“Do you see it? This is our chance. Our moment to reclaim victory from the lightless depths. To claw our way out of the black hole once more. We shall win. We always triumph in the end.”
The Crone was speaking as two dead goddesses observed the chaos in the [Palace of Fates]. The eyes of the transmundane had fixed upon this conflagration of destiny’s threads. To them, it was an endless knot of possibilities twisting and intersecting in ways that they should not. A puzzle; a vortex beyond which no one could see.
It was the realm of the divine to see the future of mortals, to influence and pluck the weave by choosing beings to act as their agents. Much like players on a chess board, to reduce what they did to a lesser analogy. Chess was unto mortals the difficulty of playing with fate for gods.
Some were masters of it. Others preferred checkers, but anyone could try.
However—this. This madness was beyond even what had stymied Kasigna, the Two-in-One, at the Winter Solstice. The inflection point then had been the sundering of countless fates, the theft via Skills of the Bloodtear Pirates. That had already been an event horizon that had stymied even the Goddess of Death’s ability to see past.
But this? Not even the King of Faeries knew what came next. You could, perhaps, follow a few threads into the future, but even then it was a gamble.
It was unprecedented. Mad. His fingers were in this. Oberon’s. Again, to go back to analogies, it was as if he’d stood up from the chess game and upended the board for everyone playing.
“The King of Promised Lands. The Lord of the Summer Court. The Eternal Trickster. The Champion of Hunts. The Sovereign of Causes.”
The Maiden whispered, and a harsh voice cut her off as the Crone snarled.
“The Monarch of Annoying Butterflies. The First of the Obnoxious Insect Folk Who Live in Mushroom Circles. If you name him, why dignify like that? He is our foe.”
Her recital of the…less-dignified titles awarded to the Faerie King, Oberon, was still laced with nerves. One did well not to even think his name.
The Maiden knew that well, but she could not help but shake her head and dissent with her other self.
“He is a worthy foe, my older self. If you cannot see that, admit it even now, then we truly are blind. Look at how he has brought us to this end.”
“He is weak. Sundered of his other half in Titania. She is dead. His realm is nothing more than an emptying haven for fools. I—we—warned him ages ago that his commitments to the many realms his feckless subjects meddle with would lead to this. The Fae of Avalon are doomed.”
Strangely, neither Kasigna was happy about that. It was a bitter thing to say, even for the being who had fought so long against the King of Faeries. The Maiden went back to watching, silent, and the Crone joined her.
Kasigna peered over the edge of nothingness, watching as a little girl—Mrsha?—and a Goblin [Tattooist] ran into a door of the future. To her eyes, the gap between realities splintered into a nebulous, half-formed reality literally created days ago.
It wasn’t ‘complete’. The world existed only around Liscor at the moment, but the more beings that entered the world, the more it had to be spun out, literally created wholecloth. A being was doing that—the Grand Design of Isthekenous. The second one.
The strain. The effort and the masterful creation in real-time by Isthekenous’ servant was beyond incredible, even to Kasigna. Most gods had to work off templates when creating something as fundamental as reality. Many cribbed notes from each other or just copied outright. The average time for a divine being to create a reality was about ten Earth days, and that was a basic world.
The Grand Design (Second Edition) was beyond a master. As it had been made. It was twice-bitter, then, to see it executing the very ideas that Isthekenous had proposed. It could duplicate itself, literally shape and guide multiple realms. The Crone’s lips twisted with both desperate hope and regrets.
“Look. You surely see it, my younger self. An opening.”
Oh yes, the Maiden saw the thing they could exploit, but her gaze was faraway. Her mind was with…
“Oberon.”
The whisper made the Crone jerk away in fear. It provoked a rustle among even some of the watchers, those strangers who stood in observation. A few of them, the…lesser ones—though that was such a relative term—reacted to the name. Then they glanced over at the impassive few and subsided.
There was a pecking order, even there. There were eight right now; five of them wearing robes.
Did you know them? Yes, you did. That was who stood there, watching.
Two Kasignas.
Eight strangers from other realms, observing for reasons of their own.
One Grand Design of Isthekenous.
Clearly, they frightened the Grand Design. It did not know what they were, which both Kasignas found rather ironic. Of all the beings in all the realities, these were eight of a kind that not even gods would trifle with.
In time, they would come to you. In time, you would meet them, be you deity or insect. They had not reacted to the explosion the Grand Design had hurled at them. For what could you do?
Cheat them? Raise a magical sword to slay one? Imprison them? Perhaps some of them would fall for it or allow it to be done. But always, and ever, they won. Immortals only met them later than mortals.
When the Goddesses of Death looked over their shoulders, they met eight impassive gazes, and the two shuddered. They nodded, respectfully, at the beings they nominally liked to imagine they commanded. But in truth, a Goddess of Death ruled her world and appointed her own agents. She was a sub-administrator, someone who had essentially claimed a plot of real estate and appointed herself as the head honcho of the area.
The beings who stood there were…everything.
Do you understand? Did you see it? The Grand Design feared them instinctively, because they existed outside of its influence, utterly and completely. One day—they would take it gently as everything else in the world.
When you closed your eyes for the final time—
When the world stopped for you and you found out what came next—
When you heard the beating of great wings—
You would meet them.
Death.
Or, depending on which one it was, Dᴇᴀᴛʜ.
Oɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴡᴀs ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ Kᴀsɪɢɴᴀ. Wɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ᴍᴀʟɪᴄᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ sᴇᴇ; ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ sᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇs ᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴏᴍɪɴᴏᴜs ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴠᴇʀʏ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ. Tʜɪs ᴘᴀʀᴛɪᴄᴜʟᴀʀ Dᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴡᴀs ᴏ̨ᴜɪᴛᴇ ɪᴄᴏɴɪᴄ: ᴀ ᴄʟᴀssɪᴄ sᴋᴜʟʟ ғʀᴀᴍᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴘɪᴛᴄʜ-ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ʀᴏʙᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ sᴄʏᴛʜᴇ.
Only the eyes were different. They were twin blue stars in the void of space, so vastly distant one could imagine they were cruel and impartial. It made her shiver. That gaze had judged beings even greater than she. That skeletal hand had ushered entire worlds somewhere even she did not understand.
And—he—was one of eight. Not even the greatest by far. A vast authority watched through this Death’s gaze. A force that governed all realities. And that was…one. His stare pierced Kasigna, and she shivered, bowing to him, wondering if all her deeds and her aeons of struggle were weighed well in his eyes.
Iɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠɪᴇᴡ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪs ᴘᴀʀᴛɪᴄᴜʟᴀʀ Dᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʜᴏʟᴅɪɴɢ ʜɪs sᴄʏᴛʜᴇ ʜɪɢʜ, Kᴀsɪɢɴᴀ’s ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴇxɪsᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴊᴜᴅɢᴇᴅ ғᴀɪʀʟʏ. Iᴍᴘᴀʀᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ. Hᴇʀ ᴀᴄʜɪᴇᴠᴇᴍᴇɴᴛs ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴇᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴsᴛ ʜᴇʀ ғᴀɪʟᴜʀᴇs ᴏɴ ᴀ sᴄᴀʟᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴ sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ. Iғ ᴛʜɪs Dᴇᴀᴛʜ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀɴ ᴏᴘɪɴɪᴏɴ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs, ᴘᴇʀʜᴀᴘs, ᴛʜᴀᴛ Kᴀsɪɢɴᴀ’s ʟᴏɴɢ ʟɪғᴇ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴇɴʜᴀɴᴄᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄᴀᴛs.
The Maiden met another Death’s gaze. One of…the Deaths. One of the ones that probably scared the other psychopomps. For they were all some version of the idea, but even Death might die.
And who came for them? Well. It might be one of the others. Or the young woman with black hair who sat there. Resting her chin on her cupped hands.
Waiting.
That’s why it was terrifying. This did not happen, normally. The Maiden blinked, unable to meet that gentle stare. And then there were more.
One of them vanished; five more appeared. They didn’t teleport in, they didn’t move. They were just—there. As if they’d always been there. Now, there were twelve. More of varying kinds.
Most had classic instruments of their trade. The reaping scythe, iconic. Many resembled mortals’ notions of what death was, figures associated with their ideas of death. Often a skeleton or corpse of some kind.
A hunting figure of pursuit, for instance, a wolf, a skeleton, or just an ordinary person, depending on the culture. Someone you’d see walking around and not pay attention to often.
There was even a mouse.
A tiny figure shifted slightly, and the younger Kasigna corrected her thoughts hurriedly. A rat. The Death of Rats stopped moving, and Kasigna decided to turn around.
Death stood behind Kasigna. It was a thing they tended to do, but it was a uniquely unsettling experience for the goddess. They stood there, each one in a different image that mortals tended to love. Each one was a different story.
A different point of view. They were terrifying to gods and great beings, because no matter how powerful you grew, they were right there. Waiting. You could fancy you’d beaten them, escaped causality itself, and Death wouldn’t hold a grudge.
It was just a matter of time. You didn’t delay your appointment, you see. It only looked like that from your perspective.
They always arrived when they were due. And yes, they could be terrifying. But each one that stood here was an image that mortals understood. They were kinder, you see, than the roaring oblivion of nothingness.
Death waited. For what, only they knew.
——
The Goddess of Death tried to collect her thoughts. She searched her memory for what she’d been saying. Her other self was just as rattled. The Crone licked the memory of lips and rasped.
“—The Faerie King. That fool.”
The Maiden started. Blinked.
“Yes. Him. I respect him. Don’t you? He was, like his people, the greatest of allies once.”
“Once. Then he turned against us. In time, he shall pay for—”
“Yes, yes. Shut up. Do you—I am tired of hearing myself talk like that.”
Affronted, the Crone closed her mouth and narrowed her eyes at the Maiden. They were—diverging. And without the Mother to break this impasse, neither one was sure who was correct. The Maiden continued, her eyes on the world below.
“He was always constant. When he was friend, he was the greatest of allies and begrudged us nothing. He helped us peer across the many worlds. Isthekenous counted many in the Court of the Fae to be his friend. When he became our foe, he did not cease no matter the cost. We marked him for his end, and he never flinched.”
The Crone was sulking; it came out in her voice, which grew even more spiteful—and that was her default setting. She folded the memory of clothing around herself, as if cold. And they were cold. They were always cold and in pain. They were dead; without flesh to sustain them, even ideas hurt.
They’d been like this for tens of thousands of years. Rotting. In an agony, slowly dissolving, fighting to even remember what they were. Begging for scraps to restore their shattered selves, let alone bodies. Many of their number had quietly let themselves pass rather than continue this torment.
But she was Kasigna. She had refused to die. Now, see what it had gotten her. The Maiden thought about that and wondered if the Crone did. The Crone was ranting.
“We did it all to aid him and the countless realities battling the Rot Between Worlds. Had he not made war, we would have brought armies to his cause. Grown a seed from which would sprout a vast network of worlds with the might to challenge any realm! Even—”
She glanced over her shoulder at the Deaths and hesitated. But they didn’t react, even at the grand dreams of the Goddess of Death. Perhaps they were silently laughing. You thought to equal us; see how low you’ve fallen. Perhaps they didn’t even care. Kasigna wasn’t sure which was more dispiriting.
The Maiden shook her head.
“Or we might have invaded.”
“Do not argue those old discussions with me. They are done. Choices were made.”
Yes. Everyone had taken a side, even if that side was to try to abstain or flee. Here they were. Dead and rotting, sundered of one of their selves. On the edge of reality with over a dozen psychopomps breathing down the back of their necks. The Maiden turned to the Crone.
“Do you ever regret any choices you made?”
“Seldom.”
The Crone glowered at the Maiden, and the younger Kasigna nodded to herself, as if confirming something she had just realized.
“Clearly.”
They went back to watching. After a while, the Crone spoke again.
“The opportunity is nigh. We shall use it. We shall triumph and—”
“Silence.”
The soft comment from the other Kasigna shocked her elder self. The Crone opened her mouth and saw how the Maiden knelt. Eyes fiercely watching what should not be. Mortal lives resurrected. She was not looking at the opportunity for herself. She was watching as—the Goddess of Death.
The principled, ancient being who had once been the most loved of all the gods by Zineryr.
Two Kasignas stood there, then.
Two.
At least one of them was changing. The Goddesses of Death watched. Death waited. And the Grand Design of Isthekenous (First Edition) wavered as it tried to analyze what it couldn’t. It wavered in the face of Death.
Then at last—it occurred to it to check on what everyone was staring at.
——
Death was watching the [Palace of Fates] play out its events. Realities were slamming together, and the knowledge of it was spreading. Even if those inside were not aware of all of what was going on—the observers—there were some that knew they were inside of the box of reality.
There were beings who had…been here before. Who had escaped Death and sensed it on their shoulders. Who paid attention. And now, the knowledge was leaking everywhere. The more who found out, the more inevitable some events became.
The Winter Solstice, morning. In the world where the Redfang Five had lived, the almost-ideal world where Erin Solstice had never died.
It should have been a day of pure celebrations. Certainly, Erin Solstice began it with a bang.
“Happy Winter Solstice!”
She activated a little scroll that Palt had worked up for her, and it exploded with a bang and a shower of illusionary confetti. The sound nearly gave several people having breakfast in her inn a heart-attack.
“Dead gods, Erin! Did you have to do that?”
A very upset Ceria wearing half her continental breakfast picked herself—and her food—off the floor. Erin winced.
“Oops! Uh, sorry, Ceria. Good thing you’re not in the beach garden.”
“Why? What’s—”
The open door to the beach was currently flashing a concerning number of colors. The half-Elf heard shouts of alarm over the din of about a hundred fireworks exploding over the heads of the slumbering guests there.
Erin Solstice hesitated. She listened to the first screams of alarm, the cursing, and then hurried over and shut the door to the beach garden. She dusted her hands innocently.
“Oops?”
The door slammed open on the other side of the common room, and the first angry person came striding through it. A mostly naked Jelaqua holding a towel around her body.
“Erin! Did you have to scare everyone to death? Maughin dropped his head he was so alarmed, and you nearly blew out an eardrum!”
“Sorry! I thought it would be fun—”
“On a hangover?”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you drank—”
More irate guests were emerging, though some of them looked a bit more satisfied than others, despite the din. For instance, a very sleepy Relc emerged with the biggest grin in creation on his face.
“We’re not under attack then? Good—I, uh—I’ll be out for breakfast shortly. Just—”
What appeared to be a floating ball of blankets followed him; Erin’s jaw dropped, and Jelaqua stopped threatening to dunk her in the water headfirst as they saw Valeterisa blearily staring at them. Valeterisa and Relc. He hurried her back through the door, but the realization was so startling that both Erin and Jelaqua gaped at each other and forgot why they were fighting.
Yes, The Wandering Inn was full of surprises, merriment, the occasional heart attack, but generally good things. Especially today. Erin pinched her cheek.
“Relc and Valeterisa. Wh—well, good for him. Hey, Calescent! We need a super breakfast for everyone! To apologize for the, um, explosions. Do we have one?”
He gave her a big thumbs up from the kitchen through the open window, and Erin wiped her brow in relief. She beamed around, completely forgetting to feel bad as Pisces, with bloodshot eyes, gave her a death-stare as he tromped into the inn. Erin sat down on a block of ice, shot to her feet, and shouted.
“Aw, come on, Ceria!”
Rather uncharacteristically, Ceria flipped her off and went back to eating her salvaged breakfast. Okay, it was characteristic of Ceria, but not towards Erin. The grumpy Pisces took a seat at the table, eying Ceria.
“Ah. You didn’t stay at our beach house, Ceria? It saved you from that unpleasant racket.”
“Not by much. Erin set off a mini-explosion before that.”
Ceria gestured to the messy floor as Silveran appeared with a mop, and Pisces rolled his eyes.
“One needn’t have guessed that if a bad idea could be had, Erin Solstice would do it twice.”
He ducked a breadroll hucked at him and slammed his head into the table. This didn’t even make Ceria laugh, which was so out-of-the-ordinary that Pisces hesitated, even as he clutched his skull.
“…Is something wrong, Ceria? I thought you were just, ah, disinclined to share space with all the rather active pairings last night.”
He meant Jelaqua and Maughin, Lasica and Rufelt, and even Relc and Valeterisa; the beach garden plus drinks and a sociable time had led to a number of romances starting or engaging in noisome ways last night. He hadn’t cared; [Silence] spells were invented for a reason, but he’d been in his rooms, studying some of Az’kerash’s spells. Pisces tried to smile and lighten the mood.
“Yvlon and Ksmvr didn’t, ah, have any magical help, and at least one of the rooms in our shared villa was not soundproofed. I gather the two of them decided to sit and watch the stars. Far away from the villa.”
“At least someone had company last night.”
Pisces nearly spat out his first sip of eggnog.
“Yvlon and Ksmvr—no!”
“I meant you, idiot. Weren’t you out flirting last night? I saw you at one of the parties. Or did the sniffing charm master strike out?”
The [Cryomancer] was definitely in a bad mood. Pisces hesitated, averted a sniff, and coughed into one sleeve instead.
“I did not ‘strike out’, exactly. Rather, I feel as though I laid the foundations of a—do you know that female Drake with the unique scales?”
“Pink and blue?”
Pisces heaved a huge sigh as he stared into his cup.
“I would have said rosary and cobalt. An [Alchemist], too. She’s quite, ah, eye-catching—”
“Yeah, she seems like she could deck you. High-level. Saliss’ cousin. So you put yourself out? How’d it go?”
The [Necromancer] was adjusting his robes, and Ceria noticed he’d tried to comb his hair and make himself magically more presentable today.
“Well, I daresay we chatted quite amicably. I had a bit of—let us just say Ishkr was there, despite having his job to tend to, and he and I were vying for Miss Onieva’s consideration.”
Ceria glanced up from her eggs and translated all this.
“—So you’re fighting with Ishkr over who can impress her more, and she’s playing hard-to-get?”
Pisces stabbed at a breakfast waffle as it was brought over by Asgra.
“I dislike how you framed that. I might see her later this evening. You wouldn’t, uh, happen to have any things I should improve on?”
Ceria eyed Pisces with a bit of grudging fondness and reached out. She ruffled his hair up.
“Uncomb that hair. Just try to be charming and not a show-off. I’ll wish you luck. Better luck than me.”
She went back to glowering at her mug, which was frosting over. Pisces hesitated.
“I thought you were…well, wait. Are you seeing someone…?”
He hadn’t been aware of that, though now he thought of it, she had been taking some time off now and then. Ceria’s reply was short as she savagely bit into a sausage.
“I thought I’d see Kevin tonight. But apparently he found someone or just ‘forgot’. Lucky me. I was sitting out waiting for him for two hours.”
Pisces’ mouth opened.
“K—perhaps he was in the wrong place?”
“I’d love that to be the case. Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious.”
The moody half-Elf made Pisces seriously worry for Kevin. If the [Mechanic] had found someone else’s company for the night, he might have more than a cold seat to worry about.
This was the morning’s drama, such as it was. Minor affairs like that. Lasica and Rufelt threw sandballs at Erin as they walked in, and she got a heckling from other people who’d woken to a heart attack from the explosions. But by and large, it was a great Winter Solstice.
—Kevin hadn’t slept, and neither had several others, like Moore, Halrac, Pyrite, or Headscratcher. They appeared slowly and didn’t interact with everyone else. Kevin didn’t even seem to notice Ceria’s glower, but when she realized his appearance wasn’t due to a hangover or company, she grew concerned.
The only person who actually noticed, in fact, was Erin Solstice, who glanced at some of her guests for a long moment as they appeared. Something was off in The Wandering Inn.
But on this day of days, what could go wrong?
——
You know who was in a good mood today? Teriarch. Or Demsleth or whatever his name was. Eldavin, perhaps; he was alternating between all three disguises.
The Dragonlord of Flame, in the flesh, intact and whole. He’d almost lost himself on Terandria, during the Ailendamus war. Near-run thing. He’d forgotten how dangerous simulacrums could be, and he’d had amnesia after being clocked in the face by Cognita. Then almost died in battle against Dioname, the Great General of Ailendamus.
Foolish stuff, really. Thankfully, both Ailendamus and the Dawn Concordat had drawn up a peace treaty when both sides had realized how close they had come to mutual annihilation. The war wasn’t ‘over’, but with Ryoka Griffin somehow mixed up with Duke Rhisveri, they had achieved a tentative peace.
If you asked Teriarch how to explain that one, he would have had to launch into a complicated explanation about Ryoka Griffin’s Courier status taking her to Ailendamus, whereupon her unique viewpoint—and perhaps attraction to the immortals—had led her to making a mess of the Court of Masks and identifying numerous immortals in Ailendamus’ ranks before coming to the attention of Duke Rhisveri. Who’d taken her captive.
So many things were the same, but for different reasons. Yet in this better time, one crucial change had occurred—Teriarch as Eldavin had never lost his memories battling Cognita in Wistram. Ryoka had gone to Ailendamus, but the being who had gone to rescue her had always been the Dragon she trusted.
Cue the Archmage of Memories entering the war, as well as Tyrion Veltras, and the entire mess was settled with the help of The Wandering Inn. Mostly. Sort of. A peace treaty had been signed for four months. Tyrion Veltras had committed three of the Five Families to help the Dawn Concordat. And Ryoka Griffin was currently fleeing engagement offers from Tyrion Veltras and Duke Rhisveri of Ailendamus…
Well, the Wind Runner seemed to be quite amicable with Tyrion Veltras. Which wasn’t to say that Duke Rhisveri didn’t have a chance…especially with what Teriarch suspected the ‘Duke’s’ true nature was.
The point was that Teriarch had come to The Wandering Inn to relax after all that entanglement. He’d adopted the guise of Demsleth to eat, drink, make merry, and he’d been living it up the last, well, month.
Only Magnolia Reinhart had spoiled his mood; she kept nagging him about obligations and being out of shape—rather hurtful comments about his true form’s weight. When Demsleth had pointed out that nothing he ate in his fake form would go back to his true form, she had pointed out that also went for fake muscles and his rather toned physique as Eldavin.
…He’d been having his true body do a few laps around the Floodplains. Well, one. Running in the snow was quite tiring. He’d do two tomorrow. One had to build up to it, you see.
“Ah, more eggnog. Where’s Taletevirion? Still drunk from last night? Nevermind, this is excellent. No, eggscellent. Heh.”
Demsleth was in fine form today over breakfast. He smirked to himself as he stroked his grey-and-white beard and cast around for approval.
Magnolia Reinhart stood up at the table where she’d been having a morning sugar with a dash of tea.
“Ressa? I believe I’ll breakfast in private. Please tell me when he stops punning.”
“Very good, Mistress Reinhart. Will you be having your breakfast extra snooty or with it on the side?”
Ressa followed Magnolia as Demsleth looked around indignantly. Magnolia was just put out because he’d spent so much time at Wistram and with Ryoka Griffin. Events had forced his hand! He admitted he’d been a bit more…interactive with the world of late. More than he’d ever done in the decades he’d known her.
That hurt her feelings a bit, he understood. In truth, Teriarch couldn’t quite account for what had motivated him to do all that. He’d gone to Wistram to shake it up before Ryoka Griffin had gotten into trouble. Because, of course, he’d been disgusted with the state of things. But he’d been generally disgusted with Wistram for millennia. Why now?
…He didn’t know, and the Brass Dragon wondered why he’d thought of it today.
Strange, that.
He rather felt like a sleepwalker who had emerged from their slumber only to recall all the things they’d done while unconscious. But he was still occupied with enjoying himself, so he turned to the second person at the table.
“Do excuse Magnolia. She’s quite irritable before her morning cup of sucrose. Low blood sugar, one expects. I’m sure she’ll be quite willing to hear you out after she’s had her repast. As you were saying, Baker Garry?”
The [Baker] was sitting nervously at the table, scrunching a red hat between his hands as he delicately ate some Antinium-approved bread he’d made. He jumped, then dipped his head.
“T-thank you, Mister Demsleth. I was just speaking of my project?”
“Ah yes. Project Extra Santa.”
Demsleth focused and conjured a pair of spectacles onto his brows more for the look of things than anything. He shook out the papers in front of him. Doubtless, Magnolia was reviewing the same. She just didn’t want Garry to note her reactions. Cautious, that woman.
“The funding is, hmm…well, shall we go over it?”
“Yes, Mister Demsleth. I have calculated how much it would cost per child to receive some toys. You see, this is for children who did not receive a full Christmas supply of toys.”
Christmas. Such an odd concept. Not foreign, but…Demsleth tapped his fingers on the table.
“Yes, quite a low number.”
“I can certainly budget it if there is not enough f—low?”
Garry broke off, and the [Baker] sat up a bit as Demsleth eyed the underlined sum.
“Gold-wise. I realize you are trying to save costs given the scope of this project, young man, but a gift for children, especially in terms of food or other necessities, is not to be put to a low sum.”
He wagged an admonishing finger at Garry, and the Antinium’s mandibles opened. He caught a meaningful stare from Ressa as the [Maid] paused in the hallway with Magnolia’s breakfast and slowly nodded his head.
“Yes. Low. Well, I was offering the, um, bare minimum amount for you to review. I can provide a larger figure if you were willing to foot it.”
Demsleth lifted his spectacles up and gave Garry a grandfatherly smile.
“In my experience, young man, it is best to ask for all you dare to set expectations. Just a word of advice. We could also reduce costs even further magically. Transportation, even creation of some of this—not food. But all that’s required is someone with a white beard and a red hat?”
He rather liked the idea. It was past Christmas, but this ‘delayed Santa’ initiative sounded rather…good. Not just fun. He imagined flying around and leaving gifts for children. And he liked the idea. Garry was trembling with nerves and hope as Demsleth pondered it.
“Yes indeed, this is the kind of thing that should be done. It’s not grand interference—er, from me, you understand—but I can back it. You know, wasn’t there that [Knight] belonging to the Order of Haegris? They would go for this kind of thing. Put that together with Wistram and you could expand the reach of this program.”
“W-Wistram? How?”
Demsleth remembered his form and coughed.
“My, uh—cousin is Archmage Eldavin. Let me just call him, and he’ll be over later today. In fact, I’ll just send him a [Message] now…”
He pretended to [Message] Eldavin while instead he was sending a communication to various [Mages] in Wistram about the idea they should definitely do. Then Teriarch sat back, smiling. There was a pause—and then a dozen [Messages] came back.
“Magus Teura here. Archmage, you’ve been out of contact for two weeks! We need to replace Archmage Nailihuaile—”
“Archmage Feor to Archmage Eldavin. If you could clarify this event, Archmage? Are we endorsing an Earth-related event? What purpose?”
“Viltach to Eldavin. I like this. Can we expand it to Terandria? I can get a few nations behind it if you give me a day to reach out—”
Oh, the buzzing of flies. Teriarch sighed hugely as he replied, rather annoyed with everyone but Viltach, who had his heart in the right place. He spoke to Garry, reassuring him that Eldavin would be on-board, and made a note to come back as ‘Eldavin’ instead of ‘Demsleth’ in an hour or so.
—Strange. The Dragon’s mind was now being bombarded with [Messages] from Wistram who naturally wanted Archmage Eldavin to do everything, all the time, at once.
They hadn’t bothered him all month.
Wistram, who’d just lost Archmage Nailihuaile to the breakout of Archmage Amerys. And who were all greedy [Mages] dealing with the being they thought was the Archmage of Memories.
Why hadn’t he received a single [Message]…?
——
What the Brass Dragon did not sense was the strain. And the strain was increasing.
Both Grand Designs felt it. The horrified Grand Design (First Edition) had just been observing everything. Much like a slack-jawed manager comes back to find half their building on fire with a swarm of rats fighting an army of roaches around a sinkhole that has opened up in the kitchen.
The [Palace of Fates] active. Multiple realities breached.
And worse—its thoughts were at a crawl. It was reacting so slowly, thinking slower, because all of its power and attention was devoted to the upkeep of this—this mess.
The Grand Design had been created to oversee an entire world’s worth of people. It could handle billions of individuals acting at once and process their levels and deeds in real-time without issue.
You know what strained it? Creating a subreality of Kasigna’s past and cataloging every single thing that had ever occurred there. Hence the creation of the Grand Design (Second Edition). But even that was nothing compared to creating multiple realities and populating them.
The problem was Teriarch. The Grand Design (First Edition)—was firing off queries to the second version of itself, demanding to know what was happening. But even this internal communication was slowing.
Teriarch. Dragonlord of Flames. A being with over fifty thousand years of history and connections, his entire life detailed, literally storied, and having influenced countless souls. Every single interaction was logged, meticulously noted—and had to be copied out for him.
And all the people he’d ever met. Not just that—when the Brass Dragon sent a [Message] to Wistram, that entire area was suddenly now populated. Reality had to be expanded, and everywhere Wistram might conceivably touch was at least accounted for, if not outright created.
The—strain—
That was one reality. In another door, the Blighted Empire had just run into the Flooded Waters tribe and the Painted Antinium. In a future…?
What was going on? The Grand Design (First Edition)—couldn’t even think. Because the Blighted Empire was being created and now moving into action. An entire continent’s worth of people being—
Madness. The Grand Design tried to stop it. It tried to shout at its other self. How had this happened?
It couldn’t tell. It was moving in slow motion. This was a nightmare. And it realized—events were connecting faster and faster. So it was listening, along with Demsleth, as someone passed by the table.
Kevin.
——
Kevin’s stomach hurt. He felt like puking. He was nauseous, dizzy, lightheaded, feverish, and clammy all at once. It felt like the mother of all flus, but worse.
It was, he felt, what ‘walking over your grave’ meant. He’d always thought it would be some kind of ethereal shivering, that chill down the back of your spine. This—felt like the grave getting up and trying to drag him down.
It was frightening because it was real. It wasn’t like a ghost story or even that real sense of unease you got when your idiot friend began messing with a Ouija Board at midnight. That was your hindbrain warning you that maybe something would happen. There was a big difference between that and reality, and Kevin knew reality.
He’d laughed and thought this was a game before he’d had to hold a sword and feel the weight of it and swing it at a monster. Before he’d seen Imani, shaking and covered in blood, or witnessed an adventurer emerging from a battle elbows deep in viscera and guts and realized that wasn’t him.
In the same vein, impossible as the news of multiple realities and that he was in fact dead in what might be the ‘real’ world—it wasn’t the first time Kevin had been here. If he could survive coming to another world with his sanity intact, he could comprehend what he had been told and take it seriously.
Hence the feeling of death. Hence his shivering and stumbling around on what should have been a fun day. When Erin had woken him with that firecracker, he’d been dozing. Dreaming of…of…
Ceria Springwalker. Kevin stumbled past Demsleth and Garry and glanced at them. Demsleth. Some random old guy with the same eyes as Eldavin—probably some mystic Elf from the old days or a living legend. That was obvious. That was normal.
He’d figured that out. Kevin wasn’t stupid. Erin’s inn was crazy, but if you watched, it made sense. Goblins were people that no one respected. That was logical; Demsleth was logical in Erin’s world.
Future Mrsha with her haunted eyes was not.
Are they dead in the future, too? No, she said Moore and Halrac and Pyrite and Ulinde and Headscratcher and Shorthilt and—me.
Me.
Why him? In that list above, he was the only non-warrior. He was an Earther. He was supposed to be…off-limits. Safe.
Roshal. Kevin vaguely knew of them. [Slavers]. Bad fucking people. But distant. He’d done some research on them last night. He hadn’t liked anything he’d found out.
‘Research’, by the way, was calling Fetohep of Khelt and letting the old guy lecture you about how things were. You could just sit and work on a bicycle with him in the background like the world’s best podcast. That was fun. That was Kevin-style.
—Hearing the King of Khelt talk about Roshal was not something Kevin ever wanted to do again. In fact, as he stumbled across the inn for breakfast, a speaking stone chimed.
“His Majesty of Khelt.”
“Fuck me with a wrench—hello, Your Majesty? I’m, uh, sort of busy.”
Kevin didn’t have the energy to be polite. But the King of Khelt was understanding for him.
“Kevin Hall. I am merely inquiring as to your wellbeing this morning. It occurs to me that I have done you a disservice, burdening you with the details of Roshal’s…excesses. Nothing I spoke was incorrect or untrue. Nevertheless, it is a weight upon the soul. How do you fare?”
“I’m—not great, Your Majesty? But I had to know. Thank you.”
Asgra was serving people food this morning. Kevin hadn’t eaten in over twelve hours. If someone put the inviting food in front of him and he took a bite, he might puke it out. Fetohep’s voice was stern, but kindly.
“I advise you to make merry on this day. Enjoy the eclipse. Forget—if you need discuss it, I shall be here. Remember the truth, but do not let it overwhelm you.”
“I shall, Your Majesty. Thank you. And, um, happy Solstice.”
“…Yes. A ‘happy Solstice’ to thou as well. Farewell.”
The Revenant hung up, and Kevin hoped he’d covered well enough. But then he asked the question: what was the point? They were all fake. Apparently, Fetohep was a friend in Mrsha’s world. And Kevin had to know.
Roshal took Erin. Roshal killed me. Kevin wasn’t one for hyperbole most of the time, but if he had a nuke and a way to ship it to that place, he would have probably hit the big red button instantly. Fetohep had described…something beyond foul, and he had refused to outline some of it, which told Kevin how bad it was.
He felt like ice water had been poured over his head as he sat down at a table. Roshal was out there, in his world as well as future-Mrsha’s. They were doing horrific things, and no one was looking at them as the threat. That was a mistake. Someone should be making war on the bastards.
The King of Destruction. Or Headscratcher’s tribe. Or Niers or…Kevin was doing that thing again. Sitting, like when bad news came back home on Earth. He’d see a war or something terrible and say, ‘someone should stop that’ or ‘someone has to arrest that guy’.
Then he’d go surfing because he wasn’t the one to do it. He was just a citizen of the United States, no soldier. His vote was one of, what, three hundred million? And everyone knew the system was rigged.
In some ways, Kevin was a cynical person. People thought he was happy-go-lucky, but he was just relaxed about a lot of things. When it came to his life, he tried to do things that he thought mattered, like having fun or enjoying himself or not being a dick to people. But he believed he couldn’t affect big things.
His brother was in prison for years because of a drug offense. Illegal at the time, sure. But he hadn’t been a dealer, even though that was the charge. Every damn thing younger Kevin had tried to do back then had resulted in nothing. That’s what being a person was. Helpless when something bigger than you decided to roll over something or someone you loved.
This world, that world, it was the same. Kevin was powerless, but in this world, at least, people could matter. Erin could matter. Ceria could matter. Headscratcher could stare down a Drake city and get them to back off. Niers was the size of your hand and could make nations quake. That was power, and Kevin had none.
So why me? Or more importantly, if he was dead—Kevin put his head on the table. He didn’t move as several people noticed his condition.
“[Remove Hangover]. Hm. Ah, well.”
Demsleth waved a hand at him from the next table over, and when Kevin raised his bloodshot eyes, the man hesitated.
“Pardon me, young man. I thought—well, I advise you to drink fluids and get more sleep. Your face is sagging a bit. Mind it doesn’t fall off.”
“…Thanks.”
Kevin put his head down for half a second before someone else came over.
“Hey, Kevin. I didn’t see you last night.”
Ceria. Kevin groaned as he realized they’d made plans together.
“Ceria! I am so sorry—”
The half-Elf was visibly upset. She flashed him with a smile as frost almost radiated off her.
“It’s fine. It’s cool. That’s a pun. Looks like you had a busy night. With someone?”
“No, I was thinking. Ceria, I—”
“Just don’t forget anything else. I’ll see you at the eclipse, if you remember it’s going on. You missed a fun party last night. So did I.”
She stomped past him into the snowy outdoors. Kevin almost got up to chase after her, then he slumped over the table. What was the point? She was fake, and this was just a casual thing between them. Or it was supposed to be. She was the amazing adventurer, and he—
Asgra put a cup of water on Kevin’s head and balanced it there. When he didn’t react, she put a plate of food in front of him, took the water glass off his head, and shoved it into his cheek.
“You drink this. You look like my poo.”
“Thanks.”
He gulped the water, then put his head down again. The problem with being at the inn was—
“Hey, Kevin! What’s up, pal? You’re looking like Asgra’s poo. Ew. Gross. Sorry.”
“Erin, not now. Please?”
He raised his head as the [Innkeeper] came over and gave him a worried smile. She hesitated as she took a seat at the table.
“You good, pal?”
“Not really. But I’m fine. Just—thinking.”
He tried to smile at her and remembered other-Mrsha’s words. In her world, Erin had died. Then they’d put her on a ship with Roshal—he tried not to imagine what that meant. He clenched his nails into one palm. The [Innkeeper] was unconvinced. The entire room lurched slightly, and Kevin’s stomach dropped. Erin apologized.
“Whoops, sorry. I’m moving the inn back to next to Liscor. Big eclipse-watching party. Are you sure you don’t want to talk? About anything?”
This time, the [Mechanic]’s hesitation was longer. As far as he knew, Pyrite and the other ‘dead’ people were the only ones who knew about the truth and other-Mrsha’s identity. But the [Innkeeper] was the owner of the inn. She was still a [Witch] in this timeline. He avoided her gaze.
“I—I don’t want to talk. You could ask Pyrite.”
“Mm. Maybe. I was worried that you looked bad, buddy. If you want to chat about…well, anything, give me a shout, okay?”
“Sure. Thanks, Erin.”
He met her eyes, and she gave him a big smile and hopped up.
“Speaking of Pyrite, I wonder where he is? I’ll just go see—”
She left, and Kevin wondered if this was a bad thing. Again, did it matter?
We’re not real. We’re not real, and I could go with Mrsha, but who the fuck wants to go to the world she’s from? It sounds like hell. If I’m not real, then—
I’ m dead. I’m dead already. I’mdeadsowhatdoesitmatterI’mdeadI’mdeadI’mdeadI’mdead—
His thoughts blurred together in that haze of sleeplessness and fear until a voice interrupted him.
“Kevin. Mind if I sit?”
Kevin Hall was about to throw his breakfast plate at the fourth person to interrupt him when he raised his head, fingers on the plate, and saw the speaker.
Halrac Everam was already lowering himself, and Kevin sat back, suddenly more awake and less wrathful.
“Halrac. Yeah, man. Sit down and…how’re you?”
The [Bowman] didn’t look as bad as Kevin, but he had a certain haggardness and rings under his eyes that told Kevin he’d had a bad night too. The [Bowman] sat there, staring out the windows at the falling snow.
The fireplaces were roaring with merry orange light. Around Kevin, people were still wearing Christmas regalia. Mrsha in a Santa hat galloped past Kevin on all fours, chasing Apista, who was smoking a tiny cigar while wearing a hat of her own. Antinium were filing past Kevin to sit with Pawn, each one holding a custom-made gingerbread Antinium courtesy of Calescent. The inn smelled like baked food and warmth, and though the snowy windows were dark—that beach garden shone with bright, beautiful light.
A wonderful world.
How fake it now seemed. All the events of the Meeting of Tribes now felt like an illusion to Kevin. Multiple Walled Cities attack the Gnolls and it ends with only a few tribes wiped out? Get real. Goblins allowed to live?
He was Kevin, the Kevin who had knowledge of this world’s harshness, who’d survive [Assassins] trying to murder Magnolia Reinhart. Who had a realistic understanding of world powers and consequences. So the events of this winter felt distinctly off to him. This grand old time in the inn suddenly felt forced, contrived, wrong.
When he peered at Halrac, he saw the [Bowman] felt it too. Halrac’s arms were folded. He sat there, as stern and grumpy as ever, but there was a tone of genuine distress in his voice. He began to speak, halted as Asgra put some water and breakfast in front of him, thanked her, and then said—
“I’m a [Bowman of Loss]. I don’t know if I ever shared my class.”
“No. I don’t think I’ve heard it. Cool class, man.”
Kevin sort of meant it. Halrac’s lips twisted.
“It’s…powerful. Fitting, in some ways. It comes from Erin, from my past. But I wondered, today, why I have it.”
Kevin tilted his head.
“Well, you fought hard and levelled, man. You’re a Gold-rank adventurer.”
“I did nothing this winter that would have put me at Level 40.”
“You spanked Elia Arcsinger—”
“I got the class before we fought her, Kevin.”
“Huh.”
They both felt it. The incongruity. Halrac poked a fork into a waffle and left it there.
“That’s when I believed. That’s when I realized something was wrong. I already felt it. The moment Mrsha told me I was dead—but I didn’t want to believe. Now, I want to speak to her. Has she shown back up yet?”
“Nope. Pyrite said he’d get me the moment…I want to talk to her too. Dude, how are you feeling?”
Kevin and Halrac sat in the inn as an embarrassed Relc entered the common room with Valeterisa and cheering broke out instantly. Valeterisa tried to hide behind him as Menolit applauded loudly with several other members of the inn. Kevin and Halrac turned, then went back to speaking.
Everyone else was engrossed in this day. Kevin remembered Mrsha saying Relc and Valeterisa got together. What had been unbelievable was now happening before his eyes. He felt sick.
Garry got up from the table behind them to help get more gingerpeople out of the kitchen, and Demsleth sat back, sighing as he ordered another plate of food. The disguised Dragon lit a smoking pipe and took a long puff from it. His eyes lingered on Kevin’s back. Neither Halrac nor Kevin noticed.
“What will you ask her?”
“I—that’s private, man. I mean, I’ll just—there’s something I want to know. That’s all. I’m not going to go with her right away. That’s crazy. Are you?”
Kevin was at once defensive and guilty because Halrac was in the same boat. The [Bowman]’s reply was flat.
“I still don’t believe it. I want to see, if I can without interfering with whatever this is. I…do you think it’s real?”
The [Mechanic] pointed at his face.
“Look at me. Dude, I believe. I’ve never felt like this. But that means we’re fake.”
“Fake? How do you mean?”
“Like simulations in the Matrix, man! I—argh—you didn’t see that movie. How do I put it in this world? We’re like Golems, then. Perfect Golems that act like the real thing, but we’re definitely not real. If that’s the case, I’m not Kevin, and you’re not Halrac.”
The [Bowman] half-nodded.
“But I feel like Halrac. Aside from the inconsistencies, how should I act?”
“I dunno. Just like you feel like. It’s not like I’m gonna throw myself off a bridge or kill people because I think I’m crazy. But doesn’t that mean anything? This is real philosophical stuff. ‘I think, therefore I am’? I can’t just—deal with that.”
Halrac had no idea what Kevin was talking about, but he nodded.
“I sort of understand. I don’t have an opinion on what ‘real’ means, Kevin. I just know there’s a choice. Survival or staying here. Leaving this world for another. That’s the hard part everyone is struggling with.”
Sometimes, Kevin hated how pragmatic adventurers were. Halrac was perfect like that. Man sees a problem, man deals with it or doesn’t agonize. Kevin raked a hand through his hair and asked a question spitefully.
“So you’re chill about this. Great. How’s Moore taking it? Pyrite? Headscratcher?”
“Moore’s been sick all day. He can’t even get up. Neither of us told Ulinde yet. I can’t speak for Pyrite. Headscratcher’s conflicted. Shorthilt doesn’t seem to care.”
Kevin felt bad again, but then confused.
“Shorthilt? Why not?”
Halrac’s lips twisted, and he gave Kevin an expression much like the one Kevin was giving him.
“He’s a warrior to his heart, it seems. He only wants to know exactly how he died.”
Fucking hells, that was either cool or really stupid. Kevin pushed his chair back.
“I can’t sit here, man. Let’s find the others. Erin noticed something was wrong with me. I tried not to tell her anything, but should we tell her? Should we tell everyone?”
“Tell them what? Tell Jelaqua or Seborn that Moore and Ulinde die? Burden them with that?”
“We can’t just vanish, man!”
Halrac’s gaze fixed Kevin like an arrow pinning the young man to the floor.
“I’m not going anywhere suddenly.”
He relented as Kevin flinched and stood, pushing himself back from the table.
“I’m sorry. Let’s…find the others. Mrsha promised she’d be back soon. It’s been a while. I wonder if something’s kept her.”
“She said there’s an Old One in her world. I—maybe she’s trying to fight it?”
The [Bowman of Loss] turned and saw the little white Gnoll girl running between the tables, now chasing a giggling Nanette.
“She’s a child.”
He put a hand on the invisible bow on his back, and Kevin could almost read his mind. What if he just went to help out? Then it was like multiverses of people moving back and forth. How long could that continue? Those stories in comics only ended one way. Kevin feared that as well. He wondered, suddenly, if he were just a character in a video game or part of a story.
But if he thought like that, he’d go mad. All he could do was—continue. The false Kevin rubbed at his face. He didn’t know what he’d do, though he suspected he had not the bravery to cross worlds. He didn’t know what the right thing was or what this all meant.
He just had a single question in his heart, for Mrsha. The question he felt, he hoped, the real Kevin Hall would ask. If he knew that, the rest of the world could continue.
The two men walked out of the inn into the beach garden, leaving behind a merry inn who paid little attention to them. Oh, and a very shaken Dragon who didn’t respond when Magnolia Reinhart stuck her head out of the private dining room.
“Old man, are we going to discuss the gifting proposal or what? Old man—what has gotten into you?”
Magnolia Reinhart noticed Demsleth’s complexion, and her eyes grew sharp. He said nothing as he sat there, and his breath was suddenly quick. The Dragon half-rose.
Kevin and Halrac hadn’t used privacy spells. Not that it would have worked on him. Either that was a trick or…but to what end? His mind was suddenly buzzing. Demsleth hesitated, then strode, without a word, after the two men. And he was now casting spells.
[Scrying] spells all over the world. Responding with careful messages to the Wistram [Mages]. Running analyses of the world around him and just—thinking. And it was making the problem worse, though he didn’t know that.
An immortal had just sensed his fake prison cell shake. And he was doing exactly what came naturally to a highly intelligent being who had survived every manner of trap and danger over his life. That was one problem.
The second, forgotten even by Teriarch at this moment, was a little rat with glowing green eyes in the basement. It had halted as it scurried around the basement, following the romantic adventures of Pisces and the Horns of Hammerad, as a conversation had percolated to the distant intellect controlling it.
——
The Necromancer of Izril stopped making action figurines of the Horns of Hammerad to mass-produce and sell. He eyed the gifts he’d sent a very confused Ksmvr for Christmas. And wondered why he’d done that.
Then he replayed the conversation he’d just overheard. Abruptly, his content, idling thoughts were filled with icy concentration.
“Ijvani. To me. Prepare a long-ranged teleport spell now. I will provide the coordinates. I must focus on something.”
The Necromancer spoke, then began casting magic. Fast as he could.
And that was…
One reality.
——
The Wandering Inn, present-day. Raindrops thunder down on the roof; a Wyrm is having breakfast while watching television.
Rhisveri hadn’t had breakfast in…months? Not a sit-down breakfast, even at an inn. He was a Wyrm; he didn’t need to eat anything, and besides, no one exactly made food for a being his size.
He only ate when he was with peers or people he respected. Rhisveri liked to say he could count that number of people on his claws. But it did actually happen.
The immortals of Ailendamus had an eclectic taste; the Lucifen were the normal ones because they could eat and enjoy regular food. The last time Rhisveri had eaten, he’d been at one of those gatherings sampling some hors d’oeuvres created by Sophridel, arguing over policy.
Before that, he’d had some tea and biscuits with Fithea as she asked for more trees for the forests, and he had grudgingly agreed while complaining about the cost. And before that…?
He’d been quizzing Dame Eclizza about the Order of the Thirsting Veil’s activities as she reported in. And that same week, General Dioname had drifted on by to harass him for a few books on magic and ask about the Dawn Concordat…
No breakfasts since then. Those meals flashed before Rhisveri’s eyes as someone put a plate of eggs with bacon arranged in a smiley-face in front of him.
Rhisveri stared at the eggs, glistening with yellow yolks, the fat bacon, the slices of toast with blue fruit jam in a little bowl on the side and creamy goat’s butter in another saucer, and then at Asgra.
The Cave Goblin [Waitress] stared back at Rhisveri. She glanced at Lyonette, who gave her an encouraging nod as the [Princess] sat, awkwardly, next to a tall Gnoll woman eying her with as much reserve. Asgra stared at Rhisveri again as he didn’t touch the silverware.
Slowly, the Cave Goblin reached out, grabbed a fork, and then adjusted the bacon. Rhisveri peered as the smiley-face on his plate turned into a sad face. His expression didn’t so much as twitch. Asgra slowly added two bacon eyebrows until the smiley-face became a glower.
He snorted. He couldn’t help himself. Asgra grinned and fled as Lyonette scowled.
“Don’t mind her. She’s rather—impious.”
“A Goblin serving food. Insanity.”
Rhisveri replied as he reached for some coffee and took a gulp. Then he glanced sideways at Adult Mrsha and Visophecin, who was also staring at his smiley-face breakfast. Rhisveri coughed.
“—Relatively speaking.”
It was breakfast, though a closer approximation would be to say it was food after a very sleepless night. Not only had Rhisveri’s company gotten back from that damn forest past midnight, they’d then been confronted with the knowledge that Mrsha had vanished—an alarming development.
The adult Mrsha taking her place had been, well, inconceivable, and the last three hours had been explanations. Rhisveri’s head was still whirling, and he was casting spells with his main body to see if this was all some kind of ruse.
But who would even do this? The Dragonlord of Flames? What point was there?
Lyonette du Marquin seemed similarly unsettled, but she, at least, was all business.
“Mrsha is down in the [Palace of Fates], correct? One of the Mrshas. The other one is still above, isn’t she, Ushar?”
She turned her head, and Dame Ushar flinched, then bowed deeply.
“Yes, Your Highness. Still asleep. She was exhausted after the Brunkr ordeal. She’s in her room. Dalimont has eyes on her.”
“And the other is…?”
“She’s likely asleep in the palace as well; they have a bedroll set up in the [Palace] and alternate which one is in the inn, I understand.”
“So which one is…? No. No, we’ll settle that later. We’ll go below and carefully, gently, confront Mrsha about this. This—entire event. I want the inn locked down, and no guests enter today, Ushar. Not until this is resolved.”
Lyonette’s voice was a mixture of steel and softness. Weakness and resolve. Rhisveri could actually sympathize with her a bit. She was a mother of some kind, he had to admit; her desire to protect her child wasn’t actually as manufactured as he thought. Only, now she realized there were two of them and they were mucking about with reality with magical roots.
Oh, and her older daughter had come from the future and was sitting with her.
Madness. Rhisveri still didn’t believe ‘future Mrsha’ was real. He had to admit her spellcasting appeared more refined than most [Mages] of this era. But it was just…
She clearly dyed her fur. He could tell that with his Wyrm’s eyes. The brown-furred young woman was eating with rather good manners. She hadn’t said much and jumped when Lyonette looked at her. Adult Mrsha’s mouth opened, and she cast around, visibly at a loss for anything to say. So she said—
“You’re, uh, pretty bossy in this world, Mom.”
Lyonette’s mouth opened and shut a few times. Future Mrsha stared at her and amended her statement.
“Lyonette. That was weird. Sorry.”
“Not at all…Mrsha. May I call you—Future Mrsha? No, Arrema?”
“Arrema’s fine.”
The [Princess] patted her mouth with a napkin, and ‘Arrema’ did likewise. They were identical copies of good manners, and the rest of the sleep-deprived people eating breakfast with them kept glancing between the two.
Said people were, in no particular order, Montressa, Bezale, Valeterisa, Relc, Vaulont the Ash, Captain Todi—who kept hitting himself in the head with the butt of his hand—Nanette, Hethon, Jericha, and the general staff.
Blissfully asleep were the Knights of Solstice, Elia Arcsinger, and one of the three Mrshas, who had emerged from the ‘Brunkr timeline’ empty-handed and thought no one had caught on. Right now, Rhisveri had the strong desire to go upstairs and kick the little Gnoll out of bed just so she could experience sleep-deprivation and the same level of uncertainty he’d experienced these last few hours.
Not that he was nervous—unsettled—at all. Of course not! He could understand what was going on and account for this being real, impossible as it was! Assuming he believed it was going on.
Assuming he did—the Wyrm could see a thousand benefits, intelligence to be gained, let alone using these ‘roots’ to see into the future. He could predict wars and trends! Learn magic from the future. And indeed, there would be strife when the child, Mrsha, realized everyone had found out her plans and had opinions about what she was doing.
Trying to revive dead friends. Admirable, really. Rhisveri meant it. It was childish, foolish, and naïve to expect to replace anyone. Cruel, abundantly cruel, and more evil than even Visophecin could be if she succeeded. He would have put that down to childish idiocy, but a part of him believed she understood what she was doing.
And if this is all real…that means there are futures where Eclizza lived. Where Fithea and Dioname are alive.
Rhisveri kept that thought tucked so far back in his mind he didn’t dare engage with it. Especially because when he glanced at Visophecin, who returned the look—the two immortals both knew they’d had the same thought. And then they were calculating as well.
How many roots were there? And who will try to stop me?
Rhisveri had sworn a promise, in full honesty, to Lyonette du Marquin to aid her. He meant it. He still meant it. He had sworn with the integrity of a Wyrm, and it had meaning to him.
—He would take those roots and do what he vowed necessary with them and damn everything and everyone. But he would honor his promise too.
That paradox was currently simply unresolved in Rhisveri’s chest. There was no need to confront it. It existed, two conflicting truths, until the moment breakfast ended and he found out what he would do. And that was his calculation.
The Wyrm didn’t notice he was eating some of the delicious bacon until he swallowed. He blinked, then took another bite. It was…
Good bacon. Huh. He was sort of hungry after all.
Fancy that.
——
Lyonette du Marquin was no fool. She understood just what Mrsha had gotten herself, and now the entire inn, into. Rhisveri was eating his breakfast with every sign of relish, but it didn’t fool her.
I have invoked his aid, but I didn’t understand the field. I should have sent him away, but the moment he heard this older Mrsha—my daughter?—call me ‘mother’, it was too late. How can I stop him? What can I do?
She didn’t know. But she did know she would protect her daughter. All three of them.
Lyonette’s head hurt. She wished to believe she was dreaming. Experience with Solstice events told her she was not. She poked at some toast and turned to Arrema.
“Am I not this…forwards in your world, Arrema?”
“You don’t have a Thronebearer. And the inn’s pretty quiet these days. You gave up running it two years in. No one wanted to visit, and besides—you were running for Councilmember. You’re head of Liscor’s Council right now, actually.”
“Me?”
Lyonette laughed despite herself, incredulous. Why would she want to be a [Councilmember]? It was such a reduction in status…you might as well just not have a position if that was all the authority you had.
The laughter seemed to irk Older Mrsha. She frowned.
“It’s not a bad position. Liscor’s the City of Charms in the future. It has the same net revenue as Invrisil does in this time.”
“What?”
That was shocking. Even so—Lyonette shrugged delicately.
“But it’s still a deferred position of authority. I might as well run for office now—but I am a [Princess].”
Future Mrsha grunted and snapped her fingers together in realization.
“Right, you’re still one in this time, aren’t you? You abdicate your throne. You still have the class and put on airs, but you don’t level as a [Princess] anymore.”
Lyonette choked on her toast. Dame Ushar made a faint sound and swayed; Future Mrsha grinned. A painful grin as she gazed down at Lyonette.
She was so tall! She was strong, fit, and she had poise, excellent diction—even if it was magical—and aside from her odd clothing, she was so…wonderful.
At the same time, how lonely she appeared. How—how—
Ryoka-like. Lyonette hated to use that term, but there was something familiar about that desperate, driven unhappiness that was quintessentially Wind Runner. Future Mrsha couldn’t sit still, and she babbled, again, like Ryoka.
“Yeah, you’re always wearing business outfits, not dresses or aprons. You go out, wine and dine with other foreign bigshots, or go on trips to other cities via the Portal Stations.”
“The what?”
That came from Visophecin, the first thing he’d said in over an hour. Future Mrsha waved a paw.
“Portal network across Izril. Across the world, in most civilized places. You can get to Baleros for, like, twenty-nine gold pieces. Most places on the continent for under a gold coin. I’ve been to Chandrar and Terandria; not long, but we went on a few trips.”
Lyonette frowned, imagining a world where everyone had access to Erin’s door.
“Do armies move around with them?”
“Nah. They get teleported with other spells or just [Mass Hasted] instead. Using the Portal Stations is strictly off-limits. Sometimes people try, but mostly they get attacked to shut down traffic. When the war in Rhir was happening, Demons would blow them up. Lots of terrorist attacks.”
That made one of the listeners twitch. Everyone else wore a blank look.
“Terrorist? What’s that?”
Lyonette glanced over at the twitcher, and Rose licked her lips. She tried to explain.
“Th-that’s—someone who blows themselves up in public. Or attacks in the middle of a city. You’ve got those?”
Future Mrsha gave her a thumbs up.
“Hey…you. Rose, right?”
Arrema leaned over to Lyonette.
“What the heck is she doing here? I don’t remember her being at the inn! She leaves, doesn’t she? For the Players of Celum?”
“No, she was at the Meeting of Tribes.”
“What? Weird.”
That was Future Mrsha’s comment about everything different. Despite this being the real reality. Or so Lyonette thought—she tried to refocus the narrative and instantly regretted it.
“So—so I’m content to be a leader of Liscor, am I? I gave up the [Princess] class to raise you. That’s very commendable of me. If Erin’s dead in the future…I can see it. But surely I have other things to do with my time.”
She couldn’t imagine being content just to do that, no offense to Mrsha. Especially if it was only one daughter. Mrsha took a gulp of coffee.
“Well, you’re mostly either being a bigshot in Liscor, trying to get me not to go and revive Erin, or trying to make babies with Pawn nonstop. No one’s made a potion that allows Antinium to interbreed, and I’m pretty sure he’s infertile even though he’s been revived and had his body remade twice, but wow, you keep trying hard.”
The eruption of liquid out of Rhisveri’s mouth and nose was like a geyser. Amazingly, none of it got on Lyonette; Dame Ushar blocked it with her shoulder and arm. Lyonette felt like someone had dunked her with water.
“I—excuse me, Miss Mrsha!”
She flushed and snapped at the older Mrsha and received the most unrepentant of stares in reply.
“Don’t lecture me about being proper, old woman. I’m a Gnoll. I can hear and smell what happens. Which sucks, by the way. You know you’re going to make younger Mrsha deal with that?”
She gave Lyonette such an aggrieved glower that the [Princess], now beet red, gazed around the inn of people staring at her. Which ranged from Vaulont to Peggy to Relc and Valeterisa—
“We broke up last year! That period is well behind me, and I am not seeing anyone!”
Future Mrsha’s mouth opened. She hesitated, eyed Lyonette up and down, and weakly said—
“Oh. Uh. Well, good. I don’t like Pawn.”
Silence filled only with Rhisveri coughing and wheezing. And the sounds of Asgra and a bunch of Goblins in the kitchen slowly dying of laughter. The Antinium led by Rosencrantz seemed horrified and fascinated.
No one knew what to say until a tentative hand rose.
“A-and me, Miss Mrsha? You said I wasn’t at the inn. And that I was doing poorly. Um, what does that entail?”
Nanette. When Future Mrsha eyed her, she visibly leaned back in her chair as if intimidated by the thirteen-year old girl. She caught herself and grinned, nervous. Lyonette saw her activate a barrier spell, or what the [Princess] assumed to be one.
“You’re…this is crazy. I’m supposed to be sisters with you?”
Nanette nodded.
“Lyonette is acting as my foster-mother. I—am I that much different in your world?”
“Ye-es. You could say that. You’re, uh—well, I don’t think I should say everything that happens. In case of future stuff messing up. Y’know?”
The fact that Adult Mrsha said that now fooled no one. Nanette sat up in alarm.
“Am I dead? I can handle it!”
“Nanette! Don’t speak like that!”
“I can! I have to know! What am I?”
Future Mrsha played with her food as Lyonette shot her a warning look. She shrugged, rubbing at something on her neck.
“Er—you’re not that fun. You and me are sort of enemies. And you’re a wanted [Witch]. What are you like? Uh—well, you do water magic. And you pretty much weigh what you do now. Though you’re, like, at least a foot taller.”
Everyone gazed at Nanette. Lyonette’s mouth opened as she tried to imagine someone a foot or more higher with the same weight…she glanced at the stairs, almost hoping Mrsha would come down. Then half-rose.
“We should go to the [Palace of Fates]. Dalimont can let us know when Mrsha wakes. The other Mrsha—did no one look for her? If she’s entering these other worlds, it’s not safe! I cannot believe you let her fight the Raskghar, Ushar!”
She rounded on the Thronebearer, taking out some of her fury on the woman, but Ushar held her ground.
“Your Highness, with the utmost respect, I had to know. I was prepared to forcibly escort your daughter to safety, but I judged the situation to be well in hand. Ser Normen could have taken out all the Raskghar himself.”
They’d apparently gone to a timeline where Brunkr was alive and defeated the Raskghar attack on the inn. That sentence was incredible to think about, but Lyonette saw the need.
Brunkr. She touched her chest as she wrestled with what Mrsha was doing. All the hurt about not being told aside, the anxiety, the anger, the nervousness about what would happen with Rhisveri and Visophecin and others made aware of the [Palace of Fates], Lyonette got it.
Oh, she got it.
Mrsha, you are trying to do what Erin would do. But it’s not for you, my dear, my child. Let me. I’ll grasp this thorny vine no matter how much it hurts. I should have protected you. I should have…
You’re doing what you see us do. My heart is bleeding. I’m so proud of you. I’m so worried.
I have to stop this.
—But the world was never so kind. It was one thing to want to proscribe this [Palace of Fates] from everyone, to lock it and its possibilities away. But they couldn’t. It was Ser Dalimont, watching over Mrsha, who spoke into Lyonette’s earring.
“Your Highness. One of the staff informs me there is an event relevant to our issues going on on the news right now. Channel 1, Wistram News Network.”
By that he meant the Calanferian staff, who, incidentally, had been barred from the inn for the duration of this event. Lyonette did not trust them. If Ielane knew about the [Palace of Fates]—dead gods. She’d come here herself and stop at nothing to steal it.
“The television?”
Lyonette turned to the mirror on the far wall. Rhisveri pulled himself upright.
“The news? What th—”
He snapped his fingers, and the image appeared on the scrying mirror, then expanded to fill the entire wall. Several people gasped, and Magus Grimalkin eyed Rhisveri and jotted something down in his notepad. He was very quiet and withdrawn with these incredible revelations, but Lyonette was glad to have him here. If she could have snuck a message out, she would have gotten Saliss as well. But she would make do with what they had…
Captain Earlia’s mouth had stayed open as she tried to figure out what was going on. She and her Silver-rank team were sitting there, acutely aware of how much trouble they were in as the lowest-ranking and most expendable members of the inn if another Solstice Event occurred. But she hadn’t run.
Adult Mrsha nodded to Rhisveri.
“Nice magic. I didn’t realize anyone in the past could expand a foreign spellcaster’s spell. What kind of hacking spell are you using to get into the magic? [Madrinel’s Intrusion]? That’s standard in the future.”
Rhisveri jumped, and the Wyrm gave Adult Mrsha a disturbed look. She didn’t know he was a Wyrm.
“What? I—none of your business! I am a spellcaster supreme of Ailendamus, not a gossiping apprentice mage sharing my techniques like a child!”
Future Mrsha rolled her eyes.
“Okay, buddy. Keep thinking like that. I know you; Ailendamus joined the war in Rhir, and your forces got obliterated just like everyone else’s in the first push. I heard you got taken out, though you apparently got better.”
“I—what? When is this—?”
Before he could seek clarification, the newscast blared over Rhisveri, and everyone turned. A very sleepy Sir Relz was speaking as a familiar, and unsettling, sight played itself over the scrying orb. The instant Lyonette saw it, she recalled what the real issue of the day was. Funny how you forgot.
Old One Titan in the mountains. And on screen?
2nd Army of Pallass.
——
Thousands of Drakes were digging trenches or setting up metal-and-wood barricades. Archers ranged behind formations of Drake spears, and a pair of ballistae were being assembled in the foreground of a truly massive army. The camera panned across them, working in the still-breaking dawn light. And behind them rose walls of stone. Not the distant High Passes, that tallest mountain range in the world, oh no.
They were on the mountain. If you looked down, down, you could see, shrouded by rainclouds, the Floodplains of Liscor. No city could be glimpsed in that downpour, but the mists rising from the basin had drifted up even here.
It gave the entire scene an oddly ethereal look. Drake armor was polished by the wet mists and then rendered gleaming when the sun struck their breastplates. Soldiers marched past the camera and the lone Drake who didn’t fit in.
Noass, the [Reporter] on the ground, was shivering like crazy as 2nd Army’s squad stomped past him. The air was filled with voices, calling out orders, the clank of metal on metal, and that sound.
Thudthudthudthud.
“—That’s right, Sir Relz, as you can see, there is a Drake army in the High Passes! Ours! I’m here with General Shirka of 2nd Army, who appears to be setting up for battle! General! Can you confirm reports of, uh, 2nd Army moving around the High Passes? Ostensibly to do battle with this Flooded Waters tribe?”
The Drake tentatively stuck a painted microphone into the face of an impassive Drake watching the proceedings, arms folded. Strategist Ulhouse stood with wings folded behind General Shirka, and both were at military parade rest. The Drake observed her army for a long moment, then turned and barked at Noass.
“I refuse to comment on military operations by Pallass’ armies! Moreover, I point out that the High Passes are neutral ground not claimed by any power. 2nd Army will not comment on any movements or operations save for the one currently underway!”
Noass reeled back slightly like a drunk Drake, which he very well might have been. They’d bundled him up on a Wyvern after hauling him out of bed in the middle of the night to fly here and do this interview. He rubbed at one earhole.
“I—uh—very commendable, General Shirka! But you are here, aren’t you? Is this in reply to that Goblin’s appearance on Channel 2? Which is not endorsed by Channel 1, by the way!”
He added spitefully. Noass was hoping this would eclipse their numbers from last night entirely. But General Shirka wasn’t exactly giving him much to work with, so he was hoping for a juicy soundbite. Her reply was just as sharp.
“2nd Army is preparing a battlefield to engage the enemy, as you see, Reporter.”
“Uh? Good! Yes! Which enemy would that be…?”
Her brows drew together, and she stepped forwards, somehow managing to tower over Noass despite not having much height over him.
“The threat of an Old One of the Titan class, of course! The Walled City of Inventions has maintained a position of absolute destruction for such threats whenever they arise! My [Scouts] with [Advanced Dangersense] reported their Skills activating and numerous quakes within the High Passes these last few days. We have intelligence suggesting the enemy may be a weapon of war from the age of the Ancestors’ War!”
Noass’ mouth opened as the camera cut back to Sir Relz as he leaned forwards over the desk.
“What was that? Is that credible, Noass? That can’t have come from a Goblin, can it?”
“Sir Relz is asking—is this intelligence from the Flooded Waters tribe, General?”
Shirka took another step forwards and bellowed so loudly in Noass’ ear someone had to turn the volume down to avoid deafening the watching audience.
“Intelligence from a Goblin? Are you suggesting 2nd Army receives credible information from Goblins?”
“No! Er—please modulate your volume, General! So you are saying an Old One is present in the High Passes?”
Noass cast around as if afraid one would spring from under his feet. But General Shirka stepped back and unfolded her arms. She saluted the camera and stared into it, face blank.
“I cannot confirm or deny the presence of an Old One Titan at this time, Reporter Noass.”
“But you just said 2nd Army was here because of…”
“We are deploying against the threat of an Old One Titan.”
Shirka’s face didn’t move. Noass’ mouth worked as he looked around, then gave Sir Relz a helpless gesture. The other [Reporter] didn’t know what to say and shuffled his paper. Noass tried again.
“So there is one?”
“I cannot confirm or deny the presence of any monsters in this area save for local varieties, sir. And I must ask you to remove yourself and this broadcast before you compromise our position.”
A pair of [Soldiers] appeared at Noass’ side. He jumped, then began to protest.
“Wait, but this isn’t—I have questions. I have questions! I’m a reporter, don’t touch me—”
The camera jostled as [Strategist] Ulhouse strode for the person holding it and then it turned off. Relz closed his mouth and then looked into the camera. He was actually having a makeup person put on some scale cream and powder and hurriedly brushed them away before straightening his vest.
“I—uh—well, that was 2nd Army’s General, everyone. Stay with us as we try to get more information. I’ve asked General Edellein of 1st Army for a statement—he would be the commander of all Pallassian forces at the moment, a personal friend—and we’ll have more coverage live. For now…”
——
General Shirka watched her own face on the scrying orb until it went to Sir Relz, then relaxed. Perfect. Only then did she answer the furiously buzzing speaking stone.
“General Shirka, 2nd Army.”
“General, what is going on—”
She let Edellein shout for a few minutes as she held the speaking stone away from her earhole and watched her army setting up. It wasn’t actually all of her army. Only a vanguard. An entire damn army was cumbersome to wield against one foe, even a massive one. This was a handpicked group for the threat as she understood it.
The bulk of her forces were higher up in the mountains, too far to actually reinforce this vanguard if it came to a battle. It was a strategic risk that Shirka had decided was best, given all her plans.
Plus, not all of her army fit this task. The [Goblin Slayers] and other dedicated [Slayer] forces in her armies were high-level specialists. But they were also old-guard; every time a new [General] changed armies or came into power, they brought their people in, and old [Soldiers] were either rotated into new armies or adapted.
Shirka had won the respect of all of 2nd Army, or so she liked to believe, but she could not count on all her people to follow every order she might give…especially where Goblins were concerned.
Smaller her vanguard might be, but their fortifications were solid as she could ask for. Scrying spells were already coming in hot and making her scales itch; she’d told the [Mages] not to bother blocking them. There were too many, and it didn’t matter.
When Edellein paused to draw breath, she spoke crisply.
“General, please inform me whether we are entering into any truce or alliance with Lord Xitegen Terland or Lady Magnolia Reinhart. My intelligence suggests that the 7th Hive of the Antinium may be in the region as well, but they appear to have pulled further back along the High Passes, possibly to avoid conflict.”
“The—what?”
Shirka responded smoothly as Edellein choked.
“Both nobles have forces and appear to be digging in for battle as well. Lord Xitegen’s Golems have us in range. In light of this and our army’s position being compromised by the broadcast, I elected to confront the Old One Titan head on.”
“Your orders were to take out the Goblin fortress as well!”
“Yessir. I am bearing them in mind, but I would prefer a truce or alliance, or at the very least, neutrality while facing what I consider to be the greatest threat. That is eminently preferable to assaulting Goblinhome while under the effects of Lord Xitegen’s rain of arrows or Lady Reinhart’s servant-assassins.”
That gave Edellein pause. Blowhard or not, he was no idiot. He could imagine how a siege would go when the enemy knew you were there—and he’d gotten a good look at how Goblinhome was tougher to crack than most forts. Add that onto one of the nobles of the north taking a swing at 2nd Army and the battle could go ugly.
Lord Xitegen never participated in the north-south Bloodfields battles. If he did, they’d have to snipe him or counter with their own best forces, and it would escalate matters severely. His ability to literally rain down arrows nonstop was a mundane army killer. Whereas, if they could ally against an Old One Titan…
“Approve your next actions through High Command, General!”
He snapped, and Shirka sighed, but just answered in the affirmative.
“Of course, sir.”
That would restrict her actions unless she was reacting to something, but it didn’t matter. She had made her move before he could interfere, and now she was placed. Like a chess piece who had found the best spot to make her stand on the board. Shirka was relaxed as she stood there. Her heart was pumping, and she heard thunder in her head.
Her [Dangersense].
The Titan was coming. That she knew. The General of 2nd Army let politics play around her and just waited. She hoped Magnolia Reinhart was more than a reputation. Because right now…Shirka took a swig of water and cleared her throat.
“Ulhouse. Put the scrying orb on and tell me if we’re getting reinforcements. And dig in. Tell the lads they’re earning their pay today. The enemy is going to strike around midday is my guess.”
She pitched her voice loud enough that [Soldiers] heard her. They didn’t react, but she could hear them thinking, communicating. Her dander was up; Shirka felt her blood flowing faster, which Saliss claimed meant more air was entering her muscles and limbs. Regardless, she waited and hoped she wouldn’t be doing this alone.
The General of 2nd Army cast her eyes to the mountains and wondered if that Goblin Chieftain could see her and the offer.
Here I am. Here we are. The Old One is coming. Are you?
Either way, Shirka would fight it. Together—or alone.
——
When Magnolia Reinhart saw the Drake’s broadcast, her estimations of General Shirka rose. The Drake was rather unsubtle, but a sword did as much damage as a concealed dagger when used right.
She was brave to publicly do this. It was perhaps not the move Magnolia would have made, but now it was her turn to react, the [Lady] of House Reinhart made her decision.
“We are moving to her location. Reynold, strike our camp or whatever we call it. And inform Teriarch; he will wish to speak with General Shirka, I think.”
There were protests, of course. Reynold had one, as did Ressa. The [Combat Butler] bowed.
“Lady Reinhart, with respect, your presence—”
“Is eminently required, Reynold! If only so that I can reap the publicity of standing with Pallass’ glorious 2nd Army against an Old One for all to see! It may improve my credibility in the north and south!”
Magnolia kept her voice light, and Reynold hesitated—it was Ressa who turned her attention from the servants striking their own fortified ground.
Servants—wearing armor. Magnolia had drawn on the more militant-minded of her staff. People who had the [Maid] or [Butler] classes, yes, because that levelled…and also who had been former [Soldiers]. Adventurers.
She didn’t have many. Magnolia relied on her allies for this kind of thing, not her own standing army. She had cause to regret that of late, but it was just not her specialty. However, if Teriarch was going to battle, she would be there.
But as Ressa said…
“You don’t have to be there, Magnolia. There is no Skill you can’t throw. Even your chains. And if you use them—”
The giant undead might come to life and attack Liscor. Would it be better or worse when it was underwater? Magnolia kept her voice light as she levelled a glance at Ressa.
“I do have other objects. Such as my ring—”
“Give it to me. Don’t do this. Don’t put yourself in danger.”
Magnolia saw Ressa hold out her hand, and she stepped forwards so the two could whisper. The [Lady] hissed.
“If Teriarch is going to battle, I shall as well, Ressa. Don’t argue with me and support me!”
They had to lead their people, not publicly strive! But Ressa just met that gaze, as stubborn as a mule.
“He’s wounded, and you’re afraid he’s going to die.”
“—and that deters me how?”
“You’re not a warrior. In this battle, everything counts. He might waver because of you. I can’t fight and abandon you either. Just leave this to us, Mags. Please.”
Ressa used Magnolia’s childhood name, which she didn’t do when they were in public. Lady Magnolia Reinhart hesitated, then lifted her chin.
“…You heard me, Ressa. I will be there and level.”
Or we shall all die. The [Maid] clenched her gloved fists, as if debating knocking Magnolia out, but then she lowered her head.
“Think your grandfather would give us the Crown of Flowers for this?”
Magnolia laughed bitterly. Of all the times to want Regis Reinhart’s help—she shrugged as the servants began packing the only artifacts she had left suitable for an engagement of this size.
“I could petition my family for help. But let’s get on the scrying orb first. It sounds like Xitegen is coming with some sort of aid. If they see us, our families will help.”
That was how it was supposed to work. However, Magnolia suspected she knew what the response from her family would be. She wondered if you could teleport explosives directly onto someone’s position with modern magic.
Well, Teriarch would hopefully prevent that.
——
The Dragonlord of Flame was panting when Magnolia found him just outside his cave. They’d chosen this spot to do battle on the premise he could lure the Titan here. It wouldn’t be hard to get to 2nd Army; they were several mountains over, true, but Reynold could run the carriage almost anywhere even if it burned mana crystals.
Besides, when you had a Dragon, you tended to get anywhere you wanted fast. Though in this case…they had one Dragon where they’d had three.
And he was wounded. So, soon, Magnolia might have no Dragon at all. That thought terrified her.
Cire was gone. Rafaema was gone. They had been dragged back to their cities by their handlers, and both had put up less of a fight than one might expect. They understood how grave this was, and after that damn Halfling…
That damn Halfling may well have killed them all. Magnolia could still see rends in Teriarch’s side, like a [Knight]’s armor that had been pierced open. Scales were torn off or peeled upwards in curls of metal. His skin beneath had mostly healed, it seemed, but each one was a gaping wound in his protections.
He was panting for air. She knew he was breathing, refining his Dragonbreath, but it sounded—wrong. It sounded like what she’d always known he was, in the back of her head.
Old. Unready for war. She knew he was one of the most fearsome beings in this world, but when she saw him crouched there, head bowed, mane glowing in the light, she thought she saw the end of a story. And she wanted to tell him to run, to run and hide away. But she couldn’t.
She loved him like a child loved a teacher, a girl’s first infatuation, and with the deep, abiding love of someone who had known someone else forever, because the Dragonlord of Flame would never run when he saw injustice right before his eyes.
He would always fly.
“Old man, change of venue. 2nd Army of Pallass has appeared, and they seem to be challenging that Old One. I thought you could use backup. You’ll have to convince General Shirka to follow your instructions, though.”
Magnolia kept her voice casual, and the Dragonlord started when she approached, as if he hadn’t noticed her. He turned his head and growled.
“2nd Army? That—could work. Where?”
For answer, she pointed to a scrying orb her Goblin Maid, the adorable Ressga, was holding up. Teriarch’s eyes focused on it, and he snorted.
“Well, someone knows how to lead an army, at least. Though I’ll have to…there’s no help for it. They’ll know I’m alive if Manus and Oteslia haven’t blabbed about it already. If I’m lucky, they’ll keep it to High Command.”
That was a sense of how dire things were. The Dragonlord of Flame, notorious for mind-wiping anyone who saw him, was willing to let his identity come out if it meant backup in battle. True, he’d revealed himself to Terandrians, but that had been a showy affair, if Magnolia’s aunt had relayed it right. Classic Teriarch.
This—was what he did when his back was against the wall. The Dragonlord jerked his head, and his main form vanished in a flash of light. A man walked out of that illusion. Demsleth, the weary traveller.
“Shall we? I’ll take the carriage.”
Magnolia knew his real body was probably flying or climbing after him, but Demsleth was as good as any Named-rank by himself. She nodded, and a pink carriage was waiting for them as Ressga scrambled to hold open the door for the duo, then climb into the driver’s seat for Reynold.
Ressa was already in the carriage, nodding at Demsleth as he sat with a sigh.
“Lord Xitegen is on the way. He was already messaging us and asking if the 7th Hive is coming.”
Magnolia pursed her lips, vexed.
“I would put them with us, but Centenium Xrn deemed her contract to clear the High Passes complete. She took her entire Hive south and is heading for the New Lands.”
“She won’t turn around? She seemed intent on levelling those…[Crusaders]. Regardless of casualties. This appears to be a battle she’d relish.”
Demsleth frowned, and Magnolia tapped her lips and responded as Ressa shrugged.
“It must be that Halfling. The Small Queen is no fool; if she thinks something that magical can outmatch her, she won’t engage it without a damn good reason. There’s a difference between counterlevelling and obliterating your army.”
“True. Damn. Well, I wouldn’t be comfortable with her at my tail anyways. She’ll definitely remember me from destroying her army during the last war. Which you assure me I did.”
Magnolia nodded without comment. She could have pointed out Teriarch had also slain Devrkr the Glowing, but she didn’t think she needed to add more reasons why Xrn would happily let the Dragonlord of Flames die.
We can do this. We must. Oh, she was tired of this. It felt like it was just yesterday she was trying to save the world from the Goblin King and, before that, the Antinium.
How many more times must I do this? I led Lord Linter Veltras to his death against the Antinium. So many died at the Sacrifice of Roses. I failed at the Goblin Lord. Zel Shivertail is dead. How many more times must it be me?
She knew how ironic it was to think that while sitting next to that weary Dragon who had said the same, but Magnolia finally got it. She murmured.
“I don’t believe I’m ready this time, old man. I have done this before. Desperately. But truly, I don’t have many cards left up my sleeves.”
She held up her delicate fingernails and inspected the glossy finish on them. So unsuited for war. Demsleth turned and, awkwardly, smiled at her and rested an aged hand on her knee.
“So few are ever ready, Magnolia. But what separates those who deserve to be remembered from those that do not…is who stands or turns despite it all. Again and ever again.”
He met her eyes with such a kindly smile that her heart ached for the him she knew—and she could not help but speak pettily to break the genuine emotion in her heart.
“Oh, so very easy for someone with Dragonbreath, talons, and Adamantium-grade scales to say.”
Ressa snorted, and Demsleth spluttered and growled. Then they fell silent. Serious, now, Magnolia leaned back as the carriage inclined, and she felt them go up.
“—Are 2nd Army and Lord Xitegen’s forces enough? He’ll only have a few hundred soldiers. He relies on his Golems.”
Demsleth drummed his fingers on one pant leg.
“I do not know. It must be. The Titan will emerge. That I am certain of. You are correct, though. I should take—precautions. Just in case. Allow me some time. Thirty minutes—if you meet with General Shirka and explain matters, I will be there in person shortly. Demsleth will warn various groups.”
“Liscor? Esthelm?”
“And Goblinhome. And—the inn.”
Of course. He was thinking of the innocents. And it meant they truly might fail. Magnolia Reinhart nodded, and Demsleth turned and vanished. She sat there for a while, and Ressa said nothing.
There was nothing to say.
“Did you ever think we’d end up like this, Ress? Backed into a corner without our house to draw on, trying to fix things this badly broken?”
The [Maid] looked up, and then they were two young women again. Ressa flicked her hair back and removed her fake spectacles. She tucked them away and cracked her knuckles.
“What? Cornered like starving sewer rats by a hound of jackals? I didn’t hope it’d happen a second time. It was always like this back in the old days.”
Before she’d taken control of House Reinhart from her family. Magnolia smiled, and Ressa reached out and gripped her shoulder.
“How things change and stay the same, for all our efforts. For over twenty years—”
And they hadn’t saved anything. She closed her eyes, so endlessly weary, to avoid Ressa’s expression of genuine concern. The carriage flew on, the wind whistling from an improperly closed gap in the windows, high into the air. A flying carriage…Magnolia wished it was still special to her.
Then Magnolia heard something. It was coming from the front of the carriage, past the sliding window Reynold could speak through. She could hear the driver’s seat, just like he could listen into conversations in the carriage.
It was handy to have a [Butler] who could spy on anyone she offered a ride to, and handier because he needed to listen to most conversations she partook in. Of course, Reynold never openly admitted he eavesdropped; that was why he was a trusted servant. She knew, and he knew.
So he had heard this rather dispiriting conversation, and perhaps he too thought of the first time she had met a fierce, dispirited [Cavalry Lieutenant] frustrated with the narrow-sighted army he fought in and offered him something more. If so, he had nothing to say—but someone else did.
It was a high, rasping voice, raised in song. The words made no sense to Magnolia as she sat up a bit, then opened the hatch. Wind rushed in with more sound, but the words still made no sense. They were rhythmic, almost eerie, but still sounded optimistic, and it took her a second to realize what it was.
“Goblin.”
Ressga was sitting next to Reynold, watching the spectral horses pull them into the air. She was dressed up in her maid’s outfit, a bit taller than the little Goblin who had appeared before Magnolia and begging for a job. Becoming a Hob, perhaps?
She was singing. Singing in the Goblins’ tongue. Swaying back and forth, that haunting melody caught by the frigid winds so high up. Magnolia listened as Ressa glanced up from the scrying orb.
It was not a pleasant song. It was whimsical, ethereal, some chant meant to be sung alone. Therefore, it was loud and had weariness and pride in it. Magnolia listened to Ressga singing until she had to ask.
“Reynold? What is Ressga singing? Don’t make her stop.”
The singing faltered as Reynold bent over, and Magnolia saw the back of his head bend low to the little Goblin beside him. Then it half-turned.
“She says it’s a song for Goblin women to sing when they’re about to do something difficult or dangerous, Lady Reinhart. ‘A song you sing for yourself, because no one else will, that makes you happier even when you’re sad’.”
It was such a literal description that it made Magnolia smile. She shivered as the wind blew into the carriage, and she closed the little sliding hatch. Ressga began singing again after a moment, and Magnolia listened to the song.
“I quite like that, you know.”
That was something. Some very small thing—but it also occurred to Magnolia that for all she was back here again, this was the first battle where she and Teriarch would fight for their lives. Truly fight together, side-by-side. Not even the Winter Solstice had seen that; he had merely been that distant figure. Now, they were closer to equals.
Magnolia leaned against Ressa, and the [Head Maid] muttered.
“She’s singing it for you.”
“Quite an honor.”
Magnolia decided to take a nap before they got to their destination. Duty and obligation, desire and hope. When she opened her eyes, she would be the Lady of House Reinhart. These fragile days of peace…had almost made her forget how it was done. Maviola El had been a true lesson in that.
Soon, she would remind herself, and all who watched, what it was to be a [Lady].
——
An old man did the rounds. Like a familiar tune you might hear from the oldest man you’d ever meet.
Imagine, if you would, the tender of a lighthouse. A lonely hermit-like fellow, lined and white-haired, but still active, arguably far beyond what he should be. Someone tending to mechanisms as old as he is; so old that no one but he really knows how they work.
Oh, someone could replace him, and someone might, be it a well-meaning official appointing someone to take the role over or a stroke of a pen by someone who has never met him. But those who take his place will find they don’t understand the mechanisms in their neat handbooks.
They’ll look at the lighthouse array and focusing lens—no part of which is in their manual—and be lost, even if he tries to explain why you angle it like this to catch the light, or how to act when the power from the city surges every other Tuesday—he is one of a kind.
That kind of man. He would prefer, perhaps, to retire, but there is a part of him that is this job, and if he passes away in the course of it, it is all he knows. That kind of old man moves so slow, but he will get his job done each day. Sometimes lives rely on the steady glow of that lighthouse.
Like that man, the Dragonlord hums. Not out loud, for that would be crass; it is the tune in his soul. That familiar mechanism moving between his fingers? The feel of a rudder in his hands or the hiss of naphtha in the lantern he lights?
So too is it in what he hears as he appears, first in the city of Esthelm, then Liscor. He does not take long; nor does he shout why he comes.
He strides towards the leaders of the city. The real leaders; a Dwarf hammering metal in his forge, glaring at a scrying orb he half-watches out of the corner of his eye. A busy [Mayor]. The head of the city militia, nervously walking the repaired walls and having a word with his men.
In Liscor, it is a Watch Captain who jumps when he comes up the stairs and opens the door. Then the Watch Commander, who demands to know who he is. The Council of Liscor, who leap to their feet as he enters their room.
All of them simultaneously. Six Demsleths stride forwards and speak. They say different things each time, and it is a strain to control six different bodies at once, but this—
This the Dragonlord knows by heart.
He does not say ‘doom’ or ‘beware’ or anything so trite and ominous. He watches the people’s faces, answering their questions, speaking over them, mostly, but not really taking in the angry Oldblood Drake or the various faces of the Councilmembers. Even the Dwarf does not give him great pause, though they know each other.
It does not matter, you see. Demsleth is just reading their expressions, their postures, seeing if they are listening, if they have the will to do what must be done. If they do not, he will find others. If he must, he will walk through the streets as a [Soothsayer], a caller of omens, and shout to the people and all who will hear.
—But these are good people. Intelligent, and they listen. It does not take much to convince them, and if he needed to, he could conjure parlor tricks to make himself seem the part. It is not needed. When he has their attention, the old man asks them a simple question he finds works best.
“Do you have a place to regroup at? Supplies for a week? Do you know how to evacuate your city—should it come to that?”
Not ‘here is what to do’ or ‘you must flee’. He just poses a logical question. One they may have never pondered. Today is the day to ponder it.
A Drake with purple scales screws up his face. He leans over the table.
“See here, Mister—Demsleth? Liscor is a city of over a hundred and seventy thousand. We’ve almost doubled the population…! Do you know how impossible it is to evacuate that many people? Let alone find a place to put them all or feed them! Where would we go? The Bloodfields would be suicide, and we’re at war with Hectval. If we went north—? If this city is lost, the livelihoods of all those people are gone.”
Demsleth engages with the Drake as the [Mayor] of Esthelm says much the same thing. The Watch Commander argues the casualties of such an evacuation would be in the thousands.
The Watch Captain is silent. So is the Dwarf, his hammer grasped tightly in his hand. But Demsleth says the same thing to them all.
“I know it is inconceivable. I know how many will die. It is your choice, you who hold these people’s lives in your hands. Some would stay and fight. I cannot make that choice for you. But I warn you: when this disaster comes, it will take the lives of everyone in this city. A monster is coming, and it will take everything if it breaches your walls. I will try to stop it. If you see it, I am dead. If you see it, do what you must.”
Then he smiles, and the voice is gone from the Drake, the [Mayor]. Then—the Watch Captain pushes herself up from her desk. The Dwarf lays his hammer on the anvil. And they ask the next question they always do.
“Who are you?”
Demsleth meets Watch Captain Zevara’s eyes. He gazes into the lined face of Pelt, the [Hammer of a Hundred Metals], and sees, for a second, the mark of the Grandfathers upon him.
Gently, he takes the Watch Captain’s hand off his arm. He nods to the [Smith]. He walks out of the Council’s rooms.
“Does it matter? I have not always been here. I have been that thing which destroys homes. I am here, and I tell you the illusion is ended. Trying times await. The days you read of in stories have arrived. They shall not always be loud or that different from the next until they are upon you. Prepare for it.”
Then he turns at the doorway, and his eyes ignite with golden flames, just for a second, because he loves the drama and show of it.
“—No matter if it wins, I will give you a day. If you believe in luck, wish it to me.”
Then he turns back and is gone.
——
That’s the indulgence of the old man. He gets to walk about on the stage of other people’s lives, say his piece, and vanish. He doesn’t have to know them. He’s the mysterious figure who halts a battlefield.
The kindly [Wizard] who happens to have a magical sword. In his way, he is the selfish storyteller that just tells his own tale at people and does what he thinks is right, regardless of how the people he champions feel. It is easier, you see, than having known them.
Far easier than having to regret his choices and see whom he enfolds within his glittering wings. No one is ever perfect, and they will all one day die. Easy to be the storybook hero and leave it at that.
Liscor is easy. So is Esthelm; anything he might have remembered is gone. He is free of those attachments, those regrets. He doesn’t even know the woman, Magnolia Reinhart, well. He admires aspects he sees in her and almost thinks he knows her at times, but right now it is all merciful.
He can prepare for this with less grief and trepidation in his hearts than he would have otherwise.
Draconic Titan. The sins of old Drakes admiring their Ancestors, coveting that power—and worse, creating these vastly powerful beings to defend themselves from the tyranny of their beloved Ancestors. They were not made wholly out of evil nor good.
—He knows whomever it is is mad. They descended into the dark to slaughter the kingdoms of the deep. Even if it was some noble champion, twenty thousand years has surely driven it insane. He would like to think he is better than it, but the Dragonlord of Flames knows better.
He is old, and they made them so well. Each one was made of Dragon bones and Seith Cores, the largest ever created for use by living beings. Each core has an [Archmage]’s might. The process of transmutation—horrifically painful.
The Drakes who volunteered or were chosen had every single bone in their body replaced by the new bones. Forced full of alchemy to avoid rejection. Mana circuits woven into far larger ones, healing and rehealed, until they melted into the new body. Grafted in piece by piece to a Titan’s frame.
The agony of it drove many mad. But they survived it—and then they were beings of levels wearing bodies of immortal flesh and bone. Dragonkillers. Giantslayers. Heroes and horrors—and the oldest of them has come.
Four Seith Cores? It does not matter. Even with one—the Dragonlord does his rounds dutifully. For he does not know if he can win. His armor is torn. He has looked death in the eye once already.
It is at Goblinhome where he pauses, because here all his tried-and-true methods do not work. It has been long since he warned Goblins. And when he appears at the foot of the great fortress, unable to find a [Chieftain]—he realizes he is too late.
Do you have anywhere to regroup at? A clever question because it implies it is not forever you flee. A tactical question that plays to hope. And the answer is yes.
Yes. One people is already here, slowly filing into the fortress.
Trolls. When they notice him, the Trolls back away in surprise. Fear—for many have never seen a Human before.
Many have never seen the sun. It is apparent in their squinting eyes, the way they flinch at the unbounded sky. He sees Trolls, most of them young. Clutching crude packs and filling the ground outside the fortress.
He can tell, with a single spell, how many are already inside. And more are coming. Or heading deeper into the High Passes with Goblins.
They are already fleeing.
“Ah.”
Then the gates open, and a Goblin shouts down at him. Her name is…Snapjaw. She is alone, the Chieftain in this moment, and she has thrown open Goblinhome’s doors to the Trolls. He raises a hand as she races down and tries to remember that tune.
“I bear a warning. Do you have anywhere to…go?”
The panting Goblin stands there in front of him and looks him in the eye. And she says—
“Yes. Of course.”
“Oh. Very good. It may come to this. I trust you know what to do if—I will fight it. I promise you that. Where is your Chieftain?”
The young Goblin—she is so very young, for all the age in her bearing—grins with all her teeth. With hope and desolation.
“Searching for a way to win. If she fails—we run. But this is a good place. I’m tired of running. Maybe if we keep running…”
Her voice falters, and she looks at the only home she’s ever truly known that was permanent.
“Maybe we’ll never have home again. I don’t know.”
Then she looks at him and laughs.
“But there’s no choice, eh?”
A Goblin’s bitter laughter. He doesn’t know how they can laugh. The old man bows his head.
“I’m sorry. Guide them well.”
He turns away, because this is hard—but the Goblin shakes her head. The [Chieftain of the Maw] taps her chest proudly.
“I will not. I will fight with the Queen of Trolls. With my Chieftain. Wish us luck, eh?”
She winks one eye at him, and he staggers. So easily. Then her face grows concerned, and she asks if he’s alright. The old man tries to apologize. He used to be so wrong about them.
Oceans of flame. Burning the scourge beneath his wings again and again in vicious retaliation, biting and crushing them—he draws away from her harshly and is relieved by the scream.
It comes from above. Then the great beating of wings makes Goblins and Troll scatter, and the Wyvern Lord drops on Demsleth.
Just a child. A big child, smarter than he looks, howling fury. Demsleth understands why he deserves it now.
He is knocked from his feet, sprawling, as the Wyvern Lord lands, spitting frost and ice, and the old Dragon looks up. In the furious young Wyvern, he sees righteous indignation, affection, and anger. Even honor.
The very beings he once shared a Dragonthrone with. Monsters he put a bounty on. The Dragonlord gazed up as frost gathers, and the enraged Wyvern Lord spits ice at the being who made the Chieftain cry. Who is so arrogant, so distant to everyone—
“Stop. Don’t. Enough.”
Then there is fire. Just a word, but it cuts through the frost and leaves steam and enough heat to make the Wyvern Lord flinch.
Demsleth picks himself off the ground slowly, and the Wyvern Lord backs away. Suddenly aware that he is and ever was outmatched. But the old Dragon does not scold him ignorantly this time. He realizes he has forgotten someone else. Another people.
“Take your Weyr off this mountain. They will die.”
They are already dying. We have fled from above. They will die to adventurers. To the travel. To cities of magic. They have already died.
Demsleth sees it in the Wyvern Lord’s slumped posture, hears it in the language he half-understands, even with all his age. He knows it is true; Wyverns need so much space. A Weyr of this size will never survive a transit to a new home without massive casualties. Even the New Lands…and they have lost so much already.
He murdered the Wyvern Queen. And it was murder, for all he came to the High Passes requesting peace and non-aggression. He knew the nature of Wyverns and how she would challenge him.
Of course she would. A being of flames and metal entering her domain? He must have terrified her so. Then he had murdered her when she ‘gave him no option’.
Murdered, like an adult kills a child, because he had fought a hundred thousand wars and had weapons meant to slay nations, and she was self-taught, the lone leader of her remote tribe of Wyverns. A girl, a baby compared to his age.
All this flashes in Demsleth’s eyes, and he turns away from the Wyvern Lord.
“I am sorry. For everything. Leave.”
The Wyvern spreads his wings in front of Goblinhome, and the old Dragon whirls.
“Leave! You will die here, and for what? Them? They are not your people! You are the last of us all! Your species lived while mine and Rhisveri’s died. At least you—live.”
He shouts at the Wyvern Lord, and the great beast, the leader of his people, the man staring out of those familiar eyes, flinches. The Wyvern glances at the sky, where his diminished people fly, afraid and nervous. At the Goblins. In his eyes is the same weight Demsleth knows.
He does not move. It is the Dragonlord who stumbles away. Lost, as the Goblins call luck to him. Goblins, sharing what they already lack.
——
The inn is worst of all. For when he comes there, he finds a way out. He does not mean to, but it is obvious.
The moment he sets foot in the inn, Rhisveri leaps towards him. Snarling, spitting froth, eggs on his shirt.
“How dare you come here? Begone!”
Demsleth recoils, grows furious in a second. He snarls back.
“This is my place, Wyrm. I warned you—”
The two circle each other, spitting venom and fire—metaphorically—until the [Princess] shoves between them.
“Stop it! This is not the time—I said stop! This is my place, and you will obey!”
Her voice is the same as the brave men and women who once claimed their first kingdoms from the myths and legends who inhabited the continent of Terandria. It works. Demsleth recoils, and Rhisveri turns.
“I’m talking, woman. Shut—”
She slaps him. The Wyrm recoils, catches himself.
“…I suppose I deserve that. Your Highness. This interloper is—well, I’m sure you know what he is.”
Lyonette du Marquin faces Demsleth, and they know each other. He remembers kindly days spent in her inn. Moments of cherished warmth. Would that those days could come again. Now he sees the worry in her eyes, the fear and desperation.
She studies his mismatched eyes and nods simply.
“I know who he is. And I know why he’s here. How bad is it?”
The Wyrm is making faces behind the [Princess]’ back. He stops when the Dragonlord answers simply:
“I do not know if I can win. You have the door. Use it. Take as many people as you can, if you see it coming. If that Titan crosses the mountains, I am dead. If the Giant of bones moves…”
His heart hurts so badly.
“…Then you will know how the battle is going. Scrying spells may fail.”
A simple warning. She has a way out. Just as the [Innkeeper] would want. Lyonette nods, pale-faced. The Wyrm scoffs with all the arrogance of his kind, but also a hint of uncertainty.
“Don’t pad your ego, old fool. If that is a Draconic Titan, what of it? You killed scores of them back in the day.”
“Yes. I did.”
“So…enough with the pageantry. Deal with the matter. You have a damn army backing you up.”
A Lucifen stands behind the Wyrm, trying to hide his nature, as if Demsleth has not known his kind. The Dragonlord is too tired to judge. Too tired to tell Viscount Visophecin that he knew brave and courageous and righteous Lucifen, and they were sometimes the same as the most foul his species could be.
Doubtless, the man knows it. For the same could be said of any species. The Dragonlord replies to Rhisveri simply.
“My scales are torn, Rhisveri Zessoprical. Far worse than when we did battle. My scales are torn. I am bleeding already from a foe I could not best even if I were at my greatest. A foe I have been bested by twice now. That Titan is older than you. It could kill me even if I were hale. They were made to slay the likes of you and I. I will try to live. But I have come here because I fear it.”
Honesty, bare and true. It draws the Wyrm’s venom, and he is guardless for a moment.
“I—you really are serious, aren’t you? Dead gods. Why don’t you ever ask for help? Fool.”
The Dragonlord’s temper sparks, and he spits back.
“From who? You? Would you even come if I begged? Take the gift I offered you, boy. Let us make peace.”
Once more, the Wyrm shakes his head. This time warily, eyes shadowed. With…guilt? He glances at the [Princess] and thinks she misses it, but she does not. Neither does Demsleth.
“…I am open to the idea. Later. At this moment, I insist you remove yourself. I have this situation under control.”
It does not look like it. What warrants Rhisveri’s presence? Demsleth is concerned, but he knows he cannot spend time here. The [Princess] regards him, and her eyes flicker. She is standing next to two beings of incomparable power, and she knows it. So is what comes next intentional or a slip up?
“So you didn’t come here for…the…”
She hesitates. She’s tired and distressed and off her guard, and Demsleth puts the clues together in a moment. He notes Rhisveri’s possessive defensiveness, the tell of the Lucifen—his blank face and the way his shadow twitches.
The what? Demsleth casts a spell, and a dozen voices echo from within the inn at him at once.
“…is that? I don’t know him—?”
“Demsleth. Some guy Magnolia knows. In your time is she…? Eldavin?”
“Eldavin? Oh—no, in the future, he’s dead—”
“—Whether 2nd Army wins or loses in the [Palace of Fates]?”
“The future is uncertain, apprentice. Even if we see an outcome, replicating it is…”
The…what?
The Wyrm seizes Demsleth in one hand, a grip of iron. Before the Dragon can react, he casts a spell.
“[Hydrabane Venom Volley]!”
Corrosive, purple magic rips a hole in Demsleth’s chest. He convulses as the [Princess] screams, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s just an image, and the Wyrm knows it. Panting, he kicks Demsleth back.
“Don’t approach this inn. Or it will be war. Do you understand me, Dragonlord?”
His eyes are wide and frantic. Behind him, Demsleth sees a young Gnoll recoil. A Gnoll with dyed brown fur, wearing a magic collar. So…familiar…in aura, but still different. He stares at the older Mrsha, and his mind puts an idea together.
Chronomancy? But there are no Level 80 [Chronomancers] anym—
Then Demsleth collapses into a pile of sizzling mana and venom, and he sees no more. But the Dragonlord knows.
A way out.
There is always a way out.
Head bowed, a Dragon in flight wavers and almost crashes as his wounded wings falter. There might be certain help there. If he has time—
He knows this trap, but it is always different. He wavers as he passes over an army of Drakes; some shiver and look up as a shadow with no caster passes over them. The Dragonlord hesitates.
He does not land as a pink carriage opens and reveals a figure he does not know, yet knows. Magnolia Reinhart.
It is not true, what she believes, what is said of him.
The Dragonlord of Flames will always fly.
Sometimes he flees. Those who believe the best of him forget.
How do they think he lived this long?
——
A pink carriage emerged from the swirling mists rising above the Floodplains of Liscor like something out of the faerie tales. That’s right—a pink carriage pulled by ghostly horses. Bright pink.
It said something that Noass didn’t even bring it up as the camera panned upwards to get it in frame.
“Ah, Lady Magnolia Reinhart appears to have visited this impending battlefield herself. Are you seeing this, Sir Relz?”
“Absolutely, Noass. We’re switching back to our live coverage of 2nd Army—from a distance as it appears we’ve been barred from the actual battleground. [Historian] Horiman, don’t let me cut you off! You were saying this might be a Draconic Titan based on your historical research?”
Sir Relz was sitting at the desk, chatting with a [Historian] via a scrying spell. A Terandrian man from the nation of Samal, actually, and very excited to be on television. He’d spent the first five minutes thanking his peers, family, kingdom—
This was the news as people who weren’t around the High Passes experienced it. All a show. To the Dragon, flying in a vast circle high overhead and tapping into the television network spell, to the soldiers, and to the people of the cities nearby, this was a painful kind of dread, watching the pageantry on the television.
—But you still had to laugh as the [Historian] gobbled like a turkey.
“Wh—I—is that a pink carriage? A flying…?”
He had the reaction that normal people had when they saw Magnolia Reinhart’s famous ride. The two Izrilians started, and then Sir Relz turned, as if only processing it now.
“Ah, that’s right. To my non-Izrilian viewers, you may not be familiar with Lady Magnolia Reinhart’s rather infamous mode of transportation. The Pink Carriage of…well, I’m not certain it has a name. Do you know, Noass?”
The two were [Reporters] with arguable ethics and a heated rivalry with Channel 2, led by Drassi. Channel 2 arguably had more personable and grounded opinions mirroring the public at times. But you should never forget that the reason Noass and Sir Relz had gained their popularity in the first place was because of their ability to banter off each other. They had been [Commentators], and Noass shaded his eyes as he instantly replied.
“If it has a name, I don’t know it, Sir Relz. But it is a vehicle seen across the north of Izril, and the south these days. It’s killed more [Bandits] than any Gold-rank adventurer, I dare say. Pulped the heads of countless criminals under its wheels. How many would you say? A hundred?”
“It must be thousands, Noass. I’ve heard of the ‘Banditslaying Carriage’ for decades. No, I don’t like that name. Historian Horiman, are you quite well?”
The [Historian]’s mouth was open.
“The—how can a carriage kill bandits?”
He spluttered, and Sir Relz snapped his clawed fingers.
“Oh, of course. Context. It runs them over.”
“But—”
“At high speed. Have you ever seen it move? I say, I saw it pass by one time, and that was the first moment I wondered if we should have some kind of laws around how fast a vehicle can move. Do you know the driver, Noass?”
“I do indeed, Sir Relz. A [Butler]. Former [Cavalry Lieutenant], in fact. A man by the name of Reynold. Now, it stuck in my memory because he has two magical legs. I believe he lost his original limbs, ah, when the Circle of Thorns attempted to murder Lady Reinhart. For our non-Izrilian viewers, this may well be the most important woman of the north, though she hasn’t brought much of an army. Historian! Don’t you know Lady Magnolia Reinhart?”
“From the—the Antinium Wars? Yes, of course. The heroine who rallied the north to save Liscor. That Magnolia Reinhart?”
Here Horiman had been so eager to tell the stories of legendary Drake war weapons he had dug up. But his eyes were fixed on the carriage as it slowed, curving around the army and coming to rest on the ground. Sir Relz sat up slightly, as if hearing Horiman repeat what he already knew made it fresh.
“—Well yes, that Lady Magnolia Reinhart. She visited Oteslia and Pallass, you know. The first Reinhart to set foot in Pallass for centuries. Thousands of years, perhaps. I’ve met her, of course.”
That skirted around whether Magnolia Reinhart had been invited to Pallass and how much Relz had actually talked to Magnolia Reinhart, but it set the stage.
If you didn’t know her, if you hadn’t kept up with the news, or even if you did know history, Magnolia Reinhart was just a name.
Erin Solstice was far more famous than Magnolia by the standards of television, which was the only fame that mattered, of course. And here the [Lady] was trying to fight an Old One.
—The general public wasn’t the only group observing Magnolia Reinhart, of course. As the carriage slid to a stop, everyone became aware of a sound.
“I’m going to try and get an interview with her, Sir Relz. Wish me luck—what is that?”
Noass was hurrying towards the carriage at the same time as two squads of Drakes levelled their spears and advanced, shouting orders, as [Soldiers] liked to do. But all of them were out-shouted by a voice already going full tilt.
Someone had amazing, operatic lungs. She had the benefit of a [Communication] spell turned up to max volume, of course, but you didn’t get that volume and fullness of sound by just using a [Loudness] spell. She wasn’t quite screaming, but her voice was loud enough to echo through the air for thousands of feet and even make the distant [Soldiers] turn.
“—estates! Kindly return yourself to the north, Magnolia dear, so I can have an [Assassin] stab you to death. I hope you quite enjoy your little monster-killing show. Don’t look for an army from the family; none is coming. You arrogant little whore—oh my, am I on television? How delightful! You inbred thief, Magnolia—”
The voice cut off abruptly, and Noass’ stride forwards slowed uncertainly.
“Who was that?”
“Uh—a relative by the sounds of it, Noass. Not exactly the spirited sendoff you’d hope for from family.”
“No indeed. Er—”
A second voice cut through the air as a [Maid] kicked the door open. She was glaring and unrolling a scroll as a man’s voice, polished, each word enunciated, dripped venom.
“Magnolia. It’s Gorthes. I’ve lit a candle for you dying. Do try to do it live.”
The scroll flashed as the [Maid] slapped it open, and the voice vanished. Sir Relz eyed Noass and Historian Horiman, and the three men all had that look of people witnessing serious family drama. And the same hushed tones.
“Er—that was a Scroll of [Dispel Magic]. It would appear Lady Reinhart has some, ah, familial strife. Famously, you know. Reinharts are like snakes in a bag.”
“I say, Sir Relz. Isn’t that harsh?”
Horiman jumped in.
“Oh, no. The House of Vipers has often been used to describe the Reinharts. They welcome the comparison. Visiting a Reinhart was often equated to sticking your hand in a snake’s burrow.”
“Fascinating. I, uh, oh dear.”
A dozen more spells were opening to harangue Magnolia, young and old. The [Maid] reached for another scroll, and then the voices slammed off.
Someone had just mass-dispelled all of them and placed a warding spell in the air. That worked; the [Maid] relaxed and nodded to the [Butler], who swung himself out of the seat. He did indeed have magical legs; glowing wood animated by magic, and he stood to the side with a third [Maid] that made the audience gasp.
“A Goblin?”
A Goblin hurried to stand at the other side of the open door, unrolling a little pink carpet. She stood nervously to attention, ignoring the two spluttering Drakes. Ressa stepped forwards, offering a hand to the occupant inside.
Lady Magnolia Reinhart. And if you didn’t have opinions about her before—you probably did now, from the Goblin, from how people talked about her. Sir Relz was trying to add more coverage.
“Lady Reinhart has long been a controversial figure in Izril, viewers. She is indeed credited with being one of the pivotal figures in the First Antinium War—how much is up to debate—and she was one of the nobles who resisted the Goblin King’s armies during the Second Antinium War. However, many of her detractors have credited her with being rather typical of Reinharts despite her actions—many of her rivals have, ah, mysteriously suffered accidents, and she has been the undisputed leader of House Reinhart for…I want to say thirty years. She took the position at age sixteen from her father, who died that very same year of a heart attack.”
“You aren’t insinuating she was the cause of that, are you, Sir Relz?”
“What? No! That would be journalistically irresponsible. I’m just saying…and she’s made overtures of peace to the south. Famously, she refused to join the Siege of Liscor, and she joined with the late General Shivertail to attempt to stop the Goblin Lord at Invrisil. What can we say of the woman besides that? Good and ill, wouldn’t you say, Noass?”
Historian Horiman was being ignored as the two Drakes focused on the moment. The Human cast around and seemed to feel like he needed to justify his presence, so he leapt into the fray with remarkable aplomb, even if his voice was shaky.
“Th-that seems like a harsh characterization for the woman who’s often credited as being the least bloodthirsty Reinhart in, well, the history of House Reinhart, Sir Relz. Historically, many scions of House Reinhart murdered both their parents.”
Sir Relz turned, having completely forgotten Horiman was still on the call.
“…That sounds like an exaggeration, Historian.”
“Thirty-six percent of all leaders of House Reinhart have committed fratricide or patricide prior to taking power.”
“Ancestors. Is that a fact?”
Horiman nodded a few times and tapped the side of his head.
“I, uh, remembered that even before I got a Skill. It stays with one, doesn’t it? House Reinhart is one of the oldest noble houses outside the Hundred Families themselves. Lady Magnolia Reinhart participated in the Sacrifice of Roses, the single bloodiest day for nobility in modern records. Not even the Creler Wars exceeded that number of deaths in a single day, though of course, the overall cost was far greater. Lady Reinhart also participated in the Winter Solstice event, though any clear records of what happened are sparse…”
“The what? Oh the…thing around Liscor. Yes. No one told us.”
They were chattering as the first pink shoe and the bottom of a dress emerged from the carriage. It was safe to say a percentage of the world was watching.
Magnolia Reinhart. Her enemies, her allies, the people who were getting to know her only now—and her family.
Oh, her family.
Her. Family.
Did you think they could be stopped with a single spell? Did you imagine they were not so petty or vengeful as to let her risk her life fighting an Old One? Oh, no.
They began casting more magic, and above, the old Dragon, distracted with the image of the inn in his head, was too slow to catch the spells coming at Magnolia. He was focused on finding his enemy, casting spells, setting up a battlefield—they passed under his radar, because they weren’t hostile. Then he peeked down, cursed—and saw a teleportation spell activate.
Just a simple static teleporter spell. The Reinharts shouldn’t have had access to them, but the Mage’s Guilds from Wistram all had new magic. The Reinharts didn’t send an exploding vial of alchemy or a [Fireball], though. They were too clever for that.
An army like 2nd Army would treat that like an attack, if it even got there. And this was public. They were still the nobility, and they liked to act like it, even if their idea of what that meant was different from the average person’s.
So—what would you send that was lightweight because they weren’t going to waste gold, pointed, and decorous to some extent?
No. Not poop. There was only one thing to send, and as Lady Reinhart emerged with that pink sunhat, pink dress, and a weary smile, everyone saw her blonde hair shift as she tilted her head back.
Her [Maid] was swift and opened an umbrella in seconds, probably anticipating a fecal or pointed rain of something nasty. But what floated down was neither heavy nor dangerous.
The first black petals floated softly down out of those misty skies as the [Lady] held out a gloved hand. Then there were dozens. Hundreds.
Black flower petals twirling in a gentle shower down to earth. A blizzard of them for the spring.
The [Soldiers] had halted, confused, as the [General] turned her head. Noass was standing stock still, perplexed. The [Historian]’s face had gone blank, because he didn’t get it.
But Sir Relz, that social Drake, slowly turned pale. As the cascade of petals came down, he removed his spectacles. With a shaking claw, he fanned himself with his papers.
“Oh my. That’s, ah—um—we’re seeing a rather strong message from Lady Magnolia Reinhart’s family, I suspect. Do we have any way of knowing…?”
“What am I looking at, Sir Relz? Black petals?”
Noass frowned, and Sir Relz shook his head.
“Black roses. It’s a message, a very—personal message from the nobility of Izril. You don’t know it, Historian Horiman? Noass?”
He received blank expressions from everyone, and Sir Relz exhaled.
“Perhaps not surprising. Izrilian nobility use flower language, much like some Terandrian courts still do. But the black rose only appeared after the Sacrifice of Roses when hundreds of noble families marched against the Goblin King at the final battle for First Landing. It is a symbol that was sent to those who fled the battle rather than stay and fight. The ultimate insult. A gift for a coward. A traitor.”
From her own house. To the woman waiting for an Old One. Horiman’s mouth had formed an ‘o’, and Noass turned back to the woman, who had frozen just outside her carriage.
The upper part of her face was obscured from view by the pink umbrella, but everyone could see her lips and chin, turned slightly upwards. One gloved hand was extended, as if to catch one of the countless petals drifting downwards. They landed on her fingertips and palm, blowing away to the ground as the rain of flowers continued.
For some time, the [Lady] did nothing. She stood there, watching the petals showering down, and the audience expected them to stop. But they did not.
When she finally moved, the [Maid], her face tight and her mouth shut in a grim line, walked with her. Ressa’s eyes flashed as she held the umbrella up, and Lady Magnolia Reinhart’s skirts swished as she raised one hand. She motioned once, and Ressa hesitated before slowly lifting the umbrella and handing it to Reynold.
The [Butler] accepted it and walked, one hand on his sword hilt, the other holding the umbrella over Ressga’s head as the little Goblin maid hurried to keep up, holding her skirts high.
Then Lady Magnolia Reinhart appeared. She was adjusting her hat as she surveyed the army, staring across the cloudy skies full of fog as light filtered down from high above.
She didn’t seem angry, nor even that upset. The [Lady] had a rueful expression on her face, tinged with regret and weariness, but she walked with her back straight, her shoulders relaxed, her chin held high. Over the rocky ground and the bed of black petals, towards the waiting Drake [General].
Only then did the petals stop drifting down. Perhaps, because some of them realized how they were making Magnolia look. The [Lady] turned her head as more earthbound carriages slowly rolled up the mountain, using less fancy enchantments.
Servants were clinging to the sides of the burdened carriages, sitting on top. They were all armed for war with far more significant weaponry than you’d expect. [Maids] with battleaxes, manservants with longbows. Even nasty, magical artifacts; long tubes of engraved runes.
One of them, a Drake with a frilly headdress and that classic black-and-white outfit, was smoking a cigarette. She glanced down, then guiltily stubbed it out and leapt from the roof of the wagon, joining the column of servants moving to flank the [Lady] of House Reinhart.
The woman said nothing. She just halted there as General Shirka came striding towards her, and she shaded her eyes, staring skywards. Watching and waiting for something.
Someone. Black petals clung to her dress, and she stood there, a lone, pink figure in a sea of armor. Faintly smiling into the sun.
That image stayed with you, if you saw it. Even if you were a continent away, if you had never known her before that, if you were family—for a second, you knew the Magnolia Reinhart they had once called the Deadly Flower of the North.
And, no matter how hard he tried, the Dragon flying invisibly through the sky couldn’t look away. His eyes stung. He closed them and shed one blurry tear for someone he knew, though he could not remember her.
Now, he knew her, and he saw in her image his shadow. For a second, the Dragonlord of Flames wondered what Archmage Eldavin saw, and he did not envy that man’s pain. Then he dove and descended.
“Not today. So many times have I bravely run away. Dancer, Quarass, Daughter, brave little Mage. Archmage…”
Images flashed before his eyes as he closed his wings and his torn scales pulled at the wind. His stomach dropped as he accelerated, and the Dragonlord struck the ground. Noass stumbled, and [Soldiers] shouted in alarm as the [General] turned.
“…Sheta. Lady Reinhart.”
Invisible, the Dragon rose from the cracked earth and saw her smiling. He took a breath, exhaled, and every naked torch and magical flame within ten thousand feet bloomed into life, flames bursting upwards. The Dragonlord shook his head.
“Not today.”
Then, as was never easy, as it had ever terrified him, like that old man humming the tune of the final song, he set himself for war. The Drake [Reporter] was running his way, and the Dragonlord clicked his claws.
Noass and his news team vanished. The scrying spell showcased a flailing Drake falling out of the air and landing with an oof on the ground.
Rain pattering the camera as it stared at the skies over the Floodplains of Liscor. Frantic questions from Sir Relz. That’s what the world got to see.
2nd Army training their weapons at what they knew was there, even if they couldn’t see, even with magic, tensed as General Shirka held up a hand, broadcasting a mental ‘wait’ order across her army. The Drakes, Gnolls, Garuda, and Dullahans kept their hands tight on sword hilts, around the hafts of spears, on the triggers of crossbows—or the corks of alchemy flasks and slings.
They watched the rippling gap in the air as dust shifted around it, clouds vanishing and coming into being. Then there was a golden glow. The flash of scales and a gasp—from Lady Reinhart.
He took one step into the light, and the mists had left his scales wet and gleaming. His metallic mane shone as the Dragonlord shed his illusion spells. The light stunned the army. Each soldier suddenly remembered their first storybook of Dragons, as if they were a child again, whether it be of wrathful beasts or cunning, wise heroes, guardians of fabled treasure, or anything in between.
Teriarch was exactly like that image, his scales glowing golden. After all—sufficiently polished brass looked better than real gold. Under the right light. He took one step forwards, his four taloned claws digging into the ground, as he folded his wings behind his back, and the nearest Drakes sat down or fell to their knees.
The General of 2nd Army said nothing, but she was made of sterner stuff than her soldiers. She had seen a legend before, an immortal monster of chitinous wings and buzzing voices, and she had met her own hero, the wily, slim trickster with a bag full of miracles. But that was Shirka’s story.
Shirka glanced sideways at Magnolia Reinhart’s smile, relieved and worried and terrified, and the Drake exhaled and nodded to herself.
“So that’s the Lady of House Reinhart. Not for Pallass nor Manus nor any other Drake city or bastion. Only her.”
No one understood her comment in the moment. Strategist Ulhouse’s stupefied eyes slid sideways, and his brow furrowed, but Shirka just began walking forwards. For the Dragon of stories and the only person on the continent who could summon him to battle.
…Shirka wished Saliss were here to see this.
——
“I am Teriarch, the Dragonlord of Flames. Your cities know my name. Long have I slumbered and refused to involve myself in the affairs of this world, save for the gravest threats. The last time I revealed myself, it was for the Creler Wars when the ground and skies were black with their numbers. Now, I have come to battle the Draconic Titan who emerges from the Kingdom of Trolls’ shattered halls. I ask for your support. I request that you keep my secret. However, the truth of this moment is that the future, all our futures, hang in flux. We must reach it, by flame and sword, or else countless souls will perish. That is why I am here.”
The thing about being a Dragon was that people let you say your piece. Most of the time. The Dragonlord delivered his address to General Shirka, and the Drake stood there, eyes flickering from him to Magnolia to her officers.
Shirka took several seconds to respond, and he judged her poise as immaculate. She was still thinking, even when face-to-face with a myth.
“You have my word I shall keep your secret as best I am able, Dragonlord. 2nd Army will cooperate fully with Lady Reinhart’s forces and adapt to any battleplans you have. May I request a complete briefing of the enemy and scenario? Will there be other reinforcements?”
Taletevirion. Teriarch dipped his head.
“I do not know. Lord Xitegen’s force is the only other I have sensed in this region, aside from Goblins and Wyverns. I shall reconnoiter this area subsequent to our conversation. We have the benefit of time. I calculate the Titan shall emerge within one hour and thirty minutes to four hours, depending on its speed, if it intends to give battle immediately. Based on its movements and the accounts of Troll survivors, it is aiming for the surface. For your army.”
The [General] nodded slowly.
“Is it aware of…your presence?”
The Dragonlord bared his fangs, rueful.
“It is impossible for it not to be, even were I inclined to hide. It senses me, much like I would sense another Dragon. Come. Have you a war table or tent? I can transform myself to better address you in private, General Shirka.”
Her name made the Drake react for the first time. She stepped back as a red-scaled Drake appeared in front of the Dragon, tall and imperious and still old, garbed in battle armor. She hesitated, addressing her words to the Drake and the Dragon.
“You know me?”
The Drake flashed her a grin as his cerulean eye gleamed in humor.
“It would behoove me to know my allies, would it not? I have been in seclusion, not ignorance, 2nd General. Strategist Ulhouse.”
He was showing off. The Dragon most eminently was, but because he deserved it, a bit, and because they did need to impress the Pallassians, Magnolia Reinhart bit back her usual trite replies. Shirka just nodded, but Ulhouse, the [Strategist], finally found his tongue.
“G-General, High Command wants an immediate update! What should I say? And this is—”
He bit back the ‘is this real?’ comment and tried to say something intelligent.
“Dragonlord, have you made no contact with any Walled City? The—the respect our cities have for your kind is—”
“Well known. Prone to sour. Undesirable, [Strategist]. I would have left Pallass to its own devices another six thousand years if I could have. Even the few remaining Dragons in this world do not contact the Walled Cities.”
“But, sir! Why not?”
Teriarch turned his head as he headed for Shirka’s tent.
“Because you call us ‘Ancestors’, but the truth is, the moments when Dragon rules Drake or Drakes command Dragons have been terrible times for the world. And that balance where both exist in equal, mutual respect is so rare. I am not the Dragon of Pallass. I did not grow up in its walls. I do not love the City of Inventions. When I was a hatchling, it was not even a dream or a little Drake village making cute clockwork creations. Nevertheless, I have bled in Pallass’ defense, watched companions die to both assail and save it, and seen the city through all its ages. I am…rather tired of doing the same things.”
That rather effectively shut down an entire range of questions and also kept Ulhouse so silent that General Shirka was impressed. She opened the tent as the Dragon folded his claws and rested there.
“Can I offer your…main body refreshments, sir? Do you need anything pending our briefing?”
Teriarch’s Drake form almost shook his head, then paused.
“Hm. Do your [Armorers] have any pure iron lying around? I have been chewing on some copper, but I don’t have any raw iron in my possession. I do also request your army spread out its formation by about fifty percent; any strategic decisions are your purview after our discussion, but that may simplify our tasks later.”
Shirka nodded.
“Ulhouse, get on both. I’ll bring in everyone above a [Captain] in rank, with your permission, sir. How do I address you? This is Spearmaster Gaellis, one of our highest-level combatants. Level 46.”
They were both speaking on multiple premises at once, and anyone still sitting on ‘there’s a Dragon here’ was going to be left behind. Which was intentional. If you couldn’t keep up, you shouldn’t be there. Teriarch nodded at the [Spearmaster].
“Dragonlord is somewhat excessive. Sir or Lord or my name will do. May I present Lady Magnolia Reinhart and her staff? Her [Maid], Ressa, would be the champion of House Reinhart’s forces. The higher level one.”
Shirka might be playing it cool, but she was still rattled and swivelled around and threw Magnolia Reinhart the first salute a Reinhart had ever received from a Drake [General] in probably over ten thousand years. (Zel Shivertail didn’t salute.)
Magnolia offered her hand for Shirka to shake, and Ressa half-glowered at Teriarch as Gaellis’ eyes swung to her. Shirka entered the tent and swept a claw. Officers were hesitantly approaching. One coughed, and Shirka’s head swung to him. He looked at her silently, and she glowered.
“Out loud, [Major] Tonsec.”
The Dullahan held his head under one arm and blushed as he nodded it.
“General. The troops are—uncertain.”
“What’s there to say? They don’t get their tails in a knot when a Named-rank adventurer or Magus Grimalkin shows up. Tell them to talk it out, get digging trenches, and if anyone thinks about sending a [Message] spell to someone, I’ll throw them off the nearest mountain. We have a war to win. Gossip later.”
The Dullahan flushed, but he appeared relieved, and the Dragonlord nodded as the [Major] marched out of the tent to shout. He leaned over to the Human woman, who was surveying the map of the mountain.
“A rather competent army, as you said, Magnolia.”
“Oh, General Shirka is renowned as a leader who can get things done, Teriarch. She even uses Antinium tactics—her army thinks as one.”
Shirka’s head came up as the Dragon nodded.
“So I noticed. That may be invaluable. General, do you have any signature style or weaknesses I should be aware of?”
“I like fast adaptation in battles. 2nd Army moves in and hits the enemy. We don’t focus on ranged battles. We have battlemages and alchemists, but they’re a close-ranged punch as opposed to fire support. We have two ballistae here; two more set up in another camp. Two-thirds of my army are elsewhere. This is a dedicated vanguard.”
“Appropriate. Larger numbers will not work on this Draconic Titan. They were meant to destroy armies. This particular one I strongly suspect to be a Mortemdefieir Titan. I have received a curious briefing as to its powers I am not sure I can fully trust…but if it’s accurate, then we are facing a death-magic specialist from the ancient City of Graves. One with four remaining Seith Cores in its body. I do not fully know its nature, however. And I suspect that will only come out in actual battle.”
The Dragonlord was beginning the briefing without all the officers present. It was a sign of how much they needed to get on. Shirka spread her claws out on the table as Ulhouse returned at a run.
“The, uh, iron is—”
“I am eating it. I can control both bodies mostly seamlessly. Do not be alarmed if my ‘real’ body departs or vanishes. We have much to do.”
Shirka nodded again.
“So…what are our odds for this battle? I need a list of the enemy’s capabilities, yours, sir, how we can best multiply our assets and reduce the enemy’s, and then a battleplan.”
She leaned forwards, and the Dragonlord exhaled hard, concentrating. Now he was in it, his nerves were fading. But never gone. They had so little time.
And simultaneously…there wasn’t much to do.
Hurry up.
Hurry up and wait.
——
The Dragonlord flew as his main body did all the explaining and informing of what the threat was to the [General]. She was solid, competent; he couldn’t ask for more. He’d tell her what she needed to know, get her army deployed right, but in truth, he didn’t have much to do.
Now, you might think that a Dragonlord with his vast resources and abilities would want all the time he could. That Teriarch would pull a Scroll of Time Slow or Time Stop out and fortify this area until he had all the advantages.
There were two problems with that.
One—he had no such scrolls. If you had one of those damn precious items, you used it the first time your back was against the wall. There were items even Teriarch didn’t have—anything that actually worked on a Dragon of his level, like a healing spell, he’d already used.
Second, even if he was inclined to run a hundred enchantments, it was pointless. He was up against a real foe, a fellow immortal, even if this one had spent much of its time trapped underground in pieces. If his foe sensed too much preparation, it would retreat, force the battle elsewhere. It’s what he would do.
He understood this game; this was not a regular battle between nations or armies. In those, you degraded the strength of the foe. Victory could be a battle where you simply lost less soldiers, even if you gave up the terrain. Or where you took a city; the objectives were different.
This was a battle to the death. It only ended when the Titan or Teriarch died. Everything besides that was pointless, futile. Both combatants knew their real objective: end the other. Teriarch had several plans to kill the Titan.
He’d done this before. But he didn’t know its true nature; oh, he knew basics like what kind of Draconic Titan it was and its general capabilities, but each Titan had been made of a person. They all had quirks, like each Dragon.
I must uncover its own personal tricks, as surely as it will try to remember anything it knows of me and counter mine.
Mind-games. Cat and mouse. Then pure violence and desperation till the end.
Lovely.
In the interim, Teriarch did what he could. With Demsleth having delivered his warnings, he flew over the High Passes, scouting for other groups. To his surprise, he actually found two.
Goblinhome was one factor, and Teriarch did not miss the Frost Wyverns flying from the inn and Goblinhome as well as that damn stubborn Wyvern Lord. He hoped they would stay out of this.
This battle would be beyond them. The help he was willing to even accept was the army of a Walled City. Lady Magnolia and her servants. And…
He landed, grimacing as his legs bore the shock of the fall. At least he wasn’t gasping for air from flying, but he was not in good condition. His body was healing. Hence the sight of over two dozen decent Golems and a [Lord] jogging in front of a small column of soldiers was welcome.
Lord Xitegen Terland took one look at the giant Brass Dragon who had just appeared and landed in front of him and held up a hand.
“Hold! Primera, pinch me. Seconda, stand in front of me. Take aim—tell me ‘Old One’ isn’t code for ‘Dragon’ in Goblin or Drake parlance.”
What a brave man. His soldiers flinched back, and a woman in a Golemshell levelled one of her spell-arms at him, but Xitegen Terland only winced as one of his Golem bodyguards pinched him in the stomach flab. Hard. He held still as Teriarch spoke politely.
“As far as I am aware, it is not. We are on the same side, Xitegen Terland. You are forty minutes away from 2nd Army’s camp. Lady Magnolia Reinhart and General Shirka await you there. I am the foe of this horror from the mountains. Will you stand with me as Terlands have done time and again? I have been Magnolia Reinhart’s confidant for decades and bear Izril no ill will.”
Lord Xitegen absorbed all of this, and his face screwed up. Someone gasped, and his soldiers rustled, but the [Lord]’s reply was direct.
“Magnolia had a Dragon in her back pocket? Typical of the woman. Just as well that I kept out of her business. Did you participate in the Antinium Wars?”
“The first one.”
“Not the second?”
Lord Xitegen’s eyes glittered dangerously, and the Dragonlord of Flames recalled Magnolia giving him some advice on the subject. He replied carefully.
“I have stayed out of every major conflict with known entities for the last ten thousand years, Lord Xitegen. The Antinium were new. So were the Crelers. Goblins…are merely another people to me.”
All of Lord Xitegen’s forces tensed up as heads swivelled back to the [Lord]. But the Golem Lord’s face just tightened, and he sighed.
“That explains The Wandering Inn. Wonderful. Well, I’m not stupid enough to quibble with a Dragon with the Golems I have here. Forwards march! I’ll have a word with Magnolia later.”
He waved a hand, and his soldiers didn’t move until the striding Golems made them race to catch up. Xitegen glanced at Teriarch, resting one muscled leg on a stone.
“And you, Dragonlord, I invite to a cordial drink over the corpses of our foes once this is over.”
Teriarch grinned despite himself.
“This particular corpse would be virulently unpleasant. I shall accept, pending our victory, Lord Xitegen. Allow me a spell?”
The Golem Lord nodded, and Teriarch fanned his wings.
“[Mass Haste].”
He leapt into the sky as Xitegen and his entourage sped up. The [Lord] blinked down at himself, then tested his legs. He stretched, a smile on his lips.
“Ah, now that is delightful. For the chance to run to First Landing and back—! Oh well.”
He began to run, passing by his soldiers and the Golems as he beelined up the hill. He’d settle for this.
——
There was another force on the mountain, though. Well, not this mountain. He’d missed them, but as he widened his detection nets while dodging all the damn scrying spells, Teriarch spotted another group sixty miles away.
They were the only force he could see reaching this area short of teleporting in, so Teriarch flew towards them. On the way, he received an encrypted, familiar spell.
“What are you doing?”
Eldavin. The Dragonlord felt it was particularly unpleasant to receive one of his own specialty spells and resolved to double-check all his security measures when he finished this battle. If he survived.
“Fighting a Draconic Titan set on wiping out everything it sees. Ah, but you might not remember what those are. Bad news.”
He snapped back as he flew. Eldavin wasn’t sending visuals, but the man—the man’s voice was clipped.
“And you’re fighting it out of, what, charity? Don’t make me laugh. Are you going to reveal yourself to those Drakes or snipe it with spells behind a mountain? I may assist them, but not with our battle between us.”
How much does he remember? Does he understand how afraid I am? This Eldavin assumed Teriarch would never show his face.
Well, more fool him. Teriarch’s reply was calm.
“Your ‘long-ranged support’ is going to be as useful as Pallass sending any spells. I would accept it if I thought it would make one whit of difference, mind you. Prepare to help Liscor and Esthelm evacuate. That’s what you can do.”
He heard Eldavin draw breath for a sharp reply, then the Archmage of Memories hesitated.
“—You’re serious, aren’t you? That’s why you’re there in person?”
He doesn’t remember Draconic Titans. Lucky bastard. Teriarch would have loved to trick Eldavin into coming to save the day and hopefully being destroyed, but the idea of an undead Eldavin—and you could corrupt even simulacra—was not pleasant.
“Stay away, Archmage of Memories. You may fancy yourself equal to me with your new rulers. But you forget we are not invincible. Come, if you want to die.”
Teriarch cut the connection. He wished he did have backup, but again—
Not much of it was good.
If you gave him a month, he could do things. But they were largely like the things he was doing now. The blunt truth of this was that even if he had Magnolia muster every Human from here to First Landing she could lay her arms on—Teriarch would just march that army as far north as possible.
A hundred thousand soldiers would do no good. A million would do no good—and only play into a Mortemdefieir Titan’s hands with its death magic. High level people were…well, what was ‘high level’?
If I could, I’d call the Deaths of Demons over. It might work? The Death of Magic might well fly over, but…no.
That would just scare the Mortemdefieir Titan away. Then you were hunting in the mountain. Teriarch could just imagine how hellish that would be.
Oh, if he could have hunted the Titan in pieces, he would have. But it would have been a problem in a confined space like that, even facing the separate parts.
Other people were obviously desirous of his attention if they knew he existed; Teriarch was cutting off a swathe of spells to Shirka’s camp aimed at everyone there. Only one spell caught his attention, and he grabbed it as he descended out of a cloudbank.
First this.
——
The Dragon landed amidst the Goblin tribe, hearing their shrill war cries of alarm. The first thing he saw were—Great Goblins. Giants filled with muscle, weapons raised.
One charged him with a roar, and the Dragon spoke.
“Fomirelin? Well met. I am the Dragonlord of F—”
Naumel’s second-in-command, Cazmaw, hit Teriarch with his enchanted club with all his strength. The haft of wood with bits of other broken artifacts embedded in it as ‘teeth’ snapped over Teriarch’s snout.
The Dragon kept speaking.
“—Flames. Your tribe is in danger. An Old One has awoken.”
Cazmaw backed up a step, and an even larger Goblin pulled him aside.
“What? You speak?”
Chieftain Naumel of the Kraken Eaters stared at Teriarch. The Dragonlord stared back at him. Teriarch opened his mouth.
“Yes. I am warning you of danger, Chieftain. Do not advance further. An Old One has appeared. It will slaughter your tribe.”
Naumel’s eyes narrowed as he pulled at his lower lip. He half-turned to one of his [Shamans], then raised his voice.
“—What’s an ‘Old One’?”
The Dragonlord of Flames was flummoxed for the first time today. He hesitated, tried a few words, then shrugged his wings.
“A particularly nasty monster. One that can destroy your tribe. Ah…keep back. Go the other way. Goodbye.”
He leapt into the skies and banked, vanishing as he circled. Several Goblins tried to shoot arrows after him, but they went wide.
Startled, confused, and in the [Shaman]’s case, exceptionally dismayed, everyone turned to Chieftain Naumel for guidance. First Rags was on the scrying orb, now this!
They were tired, vaguely lost because Naumel kept pointing in the direction of Rags—but she kept moving or vanishing, and now there were two of her, apparently—and now they’d just met a giant…what?
Naumel scratched at his chest where some of the wounds he’d taken from Rags itched. He nodded slowly.
“Gold Wyverns can talk apparently. I could beat it.”
Goblin expressions cleared at once, and there was a whoop of support as they regained confidence. Naumel nodded.
“Keep going!”
He pointed ahead, and Cazmaw spoke.
“That where Chieftain Rags is?”
Naumel paused and squinted. He narrowed his eyes, glanced right, left, up, down, and then behind himself. He grunted sourly.
“No. She’s gone again. Just go that way!”
He pointed at where he felt like he remembered she’d been last. The Kraken Eaters’ jubilation became a long-suffering sigh. They stared at the mountain and began to descend the one they had just climbed.
On the plus side—they’d killed a lot of monsters. They’d just run across a megaherd of a thousand Eater Goats.
It had been a good breakfast.
——
Sometimes you just ran across independent parties like that. It happened. Teriarch would have dearly loved to know how a Goblin tribe like that generated so many Fomirelin.
Possibly a Goblin Lord, or at least, one in the making. It would have been good to have him on my side, but then again, a mega-Draugr isn’t a tool I’d want to hand this Titan.
That was the thing. Death-aligned enemies were so damn inconvenient because you could feed them bodies. When was the last time Teriarch had run across a nice, chill, frozen enemy, hm?
Oh, right. I don’t run across those anymore because most were quite easy to burn to death. The number of immortal foes he’d had over the years—and coincidentally the world population of ancient powers—tended to go down proportional to how flammable they were. Or meltable.
Back to work. Xitegen had just arrived in Shirka’s war tent, and all the involved sides were now introducing themselves and whatnot. Teriarch was flying back, and he just had one last thing to do before, well, he was ready.
And that was open one particularly odd [Message] spell. Teriarch tended to screen all spells before reading them; there were Skills that could activate merely with words. Actually, here was one now.
A trapped [Message] designed to activate a communication or other kind of Skill upon reading. Even if you only received it, the very act of ‘receiving’ it activated the trap. Like the old ‘explosive runes’ in a [Message] spell trick. Very popular among some [Archmages] back in the day.
The trick was to copy the spell without looking at it. Then you could even ‘rewrite’ it to contain substantively the same message, just with different words. How did you look at or receive a message without processing it mentally?
Easy! You just created a sub-personality, intelligent-ish spell, or if you wanted to be cheap, an expendable worker and had them do it. In Teriarch’s case, he just used an advanced familiar spell and had the Book Familiar do it. He read the spell in his head.
“…Very interested…blah blah…my regards…oh, how mysterious. No clue as to who sent it.”
Just someone who knew the old tricks and had some kind of power-negotiation type Skills. Wonderful. At least it wasn’t Belavierr. She used threads, not words.
That wasn’t the interesting message. Teriarch read the other one as he flew, and his wings faltered a bit. It wasn’t encrypted, and it was sent to him by what he suspected was a cheap [Message] scroll. But it was…
Rather alarming. Though it started off weirdly.
I just woke up. Is it happening? I know what you’re doing, Teriarch. I sent you a letter. This is dangerous. You could die. There’s a one-in-five chance of it, even with Magnolia’s help and with you at full strength. What can I do? No one can fight for you.
The writing. Was this…? No. It couldn’t be. But then, Teriarch’s mind flashed to Rhisveri’s panic, and he hesitated.
Reply to sender, encrypt spell—he attached a recharging spell to his [Message] and another one to alter the [Message] scroll to only write encrypted messages in his personal style. He could have made the girl’s scroll explode, but why would he do that?
Are you the one who informed Chieftain Rags about the Titan? How do you know so much?
He knew how she knew. He had a…supposition. Though it was incredible.
[Palace of Fates]. He’d heard of that Skill, murmured in the inn. Could it really be a Skill that was that powerful? [Soothsayers] had amazing abilities, but that sounded like…and who would have it? Erin Solstice? It felt even too powerful for her, but if Rhisveri believed—
It took a few seconds before Teriarch sensed her writing, and she replied.
Yes. I—we tried to stop it. Rags nearly did.
“Vocal dictation. Familiar, transcribe and constant-send. Ahem. Stopping it? That is madness. Even in pieces, no Goblin tribe would stand a chance!”
Even that one he’d just met! However, the handwriting tracing itself in his head was wobbly, but determined, and he assigned it a youthful voice from his memories for auto-dictation. He realized it was the fourth Quarass’ voice. The first Quarass he had met. Appropriate? That poor girl.
“I—we had to. If you went in the mountain, you might die.”
His stomach lurched.
“…I might well have. So you are seeing, what? Fate? Chance?”
“Something like that. What-ifs.”
What might he do with that? No, why was Rhisveri that desperate? To want to see, ah, that was a familiar pain every person felt. To actually view what might have been, or touch or witness an illusion as real as life—that was a trap, an agony the Wyrm might fall for. But that older Mrsha… The Dragon would have flown there right away, would have run on the pretense he could save them all. But for that image of Magnolia Reinhart.
“—I see. And the information you gave me is doubtless what I would have wanted distilled.”
Not a list of its abilities in great detail. Nor had it come with aforementioned weeks or months of preparations. You see…it didn’t matter. Teriarch knew it, and the speaker knew it too.
“You—a hypothetical you—said it wouldn’t matter. Only its nature, what it was doing, how many Seith Cores it has…if there was anything else to tell you, it would be how it fought. But no one except you would be able to find that out.”
“Yes. Oh, yes. So entirely accurate.”
Teriarch was getting shivers. It didn’t matter what powers anyone else could find it had. The ability to, what, speak magic? A heart which sucked life from around it?
I know it can do that. It doesn’t matter if it can do that. That’s not the true danger of each Titan. The true danger was…
“Tell me. What is its capstone? What kind of fighter is it?”
A miserable voice replied.
“I don’t know. I can only see some of it. The bigger the mystery is, the less I’m allowed to see. It turns black. You’re a big mystery. When you tell someone a big truth, the world goes black. Then everything shakes.”
That damn Halfling. Teriarch grunted.
“I’ll bet it does. Then, to clarify, you cannot witness the battle. And I assume if I lose, there is little valid information beyond the damage to my foe? If I win? Is there any clue you have? Any?”
A long pause as he waited for something. Please. The most hesitant of scribbles. Then…
“I think—I’ll go down and check right now. I’m in my room. I’ll write back fast as I can, if I find out more, but I think you told Magnolia, once, that it was very fast and nimble. But it had bad eyes. I mean, it couldn’t see well.”
Fast? Nimble? Teriarch had an idea of what that meant. But poor vision…?
A thought ran through his mind, and he smiled as something lit up in his head.
“I see. I may know what that means. Is there anything, anything else you can tell me?”
He hoped for a shred of information, and what he got was…more than enough. Distressing.
“It’s not much. It always goes to black. [Emergency Healing]. [Spoils of the Dead: Fit for My Hand], [Spew Minion], [Graceful Dodge], [Ray of Oblivion]…that’s all I have. Sorry.”
The Dragonlord shivered. One of those Skills told him all he needed to know and influenced his plans. Best practices had already meant adjusting the equipment he brought to the battle, but he replied steadily.
“More than enough. A—full Draconic Warrior, then. Doubtless, his capstone Skills are hidden for that reason. This paints a picture.”
One I suspected, but it’s good to know. Teriarch didn’t hear a response, so he tried to keep his voice confident.
“If you find out anything, anything else, tell me as soon as you can.”
“I will! I’ll write back if I get any more clues, within fifteen minutes at most!”
Teriarch thanked the girl, again. Then he kept flying and talking, adjusting his plans, waiting. Trying to eke out any advantage for the coming conflict, while not trusting all his hopes to that.
Which was wise, because fifteen, thirty minutes later—hours—
She never responded.
Then he knew something was wrong. But he could not turn nor run nor look away. It was a tremble in the ground at first, a stillness over his scales. Then he sensed all the life—insect, bird, monster—begin to flee in every direction.
By the time the mortals heard it, it was a rhythmic sound through the ground. A slow, methodic thum. Footsteps?
No. The beating of a heart.
It was coming. The Dragonlord of Flames waited, surrounded by mortals, spells glittering in his mind like blades.
When it first pulled itself out of the mountain, squeezing its head through the crack in the stone, as the rotten flesh expanded, as it smiled a carrion grin and the first spells and bolts began to explode around it—when he saw that malformed head rise and twist, the Dragonlord of Flames stood back in time.
He spread his wings and called out to the being who had also walked the world when Giants and Dragons lived.
When Giants and Dragons had died.
Author’s Note:
I’m back. My time off was great. I was with family, I had good food…probably too much good food…visited family, and yes, I attended a wake, a memorial service for my grandmother. I won’t write too long about that, only to say that it mattered, and I was glad to see everyone I loved in my family so well.
Then I came back and wrote like it was something new. I had been working on this chapter before my break, but it became this huge chapter.
This is only the first part. Once again, I feel like if you only read the first part, it would not work because I wrote the chapter as one piece. Thus, I’m releasing the entire thing rather than splitting it like this and releasing both over two weeks.
I hope you enjoy, and I may take another week off if I need to—more in the next Author’s Note. But this is why I take time off. I come back stronger! And perhaps heavier if I eat too many cookies!
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