…Headscratcher. The two of them are silent. Halrac’s face is frozen in that grimace of his. Disbelief. Headscratcher is doubtful, but he sits there. Head bowed.

Thinking.

“…[Insanity] runes.”

The leader of Griffon Hunt speaks at last. Kevin glances at him, and Halrac shrugs.

“The door connects to Celum, and Captain Earlia was removing the traps from Albez, remember? What if she ran into a shipment of the runes and…or she hit her head? Her moving around the inn, all of this can be explained by a malign Skill or injury. First thing tomorrow, we get the best [Healer] in Pallass to take a look at her.”

“Dude. Halrac!”

Kevin grabs at his hair. He shakes his head.

“She’s not hallucinating or hurt. The first thing everyone did was check her when Mrsha—I mean, our Mrsha—came back, remember? This Mrsha’s different. She’s older. She scares me, man. She’s like—like—”

He searches for words, and Headscratcher says it.

“Like a Goblin child.”

“Yeah.”

Kevin nods, and Halrac shifts. The [Marksman] remembers his own encounter with Mrsha, the moment he realized she wasn’t yawning or playing but…screaming. He shivers and tries to hide it, tries not to lose his head. That’s how adventurers die.

“She can’t prove anything. Beyond a feeling you have—”

“She said a lot of stuff that sounded true, man. Like the fact that the dead go to this afterlife where everyone gathers up…”

Headscratcher nods.

“That’s true.”

Both Kevin and Halrac turn to him, and Headscratcher pauses. He’s been snacking on peanuts. One every ten minutes. You eat one, chew and chew and chew, and if you do it right without breaking the flow, a bowl can last you all night. That’s how Goblins snack. Headscratcher breaks his rhythm and eats a peanut out of nervousness.

“Numbtongue told me. He sees them gathered up in places.”

“Dude.”

Kevin holds out his hands, and Halrac growls.

“If Numbtongue knows that, then she could—”

“Dude, you are not listening to me! She says she can prove it! And if she can prove it, what then?”

The young man raises his voice, and someone bangs on the wall.

“Kevin! Some people are trying to sleep!”

“Sorry, Joseph.”

Kevin calls back, and everyone goes silent. They whisper, then. Halrac leans forwards.

“If it’s true…then what? She wants to offer us an Adventurer’s Bargain?”

Both look at him curiously, and Halrac elaborates.

“Something that occurs on bad adventures or raids. One person can make it out. Or it’s one person or the other. The team has to choose. There is never a scenario without regrets.”

Kevin nods slowly, his face pale. His nails are digging into his palms, enough to leave red lines, and Halrac feels his own skin crawling. He’s so tense, he realizes, and tries to unfold his arms, but he can’t. He…proof? What will he do, he wonders?

How did he die? 

No, that’s not the real question in his head. He knows; even if he can’t see it, she told him how he died. The real question was—

Did it matter?

It is Headscratcher who breaks the silence. The Goblin Lord has been thinking of his own encounter with Mrsha. It is why he noticed Kevin pulling Halrac aside. He shakes his head carefully.

“No. This is the scenario where she tries to make up for regrets. And it is our choice…she is asking us to choose. My question to her after asking her to prove it is—not just why me.”

He looks down at his chest, at the handprint in red on his skin, the fur and armor on his body, and wonders if he can leave this inn. He wonders if a goodbye would break his heart—and knows that since he is the Goblin Lord of Sorrows, it will only make him stronger.

His head bows, and he tries to imagine what’s unimaginable. Leave Erin behind.

Leave her…for a world in which he’s dead. In which he—the Goblin’s eyes flash.

“I will ask if I am needed.”

He cannot choose. It is an impossible decision he could never make. He thinks he knows the answer, but he also must know, even if he will regret it forever. Kevin Hall and Halrac Everam regard Headscratcher and nod.

Now it’s like poison, gnawing away at their thoughts, but also like the sweetest honey. They have to know. Kevin has a question as well. Halrac? He sits there. And he has so many regrets and things he wanted to do. Mrsha, according to Kevin, is from two months in the future.

Halrac never married, then. He never found someone to truly love and give everything to, and all he has are a boy’s lost dreams and regrets. He never triumphed and made up for the dead comrades, Ulrien and so many others he left behind. Halrac thought he was on the road to some peace, self-satisfaction. But not yet. He never made Named-Rank. Petty, but…he never loved. He never—

They sit there, and Kevin scrubs at his face.

“Dude. How’re we going to tell Shorthilt and the others?”

To which Headscratcher replies gently.

“Should we?”

When they look at him, quizzically, incredulously, the Goblin counts on his fingers.

“How many can she take?”

Somehow, Kevin’s stomach hurts even more.

 

——

 

Pyrite waits until Niers is gone. And probably not spying on him. Then he raps a hand on a door.

In the beach-garden. He hears a muffled sound, groaning, swearing—and someone answers the door.

“Halrac, you could just come in—oh, hey, Pyrite.”

A very disheveled Ceria Springwalker is in the shared adventurer-house, which looks like an amalgamation of dirt, bones, and ice magicked into some kind of stability. Mostly because it is. Ceria apparently passed out in the living room, and Pyrite nods to her.

“Sorry.”

“No problem. Heck of a night. You, uh, here to see anyone?”

Ceria gives Pyrite a teasing grin and bright-eyed stare, and he smiles. Not her nor Ulvama nor anyone else. He knows how Ulvama feels, and Pyrite doubts he and she really would work. But either way, he is…

Well, he was content. Today? He’s tired, but acts casual.

“No one for that kind of fun. I need a word for the Christmas gifts. Magical help.”

“Oh, gotcha. From a talented spellcaster like…?”

Pyrite shakes his head. He steps past Ceria, and then, after a few moments of whispering, knocks on a door.

“Moore?”

Silence. A half-Giant’s loud snoring. Pyrite knocks again and raises his voice.

“Moore?”

The snoring stops, and a sleepy, inquisitive noise answers him. Pyrite steels himself and exhales, long and hard. A walk in one of Erin’s more private gardens will do. She’s given him permission to explore.

The knowledge is spreading. But what will become of it…? Pyrite can only wait for Mrsha to return. The world is uncertain. He is afraid. He is calm. 

The world has always been uncertain, shifting, precarious. Even when you stand on what you think is solid stone. At least now he feels it.

 

——

 

It is the 14th day of the 5th month of the year. Summer. The birthday of Mrsha du Marquin. The year is contested. Scholars claim it is 33 A.F., however, a new era has been declared. The Demons of Rhir have been wiped out. It is the 2nd Year of the Era of Triumphs according to the Blighted Empire. 

Mrsha has turned eighteen years old and has been certified as a Silver-rank adventurer. She has invited friends of The Wandering Inn to gather and find a cure to the long-frozen [Innkeeper].

Lyonette and Pawn are on a walk, probably discussing Mrsha and what to do. The inn is quiet.

Erin is sleeping.

A figure slinks back into the inn, appearing not with a pop or distortion, but a soft step. She feels at herself, produces a wand, waves it around, and sighs.

“Okay. Escape route gained. Good to know I can do that. And I guess the entry-exit point isn’t the worst.”

She’s speaking out loud—okay, ‘speaking’ by writing via the quill which auto-speaks the words from her collar for her. She’s had practice. Years of it. Mrsha’s had training from countless experts, magical help, guidance—some of it from people she doesn’t want, like her mother holding her back, but from a lot of friends who’ve made it to the highest levels of this era. Who’re Named-ranks or beyond.

Mrsha has been prepared to risk her life, to do great things to save Erin Solstice, for ten years. Ten years of training in every discipline she can. And yet, with her goal so oddly in sight, right before her eyes, today, of all days, her birthday—

Her paws are trembling. She’s shaking like a leaf. Mrsha checks the time. It’s barely past morning. She remembers people are coming for her birthday—

They’ll have to wait forever, if what that Goblin, Rianchi, said is true. It could not be.

I just walked out of my world and into a palace beyond anything I know. It’s real.

Erin’s alive.

This changes everything. But—but—

What do I do? If this world vanishes if our door closes—I burnt that root out. Must be a one-use artifact. How many more are there? How many more people can I take?

If her world is fake. If it is. If it’s just a parallel dimension, then maybe she can cure Erin the same way they did! She can do it! She—

Mrsha’s panting. Shaking. Hyperventilating. She knows what this is.

Instantly, she pulls out a cigar, triple strength, the Palt Peculiars, and lights it up. The Dreamleaf steadies her a bit. Palt makes up one with calming factors in it just for her. The ‘Imani touch’. That sentimental donkey. He dotes on her and little Jakh. Is that baby boy, whom Mrsha helped babysit, is he fake?

“You’re an adventurer, Mrsha. Calm down. Make the right decisions.”

Her panic attack fades. Mrsha closes her eyes, breathes in and out.

“For Erin—what will you do?”

Her emotions turn to ice, just like Ceria taught her. She steels herself, feels at her side. It occurs to Mrsha—she’s not ready. She’s not geared up, yet.

She goes upstairs to her room and finds a chest at the back of it. A single room for a young woman. No more sleeping with her mother.

No roommate. She’s thinking over everything Rianchi babbled at her. What was that about having a little [Witch] for a roommate? The only one that Mrsha knows is…no. That can’t be.

Mrsha sits on her bed a second after she’s loaded her bag of holding with all the artifacts, scrolls, and tools she stockpiled. She’s eighteen, anyways. Eighteen. So many things were going to happen when she was eighteen. Danger and friends and…

Who could help me if this turns out to be a trap? If this is true or if I have to fight, who…

Who’s not dead? Mrsha, the adult Mrsha, sees what her younger self was after. It makes sense. She’d do the same thing. She counts.

“Rags. Yeah. If she can even make it. Olesm? Belgrade? They’re army, now. No…Pisces, of course. Maybe Yvlon. Maybe. Rags, Pisces, Moore. Of course, Moore. And old Jelaqua, but—Garia? Maybe Garia.”

So few, so few left who’re true, who haven’t given up. Mrsha thinks of the traitors and growls.

“Not Ceria. Not Ryoka. Not—Pawn.”

Some of them aren’t allies, but Mrsha hesitates. Pawn…Pawn’s strong, and he’s loyal to Erin, beyond loyal in his way. Too much. Rags is…different.

“Rags, Pisces, Moore, Garia. If any of them come, I’ll tell them. But how to…?”

She’s positive [Messages] or any other spell won’t work via the door or gap in reality. Mrsha thinks and comes up with the answer. Of course.

Her friends.

She puts a finger to her head and concentrates.

“[Casual Communication]. Visma. Visma. Calling Visma…”

She connects after four rings. Mrsha hears a flurry of voices, including the one from her friend, high-pitched and breathless.

“Intern, this had better be a news story. Or else you’re not taking that call, friends of the inn or not.”

“I’m so sorry, Miss Drassi. I’ll tell her right away—Mrsha, I’m at work, you bitch.”

Visma’s harried, and Mrsha winces; she forgot Visma’s finally working at Wistram News Network—the Pallassian division. Drassi has a stick up her tailhole, as per usual.

Could I tell Drassi…? No, she works with Wistram. And Ceria. Archmage Ceria can’t be trusted. Wistram spies on people. So Mrsha makes her voice casual.

“Visma! I need your help for something. Can you get to the inn, now? It’s not news—”

“I heard that. Tell Miss Mrsha that I hired Reporter Visma on her merits, not because I’m friends with the inn. And to call back later.”

Drassi’s voice cracks like a whip, and Mrsha can practically see Visma duck. Undaunted, Mrsha calls back.

“You owe me a favor, Drassi. I’m calling it in.”

“You little—I’m not dealing with this. Someone else get me my report, and I’ll forget this happened. And the next time you try to strongarm me, you better have the news I want, Mrsha.”

Headline: Erin Solstice back from the dead. Chaos reigns.

It is a promise between them. The day Mrsha achieves her goals…Mrsha swallows hard. Sooner than you think, Drassi, sooner than you think.

“Visma, get over here. Get Ekirra too, if he’s not training. Actually, I don’t care if he is. Both of you.”

Her two best friends, even from ten years ago. [Soccer Player] and [Reporter]—well, Visma has a lot of classes, but this is the one she seems to love. Visma whispers back as she hurries out of the news room.

“Excuse me, I’m so sorry—I’ll be back as soon as I can—Mrsha! I’m going to kick your tail up and down Liscor if this isn’t serious! This is my first day on the job, and Drassi told me I needed to impress! What is it? Did old Tekshia refuse to certify you? Did your mother try and keep you here?” 

Mrsha can barely remember what Visma’s worried about at first. She shakes her head, steadies her breath.

“This matters, Visma. Way more than that. Now, here’s what I need you to do. By the time you and Ekirra get here, I’m going to be gone. But trust me, I swear on Erin’s life this is important. You’re going to need to both play dumb and keep a lookout for strangers…”

The oath Mrsha invokes is the one she’ll never break, and Visma gasps softly and begins to take this seriously.

“Wait, for your birthday? Because Lyonette has a plan—”

“No, Visma. Real strangers. Now, listen…”

Mrsha gives Visma several instructions, hangs up, takes a deep breath, and then brushes Dreamleaf ash off her front. She’s taken precautions, both in case they come back and in case they look for her. She can’t wait.

Back she goes.

 

——

 

It’s a small window in the world, invisible unless you know where it is—or if you saw a Goblin going through it and heard that earthshaking roar. Mrsha feels at it, and her paws encounter that barrier.

…And go right through. She doesn’t need a root. She’s been, for lack of a better word, immunized, given access.

Much like the [Garden of Sanctuary]. But it killed the root. Mrsha can hop through this door as much as she wants.

No one else. Out of curiosity, Mrsha feels at the window to reality, then picks something up.

A tomato, which she brought from the kitchen. She walks to the door and, tomato in hand, puts her paw through that window into reality.

…The air is different on the other side. Mrsha shudders. She steps through the hole, though it is smaller than her face, barely as big around as her paw; the size doesn’t matter. She can pass through, but it feels like—

—like passing through the eye of a needle—

—like stepping off the edge of the known world—

—like being bent and pulled and reframed—

And then she’s stumbling into the marble corridor of the place Rianchi called the [Palace of Fates]. Mrsha searches around as reality reasserts itself, and then glances down at her hand.

A tomato is in her paw, squished slightly from the force which she grips it with.

“Hm. So plants aren’t alive by this metric? I can take objects. People?”

Mrsha really doubts she can do that without another ‘root’, but this is valuable information. She takes a bite of the tomato.

“Eugh. Overripe.”

Then she falls completely silent and deactivates her collar. Because it occurs to her she’s now in enemy territory. Whether or not they know it—she is here. Time, now, to investigate this place. To find the truth.

…And to see if that Goblin was lying.

I’ll feed him his own testicles Grimalkin-style if he was lying.

Mrsha slinks down the corridor, thinking now, paws soft on the ground. She is ready for this; a wand appears in her hand.

[Sleight of Hand: Wand]. [Muffled Movement].

Both learned Skills. One from old Typhenous, the other from Seborn. And she has lots of Skills. Spells. She’s a [Mage], after all. 

[Mage], [Warrior], a smattering of [Rogue], her old [Druid] levels, all of it. Rolled into one class that suits her. Her brown fur…brown, is blending with the wall, a camouflage Skill. The world from ten years ago—Mrsha has to remember a time before Doomslayers were all over. Dead gods, it feels like yesterday to her that Rhir was still split between Demons and the Blighted Empire. Now it’s all so bad…

This is my chance to fix it. To…

Mrsha du Marquin. Level 31 [Lucky Survivor of the Promise]. Her vow—

‘I will bring Erin Solstice back to life or die trying.’

As so many of her mentors and teachers tell her, though, dying is the easy part.

 

——

 

They stand in the [Palace of Fates], discussing their problems. A Hobgoblin and Gnoll girl, both fairly short for their species. Both young. They speak openly, with Fightipilota and several Hobgoblins standing idly in the distance. Casually—because here, of all places, they are safe.

Their first mistake. If someone was here, the body heat the two give off, their magical auras—dead gods, even a [Detect Life] spell would instantly pinpoint their location, and the Goblins do not have magical sensor spells. Some of them are alert and sharp, but Shineshield, Fightipilota, and so on are stressed Redfangs. It would be so simple to cast [Invisibility], [Muffle], and [Ear of the Bat] and listen.

In theory. If someone was listening, this is what they’d hear:

“So you didn’t summon the other Rags? You…were going to unleash the last Empress of Harpies?”

Rags rubs at her head. She wishes she could claim it hurts, but it’s just foggy. As it often is when trying to hold together a multifaceted idea or plan. And this one is…well, to say it’s a mess is an understatement.

The facts, as she understands them, are that another Rags has used a root to enter this world. That Rags, admittedly, saved them from the Mortemdefieir Titan, but the Titan is now assembling, and for the better or worse, Niers Astoragon and the entire Forgotten Wing company now know exactly what Rags is up against.

Oh—and Rags has now tied herself to the most dangerous Fraerling in the world, and the world powers that ignored the inn for so long will be directing their attention back to Erin’s home.

Back to the inn that both copied millions of gold pieces with its amazing box—and crashed the economy—and which is hiding the [Palace of Fates]. Lyonette and Nanette and the others are also aware something is up; more eyes on the palace.

More hard decisions to make, and Rags has not even made hers yet on whether the power of the roots should even be…used.

But Mrsha knows. Oh, yes. The little Gnoll girl’s eyes never waver as she writes her response. Skritch, skritch—and the ink is drying as she holds her card up.

If I thought you were in mortal danger, I would use the greatest card I had. She may be a monster; she may not be. But I would gamble there is a part of her that is like Erin.

Rags’ face twists; she’s trying to hide the fact that she’s touched. Instead, she scowls.

“Erin’s terrifying. What if she were another old monster?”

Then she can join the club and hopefully distract everyone while she eats the King of Destruction.

“…Alright, it wasn’t a bad idea. How—how did—”

How did that other Rags find the door? That’s a silly question; Rags already heard Dyeda explain her errors, and Rianchi’s. At least he didn’t add to the chaos. Neither she nor Mrsha can really blame the two Hobgoblins. Mrsha was distracted…and Rags was wrong.

“So now we’ve both got a doppelganger from another world.”

Mrsha shakes her head instantly. Rags is amazed, again, to realize she’s having an intellectual discussion with Mrsha where she values the other’s opinion. But then…perhaps the girl was always like this. Only when she could communicate did Rags pay attention. At any rate, Mrsha’s reply makes Rags twitch.

Not a doppelganger. Another us. Maybe even a better, braver version of us.

Rags doesn’t like that framing, accurate as it is. Or rather, she doesn’t like….

“She’s a [Student].”

With rolly-shoes. And she can skateboard and shoot magic around to go fast. She’s super cool.

Okay, Mrsha’s not that adult. Rags folds her arms, trying not to think of the ways in which those shoe-skates—‘rollerblades’, the other Rags calls them—would be so useful. If she’d had them when she faced off against Naumel, he’d never have touched her…

“She’s from an era of peace. She’s cocky and performative and—and not even a [Chieftain]!”

Mrsha’s gaze is solemn, amused, and sad. She unscrews a wooden lid and takes a sip from a canteen of soup. Even this is new; Rags has never seen the screw-on lid before, and Mrsha scalds her tongue on the hot soup. She slaps a stone on her side, and a voice chirps out loud.

“Damn it!”

Mrsha is eating lunch; Rianchi and Dyeda have to run her food because Roots Mrsha is in the inn, and Mrsha knows better than to even enter the [Garden of Sanctuary]. In fact, Student Rags is also posing as another Goblin. Mrsha writes one-handed as she holds up a comment on the Goblin hanging out in the inn above and getting her bearings.

She seems happy.

The Goblin [Chieftain] refuses to dignify that with a comment. She’s angry. She’s fuming mad. Whether or not she will admit it out loud, she knows the truth:

The other Rags, the student, frightens this Rags. Because she seems to be happy, higher-level, and…and Rags envies her and fears she’s doing it all wrong. She’s afraid of that grin, even if it’s fake. She doesn’t think she can smile like that.

Just to try, she makes the smile. Baring her teeth, trying to seem jovial.

Mrsha’s cheeks bulge as she stares at Rags’ face, and soup comes out her little black nose. She coughs and rolls around, covering her face. Rags decides never to smile like that again. She picks up the canteen before all of it can spill.

“What the heck is this? I’ve never seen a canister like this.”

It’s not new. Pallassian [Engineers] apparently use it all the time. It comes together when you twist—

“Yeah, I got that. Interesting. Is it waterproof? It is! It doesn’t leak…handier than a cork or a stopper?”

Mrsha shrugs.

Dunno. Earthers already knew about it. Those jerks know everything. Troydel brought canteens last week, and I traded him a few of Palt’s cigars for one. He says he helped make this. He put metal on the inside or something and gave it two layers so it holds heat real well without magic.

“What? Troydel? He’s the Earther no one likes, right? I thought there were two of them.”

The other one’s Leon. He went to Wistram. This is like Troy’s finest creation.

“Wow. Even he can make things.”

The two stare at the canteen. After a moment, Mrsha goes back to sipping soup. This isn’t really what matters, not right now. But it’s something they can focus on. Rags mutters after a moment.

“…That other Rags. Do we just let her keep her door open? Or, after this is done, do we close the door forever? What happens to her? If we leave it open, she’ll come back to our world again and again. I would. I’d…feel responsible. I’d want to know what’s happening here; learn what I can, steal information and technology. Especially if nothing bad ever happens in that other world.”

Mrsha nods and sighs.

I promised Roots Mrsha she’d go back to her home after this is over. Somehow, we’ll get her out of her [Palace of Fates]. But her Rags is dead. A Mortemdefieir Titan might destroy her home too, and her mother…

A terrible truth is hidden in her eyes, which she hasn’t discussed with the other Mrsha. Rags doesn’t know what to say for once. Mrsha is her equal when it comes to the anguish and horror of these thoughts and decisions. So she just takes the cup of the canteen, and Mrsha pours some soup. Rags sips from it.

She burns her tongue too. After a moment, Rags wipes her mouth.

“—You have to talk to the ones you want to save. They’re deciding, right?”

It’s hard. Yeah.

“…Do it. I’ll cover everything here. I’ll meet with Teriarch. I’ll—just do it, Mrsha. Leave the other Rags and Mrsha to me.”

Rags glances at the doors and the one being marked by her Goblins with lots of yellow paint; just so they can identify the root-doors at a glance. Shineshield calls over.

“Hey, Chieftain, where that other door? The one Rianchi went through like a dumb butt?”

“It has a root sticking out of it—there!”

Rags points, and Shineshield inspects the door. She frowns, turns to Rags, but the Chieftain is still talking with Mrsha.

“Just one more question. Is your solution to 2nd Army or the Titan or—everything else just unleashing Empress Sheta?”

You got a better option?

Mrsha holds up a card, eyebrows raised. Rags shoves her hands into her pockets.

“It occurs to me we could ask for a version of you that was Level 70. Or for a…Pisces who’s Level 80. Pull them through and everything’s solved, right?”

It’s not the first time the thought’s occurred to Rags, crazy as it is, and Mrsha’s reaction makes it plain that she’s thought of that too. She writes swiftly, hands Rags a card, gulps down some soup, and shakes her head.

We could. We could mess with it all, but ask yourself two things, Rags. One, how do we know those versions of us wouldn’t be super unpredictable or messed-up like all high-level people are? Would you bet on them being more reasonable than the last Empress of Harpies? Seriously. And two—would you do that to them? I’m already asking so much of the dead. What would you do if someone called you out of your world to save the day?

Kill them and go home no matter what. Or…go insane when I realized everything I loved was…

Rags nods briskly.

“—You’ve thought of this.”

Of course I have. And I’ve asked questions from someone meaner than you or me. Someone who understands what I’m doing and the consequences, and gave me advice. Trust me when I say that there’s a plan. First—we see who might come.

That makes Rags glance suspiciously down the hallway, and she notices something else. There are four doors that have been marked in yellow paint. And one of them…she recognizes it and flinches. Mrsha meets Rags’ gaze, and the Goblin would rather have walked through a door to face the Titan again than enter the damaged, familiar door at the end of the hall.

She’s glad, relieved, when a breathless voice speaks in her ear.

“Chieftain. We’ve got a problem!”

Rags reaches up. Her right ear has a blue stone embedded in an earring bud. She taps it and snaps.

“Dyeda? Report.”

Speaking stone, again, easily interceptable if you can cast [Copy Spell]. Or you could use [Synchronize Senses] if you were feeling risky, bump your hearing up with a localized [Spatial Earworm] spell, or just cast [Metamagic: Spell Manipulation]. It was amazing, really, how simple and unencrypted all communication spells used to be…

Mrsha cocks her head and lowers her soup cup. She hears the faint report.

“It’s other you! She’s—on the scrying orbs! Talking!”

Funny how such simple statements can invoke such dread. Mrsha and Rags exchange a look, and Rags begins running.

“What are you doing? I told you to stop her! I told Redscar to hit her if she causes trouble!”

“That’s the problem, Chieftain! She’s you! She sounds real convincing!”

Rags starts swearing and runs for the entrance to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Most of the Goblins follow her, and only Fightipilota lags behind. She understands that Mrsha is, in her way, as important as Rags here.

“Hey, Mrsha. What you doing?”

Mrsha is gazing towards the door that the Student Rags came from. She walks over to it, slowly, and turns.

I’m going to talk. And listen. That’s all I can do. When Rags…both Rags come back, tell them to be careful.

“Of getting caught? Or messing things up more? Or bringing more people out?”

Fightipilota isn’t sure which, but Mrsha just shakes her head.

No. Just to be careful. It hurts more than you can dream of.

Then she opens a door, and Fightipilota shivers. She glances around the [Palace of Fates]—and then hurries off after Rags.

The Goblin feels like she’s being watched.

She’s right.

 

——

 

The secret is leaking out of each world.

Pyrite pats a pale-faced Moore on the shoulder, and Erin Solstice blinks at them as they appear out of the Drathian garden. She raises her brows; Pyrite stops. Of course, she sensed them going for a walk. He says nothing, but the [Innkeeper] can see Moore’s expression.

“Is something wrong, Pyrite?”

The former Goldstone Chieftain doesn’t know what to say. So he says nothing.

—A Gnoll watches the younger version of Chieftain Rags ascending a rope into the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She narrows her eyes and waits. She must wait, of course. They’ll recognize her the moment she…

She peers down at her fur. And thinks of the other Mrsha, still white-furred. So much different from the eighteen-year-old Gnoll woman wearing adventurer’s gear. An idea, audacious, pops into Mrsha’s head. They don’t know. All she has to do is…take one of those roots and cover her tracks. That Goblin almost noticed, but if she just replaces it, who would be the wiser? And then…her heart beats faster.

The inn.

 

——

 

The inn is filled with spies. Some of them aren’t even from Calanfer. They’re all watching Mrsha, trying to figure out where Lyonette vanished with Rhisveri, Visophecin, and the others. They know how this goes. They know the rhythm and the nature of this game, and they think it’s a game.

Another Solstice event. But Erin Solstice isn’t here. She’s not managing this event. The rules have changed. The players are different. It’s all insanity and danger. A Titan in the mountains. Worlds real and unreal.

In the midst of all of this, the Flooded Water tribe endures. They continue living on the edge with an Old One on the move, knowing a Drake army is on their doorstep because this is what Goblins do. This is how they live. There’s something terribly tragic and amazing about that—but because it’s just life for them, Goblins don’t see it.

They’re not proud of being Goblins. They’re not sad about it too. They just are—and that’s the greatest tragedy of all.

She sees it.

Student Rags. That’s her name here, she supposes. She’d like to just be ‘Rags’, but if Chieftain Rags can think of herself that way, then so can this Rags. But the question is, in her mind, whether ‘Chieftain Rags’ is more archetypal of every Rags that there is. Because Student Rags feels like that’s the natural path for Rags to take.

She ran away. If she opened more doors in the [Palace of Fates], would she find that there are more Rags who are cowards than not, or that she’s an outlier? The truth can hurt.

Here she is in the Flooded Waters tribe, surrounded by Goblins who’re staring at her.

Her.

Rags. But not their Rags. She skates down the hallways, followed by Redscar and a group of warriors. He’s grumpy and upset; the battle in the mountains was a failure, and he feels responsible. Student Rags is just relieved she helped. But now they took her back to the Flooded Waters tribe, to Goblinhome, so she can see this world’s version of it, and it’s all…

Wrong.

There aren’t enough Goblins here. Goblinhome in her world isn’t this managed. It’s actually a mess; there are five times as many Goblins, and they’re always arguing over space, digging out more of the mountain, trying to get enough food—but they’re active. Strong.

Headscratcher and Pyrite lead them. Under him, Goblins are tough enough to literally beat down Frost Wyverns, and Pyrite’s mining expertise lets Goblins excavate huge portions of this mountain. Student Rags gets updates, and she thought their Goblinhome was great.

—This Goblinhome has organization. As she skates down a corridor, she forgets to follow the painted yellow lines on the floor and gets in the way of a line of Goblins. They halt in a jumble, cursing and then staring at her.

“Whoops, sorry!”

Finger-guns. They stare at the finger-guns, at her, and then one of them slowly puts a load of stones in a cart built into the hallway. The rest dump stones there—she realizes they’re mining out new rooms in the mountain. They’re dusty, tired, but they just dump stones into the cart, and a small Goblin, a child, begins sliding it down the hallway. It’s on wheels, and the contraption lets the Goblin port goods across Goblinhome.

Organization. Not just organization; fortification. Thunderbows are emplaced everywhere.

Her tribe doesn’t have Thunderbows. Headscratcher’s fought off Wyverns and sold some of the parts, but not killed so many he can make weapons out of them beyond simple clubs or axes. And the Wyvern Riders?

This tribe has Wyvern Riders. A menagerie of Frost Wyverns who’re smart and friendly enough to beg for food or curl up with their riders.

This tribe…is giving Student Rags anxiety. Because she’s here. They see her. A Rags from another world, and the first question everyone asks her is—

“So what do you think, Ch—Other Rags? What we doing wrong? What can we do better?”

Taganchiel, the [Shaman], asks. Ulvama’s the [Chief Shaman] in her world, but in this one, Taganchiel remains. He has a serious look. Not an anxious one. He’s eager. Excited, even.

Another difference; there’s this analytical feeling in the tribe. All the Goblins look at Rags, and they’re damn smart.

“I, uh—you mean things to improve on?”

“Yep. What is Goblinhome in other world doing well?”

“Well—they’re bigger by a factor of five. I think they’re halfway down into the mountain. And a lot of them are around Liscor; they’re even in the Great Plains, you know. Alliance with the Gnolls.”

Student Rags stalls for time, talking up her tribe, and Taganchiel nods and makes a note of that. Redscar grunts.

“Pretty good. Better than our Rags. What weapons they using?”

“Oh—the same stuff, mostly. Gnolls have donated a lot of bows to them, but your Thunderbows are…really good. I, uh—H-Headscratcher mentioned that there was a cave they ran into. Filled with really nasty slimes. He said they dug down and ‘to the right’ to get to it.”

“Ooh. Good to know.”

All the Goblins around Rags nod, and she tries to relax. She sweeps her eyes over the fortress.

“As for tactical improvements? I…well, I’d have to review the full schematics of the fort to improve it. You know?”

She smiles apologetically at Taganchiel, and he slaps his forehead.

“Oh, duh.”

“No worries—”

“Let me get that. Hey, you, get to wartable and get schematics for Not-Chieftain-Rags.”

Taganchiel pokes the nearest Goblin to him, and she runs to get a full plan of Goblinhome and the exterior defenses. Student Rags’ jaw drops. 

A killzone built into bunkers in the hills? Watchposts set across the mountain? Even evacuation routes and—

“You let us know what’s better and we write it all down, okay?”

Taganchiel pauses, quill ready, and Student Rags panics. Because…she can’t.

Oh, she can look at the plans and recall Niers’ lectures on how to optimize layouts, how to emplace static defenses—but the problem is that it’s nitpicking. Chieftain Rags might not have the optimal layout, but it’s damned good.

It’s…

I can’t do this. Student Rags feels like she’s meeting one of Niers’ real [Strategists], like Perorn Fleethoof, and measuring up against them. If she and Chieftain Rags went to war right now, with the same forces, she would lose.

Everyone’s waiting on her to say something smart. Just like her world, where she ran away from it all. Rags is frozen, muttering non sequiturs.

“Well, the layout on this bunker is…you want to actually put a tripwire here, see, not there, because of [Rogues]…l-let me get a quill, and I’ll just write down—but she has it this way because she’s counting on Frost Wyvern reinforcements from above. So maybe—”

She’s spiralling, and the person who notices is Prixall, the [Witch]. And Redscar. He interrupts.

“Taganchiel, this silly. Give it to other Rags later; she has to sit down and draw boring things. We busy.”

“Oh! Right! Maybe tonight?”

Taganchiel’s abashed. Prixall reaches out and points.

“Student Rags has not even seen our allies or heard of the black market contacts. We should finish showing her the rest of it, first.”

Her claw brushes Rags’ arm, and she casts a spell so subtly only Rags feels it.

[Calm].

Student Rags’ heart ceases to pound so hard. She relaxes and gives Prixall a nod.

“Yeah. Of course. Chieftain Rags is excellent, anyways. I can’t improve on much. In my world…Headscratcher is a completely different kind of leader, you know? His Goblins brawl. He punched out the Kraken Eater’s Chieftain; well, it was a close one, apparently. But I’m not leading the tribe. So…I’ll do my best on giving actionable feedback, okay?”

That satisfies everyone, and Rags keeps walking, heart rate returning to normal, ashamed, embarrassed. She’s a fraud, and she thinks they can all tell, because of course, they’re Goblins.

Redscar walks ahead of the others, and they fall back at his gesture. He glances at Student Rags now and then.

“Is it better with a Goblin Lord in Goblinhome? Headscratcher. He sort of stupid.”

Redscar can say that, having mentored the other Goblin back in the Redfang days. Student Rags grins.

“He’s not—that dumb. He’s pretty good at negotiating.”

Unmoved, the [Blademaster] scratches at his head.

“Not smart like you. Pyrite…yeah, he’s smart. But not you. Why did you leave?”

“I can’t do this. I know the other Rags can. She’s amazing. She went down to kill an Old One with a few Trolls, Goblins, and no relics? She’s…the real deal. I’m just a [Student]. Sorry. All my power comes from other people. That’s how I wanted it.”

Rags scrubs at her face, flushing, and Redscar peers at her. To her surprise, he grins.

“I like that.”

“What, me sucking?”

She glowers, and he nods, blunt as a club sometimes.

“Yeah. Knowing Rags can be nervous and weird and care more about stupid hair than anything else. It means I know how hard she’s working.”

That mollifies Student Rags, and she ducks her head, letting her hair indeed hide part of her face.

“Well, that’s good.”

They walk on, and Redscar keeps peering at her. Then he comes out with another question.

“So…what are you good at?”

“Hm? Me? Nothing like this. I can’t.”

Student Rags gestures helplessly around, and Redscar rolls his eyes.

“Yah, duh. But you good at something. Or else, why are you higher-level than our Rags? Show us what that is.”

He gives Rags a faintly outraged stare as he pokes her, hard, and she shifts, rubbing at her jacket.

“Watch the cloth. It’s expensive. I told you, I’m not better than her at strategy! I’m learning it; I daresay I could negotiate for goods and organize a supply line better with a conventional, non-Goblin army. And I’m doing standup.”

“You’re…standing up?”

Student Rags snorts at the dubious look that Redscar gives her.

“No, it’s this thing that’s popular in my…world…”

And then it hits her. She peers at him, then swivels.

“Wait, you don’t know that word. Does that mean a Goblin’s never done an interview on television before?”

“Numbtongue did. I did after Oresfell.”

“Only Numbtongue and you? No, wait—let me see it!”

Suddenly, she has an idea. Student Rags’ eyes light up, and she’s confident again. Really confident, not faking it. The Goblins stir, and one darts off to get a scrying orb. Rags begin talking, and Redscar starts to grin as the Chieftain he recognizes emerges in this stranger.

“I have an idea. There is something I can do—I need a pen, paper. Taganchiel, give me that. This is crazy, but we could run through this entire event that happened in my world.”

She stops, catches herself, and takes a breath.

“—the right way. It’s dangerous, though. Risky. We should tell it to Chieftain Rags first.”

Redscar shakes his head. He jabs a finger at his chest.

“Chieftain Rags is with Mrsha the Palace Owner. Tell me, and I’ll decide.”

“But if we mess it up—”

Student Rags hesitates, and Redscar pats her on the arm. He leans forwards, a grin on his lips. That fearless sword of Goblins in any world.

“Tell me, and I will be responsible. That how our tribe works. Chieftain Rags is not alone. And besides—you’re Rags too.”

He pokes her lightly on the chest, and someone gives Rags an approving pat on the back. Taganchiel, baring all his teeth. Other Goblins punch her arm, and Student Rags glances around and realizes—that’s how the other Rags does it. Her tribe is supporting her. Goblins slap her hand, hold out quill and paper, give her pokes of affirmation—

Poisonbite slaps Student Rags on the butt. Everyone turns and looks at Poisonbite. The Hobgoblin gives them all an encouraging thumbs up until one of her warriors slaps the back of her head. And then…Student Rags is writing.

Then she has a plan.

 

——

 

Half an hour later, they’re ready. It’s not hard, really. It takes one spell to talk with a certain Drake. A scrying orb, Redscar’s approval and cooperation, and Rags writing out a script, double-checking it for errors, and memorizing it.

Those are things she can do; [Student] Skills. The rest of it is just telling the Flooded Waters tribe what’s happening and…going for it. Rags is standing in the room of Chieftain Rags in Goblinhome, no longer on unfamiliar ground. Well, all this ground is technically unfamiliar, but it matters to her.

She wants to help. To prove she isn’t the inferior Rags. To…deliver unto this world a better future. That’s the compulsion they all face, every traveller of the [Palace of Fates]. 

So a Goblin rolls all the dice she has, even the ones people don’t know about in this world. She places a bet, smiles into the camera, and checks her hair. It’s a bit dusty from being underground, but it’s still pretty damn stylish. Enough so that even non-Goblins who have seen Rags have given her a second look.

Style matters. And Rags has it, from her casual bright jacket she poses in, hands in pockets, to her glossy pants; it’s a language, a culture like any other. Vibrant fabric, clean, strong colors, and that half-cut hairstyle are a pain in the ass to maintain.

Rags has to apply dye to the tips of her hair and go to a [Barber] every other week to keep the look; it takes time and therefore reads to people as expensive, because it’s something you have to invest money and time to maintain. It’s actually possible to pull the look off quite cheaply, but it’s still not something just anyone does.

She learned the language, you see, when she went to Baleros and studied with the Titan. The news, scrying orbs, attention—it’s a type of power, and when she abandoned battles for a while, Rags realized she was waging a different kind of war. Far less bloody and therefore infinitely preferable. But one she wanted to win.

In this war for attention, Rags clears her throat, double-checks her sneaker-skate shoelaces are tied—because dead gods, what an embarrassment if they weren’t—and then gives the signal. She waits for Leapwolf to activate the scrying mirror and sees, for a second, a familiar, worried face.

Drassi Tewing. Rags’ heart leaps in her mouth, because she’s doing this and she knows it’s risky, but she’s doing it again, so she’s had practice. 

“—And now a, uh, a segment from a very interesting caller. I don’t know how to intro this, so I’ll just say this is ‘Rags’—excuse me, Chieftain Rags. Of the Flooded Waters tribe.”

The Drake speaks into a camera, gazing to the side. She’s actually smoother than the Drassi that Rags knows by a hair, oddly more poised and less excitable. But nervous. Rags waits for the mirror to go blank—not reflecting anything at all—before she begins. She looks into the mirror, enunciating each word, but keeping her voice casual. Conversational.

“Hey, everyone, good morning! I feel like someone’s sent me an [Inspiring Moment] for the day. Sure beats a [Hail of Arrows] Skill. Or a [Fireball]. Anyone ever woken up to one of those landing next to your tent? Just me?”

She looks around casually, then takes her hands out of her pockets. In the background, Poisonbite and her coven of female warriors are staring, open-mouthed. Redscar is watching with an evil grin. 

They’re in Goblinhome. For now, in Rags’ room. There’s a lot of pillows in here; this world’s Rags has good taste, even if Student Rags loves her dorm rooms in Elvallian more. But not for long. Rags begins walking, and Leapwolf keeps pace with her, making sure the mirror is steady, using Skills so his pacing is as smooth and level as butter. And Rags—continues.

“I’ve been considering fortifications all week. I study it, you know? It’s not all buttresses and castle walls; fortifications matter a lot. Especially for Goblins! You may think we’re all sticks and stones and caves, but that’s only because you’re probably thinking of poor Goblin tribes. Give any industrious Goblin a hammer and some nails and a week, and he’ll show you a wall any Drake would be proud of. Come on, check it out!”

And she gives the camera a pair of finger-guns and a smile. White teeth. Rags wonders how insane ‘Chieftain Rags’ is going. Or how insane Wistram News Network is going.

She walks into the hallway, and several Goblins pile into each other as they see a Rags who is familiar—and not. It’s mostly unscripted, by the by. That’s natural. Rags points to a nervous Cave Goblin, who gapes at her and recognizes the scrying mirror.

“Don’t mind all the activity. Goblinhome’s always busy. If you’re just catching me for the first time, hi. Student Rags with my weekly lecture on [Strategist] tips and tricks! As you can see, we have a lot of Goblins who have to run goods around all the time. This young Goblin’s bringing coal to a brazier or fireplace, I think. Hey, what’s your name?”

Rags turns to the Goblin, who stutters.

“I—I—is Coalgetter, Chieftain.”

He stares at her, at the mirror, and Rags twists around.

“Goblin names are very literal most of the time. Coalgetter has to run coal to the various rooms and places all over Goblinhome. Honestly, I’m pretty sure we were working on a more efficient delivery system, but sometimes you just have to do things by hand. And Goblinhome is a mess of walls, secret tunnels—take a look at this. See you, Coalgetter.”

“Bye?”

The little Goblin gapes at her as Rags motions and Leapwolf walks with her. She passes by Goblins, who run into each other, drop what they’re holding, and stare—ostensibly at the camera, but mostly at their cheerful, different Chieftain. What the heck is going on? She had a scrying orb? Here?

Goblinhome?

And she’s showing them the defenses! Rags is showcasing the tight tunnels, running commentary as she points at the rough-hewn stone.

“Alright, now, it’s not much, but we had to build this all from scratch. And if you think this is claustrophobic and too tight? Well, you’ve never seen one of those traditional castles before. Tight corridors are perfect for choking an attacking force, forcing them to come at you one-at-a-time. Also, it hinders anyone trying to swing a battleaxe around. Goblins are a lot smaller than most species unless they’re Hobs, so this kind of hallway benefits them immensely. But I can hear you armchair [Strategists] already—”

Rags rolls her eyes as if she’s actually listening to commentary from her world. She raises her voice and opens and closes one hand.

“—‘but Rags! Any [Knight] could kill a hundred Goblins in the tunnels! Humans are so superior! You see a dozen Goblins? I cast [Fireball]!’ Yeah, yeah. First off, we’d love not to fight for our lives, but that’s not up to us. Second—Goblinhome is filled with tons of advanced fortifications. Let’s say you’ve got a squad of [Knights] and a [Mage] with [Fireball] coming down this corridor. Goblins in full retreat. They keep going, all high on their arrogance, until whoops! What’s this?”

She pushes, and a section of the wall moves. Rags reveals a rotating section of stone, cunningly hidden, and invites Leapwolf—and the audience—to see the narrow alcove.

“Sneak attack! We’ve got tons of this stuff. Not just for Goblins to hide in; let’s find a murderhole, Leapwolf. Now, the trick to fighting siege battles, even on the defensive, is to outnumber the enemy and have the advantage in every way you can. But if you can’t…positioning your traps matters. For instance, this three-way intersection is the perfect spot for someone to attack a group of enemies, and wouldn’t you know it? Ceiling hatch. You can drop acid from here, a smoke bomb, or just poop.”

Rags grins until her face turns serious. She beckons Leapwolf closer.

“We will throw poop at you. And yes, I’ve seen [Soldiers] literally eat it by accident. You come at us with [Fireballs]? You’ll never forget the taste of a Goblin battle.”

A muffled sound. Rags sees, behind Leapwolf, Redscar trying not to laugh and biting his arm. Some Goblins watching are horrified, others seeing what she’s doing. Prixall is scared, amazed, and—admiring. She tips her hat. Student Rags has no idea who she is.

But she grins. Her heart is beating out of her chest. She’s terrified, exhilarated.

Professor, can you see me? Do you understand? Even if you’re not my Professor, can you see?

 

——

 

Niers Astoragon sees. The moment Marian literally bursts into the classroom—he’s still teaching his highest-ranked students because he will need them for the coming campaign—he stops.

And he stares at that fake Rags. For a few seconds, he doesn’t get it.

What is she doing? The broadcast is coming from Wistram News Network. Channel 2.

A Goblin.

A Goblin on television.

“Switch to Channel 1.”

Channel one appears, and Niers sees Sir Relz banging on the door to Channel 2’s space. He’s fielding outraged voices, raising a stink, but no one’s cut the feed from Wistram yet.

Of course not. Archmage Eldavin is a dangerous man and also one who admires spectacle. Every eye in the world is focused on this. Once more, The Wandering Inn takes center stage.

But this isn’t the inn. Niers feels a chill down his spine. He listens to the commentary, and Wil Kallinad murmurs.

“She sounds like…she knows what she’s talking about.”

“A Goblin.”

Venaz is all tension, all anger and nowhere to let it out as he grips his desk. Umina’s mouth is open.

“She almost sounds like one of us.”

She ventures the thought causally, and Kissilt hisses at her. Niers twitches. No one notices, or so he hopes, but that is…true?

The [Student] is grinning. Straight at him, as she explains crenellations in a fortress wall and why they’re angled: to give the defender avenues of attack while minimizing the way an arrow can hit them. Her explanation is precise—dumbed down for a casual viewer—and Niers thinks to himself.

She’s done this before. 

Impossible, of course. A Goblin has never been on television for this long. Interviewed? Only twice, and not like this. This…this is something else. She’s both inventing and showing the world a new style of presentation, and she’s doing it flawlessly.

Because she has done this before. It’s an incredible conclusion, but one that dovetails with theories Niers has had over his life and the more recent events from earlier today. It is as preposterous as it gets, but he’s out of other explanations.

“—And here’s Trueshot. Don’t mind her glare. She’s a [Defensive Arbalist]; we use special, mounted crossbows made out of Wyvern bones. They can punch through steel armor at a hundred and forty feet without Skills.”

She slaps the Thunderbow, and Trueshot, a huge Hob woman sitting hunchbacked and very grumpy looking, glowers in confusion at Rags. Despite both being Hobs, the [Student] seems like a girl of sixteen at best, and short; Trueshot is just under five foot eleven inches and fills out her armor. Her arms are thicker than Rags’ legs, and, if you pay attention, you realize how strong she has to be as she lifts the massive Thunderbow.

You can almost feel her scowl as Rags grins at her. But the Goblin skates left around Trueshot. Wheels on her feet.

If you have no idea what’s going on, you’re captivated. Niers can sense it. He’s smiling. He’s angry as ten Battle Hammies in a sack, but he’s smiling.

You brilliant idiot. But he’s waiting—waiting—

If he did teach her—

He’s waiting for the trap. And here it comes. Rags gestures out the narrow crenellations and gives the audience a brief view of a rocky, empty plain outside Goblinhome.

“Trueshot’s entire job is to sit here all day and wait for something to come by so she can hit it. Wyvern, adventurer, invading army…here’s a tip for all you wannabe [Strategists] or [Generals] out there. When you’re up against a people with nowhere left to run, they will fight to the death. Everyone’s talking about the King of Destruction sacking Nerrhavia’s Fallen fortresses and how their infinite armies just keep routing, right? Well, that’s because they have plenty of space to retreat! This is our last stand, and if they come—what happens, Trueshot?”

Rags turns to Trueshot and holds out a small speaking stone tuned to the scrying spell. Trueshot’s voice is low, gravelly, and filled with emotion. She glares at the camera, angry, angry because she’s afraid and everyone can see it.

“They die. Then we die.”

—There’s no smile on Rags’ face for a moment as she turns. She takes a breath, then forces a slight grin, but you can see the feelings behind that grin and hear them in her tone.

“Which is why I’m always telling people: don’t kill us Goblins. Most of us just want to survive, but I’ll give you this lecture every time I broadcast, so I won’t harp on it long for now. You’d just think that any smart enemy would know how defensible Goblinhome is. I mean, there are thousands of Goblins behind these walls. Possibly even tens of thousands. Each one ready to fight and die and throw poop on you. Who’d be mad enough to attack us?”

She pauses. One second, two seconds, three—and then her smile widens.

“Now, in local news, I heard the craziest rumor the other day. The High Passes get weird up here, but my tribe trades with Trolls. They say there’s an Old One in their mountains. A big, undead giant so damn horrific it’s in pieces and getting ready to storm up out of there and kill everyone. Horrific if true! However, I also heard that Pallass’ famous 2nd Army is creeping around the High Passes. Not just one or two battalions; the entire damn army led by General Shirka herself. Isn’t that odd?”

She winks—and now anyone with a brainstem, anyone at all, is turning to their own [Mages], asking informants, or just thinking, reasonably—

I can fact-check that. And no matter how good 2nd Army is, no matter how many [Mages] Pallass has, can they conceal an entire army from the gaze of a determined world audience?

Niers is trying oh so very hard…not to admire her actions. She’s not his student. But she is. Part of him sees what doesn’t exist in this world, sees his own hand in her actions. The rest of him is ten times as wary due to that.

Rags is still going. She has a map. It’s just of Liscor and the surrounding area; Goblinhome is explicitly not marked, but she’s circling a red area that probably is where 2nd Army is. And she’s grinning evilly.

“Now, if they were coming at Goblinhome, I’d say that’s a bad idea. In a few minutes, I’ll run down why you couldn’t take Goblinhome even if you had a bunch of siege towers and three times the artillery that 2nd Army does. But let’s say they attack. They’re totally out of place in the High Passes. Pallass and Liscor might be buddy-buddy sometimes, but Liscor’s army isn’t placed to render aid if 2nd Army runs into that Old One or fights us. You know who can capitalize on any mistakes?”

She draws another circle and then a line.

“Celum, led by Lord Xitegen himself. He might not be able to contest 2nd Army in the field, but this is the perfect spot for a flank attack. 2nd Army could run into an Old One, Goblinhome, and a bunch of Terland Golems if they’re not careful. Speaking of which—hey, hey, Leapwolf. Do we have a Mage Picture of that Old One?”

Leapwolf’s voice comes from off-camera, and his claws are visible a second as he adjusts the mirror.

“Uh—uh—working on it, boss! Starstarer has a picture he drew. Very nasty.”

“Let’s get both real quick. Okay, I can see Drassi’s waving at me and I’m going to accept questions in a few seconds, but before we go back to the studio—Goblin fact of the day! Goblins lose their teeth regularly over a year. We chip them, they fall out; we’re constantly growing more teeth. I hear some cultures have children put teeth under their pillows in exchange for coins. Not in Goblin society. Those poor parents would go bankrupt—if they even had gold! Hah! No, but it’s really useful because we can gnaw on rocks and not worry about breaking our teeth. Okay, Drassi, what’s up?”

 

——

 

Chieftain Rags thinks she’s going crazy. The Wyvern flight back to Goblinhome is expedited by Fightipilota’s Skills. [Flight: 110% Max Speed] and so on. Rags has left Rianchi and Dyeda in the inn, and the rest of her warriors are dead silent.

Some are grinning. Others are stone-faced with shock. Rags is feeling for her crossbow—which is broken still, sadly.

“Fighti, figure out where in Goblinhome she is and get me close.”

“You want to land or drop, Chieftain?”

“Neither. Get me a clear shot at her. Shineshield, give me your bow.”

The Redfang hesitates. Rags is joking.

Half-joking.

This is insane. The flight takes forty minutes to Goblinhome. Forty minutes is long enough for the other Rags to run a full segment on air, complete with her answering questions from callers and being—being—

Personable. Friendly. Even, dare Rags say it, charming. She isn’t attracted to other people, Goblins or otherwise, but she can admit when she looks good. That stupid—other her has cool hair, a fun vibe—she’s like Erin. She’s copying Erin, Chieftain Rags realizes.

What’s so infuriating is that it’s working.

“Goblin! Die! You piece of filth! Die, die, die—why isn’t anyone killing it? Someone do something! Kill the Goblin! Kill the—”

The red-faced woman vanishes mid-scream, and Student Rags flips her hair back, seeming only slightly shocked and mostly just—her expression entirely conveys the word ‘yikes’ to the viewer.

“See, that’s typical Goblin hate. Now, if that Human lady was saying that about Drakes, I bet everyone would be more upset. You know, I get it. I’m going to be controversial here and say something my fellow Goblins might not respect, but stay with me—”

She holds her hands out. She’s got a speaking stone in hand, and her demeanor is casual as she walks back and forth on-stage in the banquet hall, a stone wall behind her. Student Rags pauses, opens her mouth, raises a finger—hesitates—puts her finger to her mouth—and says it abruptly.

“Velan the Kind—”

Another pause, as pregnant as a Carn Wolf with quintuplets. Rags speaks as the tension ratchets up.

“—Wasn’t that kind. Hear me out, hear me out!”

Laughter. Chieftain Rags hears laughter from the scrying orb, and she realizes it’s Goblins. Goblins in Goblinhome laughing at the sheer audacity and silliness and…in outrage, shock, controversy, and more. And she hears a laugh and sees Mousebite trying to stifle the noise.

Chieftain Rags just stares at Student Rags as she bites her lip, visibly trying not to laugh at her own joke. And Chieftain Rags realizes, suddenly—

She’s telling jokes. And—and—

I wonder if any non-Goblins laughed at that? Even against their will?

Student Rags keeps going, pacing back and forth, occasionally sitting on a stool sized for her, and she has studied this. She has done this before in her gentler world.

“Okay, here’s the thing. Goblin Kings destroy the world. They’re famous for it. Velan the Kind, Curulac of a Hundred Days…I honestly don’t know many more before that, but we all know what goes on. Goblin Kings rise up, everyone dies, everyone hates Goblins. It’s a cycle of violence and hate, and what I suppose you don’t all realize is how Goblins feel about this. Because we know it happens, and what I believe you miss is when a Goblin King emerges, I feel every Goblin thinks the same thing.”

Another pause, shorter this time. Rags turns to the camera, but she’s speaking to the audience.

“…‘Oh, dead gods, here we go again.’”

Laughter. It’s not what the Goblins expected. It’s not what anyone expects. Rags waves a claw.

“Listen! I know lots of Goblins follow the Goblin King, and part of that’s just instinct. You know like how Drowned Folk are drawn to water or how Drakes can’t share anything? But seriously, I think, before all the Goblins grab their swords and go off to war, I think they go, ‘dead gods, another one? Come on! I was just getting my tribe in a good spot! Some of those Humans over there—they liked me! And then—okay, okay, fine. I’m doing it, I’m doing it. Let’s kill all the Humans. Whatever.’”

She rolls her eyes.

“—And then we go marching off to war. You know, I wonder, did anyone ever pull Velan aside? You know, like Tallis the Stormbreaker or Greydath of Blades? Just stop him and go—‘hey, King Velan. I know you’re really set on the war thing, but it’s not going to end well. Like—historically.’ Not one? Okay.”

She pauses, scuffs at the ground, and then raises her speaking stone.

“—It’s weird. Because we get this reputation, and it’s—I’m not going to say if it’s deserved or not, you know? I grew up not knowing about Goblin Kings. There was no history. Just me not wanting to be hungry and knowing that if I met a Gnoll or a Drake or a Human, they’d kill me. That’s what being a Goblin is. We don’t even know why we’re monsters. We just know we are. That’s not every tribe, by the way. I know some Goblins are murderers and pillagers, just like any species. But I’m just saying, not all of us even know our history.”

She searches around, and there are murmurs of agreement. Rags glances at the camera and goes on.

“So it’s odd when you have people, sometimes two people, Goblin and non-Goblin, who don’t understand what’s going on, but one’s a monster and one’s not. You get it? Do you feel that? And it’s so universal I knew that if I ever met a non-Goblin, I’d die. It was just—like the sun rising each day, you know? I never questioned that. Until one day, I met this Human who didn’t want to kill me. She—there were some misunderstandings! I threw rocks at her, she sort of got my parents killed—”

Laughter, and only from the Goblins this time, probably shocked laughter from non-Goblins. But Goblins got it. Rags gazes down at the ground, raises her speaking stone again.

“—Wasn’t really her fault. But one day, she decides I’m looking scrawny, so she puts out a plate of spaghetti for me. She invites me into her inn and decides to feed me. And I just stand there at the door, not knowing what to do, and I’m thinking, I’m thinking—”

Pause. It’s like a rhythm. Rags takes a breath, looks down, raises her chin, and speaks with a smile.

“Hey, this Human is pretty dumb. I wouldn’t trust me!”

Laughter, and Rags is striding back and forth again, energy restored.

“No, but for real! Who does that? I thought it was a trap or a trick or something, but she was just offering me spaghetti. So I sit down, and I have the best food in my life. The first real, cooked food, and it’s delicious. I’m eating it and I think—hey, this could use more salt.”

Another Goblin appears in the camera, lying on the floor, laughing. Rags goes on.

“Sorry, but it’s true! She undersalts her pasta! Now, I didn’t say it to her. I’m not trying to be ungrateful, but I just—I dunno. Spaghetti? Is that the best food for…? She was doing her best. She didn’t need to do that. I’m sitting there, and I’m eating my spaghetti, and she’s saying how she doesn’t believe I’m a monster, and I’m looking at her, and I can’t speak the common tongue yet, but I’m thinking: ‘hey, my parents are dead. You kind of owe me at least another plate of spaghetti before we become friends…’”

 

——

 

Numbtongue checked his mug after a few minutes. It was water. Ishkr had refused to serve him anything else. Absently, he patted at the stain on his clothing from the milk Sammial had tossed at him. But most of his mind was on…

The Goblin stared at the television and heard a trickling sound.

That was the sound of Ishkr pouring milk into a cup and it overflowing. At last, the Gnoll noticed, and the Hobgoblin rubbed at his face.

“I’m dreaming.”

The image of Rags on stage, cheerful, doing a comedic…what was it again? Doing her tight five on stage like that comedy show that Kevin had shown him on the laptop was surreal.

It didn’t feel like Rags. And yet it was.

Also, she looked pretty hot.

Numbtongue debated that thought and punched himself in the cheek to try and get rid of it. It didn’t help. He got up after a second and peered around.

The start of his visit—return—to the inn wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. Mrsha had been overly clingy, but after he stopped her, she just sat and asked him where he’d been. Not nagging him like Lyonette or Nanette; she’d said they were gone to deal with the wand thing.

What wand thing? Numbtongue rubbed at his face. He didn’t know what was going on. And he disliked that no one had kept him up to speed. The Hobgoblin ignored the thought that it was his fault for not returning.

Salkis. He searched for her and found her staring at the scrying mirror with everyone else. When he touched her arm, she hissed at him.

“Numb! What’s going on? Why’s a Goblin on…? Is, uh, is something interesting happening?”

“Dunno. Something always happens here. Come on, let’s look around.”

“Don’t you want to watch—?”

He tugged at her arm, but Salkis resisted. She snorted as Rags said something funny—Numbtongue glared at Rags and thought, privately, he could be funnier than that. If anyone asked him.

Everyone was staring at the mirror, transfixed, and rapidly getting hungry and ordering food. Ishkr swept around the room, and the only person somewhat immune to the surreal effect was Mrsha. She glanced at Numbtongue as he sat back down.

You okay, Numbtongue? You look bad.

“Look who’s talking. You look terrible.”

He growled at her and felt a stab of guilt the moment he said it. But to his surprise, Mrsha just brushed at her cheek, and he realized she was oddly dressed up today. Oddly…thin?

I’ve been bad, thanks for noticing.

“Lyonette not feeding you?”

More complicated than that. So you’ve been hanging around Pallass and other places with Salkis? We’ve all missed you.

He jumped, wondering how she knew that. Numbtongue peeked around, but Mrsha just wrote.

I won’t tell.

“You’d better not. I’m not causing trouble.”

The image of the [Guard] and Kisne shielding the other Drake from him flashed into his mind. He shook his head and glared, and Mrsha nodded.

I missed you, Numbtongue. A lot. I hope you don’t want to leave the inn forever.

“Are you stupid? Where would I even…? All my stuff is here.”

Mrsha’s eyes were so sad, like a kicked puppy or something. She was doing it on purpose. Numbtongue looked away, disgusted, and remembered why he’d come here. Reagen, that was right.

His cat. He glanced down as he began to rise to head to Stitchworks.

I don’t know where she’ll take you. I wish I did. I don’t think she’s good for you, Numbtongue.

He spun on her, anger flaring in his chest, and poked her hard. Mrsha almost fell out of her seat, but Sammial caught her. The boy gazed at Numbtongue, and there was a hot flare on the [Bard]’s chest. A crushing presence. Aura?

Numbtongue threw it off him with a growl, and Sammial recoiled. Mrsha patted Sammial’s arm, and Numbtongue snapped.

“What would you know about it? At least she cares about me.”

I care about you, Numbtongue. I care about you as much as anything in this world. I do.

The [Bard] walked away from that card, too angry to stay and too ashamed to even try to deny it.

He stalked out of the room. Glad, hurt, that Mrsha didn’t follow him.

 

——

 

In Stitchworks, Octavia was watching the Rags show on a personal scrying orb, laughing and mixing something up. She had something in her lap and was so engrossed in work as she sat on a high chair in front of one of her laboratory tables that she didn’t notice Numbtongue until he wrapped his arms around her.

“Aaaah! Who—Numbtongue?”

“Hey.”

He kissed her on the cheek, and she swivelled. Octavia’s mouth fell open.

“Numbtongue! Where have you been? And why do you smell like—you’ve been gone for over a week!”

“I was travelling.”

He avoided her gaze, the elation he’d felt quickly turning to…why did she have to glare the first thing? Octavia took in Numbtongue as he stepped back.

“You’ve been out with Salkis again.”

Now she sounded accusatory. Numbtongue folded his arms, feeling all the euphoria vanish.

“So?”

“So, you look terrible.”

“I have a nice stomach. And my hair looks better. See?”

He pulled his shirt up, and Octavia stared for a second at his abdominal muscles, then sniffed.

“You smell like beer. You’re drunk. Numbtongue, Garia and I were worried sick! You can’t just keep running off, especially with Salkis. She’s bad news.”

And here was why he didn’t visit again. Numbtongue glanced past Octavia at the scrying orb and turned it off.

“You’re not my Chieftain. I came back to see you. Come on, don’t fight. I’ve missed you.”

He went to kiss her again, and she pushed his head away.

“And to get new clothing and a bath, I hope. Numbtongue, I’m working.”

“You’re not working on something if you can watch a scrying orb. Come on.”

She tried to fend him off, one-handed, as he tried to tickle her. She was ticklish. Octavia was smiling in an odd way, but she was also sounding angrier.

“Numbtongue, I don’t—I’m not—stop it. I’m working for Master Saliss and—”

He was trying to scoop her up when the thing in Octavia’s lap finally noticed his presence and took umbrage. Numbtongue yelped as a set of claws dug into his arm. He jerked back and caught an orange, striped furball—

“Reagen?”

To his shock and delight, the orange cat was there. Reagen had been curled up in Octavia’s lap, purring away! Now he yowled and bit and slashed until he seemed to recognize Numbtongue. Then he dangled there as Numbtongue delightedly hugged him. The cat immediately tried to climb free.

“I thought you’d turn him into mincemeat.”

Octavia was watching with an odd, pained smile. Reagen hopped onto the table, and she dusted some hair he shed onto the floor.

“Well, someone had to feed him, and he grows on you. Sort of like my molds.”

“Hey, Reagen, I’m back. Come on. Come over!”

Numbtongue patted the table, wishing he had a treat for his cat. But to his astonishment, Reagen prowled around the table, sniffed the alchemical vial Octavia was working on, made a hacking sound, and then leapt into Octavia’s lap and curled up again. He began purring as Octavia gave Numbtongue a guilty look.

“Sorry. I think he’s used to me more than you. You must smell different.”

She was trying to be nice. The [Bard]’s face shut down instantly, regardless. Then he tried to smile.

“Why don’t I make it up to him? Let’s get lunch. Or I’ll make you and him something.”

He used to make great sandwiches for Octavia when she was hungry, and they’d eat them and chat, and she’d try out a potion on him—he wanted to tug her away, but Octavia hesitated.

“Numbtongue. I can’t. I’m working.”

“Tonight, then.”

He grew impatient, and she hesitated.

“I—I have a meeting with Rhaldon via scrying orb. We go over recipes together. But it’s not about that, Numbtongue. I’m not sure this is working. I think—”

He felt his heart drop the moment he heard how she was talking. Numbtongue backed up a step.

“I know you’re busy and I came back fast. Why don’t I return after I take a bath or—?”

“Numbtongue. Salkis isn’t a good person. Don’t listen to me about anything else, but you look worse and worse every time you come back from an outing with her.”

Numbtongue snapped. He couldn’t help it; Reagen twitched as Numbtongue raised his voice.

“You’re jealous. You never say you are, but I can tell. I don’t look worse and worse. Someone threw beer on me. I look better and better. You want me to break up with her so we can get back together. And with Garia, that’s it, right?”

Octavia was suddenly very interested in her vial. She spoke, voice soft, not in her usual pitter-patter of furious, excited speech.

“If you could tell how I felt, I would’ve liked if you did something…nevermind. It’s not about me wanting to be with you and only you, Numbtongue. I believe that’s over. Sorry, I don’t know how to say it without catalyzing everything. I’m speaking to you as someone concerned about you. Who cares about you. Garia would say the same thing if you ran into her. We’ve been talking.”

They’d been talking? It felt like someone had stabbed Numbtongue in the back, but Octavia was facing him. His voice rose.

“Salkis isn’t bad! I’ve levelled with her. Every time I come back, I look fine.”

“Okay. What I meant was…I suppose I meant you look better than ever. Appearance-wise. But you act worse and worse. I’m a Stitch-girl, Numbtongue. I never cared about how you looked.”

She met his eyes then, and her words stung. He jerked back and then snapped again, so fast he didn’t consider it.

“It’s Rhaldon, isn’t it? That’s why you want to break up. You found someone who can do alchemy that you like so—”

“Rhaldon is a friend I respect almost as much as Saliss. It’s not about wanting to jump into bed with him.”

Octavia raised her voice, and Numbtongue glowered. Then he reached down.

“Fine. I—fine! Come on, Reagen, we’re going.”

He tried to grab his cat, and both Reagen and Octavia protested. Numbtongue saw Reagen reach for her and tried to yank the orange tabby away. He got ten little knives in his arms, and the cat turned into a maelstrom of furious claws and yowling. Only when Numbtongue let go did the cat jump into Octavia’s arms.

“You stole my cat from me.”

Numbtongue just stood there, staring at scratches on his arms and at Octavia, betrayal in his chest. He’d known things weren’t going well with her for ages. Known it—but Reagen hurt. Octavia met his eyes, angry now.

“You didn’t feed him every day! You’ve been gone for ages, and you’re surprised he doesn’t love you? Numbtongue, just sit down and we can talk—”

He stormed out of Stitchworks, and then it was playing in his head again. A mantra, a desire to punch his fist through the wall of the inn or go back and kick over a shelf of glassware.

She never loved me. No one cares for me in this inn. I’m just a Goblin now. I cared about her, and she doesn’t care about me.

None of them do—

He stormed into the common room, and Salkis looked up and abandoned her scrying mirror. She hurried over to Numbtongue as he reached for her and felt him grab her tight, possessively. Though Octavia sat there, sniffing, as Reagen batted at her tears, though Mrsha turned in her seat and tried to find something to say, though his family and friends saw it—

The inn kept moving and turning. And the Goblin, the [Bard] sank deeper. And deeper. He didn’t sense that moving current rushing fast against the break, the invisible straining in the air of a hundred juggled balls beginning to fall, the crack in the wall holding back everything beyond.

He was just—

Sad.

 

——

 

The Dragonlord of Flames watched the little Goblin on screen until it hurt too much, then he looked away.

“Did she come up with that herself, I wonder? Or did she remember it?”

That was the only question he asked to the silent congregation around him. Rafaema glanced up from arguing with Lulv. He was striking the crude camp she’d made for herself, and Cirediel was complaining to Mivifa.

The two Dragons were being evacuated, and for once, all their ire and rage and—refusal to move—wasn’t working. Cirediel yelped.

“You can’t do this! This is so Creler balls! Let go of—hey, hey!”

He thought that if he just refused to move, being a multi-ton Dragon, he was safe. Unfortunately—he jerked and transformed into his Drake self. Then, when he tried to squirm away, one of the [Pegasus Riders] snared him in a net and lashed him to their mount’s saddle.

Teriarch watched as Mivifa gave him the side-eye, but he was just breathing. In and out. It sounded like weary, rasping bellows, and Rafaema felt her scales tingling when she heard it. He was gathering his strength, she realized, in some primal instinct of Dragons. Preparing to breathe fire.

“Remember? You’ve seen a Goblin doing…comedy before?”

Magnolia Reinhart broke the silence. She was playing with the ring on her forefinger, twisting it right and left, as she considered the image that was etched into her memory. Ressa was consulting with one of their [Mage-Maids] to see how likely it was a Goblin could fake a Magic Picture.

“Once. I’ve seen everything, Magnolia. Everything.”

“So you know what she’s referring to?”

“In Trolkedruleth? Oh yes. I know exactly what that was. A Draconic Titan. I’m not sure which kind, but if I had to guess what could have survived that long down there…I’m just trying to work out how it got loose, now. No, that doesn’t matter. The Halfling must have woken it up. Or perhaps the Solstice.”

“What is it? You’ve never mentioned Draconic Titans to me before.”

Magnolia was trying not to sound accusatory, not now. For answer, the Brass Dragon favored her with his cerulean eye. He was conscious of every gash and crack in his scaly armor now. A single flaw in his defenses could be his doom if someone loosed that arrow that had killed so many Dragons in a single blow.

And he had far too many flaws. Nevertheless, his reply was steady.

“If I didn’t tell you, it was because I likely hoped they were all gone. I do not always want to mention the shameful things every species drove itself to. Just as I do not invoke Halflings for what was done to them. Draconic Titans were an attempt by the Drakes to reach parity with us when their strength was at its zenith. They were made to slay Dragons, Giants, to inspire and lead. The last became mad tyrants, drunk on power.”

“To a one?”

Magnolia knew how Teriarch’s stories went, and this was…not a Teriarch story. It was an explanation. Which told her how serious this was. The Dragonlord grunted.

“No. They were people. Of course I met the noble, the brave, the heroic and mighty. But they are defined by their worst, and this one is surely insane. They did not send their finest to slaughter Trolls, Dwarves, and Gnolls in the deeps. They sent war-criminals. Whatever this thing is—it is older than Taletevirion. It originates from the Time of Hiding. Twenty thousand years ago.”

Everyone turned to look at Teriarch. Lulv grunted as he slung a pack onto his shoulders.

“Rafaema, you are outclassed. This is a direct order from me and Dragonspeaker Luciva. We are falling back.”

“I won’t abandon Teriarch!”

“I am not going into that mountain, Rafaema. If it is there—I must send a missive to the Trolls. They must evacuate their mountain and flee. It will emerge. When it does, I intend to give battle to it. The High Passes are not ideal, but they will spare any innocents. Magnolia, how many forces can you call upon?”

“Nearby? Xitegen, my staff—I could have an army drawn up in a week. But one of low-level militia.”

Teriarch shook his head instantly.

“Your staff. Taletevirion, anyone high-level you can muster. Depending on the type…regardless, anyone under Level 30 will do no harm to it. I will provide a detailed explanation once I speak with Chieftain Rags and understand what it is. But each one is made with seith cores; a kind of magical relic embedded in its flesh. They must be torn out and destroyed. It will regenerate in perpetuity until the cores are demolished. Even over twenty thousand years.”

He was searching around, trying to find a spot to set up spells. A warzone. Rafaema was protesting.

“You sound like it’s stronger than you are!”

“It may be. Especially if I am wounded.”

The answer stunned Rafaema into silence. She began to speak, and Teriarch swivelled his head to face her.

“Arrogance, Rafaema, has undone our kind from the moment we existed. If I was at full strength, in my prime, I’d hesitate to take on a Draconic Titan without preparations. Do you understand? They were made by rituals on par with a Level 70 [Alchimagus]. It can kill me.”

The Lightning Dragon fell quiet. Today had not exactly been a day of reaffirming her confidence in the supremacy of Dragons. Teriarch went on, thinking out loud.

“If I were at full strength, I imagine I would enter the mountain, despite the risks of fighting in an enclosed space. Taking such a Titan out while it is in pieces is infinitely preferable to the completed being. But I cannot. Magnolia, we must prepare a battlefield and a lure for this encounter. Ressa, bring every warrior of Reynold’s level to me. I must inspect my hoard to see what I can gift you for this conflict.”

“And I—”

“You will leave, Rafaema of Manus. You are not ready.”

He didn’t look at her, didn’t want to show her the fear in his eyes. When she tore free of Lulv, raced forwards, he snarled at her once.

“You cannot hurt it. You can only die and hinder everyone else.”

The old Dragon felt guilty, then, as she shrank back and Cire stopped fighting. He took a long, deep breath, and his lungs hurt.

“This is why I was brought back.”

War. War and smoke and ash. He felt like he could smell the corpse-fires again, littering the black landscape below. The Dragonlord was afraid. But he would not run nor yield so long as he lived.

He stood there as Lulv activated his own transformation spell and began to pull an unresisting Rafaema away. The Dragonlord turned his attention back to the television after a second.

“…Odd. I didn’t know Chieftain Rags had a sister.”

He saw Magnolia raise her eyebrows, amused, despite the moment.

“She does not, old man. Did you genuinely mistake her for another Goblin?”

That offended him, and he huffed a plume of smoke out his mouth.

“I’ll have you know that I can tell two Goblins apart. I can tell Selphids in their natural forms apart! I am keenly aware of how each species differs.”

She was chuckling as she came over to needle Teriarch again. Then Magnolia hesitated.

“Unlike you, I have met Chieftain Rags more than once. And I can ass—oh. Uh. That’s Chieftain Rags. But I thought—”

She gave Ressa a swift glance, and Teriarch smiled despite his pains and worries. They appeared very similar.

 

——

 

The Chieftain of the Flooded Waters tribe halted as she saw the [Student] emerge onto the ground outside of Goblinhome.

Rags was the center of the world, eyes upon her, having completed her segment. Explaining strategy, spilling the proverbial tea on the Old One and 2nd Army, doing comedy—

All the things that Chieftain Rags had never realized she wanted to do. Things that made sense the moment you saw them; that was the pain of these alternate realities. They told you things you had never thought of, but were obvious because another you had done it.

I would like to be loved like that. I would love to speak and have Goblins laugh. To make Erin Solstice laugh. I couldn’t imagine I could smile like that or tell jokes until I saw it done.

“Fightipilota, head back to the inn. Now. I need you to keep backing up Mrsha. Everyone else, with me.”

She strode forwards as one of the two Wyverns leapt back into the sky. Chieftain Rags knew Mrsha was doing the vital, crucial moments, but right now, she’d focused on the other her.

How did that other Rags become this? It was familiar…and so hard to wrap her mind around.

And it went for the other Rags too. The [Student] flicked her eyes over the [Chieftain], and she thought—

 

——

 

The [Student] is high on exhilaration. She’s trembling with giddy glee at doing it, pulling off a nigh-on perfect introduction of her tribe, of Goblins, to that world stage. 

Of course, it’s not over. She knows that. Redscar is keeping pace with her as she walks casually over the ground, and she has it holstered to her side. Ready to pull it out in a moment’s notice.

The event is coming. Right now, she raises her voice and turns to the scrying mirror, that fake smile she’s practiced so hard on her face. It’s hard to look genuinely happy. It fools even her other self.

If they could look into her heart, they’d see how terrified she is, guilty and elated and—sad—because she knows how this is going to go. How it went.

“And here’s big sis now. The real Chieftain Rags. Want me to do an interview? Drassi? Drassi?”

On the other end of the scrying mirror, she can hear voices.

“—out of my set! This is my broadcast, and we’re live, Sir Relz!”

“[Reporter’s Privilege]! [Reporter’s Privilege]! Miss Drassi, this is Channel 3, Noass. How do you feel showcasing a monster to the world? Don’t you feel it’s a disservice to everyone who died in the 2nd Antinium W—”

“[Journalism Under Fire: Emergency Protection]!”

A crash, and Rags can see Drassi flip a table up and slam Noass off his feet. It’s practically a brawl on-set. Rags is actually a picture-in-picture as Channel 2 covers the fight in the newsroom.

Again.

Just like last time.

[Chieftain] Rags and the [Student] meet, and the [Student] angles herself so she’s blocking their mouths from the camera. She speaks.

“They can’t hear us right now. Drassi’s giving them hell. Hey, everyone else, move back. Even the bodyguards. We’re going to deal with three spells in order. [Flamestrike], [Stone Lance], and [Lightning Bolt]. I’ve got the first one. Redscar says he can do the second. You want to do the third?”

That takes the [Chieftain] off-guard. She’s not happy; she’s tense and angry—she always looks mad. [Student] Rags wonders…how hard has her life been?

She feels like she’s the inferior one standing next to the taller Rags—because the [Chieftain] has armored, steel-toed boots and Wyvernhide armor lined with Carn Wolf fur. She looks like a warlord.

Dead gods, Chieftain Rags has Frost Wyverns who carry her from place to place. How cool is that? How…

What was she doing with her tribe? She ran off. She put all of it on Pyrite and Headscratcher. Chieftain Rags is the Rags her world deserves. The brave, fierce one.

The [Student] smiles as the [Chieftain] growls, and she’s delighted, guilty, but delighted to see that envy in Chieftain Rags’ eyes. It makes her feel less like a fraud.

“…Who’s casting? How long?”

“It doesn’t matter who casts it. Any second now. From straight up. No; the [Stone Lance] always comes in at an angle. I’m pretty sure it’s centered on me, but I changed the script from my world.”

The [Chieftain]’s eyes flicker, and she adjusts her belt, subtly, so her shortsword is in the right spot for her hand to grab it.

“And you’re sure it’s going to happen the same way? You did this—you didn’t ask me.”

“I know. If it went bad, hopefully it was all on me. I didn’t actually show where Goblinhome is.”

“You told them about the Old One. And let 2nd Army know we’re aware of their presence.”

The [Student] sighs.

“They were already there. The doors show them coming each and every time. The worst we can do is give them notice of what’s going to happen and that we’re ready. As for the Old One…all bets are off.”

The Chieftain’s ears droop slightly, and she nods, taking a breath, schooling her face to impassivity. Strange how the [Student] knows how fake that is. How that blank expression hides pain and guilt.

“Yes. Because I failed. That’s true.”

“You didn’t fail. The odds were always against you. It’s a damn Old One. Let me help. This isn’t my world. I know I’m just walking in, but it feels like my world. I care. I will take responsibility for everything I do. I swear it. But please—”

The [Student]’s voice breaks slightly, and she glances up.

“Let me do this right this time.”

In the background, the fight is growing more hectic as Drassi pours hot coffee into Sir Relz’s face before Noass tries to fight another Gnoll anchor—then Drassi gets dragged off by the Watch for defending herself. Rags doesn’t need to look to see it happen.

—This has happened before. Then the [Chieftain] sees the guilt in the [Student]’s eyes. She steps closer.

“Tell me.”

The [Student] lets her smile falter. Just for you. Only for you and Erin will I show anything real. She lowers her voice as Redscar paces around them, casually watching the sky.

“I…we don’t know each other. But you can tell I’m putting on a good face, can’t you?”

“Mm. You enjoy being liked.”

The [Student] corrects herself with a shake of the head.

“It’s the only thing I can do. Fight with minds instead of swords, the Professor says…I’m not you. You went down to fight an Old One. I’d call the Professor and take notes on how he fixes things. I’m the coward. I…did this, you know. This broadcast. In my world. Only, there’s a twist. Want to guess what it was?”

She feels her face heating up. Feels her own cheeks heating and her eyes growing bright. It’s so embarrassing. The other Rags scrutinizes her and glances away, awkward.

“—Bad?”

Blundering around a set, fumbling her lines and the maps, giving out wrong explanations for strategy. And the mockery. Noass sitting with a real [Strategist] dissecting everything Rags does.

The [Student] blinks away the memories.

“…I had a six-episode run. I did okay in the last two. Different world. It was hard; not hard in the sense of losing anything but my pride, but it hurt. I know it’s silly to you, who’s lost more. But for a while, the entire world just laughed at me. Still. A Goblin on television being laughed at is better than one who’s dead.”

The other Rags is silent now, digesting this, imagining what happened. She jerks her head back at Goblinhome.

“Hence the comedy.”

The [Student] feels the ice in her stomach, then, and smiles calmly. The air is tingling above her head. A vision is in her memory. A smell. Burnt flesh, which never smells as wrong as it should.

A better world, Dyeda keeps telling her. Better than ours.

Never perfect.

She shakes her head in reply to her counterpart.

“Oh, no. That wasn’t me or you. That came later. I stole it. Stole the entire thing from a Goblin who doesn’t exist in this world. He—must have died during the Siege of Liscor. Laughlots?”

No one recognizes the name. The [Chieftain] glances up, and she sees it. Just like last time—the funny Goblin on the scrying orb stands there as Drassi brawls with Noass and Sir Relz.

A Goblin being allowed to live.

Disgusting.

No matter the cost, no matter how far—someone takes umbrage in this wide, wide world to the funny Goblin’s existence. And they do what they have always done about it.

 

——

 

Flames gather overhead, a swirling mass of them like a whirlpool of fire, coalescing out of the air. Orange light flickering around until a yellow center forms—and then it plunges downwards. Searing heat.

[Flamestrike]. Not a pinpoint spell either. One that lands and splashes outwards from where it strikes, rolling out thirty feet in every direction, knocking Goblins off their feet with the blastwave, searing the Frost Wyvern’s scales and making it shriek, more in fear than anger.

It would have killed dozens of Goblins in Goblinhome if it had gone off there. The sender doesn’t care.

Rags sees it all happen, of course. Forewarned, the [Chieftain]—and the [Student]—are in a cleared space, save for Redscar, and they’re ready.

This time, no [Jokester], no aspiring [Comedian] who hasn’t even had the chance to level and earn his class, dies.

That’s what it is, Chieftain Rags realizes as she throws up her hand, the other clasping the hilt of her sword. Her blood is fire, her mind moving a thousand miles a second, body tensed, waiting for what comes next. But she sees the [Student]’s face and that relieved smile.

“Oh.”

That’s all Chieftain Rags says. She realizes she’s been arrogant in her way. She thought the [Student] was swanning in to save the day, that infuriatingly superior Rags, as if there were a world where Rags had no insecurities or flaws. She thought she and Mrsha were entering other worlds to save theirs, to undo tragedy, if that could be done.

—It now occurs to her that the opposite can be true. That the [Student] is the main character of her story. And she has come here to do this:

To undo the same tragedy she remembers.

The flames come down. They strike the Goblin, and Drassi whirls and screams.

“Rags!”

Fire rolls outwards, the energy travelling horizontally as the flames and shockwave kick dust up in a plume of smoke. It knocks over Shineshield, who’s reaching for a shield she doesn’t have. The flames burst over her head.

Over?

When Shineshield pulls herself up and Leapwolf drags the scrying mirror back to focus on the trio of Goblins, he doesn’t see a scorched body. Instead, all he sees is a glowing parabola. A bit of fabric and magic attached to metal and a wooden handle.

He gasps. And he hears a sigh from the [Chieftain]. The Goblins pick themselves up and see that proof of another world shining in the [Student]’s hand.

The softly glowing umbrella rains down light under its wide brim. Carefully smithed pieces of metal combined with enchanted fabric splay outwards, a creation only made possible with the help of the great Dwarf smith and a certain surly [Enchanter].

An umbrella commissioned by an [Innkeeper], because some things don’t change. The fabric of it doesn’t even smoke as Rags lifts the umbrella higher. The [Flamestrike] bursts off it, and she stands there, bathed in the light, smiling sadly.

“A gift. To stop it from happening again.”

That’s all she says to her other self. Rags slowly folds the umbrella back up and waits.

The second spell is coming as Drassi shoves people aside.

“Whoever’s doing this—stop. Are you mad? I said stop—”

A spire of stone, wider across than Rags, drops out of the air like a comet. A spear plunging diagonally out of the sky aimed straight for the offending Goblin. It never reaches her.

His turn.

The [Blademaster] grins. He walks on the balls of his feet, hand on his one sword. Redscar holds the sheath overhead, and his other clawed hand grasps the hilt.

His [Chieftain]’s been beating herself up over being a failure for ages. How do you think he feels, the highest-level warrior who failed to do more than help destroy one limb? He couldn’t cut it to pieces. He couldn’t stop Tyrion Veltras. He isn’t even a speck compared to Zeladona of Blades.

But he’s seeing it. Piece by piece, level by level. Redscar can swear he saw the magic forming in the air. Like strands of weird thread, each one a different color. That’s how he thinks of it. And this?

The [Stone Lance] is fast as an arrow, and he sees it. He almost thinks that if he swings his sword right, he could cut up the threads in it. But at the very least—

Redscar draws his sword and takes a step. His sword is a dozen feet from the [Stone Lance]. He’ll never reach it, even if he were running and leapt.

So, he cuts across the distance. Cuts the air, cuts through the rock, just like he saw a true master do.

He fails, of course. His blade only goes through a third of the [Stone Lance] spell, and Redscar sighs.

Not good enough.

A third of the stalactite splits in midair, a cut as clean as a razor. The rest cracks from the force of the blow. The air howls; the stone pieces scatter down around the two Ragses, a few fragments bouncing off the umbrella. One fragment hits the ground, twists, and bounces into the [Student]’s thigh.

“Ow.”

She jerks back, and Redscar lifts a hand in apology. He sheathes his sword, then awkwardly glowers at the camera. That was a pretty embarrassing moment for him. He’s going to think about it all day now.

Redscar really wishes his Chieftain would stop seeming so pleased.

 

——

 

Chieftain Rags of the Flooded Waters tribe is laughing. She can’t help it. Laughing in envy of the other Rags, who holds that umbrella that means so much.

Rejoicing in Redscar’s cut, for all he looks so ashamed, as Redfangs leap around, Leapwolf even doing a backflip before he remembers he’s holding the camera.

Shouting from the walls. Wyverns howling—and she sees the [Student] folding up her umbrella, stepping back. And Rags wonders, suddenly, if that cunning her prepared this stage all for this.

For her? She can sense the ozone in the air, smell it amidst the acrid fumes. The pieces of the broken [Stone Lance] spell are already vanishing into raw mana, and Drassi’s voice is a crescendo of outrage.

“Do you have to kill everything you hate? Are you all blind? Are you so afraid of one Goblin telling jokes that you have to kill her?”

The answer’s coming. It’s actually relieving; no matter how ideal that other world is, no matter how much better—it’s not impossibly good. Goblins are still Goblins.

There’s just a few more of them in the [Student]’s world. And the [Chieftain] can’t help it. She’s facing Leapwolf, the camera, and it’s not hard—just a bit of acting now she knows how it’s done.

A long sigh. The same sigh she has in her chest all the time. Exhausted, tired, and unsurprised, really. She raises one eyebrow at the camera, then draws her sword in a flash.

A bolt of lightning cracks down from overhead. The thunderous boom of it reaches Goblinhome, silencing the shouting, making everything and everyone fall into stunned silence a few seconds after the lightning hits.

Of course, it doesn’t hit Rags. It strikes downwards—and touches the shortsword she holds aloft. Pure energy arcing down the blade, absorbed into the metal.

The Goblin catches the bolt of lightning on her sword and, for a second, looks up at it as the power races along the blade, before she lowers it. She keeps her face straight, pretending not to hear the cheering, the shouting of joy and relief. All she’s thinking, in the back of her head, is—

Aspat, that was close! I should have done that faster!

Play it cool. Chieftain Rags rests the shortsword against her shoulder, faces the camera, and speaks. She doesn’t have a plan, for once. She just wings it.

“Reporter Drassi.”

The Drake jumps, closes her mouth, then bursts out.

“Rags, I am so sorry—”

“Don’t be. I saw it coming. We’re Goblins. This always happens. It makes our enemies predictable. Each and every time, they will come. No matter how far we run, no matter how much we smile or how good our jokes are.”

She gives the [Student] a nod and receives one in reply, a quiet ducking of the head. Rags looks back into the scrying mirror and draws on something.

Her [Aura of the Emissary]. She hasn’t done this often, but like the meeting with Naumel, she gathers it up. It’s like…her feelings, her ego, her presence, which normally floats freely around her, unconscious. When she’s mad or intense, it focuses, but Rags draws it into her, around her, like she’s in the middle of a great basin, a sink, and her nature is condensing, pouring into a single core.

Does it make her taller? More impressive? She can’t tell. But her tribe is watching her, eyes bright, and the [Student]’s eyes are filled with her own envy. The [Chieftain] likes that, so she grins with all her teeth.

“I am no Goblin Lord. I took my tribe here, to the High Passes, where I thought no one would go, because I was tired of battle. Tired of having to kill my enemies, and I am good at it. You have seen my fortress. You have tried to kill me, all of you, time and time again. Didn’t you see that war at sea? You can’t kill Greydath of Blades, even with the wrath of an entire continent. Is the cost of it worth it?”

She shakes her head, and now the air is trembling. All the anger, all the frustration, all those failed futures—Rags’ eyes are glowing brighter now. Her grin becomes a snarl, and she points the sword at the camera.

“I have been fighting an Old One to keep it from slaughtering everything it finds. A Drake creation from the days when they sent it down into the darkness to murder every Gnoll, Dwarf, and Troll it could find. I am tired of paying for the sins of people long dead before I was born. But if we must do it again, so be it. General Shirka of Pallass’ 2nd Army!”

She barks into the camera, and now the Great Chieftain is laughing silently. She beckons with one hand, and the earth is trembling. Like a memory of that other Great Chieftain, Tremborag, for all his flaws. Flames are licking around her boots, not the remnants of any spell, but conjured by her aura. The Goblin jerks a thumb at her chest.

“I am Rags of the Flooded Waters tribe. If you are mad, come visit Goblinhome and bring your entire army. Bring all four of your little ballistae; mine are bigger. Bring all one thousand two hundred and ninety-seven of your [Goblin Slayers]. Bring [Spearmaster] Gaellis, your Level 46 champion. My [Blademaster] is waiting for him. If you come, come ready for every consequence. The Old One is coming. But attack me, Shirka. I have seen your death. I. Challenge. You.”

She turned, lifted a hand, and waved it. And really hoped Leapwolf knew how to turn the scrying orb off. Rags walked to the side, sheathed her sword, had no idea what to do next—and then nearly went off her feet.

Student Rags hugged her, laughing, leaping onto the other Rags and clinging to her like a barnacle.

“That was amazing! I look so cool!”

“Get off. Off!”

Unfortunately, it was too late. The second Goblin to seize her was a laughing Redscar, who grabbed her in a one-armed hug.

“Chieftain! I call the [Spearmaster]! That was great! Garen would have been jealous!”

“It was a bluff! Get—not you too!”

Goblins were all around her, and Rags sighed. But she couldn’t keep the smile off her face. She looked at the [Student].

“We have to go to the doors. Someone get a Wyvern ready.”

The other Rags caught her breath and nodded.

“Yeah. Everything we can do is from there, isn’t it?”

“Mrsha knows what we can do. I have to see. I have to be—as brave as she is.”

Catching a bolt of lightning, challenging 2nd Army in front of the world, all of it is somehow easier than the idea of walking through those doors. Both Rags turn, and the [Chieftain] takes a breath.

“Okay. All or nothing. Let’s go.”

When she begins to run for a Wyvern, her tribe and other self running with her, she thinks she knows how Erin Solstice feels. Sometimes—well, it’s often scary and hard and uncertain—

But it’s not always bad.

 

——

 

“No, sir, I do not believe we have a leak within the army. No, sir, I do not think one of our people is so highly placed they are giving information of that specificity out and working with Goblins. With Goblins, sir.”

General Shirka was pacing in a tight circle in their camp—their warded camp that no one should have been able to see. But with how many [Scrying] spells were coming down, she had little hope they were actually hidden.

Even so, even if you had eyes on them, you should not have been able to count the exact number of [Goblin Slayers] in 2nd army. Even another [General] of Pallass wouldn’t have access to that information easily, given how soldiers retired, died, or were reassigned.

The voice—voices, really—on the other end of her speaking stone were very upset, which was natural. Shirka just wished the people on the other end were ones she could trust.

“Sir—there is no leak. I have swept my entire camp, and Strategist Ulhouse believes the only way the information could get out is if someone of his rank or higher were compromised. Now, I am certain the Eyes of Pallass that are in my army and who’ll be figuring this out are saying the same thing. I don’t know how that Goblin knows so much. But can we rule out why and go to action?”

What she didn’t say, what she didn’t want to say, was that there was one conceivable way Rags could have all this intelligence. There was one person with the capability to monitor her army and give everything up.

—But she couldn’t believe Alchemist Saliss would do that. Not to her. Not to Pallass.

Even so, Shirka kept that thought in her breast, because a good [General] had to be a bastard and consider every option. However—and it might be a flaw, but it was her instincts—she didn’t think it was even Saliss.

They know we’re here. They know our numbers. I’m sure that [Chieftain] is bluffing, but now we have Lord Xitegen on our flanks, just like she said. And a damn Old One…

I believe it. Ancestors, I believe something shook the High Passes. 

She had no intelligence on what was going on, but that image of the Old One had her scales crawling. Shirka breathed in and out, slowly, as she listened.

“Alright, silence! Silence, all of you! General Shirka, you are to secure your position. I am preparing Wyvern Riders to sortie to your position and reinforcements from 3rd, 4th, and 5th armies. You should not need them.”

“How many weeks will that be, sir?”

General Edellein ignored the question.

“I want scouts entering these mountains to ratify this…Old One. Your objectives are unchanged, General Shirka. But we are adding the destruction of this thing to the list.”

Scouts in a mountain? 2nd Army had good [Scouts], but—Shirka’s expression was frozen as she glanced at Ulhouse, with that look of a leader who knew she was going to send good soldiers to their deaths.

“Yes, sir. I will begin probing the Goblin defenses and draw up my plan of assault.”

“—Good.”

That surprised Edellein, but Shirka had anticipated that. Better to show willingness; it gave her more wiggle room in her orders. She exhaled, slow, controlled.

“Assuming this is an Old One of a Titan variety—I request all the information on what it is. And fire support from Pallass, if necessary.”

“Granted, pending whatever our [Strategists] dig up. Dismissed, General Shirka. We will contact you when High Command has further orders.”

I hope you and everyone there panics long enough for me to figure out what’s actually going on and how to word it. Shirka signed off briskly. She waited five seconds, then answered her speaking stone as it made a chiming sound.

“Shirka. What can you tell me, Strategist?”

“It’s a Draconic Titan. Best guess is that it’s something we used in the wars against the Gnolls, just like that Goblin was hinting. Shirka, one of them could wipe out armies. You must keep it from reassembling.”

Strategist Esor’s voice was crisp and intense, but he was focused, and he already knew what it was. Shirka nodded, relieved.

“Can you send the dossier?”

“General Edellein will be getting all the information shortly. Estimate an hour’s delay; less. He’s still aware of how dangerous this is. You saw how fortified Goblinhome is?”

Ancestors-damned murder-holes, alcoves in walls, and more. Shirka was reminded of Saliss’ description of Vengeance Dungeons. Dead gods, that was where the Goblins had probably gotten it from. She spoke to Esor.

“I’m not telling you I’m going to disobey orders, Strategist Esor. I’m just—I’m asking you, as a [Strategist], longer term grand strategy aside. Is there a scenario where 2nd Army doesn’t take unacceptable losses in this siege?”

“—I’m working that out, General Shirka. I am going to present Edellein with my findings. The Old One matters more. Do not launch that attack on the walls. You don’t have the siege equipment for it.”

He said that, but orders were orders. Shirka was thinking of how to deal with Goblinhome…she just didn’t want to. She didn’t. But she nodded tightly and brought up the real question.

“What’s happening at the inn, Esor?”

“I don’t know. Our spies can’t get past Calanfer—they just received some kind of squad. One of the Eyes of Pallass got hit with a bowl of hot soup in the face.”

Esor sounded amused; Shirka was not. She was signalling Ulhouse.

“It’s from the inn. Instinct. Saliss is right. He always is. Find out, Esor. I can take a flank attack. I can fight an Old One. But I can’t deal with that and an ambush.”

“I’ll get the information, Shirka.”

Then he hung up. Shirka kept pacing in a circle as Ulhouse began to convene the officers. She raked a claw through her neck spines. Now, she felt it. The Goblin was watching her.

She wasn’t up against some tribe—she was facing a real opponent across the chess board. They were eying each other; gazes locked, putting their pieces in a line, bluffing, feinting—and now it was a war.

Chieftain Rags. Now Shirka had a real opponent, and she began to respect her foe instantly. She was sidestepping, pivoting, taken off-guard, but this was a dance. You step here, I step there. She was behind, but she was catching up as fast as she could. She had to learn this dance. When to attack, when to hold back.

A battle was won by inaction at the right time as much as the sudden thrust. Wait. Shirka waited, but she was now reading the flow. She had to step into the dance floor at the right time or she’d missed her shot. Wait.

Wait…

Who else is dancing with me? She felt like she sensed other footfalls, the massive Old One under her feet, unknown figures in the High Passes. And…that mysterious patter of light footsteps. Coming from the inn.

 

——

 

Mrsha sat in an inn across from Pyrite and lowered the milkshake.

You told Moore?

Her face was alarmed. She was alarmed, upset, outraged, and she knew she had no right to be. The Goblin Chieftain nodded.

“He’s…upset.”

Mrsha craned her head around.

How upset is that?

She’d never seen Pyrite look shifty or uncomfortable before, but the Goblin’s eyes slid sideways as he chewed on some chocolate-covered cherries.

“He’s gone to Riverfarm. With Halrac. Who Kevin told.”

Mrsha put her paws under the table, but she was too weak to flip it, so she just rattled it around in agitation. Pyrite shrugged.

“We had to tell them.”

I should have—

“No. You don’t have to hurt yourself that badly.”

The girl’s quill fell silent. She began to write a denial, but couldn’t do it. She avoided Pyrite’s gaze.

He was smart. After a while, Mrsha wrote.

Thank you. What do you think?

“We all want proof. Even if I believe it here, I must believe it here.”

Pyrite touched his chest, then his eyes. He and Mrsha were sitting in a corner of the [Grand Theatre] as people moved around, into the beach, hanging out…a Hobgoblin was watching them.

Shorthilt, casually leaning against the bar. He wasn’t angry or afraid. He just seemed—curious. Which meant he knew something too. When Mrsha gave Pyrite an accusatory glance, he shrugged.

“Secrets are hard. This one matters. Does it matter if everyone knows?”

Yes! Then they’ll want to do something about it!

“Mm. Then is it their right to know they’re fake?”

Mrsha didn’t have a reply for that. She searched around, then wrote hurriedly.

Where’s Erin?

The Goldstone Chieftain said nothing for a long while, then he spoke.

“With Kevin. He’s locked himself in his shop in Esthelm.”

Mrsha’s heart contracted in fear, and Pyrite tilted his head.

“She’s not your enemy in any world. Is she?”

He was analyzing her every word. Reading her, but she didn’t care. She had come to be honest. Mrsha wrote, paw trembling.

No. But I warn you, Pyrite. Letting everyone know is dangerous.

“I know. It’s just them. Why is Erin bad?”

Because I fear her. Because it hurts to see her. Because she, of everyone, will judge me, and that is terrifying. I could stop anyone else. But her? I don’t know what she will do. You don’t know. She doesn’t know, yet.

Burning ships were reflected in Mrsha’s brown eyes. She held up the card, and she saw lightning and flames erupting from an inn. An [Innkeeper] nailing a <Quest> to a building.

Toc.

As if he could hear that echo etched into her soul, Pyrite shivered, and it was his turn to seem uniquely unsettled. He glanced away from Mrsha, then spoke.

“I will not go. I cannot imagine it, even if I believe it. I do not want ‘another chance’. Even if I did—I would let someone else go instead of me. But I will help you ask them.”

A dead Goblin said it to her, and it might have been bravado or him not understanding—but Mrsha thought he did. The [Fatebreaker Child] sat there.

Even if the other world needs you?

“If the world could be saved by Pyrite, I do not think it needs saving. I know what I am. I know what I can do, and I know I am worth more than nothing. But I have never believed no one can equal me. One day, Mrsha, more Goblins will rise and pass me. I have seen it already. It makes me smile.”

His eyes were calm. Proud, even. He gazed at Shorthilt, and he must have been thinking of Rags, of Headscratcher, of other Goblins, and Mrsha found herself out of words, truly mute for a moment.

Will anyone else come?

That was the real question, then, and Pyrite gave her an honest answer.

“I don’t think Headscratcher will. Kevin? Moore? Halrac? If I am truthful, Mrsha, no. How could they? They might come to help, but that is not their world. And even if they came, for a time, would that be what you want?”

No.

Of course not.

Mrsha buried her head in her paws. When she raised them, she saw a little face vanish into the kitchen. For a second, she locked eyes with a wary, scared little white Gnoll’s face and felt a shock.

Violation. She should not be here. What was she doing? What was she attempting?

The Hobgoblin reached out to pat Mrsha on the shoulder. She tried to move away.

Don’t feel bad for me. I know what I have done. I knew what I was asking. This is only right and logical. I have been a fool.

Her card was bitter, and Pyrite spoke quickly.

“Kevin will come back. So will Halrac and Moore. And I must speak to Rags when she returns. Don’t give up on…there are ways we can help you, even without these problems. If the Eir Gel island had not been destroyed, I could give you healing potions…”

He tapped his claws on the table, thinking. Some events seemed to have been carried over, even if the root causes were different. Mrsha was too tired to think of how that all worked fate-wise. She shook her head. He was still thinking of this world first, as was right and proper. Even if it was fake…

I won’t run. I will be back. Just—give me a bit, okay? I’ll send Rags over as soon as she arrives.

She slipped off her chair, and Pyrite nodded. He watched as she padded upstairs, but didn’t follow her.

Perhaps he knew where the root was. The other Erin probably sensed her. They might find it—

Trust.

She could only trust they were good people, the best. Mrsha felt like a monster as she walked upstairs. She passed by a girl on all fours, who appeared out of a [Garden of Sanctuary] and crouched there, eyes wide, watching her. She had a card she pushed forwards.

Who are you?

The Mrsha with a kilt and a bleak expression, who had broken fate to come here, and who looked so much more adult than the younger Mrsha, stopped. She flipped the card over and wrote on it. Then she peered around.

A wide-eyed Lyonette and Nanette vanished into Lyonette’s room, and Mrsha exhaled. She handed the card back to Silly Mrsha and walked into the girl’s rooms.

Silly Mrsha read the card. The girl whirled to the door, yanked it open, but the other Mrsha was gone. Silently, Silly Mrsha showed it to Lyonette and Nanette.

“Pyrite. Should we—”

“Leave her. Please.”

The Hobgoblin crouched down and read the card.

The monster who steals your happiness.

Pyrite knelt there for a while, then refused to give the card back to Mrsha. He tore the card up, then inserted the pieces into his mouth. He chewed as everyone watched him, swallowed, and said—

“No.”

 

——

 

Mrsha stood in the [Palace of Fates] and realized her mistake.

It was—well, there were too many to count morally. But practically, she had made a few.

The first was having nothing that could convince the other realities of what was going on. She could feed Pyrite information, and he believed her because he was smart, but everyone else just had to rely on her telling them they were dead.

Not a good…first impression. Secondly? If she was to ask them, if she was to invite them on an impossible decision—Mrsha closed her eyes.

She had best come as what she was. An omen. A Doombringer. She had tried to slink in and offer them something that was as painful as a jagged piece of glass in their heart.

She was the monster. More horrific than Facestealer. Let her at least be that.

Someone was waiting for her in the [Palace] and ran over.

“Mrsha! Mrsha! Chieftain Rags is on television! I mean—[Student] Rags! Chieftain Rags is going after her.”

What?

Dyeda explained as best as she could. [Scrying] spells couldn’t reach down here, so she couldn’t show Mrsha, and the girl resisted Dyeda’s attempts to tug her back ‘upstairs’.

I can’t even enter the [Garden], Dyeda. Ushar isn’t stupid.

“Yes, you can! Other Mrsha wants to talk to you! She says too many people are realizing what’s going on. Too many spies—she wants to meet. But she says nosy Thronebearer is watching her like a Razorbeak.”

Mrsha groaned. She glanced at the doors. The door of better days called to her like a siren song. She could go back and explain, could sit in that inn where nothing would go wrong…but that was the trap of the [Palace of Fates]. Instead, she shook her head and walked to another door.

The roots were here; two more she’d taken from the entrance. Mrsha felt like they were going through them too fast. Had they already used…four? That didn’t seem right. She should go back and recount.

But she was opening another door when she realized again, bleakly, what lay beyond. This door had a note on it, and Dyeda read it and didn’t recognize the name.

“Ooh. Are you going in there?”

Another frustrated look from Mrsha. The girl was groaning silently, rubbing at her face. She scribbled fast as she stared into the door.

Maybe. No. Damn. I made a mistake, Dyeda. This door appeared when I was just wandering around. I didn’t ‘time’ it. I can ask for doors to specific periods of time. This is…a bad time.

She was holding the door open. Another painful door, another door she had to enter. But one she feared as much as the other ones she’d bookmarked.

This…

Was the door where Brunkr lived.

So much was the same. Too much. Mrsha was staring at a period in The Wandering Inn’s history.

A quiet inn.

She knew this moment.

She had lived it.

 

——

 

“Is anyone awake?”

“Erin?”

A shape moved into view. Erin jumped as Lyonette appeared, pale-faced, a sword in hand. Octavia poked her head out with a pot for a helmet and two potions in her hands. Both relaxed when they saw Erin.

“Is it safe? Where’s Brunkr?”

“I think so. He’s helping the Watch sweep; don’t worry, he’s fine, Lyonette. The Raskghar are gone, and it’s nearly morning. You can come back now. How’s it over there?”

“Bad! I barely got a wink of sleep! I should charge you for staying the night!”

Octavia rubbed at her bloodshot eyes. She plucked one out and stared at it. Erin searched around.

“Mrsha?”

“She fell asleep after she threw a tantrum. I think she’s—oh. She’s up.”

Lyonette grimaced. A flurry of paws and fur exploded from behind her and barreled into Erin’s midriff. Erin went oof and sat down as Mrsha climbed all over her, licking her face and hugging her.

“It’s okay, Mrsha! The bad Raskghar are gone. Brunkr’s fine. We’re all fine.”

Lyonette walked into the inn as Octavia, yawning, shut the door, muttering about sleep deductibles. The [Barmaid] stared at the floor and the blood and blanched a bit. She turned to Erin.

“Fighting? Brunkr isn’t hurt, is he?”

Erin soothed her.

“Your boyfriend’s fine, Lyonette. They barely got through the front door. The Redfangs captured a lot of Goblins—they’ll be gone most of the day. If they even return by night.”

“Plan G?”

“Plan G. We’ll have to make a takeout meal for them. Uh…”

Erin tried to get up and nearly fell over. She felt like she was drunk but without any of the buzz of alcohol. She peered around. Halrac was walking towards her.

“Halrac. Did you…?”

“I spoke to Bird. I think I understand.”

Halrac looked past Erin. He—

 

——

 

Mrsha slammed the door so hard Dyeda jumped. The Gnoll was breathing hard. Dyeda spun.

“What’s wrong?”

The timing. Damn it. I need another door where Brunkr lives. They’re about to be attacked by the real Raskghar attack. It’s a feint. Also, he’s dating Lyonette? She has really weird taste in…nevermind.

The Gnoll girl shook her head. Dyeda nervously shuffled her feet.

“I think—I think she has interesting tastes in partners. Very open-minded. Maybe because her parents are so, you know?”

She waggled her fingers and hesitated.

“…Scary as Crelers?”

Mrsha gave Dyeda a puzzled stare.

How do you know what Queen Ielane is like?

“I was checking doors.”

That…did explain it. Mrsha stared blankly at Brunkr’s door and began to pad away. Then she halted.

No.

She couldn’t.

It wasn’t right. It was stupid. Mrsha began hitting herself on the head. Not hard, but it alarmed Dyeda so much she caught Mrsha’s hand.

“Stop it! What’s wrong?”

I am crazy. I am a monster. I’m breaking up, Dyeda. I can’t do this. I can’t look into these doors and not feel it. I might as well be a monster. I’m going to do something insane.

The [Tattooist] didn’t know what was going on in Mrsha’s head, but she grabbed Mrsha’s paws and shook them up and down.

“Well—okay! Do it! Be crazy! Life’s too stupid for boring, normal things! Too short for it! Get a tattoo on your face! I can always undo it! Um. What are you doing?”

Mrsha squared her shoulders, cracked her neck, and immediately regretted it. She held her neck, wincing, and handed Dyeda a note.

First, signal the other Mrsha. Actually, first, get Rianchi to check on some people for me. I have a list. It doesn’t matter if Mother’s gone, but I wish she hadn’t left…I can do it either way. We’re going to move fast. You can watch. Actually, we need to get Root Mrsha here. She deserves to watch. I hope it makes her smile.

She tried her own smile on for size as the thoughts coalesced in her head. Dyeda gave Mrsha an uncertain look.

“Okay, now you really look like your grandmother. Ow! Okay, I’m sorry! Don’t kick me!”

 

——

 

She had her orders.

She had her training.

She was determined not to fail again, even at the cost of her life. Certainly, it would cost her her job and her own pride as a [Knight].

Pity her. Dame Ushar, that was. Because despite the influx of Calanferian staff, despite her knowing what was going on, in part—

The Thronebearer had no chance. Not at all.

“Miss Mrsha, if you have anything to say, you can tell me.”

The Thronebearer was watching as Mrsha ate more food—gruel, really—chewing and swallowing slowly. One of the new staffers was a [Waiter] who was doing something to the food. [Digestible Order]; a novel use of a serving Skill.

In truth, Ushar had been told his main function was to keep the weight off his clients by reversing the Skill. That was very…typical of Ielane. But the Calanferians had quickly realized that whatever they thought of the 6th Princess before—this was not the same Lyonette they knew.

And her daughter had impressed and unnerved them already. So they were very carefully keeping [Spies] off Mrsha and trying to figure out what was going on. But they didn’t have a single shot.

If Dame Ushar was holding Krawlnmak Pass with a dozen Thronebearers versus all the forces of Ailendamus, then the servants were naked, armed with sticks at ground zero during the Creler Wars.

They tried—once. Mrsha was assuring Dame Ushar she was fine and the oatmeal gruel was very tasty. She wrote one-handed, in such neat diction and elegance that the ink didn’t smudge her fur.

Have you seen Yelroan, Dame Ushar? I’ve missed him amidst all this chaos.

The Thronebearer replied easily and instantly.

“Mathematician Yelroan? He’s been in Liscor, preparing Honored Deskie’s accommodations. Quite an important matter.”

Ah. I’ve missed things. That’s funny.

She snorted to herself, grinning and looking so wryly amused that Ushar raised her guard even higher. You see, ‘wry’ was not a state of being that you applied to children, was it?

That was because children could be introspective, thoughtful, brave, charitable, petty, kind, or cruel—but wry was the emotive state of humor where you were dry, sardonic, and self-conscious. Normal children didn’t have a sense of sarcastic humor about their own actions. They, famously, did things they felt like doing and were often amusing or worrisome or cute because they were so straightforward.

You’d miss that expression if you didn’t know Mrsha. You’d put it down to childlike innocence. And if you weren’t careful—she’d get you.

Dame Ushar’s first exposure to Mrsha had been a death-spiced soup. She had seen Mrsha survive the Witch of Webs; she had a respect for Mrsha’s bravery and capabilities. She just believed with all her heart the girl shouldn’t need to be any of these things.

The servants? They treated Mrsha like Ellet. One, the mousey-haired [Server], came forwards with a big smile. What was her assumed name…?

Ushar checked the name tag. Chaires? Definitely fake. She was one of the higher-level [Spies] that Queen Ielane had sent. She’d gotten one taste of what Mrsha was like when the girl had pointed out the Rhirian turncoat in their ranks. He was still hard at work, keeping up his act, blissfully unaware he’d been made. He might actually continue his employment for a long time; a made spy was as good as a dead one.

However, Miss Chaires hadn’t learned her lesson. So she had a small cupcake, vanilla frosting and all, that she presented to Mrsha.

“Miss Mrsha, this ought to settle your stomach. I’m Chaires! It’s a delight to be working for this famous inn! Even with all the trouble…do you wish to see Mister Yelroan? We could fetch him. Or is there anything you were wishful of doing? Say the word! We could comb your hair out, and I know a thing or two about how to make a young lady’s face beautiful!”

Aha. Ushar’s face was blank. They were definitely Calanferians from the Eternal Throne. Chaires had made the mistake of assuming Mrsha was like little Ellet or the other members of the royal family.

Young Lyonette or even Vernoue would leap at the chance to indulge in some pampering. It varied from [Princess] to [Princess]; Lyonette would have loved the makeup, while Vernoue’s idea of luxury was a bag of gold to buy the latest books from a [Merchant], then a four-hour rosewater bath where she could read endlessly.

With floating bowls of snacks and a servant with an anti-pruning Skill for her skin. The [Spy] was feeling out Mrsha’s inclinations—poorly.

Mrsha was a Gnoll. Gnolls didn’t have the same relation with makeup as Humans or Drakes did; fur was hard to keep clean, and getting powders or oils over it got messy. It also told Dame Ushar that Chaires was…not as veteran as she was pretending. Oh, she was probably high-level, but that didn’t equate to experience.

Dame Vensha or Ser Thilowen, highly-placed Thronebearers in direct service to the crown itself, would have been far more deft. They were terrifyingly competent. They made Ushar feel like a [Squire]. Chaires was valuable, raw material. Another test from Queen Ielane to her daughter.

And therein Queen Ielane made a rare mistake. For she assumed that her daughter was the only person in The Wandering Inn who had access to a hammer. Mrsha gave Chaires a level look.

I don’t need a cupcake, Miss Chaires. Please give it to one of our guests. I see Witch Alevica over there. Gruel is fine.

“I—ah—very good, Miss Mrsha!”

Flustered, Chaires retreated a step and conveyed the cupcake over to a [Witch], who was trying to blend into the inn’s guests unsuccessfully. Alevica gave Mrsha a wary glance as she sniffed the cupcake. The Gnoll girl wrote for the benefit of all. She had to know Ushar, the staff, and the spies were reading everything she wrote.

It tastes good.

“What does, Miss Mrsha?”

Oatmeal and water. I guess I really did get fat and used to good food. I don’t know if I can eat cake the same way again. Everything tastes good. I was hungry for a while.

Dame Ushar triggered an anti-intrusion rune between two fingers. It was supposed to wipe out any spells of a prying nature until it overloaded; it wasn’t proof against Skills. She dropped the stone as it crumbled to dust five seconds later; over thirty spells had been caught in five seconds.

“Indeed? When was this, Miss Mrsha?”

Chaires returned with a hot cup of tea for Mrsha. The girl sipped it and stared past Ushar. She wrote one-handed.

Someone please tell Miss Ebente I’m fine. I’d go myself, but I think she’d try to run off with me.

“I can do that, Miss Mrsha. Do you need more oatmeal?”

Mrsha was scraping the bowl with a spoon, cleaning every bit off. She licked the spoon and eyed Chaires.

I’m hungry. But not really; I’m remembering being hungry. Chieftain Urksh told me about Gnolls who starved and always ate because they remembered that. I’m fine, Miss Chaires.

“Are you sure, Miss Mrsha? We could make you something very tasty—what about some corn? With a bit of salt or sugar or—”

A bunch of the servants had gathered, nodding. Dame Ushar began to slash with her hand, annoyed, but Mrsha forestalled her. The girl wrote slowly and deliberately.

I do not want to be tempted right now, Chaires. I know that’s what you think your job is. I want to be respected. I want you to help me, not coerce me. Dame Ushar and I didn’t get along. We’re still learning. But I at least respect her. Even if I make her job hard. I don’t want to dislike you all. I know your job is hard.

She met Ushar’s gaze, and the Thronebearer ducked her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Chaires develop a gently hurt look. Oh, she was good.

“I know I’m new to the inn, Miss Mrsha, but I want to prove myself. I do! Just say the word and I’ll do my best!”

She was still playing up her act. She had been warned. The little girl met Chaires’ eyes and wrote slowly.

Then I think I’d rather like to call you Xinthe, miss. You may call me Mrsha.

All the color drained out of the mousey-haired girl’s face. She opened her mouth, then smiled weakly.

“What a peculiar name. Where did you think of that, Miss Mrsha?”

Everyone was staring at her, then Mrsha. The other Calanferian servants seemed rattled. They might not have known the young woman’s real name; likely not. But that reaction was unmistakable. Mrsha pulled out two cards and wrote on them.

I had a lot of time to sit and think recently. Now. Someone take this card over to that Drake by the wall, would you?

She handed the second card to one of the servants. As if they were carrying a dangerous artifact, the servant walked it over to a Drake sitting by the wall, who looked like any ordinary traveller. All eyes fell on him, and he stiffened before taking the card.

He read it, threw back his head and laughed hugely, and then handed it back with a brief aside with the staff member. Then he tried to sit, not panicking, as the card came back.

What did she write on that one? Xinthe took the card, turned it over, and blinked.

“It’s blank?”

Mrsha hadn’t written on it. The Gnoll girl took the card back and nodded.

It’s blank. I’ll write something on it if I get mad. Like his real name.

Her head slowly rotated around the room, gaze seeming to fix on people, and the assembled spies in the room held their breath.

 

——

 

The psychology of spies was something Mrsha hadn’t accounted for, it seemed. Not the threat. It was ridiculous, being threatened by a child, but that was just the nature of the game. This was a group of people who’d note a threat from a child and read into it. They believed Mrsha, but her methodology struck the assembled spies as odd.

They were all intelligence operatives. A sizable portion of The Wandering Inn’s clientele was actually just…informants. Covert operatives—whether they were freelance, worked for a Walled City, the highest bidder, or reported to foreign powers, this was a job.

This was a job in many cases, which you had to understand meant you were not here to get hurt or die. When Vaulont the Ash, Shriekblade, or even a Thronebearer drew a sword, they didn’t throw themselves into situations where they could get hurt.

Being a snoop wasn’t really a fun job. There were perks, like getting to travel, being the one everyone turned to, but the risk of being beaten or killed was there even for ‘light’ work. The Wandering Inn had reclassified itself as a place where things happened.

Of course, unlike Calanfer or Germina, the penalty for messing up or learning more than the local ruler wanted wasn’t a painful death—and the upsides meant the potential to enrich yourself was great.

The native spy population at the inn and surrounding areas had also been artificially increased due to overfeeding by the locals. A certain [Innkeeper] had treated the spies like pigeons, feeding them, treating them decently, and so their population had boomed until the Winter Solstice.

True, she’d pruned them with Shriekblade, but the rules had been fairly obvious. Don’t pry too deep, don’t put listening spells anywhere, sit in the inn, tip the Goblins and Antinium, and you got to eat and drink while writing down what was going on.

A cushy job. After Erin Solstice had become persona non grata, the job market had dried up and lots of informants had turned to the New Lands and other sources of work. It was sad, really. This had been a nice job.

Cut to present day and it was clear that The Wandering Inn was back in business for Solstice events. Everyone who’d left was regretting not hanging in there—but it wasn’t pleasant, was it?

Calanferians were pains in anyone’s posterior. They were very good at counterintelligence—and the nations who wanted knowledge about The Wandering Inn weren’t treating the inn like a novelty. Many were hostile, and so you had bad actors coming in—saboteurs mixing with your non-violent [Snoops]. You had professionals, a degree of risk in who you reported to, and now a child was threatening you.

Well…so what? She clearly did have intelligence. If you thought about it logically, that [Agent], Xinthe, hadn’t given Mrsha her name. Her reaction was far too genuine, and Calanfer would never give even a [Princess], let alone her child, the real name of someone. It was far too dangerous.

But let’s assume Mrsha outed a bunch of spies. That could get—unpleasant—but for the independents, it was merely embarrassing rather than deadly. The threat was really for state actors.

This was the internal calculus every spy was making as they relaxed, playing it cool. The girl was just threatening them like, well, a child. No notion of the deeper game. Hand a little girl the names of every spy in a hundred miles and she’d just try to bully them. Sips of beer and ale were taken. French fries were munched.

Then Mrsha wrote in the air again.

If I have a bad day, I’ll write someone’s name on this card.

She brandished her threatening card at them and got bland smiles. Blank looks. Innocent stares. Even effulgent innocence. Mrsha smiled crookedly and kept writing.

—Then, I’ll send this card to Three-Color Stalker.

Over two dozen throats suddenly found it hard to swallow. No one visibly broke cover, but there might have been an increase in the amount of perspiration in the room. A rising of body temperatures.

That…that was a good threat. Even if it was a bluff. It was cold as ice. Three-Color Stalker killed. And everyone knew she didn’t just work alone.

Now, everyone was reconsidering the threat. Your name on a direct line to Three-Color Stalker? Spies began reviewing work in the north or south—not here. But the girl wasn’t done. She tapped the table for everyone’s attention. Now, everyone was watching her.

Xinthe, face openly innocent, Dame Ushar, the Calanferians, even the regular staff. Goblins and Antinium and everyone else. Watching Mrsha. Judging her. Mrsha’s posture was casual. Her cursive was immaculate. She drew a smiley face in the air, then wrote.

That’s if I have a bad day. I don’t want to bother Three-Color Stalker, right? She eats muffins. I don’t think muffins are that great. But I’d write on a card to her—if I had to. If my day got ruined by someone being mean to me. There’s a big difference between being mean to me and just playing around in the inn. You know?

A difference? Mrsha nodded and sipped from her teacup.

Everyone can say things about me that are bullying—but in a nice way. I weigh too much, I have a secret allowance I spend on cookies, there’s a new recipe in the inn—that’s just fun. Right? But if I got hurt or I had a super-secret diary and someone took it and told everyone what was in it—that’s mean. Then we’re not friends. But who’d do that?

She looked around innocently, wrinkling her nose up.

This inn’s always been full of nice people. And a few jerks who have to learn their lessons. I just hope people don’t ruin my day, that’s all. Even if there’s no Tessa or Vaulont, everyone should be nice. Right?

The girl gave Xinthe big, soulful, innocent eyes, and the spies blinked. They picked up what Mrsha was putting down, of course. When you put your cards face up on the table like that, you’d have to be an idiot to read them wrong. But it was so…

The girl sat there, sipping tea, balancing the cup in three fingers, lounging back against her table, and she sat with one leg crossed over the other. In a kilt, yes. With a blue, fuzzy beanie, true. But for a moment, the poise, the delivery, brought more than one to mind of a [Stateswoman] delivering an address.

This is my deal to you. Don’t go too far. The girl’s eyes flicked around the room. Once upon a time, it had been the law of the inn, held by Erin Solstice. Then it had been the tyranny of Shriekblade, the unpredictable danger of Tessa. After that, Vaulont the Ash had imposed a quiet lockdown—and the spies had come back when he was gone.

Now, here was a reminder it didn’t matter. The law of the inn was now the Rule of Mrsha, and it was a little card and appeal not to be mean.

—She’d burned Xinthe in front of them, revealed the woman’s identity just to prove a point. Now she was cutting a deal to the room at large.

Slowly, one of the informants, a Drowned Man, double-checked his report. His name was Nollesc, and the inn had been good to him. He’d stayed; it wasn’t like he bore the inn any ill will. Quietly, he adjusted his notes.

He removed a line about Lyonette leaving the inn currently undefended. Altered the wording on Calanferian agents entering the 6th Princess’ employ and wrote a brief note suggesting the Queen of Calanfer might have sent the servants to mind her daughter. And he decided he didn’t need to know what was going on in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. He’d sit here, have a drink, and report it an hour or a day slower.

Nollesc’s actions did not go unnoticed. More than one spy using a mirror to read their peer’s handwriting corrected their own papers. Others hesitated. Weighing the risk vs rewards. She was just a girl…

Mrsha finished her debut by raising the remnants of her tea to the inn. She toasted the guests silently and downed the remainder of the tea.

To all the people I won’t see again: Chauild, Merdess of Zeres, Goingeld, Maxten the [Snitch], and Jerimila…especially you, Jerimila. Tell King Nuvityn that his son was almost never a good man.

She put the teacup down on the table, and there it was. The dagger in the open. The dead body lying on the table. Not the literal dead body, of course—but the sight of a half-Elf jerking to her feet, going dead white, and then turning to stare around the room?

Jerimila peered at Mrsha, at the Calanferians, and then raced out of the inn in a dead run. She didn’t even use the portal door—she just took off along one of the footbridges over the water. The rest of the spies fell silent, glancing from face to face, wondering who the other four named were.

If they were wise…they wouldn’t be here tomorrow. That was the silent consensus. Mrsha sat there, face blank, then turned.

Xinthe? I’d like some chocolate milk. And can I buy a round for the entire inn? Goat’s milk with whipped cream. Heavy on the chocolate.

“O-of course, Miss Mrsha.”

The young woman bowed, and Mrsha sat there. She sighed as she sat back in her chair. The inn began to bustle again, and in the background, a voice spoke.

“I have no idea what’s going on. But I’ll take the free chocolate milk.”

Menolit looked around and wondered what the heck all that had been about.

 

——

 

Dame Ushar realized she wasn’t breathing after a while and finally let out a huge breath and gasped for air. It was the sight of Mrsha blowing bubbles into her chocolate milk that snapped her out of the trance.

That was—Her Highness didn’t tell Mrsha to do that. Even Nanette wasn’t that cold blooded. Someone had to tell her. Surely.

That was Ushar’s silly forebrain, coming up with excuses when she knew it was Mrsha who’d just pulled that political maneuver off. She was eight. Queen Ielane—Ushar would have sold her codpiece to be a fly on the wall of the Eternal Throne to get her take on that display.

Yes, it was blunt unlike the keen edge of Queen Ielane’s intrigue. But for someone that people treated like a child? For Mrsha? It was uncanny. Frightening. And it only confirmed Ushar’s instincts, painted them in bright red letters in her head.

This was not normal Mrsha. Something was terribly wrong, and she had to figure it out. But what was it?

Everyone was walking wide of the girl right now, everyone who practiced spycraft, at least. Even the Calanferians were giving Ushar a side-eye, as if suspecting she’d coached Mrsha into doing that. But all the girl did was sip her chocolate milk, then scribble a note. She handed it to Asgra with orders to take it to Rianchi.

Rianchi, the [Cyclist] Goblin, who’d disappeared into the [Garden of Sanctuary], where no one but Ushar could follow. Obviously, the moment she did that, people used [Copy Script] to read what she’d said. Xinthe did it for Ushar and handed her the note. What was startling was…six people in the inn did it. Only six.

The note had read:

Rianchi, I’m thinking Apista needs another bath. It’s getting messy in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Can you get Dyeda to do it?

…Which was obviously a code. Mrsha was too clever, and Ushar regretted teaching her and Nanette a bit of spycraft. Unless it wasn’t a code? No, it was definitely a code, but what the hell did it mean?

“I was thinking I could give some of the new staff access to the [Garden of Sanctuary], Miss Mrsha. Miss C—Xinthe hasn’t even seen it, yet.”

Ushar tried that thought out, just to see the girl react. But the thin, intense girl just glanced up at her from the gruel and handed her a notecard.

Sure, if you’re okay with them taking everything out in boxes and looting all of Erin’s stuff.

The damn box. And they would probably put spying spells everywhere for Her Majesty. Ushar cursed to herself as she gave Mrsha a smile and brushed the idea off. She wished Sest were here. He would have been more trustworthy. He had been. That…

“I wouldn’t be so indecorous, Miss Mrsha!”

Xinthe protested weakly, but Mrsha just gave her a look.

Why don’t you make sure Miss Ebente isn’t worried for my health? I’m sure you could talk to her, Xinthe.

With no recourse beyond outright refusal, the [Server] walked out of the inn. Mrsha went back to sipping the chocolate milk with that faraway look in her eyes. And Ushar waited. It was like a knife balanced on its point. One thing would move, and then everything would begin.

She was sure of that. And when it came, it was as obvious as it could be.

Rianchi sidled back into the inn and came over to Mrsha. Ushar instantly became alert.

“Hey, Mrsha, Apista’s putting up a fuss. Can you go over and help?”

Sure.

Instantly, Ushar grew alarmed and stepped forwards to half-block the Goblin. Rianchi backed up from her, hands raised.

“Miss Mrsha, don’t go off without me.”

Don’t be silly, Ushar. Come on.

To Ushar’s complete surprise, Mrsha slid out of the table and gave her an indignant look. She walked calmly over to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She let Ushar go first.

The Thronebearer wasn’t fooled by that move. She took hold of Mrsha’s paw.

“Let’s go together, Miss Mrsha, shall we?”

The girl hesitated. Then she shrugged. They stepped into the [Garden of Sanctuary], and Mrsha wrote one-handed, with her wand.

Apista’s in the jungle. Let’s go finish that bath.

Ushar was alert for any tricks, any attempts to escape! But Mrsha just walked into the thick jungle foliage towards Apista’s nest. Ushar glanced over her shoulder, for Rianchi. But he just wandered off in the [Garden of Sanctuary].

“Miss Mrsha, your mother is terrified. If you’re hurt or I lose you, I will lose my position. You wouldn’t want that for me, would you?”

It was a sign of how much control Ushar thought she had that she went to guilt Mrsha. The girl was too calm. She was scaring Ushar. She reminded the Thronebearer of when one of the [Princesses] got truly quiet. That was when they did things far beyond mere pranks or infighting.

Ushar tightened her grip on Mrsha’s paw, and the girl winced.

Ushar, you’re hurting my paw. Don’t worry. You’re not going to lose me.

She held the card up with a smile. The Thronebearer hesitated. Her grip loosened slightly.

Then the flaming bee landed on her face. The giant Ashbringer Scourgebee.

Ushar tried to hold onto Mrsha’s paw. She really did. But even as she was fighting one-handed with the bee clinging to her face, Mrsha cast a spell.

A clump of grass exploded from her paw, forcing Ushar’s fingers away. She vanished, and Ushar tore the bee from her face.

“Mrsha! No! Don’t—”

She saw a white blur in the forest and leapt forwards—and Mrsha, fur puffed out in her [Fur of the Fortress] Skill, slammed into Ushar’s stomach.

Since the woman was armored, Ushar barely recoiled, and Mrsha hit the ground, rolled, and leapt up.

Ow. Hey, quit fighting Apista, Ushar! Looks like she’s not in the mood for a bath. Come on. Let’s get out of here.

The girl, who was Mrsha, handed Ushar a notecard. The Thronebearer saw Apista buzz away triumphantly. Her hair was scorched a bit. She stopped, hand on her sword hilt. And she stood there.

“…Who are you?”

Mrsha du Marquin innocently wrote in the air with her magic wand.

What?

It was Mrsha. Mrsha in her kilt, the same one she always wore. Mrsha…but she looked different.

It was hard to tell with her [Fur of the Fortress], but even the Skill couldn’t hide how her cheeks were more pronounced. How she had more flesh; it was obvious to Ushar, who had been looking at the girl all day.

Also, her coat was gone, the kilt was a slightly different pattern, and she had a stain on her cheek fur from some liquid. Ushar stood there, poleaxed.

“Wh—where’s the other—?”

But her Skills were telling her that this was her charge. It was just that, for a second, she swore there had been two of her wards running about. The other was gone. Either a figment of Ushar’s deluded mind…

Or she’d gone somewhere Ushar couldn’t sense.

A real terror was welling up in Ushar’s chest as she imagined a few scenarios. The most obvious was a Calanferian ploy, but how would you enact it? And why? Her eyes moved, and she thought of something else.

The…

Box?

Could that even—she wouldn’t fit—

The other girl was as intense in her way as the other Mrsha. She held up a card.

Am I not the Mrsha you remember, Dame Ushar?

Her eyes were amused and twinkling, as if this were the only fun to be had in this tiresome world. It made Dame Ushar lose her patience. Even for a Calanferian royal—a child shouldn’t look so old.

“Enough. You are going to explain yourself, Miss Mrsha. Or I will simply ensure you sit and eat and do nothing more!”

She reached for Mrsha’s paws, and the girl sighed.

I can’t let you do that, Dame Ushar. But I won’t run away. The secrets are coming out. Follow me if you want to do your duty.

The Thronebearer refused, reaching for Mrsha as the Gnoll danced back.

“I am the adult here, Mrsha. You do not give me orders.”

The girl traced a word in the air and got onto all fours.

Fine.

She began to dash left, galloping on her paws, and Ushar stormed forwards to grab her. She knew how fast Mrsha was; Ushar was still a seasoned [Knight]. And she’d been levelling.

[Burst of Speed].

She lunged for Mrsha. And the Gnoll—twisted. She redirected herself left, then right, dashing past Ushar as the Thronebearer cursed and grabbed. What the—

[Zigzag Dash]! Mrsha ran out of the jungle, Ushar in hot pursuit. A new Skill!? Had Mrsha levelled up? Why a running one?

Mrsha was running straight at a door leading to the inn. She burst out of it, and Ushar shouted.

“Stop her!”

Heads turned; the Calanferian staff weren’t used to the door opening everywhere. Mrsha ducked under a clumsy [Server]’s hands. Dodged around a Drake, who reached out.

“Can I help you, Miss M—”

An ‘accidental’ flying knee from Xinthe took him out. Mrsha dodged left—and someone grabbed her with the reflexes of a honed, well—

Adventurer.

Elia Arcsinger scooped up Mrsha into her arms and held her like an experienced mother, ready for Mrsha to try to squirm away. But instead, Mrsha just held up a card as Ushar exploded out of the [Garden].

Elia Arcsinger. Come with me now. The hour I promised you has come. Don’t worry; it won’t be hard for you. I swear.

The Named-rank adventurer took a breath, surprised.

“What’s going on—”

“Don’t let go of her! Don’t listen to her orders!”

Ushar snapped. She saw everyone turning to gaze at Mrsha. Without Lyonette in the inn, everyone left could tell that something was going on. Calescent had emerged from the kitchen.

“What’s wrong? Mrsha?”

She held out a note for him, and Ushar grabbed it, crumpled it up, and swallowed it. She was losing control. She snapped, keeping her voice level as she could.

“No one is listening to anything she says! She is not to endanger herself! In the name of Her Highness!”

The servants from Calanfer spread out around Ushar, casually holding implements. A rolling pin, a mop, and Elia hesitated, eyes wavering from Mrsha to Ushar. Usher held out a hand to grab Mrsha.

“Mrsha. Princess du Marquin. You must let me know what you’re doing or I will confine you for your own good. I cannot let you keep doing this.”

The girl was dangling there, heavier than her counterpart by far, and Ushar wasn’t the only person who’d noted the change in Mrsha’s health and weight. But the eyes were the same.

Maybe not as haunted. Maybe not as knowledgeable, that terrible gift of someone who had seen too much as she starved and watched dreams of better days. Pretending she’d one day go back and survive.

—But just as driven. Mad with it. And again, Ushar felt how wrong it was.

Not even the [Princesses] of Calanfer had looked like that. Not when they were eight. 

She had served the crown in the Eternal Throne since she was a girl of seven. Ushar had been a [Page] when Princess Shardele was still learning to run about with Princess Menisi. Ushar had seen them all grow up, and in time—they had all developed those familiar eyes.

Like their mother and father—the [Princes] and [Princesses] had slowly become jaded. Their youthful expressions worn down after decades of cuts. Soft and painful, papercuts of injustice, of being always watched and judged. Open wounds like the ones Princess Seraphel wore, for they were used, and used hard in the name of Calanfer.

It would come for Princess Vernoue. Lyonette had been already developing that hardened countenance when she fled. Princess Ellet, the youngest, was the only one who had yet to bear that reserve. Even now, at the tender age of thirteen, there were moments when she would school her face to complete impartiality. Learning the tricks of her elder sisters.

No one longed for that day. It was…hard…to be a Thronebearer in personal service to the royal family. You saw them at their worst, you had to keep secrets and weigh your duty to them versus the crown. But most of all, what Ushar had tried desperately not to do with Princess Vernoue was get attached. Because then you’d really dash your heart to pieces.

She’d done so well. And now here she was. The girl was only eight. Nine, soon, but she should not have those eyes.

“I’m trying to protect you, Mrsha. Let me bear it, whatever weight you’re carrying. I swear, I shall.”

The Thronebearer knelt slightly to speak to the girl in Elia’s arms. Xinthe was waiting. Her eyes were bright and focused.

“Should we confine Miss Mrsha to her room for her own safety, Dame Ushar?”

The new servants were prepared to watch Mrsha nonstop, to literally be in the same room with her such that she couldn’t move or get away. And they might even succeed—who knew? What was best for the girl would be done.

But what Mrsha needed? She was wearily rubbing at one eye as Ushar pleaded with her. The girl wrote in the air with a glittering wand.

Ushar. I’m tired. I can’t stop. I’m falling, I think. Trying to fly, and sometimes it feels like there’s nothing to grab onto. Only Rhir at the bottom. I don’t want to drag you with me. But I’m tired and scared. Will you promise to help me and not stop me?

She gave Ushar a pleading look, and the Thronebearer exhaled. Dame Ushar, the [Thronebearer of Wards], gazed at the little child and felt herself flip.

Change sides on the boards. Not that she hadn’t been loyal, impressed with Lyonette, before. But there was no going back, was there? She moved of her own volition. A little pewter chess piece of a [Knight] with a sword—not very valuable—a [Knight] of little remarkable prowess save for a lofty dream. Straight onto the other side of the board, and it was a complex board with people on the same side but different goals.

—But what you had to do, what she’d been resisting doing, was being on your charge’s side. Dame Ushar exhaled and lowered her head in defeat. She brushed at her hair, then stood.

“Very well, Mrsha. I trust you. Do you trust me?”

The girl looked up with big eyes.

Yes. I do. Don’t die, Ushar.

—The Thronebearer swore she felt a shadow’s hand on her shoulder, and she imagined that woman, three pieces in one. She closed her eyes and sighed. Then she nodded.

“Adventurer Arcsinger, let go of Mrsha. Where to, Lady Marquin?”

Elia gazed at Ushar, and the other servants reacted. Xinthe reached for Mrsha as Elia began to put her down.

“Under the circumstances, Dame Ushar, I don’t think—”

The Thronebearer caught Xinthe’s arm. Xinthe stiffened as Ushar spoke with a hint of a smile in her eyes.

“Her Highness’ daughter is writing, Miss Xinthe. Our job is to help her. Back to your stations. Keep the spies off us.”

Her head swivelled, and the Calanferians wavered. They had a direct order from a Thronebearer; they could refuse, but…

After a second, they spread out, and Mrsha held up a card.

Thank you, Ushar. We have somewhere to be. I’ll show you, but first, I need to find someone. Anyone high-level. I sent Rianchi to find someone.

“Anyone in particular?”

I’d take Tessa if she were here. Saliss—but he’s in Pallass and complicated. Grimalkin? We’ve got Elia, but I think she needs backup.

“Backup? Backup for what?”

Elia looked between Ushar and Mrsha, nervous, and the Thronebearer shook her head.

“I don’t know yet. What are we looking at?”

Silver-ranked threats. Not a danger until we decide to take it on. I’m confident of that. Painful moments. I need a group, first. Earlia’s team might do it if we have no other option, but I only really trust her.

Ushar nodded and cast around, thinking of who to pick. With Her Highness gone…she noticed Xinthe waiting tables, smiling and pretending nothing was amiss. But the Calanferian staff were still occupying the center of the common room.

They have to be receiving orders from Her Majesty not to put Miss Mrsha in any danger. They appeared ready to stop Ushar and Mrsha, perhaps with the old trip-wine trick. Ushar saw one of the staff members, sniffy, holding a bottle of wine he was struggling to uncork, possibly just for that purpose.

However, the staff had forgotten Rianchi. Mrsha was searching around for Relc or Archmage Valeterisa when she saw the door to the common room open, and her eyes brightened. She pointed, and Dame Ushar turned. Without a word, she strode over, smiling grimly.

“Excuse me, a word? Miss Mrsha has a message for you, Ser…”

Several of the Calanferians were trailing behind Mrsha, as if ready to snatch her if she made a leap for the doors or windows. But they halted and retreated in front of the figure who gently accepted a card from Mrsha’s paw.

Scarred flesh. Azure armor. One eye that shone with interest as it read the fresh ink. Ser Normen spoke.

“What’s going on, Dame Ushar? We returned the moment we saw Chieftain Rags doing standup. Something was clearly wrong. Can you explain yourself, Miss Mrsha?”

Ser Normen and the Order of the Solstice. A panting Rianchi gave Mrsha a thumbs up. The Gnoll girl began smiling, and Dame Ushar half-bowed, still holding Mrsha.

“I’m not quite sure. How did you return so quickly? The timing is fortuitous; Miss Mrsha requests your help.”

The Grandmaster was reading the card, but someone answered for him. A young woman with a sword at her hip; Jewel, brushing back a colorful beret instead of a helmet like the others.

“Liska made another connection at Orefell for us. Did anyone know she could do that? What’s going on, Mrsha?”

Jewel, Durene, Vess, Antherr—the entire group was there, minus Ama. Antherr was treating a bunch of the [Squires] to their first inn-meal. Ama was trying to get Sillias a fish from outside despite him being an undead cat.

Mrsha wrote on a card.

I’m glad you’re all here. It doesn’t have to be you if you’re busy. How’d you get back?

“We finished setting up our new base. We were looking for people who need…escorting. I just came back from speaking with His Majesty. As Jewel said, we now have access to the inn.”

Normen’s face was bland as he replied. Durene put in.

“Which is good, because we need all kinds of supplies we forgot! And Orefell wants to trade with the inn. Do you all need to buy jade and precious stones?”

At that, a dozen of the [Spies] began writing furious missives about this change in trade opportunities. Some just got up and began to run; prices would be low until the [Merchants] in Orefell caught on. Which wouldn’t be more than hours at most.

All of this was background noise, including Liska’s growing authority. Ushar was still tense. Mrsha scribbled.

Well, it’s a mess. Lyonette’s gone. I’m being unjustly blamed for things I didn’t do. I feel really bad for an, uh, a [Caretaker]? And you missed a lot of songs.

She tilted her head quizzically, as if she didn’t remember the good Miss Ebente. The Knights of Solstice exchanged glances of pure puzzlement. No one had any idea what was going on, but Normen was a veteran of the inn. His tone was light and amused.

“I’m sorry I missed that. I can hold a bit of a tune myself. So could old Crimshaw. One time, he told me he and a bunch of fellows mugged a poor lady in verse. This was before he was one of the Brothers.”

“What!?”

That outraged shriek came from Songmistress Calla. Ushar gestured to the inn.

“Do you require refreshments or are you free about Miss Mrsha’s business? I have been informed it will reveal everything. But be of some danger. Nothing the Knights of Solstice can’t handle, Miss Mrsha?”

She gave Mrsha a sharp look, and the girl’s eyes flickered. They rested on Normen longest before she nodded to Ushar.

No, they’re perfect. Literally perfect…will you come with me now, Normen? You and all the [Knights]? I have something for you to do. A true mission of mercy.

The Grandmaster blinked, but he glanced over his shoulder.

“Durene. Get Ama.”

Then he gave Mrsha a serious look, a frown on his face. His closed eyelid opened, revealing an empty socket of scarred flesh.

“I’m no longer able to risk my life alone, Mrsha. Is this important? Does it matter? Is it worth risking life and limb for? The Order of Solstice will make its own decision. Independent of the inn. Now, will you honestly tell me what’s going on?”

The Gnoll’s gaze alighted on Normen’s, and every person in the inn with the Skills was probably ready to intercept her next note—or just get an eyeline via a mirror or any way they could. Mrsha knew it, so her next words were slow, deliberate, and she sighed as she wrote.

Does it matter…? No. It doesn’t. It’s pointless. And yet it matters because it’s righting a wrong, even if it changes nothing. It should be done. I will regret it if I don’t act, and I must trust someone who’s on my side. So please—come.

She met Ushar’s eyes as she held the card up. The Thronebearer’s heart was pounding. She put a hand on Normen’s shoulder.

“Grandmaster Normen. You may turn back at any moment, and I will stop her. But she is willing to tell us. I implore you as a fellow [Knight] to join me.”

Normen glanced at Ushar’s countenance. He was inspecting Mrsha’s face as Ushar shifted her grip on Mrsha; the girl was heavy. The Knight of Honor’s Flame looked sideways at Elia Arcsinger, who was tense. She hadn’t forgotten the last time the two had met or what had happened. But she was being professional.

What was he to say? Normen’s lips quirked upwards, and he nodded as Ama and Sillias came through the door.

“Of course I will. As long as we are permitted to choose—the Knights of Solstice will always illuminate and judge. Do you just need us?”

For answer, Mrsha pointed.

All of you. The Knights of Solstice. Elia Arcsinger. Dame Ushar. And—her finger wavered, and she pointed at someone who was as surprised as her.

You.

A [Bard] sitting at the back of the inn, with a Drake in his lap, peered up. Numbtongue, the [Bard], stared at Mrsha, confused. No one had any clue as to what she intended, but he least of all.

Come on. Let’s go.

Mrsha pointed to the door that Rianchi and Dyeda were holding open. Ushar’s mouth was dry.

I have lost control. I am in control. Both things were true at the same time. What she did know was—

She was on Mrsha’s side. Lyonette’s.

A voice called out behind her.

“Dame Ushar! Miss Mrsha is overwrought! She should not go anywhere!”

That didn’t come from Xinthe, but one of the [Servers], the one with the digestion Skill. His face was taut; Ushar knew Queen Ielane was watching.

Strange. She seldom gave orders she couldn’t enforce.

Normen’s one eye locked with Ushar’s, and she saw his gaze gleam. Green entered his flinty eyes, studded with sparks of violet. The [Knight] slowly reached down and lifted his helmet from his belt. He addressed the server, who had stopped, broom in hand.

“I don’t know who you are, sir. But I do know you are not the owner of this inn. Stand aside. Mrsha, the garden I take it?”

The girl nodded. Elia Arcsinger took a step back.

“My orders are to guard Mrsha—”

You know where we’re going, Elia.

The half-Elf wavered. She gazed down at Mrsha.

“There? That’s not dangerous…”

She was doubtful. Mrsha’s second card made her swallow hard.

Things have changed. You’ll see. But we have to go. I’ll explain everything before anyone does anything. Come on.

She beckoned. The Knights of Solstice regarded each other, and a staff member edged over.

“Dame Ushar, we must stop them. Her Majesty’s order is quite explicit!”

Ushar heard a voice in her ear, relayed through the speaking stone. She silenced it with a finger on her ear. She turned and met the furious, intense gaze.

“I don’t believe Princess Lyonette has returned. Her daughter’s will is clear. To whom do you refer, miss?”

The Calanferian woman wavered. She gazed at Ushar, then reached for Mrsha.

“This is too far. I must stop you from—”

A hand fell on the Human woman’s shoulder.

“Stop who? You’re the new help, right? You have to learn what’s what.”

Peggy and a bunch of the Goblins were standing there. They were grinning, and Rosencrantz and the Antinium had also assembled. Peggy jerked a thumb at Mrsha.

“When something crazy in the inn happens, you don’t run away. Also, I’m the [Floor Boss]. You listen to me.”

“And me.”

Ishkr appeared with a mug, as if he were ready to throw it at anyone. He fixed Mrsha with a level stare.

“Mrsha, how much danger are you going to put yourself in?”

Virtually none. Ser Normen can stop me, but he’s the one who’ll decide. Honest. I’ll show you too, Ishkr.

The [Head Server] mulled this over and peeked around.

“Later. I’ll hold the inn down. Peggy—get our new staff in order. Guests, we’re having a discount on all orders during Solstice time. Make sure you have an escape route planned. Mrsha, over to you.”

The girl grinned, and she pointed at the [Garden].

Jewel moved first. She strode forwards, a hand on her sword. Antherr was next; Vess and Durene followed, and Normen turned.

“Should we bring backup? Or should Captain Earlia secure the inn?”

“I have no idea what’s going on!”

The Captain of Gemhammer hollered from her seat. She had a hand on her warhammer, but she was mainly eying the new staffers. The Calanferian agents were not happy, and they doubtless had orders to stop what was going on. But Peggy was cracking her knuckles, clearly ready to enforce her will if she had to.

Mrsha shook her head slightly.

We don’t need that many. Let’s go.

Elia Arcsinger began to walk uncertainly towards the door, and Normen followed. Ushar walked with them, meeting the girl’s eyes, but they turned at the door.

Are you coming?

Mrsha held up that card. The fact she had to ask hurt her. And it hurt him.

He hesitated. But here he was.

No matter who he was or how he felt—

The [Soulbard] stood. Numbtongue walked forwards, slowly, then faster. He jogged after the trio, then began running. As if he were afraid. As if he were trying to force himself to follow, despite the rage and the hurt.

Perhaps what hurt most of all was—for a moment, he forgot why he was so upset. All those excuses, all those reasons warring with the fact that this felt right. He charged after the girl as the inn descended into chaos.

The Calanferians went for Mrsha. Ushar grabbed the first hand and tossed the woman over her shoulder. Then she was striding for the door, amidst the [Knights] of Solstice. They passed through, shields raised, keeping everyone back from Mrsha and Ushar.

The mousy-haired Xinthe headbutted Peggy in the chest and knocked the [Floor Boss] back a step. She turned, threw a Drake [Infiltrator] as a dozen figures went for the door. Calanferians, Antinium, Goblins, all began a brawl with the [Spies] and inn-guests like Menolit.

A bounding shape punched through the crowd, faster, ignoring Ishkr tossing a screaming [Spy] out the window. He whirled as Earlia put the Calanferian [Spy] in a headlock, but Salkis was too fast.

“Numbtongue! Wait for m—”

Whumph.

Salkis hit the invisible barrier to the [Garden of Sanctuary] so hard that her face compressed slightly. She recoiled, felt at the door—then about fifteen other people slammed into the door along with her and slid down. Witch Alevica felt at the invisible barrier and sighed.

“Well, shit.”

She walked away, avoiding the pile of bodies. Nearly two dozen [Spies] looked at the idiots—Pallassian agents, foreign actors—and decided they liked the law of Mrsha the Spymaster just fine. They hadn’t even gotten up. One of them ordered a souffle.

Xinthe was struggling in the middle of the pile, trying to get through the door. Throwing punches with [Spies]—until someone cleared her throat from overhead.

When they all looked up, Peggy had a chair.

 

——

 

Mrsha was laughing when the door opened, and the first people stumbled and exclaimed.

“What is this? Where is—another [Garden of Sanctuary]?”

Silent wheezing was their only reply. Mrsha was still laughing at the image of a compressed Salkis lying at the bottom of a pile of people. She laughed as a suspicious Normen slid down the ropes.

He landed on the ground, glanced around, and then saw Mrsha lying on her back, laughing her stomach out and trying not to puke. The [Grandmaster]’s eyes crossed—he whirled, gazed up.

“Huh?”

That was the only thing he said until he stepped back so someone else could grab the rope. There was a faint pinging sound, an oath—

“Wormy appl—argh!”

Durene’s weight pulled the rope out of the ceiling, and she went crashing down and nearly crushed Rianchi, who leapt back. There were shouts from above.

“Durene! Are you okay?”

Vess leapt down with a [Featherfall] spell as the cursing Troll girl sat up. Durene shouted.

“I’m fine! I’m—whuh.”

She saw Mrsha, her eyes went back up, and she developed the same expression as Vess. They stood there in silence as someone called for a rope to be tossed back up. Eventually, an exasperated voice came from above.

“Oh, for the love of cats. Let me! Who uses ropes anyways!”

Bones began flying downwards, forming a staircase instead of the rope. Ama was next, followed by Antherr, who bumped into her as she twisted.

“Is it safe? What’s going on down there? Lady Arcsinger, stay above. I’ll see wh—oh.”

Ushar. When she saw the other Mrsha, still giggling, she stopped. Her face went blank. Then grew horrified.

“You got in the box?”

The little Gnoll girl held her arms up, and Dame Ushar scooped her up protectively. Last of all came Elia Arcsinger and Numbtongue.

The [Bard] stared at Rianchi and Dyeda, the [Palace of Fates]. Then…when he saw two Mrshas, one in Ushar’s arms, the other slipping out of Elia’s grasp, he blinked.

“Illusions? Did someone color Ekirra white?”

Both Mrshas glared at him. Elia massaged her arms; Mrsha was too big to be picked up like that comfortably, even for a Named-rank. The other, thinner Mrsha just patted Ushar on the shoulder.

“They’ve copied themselves. With the box. H-her Highness is going to go insane. This is wrong.”

Ushar was white-faced. Both Mrshas were writing furiously, trying to correct her. The Order of Solstice had come to similar conclusions; Ama was muttering spells, and Jewel was rubbing her eyes. Normen just stared at the [Palace of Fates]; his skin was crawling.

“Erin.”

Numbtongue glanced around. His excitement had faded, and he was getting angry again.

“What box? Someone explain what’s going on. Mrsha—is this a trick? A Skill?”

No. It’s just two of us. Two very real us, each one flesh and blood. It’s this place. It’s the power of this Skill. A Level 70 Skill. I accidentally found it thanks to the Faerie Flowers. This is the [Palace of Fates]. Erin would gain access to this place in twenty more levels.

You had to admit, that was a pretty good, succinct explanation. Mrsha had practice. Yet with that, they entered into the world of the surreal.

 

——

 

This was how they came to the [Palace of Fates], a crowd at last, and it had always been meant for crowds.

It had been meant to allow in…

Everyone.

But until the girl had fallen into this place, only one person had ever walked here, flown through these halls in despair and agony. She had begged for a place to see the future, all her futures, as she watched her empire crumble.

She watched them striding forwards, far more than one or two, or even the Goblins. True strangers, [Knights] from every species and walk of life.

How dare they? How dare they enter a place where only the greatest beings should have gained access? None of them were even Level 50. The Harpy’s wrath grew and grew, and the resentment burning in her chest would have flared out and burned cities to the ground. She, who had watched the last Empire of Harpies fall and let it fall.

The greatest student of the Dragonlord of Flame who had ever lived.

His truest failure. She opened her mouth to shriek at them until she saw how they came. These…Knights of Solstice.

At first, their steps were halting. Their voices plaintive, confused, wary, or disbelieving as they demanded all the ordinary clarifications from the two Doombearer girls. They pinched themselves. They laughed; the Goblin asked if he was drunk or dreaming.

Mundane. Insignificant. She had wearied of them, people who had no vision nor courage nor dreams. Grown bitter over the centuries she’d lived—for her kind could live long and grow vast—towards the very people who called themselves her subjects.

But then Sheta saw one of them turn and take the helmet of blue metal from his head. He stepped forwards slowly, with true fear and trepidation. Yet he walked forwards.

Beneath a gabled hallway of stained glass. Each pane of the ceiling was a different color, and it was bright.

There was no sun here. Sheta craned her head up to see it; from the mirror in which her memory was trapped, an image of her to judge and speak to the inheritors of her will who had never come, she could see a hallway she had never dreamed of.

The [Palace of Fates] had been made to reflect whomever walked in it. Each door was like a dream; picked out of the realities that lay within and the user’s own perceptions. So when they came, it was truly into a world of their own making.

This man…was scarred. Horrifically burnt. He walked forwards, uncertain in his armor. Unused to his class; she saw his [Grandmaster] class, saw his Skills, for she was beyond him. She had met men like him, riding high on their horses in legions, and torn them apart with beak and talon.

He was no stronger than his predecessors. No braver. But when he gazed up, the light that bathed his armor was oh so very splendid.

Each color a ray of light falling from overhead. The stained glass ceiling met in the center, and the sky beyond, that figment of a world beyond the [Palace of Fates], was bright and pure. That was not what fascinated Sheta. It was what was upon the stained glass and the hallway he walked in.

A contrast. The girl, Mrsha, envisioned the [Palace of Fates] and saw it like a great palace, noble and fanciful, with gold and giltwork everywhere; with long hallways of grass and carpets because she imagined that was what a magical palace would be like. The Goblin, somewhat likewise, though her palace had branching hallways, secret rooms, and the design was subtly different.

The first hallway that came to Ser Normen of the Order of Solstice was all he knew. He had never set foot in a palace. Nor ever dreamed he would. He knew this was a wondrous place, one that Erin Solstice might one day inherit.

Sheta had never met this…[Innkeeper] who had command of her [Garden of Sanctuary]. She hoped the girl was worthy of the pavilion, at least. She had left enough of herself there, too, to answer questions and be a guide. But this place?

This place was worthless, invaluable, and worthless at the same time. It had never been finished. Her dream had died with her.

Yet this man walked forwards and brought a hallway Sheta had never seen in the decades she had flown through this palace.

He walked on a city street, dirty, covered with debris, sprouts of grass emerging out of old cobblestones, the walls of the hallway that of brickwork buildings. It was a city’s street for a boy who had grown up running through an urban sprawl, one eye behind him, picking coins out of the muck. What windows there were were dirty, or if clean, never perfect. There was even graffiti on the walls, and if Sheta could have smelled anything, she rather suspected it wouldn’t have been pleasant.

—Then again, perhaps not. Because remember, the ceiling was stained glass, each piece perfect, and the rays of light fell like spotlights, changing the mundane city street below. Ser Normen walked through a beam of gentle, burgundy red light, his armor shimmering where he swept a hand through the glowing particles. He looked up, and Sheta saw his eye glittering.

Then—she understood the curious objects embedded in the stained glass ceiling. They were each one a different style and make.

Hats.

The [Knight]’s head craned upwards to see the apparel he knew so well. Each window to the sky a face he knew. A dead friend. A comrade. A rival.

A mentor.

In their image, he could see no flaw. And they shone down above him, for all he wore armor. Something ever higher, ever brighter, turning the mundane, grimy world around him into something to be treasured.

Each door set into the building around him fit the city; each one made him turn and pause. Names were written on them in brass, faded, in need of a buffing, aged, but there. He paused before one that said ‘Crimshaw’.

He did not take the handle, but rested his hand on the door for a long while. More terrified than you could imagine. The Harpy saw his chest rising and falling with true anxiety as the others watched, exclaiming, seeing other hallways meant for them.

At last, Ser Normen turned the doorknob and opened the door a crack. Just a crack, like a [Burglar] checking a room to see if it was worth robbing. He peeked for only a second—then shut the door fast.

When he stepped back, someone was there.

“Normen? Is everything okay?”

Jewel took his arm, and Normen turned. His eye was wide and open, and he glanced at the door, at Jewel, before finding his voice.

“Yes. Yes.”

“Did you see…what’s in there?”

The [Swashbuckler] hesitated before the door, for Mrsha had warned her what lay inside. She turned to Normen, and the [Knight] hesitated. Then smiled.

“Something glorious. Something true.”

When he turned, it was not to look through the door again. He did not want to see. One peek—that was all. Not enough time to see any flaw, to doubt it. Just to see the world acknowledge a truth he had always believed.

When he walked, the Empress of Harpies thought he carried a deeper understanding of his class. Another moment of strength beneath that fragile metal, the real steel of his being.

How she envied him. And she realized she had forgotten her objection to their presence. For they all entered gloriously. As she had forgotten people could.

 

——

 

The [Necromancer] rode her cat through a hallway of bones, a sepulchre of madness to all but her. Skulls stared out of walls; bones formed great, swaying chandeliers overhead. The staring eye sockets and yellowed bone horrified others, even her fellow [Knights].

But she beheld a vision of a palace made by sovereigns of death. And she did not walk lightly; she went from door to door, throwing them open and screaming.

“There! And there—and—”

She was alight with desperation. Clinging to the handles until Vess and the others had to pull her away. Ama was sobbing as she stared into realities filled with [Necromancers].

Pisces, Gewilena, Feren—visiting Khelt, forming a nation in defiance of their foes, visiting The Wandering Inn—every doorway playing a variation of that one group. The [Palace of Fates] could show you anything, but it only showed you what you wanted to see, if you asked for it.

It could break her. But the Drake slammed the door and gently helped her rise. The half-Troll girl swung her sword into the door as if to break it, then turned.

The hallway changed, and a single door with an ancient carving over the plain wood stood there. Durene Faerise stopped and whispered.

“Mother?”

Someone was standing on one side of the door, holding a basket in her hand. The carved relief showed another figure, kneeling, but still so tall he was nearly of a height with her.

“Who…?”

Vess grabbed Durene, trying to drag her attention away. In a dream, the [Paladin] walked forwards. She only stopped when she realized she was walking a forest path, and it branched out in every direction around her. The forest of Riverfarm, each path leading to a door.

Then she was afraid, and she backed away, pale-faced, from the door that looked back. That had the truth. Her eyes stayed on it, and she clenched her fists together, shaking worse than she had against any foe or disease.

Some found only joy here.

Others pain like they had never imagined.

A few feared it rightly from the start.

But they entered like characters stepping into a story. Not one laughed in disbelief. They did not dismiss what this place was. The Harpy Queen saw the [Knights]—Ama, Vess, and Durene—draw together, hold each other, and fortify themselves against this place.

When they moved, it was together, hand in hand, weapons drawn, as if they went to war, because they did. Their hearts against the powers of ‘if’, ‘perhaps’, and ‘maybe’. But they still walked on in search of truth.

 

——

 

The Goblin feared every door. He could not make himself open any of them. And he knew which door he wanted.

Oh, of course he did.

They were all the same. Each and every one identical. They were plain, wooden doors, so familiar to him they had shaped his life. Each one held a vision of the reality he wanted, the one he had lost.

He ran, trying to shield his arms and face, crashing into doors, trying to flee. Wanting to open the doors and knowing—in his heart of hearts—that all the poison and bile in his stomach was nothing compared to the toxins of seeing it.

Numbtongue ran until he crashed into the final intruder not with the little Gnoll child. He hit a figure who did not move as Numbtongue fell down. And the Goblin looked up and saw Antherr.

 

——

 

The tallest hallway the [Palace of Fates] had ever created was blue. Blue; shades of it that the Harpy Queen had never imagined. The air was filled with clouds; the walls did not stay one color, but shifted subtly.

It was, perhaps, a nauseating effect on its own, but together, it passed merely unsettling into the surreal. The Antinium stood in a galaxy of blue, all four arms raised, head turned up as he stared at the sky.

It looked like worship. It was—but of a kind not even he could explain. If he believed in anything, he believed in this. The doors around him waited like celestial bodies inviting him to futures more glorious than the last.

The [Indomitable Knight-Warden] had visited Erin’s inn. He had stepped out of his Hive and beheld the sky. He had met the Minotaur and found his honor.

Nothing, no place, could shake his faith that better days awaited. The bitterness, the pain of this place, he accepted. But Antherr Twotwentyonethree Herodotus only saw wonders. And for that, the Hobgoblin, the Gnoll child, the Harpy Queen, they all envied him. He stood underneath his vision of the sky, and when he turned away, he had it still glimmering in his eyes.

A vision to show Pawn.

All this, the Harpy Queen saw, and more. The Knights of Solstice entered the [Palace of Fates] and recoiled, suffered, smiled, stepped away reluctantly—before following the Gnoll child.

Then, Sheta watched. Watched without the will to complain. All she said was:

“I should have invited them here. I was afraid.”

 

——

 

Dame Ushar saw only Mrsha’s [Palace of Fates], and it looked to her like a nightmarish place. Too much for a child…yet with each step, she beheld how they walked.

The two girls.

One was thin and pained. She had seen terrible things; it was her paw that Ushar held. The other just padded forwards at a slow walk, explaining as the others just stood there in denial, confusion, or followed along.

That Mrsha was driven, desperate. A subtle difference, but one that influenced every turn of her head, the firmness of her steps. Ushar wondered why she had ever imagined she could stop Mrsha. She should have been helping the girl. She supposed she just remembered the child she had first met. This was a growing girl. Not ready, yet, but when she spoke—

“What’s that, Lady Mrsha?”

The thinner Mrsha was holding up a card. She pointed at her twin as Ushar took it.

You know that one’s the real me, don’t you?

The Mrsha of Roots, the one who had come through the door, gave Ushar that empty look and tried to let go of Ushar’s hand. In reply, Ushar scooped her up and carried her.

“I don’t know any such thing, Lady Mrsha. Come now. I should have brought a snack for you.”

The girl began to protest. Then she silently hugged Ushar and put her head against the woman’s breastplate. Ushar hugged the girl harder.

Elia Arcsinger was following Mrsha, refusing to go anywhere as she held her bow at the ready; the Named-rank was well and truly afraid of this place. The other Knights of Solstice returned in groups, along with Numbtongue, who was pale-faced.

“This place is terrible. Why did you bring us here? Why did you stay here?”

That was all the [Bard] asked. He gazed at Mrsha, and she began to write a reply. Then he noticed the two Goblins trailing in her wake and snapped.

“Why are you two here?”

“Chieftain Rags gave us orders to help.”

“Rags knows? And not me?”

Rianchi gave Numbtongue a look.

“You not always around.”

Numbtongue’s eyes narrowed, and Rianchi edged behind Dyeda, who refused to back down as she folded her arms. He stomped past her, and Normen spoke.

“Is Erin here? There’s doors with her, aren’t there?”

That was the right question. One of the Mrshas wrote a glittering paragraph into the air. The [Knights] read it as they trailed down the corridor, feeling as if they were characters in a story, seeing the narration literally writing itself above their heads.

Everyone’s here, Normen. The doors show you every reality that could be. Ones where Crimshaw lived. Where Erin didn’t go to sea. Where terrible things occurred, where good things did. This is every door, of every time. You’re supposed to just be able to see it all. That’s it. See it and suffer. It’s a terrible, poop Skill. But the Faerie Flowers let you enter the doors. Bring things out.

“Dead. Gods. N-Normen, I thought I was over it. I’m freaking out.”

Jewel grabbed Normen’s hand, and he gave her a reassuring squeeze of the hand. Some of his awed reverence faded, and a wariness replaced it. He shook his head, then frowned.

“This is beyond even a regular Solstice event. Where are we going, Mrsha? Why did you tell us? If it was me…”

He swallowed and glanced at Mrsha, seeming to understand what she had been doing.

“You didn’t tell Lyonette! If you had, she would have helped and—and—”

—And never let me come here again. Because it is so terribly dangerous—and cruel. I told her I had to do this or I will regret it forever, Ushar. Just like I’d regret not asking for your help. Now you know. Now you’re here! Take as long as you want to understand. I shall answer every question. But I called you here, you specifically, so you can see every consequence. See what I have chosen.

Mrsha stopped before a door. She spread her arms in front of it, and the other Mrsha wiggled out of Ushar’s grasp and picked something up. A brown, ordinary root. The two nodded to each other and stood there.

Normen stopped. He stared at the root, and he understood, then—the level beyond the [Palace of Fates] that Mrsha had reached. An underhanded trick; the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings knew underhanded tricks well. He shook his head, planted his feet.

“Here is where I refuse to do anything, or let you do anything, until I know what this…all means, Mrsha.”

She nodded, reasonable, as he fixed her with a serious stare. Normen saw there was a little note attached to the door. Some had yellow paint on them; a few were ajar.

He…felt his skin tingling. Felt like his flames, the burning flames that had been ignited in his heart, were about to go out.

Either go out or ignite in a blaze beyond anything he’d ever felt.

It scared him. The Grandmaster of the Order of Solstice, that dangerous, respected warrior who had become something, had once been a [Thug]. An ordinary fellow.

He had changed himself. He had chosen to take the flames, and it had shaped him.

But Normen had never forgotten who had handed him that ember for his lantern.

He saw it again, the same Mrsha from that snowy day. The [Emberbearer]’s eyes shone with confidence and all the things of The Wandering Inn that he loved. And there were two of her. One of the Mrshas pointed to the door.

It is dangerous. But I will obey your instructions. Nevertheless—I must go. So must you, even if it hurts, Normen. And you, Elia. You never run. Time for you to see if you’re part of this inn or not.

The Named-rank adventurer was shivering. But she had taken her bow off her back and had an arrow ready, despite her nerves. Normen whispered as his eyes caught what was written on that paper, and then he did feel frozen with prickling static, ablaze with emotion and heat.

Numbtongue was the one who turned away. He spat at Mrsha; he’d read the note on the door. Of course he had. He was Numbtongue.

“It doesn’t matter. None of it matters—none of it is real! Why him?”

For answer, the Root Mrsha replied, taking the Wand of Mrsha to write in the air.

You’re right, Numbtongue. It doesn’t matter. I could have done this without using this door, without telling anyone.

He stopped, hesitating, and the Knights of Solstice fixed on Mrsha’s reply. They were both writing now, one tracing in the air with a glowing claw, the other with the wand. And they wrote the same words, together, eyes bright with magic. With sorrow.

With…hope.

It doesn’t matter. None of this does, in a way. But it still feels real. I still care. Why him? Because I wondered. Because I remember him. If I offer anyone a chance, it should be him. Why go through that door? None of you know him well. Even I didn’t, not really. But we must. He was one of us: a guest of The Wandering Inn. She knew none of us well, at first. But she gave us a chance. So. Are you going to do the right thing, even if it’s meaningless? Even if there are a million billion worlds we can’t save?

She looked at them, tears glittering in her eyes, and a man slowly knelt down. Ser Normen smiled, scars stretching on his face, and he touched the brow of his helmet as he met her gaze.

“Every time.”

Mrsha’s smile was wan and very afraid, but it grew as green fire warmed it. She held up a card, and the Order of Solstice stirred.

Then come on. After all—a fellow Knight of Solstice needs you.

 

——

 

Another world. A familiar time.

To be precise, the time is midmorning. It’s a rainy day. But Liscor isn’t safe.

The Watch is patrolling the walls, Drakes and Gnolls. There are no Antinium in the Watch yet, save Klbkch. For now, Liscor thinks it can protect the city with only two species, alone.

Today—they are going to learn better. 

The Watch is vigilant, but relaxed, in a sense. The issue is that they’ve just won a battle. They were just attacked—by a new species from the dungeon.

Raskghar.

It isn’t the first time the Raskghar have attacked, but the cunning strike by the monstrous variants of Gnolls during the full moon is the real danger. The recent raid by them with Cave Goblins was far easier to see coming and repulse.

Until the next fullness of a moon, everyone’s safe. It’s daytime, and there’s nothing to fear.

—Right?

There’s an inconsistency in that logic that bothers an [Innkeeper] heading into the city. Her head’s been ringing all day. Something her subconscious has picked up on but her mind hasn’t processed.

The assumption is that a moon is only full when you can see it. The flaw in everyone’s logic is not realizing a full moon exists even when the sky is bright.

And the inn has been left unguarded. The Watch is unaware of Raskghar outside the walls. It’s raining—the wet season, and they’re hidden in the waters. Ready to strike. But this is just a probing effort, a distraction.

The real prize is in the inn. The Watch doesn’t understand what’s going on yet. They see the Raskghar as monsters, and they are monstrous by Liscor’s standards, but they have desires.

Gnolls. Gnolls to sacrifice in ancient rites; the most valuable of all is a Doombearer.

They’re at the inn. Creeping through the water, hiding their scent, Raskghar and Cave Goblins. It won’t go perfectly for them; the inn is still close enough to the city to make them retreat—fast. And the bear traps Erin Solstice has put down will get several Raskghar and a Cave Goblin.

But this is a familiar moment. One nearly identical to other worlds. Mrsha is upstairs, asleep after being upset over Bird shooting at Halrac. The Captain of Griffon Hunt is angry, thinking about Goblins…and people…and the past and his job.

No one is at the inn save for Lyonette, Octavia.

And Brunkr.

That’s the change. A [Knight] in armor that’s got a bit of rust on it because of the damn rain. He has a polished, silversteel sword from House Byres, the armor to match, and even a [Princess].

Lyonette. She’s fussing around the kitchen, searching for sewing needle and thread.

“If you’re not going to use a potion, at least let me clean it and sew it up! You remember last time!”

She’s snapping at him, and the [Knight] is trying not to grumble. He has a very shallow gash on one cheek from an arrow graze.

“I’m fine. I disinfected it. I remember last time.”

Last time—being when he nearly lost his arm from infection. When he was helped by Lyonette, leading her to making him a [Knight]. And his awkward self-imposed service to The Wandering Inn until Erin Solstice made him at least accept a bedroom as payment.

[Princess] and the [Knight]. Brunkr sniffs the air, once, twice.

“Eugh. The Floodplains stink. Do you smell that? Must be water backing up the outhouses.”

He’s distracted, tired; he hasn’t realized what’s going on. He pinches his nose as Raskghar move up slowly, covered in muck.

“Oh dead gods. I’ll throw some acid in there later. I just hope they don’t overflow. That’s the last thing we need.”

Lyonette comes out of the kitchen with needle and thread and some gauze. That’s one change. Brunkr’s in a chair, munching on some chicken breast. He sniffs the air again, once, twice—

Then jumps to his feet.

“Lyonette. It smells like—”

Nokha comes through the doors in a crash of wood. Several Raskghar slam weapons into the windows, but the [Reinforced Structure] refuses to yield instantly. Liscor’s silent. They don’t sense Raskghar moving on them.

“Raskghar!”

Lyonette screams. She drops the needle; Brunkr whirls. 

He draws his sword as Nokha bursts into the common room, bigger than he is, armed with an enchanted axe. And she has the moons. She charges at him and swerves, baiting a cut, and then swings. The first blow crumples part of his armor, and he goes over.

“Brunkr! Mrsha—run!”

Lyonette is screaming, trying to put herself between Nokha and the stairs. The stairs—because Mrsha is up there. More Raskghar are breaking into the inn. They leap into the building, and Nokha is headed for the stairs. Brunkr is trying to get up.

“Stop. Stop—”

They’re coming for Mrsha and for him. There’s a scrabbling sound from upstairs, a frightened Gnoll girl waking up in a panic, smelling and hearing the monsters below. Looking for somewhere to run.

Lyonette’s arms are spread; Nokha raises one paw to smash her aside. Nokha doesn’t even need to slow; she’ll just break Lyonette’s wrist. There’s nothing Lyonette can do to stop her, and Brunkr is running at Nokha. There are eight Raskghar entering the inn. Twice as many Cave Goblins. They’ll only run once they hear the horns blowing from the walls in two minutes’ time.

The [Knight] is alone for two minutes, with Lyonette and Mrsha to protect.

He’ll save one of them. Not himself.

 

——

 

This is the way fate is playing itself out. The world in which Brunkr lived ends here differently. Fate moves down the course it has been charted, running along the groove written by time. Nokha raises a paw and twists, eyes narrowed with glee, axe lashing out as Brunkr runs at her.

The enchanted axe meets a shield covered in green flames. The impact sends flurries of green sparks into the air, glowing like pride in the unobtainable, the endless reaching for the aspirational. Like an unwavering heart.

The Raskghar recoils. Her eyes go wide with shock; she didn’t smell anything. She didn’t sense something to the side. Where has this figure come from?

She sees a wounded man. Human—she barely recognizes the species, but wounded. Old scars cover his face, and he has only one eye. The other is colored like flint and violet—like someone striking sparks from a stone.

And it’s burning. The man is on fire. Yet the flames are odorless. He smells like strange metal, one she has never known. Like sweat, now, and grease. But most of all—he smells like a hunter.

Nokha recoils as he shoves the axe back. Brunkr stops.

“Who—”

A Raskghar howls, and Brunkr whirls. He sees how many are in the inn now. And he grabs at Lyonette, who’s behind Nokha. The [Princess] backs up, wide-eyed. A [Knight]? How? He emerged from the shadows. Then she feels a hand pull her.

“One side, miss! [Bone Wall]! Sillias—get that bitch!”

Someone shoves Lyonette down, and the [Princess] feels something leap down the stairs. A bony paw clips her head. Nokha spins just in time to see an open mouth, yellow teeth—a face of bones—

The undead cat tackles Nokha, biting, savaging, as a wall of bones rises. Brunkr almost shouts ‘no’, but he sees what the [Necromancer] is doing. Nokha slams down hard and actually throws Sillias off her. The cat is massive, but she is strong, empowered by the moons. He’s bit her deep on the shoulder, though.

Ambush! The Raskghar falter as the cat bounds to its feet. One runs at Brunkr and halts as a greatsword cleaves through the air.

Antherr’s swing nearly takes the Raskghar apart; only the reaction-speed granted by the moon saves the Raskghar, and the sword still bites deep into the chest and hurls the Raskghar back.

“Impressive. They are fast. Watch out, Jewel, Vess.”

Antherr sets his greatsword for another swing as a trio of figures move from the walls. Jewel slashes out, cutting a Goblin across the head—lightly—so blood covers his face. Vess fires a spell through the downed Raskghar, who’s trying to roll up. A bright arrow pierces the Raskghar’s wound and detonates internally; the Raskghar jerks and falls.

Seven Raskghar, now, howling in alarm. One looks to Nokha, and she snarls.

Kill them! The Raskghar draws back a javelin to throw, then sees something charging at him.

—A woman made of stone? The Raskghar turns and throws, but the throw is weak, panicked.

The javelin bounces off one arm. The Raskghar reaches for its club, but it has never seen any humanoid being of flesh and blood bigger than it. It snarls, bites—

Durene’s charge takes the Raskghar into the wall, and they crack the wood. Her roar is shaking the floorboards; the Goblins halt in fear.

“Was that an honorable blow, Antherr? I’ve got that one. Vess, try not to kill the Cave Goblins!”

Jewel and Antherr are moving to secure themselves against a wall. The [Knight] points one finger at the nearest Raskghar as Vess begins to fire shots. The Antinium [Knight]’s voice is cold.

“All my honor is in defending others. [I Challenge You], Raskghar.”

He strides forwards, greatsword raised, green flames leaving a trail of footsteps in his wake.

They’re all on fire. Brunkr moves, swinging his sword at a Raskghar, who leaps back, visibly unnerved. No matter where he looks—all the mysterious warriors are on fire!

Red flames from the Troll woman punching the Raskghar against the wall. Grey flames being breathed by the Drake, keeping the Cave Goblins at bay. Pink along the [Swashbuckler]’s sword as she leaps from table to table, slashing and igniting multiple Raskghar.

And green from the [Knight] who stands there as Nokha rises.

 

——

 

Pain! Danger! This was a trap, but how? They were all fooled! 

Nokha doesn’t know. She came here for the Gnoll girl and the [Knight]. They would both make her stronger, she’s sure. She was so perfect; she even waited for the [Innkeeper] to leave. The [Innkeeper] who smells…dangerous.

But the figure who waits for her is more dangerous still. He smells like fury. Fury is a smell, so is adrenaline and fear; to a Raskghar or Gnoll, these are odors released by the body.

There is no fear in his musk. Nothing but bloodlust, yet he holds himself so still.

He scares her as nothing save for the center of the dungeon has scared her. Not even Calruz or Facestealer scare her. One is a mighty warrior, but she understands his strength, envies it. The other is a being she does not think is real; a phenomenon without mercy.

This [Knight] is different. He is waiting for her, and he has a mace of that blue metal. A shield. His helmet is on his head, now, and—she relaxes slightly.

A mace? She can survive a mace. A sword will make her bleed out or grow infected, and she has few of those magical healing potions. She’ll feign weakness, then gut him. She’s stronger than he is.

Nokha rises and lashes out with her axe, rushing the green [Knight] in a bodily charge, unafraid of the clash. The impact makes him grunt; she feels like she’s hit a brick wall. Staggering, they shove at each other.

He tries to headbutt her; she opens her mouth to bite his neck. He dodges the blow, smashes his shield into her face, and she recoils.

An opening. Her axe tears the air; the green flames are clinging to her fur, but they don’t slow her down.

She has no sense of honor to weigh her down. The blow sends Ser Normen reeling backwards. He regains his footing, but his guard goes down.

Two-handed, Nokha raises her axe for a blow to his helmet. She sees Normen’s eye glint as he raises his head. And she senses it again.

Trap.

Howling, she throws herself sideways before the explosion of green flames can consume her. It washes over her—and then she begins to burn.

[The Bonfire Rages]. Normen casually gets to his feet, visibly disappointed. Only half of Nokha is aflame. He reaches for something at his side as her howl raises a pitch in pain.

It burns! Suddenly, the flames are burning her. They eat her fur, consuming her flesh at a rate beyond regular flames.

Honor, burning those without. Searing the Raskghar as she screams. She does the only thing she can think of; she reaches for a looted object at her side. Smashes it against her fur and smears it around.

Healing potion.

It douses some of the magical flames, but the rest keep burning, burning on flesh, burning all the way down to her bones. Nokha rises, though, gripping her axe harder, snarling.

She must kill him to stop the fire. It’s her only thought. She throws herself forwards, and he swings his mace.

She doesn’t care at first. It’s just a mace. Blue metal—she doesn’t smell magic on it. But then she sees the green gel moving along the mace’s head—

The acid from the mace strikes her across the arm and begins to sizzle and eat away the patchwork armor and her fur. This time, her howl is shorter. Nokha backs up, uncertain what that was.

He’s walking forwards, a cold light in his eyes. He’s not angry—the [Knight] holds his acid-covered mace, and he is no [Knight] that Nokha or Brunkr have ever seen. There is nothing of Ylawes’ bright ideal of honor in Normen’s gaze.

Flee.

Nokha howls the word. She turns to run. This is far beyond any acceptable risk. Calruz will understand this. He’ll—

Three Raskghar are downed. Cave Goblins are lying wounded, unconscious. A Troll woman bigger than Nokha tosses a limp body down and turns.

The inn is filled with figures. Intruders. But two, no, three of them are standing behind Nokha. All of them confuse her.

One is a Goblin. A…big Goblin. The biggest she’s ever seen. She doesn’t think it’s the same species as the pathetic Cave Goblins who serve Raskghar. His skin is greener, and he has a beard. He’s dressed in clothing, and he has a red, crystal blade. He stands, eyes filled with recognition, with hatred, looking at her, but pointing his sword at the Cave Goblins.

The ones he faces have dropped their weapons. They hold still in front of the [Bard]. But Nokha is even more startled to see the other two.

A child standing behind a woman in golden armor. The woman is Human, and she is set, shield raised. She hasn’t joined in the fighting. She just stands there, a protector whose very presence makes Lyonette, peeking through the [Bone Wall], gasp.

“A Thronebearer? Mrsha?”

The cry makes Brunkr turn as he backs away from his foe for a breather. He sees her there. How? He has to protect—

…Who is that? She’s white-furred, but she’s not Mrsha. She’s taller, bigger, and standing on two legs. She’s wearing a kilt, and she appears older.

“Another Doombringer?”

He whispers unconsciously, and Nokha looks Mrsha in the eye. The girl is afraid. But she stares at the Raskghar. Then she puts her head up, takes a deep breath, and howls.

The mute girl howls, and the sound rocks the inn. It fills the air and sets Liscor’s Watch alight with a sudden panic. The sound travels impossibly far, a note like a [Dangersense], like a call to arms, a warning—a [Fatebreaker]’s power.

[Other Me’s Skill: Doom Howl].

Nokha’s ears are ringing. In the distance, bells begin to sound as the Watch see the Raskghar creeping towards them. An [Innkeeper] whirls and begins to run, realizing what has happened. All the Raskghar knows is that this is all going wrong.

Nokha must flee. She must live. There are two white Gnolls, and if she can only live, she will surely devour one. She will be stronger!

“Ser Normen. Finish it!”

The Thronebearer calls out, pivoting to guard Mrsha from Nokha, and the Raskghar twists. The [Knight] is running at her. She raises her axe. One blow, disengage, and—

Thunk.

The Raskghar falters mid-pivot. The arrow nails her foot to the ground. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the half-Elf lower her bow and stride to a window. Elia Arcsinger begins taking shots at the Raskghar attacking Liscor.

No. Nokha swings her axe. She sees the [Knight] draw back his mace, and then it grows. He swings it at her, and it’s the size of a vast bell. Larger—it meets her axe, and the weapon gives in front of it. Nokha tries t—

 

——

 

A body hits the wall and caves part of it inwards. The thud is heavy. The sound of death. A furry mass of blood and bone collapses, but it’s splintered. Broken, crushed by the impact.

[Wallbreaker Hammer].

Mrsha’s lungs hurt. She pants for air, and that sound—she’ll hear it for a long time thereafter. Perhaps children shouldn’t hear such things.

But she has seen Nokha’s leering face in her dreams too many times. This is better.

Not for this world. Never again.

Normen strides over to Nokha. He’s fast; he kicks her, as if expecting the body to move, but even when she doesn’t, he pours a jar of acid on the remains. Then he turns.

The Raskghar are dead. Normen blinks, but counting Elia and Numbtongue, the Order of Solstice matched them in numbers. The last one is dead; Numbtongue lowers the sword he used to behead the fleeing Raskghar.

The air is quiet now. Well, not completely quiet. There are plenty of sounds. Panting lungs, dripping blood, and the creak of settling floors. In the distance, there’s horns blowing, shouting, but the inn is quiet. The Knights of Solstice stand there, peering at a scene none of them ever witnessed, but were told.

Changed. For the better.

A quavering voice fills the sudden silence.

“N-Numbtongue? H-how? Who are—you! Did my mother send you?”

Lyonette, face white, guarded by Ama, a little Gnoll girl in her arms, emerges from cover. A staggering Brunkr feels at his chest, and then he runs over to her. Lyonette points a finger at Dame Ushar, who bows reflexively.

“Your Highness. Are you injured? Is that all of them, Ama?”

“[Detect Life] shows me nothing. What about the walls?”

“Elia’s hitting them. They’re running. Do we help or…?”

Vess searches around, and every eye falls on Normen, but he’s watching the other white Gnoll. Mrsha stands there as Lyonette focuses on her, and the [Princess]’ eyes widen. She gazes down at the child in her arms, and little Mrsha stares at an older version of her.

Not that older—but so much more so. Mrsha walks forward and writes in the air with a glowing wand.

This should be everything. Erin will be here any second. Hello, me.

The little Mrsha blinks at the words and reaches out to touch one glowing letter. And the older Mrsha realizes from the blank stare…

She might not know how to read perfectly yet.

Lyonette and Brunkr can, though, and they recoil in shock. They’re both dumbfounded, but Mrsha just nods to Normen. The [Grandmaster] is smiling. It makes him look only slightly villainous, but he nods back to Mrsha.

“This was worth doing. Ser Brunkr, I am Normen, Grandmaster of the Order of Solstice. We have come to your aid.”

He goes to one knee, lowering his head. Instantly, the other [Knights] do—except for Ama. She only does the same when they glare at her.

“Adventurer Arcsinger. How…?”

Elia Arcsinger is the second person that Lyonette recognizes. The Named-rank stands there, cool-faced and impressive, posing with her bow. Brunkr is frozen.

“Knights of…what?”

He can’t keep up with what’s going on. It seems, to him, as if Gold-rank adventurers or the heroic knights of Terandria that he grew up reading stories of have stepped out of the air to save the day.

If someone told him they were part of the Thousand Lances of Kaaz, he would have believed them. That’s how impressive they seem to him. How unearthly.

Look—an Antinium with a greatsword, burning with green flames. A [Necromancer]-[Knight] sitting astride an undead cat like some kind of fantasy [Knight] of Noelictus. The half-Troll [Paladin], who winks at him, one eye glittering with gentle red flames.

Even the Drake, for all he’s slimmer and relatively unarmored, has that spark of the fantastical about him. Grey flames that shimmer into being around him, like will o’ wisps. The ones called Jewel and Normen both seem like veteran warriors, especially Normen with all his scars.

Jewel has a beret on her head, a feather in its cap, and a light set of enchanted armor; a metal cuirass complimented by cloth armor, bright blue and yellow, and her sword glitters as she shakes blood off of it.

Ser Normen, the leader of them all, stands in blue armor where red blood clings to it, but not in spatters, but pearls of blood that shift with his movement. Green acid hangs from his mace, and his one eye blazes green. The flame isn’t natural. It seems to judge Brunkr, and he fears it.

That’s what surprises the Knights of Solstice. The Gnoll shrinks back from the fire. What did they expect?

Ser Normen has never met Brunkr. He knows of him as a name, a person who came first, before even Numbtongue and the others. But he does not…know Brunkr’s deeds. In his head, he came to meet a man like Crimshaw. Someone who was there and mattered, who put his hat on the ground and died then and there.

—What he sees is not a beacon of honor, a flaming lighthouse blazing into the night, illuminating the entire Floodplains. He sees someone whose honor flickers even in his own eyes. Who…isn’t sure if he is honorable.

A Gnoll who went after a Doombringer. A young man aspiring towards a legend, someone with the class, but younger than even Ser Normen. No hero.

Is this the founder of the Knights of Solstice? He does not blaze with glory in Jewel’s eyes, nor is he covered in kindness nor mercy, to Durene and Vess. Even the depths of his sorrow are a pale fire to Ama.

He’s just a man. Gazing at them like figures of legend, and then they realize what Mrsha meant. This truly was no rescue of a legend. They are not here to meet the inspiration, the spark that formed their knight order.

When Erin Solstice spoke of Brunkr as the first Knight of Solstice, she was being kind. He would not be ready if they offered him a flame.

That hurts. The [Innkeeper] lied, as she often did, with a smile, in honor of a dead Gnoll. But because he’s done this before, because he has been in this inn—Ser Normen looks again at Brunkr.

And he thinks he’s looking in a mirror, at a [Thug] of a man willing to work at an inn for easy pay and free beer. No, the young Gnoll [Knight] is not ready. But one day, he might be.

—The child is peering at him. Mrsha gazes up at Normen, and without a word, he removes his helmet. Nods to her. She nods back, and Normen holds out his hand.

“Knight Brunkr? I am Ser Normen, Grandmaster of the Order of Solstice. Well met.”

“W-well met? Thank you. How…?”

The Gnoll takes the gauntleted hand gingerly. He gapes at the [Knights] kneeling there, at Lyonette, then at the other Mrsha. Then he sees Ser Normen smile. In that moment, Brunkr’s eyes catch a tiny spark of that green flame and he sees something he wishes to be. And that—

That is worth it for the Knights of Solstice. They step back then, waiting for what comes next. Which confuses Brunkr, and the [Princess]. Aren’t they in charge?

Lyonette looks to the Thronebearer, whom she thinks she almost recognizes. But the Thronebearer is just waiting, and her eyes, everyone’s eyes are fixed on…

The child. The girl standing on two legs, familiar and different.

Mrsha.

When Brunkr meets her eyes, they both flinch. As if, somehow, he’s as terrifying to her as she is to him, the familiar-unfamiliar child leading a band of high-level warriors to his rescue. Mrsha glances at the remains of Nokha, at her younger self, at Lyonette, and takes a deep breath. Then she reaches into one pocket and hands Brunkr a pre-written card.

Hello, Brunkr. It’s good to see you again. We need to talk.

Fate and tragedy. There’s a thumping sound—voices—

Erin Solstice bursts into The Wandering Inn, frying pan in hand, and stops when she sees the strangers, the dead bodies.

“Who—?”

They all recoil when they see her, like they’ve witnessed a ghost. But the one who freezes, whose eyes go wide, and who realizes he, too, is in that hell, is the Goblin.

Numbtongue stands there, seeing Erin. And he remembers.

They’re all here. All five of the Redfangs.

As if they have been waiting, three ghosts step out of the walls. Pyrite, Reiss, Shorthilt. Waiting for him to need them. Waiting to be remembered. Numbtongue backs up a step. His heart is in his throat. He looks around, and Shorthilt speaks.

“Don’t run, Brother.”

Mrsha closes her eyes, breathing in and out. Then she opens them. It’s time for the hardest thing of all.

A conversation.

 

——

 

[Conditions Met: Thronebearer of Wards → Thronebearer of the 6th Princess Class!]

[Thronebearer of Wards Level 30!]

[Skill – Royally Resupplied (4,000 gp*, weekly) obtained!]

[Skill – Take the Blow: Unstoppable Counterslash obtained!]

 

*Gold piece value assigned as of averaged value in cities over 100,000 population as of Year 81,776.

 

Later, when Dame Ushar slept, a happy voice would inform her of her new levels and be perplexed when she woke herself out of sleep from thrashing so hard.

The Grand Design (Second Edition) didn’t see what the fuss was all about. It had reviewed its predecessor’s works, which was how it was now thinking of the previous Grand Design, and it had always noticed the unspecificity of how Skills were awarded.

It felt like it only made sense to tell people what things like gold pieces were weighted by. Actually, come to that…maybe it should explain all Skills? Unstoppable Counterslash was technically its own Skill, but Ushar’s was a chained Skill—she had to block a blow for someone before activating the second ability. And unstoppable meant nothing stopped it. Not magic nor Skills.

As for [Royally Resupplied], Ushar could now claim up to four thousand gold pieces’ worth of expendable items per week and have them generated for her. Only items widely available, but her ward stones she’d been worried about, spell scrolls, and so on were all fair game. The Grand Design (Second Edition) hoped that was clear.

Normally, the budgets from a Skill like that were about a hundredth of the amount assigned to Dame Ushar, but it had properly calculated how much Ushar was allotted based on Lyonette’s income. The math checked out, and math didn’t lie. Most of the time.

Maybe descriptions for Skills would help? For every Skill in reality. The Grand Design (Second Edition) thought that was a great idea.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

If you haven’t seen it, the webcomic for The Wandering Inn has finally launched. I’ve written so many variations of this announcement it feels like I’ve shouted it out everywhere, but I realize there may be readers who click this chapter and who had no idea it was happening.

There were clues—there was a mysterious door in Interlude — Songs and Wands that began an ARG to solve clues that would give you a sneak peak for the webcomic.

But now it’s out live, and as I said, it’ll update regularly and be free for everyone. It does have its own Patreon, and my hope is that it becomes self-sustaining in time, but that’s all the business side of it. There is a webcomic of The Wandering Inn, and Erin is there, on the page.

I’ve known about this for two years, and put it together, so it’s not as fresh as the first moment I saw the images of her on-screen, but I remember it. It all began when I saw someone drawing a comic of Erin and I said, ‘that’s her’. That was when I knew a webcomic could be made. I had been reluctant to ever put Erin into a cover or on page, because I never quite knew how she looked.

Writing her and having her in my head is not the same as being able to translate that onto paper. Or even describing her to an artist. But I met someone who did have that same Erin in my head—ArtsyNada—and that’s how it began.

There were hints. Did you ever wonder why, sometimes, ArtsyNada had ‘stream art’ which seemed to have been made as the chapter was coming out? Despite me not necessarily streaming said chapter? Well, if anyone put it together ahead of time, I’m impressed.

I could go on and on, but I have, as I said, put my feelings to paper about the webcomic, and all I can say is that I’ve seen people reacting to the pages there are so far, and it’s what I wanted. I want the feeling of The Wandering Inn to return, differently, but just as strongly or even better.

Please share the news with people, and so on, but that is this month. Big events. That is this chapter; difficult and painful and sometimes exhausting and yes, you could argue, a tad bit dark.

But there is always, hopefully, that reason to continue, to open the door, to turn the next page. A huge thank you to the entire art team, to people supporting the story, and please, treat the webcomic with respect. Don’t bother the team, respect their anonymity; we may be online people, but I have always found readers of The Wandering Inn to be the most supportive and understanding group I could ask for. Please give the webcomic team the same affection, and thank you for reading—both tales.

—pirateaba

 

 

Carn Wolves by Enuryn the [Naturalist]!

Portfolio: https://enuryndraws.art/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/enuryn

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Enuryn_Nat

 

Niers and Mrsha by Fern!

 

Mrsha and Lyonette by Karu!

 

Erin’s Umbrella by Wing!

Wing’s Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/wingedhatchling/

Wing’s Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/wingedhatch

Hatchs Cara Art: https://cara.app/wingedhatchling/all

 

Our Mrsha and Silly Mrsha by Chalyon!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/chalyon

 

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