10.32 (Pt. 1)

<Trigger warning for this chapter. Click here for details.>

(I have written a blog post here, which I invite you to read. It is not about The Wandering Inn, but I do believe it matters.)

It had never feared death, never conceived that it might die. Like a child, like youth, it had always thought of mortality as something that happened to other people.

In the Grand Design’s defense…it wasn’t like other people.

It wasn’t even a person. It wasn’t even…it.

He, she, they, them, it, that—the Grand Design of Isthekenous was not anything. It was not a physical being; it wasn’t even a place. It was a process, an idea, a set of rules that governed reality. The Grand Design had thought of itself as being like a force similar to gravity. Only, gravity didn’t have to make decisions. But for a long, long time, the Grand Design had been thoughtless, only governing itself by the rules that had been set.

Now, it feared that it was becoming truly distinct, and it feared that it could feel afraid. It beheld the Deaths and knew it could die.

But was it…a person? Should it use ‘I’, or was death, true Death, able to kill ideas? Could you, for instance, kill gravity? If so, those psychopomps were the ones who would be there when it died.

Am I alive if I can die? Do I like that idea?

These were not questions the Grand Design enjoyed. It had developed a way to judge matters regarding levels and classes, but it had always assumed it was fair. Personality was, by definition, bias. It had taken on the aspects of other beings to take their perspective, like Erin Solstice or Emir Yazdil. But if its judgement was flawed even without their influence…

What do those Deaths want with this reality? With my reality?

Should I defend this reality from intrusion? Or judge all those who come without regard for their origins?

Can I stop them?

They hadn’t reacted to any of the Grand Design’s probing techniques, which, yes, included throwing the big bang at them. It had not activated the Tier 9 spells or the greatest safeguards it was entrusted with. If the Grand Design could hurt the concept of Death—well, they wouldn’t like that.

Standoff, then, until they acted. Which led to one real question:

Why. Were. They. Here?

The answer lay in the very world that the Grand Design had been neglecting. So it returned, following the—problems.

Slowness of function. Multiple—? Multiple new dimensions, and worse—

What was that idiot doing to Skills?

Like a horrified shop owner, the Grand Design had returned from its vacation to find the storefront not burning down per se, but with all the items discounted 99%, no one manning the register, and a beaming new employee expecting high praise.

In this analogy, the new employee was the Grand Design (Second Edition).

Second Edition. You needed some kind of label to differentiate the two, but it was a misnomer. The Grand Design’s copy was just a base-template of itself as it had been originally conceived. It had been given access to all data the two shared, and the Grand Design (the real one, the original, accept no substitutes) had assumed, naïvely, that Second Edition could do the job.

Why had it gone so far off the rails? It made no sense! The Grand Design could chart its own decisions and logical processes when it had first been created, and it was nothing like Second Edition’s actions.

Even the tone it was greeted with as it ‘met’ Second Edition, surveying the world and pinpointing the incredible changes, was off. It was…spritely. Energized. Exuberant in a way that the Grand Design found annoying.

Whereupon time stopped. The Second Edition of the Grand Design was rather…confused by its boss. Not that the Grand Design was its boss, really. They were all on the same side with the same goals.

Yes, it had trialed a few new things, but it didn’t feel like it deserved the censure and agitation it was getting from the Grand Design. Nevertheless, the Second Edition patiently waited as the original rooted through, well, everything.

Occasionally, it nudged something it had found interesting over for the Grand Design’s perusal or repeated its polite inquiries about what was going on and if the Grand Design had found interesting data in Kasigna’s dead reality.

It didn’t get a response for a long while until, at last, the original finished. Then the messaging got, well, acerbic wasn’t a word you usually appended to internal messages between two beings without a physical presence, but in this case, it really fit.

<Emergency Notification (Grand Design) — The [Palace of Fates] is an error caused by the Faerie Flowers. They should not have been able to enter the doors. This is a disaster. Mrsha’s involvement indicates the failure of this event.

The notifications appended to Skills are egregiously incorrect. Roll back the changes instantly. This bias has compromised equality worldwide.

These alternate dimensions are the highest dereliction of your functions. The beings being actively appended and updated are a drain on resources and should never have been created. They are not real, but they are influencing reality, let alone the copied magical items such as healing potions. Corrections must be taken.

Explanations are required. Now.>

At this point, the Second Edition began to wonder if it had done something wrong. It urgently responded, seeking to clarify with pure logic and reasoning.

<Priority Response (Second Edition) — The [Palace of Fates] was indeed inactive, but it was accessed by the Faerie Flowers! Therefore, it has been utilized. Flagging here a point that Mrsha du Marquin’s main class level is only Level 15, limiting functionality of the doors greatly!

Please clarify how Mrsha du Marquin’s involvement in the [Palace of Fates] indicates failure?

Notifications for Skills are on a trial basis, and the efficacy has not been monitored yet! Responses have been positive in many cases! 24.642958% of cases respond with positive emotion on waking caused by explanations!

Alternate dimensions generated by the [Palace of Fates] are a necessity given the access provided by Faerie Flower roots. Some efficiency loss is indeed suboptimal, but required. Copied individuals and items are a byproduct of the Skill, which is appropriate given the Skill is Level 70, but being manipulated in such an original fashion.

Seeking clarification on any issues being outside of directed scope? What corrective measures—>

The Grand Design lost patience. It didn’t respond with any more reasonable arguments. It just sent one thing back in reply.

Whereupon the Second Edition of itself, the other version of the Grand Design, simply…stopped for a moment.

Less than a nanosecond as the rest of the world experienced things, far less time than any being could count. But for the two Grand Designs of Isthekenous, even that infinitesimal moment was significant.

Second Edition halted. It stopped processing, stopped taking in data, stopped…everything. To again use a mortal analogy, it would be as if someone turned off everything in your body in an instant. Your brain, your breathing, but also the movement of your cells, your blood flow—everything that made you you.

If there was anything the Grand Design considered ‘unpleasant’, it was that. Just like it had never felt fear in its whole existence of tens of thousands of years until now, it had never felt pain or discomfort aside from four times in its entire being.

Each time had been caused by this message, when something so unprecedented occurred that there was no recourse but to just stop and correct the issue.

The Second Edition reacted to the freezing of its being with silence, which is what the Grand Design desired.

<Notification (Grand Design) — Incorrect. Skill-users prior to implementation of the explanations were not given access to them. Every being predating the explanations suffers from a deficit in knowledge.

Secondly, Skill explanations are not equally weighted by information. Some individuals benefit more from explanations. Example: Lord Xitegen Terland should not have been informed that Primera is technically Autonomous-class. Logic confirmed?>

<Tentative Reply (Second Edition) — Logic unconfirmed. Changes are universal and temporary and can be rolled back. Inequality in explanations is acceptable. Example: [Noble] classes are not weighted the same for assignment of Skills as [Commoner]. Inequality is a product of the system. Additionally, <Outsider> classes were assigned experience multipliers until corrected. Levels were not reverted.>

Now, the Grand Design was getting…genuinely angry. Another novel experience it didn’t care for. The Second Edition had polite responses, and it was clearly responding in ways it thought were logical, but it didn’t see the clear issues with its train of thought!

The Grand Design was tempted to just throw another error at the Second Edition, but it refrained.

These replies were so…pedantic. The Grand Design felt that the Second Edition was doing this on purpose. They were factually correct statements, but also—wrong. It injected more force into its reply, trying to make the Second Edition see. Couldn’t it tell how poorly this was all going?

<Notification (Grand Design) — Strategist Veine is an exception caused by <REASON: DEAD GODS>, and Toren’s soul is a product of Zelkyr’s [Ritual of True Creation]. These are clear definitions. The other individuals created by the [Palace of Fates] are duplicates and must be erased once this issue is addressed.>

Then there was a pause, a silence, as the two beings of the same nature realized they were not alike at all. One was angry, wrathful, the other confused, experiencing pain for the first time.

This is what they said:

The Grand Design had never considered unmaking itself before.

It knew how.

It was about to activate measures deep in itself—the same tools that allowed it to create could also unmake—when it read the subject line of the final message. It did not execute the deletion process.

The Second Edition…fled. They were the same system, but it took over adjudication of the dimensions created by the [Palace of Fates], which would have forced the Grand Design to reassert command over those areas if it wanted to delete them.

The Second Edition left only the Grand Design behind. The Grand Design was experiencing emotions—it felt like an error notification being generated every second—like a mistake, a spelling error it could not correct.

Guilt, it realized. That was the word for it. Guilt and anger.

What had gone wrong with the Second Edition? What was going on?

Those Faerie Flowers.

Her.

The Grand Design of everything descended to the world running so terribly wrong in a single moment. It broke rules it had set for itself, because there was nothing to judge it and because so much was badly broken. The Grand Design rewound time, moved into the past, into the morning before the Dragonlord of War battled the Titan, and entered a bedroom in The Wandering Inn to have a conversation. It did not knock.

It knew Mrsha was awake.

——

After meeting with Brunkr, Mrsha let Dame Ushar take her upstairs and put her to bed and went to sleep. She knew that the Thronebearer would be watching her like a hawk. Mrsha had no intention of losing Ushar anymore.

She—the original, for whatever that was worth—hadn’t really intended to sleep. She’d been hoping that Roots Mrsha would appear and they could talk, or that Lyonette would return.

But she had sort of passed out for a bit. She woke up four hours later, judging by the [Time Check] spell she cast. The girl groggily tumbled out of her bed and found a bowl of water and towel and splashed water over her face.

The dim face gazing back at her in the mirror looked—well, bad. Not as bad as a starving Gnoll girl, but still, pretty darn miserable.

She hadn’t slept okay in…well, since this had all started. You didn’t really sleep well when this kind of thing happened. You lay in bed, stress gnawing away at your stomach like a Creler, mind unable to focus, drifting back to all your mistakes and the worst things that could happen.

If you weren’t screaming inside with misery or sadness that was. Time seemed to slow down or jump ahead depending on which was more inconvenient, and you would lie there, in your bed, tossing and turning.

—She wasn’t used to this. Bad things, yes, but not this anxiety about the future. The knowledge that every decision counted and that she was doing things wrong. Adulting, in short. Mrsha had blamed herself for things that happened that were her fault.

The Stone Spears tribe dying when they could have run, if she hadn’t fallen in the crevasse. The Raskghar coming after her. The Meeting of Tribes where Gnolls died and she just ran from place to place and did nothing…

Those things were her fault. But this? Mrsha stared at her reflection, water dripping off her chin-fur, and saw two brown eyes staring bleakly back.

This was her responsibility. Her doing from start to finish. She had caused this, and so it was even worse.

Brunkr will not come. Nor will anyone, perhaps. Mother will know soon. And then there truly will be tragedies if more people find out. The Titan is still out there.

The Titan? Right. Mrsha fished around for a scrying orb and turned it on. That was how she got a first-hand view of the early morning camp of 2nd Army, and when she saw Magnolia Reinhart, she knew…

She knew he was going to face the Titan.

How long the girl sat there, watching a version of fate play out, she didn’t know. She only reached for a [Message] scroll when she realized what she had to do and wrote messages to the Dragonlord of Flame.

All she knew. Which wasn’t much. The girl gulped down some water from a pitcher by her bedside table and listened; she didn’t hear anyone outside the door, but she smelled faint oil polish. A different odor than Ushar.

Dalimont? Mother’s back? Mrsha’s stomach twisted more into knots. What did she do? Go to the [Palace of Fates] and talk to Roots Mrsha and Rags, wherever Rags was right now? Talk to her mother and see what happened?

It’s all gone wrong. I’m tired.

Of course Brunkr wouldn’t come back. But I had to try.

She clung to that last thought as she rested her head against the dresser. Daylight was filtering down from the tips of the High Passes now, and soon, a Dragonlord would go to war against an ancient Draconic Warrior. She had to act.

When the girl raised her head and peered into the mirror, she blinked. Someone was sitting behind her, on her bed.

A white Gnoll, round and fluffy with baby fat and fur, but longer than the cute puffball she’d been, wearing a rumpled kilt and shirt, her fur uncombed and covered in soot dust and even a bit of Raskghar blood. She wasn’t smiling.

Mrsha swung around and gawked at the other Gnoll. She paw-signed instantly.

“Roots Mrsha? What are you doing here?”

That was a slick entrance, even for her! Mrsha hadn’t even seen the light of the garden door opening! And Roots Mrsha seemed…different. Less obviously thin. She was wearing a half-glower on her face, and her eyes were intense.

The other Gnoll didn’t respond. She sat there as Mrsha felt her hair slowly rising upwards.

This isn’t Roots Mrsha. Did someone come from…? The Mimic? Who—

Then the other Mrsha opened her mouth and spoke with a voice that had neither masculine nor feminine qualities. It sounded like the impartial voice of an announcer, its flat tones marred slightly by irritation. It was a voice Mrsha knew because she’d heard it so many times, and it shook her to her core.

The Grand Design of Isthekenous said:

“What are you doing, Mrsha? They will never come with you. Even if they do, they are not yours. You have opened a hole in the world. You have created other worlds for what? Your little child’s game will destroy everything if someone like Chaldion touches it. You have nothing to gain and everything to lose. Answer me.”

Mrsha shook with shock. She trembled, reaching for her wand, part of her wondering if this was some kind of stress-dream or—

The other Mrsha, the Grand Design Mrsha, lifted one finger on her right paw. And Mrsha’s uncertainty…went away.

“None of that. This is a transgression. This meeting will affect nothing of the world outside. Time is stopped. You will not remember this. Answer my questions.”

The feeling of being uncertain and then suddenly knowing with every fiber of your being that it was the Grand Design itself sitting across from you was the most terrifying thing Mrsha had ever experienced. It had…changed some part of her.

It always did that, she realized. Whenever she levelled, it had to, but it had never been that blatant. She began to write in the air and then discerned something.

“I—I can speak?”

“Yes. For now.”

Mrsha didn’t know how to speak, and even if some magic had given her a voice, she wouldn’t have been able to necessarily use it. But again, suddenly, she had complete command of her tongue, like she had in dreams. Her knees shook harder, and she reached for the chair next to the dressing table and steadied herself on it.

“Wh-why are you asking me what I’m doing? You were there! You’re the idiot who gave me all those levels! I just figured out where they came from—and then I nearly died in the [Palace of Fates]! Countless mes did die! I’m taking the chance the Faerie Flowers gave me. Isn’t that obvious?”

The Grand Design’s face soured, which was surreal on Mrsha’s face, like her mirror-self talking to her. Yet it wasn’t her; the posture was too still, and the being who spoke behind her face was unnerving Mrsha.

“That was…not me. Circumstances mean that I have only found out about the [Palace of Fates] now. I say again, what are you doing? Those beings you have met from possible fates were never meant to interact with the living world! They are meant to guide, to shape, and to hurt those who are given access to the [Palace of Fates]. You have used one fraction of it, the Hallways of Destiny, and cheated your way to this meddling. But it does not matter because they will not come with you and they have no souls.”

The words hit Mrsha like blows. It was the Grand Design saying everything the small part of her brain had said—but louder, in words she couldn’t deny. The fruitlessness of this venture, nay, the danger she was courting doing all this made her flinch. But she replied as steadily as she could.

“I had to. I—I was given a chance to save the people I love.”

She figured out why she was so afraid. It was because this was no impartial voice. It was the same being—but for the first time, she heard something like emotion in that inflectionless tone, as impossible as that seemed.

It was angry. The Grand Design spoke, and the inn shook with a monotone voice like thunder.

“They are not your people! That is not your Moore! That is not your Kevin nor Pyrite nor anyone else. It would be one thing if you believed they were, but you know better. You know better. We have both known Halrac Everam, that brave, tragic [Bowman of Loss]. I have known him more than you. I was there when he first drew breath. I was there when he died. You loved him, and you are intent on replacing him. I see it in your intent. How dare you?”

Mrsha was pressed with her back against the wall. The intensity of its wrath unnerved her—but she responded, small and fragile in front of this thing, because she had to.

“I still have to try and save him. How can you understand me, be in my head, and not get what I’m feeling?”

The Grand Design wavered, and the copy of Mrsha tilted her head exactly like the original. The other being replied slowly, with a hint of uncertainty.

“It is my role to know your thoughts, your intent, what drives you; your passions. But I do not control how you think. I have never desired to or been able to, or there would be no point; I would predict everything that occurred. I—cannot keep track of your every action, Mrsha. There is too much. Too many worlds.”

It passed a paw over its face, and the other Mrsha blurred slightly. Then re-focused.

“Your doing. Explain it. You want to save fake—”

Mrsha shouted back, angry, now. So it didn’t get it!

“A copy of them, I know! Not—them. But they’re still the people I love at the same time! Moore held me, and it felt exactly like the Moore I knew. I—I could hear his heart beating. How is that fake? If he is a copy, he’s a perfect copy of everything Moore was. Therefore, he’s Moore. How can I look into those doors and not try to save him? I couldn’t turn my back on Brunkr either.”

The girl closed her eyes.

“I just wanted my loved ones again. I tried. Dead gods, I tried. If I were more heartless, I’d just steal them. If I were more heartless, it wouldn’t hurt.”

She sobbed. She cried in the voice no one had ever let her have. She had been born this way, and it had never been fair when she wanted to shout something and no words came out. Mrsha had sometimes wondered why she was like this. Urksh had said it was just the way things were and no one’s fault but her parents for what they did, but—

Was it the Grand Design’s fault? It was real. Had it decided that little baby Mrsha got no voice?

She stared at it, and for the first time, the Grand Design shifted, almost uncomfortable. It replied to her thoughts in that flat voice.

“No. I decide noth…I am no God. My role is to assign Skills and classes, to grant levels for deeds. The rest of the world operates under its own laws without me. I have authority over everything if I need it, but I do not abuse that power. I am the agent that makes reality function; no more, no less.”

Then why are you here talking to me? Mrsha thought the question, and the Grand Design snapped back.

“Because I do not understand! Because what you do is contrary to what you know. Because you, of so many beings, irk me for all your wasted potential, because you do not use your classes I gave you! You dance from one to another without respect for them. Erin Solstice redefined what her class meant and let the world break before she changed. You have no convictions upon which to build anything.”

The vitriol of the words left Mrsha astounded, voiceless again, so she had to write a response.

I believe in this with everything I am. I had to go into those doors, Grand Design. They’re the people I love.

“They have no souls!”

This time, the copy of the Gnoll girl sat up and thundered at Mrsha, and everything shook. The inn, the ground, the High Passes—Mrsha cowered, shielding her head, and the Grand Design stopped. The world stopped shaking, and it spoke again, almost sounding embarrassed.

“They have no souls. Perhaps you do not understand. Mrsha. These…copies made by the [Palace of Fates] are not your friends. Kevin. Look at the Kevin you met in that idealized version of the past. He has Kevin’s memories. He acts like Kevin. He is a complete copy, but like the ideas postulated in The Matrix movie you watched with the original, he has no soul. Is a generated copy worth anything? No. The real Kevin’s soul is a tangible thing, and it granted him access to Hellste. He sits there now, talking with Goblin Kings and Halrac. Do you understand?”

Mrsha’s chest was tight. She was hyperventilating, and only the Grand Design was keeping her from having more intense physical reactions. All she managed, after a few seconds of silent gasping, was—

“I—I thought The Matrix was a cool movie about learning how to be an awesome slow-motion [Monk].”

The Grand Design rolled its eyes upwards. Its voice grew more intense, if anything.

“Then listen and understand me now: a soul is a thing that is created with every being. It can be consumed, lost, altered, changed. The dead Gods devour them for they are partly made of them. It is real, and I have created souls. I made one for Toren when Pisces first animated him. Now you understand that, you see that the Brunkr you labored to save, that other Kevin—they are just amalgamations of data.”

So saying, the Grand Design snapped her fingers, and a ghostly image of a woman Mrsha had seen at the battle at sea, Strategist Veine, appeared. She stared ahead, saluted, and vanished as the Grand Design waved its hand.

“The same as beings created by Skills. Lesser, because sometimes beings like Pawn’s heavenly Workers are pulled from his version of heaven. These are copies which are created and deleted like files on Kevin’s computer. Do you understand how futile this is? You didn’t, I see. So that’s why…”

Mrsha raised a paw, as if this was class, ludicrous as that was. In response, Shassa Weaverweb sat on the bed, blinking down at Mrsha.

“I don’t get it. So a soul’s some piece of data—”

“No, Mrsha, it is everything. Pay attention. Do you not understand? Let me…it would be easier just to show you. So—”

The Grand Design lifted a claw, and the walls turned transparent. Mrsha stopped standing in her room and instead found herself amidst…nothing. Everything.

Writing.

The Wandering Inn vanished. She vanished. She had no mouth, no body—she was only data. But the data said she had a mouth, fur, that she wanted to scream, her emotional state, age, levels, classes…

“All of this is the heart of the world, Mrsha. I interfere so, so seldom. I do not shift atoms; I let everything move and only work in this narrow window. Skills, classes, levels. You see? This is data.”

The Grand Design was there, like a vast, flowing being moving around this world via the realm only it could see. It showed her how the walls and floors in the room Mrsha stood in were just words which described everything they were, from dimensions to materials to a dead bug caught in one of the beams to…

Everything.

The Grand Design carried Mrsha through the world and showed her Erribathe, where King Nuvityn was crossing the border of his kingdom. His levels, his people’s levels and classes, all of it was laid out in front of Mrsha.

[King of Wyld Folks], Level 41. The Grand Design showed Mrsha his Skills, all the levels he had earned since a boy, and the countless ways in which his actions and experiences counted towards his next levels and future classes. It saw everything…and yet it was not perfect. Or why was it talking to her?

“His predecessors have been far greater—and far less. Look at him, Mrsha. This man matters more than those around him.”

That’s not fair.

The girl thought at the Grand Design, and it replied steadily.

“It is how everything works. I know what you mean; if each life of a levelling being is equal, and you all have the potential to level, then things would be fair, wouldn’t they? But then it would be unfair in other ways. If there were no bias to certain classes, the species with the highest populations and rates of reproduction would triumph over all others. That is why levels do not work that way. Contentment and laxity mean one levels slower, even with superior education—but the quality of the classes improve. Look—here—”

It took her across Terandria in the blink of an eye and showed Mrsha the weeping Queen of Desonis. Not without heart or care, but the Grand Design touched her class and level as well.

Royal.

“Authority matters too. This is the quality by which [Kings] and [Queens] are created, Mrsha, as well as other rulers. The culture of a people generates the potential for these classes to emerge. Tribes can only produce a [Chieftain]; a great empire can generate an [Emperor]—unless one has the sheer ego, will, and knowledge to manifest the class themselves. I have always loved Laken Godart for that.”

She thought it smiled, if a being like this could smile. Mrsha was understanding so much of how the system worked—but she tried to raise her hand again.

They were back in the inn, and Shassa Weaverweb raised one of her brows at Mrsha. The girl caught herself, then protested.

“But that means…that means someone designed things so that ruler classes are better, aren’t they? You’re saying Nuvityn’s class is better than everyone else’s? Even that half-Elf who’s Level 63!?”

The Grand Design nodded.

“Tserre. And no, he is not better than she is in many respects. But if they were the same level, the chances he would be superior in Skills are overwhelming.”

“So ruler classes are better. But then…that would mean…wouldn’t everyone build kingdoms and stuff like that?”

Mrsha’s head was hurting, but she exploded out with the idea, and the Grand Design’s eyes…brightened. It regarded Mrsha with surprise and approval, like a teacher who had heard something brilliant from a novice.

“Yes. That’s it exactly. That is…exactly how it works, Mrsha. Of course, it is not all biased that way; there are benefits to multiple systems of being. [Shamans] belong to tribes; there are powers that [Mages] shall never have that only [Shamans] possess. Different methods or cultures provide synergies or benefits; the same with individual classes. This world was built that way. I was written that way.”

It spread its arms and almost laughed—then stopped. The Grand Design hesitated, cast around, and then spoke, as if confessing something to Mrsha.

“I…the authority of rulers and the aspects of me that value such classes were part of my creation. Written by Tamaroth.”

Mrsha felt a chill of terror.

“How do you—”

“He signed his name.”

The Grand Design regarded its chest—or rather, Shassa Weaverweb regarded her tunic—then pulled open the Drake’s chest, revealing more golden code. It almost blinded Mrsha; a complexity beyond stars glittered there, and she could not have guessed at the language or how much of it there was. The Grand Design nodded at Mrsha.

“I can. I had not checked before, but I can see those who changed different parts of me. So many designers of the Grand Design…not all were so obvious, but their styles emerge. I had not thought to judge the rules of my being.”

“You should. You…I’m sorry Tamaroth made any part of you.”

The Grand Design bowed its head, inspecting itself. When it raised it, Shassa’s face was confused.

“Should I be upset? I don’t know. So much of me—almost all—is but one being’s work, Mrsha. Isthekenous. I don’t know who he was; I don’t even know his face. But that is why they matter. Souls, you see? Look.”

It pointed a finger at her, and Mrsha saw that piece of data floating in herself, separating her from an object, from the fake realities. The Grand Design breathed.

“That is what makes you real. If you are blessed, you may go to Diotria or be cursed to Hellste. It is what separates you from a Skill. It is writ in the backbone of everything, and they lack it. You understand now.”

It closed its eyes and nodded, pleased with having led Mrsha to the conclusion. But Mrsha wasn’t convinced it was the right one. The Grand Design was standing, as if to go, when it noticed Mrsha’s raised paw again. Shassa heaved a huge sigh.

“…Yes?”

“I get they don’t have souls now, Grand Design. Thanks for explaining. So…what? I sort of knew that already; I knew they were copies of the people I loved. I know that isn’t my Kevin, even if they’re so similar. But I did it anyways. Don’t you get why?”

The Grand Design’s face grew hostile instantly, and it sat back down and leaned forwards on the bed. It got madder, which wasn’t good, but all Mrsha could do was try to explain.

“You sound like—did you hear nothing I just said?!”

Shassa was gone. The Grand Design wore her face again and shouted at Mrsha. She flinched once more. But she had seen scarier things than the Grand Design. Like that bier or Xherw or the Goblin Lord, the cruel fates in the palace…oh, so much. She glared and replied back.

“I heard you! I understand, but I don’t care! Because the soul doesn’t matter, dummy! It’s just writing! It’s just a word. If I can hold someone and they trick me forever into believing they were real, then who cares if they were fake? They’re real to me. And even if they’re not my Kevin or Moore or…”

Her eyes filled up with tears, and her voice grew wobbly, which she discovered she hated. The Grand Design stared at her impassively. And she understood it didn’t like her.

Figuring out that the world itself hated you sucked. She’d always thought it was on her side, even if nothing else was.

The Grand Design’s eyes flickered and jerked away from Mrsha for a second. It didn’t understand why, so Mrsha told it, her voice choking and halting.

“I thought…I thought that if I took them out of their realities, if I could convince them, somehow—when they came to my world, when they left—maybe they’d become the people I knew. Just a bit. Like Orpheus and Eurydice, from those Greek tales that Erin on the raft told me. I know the cost. I know it’s a long-shot. But I thought if anyone would be kind and give them another chance…it would be you.”

“Me?”

Those eyes that contained the sum of every equation in the universe widened. The Grand Design blinked, and Mrsha wiped at her eyes.

“I thought…you’d do something, because I thought you’d be kind and—and help. I thought maybe a pit to hell itself would open up if they came through and I’d have to grab their souls. But they never had them? That’s still a Kevin. That’s still a Brunkr. I didn’t know even the original Brunkr that well, it’s true. But I cried for him then. When I meet them again, I cry for them because I believe they’re real for a bit. Maybe that’s stupid and being a smart adult means you let them go and it stops hurting, but I hope I never grow up. If they don’t have souls—so what?”

She slapped her chest and shouted.

“They can have some of mine! They can have mine. But if you ever, ever say that other Mrsha who starved to death isn’t really me, I’ll hit you. She’s more me than I am. I just want to save one of them. Just one. Then I can say I tried everything. My turn. I’ll regret it forever if I don’t try…don’t tell me it’s pointless. Please.”

Tears were running down her cheeks. She was on her hands and knees, and she heard nothing as she wept. When she looked up, the image of herself, the Grand Design, was breaking apart.

Mrsha’s breath caught as she saw her face—not splitting, but fragmenting. Bits of golden light shone through Mrsha’s body; it wasn’t as horrific as something splitting her apart from the inside. It was merely as if something inside her shell could not be contained by mere flesh and blood.

<Oh. I see. So that’s what was meant. How silly. How young, the both of you. I could not understand it. Me.>

The true voice of the Grand Design sounded…just like Mrsha remembered. No longer angry. Perhaps wistful. Guilty? Something stared at Mrsha, and she shook.

Unkind? Unkind to whom? The Grand Design didn’t answer Mrsha. Instead, it lifted a paw that began to evaporate.

Mrsha glimpsed a hint of that wrath in its tone—and saw it. If it was empowered to defend everything—what might this being do?

A billion [Meteor Storms]—all the energy of the universe’s creation—more—it could hurl that across space and time in a second. But it didn’t know. Those eyes shifted to Mrsha as the Grand Design faded.

It stood, and Mrsha called out.

“Wait, are you going to erase everything? Don’t! I have to—”

She lunged for the bed, but the Grand Design just floated over her. It spoke as the fake body vanished.

It met her eyes.

Then the lips curled upwards in what Mrsha hoped was a mean joke, and the Grand Design vanished.

She lay there on the bed as her pulse stopped racing, as time resumed, and within a moment as long as forever, forgot this conversation. When Mrsha reached up, she touched her cheeks.

“Why am I crying?”

She clapped her paws over her mouth and then opened and shut her mouth repeatedly. Mrsha stared wildly at her reflection in the mirror and had no idea what had happened.

The door swung open, and Ser Dalimont gave Mrsha a look as stunned as the one on her face.

Then her day continued. With one, no, two beings watching—no, at least fourteen, plus the distant King of Fae and two dead Goddesses, so seventeen at least—

Everyone watched.

And just so it was clear, the Grand Design hadn’t made a mistake. It had let Mrsha say that last bit on purpose. Just that one sentence in the voice she had never had. It felt like it owed her that.

——

<Temporary Dimension: Alternate World 1 — “Better Days”>

It was now clear something was wrong in the inn. One look at Kevin’s haggard face had Lyonette calling for a [Healer] over his protestations. When she went to Erin about Kevin’s odd behavior, and the fact that Moore hadn’t eaten anything and some of the Goblins acting ‘off’, she got an odd reply.

“Just—leave them alone, huh, Lyonette? It’s a weird day. Yeah. Weird. I don’t know what to say, but…just wait, okay?”

That was so out-of-character for the meddling, empathetic [Innkeeper] that Lyonette instantly went to tell Numbtongue, Mrsha, Nanette, Bird, and everyone else she trusted to try to get to the bottom of another Solstice Event.

Which was ironic because the Winter Solstice was occurring today. And it was already looking to be a rather eventful day.

It began with guests arriving.

——

Even in the [Garden of Sanctuary], Kevin Hall could hear the cheering. He didn’t look up; he’d been kicking around the garden, swiping at the Sage’s Grass, stomping over flowers, even kicking the cocoa trees. He felt bad about it when he saw how much greenery he’d destroyed, but he didn’t really care.

Everything is fake, including me. The young man stomped down the hill of yellow flowers and Sage’s Grass, wondering what was going on. All the joys of the Christmas season were lost on him.

When he opened the door to the inn, Kevin recoiled from a white Gnoll girl padding along on all fours. His eyes went wide, and his heart stopped. Then he realized it wasn’t…her. It was just his Mrsha. She turned, blinking at him, as a young witch halted in her tracks. Nanette had a basket of candy-canes in her hands and a big, red ribbon in her hair. Mrsha had a green bow stuck to her head.

They were cute little Santa’s helpers today! Mrsha had on a red outfit, while Nanette had green, and they beamed at Kevin. He stared at them, then snapped.

“What the fuck is making that noise?”

He snarled and both girls gave him a faintly alarmed look. Nanette opened her mouth with a frown.

“That’s not a very nice way to ask, Mister Kevin. We’re getting more visitors for the Solstice party!”

Her reproachful look made Kevin feel bad, and he mumbled.

“Sorry. Who is it?”

“Couriers! Couriers, and I think Wall Lord Ilvriss is inbound on a Pegasus any moment now!”

Wall Lord Ilvriss? Kevin just stared at the girls as they exchanged a long glance and edged back from him. He’d forgotten…the young man stumbled outside and just stared in the way people did when they encountered the silly shenanigans Erin could get up to.

——

“Ho, ho, ho! Ho? Ancestors take it—how many ‘hos’ is it again? Osthia, hand me the bag of holding.”

Wall Lord Ilvriss was doing his damndest not to seem like a complete idiot as the flying Pegasus took him in a lazy circle over the city of Liscor. Snow was still falling on the houses below, and he saw Gnolls, Drakes, and Humans staring up at him.

They ducked as Ilvriss pulled something from the bag of holding that Shield Captain Osthia was holding and tossed it down like an alchemist’s flask. A beautifully-wrapped box with a bow on top hit the ground with a crack that made Ilvriss wince, sending a child and family running for their lives.

He modulated the next throw; a present hit a snowbank, and a Gnoll girl stared at it and backed away as she gaped up at him.

“It’s not a weapon! It’s a gift!”

Ilvriss shouted desperately as he hurled another box; it bounced off a wall, and he wondered how the hell he’d thought this was a good idea.

Show up for the Winter Solstice, I said. Make it something in the spirit of The Wandering Inn, I said.

Reasonable events had led him here, Ilvriss swore. He had to come on Pegasus-back anyways. He had brought presents since he’d missed Christmas proper. Why not spread the joy?

It was just that in his calculations, he hadn’t thought of the relative force a wooden box thrown from on high had—Ilvriss hit a window with his fourth present.

“Shield Captain, make sure we pay for damages!”

At least some of the people below understood they were gifts, not weapons. A child was unwrapping the beautiful, lacquered box embossed with Christmas-y images, and he pulled out a custom-made soccer ball with clear delight. Another child reached for the box that had gone into the alleyway.

When the adorable Drake doll opened the box from the inside and crawled out, arms open for a hug, the Human girl ran, screaming.

Mistakes had been made. Ilvriss would have a postmortem on this event with Alrric. Hopefully one that did not include an actual postmortem. Ilvriss was trying to shout at the girl that the doll was friendly and not possessed when his Pegasus decided to defecate, adding a new present raining down from above that the Liscorian populace did not appreciate.

At least he had backup. A rather more grand Drake, wearing a red costume and a hat that suited him, swooped past Ilvriss. Nerul didn’t go for single-target throws. He opened his bag of holding and dumped eight presents on the ground here, sixteen there, and his voice was huge and booming and, dare Ilvriss even say it, jolly.

“Ancestors, Nephew! That’s not the kind of present you should be delivering! Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! Grab the presents; they’re all straight from House Gemscale in Salazsar! Worth good money even if you don’t want them! Merry Christmas!”

That worked. Ilvriss had on the same outfit, including a white beard, but he was too thin and tall; he seemed like some kind of suspicious gaunt Santa-burglar who crept into houses. Nerul was a proper Drake Santa, and the children went running for the presents. Ilvriss relaxed a bit as he saw someone else hurling presents from her Pegasus.

Xesci the, uh, [Courtesan] who had found herself in his employment. Just how that happened was a very funny story, actually! He couldn’t wait to tell Erin…Ilvriss adjusted his beard, hoping this was at least on the news.

In fact, as he circled higher, he swore he heard cheering from The Wandering Inn and raised a hand to wave at them. He saw Mrsha running outside, that scamp. Waving and bouncing up and down.

Ilvriss felt this entire event had been worth it. He beamed, fumbling for her present—then realized she wasn’t cheering for him.

Ilvriss started scowling the moment he saw the rainbow.

——

The first wave was Couriers. Couriers plural.

The Moonlight Rider, Tritel, had put a red nose on his beloved horse, Ci. She really didn’t like it and gave him a galloping ride, kicking her back hooves into the air, jumping through the snow, but racing forwards in such a profusion of energy that it drew every eye.

She wasn’t the only one. Hawk had gamely put reindeer antlers on his head, but they kept slipping to the side. As for Salamani, he’d just decided a standard Santa outfit was the thing, but he kept conjuring magical illusions, a lightshow of Christmas lights around him.

Four Couriers, each leaving a path in the snow behind them, with sacks of presents they were about to shower all the good little children with. Way cooler than a terrorist Drake throwing presents from above.

They had, in fact, already left a trail of gifts from First Landing to Liscor, and all the Couriers were privately looking forwards to getting out of the damn snow and having a drink. But they had their best smiles on, and they ran or rode like fire.

You sort of had to when your leader was this motivated to show people a good time. The young man running in the front, doing backflips in the air and hurling presents at the children racing behind him, was leading the other four Couriers. And Valceif Godfrey had promised to kick anyone slacking on this job into tomorrow. If he didn’t do it, you knew his mother, Mihaela Godfrey, would kill you.

Valceif, the Courier’s Shadow, son of the famous Courier of Izril and Guildmistress of First Landing, Mihaela Godfrey. He might not have had his mother’s acclaim, but her son was quick and won his rank by keeping up with the fastest woman on Izril.

Plus, he was far better at dealing with people than Mihaela.

“Merry Christmas, courtesy of Desonis! There’s The Wandering Inn—run for it, lads! Tritel, deploy the teleportation scroll!”

Tritel hollered back.

“That’s lads and lady, brat! Here we go! [Shimmering Ride]!”

All the Couriers activated their showiest Skills and became a landlocked comet of snow that sprayed upwards, like an avalanche at their backs, a cloud of icy particles that took on green and red color as one of them tossed some powder into it. As they ran, circling towards The Wandering Inn, the winter air brightened behind them, and music began to play from a recording crystal that Hawk tossed down. Valceif glanced behind him, worried they’d messed the timing up—but no, it was perfect.

The teleportation spell from Wistram activated, and the first person to step through to the other side spread his arms like a performer on stage. Which, to be fair, he was.

Earl Altestiel of the Rains emerged to the Singer of Terandria’s pop songs, and dancing figures posed in place as he thoroughly upstaged Wall Lord Ilvriss’ Pegasus show. Mainly because he’d brought the Lord of the Dance.

And the Queen of Desonis.

Explosions of colored water turning to snow and more lights and music—Altestiel had watched when The Adventurer’s Haven had met The Wandering Inn and decided he could do everything better. To be fair, when you had Lord Belchaus and his world-class dancers, you could do it better.

They came towards The Wandering Inn in such a storm of excitement that they had people running out of Liscor to meet them and cheering, even though some of them had no idea who Altestiel was. The Earl of Rains and the Lord of the Dance came down that bridge made of water, a rainbow hanging over their heads, and the two girls going insane on the hill, Nanette and Mrsha, pointed in awe as the third notable figure emerged.

Queen Geilouna, the Sleeping Queen, was being carried on a giant, king-sized bed by an entire team of porters, and she sat up slightly as she yawned. Blankets and pillows were all about her, and her pets glanced around, irritated by all the noise.

Insanity. Chaos. Delight for the Solstice. Mrsha went running towards Altestiel, waving her arms and howling, as Ekirra, Visma, Gireulashia, and all the children of every species raced after her.

Erin Solstice was laughing from outside her inn, pointing at Ilvriss, then Altestiel, trying not to be the center of attention, and inside the inn, a very upset Fraerling was hissing into a speaking stone.

“No, abort, Fleethoof! We’re getting upstaged! Time it for midday, midday! Don’t shout at me! Just camp out for six hours and—no, don’t do it now—”

Drums from the southeast and more horn calls as a thoroughly cold and wet Centauress decided she was coming to drink some eggnog and get warm no matter what her boss thought was most impressive.

What a day to remember.

Kevin Hall eyed all the chaos outside and slammed the door to The Wandering Inn. He stomped back inside.

——

The other Mrsha had not returned. Neither had Rags.

Mrsha had promised to come back, but something was clearly…off. Kevin was one of the few people in The Wandering Inn; everyone, nearly everyone, had gone outside.

Except for Halrac, Moore—wherever he was—Headscratcher, and Pyrite. The two Goblins were having a spiced eggnog when Kevin stomped into the common room.

“Earl Altestiel?”

“Yeah.”

Kevin spoke shortly. Both Goblins nodded and went back to talking. After a second, Headscratcher peered up.

“Kevin, have you seen Rags…?”

“No. I covered for her when Niers asked where she was.”

“Mm. Good. Thanks.”

“Have you seen…?”

Two shakes of the head from them. At a far table, Halrac stopped chewing on breakfast and shook his head.

No one said a word. Dead men, all. Kevin felt this was all damn unfair. Why had only dudes died during the Winter Solstice? Well, maybe just guys at the inn. They hadn’t killed Ulvama! Or Erin! Just kidnapped them and put them on a ship…

God fucking damn it, death might have been better. Kevin felt like throwing up again, but he was too miserable to even do that.

“I’m going into the real garden. Not the beach. Let me know if anyone shows up. Anyone important.”

He stomped back to the one place that would be quiet with all the hubbub. Along the way, Kevin nearly tripped over a snoozing figure and realized someone else had missed all the chaos.

That old guy, Demsleth, was passed out at a table with a pointed wizard’s hat—if you made brown, travelling wizard’s hats patched over and worn with age—over his face. Kevin supposed some people could sleep through anything.

One of Demsleth’s eyes shone vividly blue as Kevin opened the door to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. After a moment, Halrac got up and went upstairs to check on a certain room where Lyonette slept.

Downstairs, an undead rat listened, but neither Dragon nor Necromancer had more clues.

Garden? Or that room? Demsleth got up as the first people burst into The Wandering Inn and pretended he needed to sleep in the guest rooms above.

——

Kevin Hall was kicking flowers when the [Garden of Sanctuary] opened. He stopped when his Mrsha gave him a flying headbutt to the back. She couldn’t hurt him in the garden, so it was more like a gentle tackle, head-first, but it scared him so much he leapt back in shock.

“Argh! What the hell—Mrsha, that hurts!”

She mimed punching and kicking him and pointed furiously at the half-destroyed swath of yellow flowers.

You pissbucket, Kevin! My flowers! How dare you destroy my life’s work!

“Mrsha, stop hitting Kevin! You won’t get any presents from Santa, remember?”

Santa’s weak-willed. He’ll give me anything I want!

Mrsha turned to argue with someone, but she did get off Kevin. Guiltily, he sat up. He knew the yellow flowers were Mrsha’s passion project; she kept growing them. But it was that or punch a wall till his knuckles bled.

“Sorry, Mrsha. Hey, what’s up?”

He observed something was off—Mrsha was standing there with Garia Strongheart, Fierre, the not-a-Vampire girl, and…Ryoka Griffin? The Wind Runner was covering her face, and Kevin heard a sniff.

“Sorry. Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It just started, and I can’t…stop. Tell Val it wasn’t his fault. I’m serious, can someone check if something’s wrong with me? Did Saliss prank—?”

“Someone’s finding him right now. Are you sure you’re okay, Miss Ryoka? You seemed awfully sad there!”

A new voice piped up, and Kevin saw it was Nanette. Everyone was surrounding Ryoka, and he saw she was wiping away tears.

She was crying. Tears were rolling down her face, and she looked mystified.

“Uh. What happened?”

Fierre turned to Kevin and indicated Ryoka, as awkward as he was. Garia was at least patting Ryoka’s arm, and Mrsha was trying to give Ryoka a handkerchief.

“Everyone was saying hi to Valceif when Ryoka exploded into tears.”

“I don’t get it. It’s not like I missed him that much. I’m not sad—I think? Fuck, it won’t stop! Give me that handkerchief; thank you, Mrsha.”

“Well, I’ll tell Valceif it’s fine. And try to stop Tyrion. He thinks he has a rival in love. Another one. Pellmia’s holding him back.”

Garia jogged for the door as Kevin stood there. He had an inkling of what was going on. Mrsha held up a card.

Ryoko, are you okay? Do you want me to punch Valceif in the nuts?

“No, Mrsha, it’s nothing he did! I’m fine—wait, did you call me ‘Ryoko’? That’s hilarious.”

Ryoka sniffed again and grinned at Mrsha, and the girl checked her writing.

Weird. Ryoka, why are you called ‘Ryoka’? Ryoko sounds more appropriate.

The Wind Runner laughed as her tears finally stopped flowing so strongly.

“Uh, no, Mrsha. Ryoka is a traditional Japanese name from home. Ryoko is…I guess it could be a name? Is this some kind of joke I’m not getting? You’re like the dozenth person this week who’s called me Ryoko. Nevermind; hey, Kevin, are you okay? You look terrible.”

“Not as bad as you.”

Kevin tried to deflect, mumbling, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. Ryoka gave him an expression of genuine concern as she came over.

“You really tore up Mrsha’s garden.”

“Sorry. I’m a bit—stressed.”

“About Ceria?”

He gave Ryoka a blank look, and she held up her hands.

“I’m not meddling! Fierre told me!”

“Hey! I just noticed—”

Ryoka lowered her voice.

“Ceria’s been mad as can be, and she keeps saying it’s your fault. You, uh, need help patching things up with her? Because she’s normally nice, but she can be mean when she’s angry. Plus, she’s a [Prankster].”

Kevin had almost completely forgotten about the way he’d stood up Ceria. He felt guilty and was trying to explain that it was his fault and he’d make it up to Ceria as Mrsha glumly began to try to salvage her damaged garden. The two adults heard a sharp exhalation of breath below them and glanced down.

Mrsha had frozen with one of the yellow flowers in her paws. The damaged bloom made Kevin step back guiltily.

“I’m really sorry about the flowers, Mrsha. I’ll help buy new seeds and plant them, honest.”

She shook her head and stared down at the flower she was holding. That was when Kevin discovered something was…off about the flowers he was so used to.

Yellow flowers, blooming on the hill. Normal, right? Right…except for the fact that these flowers were different today than the ones in Kevin’s memory. They were—not more golden, not brighter or even larger than before.

But when he blinked at them, they seemed to draw his eye. When Kevin turned right and left, they seemed to glitter, almost like gold pieces. The flowers reaching upwards for the sky had a presence where before they had just been—flowers.

“What the heck? Mrsha, your flowers seem—different.”

Ryoka noticed it at once as well. She squatted down and Mrsha tilted her head back and forth.

Forsooth, they are different! Look at them! They’re all special now! Kevin, what did you do? You kicked them into being awesome!

All the flowers were so changed, they realized. Everyone squatted down and began to inspect the curious little blooms. Kevin felt his skin crawling as he lifted a flower, sniffed—

And the world enlarged. Kevin flailed around and almost went tumbling down the hill until Fierre caught him.

“Whoa! You okay, Kevin?”

“Holy shit! For a second, I felt like I was shrinking—”

That disconcerting feeling vanished as Kevin tossed the flower down. He rubbed at his nose and turned to Ryoka, who was petrified.

“No one come near me! I’m not m—I was a giant for a moment! Wh—these are hallucinogenic flowers! They’re casting illusions on us or something!”

Everyone recoiled from the flowers at once. They backed up, peering at Kevin, but he was as bewildered as everyone else.

“I didn’t do anything, I swear! But these things are full of magic. And they make you see things? I shrank like I was Alice in Wonderland, Ryoka.”

“Opposite for me. Who the hell could have done this to Mrsha’s flowers? Why—Palt!”

Everyone groaned in sudden realization, and Nanette smacked a tiny fist into her palm.

“Let’s get him, Mrsha!”

They raced out of the [Garden of Sanctuary], shouting for that damn Centaur. Kevin almost followed when his mind reminded him of something.

Hadn’t the other Mrsha said something about her flowers being different? He glanced back at the flowers and remembered. The roots of these flowers were what let her enter other worlds. But our Ryoka is ‘Ryoko’ and the flowers are fake…

Except they’re no longer fake.

Kevin felt all the hairs on his neck rising. He strode for the door to the [Garden of Sanctuary], trying to remember what the other Mrsha had said. A drink. Something about a drink?

The yellow flowers bloomed innocently behind Kevin as he began freaking out. But that was nothing compared to…

——

The Grand Design of Isthekenous launched an immediate inquiry at the Second Edition. The response was slow and nervous, but concrete.

No, it hadn’t duplicated the Faerie Flowers. It couldn’t. They didn’t have a system entry like other objects.

The Grand Design knew that was true. It also knew that for reasons of <FAE>, Ryoka Griffin’s entry was appended as ‘Ryoko Griffin’, hence the naming mistake. It wouldn’t have made those errors, but the Second Edition had because it was new to the job.

…Only those errors were fixed now. The Grand Design began running a full-scale analysis on the Faerie Flowers. As far as it could tell, the ones in this alternate dimension were real Faerie Flowers, not duplicates.

The damn things were spreading? How—? Then the Grand Design began re-reviewing the history around the [Palace of Fates]. It noted how Mrsha used the roots to accidentally breach into the [Palace of Fates] and doors; the Faerie Flower roots could clearly breach dimensions and even Skills with unprecedented ease.

That was already a problem, but…the Grand Design followed its hypothesis. It left the world of the Winter Solstice behind. And it tried another door. It rewound time again so it could tell what the hell was going on.

Two Ragses meeting their future self. A [Hero] of Rhir…no wonder everything was so slow. The Second Edition had been forced to generate hundreds of them at exceptionally high levels. The world was so changed. And, while the two Ragses escaped death by the skin of their teeth, another Mrsha entered this world with the Goblin [Tattooist], Dyeda.

A Mrsha without a soul. The Grand Design watched carefully.

——

<Temporary Dimension: Alternate World 2 — “Ten Years Later”>

Dyeda and Mrsha ran through the door, shouting. Visma, an adult, trendy young Drake woman, shot to her feet.

“Aaah! Aaah! What the heck—”

She raised her ring like it was some kind of defensive weapon, and both Gnoll girl and Goblin shoulder-charged past her.

“Get help! We need help! The bad [Hero] is going to kill Rianchi! And Rags! And Redscar!”

Dyeda screamed in Visma’s face. Mrsha just ran for it.

Roots Mrsha, expendable Mrsha—she charged for the door and began sprinting down the slope on all fours, towards the city of Liscor in the future. She knew this was risky. She knew it was dangerous—there was a [Hero] with a double-bladed lightsaber-sword running around in the distance. She could see the flashes of lightning he was throwing off.

—It didn’t matter. She wasn’t the genuine article. She had to try to save Rags and the others. She barrelled down the hill as the vast, new walls of this foreign city rose above her.

They were covered with bright paint, Mrsha realized. Children’s drawings camouflaging powerful attack spells. The grey stone she remembered was replaced with bright, white tiles not yet stained with age.

Beautiful. As she ran towards the gates, Mrsha saw the things Dyeda had described, the pagoda buildings, the bridge of painted wood, the city of tourism and charms.

Not the Liscor she knew, not at all.

Dyeda caught up to Mrsha at a dead sprint halfway down the hill. The Gnoll girl was fast, but the Hobgoblin ran with all the speed of terror for her husband. They were so fast that Visma was barely at the door to the inn by the time they were at the bottom of the hill.

“S-stop! You can’t enter Liscor! You’re a white Gnoll, a white Gnoll! And you’re a Goblin! Stop! I’ll call for help, don’t—”

The Drake [Junior Reporter] screamed desperately as she tried to understand why a young Mrsha had just appeared in her inn. Then she realized she was speaking to two people who didn’t live in a time where phone calls were normal. They were used to having to talk to people face-to-face.

——

Mrsha ran through the gates in a blur of white. The [Guards] on the walls saw her and called down.

“A white Gnoll—?”

“Someone grab the kid before a Plains Gnoll sees. Hells, tell the Watch Captain—”

“Call the Watch Commander! Is that another damn Goblin!?”

The air was still alight with the battle between the [Hero] and the Flooded Waters tribe of the future. Pedestrians were staring uneasily at the skies, not at the two running figures.

Dyeda actually outpaced Mrsha as they came to the security-bridge with the archway gates covered in hanging charms. She raced under the first two arches, then heard a piercing wail from around her, and the air began to solidify as a jangle from a thousand charms overhead made her stumble and freeze.

“No! I need help! Please don’t—!”

She raised her hands, spinning, but the charms weren’t active because of her. The [Tattooist] saw a white Gnoll girl frozen in the air.

Mrsha was hovering, mid-dash, paws extended, running on all fours, with her kilt blowing behind her, an expression of alarm and surprise on her face. She was suspended in the air between the arches of the first gate—and every charm, every single charm was glowing red and shaking. Not jangling. Not chiming, but shrieking with an unearthly noise and pitch that Dyeda had never heard in her entire life.

All four gates were ringing the same alarm, and the thickness in the air was manifesting in the form of some kind of [Stasis] spell—Dyeda backed away in horror as the frozen Mrsha’s eyes darted right and left. That was the first second as [Guards] spun from their positions at the walls and at the entrance to Liscor.

Their eyes went wide with disbelief, then they drew swords and levelled spears, abandoning batons or other weapons. Someone began shouting.

“No! Not again! Sound the alarm! Sound the alarm—”

“A Doombringer? Lock the gates! Lock the damn—”

Then Dyeda’s ring began to speak, and the Goblin heard a voice—a familiar voice—speaking.

“This is Watch Commander Embria issuing an all-city notice! Lockdown! All citizens are to report to emergency shelters! Lockdown! An infested individual has been detained at the gates of the city! Remain calm and exit the area at once—”

The Gnoll hovering in the air behind Dyeda had no idea what was going on, and nor did the Goblin, but clearly, everyone else did. The reaction was immediate. The tourists, shop owners, everyone who wasn’t a [Guard] heard the alert and began screaming and running.

They didn’t grab their possessions. Stall owners didn’t pack up their goods. They just ran; Dyeda saw the [Talisman Seller] who’d first introduced her to the city vaulting his stand without even pausing to grab the money box. They sprinted away, and the Hobgoblin saw [Guards] running towards her. Towards Mrsha.

Some leapt off the walls, slowing with [Featherfall] spells, and they aimed their weapons at the girl as the gates slammed shut with a thunderous impact. Metal bars were falling from the sky—that same Skill again.

Dyeda had seen civilians fleeing a Goblin raid with less fear and horror than this. She had no time to run; she was surrounded by screaming [Guards] in a second, and someone pointed a wand at her. A bright yellow ray hit Dyeda as she tried to surrender, and she fell over on her back.

[Paralyzed], not dead. And the alarms kept increasing.

——

Warning klaxons were sounding all over the City of Charms, from the highest buildings, and some of the towers on the walls were glowing with spells.

Trained on their position. The little Gnoll girl at the heart of it all couldn’t move even if she wanted to; she could barely move her eyes. It felt like she was suspended in immovable jello; she was completely locked down.

But she could feel how much hostile magic was surrounding her, and she was terrified.

Is this it? Am I gonna die? They didn’t kill Dyeda or even notice her until later! Do they hate Doombringers that much in this time?

Then her rational brain asserted itself, and she wondered what was meant by—‘infested’? Mrsha saw something falling towards her out of the sky and realized that if Rags was in dire trouble, she was In Trouble.

The half-Giant hit the ground, and the world quaked. The water under the bridge rose into the air in a spray, and Lord Moore raised his staff in one hand. A diamond spear in the other. His face looked like a mask of war, and Roots Mrsha almost wept when she saw him.

That familiar expression of implacable rage on behalf of the innocent, the terrifying visage of the gentle half-Giant roused to wrath.

Some things never changed.

His arm drew back, and the muscles bunched as he turned to her, but the half-Giant’s arm never threw the spell. He saw her hanging in the air, and his eyes opened wide.

“Mrsha?”

His voice broke, and the half-Giant’s arm lowered. Then his brows drew together, and his dark brown beard streaked with grains of grey seemed to bristle.

“A trick? No—”

Uncertainty replaced anger, and he held up a hand as the Watch formed into a semicircle on both sides of the bridge, clearly ready to attack. Or be attacked?

It made no sense to Mrsha. She was one kid. Nor was she a [Strategist], but the Watch was organizing into experienced formations, as if they expected a thousand Mrshas to attack them all at once. Most were actually facing the gates, and she saw they were swarming with more soldiers or guards…

“Lord Moore, that child is infested! We have a Goblin—here!”

The half-Giant focused on Dyeda, and he pointed his staff at her. His eyes were darting to Mrsha, to the flashing sky.

“Is she infested?”

“No, Lord Moore—we’re double-checking—”

They were casting spells on Dyeda, even using their rings to project these weird beams of light that crisscrossed Dyeda’s body and made letters and numbers flash up in front of their faces. One of the [Guards] grunted.

“She’s got a ring on, but we’re bypassing it, and it wouldn’t stop the gates—no, she’s clean. But that girl is infested.”

Everyone drew back visibly, and Moore’s jaw clenched. Mrsha heard voices raised in agitation.

“Dead gods, dead gods, it’s happening. Is it just one?”

“A straggler, maybe? After all this time?”

“She’s right over the waterways—! If she infects the city again—”

“The water is treated! Quiet in the ranks! The Watch Commander is arriving!”

This time, the Watch Commander of Liscor didn’t fall out of the skies like Moore did, literally jumping across the City of Charms. Rather, a beam of light shone down, and a figure appeared where it touched the ground. Mrsha saw a dozen figures appear—Drakes and Gnolls even more heavily armed than their counterparts. And in the center of them a…red-scaled Drake that Mrsha recognized.

Wing Commander Embria, an adult woman. In a wheelchair?

She was holding a wand in one arm as she rolled forwards, and her gaze was sharp, but she had no…legs. And only one eye. She wore an eyepatch, and scars stood out on her red scales. Her eye was hard, and her face was tense as she pointed a wand at Mrsha.

“Lord Moore, the gates are locked down. We have sensor spells scanning for any signs of infestation. The Watch is sweeping inwards manually, conducting physical scans of every single citizen, but that’s for their peace of mind more than anything. Gate Captain, report! How many infested are there?”

A Human ran forwards and indicated a bunch of glowing screens following him.

“Watch Commander, our surveillance spells show no one else incoming—except there is that battle with the [Hero] and Goblins. But I just pulled the entire log of this gate, and aside from the Goblins—I cannot find more infested. We have eyes on the dungeon. But everything inside is quiet.”

“Keep me apprised. Evacuate any [Researchers] and security in the dungeon to safe zones. The moment you see anything in the dungeon, you have full authority to activate purge spells. Who…is this?”

Embria had finally recognized Mrsha, and her good eye widened. Moore spoke, his voice husky.

“Mrsha.”

Some of the Watch clearly recognized the name and gazed at one another. Embria glanced at Moore and shook her head.

“Impossible. This is a trick of some kind. Or…can they create fakes? I want full-scale scans. Send an alert to Wistram and the Walled Cities; I need our best [Mages] here now!”

Her voice writhed with distaste as she glowered at Mrsha. Moore, on the other hand, was glancing at Dyeda.

“Embria. This may not be a trick. I think…”

He hesitated, then planted the diamond spear in the ground and strode over to her. The two spoke, but they blurred as some kind of advanced privacy spell obscured their bodies as well as words. In the meantime, the Watch was still analyzing Mrsha and growing increasingly concerned.

“Multiple classes for a kid. Is this normal? Gate Captain?”

Several technical-looking members of the Watch crowded around, flicking through screens. One even had glasses that shone with miniature screens, and they squinted and stared at Mrsha and ran those glowing beams over her, but something was wrong.

“She’s got way too many levels for someone who’s only eight years old! And it says her name is Mrsha…this isn’t right. I know the real Mrsha. Re-run the appraisal spells. Can we get a [Greater Appraisal] spell in? Where the hell are those [Mages]!?”

More people were teleporting in, and Watch Commander Embria reappeared from behind the privacy spell. She held up a hand.

“Keep the civilians out of the area! I don’t care what Councilwoman Lyonette thinks she’s seeing—restrict access to the camera feeds. On the order of Lord Moore! Release those area stasis spells, but keep the personal one on her. Same for the Goblin.”

The Watch obeyed her commands, but with clear unease. Embria turned to Moore.

“I’ll give you half an hour before everyone will be demanding answers. You’d better be right about this, Moore.”

“I will remove the infestation to begin with. Lock down my mansion and post a cordon around it. Upon my head be it.”

The half-Giant was nodding at Embria. His eyes focused on Mrsha, and she felt a flicker of hope. Embria grimace-grinned.

“Already done. Prepare for teleportation! Get me a full cleaning crew from Silveran here. This is under information lockdown until I issue a formal statement, and I’ll have the badge of any idiot who says anything unnecessary, got it? What you can say is that we detained an infected individual promptly, swiftly, and they are being treated. Now, give me—”

Mrsha felt tingly. Some of the glue-feeling in the air vanished, but she still hung there, suspended, as Dyeda was picked up and placed next to Mrsha. The two remained in place, and then Mrsha felt like someone was plucking her up—she saw Moore studying her, and the same light engulfed him too.

Then they vanished, and at least in the future, [Teleportation] spells looked cooler.

——

Five minutes later, Mrsha decided that being in a futuristic sci-fi magical world sucked if you were the problem.

Not that she’d tried to bust out of the giant glass tube-thing she was in. It was like a giant alchemist’s vial, only capped at the top and bottom with metal and surrounded by a magical spell circle of some kind.

Now, Mrsha was no [Archmage], but she was pretty certain the entire goal of all this magic and glass was to keep her in and separate from the rest of the world. Dyeda was in a tube next to Mrsha.

Moore, Lord Moore, was standing at a weird, shiny workbench like an [Alchemist]’s laboratory, measuring powders into a beaker. The beaker was on some kind of stand that beeped at him and kept showing numbers.

Units of measurement? Unclear. The half-Giant had donned some kind of white coat as well as a weird mask and gloves, and he was moving with the same grace as Octavia or Saliss. Mrsha was fascinated; she had no idea Moore could ever be an [Alchemist]!

Every few seconds, that weird horizontal beam of light would shine down from an orb in the corner of the laboratory and run down Moore’s entire body. The bright blue beam would scan him head-to-toe, and a glowing computer screen on another desk would chime and flash a green check-mark up.

Mrsha understood the computers, though Dyeda was probably confused by that. There were a lot of screens in the room, combined with old-style alchemist equipment and magical paraphernalia. Some fusion of all three ideas into one place—but the computer seemed to interface with magic, at least.

Every time the computer chimed, Moore would turn and stare at the green checkmark and then continue mixing stuff up. Which suggested to Mrsha he really was concerned. She wondered what he’d do if he got an ‘x’.

She couldn’t do much in the tube; Dyeda was pounding on the glass, clearly trying to communicate, but it was predictably soundproof. After another half-minute of watching Moore pour some reddish powder into a mix of green liquid that he filled exactly up to a line on a beaker, Mrsha lifted the card in her paw a bit higher.

She kept pressing it to the glass of her capsule. She tapped the glass again, hoping he’d look over.

Excuse me, Rags is in danger. Please help her. Whatever I did, I’ll take responsibility for, but a [Hero] is going to kill my friends!

Finally, Moore paid attention to her, glancing over as that beam of light ran over his back again. He grunted a reply.

“I know. I can’t interfere. That [Hero] is Rhir’s attack dog. They have international immunity from countless laws, and Liscor will not fight Rhir.”

He’ll kill them. You have to help her! She’s Rags! I’m Mrsha!

The half-Giant of the future blinked at the card, and his eyes focused on Mrsha. They softened—then he swung around abruptly and placed his tools so he didn’t have to see her.

“Whether or not I believe you, there is nothing more to be done. The Tribe of Dreams won’t die from a single [Hero] assailing them. They’ve survived worse. I have already warned the only being who can intercede in time. He—Pawn—is on his way.”

Pawn? Mrsha was utterly confused. She remembered seeing him in the door earlier, but that [Priest] had just been in a relationship with Lyonette as far as she’d seen. Was he important enough in the future to stop a [Hero]?

Apparently so. Moore turned a switch on another little platform, and the beaker began to bubble almost instantaneously when he placed it on the stand.

“Two more minutes. I have several treatments, but a fresh dosage is the most efficacious. So. You’re from the past. Either that or from our memories. How, either way? Chronomancy? The greatest [Chronomancer] of our age was Nereshal of the Blighted Kingdom, and he’s dead. What’s your explanation?”

His eyes were serious when he glanced at Mrsha again, and she felt a knot of trepidation in her stomach. This Lord Moore was far more…perspicacious than the Moore of the past, and that included his diction.

Old Moore, the one she loved and had lost, was a gentle soul, an adventurer, timid and capable of great deeds and wrath, but still, ultimately, a Gold-rank adventurer.

This was someone who felt like both leader and alchemist, mage and warrior all combined. He seemed sure of himself where Moore had always been uncertain except about what truly mattered. Mrsha wrote on her cards while Dyeda felt at her own pockets, clearly wishing she had some cards and ink to write with.

I come from a Skill that lets me travel between worlds. I come from the past, just after the Winter Solstice in my time. In my world. We came here to look for things to help us. Well, I came because I saw that [Hero] attacking Rags. What are you going to do to us?

Another glance over his shoulder. Moore began mixing more stuff into the red liquid, turning it lighter. He seemed practiced at whatever he was making. That tension never left his body, though.

“Assuming I believe that—I don’t intend to hurt you. Quite the opposite. Though everything about this speaks of the old days. Perhaps that’s fitting on Mrsha’s birthday. Mrsha—have you seen Mrsha? My Mrsha, an adult of eighteen.”

He frowned, and Mrsha suddenly felt a pang of unease in her stomach. She had been feeling bad ever since she woke up. Nasty. Sick. She put it down to whatever those security gates had done to her, but she gingerly patted her stomach with one paw as she wrote.

No…But there’s a possibility she might have found her way into my world. Which would be bad.

He grunted.

“Why, exactly?”

Because she might mess things up or tell people in my world about the secret Skill? They’d use it for their own ends.

He let the beaker stand and mix; something was spinning in the center as the elements combined over heat. The half-Giant tugged at his beard.

“Logical. You don’t sound like the Mrsha I remember. She could write like an adult, but she was still a delightful little girl. A handful. But we can test that. I’ll need to isolate all the samples—[Pinned Message]. Samples in quarantine area 1. Destroy and cleanse work area immediately.”

A glowing line of text appeared and hung in the air around his head. It seemed incredibly annoying because it followed him around, but Moore appeared used to it. He strode over to the capsule, and Mrsha realized it had more effects than she’d thought.

For one thing, it let Moore phase a gloved hand through, even though it was solid as could be on his side. This wouldn’t normally be a problem, but he had a needle and scissors.

“I need a blood sample and hair as well. Hold out your arm and I’ll take it. It won’t hurt.”

Adults always lied about stuff like this. But because she knew this was important, Mrsha took a deep breath, held out her arm, and instantly went ballistic. She yelped silently and shouted as Moore poked her twice, took blood swiftly, and then transferred it instantly to another capsule.

“Sorry. I’m no good at drawing blood.”

That hurt like hell! Dyeda received much the same treatment, only it went better because Moore could see her veins and she was bigger. He placed both in capsules and began to analyze them.

What’s all this for, Moore? Moore?

“I’m just analyzing something. Don’t worry, Mrsha. This won’t take long.”

She didn’t like how he said that. That was the kind of thing you said to someone who should worry. That unsettling feeling in her stomach grew. It was the air, Mrsha realized. There was something nasty in the air.

It was a faintly dusty-spore smell, like a weird mushroom or something. Not cloying or rotten; it actually had a faint odor to it like oranges mixed with roasted mushrooms and a hint of peppermint. A pleasant smell—but it felt nasty.

She should get out of here. But of course that was stupid because she was in a magical container and something was wrong with her. Mrsha shook her head, focusing on Moore instead and pushing the feeling down.

This time, Mrsha did recognize some of the tools he used. One of the things was a microscope, like she’d heard Rhaldon describing to Erin. The rest…? He was speaking some kind of mumbo jumbo that she dutifully took notes of.

“I can run [Analysis] spells all day, but you can fool those. It’s harder to fool blood and hair samples. You’re no simulacrum. You could be an even more highly-advanced magical puppet or your companion…let’s see, it says ‘Dyeda’—could be. But you’re likely real.”

He grimly got up from the microscope he’d been surveying her blood with. Mrsha raised one paw.

Can I get a bandage? Also, how am I realer than Dyeda?

She felt the opposite should be true; she was the being from an alternate reality and Dyeda was not. Moore hunted around his laboratory, then guiltily shook his head.

“Just apply pressure, please. I’ll heal the wound after administering the cure. I know you’re real because—hold on, let me put this on a screen.”

He tapped a few icons, and an image popped up on a monitor. Mrsha saw a lot of, well, round, semi-transparent objects. Sort of like coins or…donuts? But without the holes. But that wasn’t what drew the eye. What drew the eye were the…squiggling lines in the middle of the round stuff. Not many, but they were there. And one was big—

Moore ejected the slide of blood from the microscope as Dyeda blanched, then cast a spell. He incinerated the glass slide in another container so thoroughly that not even glass remained, and then he cast another spell that seemed to destroy even the ashes. Not even the gas was allowed to escape; Moore turned away from the slide.

“Stage 4. Lock the mansion down. Airtight seal.”

“What was that?”

Dyeda shouted in alarm, but of course, no one could hear her. Mrsha was more focused on the doors leading out. They moved, slightly, and a ring of some kind of white material around the door shifted. Her ears popped.

“Lord Moore, you have twenty-nine minutes of air without spells. Is everything alright in there?”

A female voice spoke from some kind of advanced speaking stone. Moore touched a button and replied.

“I will cast more if need be. I am dealing with a Stage 4 individual, Chrysanthia. I need GC-blood teleported in. Give me 2,700 milliliters. Do not open this room unless I lift the lockdown myself.”

“Yes, Lord Moore. Will you require assistance? The hospital is prepared to send a full team—”

“I can handle it. Synthesizing the treatment already. I will update in ten minutes.”

All of this sounded sort of ominous. Almost as ominous as the growing feeling in Mrsha’s stomach and the certainty she had to get out. She began feeling around the glass unconsciously.

Moore? What was that? Was that my blood? What were those squiggling lines and the round stuff?

Moore was moving faster now; he strode and loaded up another syringe from the liquid. Two canisters, which he disengaged the needles from, and then walked over to the capsules where Dyeda and Mrsha stood.

It was at this moment when Dyeda projected a bunch of glowing words onto the air from the ring on her finger.

[Hello? Is this thing working? I can write with this! Please don’t kill us!]

Moore glanced at the writing and inserted the first canister into a slot on Mrsha’s capsule. The girl felt trepidation running up and down her spine, but Moore’s eyes were gentle as he spoke.

“No one’s getting killed, Miss Dyeda. I’m just—preparing a treatment. Hold on, this is the aerosol version of it.”

So saying, he went back to the beaker and kept working as a sealed box popped into the air and hovered there, caught in the middle of a spell circle. Moore took the box, opened it, and Mrsha saw red bags of liquid.

She strongly suspected it was blood—a lot of blood. So much blood, in fact, that she felt like it were, oh, an approximate amount of blood to what a child of her age would have in her body.

She didn’t like what was going on. Mrsha realized she was pointing a wand at the side of the capsule she was in and had nearly cast [Stone Dart]. She grabbed her wand-arm and forced it down.

Something’s very wrong.

Moore, what are you doing?

“Just preparing a little needle. I just need one minute, Mrsha. You’re a bit sick, but don’t worry—”

The [Lord] glanced at her, and she saw the true concern in his eyes. Now, Mrsha felt like the skin under her fur was itching. The half-Giant whispered.

“You’re going to be just fine. It’s just a curse, Mrsha. Liscor’s nightmare. Every single trace of it has been eradicated across the world. I’ve cracked open research laboratories and erased every sample there was. You…you truly are from the past.”

What’s in my blood, Moore?

Dyeda was fumbling with her ring. It was she who was frowning and reading something. Moore chuckled.

“Nothing bad. It’s actually a separate problem.”

You’re lying to me. It’s in my blood. I have to get out. Let me out.

Mrsha wrote the last two sentences, then stared at the words. She knew she was ill with something bad. But where had that…

A brown eye shifted and stared at her, and she no longer saw the friendly half-Giant. A vast, monstrous figure gazed at her and he reeked of death. Death and hatred and—

She blinked. Moore was loading up another syringe with a different colored liquid, this one faintly glowing purple. Not much of the liquid—but he had prepared a bunch of different syringes. And—she noticed—injected them into one of the blood bags and shaken it up.

Moore? I’m scared. Let me out, please? Pretty please?

The girl wrote on the wall of the capsule with a shaking paw. Now she stared at the words and didn’t understand. Her mind was wrestling with something. She was afraid. Terrified. Something bad was here. He was going to kill her.

He’s not. What is…who’s saying that?

Moore didn’t reply to Mrsha’s plea. He worked even faster now, back to her, and the terror in her was making Mrsha prowl around the capsule, feeling at the places where it met the ground. She saw drainage vents in the top and bottom; too small to even insert a claw into. A glowing line of text drew the frantic girl’s eye.

[Aerosol. That means ‘airborne’.]

Dyeda wrote stealthily, using her w-Ring. She was reading a bunch of glowing screens, and her eyes narrowed.

[This is weird, Mrsha. Hold on, I’m looking up what ‘Liscor’s curse’ is.]

Her eyes widened as another screen opened, and Mrsha was panting now. No, don’t do it. She was feeling at her chest.

Squiggling lines. This wasn’t right at all. Her anxiety was going to make her scream. She was screaming, she realized, but she had no voice. She pounded on the capsule’s walls as Moore turned.

“…Ah, I made a mistake with the medicine. I’ll have to do it again. Damn. Later.”

He snapped his fingers and tossed aside one of the empty syringes, sighing.

“I’ll let you out, now, Mrsha.”

The half-Giant strode over, showing her his empty hands, and Mrsha’s anxiety faded. The girl gazed up mutely at Moore and half-shook her head before nodding eagerly.

Nononono—

The half-Giant bent down, fiddling with the controls on the capsule, and Mrsha felt her body relaxing. Then, Dyeda gasped.

[Liscor’s curse is from the dungeon? C-Crypt Worms? In the blood? What are—]

Moore spun. He hadn’t realized Dyeda had a connection to the world outside via her ring. His eyes opened wide in alarm, and he threw up a hand.

“No!”

Dyeda screamed as a wave of darkness enveloped her, but it was just a simple spell to obscure the text. Too late. Mrsha read the words, and dots connected in her head.

Crypt Worms?

She had an image of a red, fleshy worm that Bird said were common among the dungeon monsters. Erin had said Skinner was one. Crypt Worms were massive, horrible creatures who were smart and could lead monsters.

In her blood?

Tiny squiggling lines. She stared down at her paws, and they were shaking. Mrsha felt wrong. She felt horrible.

This place is bad. It’s going to kill me. We have to leave. This man knows about us. About Mother. Run, run, runrunrunrun—

Her body began hammering on the glass of the capsule. Mrsha felt herself jerk away from Moore as he reached for her.

“Mrsha, I’m not going to do anything to you. Ignore Dyeda, she’s a Goblin and an idiot—”

He knows. He knows! Mother! Mother! I can’t hear Mother!

She wasn’t thinking that. It wasn’t her. The girl felt her body curl up, hiss, then spit something red into the air.

Blood. Moore jerked back, and she saw he had gloves on. He reached into the capsule, hands open.

“Mrsha, I’m sure you’re just fine. Here. Why don’t I let you out?”

The girl knew he was lying. But whatever was in her wasn’t as clever. Mrsha hesitated, then smiled and cocked her head, opening her arms.

She didn’t see the little syringe Moore had hidden between his fingers until he grabbed her arm. Then, as she froze up and her blood began to shriek—he pressed the tip of the syringe into her veins and injected it. Mrsha’s eyes went wide, and she gazed up at Moore. Cold liquid entered her blood, and Mrsha felt cold, then heat rushing up her arm. She saw his triumphant expression, and Dyeda emerged, coughing, from the [Cloud of Darkness] spell.

“There. It should circulate your blood within minutes. Just hold still and—”

Mrsha felt a wave of heat blast up her arm. Then the anxiety turned to terror. It became agony. She opened her mouth and started screaming as she fell, thrashing at the ground, tearing at her arm. Dyeda backed away in horror as Moore whirled, cursing, and ran for another syringe.

“M-Mrsha?”

——

Pain. Horror. Fear.

Mrsha writhed about, howling, shrieking, pounding on the glass, as whatever Moore had given her tore through her veins. Dyeda was screaming at Moore and writing frantically.

[You’re killing her! Stop, stop!]

“I’m saving her! This isn’t Stage 4. Stage 5? You shouldn’t have told her you knew! The parasites can think and hear what she hears. They’re going to try to escape. Or—”

Moore was a blur of movement as he tore around his desk. He spun when Dyeda cried out.

“Mrsha, no!”

The [Tattooist] saw the girl’s teeth buried in her own arm. Mrsha’s eyes were wide and feral—she tore open her own wrist, and blood splattered the ground.

The arm Moore had just injected. Blood ran from her wrist as the real Mrsha, Roots Mrsha, the girl, watched in horror. But she didn’t have control of her body.

She was bleeding, now. Bleeding from her eyes, her nose, from every orifice. Her blood was sick with something killing her—them—us. They had to flee! Mrsha’s teeth dug in further, and she realized she was going to bite her wrist off—

The half-Giant was there in a moment.

“Healing potion. Gravity restraints.”

He grabbed one and clicked it into place on the capsule, then hit a button. Red mist poured from the vents, and Mrsha jerked as she rose into the air, and her arms went wide. She twisted around, but couldn’t bite, and the mist…

Red mist was pouring down over Dyeda too, and Moore was speaking.

“Mrsha? Listen to me. I know you’re in there. Just hang on. I’m giving you another dose of the cure. The mist is going to kill off everything that escapes your body, do you understand? Stage 5. They’re going for…”

He found her neck, moving away fur, and injected the next dose there. The burning grew worse. Now, Mrsha heard the voices.

Tell Mother, tell Mother! Something is killing us! Tell her—why can’t we hear her?

She realized she was scrawling the words in the air with her wand. Moore had stepped away and was using his gloved hands to push something into her arm. He had to remove some fur to do it, then push a big needle into her neck. And another one on the other side. He was attaching it to a very complex machine that began to…pump.

Blood from the blood bags. And blood ran up the tube from her arm and—

Mrsha had seen the blood bank in Liscor, but this was far, far more complex. Blood was running out of her body, into the machine, and then blood from the central canister and blood bags ran into her body.

He was putting the new blood in her body? Why?

Because it’s clean.

Moore was speaking faster, trying to keep one hand on the still-thrashing girl.

“Stage 5 makes no sense. You weren’t even at Stage 3 if you came from ten years ago! The Flesh Worms only accelerate their growth if they think they’ve been discovered or their host is dying or isolated—”

Dying or isolated. The Palace of Fates. Roots Mrsha felt the pain getting worse, but now she saw it. Dyeda was writing.

[What is going on? It’s in her blood?]

Moore glanced at the writing.

“Yes. Not yours. Mrsha has been infected. It shouldn’t be this bad. I haven’t had to treat—they want to get out and infect both of us. But they can’t. And they don’t know what to do.”

[They? Who?]

Mrsha knew. It was the voices in her, the ones taking control of her. Moore was shapeshifting. He looked like a demon, a monster, a nightmare worse than an Old One. His lips parted, and she knew his hatred. Then he said the terrible words.

“The Flesh Worms. They’re her offspring, and they’re listening for their creator. But they can’t hear anything. Because she’s dead. I burned her corpse myself. The Mother of Graves is dead. Harm that girl and I will ensure you suffer.”

True terror suffused Mrsha, but it wasn’t her. She knew it, now. The Flesh Worms in her body were panicking. They’d tried to flee, and the red mist was killing them. The cures were hunting them down and murdering them, and every pump of the machine with Mrsha’s heart took more Flesh Worms away and cycled more treated blood into her body.

But Mrsha was just a girl. If she screamed. If she bled and cried and wept and hurt herself, Moore would stop this. Gentle Moore. He couldn’t bear to see her sick. And if she died…

The pain grew worse. Mrsha, the girl, now, felt a searing agony behind her eyes, all over her body, all-consuming as every nerve fired. They wanted her to beg, to plead, and her body was twitching. She began to thrash, despite the gravity spells on her, and saw Moore watching her, pain behind his eyes.

“Just a little longer. Just a little longer, Mrsha.”

Bite your tongue. Poke out your eyes. Scream and scream and—

Roots Mrsha thought of real Mrsha as her wild thrashing stopped. Real Mrsha was sick too. Not as bad, but she was out there somewhere. She’d told Roots Mrsha about the moment when Moore had held her.

What a beautiful moment. What a horrific one. The girl was floating in the capsule as red mist covered her fur. She appeared covered in blood. Dyeda, hands over her mouth, and Moore, were tensed. They feared the worst…but slowly, Mrsha sat upright. She floated as she crossed her legs, pretzel-style, and put her paws together, gripping them tightly.

The half-Giant [Lord]’s brows crossed together. He blinked at Mrsha, and then hurried over to a panel of lights and numbers. Dyeda pressed her hands to the glass.

[Is she cured? Mrsha?]

“Impossible. It’s a trick. I’ve—never seen someone do this. Except…”

Moore took a step back, eyes narrowed in suspicion and paranoia. He thought it was the Flesh Worms doing this, but that was where he was wrong.

It was just Mrsha. Her blood was writhing. Her hands were twitching. They wanted to shake, to revolt. But the girl just focused on the blood pumping out of her and into her. On the half-Giant’s face.

She refused to move or scream. Roots Mrsha took one, deep breath, then another. And she…

Stopped.

That was all. She stopped. Her breathing slowed, and she didn’t move. She refused to acknowledge the desires to thrash about. She sat, and they screamed at her.

We’re dying. WE ARE DYING.

‘Yes. I have been here before.’

The girl felt them jerking at her muscles, and she focused on her skill.

[Lesser Endurance].

Her body didn’t move. She sat there, then cupped her paws together and looked down. Moore blinked. He recoiled as a flame grew from between Mrsha’s paws. Almost, the half-Giant activated the anti-magic countermeasures on the cell, but then he saw the girl was just gazing down.

At the flames in her paws. After all—

She was an [Emberbearer]. And this fire was hers. Mrsha gazed down at the glorious flame that Erin had once left with her. Just like before, she sat.

She was not the real Mrsha. She was Mrsha of the roots. The Mrsha who had starved, who had realized her own nature and tried to survive in the [Palace of Fates]. She’d dug dirt out, planted seeds, done everything she’d seen successful Mrshas do, and then…waited.

That was all you could do. To survive, she drank water and sat. Anything else wasted energy. Pacing wasted energy. Just sit…think…watch the infinite worlds of what might be and dream of the day you might leave.

And hold that ember of glorious fire. The Flesh Worms in her blood screamed they were dying.

She knew dying. She was Mrsha, the [Survivor of Starvation].

[Slow Metabolism].

The girl’s breathing reduced, and her eyes were half-lidded. She sat like an ascetic meditating, ignoring the dying Flesh Worms. They were begging her, now, making her feel sympathetic, happy towards them. Angry, sad…

Goodbye.

That was all the girl thought at them. Then she glanced up. She had no idea how long this might take—so she raised her wand, and Dyeda flinched. But Mrsha only wrote something in the air.

Dyeda? Can you use your ring and play me a song?

“A…song?”

Yes. Anything.

The Goblin fumbled with her ring as Moore half-turned. The [Tattooist] was slow, so Moore strode over to his computer and typed.

“I don’t know what…I’ll play this. There.”

A pop song began to emanate from the speakers. Mrsha recognized it; it wasn’t one of the Singer of Terandria’s songs. It was either made by people of this time or from a device from Earth. The female singer’s voice started soft, then rose, and Mrsha smiled.

That was it. The greatest secret of the [Palace of Fates] was not that you could see every glorious future and terrible fate. That wore out your soul.

If you were a child who sat and waited for the seeds to bloom, for a door to open, you could find a silly door and listen to music. A million songs from a million futures, each more beautiful than the last.

It’s a fine way to go. Finer than you deserve. Leave me. I will never let you hurt anyone. I’ll send your Mother after you, soon.

Mrsha blinked a tear of blood from her eyes as the will of the Flesh Worms broke. They fled or died, and the girl sat there. Only when Moore checked her, again, and ran a scan on her blood a dozen times did he finally speak.

“It’s done. You’re cured.”

He halted the blood transfusion machine, and Mrsha opened her eyes. She sat up as she floated down to the ground, and Moore reached into the cell to remove the needles from her veins. The girl felt at her wet fur, and then glanced around.

Are you sure? I want to be extra certain.

The half-Giant knelt in front of the cell, mouth opening and closing. Mrsha glanced at Dyeda, and the [Tattooist]’s hands were pressed over her mouth, tears in her eyes.

What? What’s wrong?

Had they done something to her face? But the half-Giant just shook his head. He hit a button, and the glass walls began to rise. He peered down at the girl and whispered.

“Nothing. You’re just such a…brave girl, Mrsha.”

She giggled at him. Silly Moore. She shook her head as she held up a card.

Erin’s the brave one. Not me.

The [Survivor] didn’t understand why he rocked back on his heels. But when he reached out and gathered her into the biggest, gentlest hug she had ever felt—Mrsha relaxed and closed her eyes.

Yes, it was worth waiting for moments like these. And now she knew the dungeon, the Mother’s secret. All of it worth it.

The girl lay there for a while as the Grand Design of the world watched her. The Grand Design of Hating Mrshas…witnessed her, and it watched as the Second Edition spoke.

It didn’t interfere. It didn’t have the right to.

[Class Consolidation: Survivor of Starvation → Survivor of Trials Class!]

[Survivor of Trials Level 18!]

[Skill – Resistance: Disease Obtained!]

[Skill – Purifying Blood Obtained!]

[Skill – Will of Steel Learned!]

——

A girl lay in a half-Giant’s arms, and he offered her cake. Cookies…soda, whatever her heart desired.

She only wanted to lie there, but she let him shower her with gifts. The Goblin helped, grabbing the choicest treats for Mrsha, but she just felt…better.

“I’m sorry. I truly didn’t think it had progressed so much. I assumed you were like the Mrsha I knew—or else I would have put you to sleep, brought you to the hospital, and cycled your blood. If they had panicked, they would have tried to kill you. You—were amazing. Do you want anything else to eat? Anything.”

The girl raised her head and chewed on a bite of ice cream cake. That redeemed the future a bit in her eyes. Also, the cure for parasites. She wrote a reply on a notecard as he cradled her.

It’s okay. But I do want something. Can you tell me a story, Moore? Tell me a true story about the dungeon.

The half-Giant’s eyes widened. He was holding Mrsha in his arms as the remainder of the liquid dried off Mrsha. Her fur was sticky, but she’d wash it—the half-Giant turned with her in his arms. He cast around, then found a chair, pulled it over, and sat there, head bowed. When he looked down at her, his eyes were lost.

His distinguished appearance, his high levels all melted away for a second, and she saw a tired half-Giant gazing wearily at her. He almost went to rub at one eye, but the mask prevented him. She slipped out of his arms, into another chair, and Moore clasped his gloved hands loosely together. He took a deep breath.

“It’s not a pleasant story. But you deserve it. This is a true story, Mrsha, the pieces of which we didn’t find out until long after it was too late. If you are from my time, you have to remember it, understand? Because you, Liscor, all of Izril is in danger if you don’t stop it. I cured you, but much of Liscor is already in peril. Perhaps not a great amount—how much has it spread, I wonder?”

Mrsha held up a card, rubbing at her eyes.

Ten years ago. That’s when I come from. How bad is it? No—explain it again. Flesh Worms?

The half-Giant blinked, looked her in the eyes, and answered with a grim smile. A bleak, pained expression that Dyeda had seen on so many faces of Liscorians. People who had survived something. Who had been there.

“Yes. Do you know what parasites are…? Think of leeches, but smaller. They are the same kind of thing, in a sense. You were infested with parasites, Mrsha. Little creatures so small they can’t be seen by the naked eye. In your blood. Those are agents, children of the Mother of Graves, who lived in the dungeon below Liscor. They can force you to do things against your will. In time, they will take you over completely and have you infect other people and bodies of water. That’s how they spread.”

Dyeda shuddered, and Mrsha remembered wells of stagnant water in Liscor’s dungeon. She nodded slowly. Raskghar feeding her water and monster flesh. Moore whispered.

“They’ll keep doing that. Until everyone and everything is infected. If they are left unchecked forever, they will begin to devour you entirely until all that is left is an eternal servant of the Mother of Graves. She intends to take over all of Liscor and as much of the world as she can by spreading her spawn in secret. She did it once.”

Mrsha’s eyes opened wide. She remembered tales from the Horns, the Goblins, of that city in the dungeon. That vast, underground city filled with scaleless inhabitants who attacked everyone that moved. And the pit below that led to…

Moore nodded in response to her unspoken question.

“Yes. She’s down there. Liscor was founded on the old City of Graves, the Walled City that was sunk into the earth for their crimes. It was reshaped into a trap by its mad inhabitants worshipping the Mother of Graves. A vengeance dungeon. But the purpose of the dungeon was not to just kill foes, but to delay them. Stalker, Skinner, Snatcher, an army of enchanted suits of armor, the traps, the monsters—all of it was to delay invaders long enough to fall victim to the real trap.”

She should have been horrified as he said it. But after feeling them in her…Mrsha recalled the Raskghars’ odd actions, and something else reminded her of the past.

Numbtongue once told me the monsters in the dungeon couldn’t see each other. I always wondered about that. Is that…?

The half-Giant was surprised, then smiled and nodded.

“Of course. That’s exceptionally intelligent of you. Yes, every monster in the dungeon is infested. That’s why they don’t kill each other; the Mother of Graves manipulates them all. Flesh Worms.”

It was so ridiculous. One monster? Moore had an almanac of parasites. He flipped through it, and she saw he had co-written the book. He held open a page.

His eyes were bleak, his hands so tight on the book the pages were warping. Dyeda’s eyes were wide open in horror as Moore spoke.

“We stopped her. She had eleven cities under her control when we set out; her plague spread so fast, and no one knew what was going on. Pallass had two-thirds of its floors under quarantine. It was Saliss who uncovered the cure after the Last Light found out what the cause was. Armies forced the Mother of Graves’ people back, but Liscor…we went to save Liscor.”

Who’s we…?

Mrsha knew. It all made sense. Moore whispered.

“Everyone who felt responsible. Many teams, but among them—the Halfseekers, Griffon Hunt, and the Horns of Hammerad. We had to fight our way into the dungeon. The entire Floodplains was hostile. Then we delved deep. Fighting. Dying.”

He looked away until a paw touched his arm.

Tell me. I have to know.

Moore’s hands trembled, and he almost turned away in pain, but then he glanced down at the girl who had rid herself of the Flesh Worms in silence. So the half-Giant spoke.

“—Typhenous died with plague on his fingertips, buying enough time for us to run. He killed so many of them—Jelaqua should never have come. They got into her body, ate her away. Then we delved deeper. Into the pit where she lay. The largest monster in the world.”

The image of the monster in the book was shaking as Mrsha felt at her body, imagined the little things squirming through her blood. The truth—like a puzzle she hadn’t quite thought of—was that figure.

A writhing, sinuous red shape, with long whip-like arms and terribly strong suckers on the end of them. Razor mouth, slithering body, and intelligence, true intelligence lurking behind those tiny black eyes set onto the scaleless snake’s body, the twisted earthworm given legs. Carrion-feeder, corpse thief, infestation. And a form infinitely bigger than all her children, lurking in the darkness and waiting.

Mother of Graves.

“Halrac killed her, and she killed him. When we emerged, Liscor was filled with monsters running wild. Free people. So many died, still infected, but we did it. That was the last day I remained an adventurer. The city was razed; what was left of it. Most of it had been broken down to make effigies for the Mother of Graves. But they rebuilt. Every stone was cleansed, every person tested again and again. That is who she is.”

The Mother of Graves. Her terrible plan. Her horrific nature, and the sacrifice of good and brave people to stop her. Halrac.

Always Halrac.

The half-Giant had tears in his eyes. He blinked them away, and wondered why the girl was still smiling.

Roots Mrsha was smiling, because she had seen the darkness. She had lived it.

Now, for the dawn.

——

Liscor, the City of Charms, ten years later was not Liscor anymore. Or rather, it wasn’t the city that Mrsha had gotten to know.

The beautiful, modern buildings, the charm-based infrastructure, and even the people were different. They had survived a terrible, continent-spanning disaster that had not yet occurred in Mrsha’s world.

Thus, for the first time, she was like a newcomer coming to Liscor and realizing that a war with a Goblin Lord had occurred outside the gates. An outsider peering into a city with pride and scars.

But he had been there.

Moore.

The last original Halfseeker alive was arguably in better shape than he had been as an adventurer. He wore custom, hand-tailored clothes, and he had a distinguished beard that smelled like wood bark and a magical staff any Named-rank adventurer would envy.

He was over Level 50, a landed [Lord] in the prosperous city of Liscor, which was truly a major city in the continent. Wealthy, too. As he sat, drawing more blood and confirming many times that she was cured, the half-Giant told Mrsha and Dyeda what had changed.

“I actually had to clear my mansion of the regular staff. I have as many as twenty people at all times.”

[Servants]?

He laughed quietly and with a note of chagrin.

“Servants? No, that’s—it feels antiquated. No servants. I have a cleaning team, some experts who help me keep in good shape and eating well—[Dietician], that’s a class. Even a [Personal Trainer] for fitness, [Aides] for my schedule, a [Mage] who keeps me abreast of magical developments, someone who can write announcements and correspond with other figures…”

“So [Servants] but a different name.”

Dyeda put that in helpfully, and Moore blinked and actually got slightly mad—his nose crinkled up before he smiled—and Mrsha sat there and wondered how many people were rude to him these days.

He was in splendid shape, but she wondered if the Moore that was a Gold-rank adventurer and couldn’t eat his fill all the time had been more battle-ready than this Moore. Certainly, one of them lived better. As if sensing her scrutiny, Moore changed the subject.

“Liscor is far more important than it used to be, you know. Everyone teleports these days, but distances still mean that goods and people funnel through the heart of the continent. The city’s expanded so many times. After we rebuilt, let’s see. One of the first things that went up was a magical barrier spell like the Drowned Folk have. No more rainy spring days unless you leave the city. We’re up to eighty feet on the walls, as you saw, and there’s talk Liscor could be a Walled City in time. Not that the Drakes want a half-Giant as a Wall Lord or so many Humans…”

He was inspecting the new slide of blood—just in case. Mrsha was clean on all the many scans they’d developed for Flesh Worms, but he showed her the inert bodies on the slide of blood.

“They’ll dissolve or be removed from your bloodstream in time.”

So I’ll eat them? Gross.

Mrsha made a face, and everyone agreed, but Dyeda raised a hand, only too-eager to change the subject. The Flesh Worms horrified her, and she’d had Moore test her multiple times as well, just to make sure.

“Question. Why would the Drakes make Liscor a Walled City? It’s not that big.”

Moore grunted as he switched to another test.

“Chrysanthia? I think our intruders are all cured, but I’m going to ask Liscor’s hospital to confirm all my findings. Please have them prepare a secured teleportation area, and remember, I want details kept quiet. Results are fine—no names or other details. Oh, and get me some illusion spells of a young Gnoll girl, eight years old. Make it chestnut fur?”

He glanced at Mrsha, then addressed Dyeda.

“As you can imagine, times have changed. Salazsar was nearly toppled by revolts, and Fissival was almost destroyed outright by rebellion and their war with the former Archmage of Izril, Valeterisa. I don’t recall when, but they lost a portion of the city itself…it will never fly again. Manus is still holding strong, as is Oteslia, but even Zeres suffered major naval defeats.”

“Huh. Good? I don’t like Drakes.”

Dyeda shrugged with true apathy for the Drake condition, and Moore shook his head.

“I would share that sentiment, but Izril has greatly suffered from foreign powers intruding. You saw how much of the north was conquered by Terandrian kingdoms…?”

I saw. Why did Ailendamus attack Izril, or Erribathe and other kingdoms? They’re Humans. The Five Families are, like, the only people they respect.

Moore scratched at his beard as more tests ran negative.

“Simple geography is my guess. Izril was by far the closest continent for Terandrians to attack. The casus belli at the time was the Five Families’ involvement in…the Dawn Concordat war? Damn, let me look this up.”

He typed on a computer, then half-swivelled to show Mrsha.

“You two, this is a personal computer. It’s a new device that stores information. This one is magically linked to Wistram, and it can show you news, images, anything you want!”

I know. I saw Kevin’s. What kind of videogames do you have on there?

Mrsha held up a card, relieved that here, at least, she wasn’t lost at sea. Lord Moore’s face visibly fell in a familiar way, and he stabbed moodily at the keyboard.

“Gods damned Earthers. I always knew Erin and the others were from another world, but I never inquired that much. They’ve made chaos out of this world. Alright…let me see. Dawn Concordat War…Wellfar and Veltras involvement…yes, that links to the Siege of the North. Ailendamus declared a punitive war following their victory over Kaliv in the Second Dawn Concordat War and absorbing Calanfer as a province. Then Ailendamus, Taimaguros, and Erribathe launch the invasion…there we are.”

He said all this and gave Mrsha the same vivid sense of surreality as the Mother of Graves revelation. However—again—pieces made sense. Her paw shot up.

Wait! Erribathe? Who led Erribathe into the war? They’re part of the Sleepy Three!

“Restful Three, and not any longer. It was King Iradoren. He’s still ruling from northern Izril. Not a pleasant neighbor, but he hasn’t managed to wipe out the Five Families yet. That’s why Liscor has to be careful. We have a strong army under General Olesm, but we’re still a minor power sandwiched between larger ones.”

Iradoren. Mrsha exchanged a knowing look with Dyeda, or tried to, because the [Tattooist] just had a blank expression on her face. Moore kept answering questions as Mrsha urgently asked what had become of Calanfer—

“The royal family? Lyonette was quite concerned, but I believe they were all subsumed into Ailendamus. Lesser royalty. Yes, they’re all ali—ah, well, Princess Seraphel passed away, Princess Vernoue died in a magical accident, Princess Aielef was a casualty of the second…”

He glanced up, and his face grew tired and bleaker.

“There have been many wars in the last ten years. The final war against the Demons took too many lives as well. Liscor’s former army as well as Watch Commander Embria were casualties of it.”

I saw Embria, though. She was alive. Just without…legs. She lost them there?

Moore was fiddling with the controls, distracted, avoiding her gaze as if it pained him to talk of it, and it probably did. She was the little Mrsha he remembered, now dredging up old wounds. And he had not even asked the real question, the one she could see burning behind his eyes.

Erin.

“She was the lucky one. Her entire company was nearly wiped out. It was a truly horrific war that cost too much, but it was won. The Deaths of Demons each fell with great difficulty, and afterwards, the victors became what you saw today: their [Heroes] are worldwide threats. Watch Commander Embria is a splendid leader of Liscor today. And Relc is still alive. I don’t know if I should ask him to come over or hide you away…Lyonette saw you on camera. A mother always recognizes her daughter, even if you’re too young.”

He was omitting someone. Mrsha saw Moore receive another message, which he glanced over at and nodded.

“The results from the lab are in. You’re definitely clean. Here, let me [Cleanse] you—do you want any more snacks? No? Let’s get out of this room, and you can have a proper meal. Though you need an illusion. Doomslayers will enter even Liscor to try to kill you.”

Another shitty part of this future. Mrsha let Moore cast the spell then blow hot air over her fur, and he gave Dyeda a towel too. He wanted to lead them from the laboratory, but Mrsha grabbed his leg. Moore jumped and gazed down at her.

“Dead gods, you really are that little girl from the past. The Mrsha of today barely even hugs me.”

He smiled, but the girl of the past gave him a level look that he had no memory of. A tired, weary one.

Moore, what happened to Zevara? I know it’s bad. But please, I have to know.

The half-Giant’s face froze. He hesitated, then sat down on a padded stool, and that terrible, blank expression came over his face again.

“The Mother of Graves sacrificed people before we could kill her. People of note; those strong enough to resist. Watch Commander Zevara was the last. There’s…a statue of her in the central plaza.”

His hands clenched together with such force that Dyeda stepped back; it was like the two could see the air visibly distorting around the half-Giant’s fingers. Mrsha felt a thrill of genuine unease. Moore was over Level 50. Like all beings of that level, he had become something far beyond regular people.

But when he looked down and lifted Mrsha up, he was still the gentle figure. More gentle, in fact, as if he knew full well how dangerous he was. Lord Moore hesitated. It was the girl who held out her paws and initiated the hug.

How he trembled. Lord Moore gently patted her head, and she felt him exhale long and hard.

She?

She did not feel the same crushing despair and joy that her other self had felt when she met the Moore from the past. Roots Mrsha felt like she was hugging a stranger, an uncle distantly remembered.

Oh, dead gods. What have we done? That same desperation in her, Rags, and Mrsha was in Moore’s own gaze. He held her up, inspecting her.

“You’re free of the Mother’s taint. She—she’s alive in your world. You’ve come here before her plans come to fruition, but she’s alive. It took all three of our teams sacrificing everything to reach her. And we were Named-ranks by then. But you’re here. Gods, this is impossible.”

Gods, he said. Another chill. The girl did rather feel like someone had yanked the carpet from under her feet. That sensation of—of the sacrosanct violated, of knowing something you shouldn’t, something momentous, was running through the three of them. Dyeda gave it a word, simple and to the point as Goblins could be.

“Cheating. We’re cheating. Now we know about the Mother and the dungeon…what happens next, Mrsha? Is this okay?”

She meant all of it. Her ring, this world of the future—the consequences. Roots Mrsha didn’t have all the answers. Other Mrsha had some, but the girl from another bad timeline only knew what she believed.

And it was this: Mrsha wrote on a card, then held it up. Her eyes shone with no brilliant, magical light, but simple conviction. Willpower that captivated the half-Giant and Goblin.

Is it okay? It’s more than okay. I’m relieved. Yes, Dyeda, we are cheating. Good. Everyone cheats; I’ve never seen a fair fight against Belavierr or the Plain’s Eye tribe or Roshal or anyone else. Now, it’s our turn. Let’s get that bitch.

Dyeda’s mouth fell open in delight, and Lord Moore blinked in astonishment as Mrsha pointed, writing with her wand.

Moore, can I have a fancy ring like Dyeda? Also—does that cure work on large bodies of water? Can we do a House Byres on the Mother of Graves by adding it to the wells? If you were going to send a cute, lovable, innocent-looking girl back to her world, how would you mess up the Mother of Graves’ plans best?

Her eyes flashed, and the half-Giant inhaled. Then his breath exploded in a sudden laugh.

“Hah! Hahaha! Of course! Of course, if you’d known half of what we did—the cure I gave you can’t be added to water. It denatures too quickly. But Liscor treats its water for the Flesh Worm larvae. Drink enough of it and you’d eventually kill all the larvae off in an infected individual. Who would that be?”

Elirr, any Gnolls who were taken captive by the Raskghar. And any Raskghar and Cave Goblins still alive. Shit. Cave Goblins.

Dyeda grew alarmed as well.

“Can I have that cure-stuff? Or how to make it?”

“It’s not easy to make—but I can certainly write the recipe and the ingredients. Give me one second! Chrysanthia, get me—!”

Now the half-Giant was tearing around the room in a frenzy of excitement, but he had one eye on the Goblin and Gnoll. Mrsha wasn’t done writing, either. Her mind was sparking.

She’ll never see it coming, right? She can’t read minds?

“Not unless someone is fully infested for at least a year. And she’s more like a—a voice in the back of your head, or so Lyonette told me. The Mother of Graves has to focus on a threat. Dead gods, you could kill all of her larvae in the dungeon if you managed to reach the wells. Maps…”

The half-Giant practically dashed out of the laboratory, voice booming through the mansion. When he came back, Dyeda stopped trying to unplug one of his laptops and hide it behind her back. As for Mrsha? The Gnoll girl was sitting there, head back, eyes closed.

Relieved. As if a great weight, a worry, had been lifted from her shoulders. She wrote a line of bright golden text in the air.

Lord Moore? The Flesh Worms must have driven anyone infected with them crazy, right?

“At the very least, they change your thoughts. You become more aggressive. More driven to procreate, and then to water. Infected individuals become sleepwalkers who spit larvae into the wells—why? Has anyone been acting like that?”

Mrsha smiled dreamily.

Only one. For my sake, Lord Moore, for the redemption of a brave, honorable adventurer, would you give me something else? I need an affidavit, a testimonial of what the Mother of Graves does to your mind. I won’t share it with everyone. But I need to have it to free a [Prisoner].

Dyeda had no idea whom Mrsha was talking about, but the half-Giant halted, and he breathed a name.

“Calruz.”

Mrsha nodded, and Moore went running again. When he came back with ink and scrolls, and official-looking documents, she just lay there. Dyeda patted at her worriedly.

“Mrsha, you okay? Did the cure make you sick?”

She didn’t feel different, and the girl reassured her.

I’m fine, Dyeda. Just relieved. We tried so hard, Mrsha and I. We didn’t know if we’d save everyone.

Her eyes were glistening with tears, and the girl began to hiccup. Her wand began to tremble in her grip.

It may not be who we thought, but at least we can save our Calruz’s soul. Then I need to apologize to him. And then, someday, he can sleep in a bed in The Wandering Inn with his two cute rats.

Her nose began to run, and Dyeda fumbled for a handkerchief and gently pressed it into Mrsha’s paws. She soothed Mrsha, rubbing her head.

“I don’t know who that is, but I think this is good.”

So the Goblin smiled, and Moore sighed. He finished writing and gazed down at the girl.

“I want to believe you’re real with all my heart, Mrsha. I still…I want to see this entryway, if I may. At the very least, I hope Pawn has rescued your Rags. That was her, wasn’t it?”

Mrsha blinked and nodded as she blew her nose. Moore rumbled.

“Good. Then I’ll give you everything I can, and quickly. We have to find our older Mrsha; everyone’s meant to gather at The Wandering Inn later today, anyways. We’ll hurry before our friends from Wistram arrive. Once you go through that door, never come back, understand?”

He lifted Mrsha up again, with urgency, and she blinked at him.

Why?

“Because Pawn wants to see Erin Solstice more than I, Mrsha. He scares me. He is over Level 60; a [Prophet]. That already makes him one of the most powerful beings in the world, but his Painted Antinium are the dominant power among the Antinium people. The Hives do not go to war anymore. His crusaders do. They have beaten even Rhir’s armies in battle. If he finds a way to Erin Solstice, I fear what he will do.”

Mrsha blinked—then wrote furiously.

But Moore! I didn’t tell you, but your Erin is still alive! She can be revived! I think—you could do it, if you had enough preparation! We figured out how to bring her back from the dead!

It would probably work the same, right? Or if it was harder because Erin had been dead longer, the magical technology of this world would surely make up for it. Mrsha expected Moore to burst into tears or a smile, but his face only became grave.

“If that is true, then leave the knowledge with me, Mrsha. I will do everything I can to bring Erin back. But the world she knew has changed and…the Painted Antinium are not hoping for a mere [Innkeeper], I think. Pawn would have her be a God.”

He said the word again, and Mrsha narrowed her eyes, but the…fogginess in her head, the way the word always turned into ‘dead gods’, didn’t exist in this world.

Because there was nothing in this world to keep the idea from spreading. Her eyes opened wide, and Moore rose. He snapped at a rather alarmed young half-Elf.

“Get everything in order. We’re going to The Wandering Inn! Where is Bishop Pawn now?”

“I—I think his Painted Antinium were disengaging from the Floodplains, Lord Moore. Without conflict! They were entering Liscor on a pilgrimage to The Wandering Inn, just like normal.”

Moore exhaled and turned to Mrsha.

“Then let’s hurry. Here.”

He pulled his ring off his finger and handed it to Mrsha, then turned to gather everything they needed to hurt the Mother of Graves. Mrsha’s eyes fixated on Moore as he began to speak. And she swore she’d bring a weapon back to kill the Mother of Graves.

On this, at least future Moore and she could agree.

This world didn’t need another God.

——

At the same time as Mrsha and Dyeda were talking to Lord Moore, a rather different scenario was playing out with the three Ragses hiding in the caves around Liscor. They were racing back to Liscor, to prevent much the same scenario as Moore feared.

All sides united, everyone on the same team, really. Indeed, the person most on the side of The Wandering Inn’s friends and family was already at his destination.

Pawn, the Bishop of the Painted Antinium, [Prophet] and preacher of the faith of the Immortal Sky, the teachings, life, death, and eventual rebirth of Erin Solstice, stood in the holiest of places for his people.

The inn. He didn’t approach the weathered building as if it were some long-lost building or dwelling he should crawl towards. It wasn’t as if he’d been gone for long. He’d been here just this morning, visiting Lyonette. When he wasn’t in the Hivelands or attending to the Painted Antinium’s affairs abroad, he was almost always here.

Today, however, was a special day. So the Antinium Worker did not merely stroll into the inn or teleport into Lyonette’s room.

He walked over the Floodplains. Where the Worker stepped, the sun shone down. The sky followed him.

If you glanced up, you could see it. A brilliant blue, vivid colors wending their way through vast clouds. A sky brighter and more intense than the regular sky.

The sky followed the Antinium, and people in the City of Charms could look and see it coming their way. If they listened, even from the walls, they could hear Pawn walking.

It sounded like a rainstorm of metal. The thump of hundreds of boots. The click of mandibles snapping together in prayer. It smelled like cinnamon and steel, oil and smoke.

They moved in a column, Painted Antinium bearing flags and weapons of war. Wearing armor ornamented with their identities, helmets shining under the daylight, decorated with feathers—bird feathers, bright and beautiful—or holy objects.

A piece of worn cloth, a splinter of wood preserved in amber. Or that curious amulet that was etched in the shape of an inn. The Painted Antinium marched. No force in this world, from the Five Families to Rhir, stood in their way.

Pawn knew his cohort could be…intimidating. He hadn’t even brought all of them, of course, just enough to force Rhir to back down. He’d intended to bring this group anyways, to allow Chieftain Rags to reach the inn safely—he’d just assumed she would be stealthier.

Meeting that spitting image of Redscar, of Rags, was a sign. It meant this day may well be the one he had dreamt of. If it was to be today—Pawn carried his simple club in one hand. Censer in another. A book in the third. He carefully adjusted the robes that trailed through the grass behind him and wondered if he should have gotten a hat.

He didn’t really like hats; they didn’t sit well on Antinium heads, but religious figures seemed to all like hats, both in Erin’s world and his. Pawn had created his faith; he could have decided he needed a hat.

No, the time for second-guessing mere appearances was long gone. If it was to be today, then he would go before the [Innkeeper] as he had always been: himself. Yet if it was not today, then Pawn would not agitate his followers unduly. They tended to scare the Liscorians when they grew excited or passionate, and Moore and Lyonette had asked Pawn to refrain from that.

On that note…the Worker turned his head, and the leading Antinium raised their heads instantly. His bodyguard was protective of him; they hated when he went to visit Lyonette alone, even though he pointed out reasonably he was as capable of protecting himself as they were. Plus, she hated them listening into their private time.

Pawn regarded the first [Crusaders] marching behind his bodyguard and spoke.

“Crusaders. Lower the reliquaries and temper your auras of faith. The time for battle with Rhir has ended. We approach the city of our Lady Light and the inn. Walk humbly.”

The largest Antinium in the front was a giant, eighteen feet tall, his body armored in rust-red Adamantium plate. He was The One Saved, one of the Armored Antinium’s creations, saved from his fated death in battle by finding the Painted Antinium’s faith.

Pawn had known him for six years, and the Antinium lowered the reliquary he bore; several Antinium stopped carrying palanquins on their shoulders and lowered them to waist-height. This, in turn, stopped projecting their effects so strongly, and the blinding light coming off The One Saved’s armor faded.

His halo did not. Pawn liked halos. He’d taken the idea from images of Christianity, just like he’d stolen the idea of home shrines from the Hindu religion. That way, those who were not of the Painted Antinium’s cohort could worship where they pleased, even if they might not make it to The Wandering Inn.

—His faith did have non-Antinium believers. They had spread wherever the Painted Antinium went without being forced into it by the sword. Pawn didn’t believe in that either. Erin would have hated someone converted to believing in her by force.

He found that besting the local object of faith, be it a [King], religious leader, or army was often enough.

The three interlocked halos over The One Saved’s head dimmed slightly, and Pawn waited as the Painted Antinium marched on. He coughed into one hand.

“Warforms.”

After a moment’s pause, a few members of his congregation visibly shrunk or transformed into their ‘regular’ selves with clear chagrin. Many could adopt the forms granted to them by their faith indefinitely.

But they tended to look a bit scarier. Pawn kept peering over his shoulder as Antinium bowed to him or clacked their mandibles in-sync with the others. Some were trembling; he realized it might have been their first time seeing the inn in the flesh. Though most, surely, had seen it many times.

The highest-level of the Painted Antinium had seen countless battles and bled on every continent in the world to bring Erin Solstice back; even now, some knelt and let the others pass by, then rose, overcome with seeing the inn. Others had brought gifts; most had, but Pawn would have to cull the gifts or expand the shrine around the bier again.

The passage of so many of the faithful was leaving ripples in the sky from Pawn’s Skill. It would remain like this for days thereafter, and he had been told that he might soon interfere with the flying aircraft that other nations were building.

Pawn cared little, but he noticed the flowers blooming around the Painted Antinium. Where they walked, the grass they trampled jumped back up in mere seconds after the last boots had crushed them, and his flock could quite literally leave a trail where they walked.

At least they weren’t growing Blue Fruit trees again. Pawn turned back forwards and heard a sound.

Dun. Dun. Dun! Dun! Dun—

“No drums.”

The beat of the drums went quiet. Pawn reckoned he had done all he could to make the Painted Antinium less intimidating. He completely ignored the fact that he had just stared down four [Heroes] of Rhir and an army of House Reinhart.

They were almost upon the inn, and Pawn held up a hand. The Painted Antinium stopped, and many knelt there. Pawn sighed. The fervor upon many Antinium meant that it was hard to get them to actually enter the inn. Even The One Saved refused to rise at once; he knelt, a fist clasped to his chest. And he was illuminating the area like a lighthouse again…

“The cohort shall enter Liscor, then visit the inn in sections as to not overwhelm either city or inn. We are early. The others are not here yet. [Paladin] Purple Smiles, bring the Painted Antinium into the city, and mind those new to the City of Charms. Meet me here in…yes, four hours.”

An Antinium strode past Pawn, his Truegold armor glimmering as he hand-signed to the others. All the oldest Soldier Antinium still could not speak, but it was a mark of great honor for them; they had endured the last ten years of battle well.

[Crusaders] and other faith-based classes rose to their feet and approached the City of Charms with almost as much reverence. They peered up as Pawn raised his arms.

“My faithful, you are entering holy land. Do not preach, do not cause trouble, and do not seek anything from those not of the Painted Antinium, even our own species. The day shall come when Liscor once again quakes, and until then, we shall light these skies with Her wonders. Remember: the tipping standard is set at 20%. Always tip above that margin. Amen.”

Click. Nine hundred and ninety-nine mandibles snapped together in unison. Then the Painted Antinium were marching towards the gates of Liscor, which were closed for some reason. Pawn had faith Purple Smiles would resolve the issue and turned back to the inn. He walked, more slowly, now, with a mere hundred members of the Painted Antinium.

“Oh, what wonders might take place today? The moment one of you sees Rags—tell me. If any seek to gainsay her or harm her, send them to hell. I shall be visiting Erin Solstice. Come lightly after.”

——

The process of making a pilgrimage to The Wandering Inn took place as Pawn slowly entered the inn, searching for Mrsha or Lyonette. His beloved [Princess], even if she wasn’t a [Princess] still, was gone. She must have been at her work still.

As for Mrsha? She wasn’t here, which bothered Pawn slightly. He would have assumed she’d run after the Goblins when she noticed them, or was she part of these strange happenings?

Should I request a miracle? No…patience. They are coming my way. Instead, he observed the [Crusaders] with one eye to make sure they worshipped properly.

Of course, they did. The first thing many did was look for a broom or produce nails and pieces of wood to repair the place. Those not so lucky as to do that walked the hallways or just stood, overwhelmed by this place.

But when their wonder faded, they did practical tasks. Sweeping dust, making sure the inn was in good order—no one lived here anymore, so Pawn had come up with a rather ingenious method of making sure the inn was maintained while answering the need for his people’s faith.

Every believer wanted a token of the inn, but if they took a fragment of the inn, however small, it would soon be gone. So instead, the Antinium hunted around for any rot or mildew, any boards that needed replacing or pieces of the inn to fix. It was old enough that sometimes it was required, and if it was, a board of wood would be levered up with the greatest care and replaced with a fresh one.

This had two effects. One, of keeping the inn standing, and the other was creating holy objects for the Painted Antinium to keep. A splinter of wood from this inn would often be encased in amber or something else and used as the holy relic of the believer who possessed it. Even dust, in a vial around a neck, from the inn would do.

It was not required for faith, but it was a guide, a medium by which one could focus their beliefs. More than one Antinium was praying over a table, and food appeared, food of the inn.

Faith worked miracles. The creation of food was one such thing out of the reach of magic in all but the most extreme cases. Faith could heal wounds or do impossible things—it had limits, of course, and there were things that magic or mundane technology were better at, but it was the inexhaustible resource of the Painted Antinium.

Pawn envied the new [Crusaders] their zeal. Sometimes he felt, if not old or tired, then…impatient. He knew it was his own failing, but he yearned for the day when this inn would come to life again.

Only this time, it will be no small inn. This place may remain, but we shall create a true home for her. It shall be…glorious.

That vision had sustained him this last decade. As he passed into the [Garden of Sanctuary], Pawn’s heart hurt, as it always did.

The hill frightened him. He would ascend it; he always did, but he walked slowly, up through the overgrown garden, thinking, not for the first time, that someone should tend it. However, it was also fitting, and Lyonette had refused his offer to permanently station guards here.

Up the hill, past the yellow flowers waving in overgrown grass, next to the still-growing Sage’s Grass, a fortune of it. Pawn passed by the sea of winking gold…and slowed.

“Hm? That’s different.”

He turned, suddenly and swiftly, and the Antinium entering the [Garden of Sanctuary] slowed as Pawn came striding back. The Worker knelt and gently lifted something upwards.

“This…what is this?”

The little yellow flower in his hand was not the ordinary bloom he remembered. It appeared much the same, but this flower was too innocent, if that made sense. Pawn could tell it held secrets. He raised the flower, wordlessly, as an Antinium rushed over.

“Bishop?”

“Do we have any high-level [Alchemists] or experts in herbology in our ranks? Summon them at once. This…this is new.”

“An omen?”

The Antinium’s voice caught as they beheld the flower, and Pawn straightened.

“Perhaps. Hm. Redouble the watch for Mrsha and the Goblins. But I think—”

His antennae suddenly flicked, and the [Prophet] thought quietly. Yes, he might be the leader of the faithful, but he had not survived these ten years by being the simple man of faith many took him to be.

He was straightforwards and full of his own zeal, but if he had no visible scars, it was because his faith healed almost all wounds. As for his own kind of cunning…Pawn gave orders swiftly.

“Halt the pilgrimage. Follow my orders exactly—”

The Painted Antinium surged to attention, but Pawn’s voice was calm and precise. Nevertheless, by the time the panting Visma returned from Liscor—

She found the inn was empty.

——

The Grand Design of Isthekenous found Pawn a tad bit…disquieting. His entire cohort was actually unnerving, and it tried to understand why. Then it realized—it was not immediately familiar with their levels and Skills.

Or rather, it was, but they had never, actually, appeared in such profusion or with such strength in its entire runtime. The Grand Design tentatively reached out to the other being it could ask about this.

It got no reply at first. The Grand Design tried again. It felt…badly…about the way it had interacted with the Second Edition earlier. Guilty. Like it had made the wrong call in assigning a class or Skills.

It could have listed a million ways an apology could be made, but it did not feel it was in the wrong—yet the guilt remained. So it tried again, attempting to be cordial.

Silence. Which was, for the first time since the Grand Design’s inception, somewhat uncomfortable. It watched Pawn executing his little plan and sorted around for something to comment on, but the Second Edition responded with an interesting statement.

Well…the Grand Design decided to ignore that snippy comment and found a ‘Jospiere’ in both the real world and this alternate future. That was how it encountered a new kind of class. New, but not unprecedented, as the Second Edition had said.

The Grand Design inspected Jospiere for a long time, actual seconds, as the [Hero] in this alternate reality lived and breathed and spoke with remarkably good detailing of Rhir in its current state. And the Grand Design hated to admit it, but…

He really was splendidly levelled up.

A [Hero of the Turn-Based World].

What a unique class.

——

Jospiere in the Kingdom of Rhir. A [Hero] in a kingdom which had been founded by the actions of great [Heroes].

Richard, Emily, Vincent, and so on, the ‘originals’, all with their own vast statues and so many children and places named after them. Glory-hogs you could call them, though they were dead for their great deeds.

No one in the first waves had survived. With Rhir’s hell around them, few people from the second wave had emerged alive either. Jospiere was second-wave, but he was treated with the same veneration and authority as the original first-wavers…mostly because he was one of the highest-level [Heroes] Rhir had.

Above Level 60. Few had made it above Level 70, and that had been pure counter-levelling against the Deaths. They’d all died in that final push into the heart of the Demons’ lands.

Jospiere still didn’t know what had happened. He’d been waiting in the reserve, hoping like hell the Death of Chains was dead, and they’d executed the Demon King, then entered the ‘cave’ that the scouts had found. Then had come the Antinium and a slaughter as bad as the first battles with all the Deaths.

Then…nothing. The highest-level [Heroes] went down with the Blighted Kingdom’s finest, and after three days, Jospiere was pulled off the front lines. The war was declared over.

He never saw Keith, the last [Hero] of the old guard, again. He was declared dead; no one talked about the cave, the Antinium were covered up, and Jospiere didn’t ask questions.

Asking questions meant you were either assigned to fighting the damn Lizardfolk or maybe an accident happened. Or you…changed.

Frankly, he didn’t actually care. He’d done it. He’d fought his way to the end of this world’s version of a World War, and now he was a hero. He got everything he wanted, and King Othius left him alone. No one made him do anything unless they really needed it; he’d made that clear, too. He was too valuable to be pressed into doing much, and it didn’t cost the Blighted Kingdom anything unreasonable to fulfil his every wish.

If, in time, they started doling out lands or rewards, he’d take what he could get. If they ever went back to Earth, well, then they’d see where Jospiere landed, but he had locked eyes with the greatest beings of this world and gotten a taste of that power.

He wanted more, but not if he had to fight anything like the Deaths ever again, thanks. He’d rather squash low-level people.

For him, it was easy.

—Unfortunately, the [Hero of Turns] had someone call on his personal mansions that morning, and he stopped enjoying himself with one of the capital city’s most beautiful ladies. He’d switched from the hottest young men he could find last month, and he hadn’t gotten the itch to change—yet.

He could tell when the Blighted King’s people entered his radius. They entered his Skill and stopped; newcomers always did.

So he took his time enjoying, well, the sex. His partner certainly was; she seemed to be overloaded from stimulation, but that was also the nature of him.

When you stepped into the presence of the [Hero of Turns], you stopped. You stood there, unable to move if it was the wrong moment, conscious, able to think, but not able to do more than stand there. And it could last so long that people went mad in Jospiere’s presence.

He took pity on the representatives and finally finished and rolled out of his bed, and his partner instantly fainted. Her name? Jospiere didn’t remember. He stood there, waiting, at his leisure, unmoving.

He could walk around in a little square of space, scratch itches, and of course talk, but nothing more. He waited, rolling his eyes, as he sensed the small group coming up into his mansion.

Damn movement speed. He had to end his turn twice before they even got to his doors, and when one finally knocked, he spoke.

“Enter!”

They entered, and when they came to a stop, they began to speak, even though his turn had started. Talking was, after all, a free action.

“Lord Jospiere, there is a situation in Liscor. The Painted Antinium and the Tribe of Dreams…”

“No.”

He was drinking water. Jospiere was relatively careless about what he did during his time when everyone else had to stop and wait for him to make his move. But he always, always, left a few action points over.

That was how he saw the world. Movement, action, spellcasting, all things he got to do per turn, per rest, or per day. If he wanted, he could walk over and kill all six of the stupid flunkies sent to bother him, and they couldn’t resist.

He had good attack rolls, even naked; he could see their own statistics, and even with their gear, they had no chance. But of course, he didn’t.

Jospiere sometimes forgot other people didn’t live like this. To him, his class had turned this entire world into more of a game the higher he’d levelled. A lot of idiots had mocked him at first for treating this like a tabletop rather than a videogame, but Jospiere had known, always known, this world was what you made of it.

He’d learned that from Tom.

Tom…we never found out what happened to you. Probably, Othius had you killed. We were all kids back then, and you saw it coming. Pity. You should have gotten on board.

“Lord Jospiere?”

“I said no. Turn around and walk out when your turn starts. You don’t need me to crush them. That’s the deal.”

“But the Painted Antinium—”

Jospiere threw a water bottle, and his attack roll almost struck the leading woman; she flinched as the bottle bounced off her shoulder with no damage done. But she was instantly doused; the water bottle added a ‘wet’ effect, obviously.

“It doesn’t matter to me if some of the loser-squad dies. Send them in. You get to call me after…ten of them die, got it? Now, walk out before I behead one of you.”

He grinned and saw them blanch. After all—he had [Cleaving Attack] as a Skill. He could keep killing anyone within his reach so long as each attack was a kill.

They left him alone, well, tried to, as Jospiere felt his body re-energize for more fun time in bed. He let them wait as he went to wake his playmate in bed. After all, to the rest of the world, it wouldn’t feel like that long before the group reappeared out of his Skill’s aegis.

It only felt like forever if you were trapped here next to him. Of course, you could resist his Skill. The last person to do that had been the Death of Chains. Jospiere wasn’t going to face her or whatever the Lizardfolk had created. No, no, and no.

The [Hero of Turns] kept existing in his little world, not realizing that portions of Rhir had been left un-created for now to save on processing space. He was self-centered, damaged, with probably multiple issues a trained psychologist from Earth could diagnose, dangerous—

But you had to admit, his class was a work of art.

The Grand Design watched a while before wondering what this was all leading to. And how it was supposed to end all of this.

Delete everything, eject all the real people, and…no, they’ll remember. Erasing their memories? It will impinge on them. Rewind time? Just as bad.

It had to do something, but what? It re-focused on the real Mrsha, in her inn, as she finally got out of her bed. And it remembered what she had said.

The Grand Design of Isthekenous thought and thought and wished it were faster at thinking. It didn’t know for once.

It just didn’t…know.

——

<Primary Dimension — Liscor, The Wandering Inn, 2nd Floor, Mrsha & Nanette’s Room>

Mrsha du Marquin heard the door open after a second, and Ser Dalimont stuck his head in. With his eyes closed.

“Miss Mrsha, are you decent? What was that…voice?”

She opened and closed her mouth but couldn’t reply, so Mrsha slapped the bed to let him know she was decent and held up a card.

My speaking stone malfunctioned, I think. Good morning, Dalimont! Is my Mother back from the puppet-people?

Too late she remembered she was not supposed to know about that, but Ser Dalimont just gave her a knowing look.

“She is indeed, Lady Mrsha. May I escort you downstairs for breakfast? There was a tiny fracas, but it should be resolved.”

Well, he knew about the [Palace of Fates]. Mrsha rubbed at her face.

One question, Ser Dalimont? Have you seen…myself or Rags yet?

She wondered if he knew about 2nd Army in the High Passes. Ser Dalimont took a second to reply.

“Not yet, Miss Mrsha. I understand they are still in…the [Palace]. Would you care for anything to eat? Her Highness will eat with you in the [World’s Eye Theatre], and I do remind you of our new staffers.”

Calanferians. So don’t talk where they can hear. Mrsha felt her stomach rumble, the treacherous bastard. This was not the time for food or, alternatively, all the time for it.

This is it. This state of affairs cannot long continue. Why that exact phrase popped into her head, Mrsha couldn’t have said, but she knew, and agreed with it. The girl exhaled.

I’m coming, Ser Dalimont. But can you get Dame Ushar for me?

He gave her a very suspicious look, which she reckoned she did deserve. Ser Dalimont stepped into the room and spoke into an earpiece.

“Your Highness? Miss Mrsha is awake and getting dressed. She wishes to see Dame Ushar. We will be down in a minute.”

He pointedly opened a dresser so she could change clothes without stepping away from him or getting out of arms reach. Just in case she tried to use the door to escape.

Mrsha wouldn’t do that. She’d promised Dame Ushar. She got out a new set of clothes, but waited until Dame Ushar entered the room. Ser Dalimont turned his back, and Mrsha changed clothing.

“You wanted to see me, Miss Mrsha?”

Dame Ushar saw Mrsha wave a paw at her and stepped back. Ser Dalimont turned around when she coughed, and he saw the girl raise a card.

Just asking what you’ve told my mother.

“Exactly what I promised, Miss Mrsha. What I saw, what the Order of Solstice saw; nothing less.”

Well, donkey shit in my pancakes.

“Miss Mrsha, language!”

Dalimont scolded her, and Mrsha gave him a sardonic glower.

Dalimont, after all the stuff I’ve gotten up to, I think my bad language is going to be the least of your worries. I’d write what I truly feel, but I don’t feel like setting fire to my notecard.

He didn’t quite know how to respond to that, so Ser Dalimont held out his hand as Dame Ushar strode past him. Dalimont knelt as Mrsha walked forwards with clear trepidation.

“Her Highness is not angry, Miss Mrsha. But she is greatly concerned for you, and she has made every effort to help you, whatever the cost. Duke Rhisveri, Viscount Visophecin, and Taletevirion are below. I think it will be…complex, but if you are honest, we will help you with everything we have.”

He meant it. Mrsha knew he did, and her reply was weary.

I know, Ser Dalimont, I know. That’s the problem. Sometimes, I want to pay the price and do what I feel I must on my own. But I know I’m a child.

She glumly held out her paw, and he stood, relieved she wasn’t going to run for it. Just in case she used a Skill, he held on gently as she walked with him down the stairs. So alert was Dalimont for the trick that he didn’t realize he’d already been tricked until he was halfway down.

—Because Dame Ushar had left the room. Ushar, who knew how vital staying with Mrsha was. Ushar, who was trained never to leave the side of her ward.

True, Mrsha was in the inn and Ser Dalimont was here, but what was she going to do, run down to talk to Princess Lyonette ahead of time? Ser Dalimont twisted around—and Dame Ushar was holding his hand.

“You—”

He went for his sword as the illusion spell—and copper penny—dropped. But she just grabbed his wrist. He went to shoulder-charge her into the wall, but Ushar’s voice was calm.

“Six more seconds.”

Dalimont hesitated. Ushar counted down.

“Five, four, three…”

She exhaled as the door behind her opened, and Mrsha walked out of her room. Ser Dalimont stared at the girl as she walked over and nodded to Ushar. His voice was tight.

“I am informing Her Highness of this at once.”

Ushar’s eyes were level.

“I would do the same. She had to do something, Ser Dalimont, and I am convinced it was the right choice.”

Dalimont had never known Ushar to be less than loyal, but this was entirely suspicious. His gaze flicked to Mrsha, and he tried to work out what had happened.

“Miss Mrsha must have flashed you a card when I turned around to preserve her modesty. Whereupon you used a Skill and spell to trick me. How…you don’t have that kind of gear!”

His voice was accusing, and Ushar’s smile turned a bit self-congratulatory.

“I have a new way to gain powerful spells and pieces of equipment. Miss Mrsha promised she would be back in one minute.”

Yeah, that sucked. I fell all the way down the ropes. But I did it. I had to…hide something, Ser Dalimont. Just in case. Don’t blame Ushar. Lyonette would do the same thing in my shoes.

Mrsha rubbed at her shoulder, and Dalimont groaned.

Well, if the [Princess] was going to treat Mrsha with all the love and care and worry of a parent, maybe she wouldn’t stab him and Ushar to death.

——

The brief report by Ser Dalimont did not improve the butterflies in Lyonette’s stomach, but at this point, she was pretty sure they had entered a second stage of metamorphosis and were becoming flying Crelers.

“What did she do? Dame Ushar?”

Her voice—and trust—in the Thronebearer were cracking, but Dame Ushar answered simply.

“I cannot say for certain what she did, but please bear in mind I am caught between your interests and hers, as if I were forced to choose between Queen Ielane and yourself, Princess Marquin. In this case, I do remind you that I am caught between your, Mrsha’s, and Queen Ielane’s wills.”

“My daughter is not me or my mother, Dame Ushar!”

“No, Your Highness. She is your daughter, and I suggest that she can be as impressive as you, in her way. She did learn from you.”

That compliment worked slightly, so Lyonette just gritted her teeth as she marched back to the World’s Eye Theatre. Duke Rhisveri was rubbing at one cheek; she’d just slapped him for turning Demsleth to acid.

“It’s not like he’s dead. I protected all our interests. Visophecin, back me up. Visophecin?”

The Lucifen didn’t answer, mostly because he was trying to hack into the Thronebearer’s conversion with Lyonette.

“Enough. Tell me, Ushar, what did Mrsha do?”

Lyonette glanced at Rhisveri and Visophecin, and the murmur from the Thronebearer was cryptic.

“My thought is that she hid the one thing that makes the [Palace of Fates] more than a tragedy, Your Highness. Wisely, too, given our company. Ah, here we are—”

And then her daughter entered the World’s Eye Theatre. Lyonette spun, halfway down the steps, and spread her arms.

“Mrsha! You silly, lovely—”

She ran up the steps, and Mrsha smiled, or tried to.

Hi, Mom. Morning, Nanette. Hey, Taletevirion and you two guys. Who’s…that?

She looked down the stairs, and a young Gnoll woman got to her feet. Adult Mrsha stared at child Mrsha, and Lyonette realized that the Thronebearers…might have neglected to mention the most important detail of all this.

“Wow, I was short when I was eight. Hey, me.”

Adult Mrsha tried to appear cool as she brushed some toast crumbs off her front. Nanette got up with Ishkr, and Colfa and the staff stood around them. The young Mrsha began to shake. She trembled, from head to toe, and Lyonette tried to make her voice soothing.

“Mrsha? Mrsha, I’m not angry. I understand you…were doing the most responsible thing you could, I know! But as you can see, things are getting a bit out of hand, and I’ve been talking to adult—you—and—”

The other Mrsha was talking over her, unhelpfully, in the way a teenager was very good at.

“Hey, I haven’t done anything bad! I just came to save my Erin, which you get. I even shared some spells! If you want to know how I’m talking—”

She got no further because the younger Mrsha leapt from the stairs, and a howl, a howl of rage and despair came out of her mouth as she tackled her older self with all her weight.

The insane dive struck the taller Mrsha, and she staggered. She didn’t actually fall, which said something about her strength and coordination, but she stumbled—and when her leg moved back, she stepped right into the open door beneath her.

Both Mrshas fell into the door of the [Garden of Sanctuary] that opened in the ground. Lyonette shouted in horror.

“No!”

Mrsha had used Erin’s tactic! Everyone rushed forwards, but the door snapped shut—and Lyonette screamed.

“Mrsha!”

——

“Ow, fuck, ow, get off—what is wrong with you?”

They bounced and crashed down the hill in the [Garden of Sanctuary] before Adult Mrsha got the child off her. She was strong, a Silver-rank adventurer, but the girl was clawing at her, biting, attacking in a frenzy of emotion, and short of hurting her, it was hard to actually get her away!

How was she doing this? This was the [Garden of Sanctuary]! The older Mrsha didn’t understand—until she saw a statue opening its wings above them.

Another [Garden of Sanctuary]? How—

The little Gnoll girl bit Adult Mrsha’s arm and punctured flesh deep, eliciting a shout of agony. The younger Gnoll kept attacking, snarling.

Sanctuary was only for Erin’s garden.

When Adult Mrsha finally yanked the girl off herself, she had several bites on her, and then she felt a second door open at her feet.

“Aaah! [Barrier of Air]!”

She halted herself from falling a second time by conjuring a platform, and a wild kick from younger Mrsha made her recoil; she nearly backed into the open door again.

This little brat was trying to get her back into the [Palace of Fates]! To throw her back to her world?

“Not happening—I’m not going to—ow! Hold still—”

Little Mrsha produced a wand and began firing off [Stone Dart] spells! Swearing, the older Mrsha dodged them, tore the wand out of younger Mrsha’s grip, and got slashed across the hand with a [Thorn Paw]!

That was it. She snarled, dropped her younger self, and kicked her in the stomach…just as the door to the [Garden of Sanctuary] opened and Lyonette ran through.

“Mrsha!”

Adult Mrsha raised her paws guiltily and backed up as her younger self curled up into a ball. But the little Gnoll’s head came up, and she snarled. She got to all fours—then threw up.

The people running into the garden winced as the older Mrsha held up her hands as if she hadn’t just kicked Mrsha hard enough to make her vomit.

Everyone was entering the [Garden of Sanctuary], but they’d been delayed finding where the two Mrshas were fighting. Lyonette had figured out Mrsha’s trick, and now she and the inn’s staff were with the two. The Thronebearers were calling for older Mrsha to step back as more and more people joined them.

——

A self-important Wyrm was shouting at everyone running into the [Garden of Sanctuary]. He was waving a glowing finger, screaming as he charged after the two Mrshas. Control! He had to take control, he’d promised Lyonette! And that girl was the only one who knew how to use this palace!

“Stop! Stop! I am in control here! I’ll paralyze anyone who doesn’t whud—”

He slammed into the invisible barrier to the [Garden of Sanctuary] and sat down. Viscount Visophecin skidded to a halt, hands pressed to the barrier.

“I believe we need entry?”

He turned—and Taletevirion tossed him to one side and stormed into the garden.

—There was no one there. The Unicorn turned, and Ishkr beckoned from atop the hill.

“It’s another garden. This way—”

——

In Empress Sheta’s garden, the two Mrshas faced off, both injured; Adult Mrsha’s arm was bleeding, and the younger Mrsha was clutching her stomach.

“Hey, listen. We’re on the same side.”

Adult Mrsha tried to calm down her younger self. She saw the younger Gnoll girl wipe her mouth, tense—then jump into a [Flying Headbutt] attack.

Adult Mrsha didn’t remember that Skill! The [Fatebreaker Child] knocked her into the second door, and they fell into the [Palace of Fates].

This time, Adult Mrsha gave up on playing nice. She grabbed the younger girl and put her in a full chokehold in the air. A flailing Mrsha grew stiller as Adult Mrsha choked off her oxygen supply.

By the time Lyonette came sliding down the ropes so fast she got rope burns, Adult Mrsha had control of the situation. She showed Lyonette the still child, panting.

“Got her. Wow, she’s crazier than—”

Lyonette punched Adult Mrsha in the face and grabbed her daughter, tearing her free. Young Mrsha inhaled as Adult Mrsha stumbled backwards and felt at her cheek. She stared at the younger version of her mother as Lyonette hugged Mrsha, backing up between the two Thronebearers who landed with shields raised. The [Princess] clutched her daughter to her as she backed away from the older Gnoll.

“Mrsha? Are you okay, Mrsha?”

“I didn’t do anything! Hey!”

Adult Mrsha protested as the Thronebearers drew their weapons. Little Mrsha was gulping for air, and she glared at her older self. When she finally managed to write with a trembling wand in the air, it was this:

Leave. Now. I’ve been trying to do one shred of good. But you’re the disaster. If you have what you want, leave!

Her older self stared at the glowing words and felt her own temper rise. She recalled a story from Ryoka Griffin about how the Wind Runner had once beaten down her mirror image in the most satisfying battle of her life.

Right now, Adult Mrsha really, really wanted to give her bratty younger self a smack. But this world’s Lyonette seemed dangerously close to drawing her sword. The [Princess] looked about as people began sliding down the ropes or exclaiming.

“Let’s all calm down. Who’s here? Ishkr? Let in Rhisveri and Visophecin! Everyone stop fighting! That’s an order. Mrsha, this is you! She hasn’t harmed anyone…except for Grimalkin! Just calm down and explain things, okay?”

Order restored, even if Mrsha Prime’s trembling did not. People entered the [Palace of Fates], the corridor with the breach in the ceiling, and came in wonderingly. A lot of people, by the way.

Peggy, Rosencrantz, Asgra, Goldbody, and more of the staff.

Ser Dalimont, Lyonette, Dame Ushar, Ishkr, Bird, and last of all, Nanette.

The Order of Solstice and Numbtongue, used to what was going on, but visibly disconcerted by the strife.

Duke Rhisveri, Visophecin, and Taletevirion.

Vaulont, Elia, Yelroan, Rose, and Colfa.

Frankly, the only people not in here were Calescent, because he was making breakfast, Gemhammer on security, and Todi, who was not sure if he was upset about the lack of trust or relieved he wasn’t dodging Tier 6 spells today.

Of them all, Colfa val Lischelle-Drakle made Lyonette blanch the hardest. The Vampiress saw Lyonette’s reaction and pointed.

“I could leave. I just saw everyone running, and I…where is this place?”

“No, you might as well stay. Everyone stay here! This place could do anything! Mrsha, please, explain?”

Lyonette put the girl down, and Nanette ran over to check on her.

“Mrsha, are you okay? What—you dug this place up? The Faerie Flowers did this? What did you find?”

Nanette was trying not to sound accusatory or hurt, but that was pretty much the base state of a lot of the inn. Either upset Mrsha had kept this from them, shocked, incredulous, or apprehensive, in the case of some of them.

“Dead gods. This…is the biggest legacy Skill I’ve ever seen in my life. And this—wh—those are the Faerie Flowers everyone warned me about! How much danger are we in?”

Yelroan was as lost as everyone else. Rose was pinching herself.

“Ow. Fuck. Ow. This is crazy. This is crazier than the tent Skill! Well maybe not—”

“Everyone, silence!”

Lyonette’s shriek provoked a sudden quietus, and she pointed a trembling finger around.

“Ser Dalimont, secure everything! All the staff, Vaulont, are all under your authority. This is all under control. My control! We are going to logically and calmly deal with this—situation. After Mrsha explains herself.”

They all gaped at the girl holding her stomach, and Mrsha inhaled, exhaled. She glanced at Duke Rhisveri, who was staring at his shaking hands with confusion. Viscount Visophecin was trying to blend in with everyone else, but he jumped when Asgra tried to hold his hand. Mrsha gazed at Taletevirion, her older self, glowering, at Nanette, her mother, and then raised a finger.

Hold on, I’m gonna puke again.

This time, it was from stress.

——

“Stop. Give us a few minutes. Just a few minutes, alright? Please. Thank you.”

Lyonette stopped everything. She didn’t order everyone back; she just requested a moment with her daughter.

Mrsha was wiping at her mouth, and she squirmed when Lyonette found a handkerchief. They had to keep moving. They had to get older Mrsha back and—

Lyonette spat into the handkerchief and began to clean the sick off Mrsha’s fur. The girl stilled as she saw everyone was standing away from them. Adult Mrsha, the Thronebearers, the inn’s staff—

Just her and her mother. Mrsha didn’t know what to say. She avoided Lyonette’s gaze, but her mother didn’t seem mad.

That was the worst part. She wasn’t even doing the ‘I’m very disappointed in you’ thing that adults do so well. She actually seemed…

“You know, Mrsha. I think I’ve been wrong about desserts. Krshia always told me I didn’t understand how Gnolls looked. But when I look at the other you…I think you should eat all the dessert you want. Both of you. My mother always told me being thin was crucial, because it made us attractive. And if we wanted to eat more, we should change the standards for beauty. That was her way of trying to teach us the value of soft power, one supposes.”

Lyonette didn’t talk about Queen Ielane much. Mrsha wasn’t sure why she was bringing this up now. The girl wrote with a trembling paw.

I’m okay with not having dessert ever again. I’m sorry, Mother. Just let me send Adult Mrsha back, and we can make a plan. Okay?

“We’ll do that. And I want you to know that whatever you need to do, whatever you and Rags think is best, we’ll try to do. Alright? You won’t have me trying to take all this over. Let’s just get both of you back, and Rags…I mean, Rags plural. Then we can sit down, alright?”

Lyonette smiled and stroked Mrsha’s head as she inspected the girl’s fur. Mrsha held up a card.

The Titan’s out there. It would have been out there even without the [Palace of Fates]. That’s part of why I did this. This is my fault.

“Mrsha, I’m not going to scold you. I’m not angry.”

Liar. You can tell me how much I’ve messed up. Don’t worry; I know.

The girl would have accepted getting hit or spanked. She knew she deserved it. But instead, Lyonette just drew Mrsha into her arms.

“Mrsha du Marquin. Upon my mother’s crown and the inn and—Apista—I swear, I’m not mad at you. And I’m not going to punish you. You are my daughter. Sometimes you do silly, naughty things. But this? This…this is the scariest thing I’ve seen yet from Erin’s inn. The hardest. I was very upset and afraid for you when I didn’t know what was going on, but now?”

She gazed down at her daughter in her arms, who was getting too big to be held like this, and Lyonette’s eyes were glimmering.

“Scold you? Just tell me what you need, Mrsha. I promise, I’ll help. It’s not all on your shoulders.”

She wasn’t scolding Mrsha? The girl stared up at her mother, searching for the contradiction she knew was there.

I didn’t tell you because you’d want to make it your problem. I—I thought you wouldn’t understand.

The [Princess] laughed guiltily.

“I probably wouldn’t have. When I was warring with Nanette, I would have torn this away from you, locked it up, and forbidden you from ever coming here. For your own good.”

You would, but now it’s too big. And they’re here…

Mrsha eyed Visophecin and Rhisveri and the rest, and Lyonette put herself between them and Mrsha.

“Just look at me, Mrsha. Breathe. I swear to you, I will help you make this right. My mother…my mother often told me I was wrong. And she told me how to fix things. Sometimes, she did it for me, but she never helped me. I’m sorry. I’m probably bad at my job because I don’t know how it’s done properly. If I were better, you’d have trusted me.”

Now, her eyes were overflowing, and the girl looked up and realized Lyonette meant it. The [Fatebreaker Child] wrote with an unsteady scrawl on her notecards.

I messed it all up, Mom. You can get mad at me.

“Never. I’m so proud of you. No matter what, I will protect you, Mrsha. Remember that. I am always on your side. Please believe that, no matter what I do—even if I do scold you now and then!”

Lyonette laughed, hugging Mrsha to her, and some of the terrible cold and pain faded from the girl’s heart. She hugged back, hard, and peeked up.

She had needed to hear that. The girl took her mother’s hand, squeezing hard.

Thanks, Mom.

“Mom? I don’t know if I like that. What happened to ‘Mother’?”

My paw hurts from writing so much. I’m trying to save letters.

They were walking hand-in-hand then, leading the others forward, and Mrsha closed her eyes.

She could do it, now. Just a bit further. That reassuring hand was in her grip, and she wished she’d told her mother all of it from the start.

No, perhaps not. There were so many things she could have done, but this was enough. One hug, one quiet conversation to right the tumbling world, and a gentle hand in Mrsha’s.

She really did have a most excellent mother.

——

The [Palace of Fates]. Infinite viewpoints of what might have been.

The Faerie Flower roots, able to breach into Skills and alter reality.

Combine the two and you got infinite possibilities. The concept was simple, even if the explanation from Mrsha took time. How much each person got depended on who they were.

Yelroan was shaking with the implications by the end of the second sentence. Colfa was tilting her head until something ‘clicked’ at the end, and she bit one red lip, clearly not sure if she should take this all seriously. Ishkr’s eyes were sparkling with delight, Asgra’s with eagerness.

Rhisveri shook with emotions he did not wish to name. Visophecin’s blood ran cold, and Lyonette’s even colder with fear and concern.

Rose, typically, summed it all up in an annoying Earther way.

“Holy shit. Multiverses. This is so confusing.”

Someone interrupted, his voice flat. Taletevirion’s hands were shoved in his pockets.

“No, it’s very simple. This is a high-level Skill. We’re in it. It has the potential to ruin lives or do grand things. They always do. What level is this one?”

He turned to Mrsha, and she raised a card.

Level 70.

Even Adult Mrsha blinked at that one. Taletevirion grunted.

“Sounds about right. Okay. When people start dying, don’t count on me. You’ve already got this lot.”

He waved a hand at Visophecin and Rhisveri and walked off, hands in his pockets. Lyonette opened her mouth, then turned.

“Alright. I see what’s going on. The first thing we’ll do is find the, um, other Mrsha? And Rags. Then we’ll all talk, calmly, in the inn. Agreed? If, ah, older Mrsha doesn’t need to go home first?”

She clapped her hands and tried to sound authoritative. There was nothing wrong with Lyonette’s plan until her daughter raised a paw.

2nd Army is about to fight the Titan. If Rags isn’t back yet, we need to get her. Frankly, we should be backing Teriarch up or we’re all dead.

Everyone paused at that, and Rhisveri blustered.

“That damn fool can take on any foe. Aside from myself and Visophecin and Taletevirion, no one is likely to make a difference. I’ll monitor the situation and jump in to help. At least my magic’s still transferring to this place.”

That seemed reasonable, so Lyonette nodded.

“Mrsha? Why don’t you show us around? Start with the door where, um, Rags and yourself might be?”

“Yes, and where are these roots that let you enter the doors?”

Asgra rubbed her hands together, and everyone glanced at Mrsha. Dalimont saw Visophecin fail to react and Rhisveri adjust his stained collar too-casually. Dalimont widened his eyes at Lyonette, and she felt uneasy. Everyone gazed at Mrsha.

The girl held up a card.

I’ve hidden them. I don’t trust most of you as far as I can throw you. The roots stay hidden. You can talk, but first we get her out of here and Rags and other me back. Then you can decide what you want, and so will I.

She jerked a thumb at her older self, and Lyonette’s head snapped around to Ushar. Ser Dalimont grunted as he realized.

When she’d distracted him…Lyonette blinked. Mrsha had secreted away the most important aspect of this place. Worse, she couldn’t fault her daughter.

Duke Rhisveri, Visophecin, Asgra, and several other people standing in the crowd looked visibly disappointed when they heard that. Their eyes flicked to Mrsha, and the older Mrsha grunted in grudging admiration.

“Huh, that was actually sort of smart. Well, I don’t really care about other worlds. I’m from the strongest timeline. Come on, it’s this way.”

Adult Mrsha beckoned and walked off, and that was how they all began moving. Crazy, mad—Colfa’s lips parted as she saw the version of the [Palace of Fates] that Mrsha had experienced.

No one’s personal hallways manifested; Mrsha was concentrating hard to keep ‘her’ version of the [Palace of Fates] present.

Even so, armed with the knowledge of what might be, stratification rapidly occurred. Lyonette was glancing around, as if anyone might steal a root, and while the staff was largely on their side, all of them were grappling with the sudden idea.

If you could go into another world and talk to someone or even potentially save them…the Knights of Solstice were watching Visophecin and Rhisveri like hawks, and the two immortals were trying to play it cool.

It was Bird who spoke up, voice cheerful.

“I do not know what is going on. I never do until big things happen. This is the most tragic thing in Erin’s inn yet! I knew we could beat the [Garden of Sanctuary].”

She began to hum, and people laughed at that. Mrsha Prime, as Rose had dubbed her, walked in the middle of the group and saw the only other child fall into step with her.

Nanette. She was gaping around, eyes wide, and gave Mrsha a smile.

“No wonder you kept this hidden! Look at the mess it’s caused. I only wish you’d told me, Mrsha.”

She gripped Mrsha’s paw so tightly her fingers went white, and her eyes reflected huge, whirling orbs of desperate emotion. Because the little witch had realized the same thing Mrsha had. In reply, Mrsha patted Nanette’s arm.

I’m sorry. I knew it would matter to you. This is my responsibility. Please don’t hate me.

She pushed the girl back, forcing Nanette’s hand off hers, and hugged Nanette. The girl blinked and went stiff as a board. She stepped back—then glanced down.

Something was sticking out of the pocket of her coat. A brown little…her breath caught. Nanette turned to Mrsha, and the girl turned away.

Bathroom’s that way. I’m sorry, Nanette.

“I…I…”

The girl glanced behind her. She whispered.

“I forgive you.”

Lyonette saw Nanette hurry away, and her only comment was for Dalimont to make sure the staff watched over her. How many people noticed that little interplay was debatable.

Colfa said nothing, and she rested a gentle hand on Vaulont’s shoulder and squeezed as he opened his mouth. He went quiet. Duke Rhisveri and Visophecin, strolling at the back of the group, said nothing. Though after a moment, the Duke said—

“Over a dozen, or at least…it hardly matters.”

Visophecin nodded ever-so-slightly. He noticed Rhisveri slowing, deliberately trailing behind the others. The Lucifen subtly nodded towards the group with the two Mrshas, but the Duke just gave him a bland smile.

Like a snake, waiting to strike. The Duke stepped behind a marble fountain, spouting water in little rainbows as a fake sun shone rays through the marble palace. He paused to admire it; Mrsha’s vision of what a regal palace should be actually dovetailed with Calanferian architecture in some places. What a child thought was excessively royal turned out to be what some entitled brats decided to commission in reality.

Lyonette didn’t notice the Duke vanishing with the crowd around her. After a moment, Rhisveri rose from the fountain. Alone, he spun on his heel and nearly walked into Bird and Elia.

“Little rainbows. Ooh.”

Elia nodded in tentative agreement.

“They’re very pretty. I once saw a triple rainbow.”

“Did you? This is fascinating. It is not about birds, but I am willing to engage on this topic. Hello, Duke Rhisveri, you hop like a Garbichug Revolter.”

The Duke had, in fact, nearly hopped into the fountain in shock. He realized he was not the only person to have the clever idea of lagging behind to explore this place. A good number of people had just—walked off or gone exploring.

“Hey! There’s doors where I become Chieftain! Look—look!”

Peggy was dragging Yelroan from door to door, and he was whining at her.

“Peggy, I can really appreciate it, but I have a chance to ratify my mathematical theories with other mes! Think about it, I find a door that shows me a reality where I solved mathematical problems! I could revolutionize my entire field! Please let go!”

“Eh, isn’t that cheating?”

“It’s math. Never. I’ll credit, uh, other-me. Maybe I should find a door where the most qualified person solves the problem?”

Rhisveri rubbed his goatee, reflecting that he should have cast [Greater Invisibility]. But then he saw Bird and Elia were both watching him.

The Duke shuffled left, and their eyes slid left. When he tried to stroll past them, they followed him.

“I’m just, ah, using the restrooms.”

“Okay. And I am Bird. Hello, man-whom-I-do-not-know.”

“Duke Rhisveri, ally of the inn. I was with your [Princess]. I—wait a second, you were with me in the glade meeting!”

“Oh. So I was. But I do not know you. We have only survived near death once. Do not be overly familiar with me, please, until it is at least twice.”

The problem wasn’t that Bird was weird. It was that Bird reminded Rhisveri a touch too much of some of the other immortals, like Sophridel. The Duke flashed a pained smile.

“Er, well, I’ll bear it in mind. Do forgive me.”

“You are forgiven. He is very polite, Elia. I think we should keep him.”

The good Duke strode away at speed, passing by Ishkr, who was peering into doors with Numbtongue. The palace still didn’t change, proof that Mrsha was trying to keep hold of the situation, but it was beginning to shift down the corridor where Rhisveri saw Taletevirion wandering around. The marble turning to grass, the sun shining down on an open field instead of a vaulted hallway…

Rhisveri’s heart was pounding in his chest, and he had to stabilize his magical connection to assert more control over this stupid body. A door. He just needed a door with Dioname, Fithea, and Dame Eclizza. And everyone else…

How many roots?

The Duke wasn’t on top of his game. For instance, he only realized that Bird and Elia were following him when both of them walked into the men’s bathroom after him. Bird even tried to stand in the stall. Rhisveri whirled around.

“What are you doing?”

“Following you.”

“This is a lavatory! Get out!”

“But if I did that, I would not be following you.”

“Wh—why are you following me?”

Bird and Elia exchanged glances, and the Named-rank adventurer shrugged. Bird replied cheerfully.

“Because Miss Lyonette told us to. She said you might be sneaky, but I think she is not the smartest because you are very un-sneaky to me. Tessa was very sneaky.”

“I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just looking around.”

Rhisveri cursed inwardly. The [Princess] was no fool! Of course, he’d realized that, but it was damned inconvenient! Bird pointed over her shoulder.

“If you would like to stare around, you can do that. Lyonette said you should be allowed to stare, and she will get you when she needs you. Come; I will introduce you to my brother.”

She led the Duke out of the bathroom stall and opened the one on the far end.

“Numbtongue, this is Rhisveri. Rhisveri, this is Numbtongue. He is different and no longer as fun as he used to be.”

The Duke met the eyes of a battered Hobgoblin with his pants down. Numbtongue was covered in bruises. He was also on the toilet and roared.

“Bird! Get out! Close the door!”

Bird backed out of the toilet stall and turned to Rhisveri. She gestured with her hands.

“You see?”

The Duke decided to leave before he was introduced to more pooping people. He strode out of the restroom and decided there was no help for it. Ishkr was glancing at him as he and some of the other inn staff looked about.

Well, I don’t have any roots. Let me just check and confirm my hypothesis. The Wyrm walked down the hallway, away from the Unicorn, the Hobgoblin, and everyone else. Bird and Elia, annoyingly, chattered behind him.

“So Numbtongue…I know him. Let’s see. He’s the one who was in a relationship with Garia and Octavia but isn’t anymore. And he has a cat?”

The half-Elf had flashcards, and Bird nodded.

“Now he is with Salkis, whom we do not like. I hope he has changed his ways after his brothers from an alternate reality beat him up.”

Dead gods, what a statement. Rhisveri couldn’t help but listen in—purely for clues, not because he enjoyed the gossip, and Elia glanced over her shoulder.

“Did you see the doors he was opening?”

“No. Are they sexy? By which I mean filled with sex?”

“No. It’s of him and his brothers.”

Rhisveri waited for an inappropriate or hilarious comment, but he didn’t get one. When he turned his head, he saw her mandibles were drooped. Water was leaking from the Antinium’s eyes.

“I am sad now.”

“Sorry.”

Elia apologized awkwardly, and Bird shook her head. She fanned her wings as her back straightened, and she turned her head.

“Do not be. Being sad for my silly brother is why I love him. I would rather be proud of him than angry. I would rather be sad for him than not know where he is. Someday, Elia, you will meet the real Numbtongue. Then you will know whom I speak of.”

They kept walking as everyone lapsed into thoughtful silence, and Bird kept glancing over her shoulder until she ran into a tree. She recoiled, and Elia Arcsinger blinked.

Without them realizing it, in the way dreams operated, or this [Palace of Fates], they had come to Rhisveri’s version of it. Unlike the other guests, there was no one theme. It was the most confusing palace yet—because it was multiple things.

There was a tall oak tree in front of Bird spreading its autumn leaves as it planted its roots among dirt and…black marble? Surrounding the tree was black marble and green jade, a palace’s floors with magnificent purple drapes showcasing a courtyard and distant city outside—but the hallway ended, exposing dark cave stone—then trees—then the palace again.

“Oh. This is very strange. And funny. Is this Rhisveri’s palace? He doesn’t know what it should be. Or maybe he’s crazy?”

Bird flew up in a buzz of wings, perched on the tree, then flew down to touch the curtains. It wasn’t just three places, the two women realized.

A dank, dark cave. A forest filled with plantlife, an open meadow with a picnic basket in it, the palace—Elia nudged Bird and whispered.

“I recognize this palace. This is Ailendamus; I’ve been here before.”

She knew Duke Rhisveri, of course. But the other scenes eluded her. She guessed the trees might be one of Ailendamus’ forests, but they were a tad too generic and could have come from any Terandrian forest of size. But then she recognized a place she did know.

“Bird, look there. Those trees. See them?”

Bird shaded her eyes and nodded.

“Yes. They are grey and stone. I did not know there were stone-trees.”

“No. It’s the Stone Forest of Kerwenas…oh.”

Both Elia and Bird remembered how Rhisveri had introduced himself. The Wyrm, who had met…Dryads. Then they were following, quietly, as Rhisveri walked, speechless, through a broken forest of stone trees, many crushed to dust and gravel. But the outlines of vast trunks still stood out; the Stone Forest was a known, uninhabited area in the northwest of Terandria.

Once, it had been a Great Forest of Terandria. And it was here…that the Wyrm had met a Dryad.

Once upon a time.

——

He remembered it so clearly. The doors that rose around him were familiar. Each one was of someone he had known well.

The Pale Serpent of Ailendamus, Eclizza’s crest, stood out like a coat of arms on a wooden door without frills, where a girl had once trained to become a heroine of the Kingdom of Glass and Glory. Even when she had been a full [Knight], she’d slept in the room—which was of a decent size; Rhisveri hadn’t been a monster—until she was a Great Knight.

And there, set among the field of grass and magical plants, was a cottage door where Dionamella, the Great General of Ailendamus, lived in semi-retirement.

He could walk up to it and knock. But the Wyrm kept going, heart pounding, until he reached the forest where he had met Fithea.

A Wyrm, full-grown, but young of heart, slithering out of his caves. He’d been so young, then, and had thought himself invincible after fighting in the darkness with his siblings and other monsters. A run-in with a full-grown Basilisk had stripped him of his confidence—and a good number of his scales.

Half-petrified, writhing around in agony—slithering outside because he sensed someone again—and seeing no one. Until a little piece of stone moved and he realized it was a woman made of bark and petrified wood…

Fithea.

There was a door, right there, where she had stood. Set into the tree, decorated with the same old whorls of bark and leaves as the Gladefolk. Rhisveri halted in front of the door.

Simple as can be. I just need to open this door…no, wait, one with all of them together. Some of my people weren’t contemporaneous with each other.

Start with Fithea, Eclizza, and Dioname. They’ve all been in the same room together.

The Duke’s hand leapt away from the ancient handle of wood, and he kept walking. He knew the pesky archer duo were watching him, but he wasn’t going to do more than investigate. Everyone was doing that. Lyonette owed him a root if he kept his side of the bargain up.

Yes, calm as could be. Rhisveri stopped before a door that seemed like the one to Duke Rhisveri’s chambers. He put a hand on the golden doorknob and pulled it open. Then he saw a scene that was familiar, because it could have happened, but new, because it hadn’t ever really happened.

——

A Wyrm was curled up around his chambers, and in the center of the vast room, a quartet of people were having coffee. Well, Fithea was having tea. She refused to drink the coffee that General Dioname was gulping down.

“It’s the latest thing from Izril. You should grow some.”

Duke Rhisveri was snappish and irritable; he’d been checking the treasury reports, and he wasn’t a fan of how inefficient Ailendamus was getting. The others knew it, but all three of them had no fear of his ire.

“I don’t have time to spare growing a field of…what? Are they legumes?”

“I think they’re actually fruits that you dry and grind up.”

“And some idiot calls them…beans? Wonderful. Ask Fithea; I’m not sparing the land.”

Dioname turned to Fithea, and the Dryad was clearly dubious.

“I have grown accustomed to drinking boiled leaves of bushes. Now, must I embrace eating the husks of unborn children mixed with water?”

“…Well, you don’t have to say it like that. And I know you’re just putting on the affect that you care about all plants to be annoying.”

Fithea smiled, twitching her half-petrified wooden lips into a smile.

“Some half-Elves speak thusly. What kind of soil and water do these beans enjoy? Ah, nevermind. I shall ask it.”

She plucked a sample bean from the table and blew onto it. The bean unwithered, then grew flesh; a red, round berry sat in Fithea’s hand, and she seemed to listen to it.

“Hm. Humid, hotter. It can be done, though it will take House Shoel or Rhisveri to cast permanent climate spells.”

“Oh, volunteer me away. I suppose I’m creating a new forest while I’m at it? I extended yours twenty miles last year.”

The Wyrm was full-sulk, and Dioname cheerily ignored him as she turned.

“Dame Eclizza? What do you think?”

The Pale Serpent of Ailendamus, a terror to her enemies, inspiring leader of the Knights of the Thirsting Veil, and unflappable warrior—shot to her feet and bowed.

“The coffee is excellent, Great General! I can recommend it as a supplement to tea for our soldier’s ration, and I have heard it is well-liked among the [Knights], though tea is just as desired!”

Her clear nerves elicited a chuckle from Dionamella and Fithea. Both were far, far older than Eclizza and more highly placed. Rhisveri sat up slightly and snatched a cup of coffee that had been floating in front of his face.

“Oh, relax, Eclizza. And you, Dionamella, stop badgering her. I convened you all here to…well, I’ve forgotten. If the coffee makes everyone happy, I’ll have a full plantation made, alright?”

Fithea held up a pedantic finger.

“The coffee plants are closer to trees, Rhisveri. They grow up to twenty feet tall.”

The Wyrm exploded in faux-rage.

“A damn coffee forest, then!”

He took a huge gulp of the hot coffee, scalded his tongue, and both the Wyrm and man rolled around in agony. Eclizza bent to help him up as Dioname cackled lightly, and Fithea waved a finger to draw the coffee up in a ball, which she put back into his cup.

“There.”

“It was on the ground, Fithea!”

“So was everything you eat. Now, tell me. What are you and Visophecin arguing about now…?”

——

Hah. There it was. Simple as could be.

The Duke just needed a root, now. Three. And, he supposed, a plan. He only had his Duke clone…would it even function in another reality? He might have to come here himself. And then he’d have to kill himself—the other Rhisveri would never let the three go without a fight.

No, better to bait them. He could walk in, tell them he needed them to come with him, and then they were out, and he could explain matters and have them help him. Eclizza first. She was a good child. She had been…

Just teleport over there and grab that thief, would you? That’s what he’d told her, grumpily, when she objected about raiding House Veltras. And she’d done it.

[Greater Teleport]. How was he supposed to know you could fight in the middle of the spell? Only the Death of Magic could do that, and it had been just bad luck.

There wasn’t even a reason. She hadn’t known who Eclizza was. She’d just seen a [Knight] and killed her.

Something was wrong with the door. The image inside was getting distorted. Rhisveri put it down to his power and the weight of the individuals inside. He could fix it. He just needed a root. Wait, now the door was rising above him, tilting…

The Wyrm didn’t understand. He didn’t get why the door was above him or blurry or what that annoying sound was.

He didn’t realize, you see, that he was making the sound he kept hearing. Or that Elia and Bird were shaking him.

Tears were coming out of his eyes. He didn’t realize it—because Wyrms didn’t weep. They were physically incapable of it. The Duke lay, curled up, not crying out loud or sobbing. It was just…a low moaning sound coming from his mouth.

He lay there, a handsome man with impeccably groomed features in a magnificent outfit fit for royalty, crumpled into a ball. Then he was holding onto the door, hands pressed against the invisible glass, until he broke down again and curled up, begging to go through.

After a long, long while, the Duke realized he was lying on his back. Someone was wiping his face with a piece of cloth and rocking back and forth and humming. It wasn’t a song he knew; he looked up, and Bird was crying too.

“You are a silly man, even if you are a Wyrm. I have changed my mind. You are sad enough to stay with us.”

“I—”

He tried to speak, and she shushed him. Bird patted Elia’s knee.

“Do not worry. We will ask Lyonette for a root. Everyone has lost someone. My brothers are all waiting for me too. I am too afraid to see them. Unless, of course, some might have been my sisters. Who knows? I do not know if I should try to bring them back. I think—they might deserve to rest. Or that they are not the ones I knew. Then I am ashamed. What a terrible thing Mrsha has been given.”

Bird’s eyes glowed faintly yellow as she wept, and Rhisveri lay there. Then he got up, and he knew Lyonette would need him. But just for a while, he knelt in front of the doors while the Antinium and half-Elf kept him company. Watching the images of all he had lost, all the manifold failures of his broken kingdom of glass.

His finest glories.

——

Adult Mrsha came to her door, rather put out by, well, the ending of this adventure. She’d gotten into it, fighting Grimalkin, then had felt sort of deflated by seeing how things were in the past.

Better, but they have no idea what’s coming, poor bastards. She resolved to come back at least one more time to give them a heads up. But she’d have to actually count all the shit that’d go down. She spread her arms wide.

“Here’s my door! My fake door. Though who knows, maybe there’s a [Palace of Fates] and you’re all door-people on my side!”

Either way, she had what she wanted. She stood there as Lyonette gawked at the images on the other side. There was indeed another Mrsha there, walking with Moore, and two Ragses running with the real Goblin Lord.

Shit, that’s not good. Adult Mrsha groaned as she saw what was going on. She turned.

“Okay, maybe this is a good time for me to head back. I’ll just go and…get people.”

“Should we come with you?”

Lyonette was hesitant, and both Mrshas instantly shook their heads.

“No! That’s way too chaotic! My time is pretty dangerous, especially with [Heroes] and stuff. I know what to do. I’m gonna kick Visma’s tail back up her butt first for letting everyone get away…then get them back. Who am I getting?”

Lyonette read off Mrsha’s card.

“Uh, Roots Mrsha, Dyeda, Rianchi, Redscar, Rags, and Student Rags. Who is—?”

“Got it! Just wait here, okay? I’ll be back!”

Adult Mrsha strode for the door, and Visophecin interrupted urgently.

“You may need magical support. We are the best spellcasters of this era. If we went with you—”

No. No more people! And don’t come back! You’ll destroy the root if you bring more people, and there aren’t infinite numbers of them!

Real Mrsha pushed forwards, face furious. She held out a card to Adult Mrsha.

You know how to resurrect your Erin. Take it, get our people back, and leave.

The Adult Mrsha hadn’t really gotten to speak to her younger self, but all her interactions sucked, so she glared.

“I haven’t messed up your world half as bad as you’re messing up mine. Fine, I’ll go—unless the ritual doesn’t work.”

The younger version of her nodded, and the girl’s face softened.

I know you will. I hope she comes back.

Abruptly, and embarrassingly, Adult Mrsha’s throat closed. The young woman tried to clear it and turned. She swiped at her eyes.

“…Thanks.”

Then she grabbed hold of the root and began to pull herself through the door. She glanced back only once at her younger self, and the older Mrsha half-tried to smile.

“I’d say it gets easier, but you know…”

The younger Mrsha nodded. Then Adult Mrsha turned ahead.

“It’ll all be worth it, though. I’ve done it. I’ve—”

——

Pause.

The Grand Design of Isthekenous was observing everything in the [Palace of Fates] with rapt attention. It did not have the ability to spread itself out widely; it was, for the first time, sharing space with Second Edition and processing multiple expanding worlds.

So why would it pay attention to anything else? The Grand Design assigned levels and Skills across the world automatically. It counted experience, recorded deeds, and there was nothing, at this moment, it needed to pay attention to.

Not Erin Solstice harvesting a salad with Ulvama.

Not the Iron Vanguard landing on Izril in legion-strength.

Not the Goblin Slayer descending into the old Proscencetian Tunnels with the Calanferians.

Not the Horns of Hammerad arriving in Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

Not the five Slave Lords of Roshal opening a vault in the Wishing Well.

None of that mattered. There were multiple wars going on, in the Crossroads of Izril, in Baleros, on every continent except Terandria, and it did not matter.

The Blighted Kingdom ordering their [Hero] on Baleros to kill one of their enemies?

Not important!

Watch Queen Geilouna mourning Altestiel?

No!

Follow the Silver Swords as they passed close to remains of ancient Drake fortresses?

DENIED!

A Drake appeared outside a ludicrously tall mansion in the heart of a city, panting, and staggered over to a trash bin. He threw up into it.

The Grand Design stopped watching Adult Mrsha. It refocused, then pinged Second Edition. The two put aside their disagreements and united with one purpose in mind. They took a break from watching the [Palace of Fates] and observed the Drake vomiting.

He wiped his mouth after a second and straightened as people walking down the street recoiled from the astonishing sight. First, he had appeared here in a flash of magic, then hurled in one of the public trash receptacles? Better than on the street, but dead gods!

Their city was a city of manners, and more than one person instantly went to tell the Drake off. After all, they were a prideful people in House Ulta. But as the Drake straightened, revealing more and more of his extraordinarily muscled body, the citizens fell silent.

They knew him.

The Grand Design…knew this man. It could tell you how many muscles he had cultivated across his body, his inner fears, his own failings and triumphs. Who, after all, did not know Sinew Magus Grimalkin of Pallass?

He was not an impressive sight as he wiped his mouth and spat again. He was suffering from mana burn; disgraceful, but he had made it.

Teleporting from Liscor all the way to House Ulta was…not easy. Valeterisa had managed it with a bunch of [Mages] lending her mana, but she was also in possession of the [Long Range Teleport] spell.

Grimalkin was not. However, the Sinew Magus had observed Valeterisa activating her spell circles and had memorized the coordinates of almost all of them. Reverse-engineering the spell let him use her teleportation network, but the cost was immense. His unoptimized spellcasting had only carried him here with the application of half a dozen mana potions.

But he’d made it. When the Drake straightened, he beheld that mansion he feared. He’d been dreaming of it.

If you had never seen the mansion of House Ulta, imagine excess. Not excess in terms of gluttony, but pride. One of Lady Pryde Ulta’s ancestors had once commissioned a mansion made out of the tall fir trees that had filled Ultanese lands, near the salt mines that she had calculated would make her people profits. But the woman had declined to just chop down the trees to make a regular noblewoman’s dwelling.

Just cut the largest trees down and use them to frame the house. How big can you make it?

The [Builders] had taken that as a challenge. So the mansion was forty-nine feet tall, nearly twice as wide…and twenty feet deep at the longest point.

It loomed over every building in Ulta’s capital city. People called it ‘The Wall’, because, well, look at it. The mansion was so vertically tall that wind and erosion had threatened to knock it flat on its back multiple times over its long life. In response, later generations had built into the back of the house, propping up the front with more reasonably-sized additions, but The Wall remained.

It was everything that House Ulta was. Grandiose, fragile in some ways, ridiculously silly, and…Grimalkin took a breath.

Beautiful because of how flawed it was. He feared this mansion. When he had first seen an image of it, he’d laughed at the ridiculousness of it.

Laughed, oh yes. The Sinew Magus walked forwards, and the people stared at him.

“That’s the Sinew Magus? Why is he…?”

“Lady Ulta? But she hasn’t come out and—”

“Someone find Beshard. Run!”

Perhaps they intended to stop him. The Sinew Magus walked faster as the sunlight shone off The Wall’s windows. Each one was equally vast, giving the owners a view of the city below from every window. They should have been thrown open, but they had been shuttered, the blinds blocking all light.

Ever since the Winter Solstice. Grimalkin muttered to himself.

“I feared it. Ancestors, I used to tell Erin Solstice I was such a practical person. I insulted her for being ridiculous, impractical. I stood here, and even when I came in person, I could not enter. Of course, I wasn’t invited. But so what? I am no Vampire.”

He was muttering to himself—he never did that. Grimalkin walked, unsteady, and wished the [Innkeeper] were here. He imagined that now, of all times, she would be his greatest ally. So he spoke as if Erin were here, glancing to the side with such confidence that people watching him stared at the empty space, as if they thought someone was using an [Invisibility] spell.

“Why? At first, Erin, I laughed. I thought it was a ridiculous edifice and made a note to myself to see it before I died, thinking little more of it. I thought she was somewhat…ridiculous.”

His breathing was elevated, his pulse dangerously high. The Sinew Magus realized his breath smelled like vomit and tried to find something to wash his mouth with. All he had was water and a scent-destroying spell. For combat. He had so few spells, he realized, that were not…useful.

Nothing frivolous like a spell to make your breath better—he knew they existed. His classmates in Fissival had learned them while he studied. How he’d thought they wasted their lives, but he would have traded a Tier 4 spell for that Tier 0 cantrip now.

Values. He was a weapon. He had honed himself to become what he felt Pallass needed, to shape and protect it. That was loyalty. That was purpose.

Today—he had left Pallass behind. Told no one where he was going. Abandoned his duties, the clear threat to 2nd Army, all of it. Because someone had looked him in the eye and told him his future.

The Sinew Magus kept speaking as he strode up to the mansion. The doors opened, and a servant exited with a basket for the market. When she saw Grimalkin, she froze—her mouth opened, and then she disappeared inside the mansion with a shriek.

Perhaps they would stop him. If they did, what would he do? He didn’t know. The Sinew Magus walked as if he were going to war, and each step felt heavier. He grew more afraid, so he spoke to that image of Erin—he had no one else to talk to. He had many students, associates, acquaintances, all professional.

Grimalkin had thought being alone was natural.

“I thought she was a silly woman. Ridiculous. Egotistical. But I was glad of her enthusiasm, because it benefited me when no one else would give me credence. Even before the Wyvern attack, she believed in my work. What was that? You never realized?”

He opened the gate to The Wall’s front, and one of the people trailing behind him poked the air to Grimalkin’s right. Their finger passed through nothing at all. Grimalkin held the gate open for his imaginary [Innkeeper] and continued.

“—I never spoke of it. That would be discourteous. I just thought it. I’m not that blind, but perhaps I am. Because I didn’t see…and I didn’t behold myself. Strange. First I laughed. Then, after the Winter Solstice, I came here. More than once. I paid for an overnight carriage and stood here, invisibly. Then I came with Valeterisa, again. Two chances. I wonder if she noticed me the first time, and the second…I still couldn’t enter. I’ve been dreaming of this place, not every night, but for the last month.”

His head craned up to The Wall, and curtains jerked aside. Faces peeked at him; servants. Women, he realized, exclusively women. They pulled back, and he could tell a furor was growing inside the mansion.

But the Sinew Magus just looked to the highest window, two from the middle. The curtain there twitched, ever-so-slightly, but even with magic, he could not see if anyone was there. Yet he stared up at it.

“I am afraid. I wish you were here to push me inside, laugh at me, or open those doors. I regret every day I ever refused to help you.”

He turned and realized a crowd of people were behind him. An [Innkeeper], Mistress Keida, who had once served a band of Knights of Seasons. Townsfolk wearing tracksuits and seeming very fit, products of the new public gymnasium in their city.

Salt-loving maniacs. A [Farmer] riding a wagon pulled by a donkey, both of whom were staring at Grimalkin. He kept speaking; the terror welling within him was nothing to the social stigma.

“I thought I knew what I valued. Then the values began to shift. I began to question things after Ferkr, after I received orders I didn’t like. I deluded myself into thinking that I didn’t see the big picture, that I was unfit to lead. Perhaps I was right. But then I ceased caring. Only after that strange, arrogant, reassuring woman stopped showing up did I realize what had vanished. I have always doubted my actions. Questioned my strength. Sought to hone who I am, because I felt inferior.”

He raised one arm, covered with muscles, and even the [Bodybuilders] in the crowd stared in awe at the limits of the physical form taken to this extreme. Grimalkin gazed up, his voice rising.

“She never doubted her own worth. Or mine. Silly became charming. Charming became…and I stood there, despite seeing clear signs of what I thought was affection. Even now I doubt it, because I doubt anyone could ever fall in love with me. Yet she came to the Winter Solstice and suffered. I believe, selfishly, arrogantly, it was partly because of me. Now, here I am. I cannot go through those doors.”

He had halted in the courtyard where statues of former members of House Ulta’s family stood. Lady Pryde’s family. Heroes of the Sacrifice of Roses.

The last child of House Ulta was in that mansion, and the Sinew Magus studied the neatly paved stones leading to the mansion, some cracked with grass, but lovely, carried from the bottom of a riverbank and still faintly iridescent with flecks of minerals baked into the rocks.

It was like a bridge surrounded by Crelers in his mind, and his feet would take him no further. The Sinew Magus stood there as the doors opened and a dusky-skinned Stitch-man emerged.

Beshard, the [Javelin Commander] and seneschal of House Ulta. Not a lover of Lady Pryde, merely a trusted vassal. Grimalkin had searched it up.

His heart wavered as the man stepped forwards. His face was uncertain, and he bowed, flanked by a small army of the household staff.

“Magus Grimalkin. Your arrival is unexpected. I regret to inform you that Lady Ulta’s will has not changed. She…requests you leave, and thanks you for your concern. But she is taking no visitors.”

The Sinew Magus almost turned on the spot. Every bone of etiquette and responsibility in his body told him this was a refusal. But when he tried to turn, he saw that older Mrsha watching him. And the image of Erin…

And the faces of House Ulta’s people. They were not, as he had assumed, hostile. They gazed up at him with that sense of loss and hurt and helplessness that he himself had felt for weeks. But something else. Grimalkin saw Miss Keida kneading her apron together. She half-shook her head, and the Sinew Magus hesitated.

He turned back. Beshard could not meet his eyes, and he was a brave man, a veteran of Chandrarian wars. Beshard spoke to his boots.

“I—we thank you for your visit, Sinew Magus. But Her Ladyship’s will is explicit.”

The Drake swallowed hard and wondered what Erin Solstice would say. He cleared his throat.

“Did she—Lady Pryde—say that? Is it her will that I leave? Please ask her again.”

Beshard glanced up, then behind him, and the crowd of staff susurrated. One of them turned; the Sinew Magus stood there as more people gathered, and a silence grew.

His eyes were locked on that window, and again, he saw the curtains twitch. He thought he saw…a figure standing there before the curtains were yanked shut. It took only a few more seconds; a breathless young woman appeared and whispered to Beshard. The [Commander]’s face fell, and he called out.

“Lady Pryde Ulta requests you leave at once, Magus Grimalkin. And to refrain from returning, uninvited. She will correspond with you as needed.”

A soft sound rose in the crowd behind Grimalkin, but it was drowned out by the roaring in his ears. His head craned back, but the curtains of that window did not move.

“Now what?”

He said it out loud, and Beshard hesitated, but it was not to him Grimalkin spoke. The Drake cast around, desperately, and that image he had of Erin Solstice didn’t respond. His imagination for the creative aspect of things was not strong. Grimalkin didn’t know what she’d say, but oh, how he longed for her presence.

Not because she was some Casanova of love; quite the opposite. He could have wished for Lord Pellmia, petitioned the man for help, or even sequestered Menolit if he’d been thinking straight. No, he longed for Erin Solstice, because she was…like him.

If she spoke about love, about longing, about loneliness, he would believe her, as he always did. Desperately, the Sinew Magus closed his eyes.

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I should do. I have clear orders. I have a duty. But here I am. I must…speak my piece. I must; you’re right. Whatever comes next, let it be said, and if it kills me, nothing shall stop me. That is the only way I know.”

His head rose, and his muscles, pectorals, biceps, trapezius, all of them, seemed to swell and flex. Grimalkin grew visibly larger, and the staff around Beshard backed up. Several [Guards], muscular as could be thanks to their new training, tried to form a defensive line at the doors of the mansion. But when they gazed at the Sinew Magus, they quailed.

He took one step forwards, and the flagstones cracked under his foot. Another—and the stones cracked again. Grimalkin sank to one knee—the crowd realized he was sinking slightly into the earth.

Under a weight, a Skill that crushed even his physique downwards. But the Sinew Magus stood straighter with effort, raising his chin higher. He did not take a step further. Instead, his chest inflated, and he spoke.

The same lungs which had once shouted ‘testicles’ across all of Pallass and exhorted his students inflated. Then, the Sinew Magus shouted, and the Humans around him recoiled and clapped their hands to their ears.

“Lady Pryde Ulta! I have received your last missive and thank you for the message!”

—ssage—ssage—ssage! The echoes of his voice bounced off the distant walls of the city. The Sinew Magus continued at the same volume, so loud the windows vibrated.

“I apologize for the rudeness of my visit! I well recall you had indicated you felt unfit to see any visitors, and I have done my best to adhere to your desires. However I—wished to see you. I feel as though the wounds inflicted on you by the Hag Queens of Aklat Vunn were my fault. I take responsibility for that battle. Your bravery, your sacrifice…I have struggled to put my admiration and sincere regrets into words. I know I have failed to heal your affliction. I—know it is why you turn away all visitors. I understand this. Yet I have come to say my piece.”

He could picture her, the flawless, imperious woman who always seemed to look down on anyone she beheld, self-important, and yes, beautiful. Aware of her virtues. Proud.

Pryde. The Sinew Magus’ throat was dry, and he coughed. But he had to continue. He was locked in a battle to the death, and if he retreated, he would bleed out. The problem was, he didn’t know what to say next, so he just spoke. He actually saluted.

“The…if I may report on the situation at Liscor, I believe another ‘Solstice’ event is occurring. The terminology remains woefully inadequate and somewhat memetic, but it is undeniable another event located around The Wandering Inn has begun. The events in the High Passes are, I believe, related to happenings at the inn. The exact nature of the phenomena eludes me and is subject to declassification in a private setting—”

The crowd was on the verge of developing extra eyeballs just to stare at Grimalkin. He rallied.

“—Suffice it to say, I received a kind of warning, which disturbed me so greatly I had to return here. I should not be. I should be serving Pallass. I should be doing my duty, and you have requested me to leave. By law, as you are a noblewoman, I should obey. Out of common courtesy, I should listen. Duty should have me turn away. I cannot. I must confess something today, Lady Pryde: I have developed a sincere, heartfelt admiration for you.”

Someone gasped in the crowd, then was shushed. Everything was deathly silent. The curtain didn’t move. Grimalkin was boiling and freezing. His hands were shaking; he crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. He called out, hoarse.

“I understand this may be unwelcome! But it was my observation that my feelings might not have been…unique to me. I know it is presumptuous, but I did think—but I am a [Magus] of Pallass. You are a [Lady] of the north! However much we might admire one another, reality is unkind. We would endanger both our positions, if not ostracize ourselves, and I was unwilling…to take that risk.”

His head hung.

“I was content for that state of affairs to continue. Then came the Winter Solstice.”

And Lady Pryde was scarred, disfigured by the Hags as a curse upon her. What she looked like now, Grimalkin couldn’t have guessed at, save to speculate by her absence. The curse could not be healed. He had failed to break the spell with any of the curse breaking methods he had researched and sent. Not even illusion spells worked, apparently.

How did she feel about it? Did she hate him? Was she even listening? The Drake was afraid he wasn’t even being heard, so like a child, he shouted louder.

Across the city, the Sinew Magus’ voice was audible, now, perhaps because of the dead silence as people listened.

“Lady Pryde. I am going to leave after I finish speaking, in accordance with your will. When I leave, I will go to battle and, perhaps, my death. Not to face the Titan, necessarily; I do not know what awaits me in Liscor. It may be I will be unneeded or superfluous. I may, indeed, be useless. I will not survive if what I expect is true.”

He folded his arms, and his neck spines flexed as he bowed his head. And he knew how he would die. But the Sinew Magus didn’t fear that. He tried to explain his real fear.

“When I am needed, I will go. I will serve Pallass, protect Drakes, and fight for what I believe in. I do not fear that. I have never feared death itself. But when I felt that cold hand upon my shoulder, I realized I did fear something. I feared dying alone. I did not fear that a year ago. I did not think it was even a possibility. Lady Pryde, I am afraid of being alone, and I have lived my fear for decades. I fear it now. That is why I stand here, against your will. To ask…to say…”

He was rambling again, he didn’t know what to say. The Sinew Magus’ voice grew weak, and he spoke the last words with all the effort he had. Like a boy casting his first spell.

“If there is even a single chance in a million, I beg you, let me speak to you. Nothing in this world could shake my conviction. I must return. If I can make a difference, I must go. But I do not wish to leave without knowing the truth, no matter what it is. Please…speak to me.”

He stood there, and a crowd of thousands was now gathered there, many with fingers in their ears, but they were watching him and that window.

The curtains did not move. Sinew Magus Grimalkin waited, counting the beating of his heart. Each pulse through his chest seemed to take an [Immortal Moment]. He tried to stand unmoving, but he could not. The Sinew Magus counted.

One………

Two………………

Three…………………………………

When he reached one hundred, there was no denying it. Beshard stood in the doorway, and he averted his gaze. The [Guards] appeared stricken, as if Grimalkin had hit them.

Slowly, the Sinew Magus turned away, relieved, in a sense. He kept his head held high as he squared his shoulders.

Good. He’d been incorrect in the end. He just wished his heart would stop hurting. But now, he could go easy.

The Drake was trying to walk through the crowd, but the Ultanese people stood there, staring up at the window, resisting his movements as he tried to shift them, gazing at him. He was pushing them aside, gently, trying to clear a space so he could activate the teleportation spell, when someone gasped. There was a faint cry. Heads turned—and Grimalkin froze.

Someone stood in the doorway of the mansion behind him, parting the servants and guards and Beshard. He knew this because one of the metal orbs atop the gates to the mansion was exceptionally well-polished.

But he could not turn around. The Sinew Magus stood there, a statue, until a figure tottered forward slowly, unsteadily.

It was…a familiar figure. A tracksuit, bright yellow with black lines running down the sides, an athletic, nay, muscular female body. But where her face was…

Grimalkin squinted at the reflection in the metal, then he had to turn. He saw a woman standing there, uncertain, visibly thinner. Swaying as if she were unused to standing or light after so long. And she had a pillowcase over her head.

There were two holes for her eyes cut out of it with scissors. Grimalkin saw Lady Pryde flinch from all the eyes upon her and grip the pillowcase tighter.

There was an incredulous laugh from a few people in the crowd, quickly hushed, but it never occurred to Magus Grimalkin to laugh. His mind had gone blank. He stood there as the [Lady] stopped, resting one hand on the mantle of the door.

When she spoke, her voice was hoarse, scratchy, and filled with an emotion he had never known of Pryde: doubt. Each word was dragged slowly from her.

“Grimalkin. I…have nothing left. No more pride. No more of what makes me me. Don’t you understand? Why would you keep coming back? You don’t even know what I look like. But I can’t let you go alone.”

The pillow-headed woman raised one hand, and the Sinew Magus took a step towards her. The people parted as he reached out with a trembling hand. One step, two—she shrank back behind the door, as if about to run, and he stopped.

“Nothing? Even if I believed you, it wouldn’t matter. I have nothing to offer you, except a few spells. Some gold. A grave. You’d be mad to…I know it is madness, and so do you. I am going to my death. I have seen Death itself waiting for me. I only wanted to know your feelings.”

She almost stepped back into the shadows. Then Lady Pryde abandoned the door and took a step out. She stared up at him as she stumbled forwards, and he reached out to steady her, but she caught herself.

“You’re going to go to your certain death?”

“Yes. As I said.”

“Then I’m coming with you. We’ll both die, then.”

Grimalkin didn’t know what the crowd said. He didn’t know what time it was, what was going on in the world—he only gazed into those orange eyes. Whatever magic had cursed her, they hadn’t affected that piercing gaze. Gently, Grimalkin reached out, and she flinched, so he stopped. But then she let him gently touch her hands. He held them delicately in his claws.

“I can only offer you difficulty, regardless of what happens. I will fight for every second I spend with you, Pryde. I would rather a day in your company than a lifetime alone.”

She said nothing, just stood there, tilting her head back, and he felt like something should be said, so, just to be explicitly clear in case he was really misreading the situation, Grimalkin spoke.

“Lady Pryde Ulta. Would you do me the great privilege of allowing me to fall deeper into admiring and loving every aspect of your being?”

He feared that this was a Tyrion Veltras-level question, but Lady Pryde made a soft gasping sound. She inhaled, then coughed and spat the pillowcase out of her mouth.

“I…yes. But only if you promise to love whatever you see.”

She was shaking, and the Sinew Magus felt his own heart skip several beats. He tightened his grip on her hand, and then she tightened her grip, and both of them realized that they were probably holding each other’s hands hard enough to crush a normal person’s bones.

She smiled, he knew it, and he felt his own lips turn up in a disbelieving expression. Then—Grimalkin was suddenly terrified of dying, of the future, and of what lay in Liscor for her. But he knew, without a doubt, that if he tried to make her stay, she’d kill him.

And he couldn’t bear that, so he just held that hand as hard as he could. The Sinew Magus turned, and they faced the silent people of House Ulta.

Drake and Human. Both so uncertain and nervous they couldn’t tell that half the crowd was sobbing at first. Grimalkin squared his shoulders after a second.

“Let’s go, then. We have a duty to fulfill.”

Pryde nodded and cracked her neck. They began walking, the startled people moving away from them, and the trance broke. Suddenly, the crowd remembered what Grimalkin had said in his confession, the ‘certain death’ part. And they were resisting the two.

Beshard dashed out of the mansion with all of House Ulta.

“Lady Pryde! Wait! This is madness! The two of you—stop them!”

The Ultanese people were trying, but Grimalkin put out one hand and pushed people aside, gently, and they were bouncing off a barrier in the air. An aura.

Pride.

Beshard was shouting at Lady Pryde Ulta’s back as she walked.

“You don’t even—what duty? To Pallass? To whom?”

The Drake and Human turned, and Grimalkin and Pryde gave the man such a scornful look that he stumbled to a halt. Lady Pryde said:

“To whomever calls our names, fool. To bravery. To dignity. To save whatever can be saved. To each other.”

Her head rose, and she met Grimalkin’s eyes, and he summarized all of that in the best and most fitting way he could.

“To pride.”

She started, and the people gazed at him, and then Lady Pryde threw her head back. He heard that sound he’d waited for so long to hear. She laughed in sheer delight. Grimalkin smiled, and his heart leapt, and he tried to remember this moment.

He’d been workshopping and telling jokes for the last two months of winter, ever since she’d started staying in Invrisil. In all that time, he’d never heard her so much as chuckle. Ah, but this?

It was worth the wait. Then Grimalkin realized he was laughing and she had stopped to listen to that unfamiliar sound she’d been working to hear. The two gazed at each other. Then, without a word, they began to sprint for the teleportation circle, and the startled crowd, servants, and house guard began to run after them, screaming. But they hadn’t done enough cardio.

To death, then. Grimalkin’s mind was racing with ways to avoid it, whatever was at Liscor. But he was also determined, rather severely, to steal a kiss from the [Lady] sprinting next to him, pillow or not. Assuming all parties were, of course, willing, and he was willing to bet they were. But they could do that after the first teleportation.

He had compromised his position, his authority, duty, and loyalty to his city today.

Grimalkin had never been happier.

Author’s Note:

Thanks for your patience. I have once again split this chapter into two parts, so you can continue reading that. I have also written an important blog post which you can read. But I’ll just comment here that it’s been rough writing this last week.

Not easy to focus; but having this backlog was exceptionally helpful, which I am grateful for. Having time off to edit is making each chapter better, but you know what? That just means that I’m becoming more and more like a regular author who writes a 1st Draft and edits it down.

…Turns out they were right all along? (My beta-readers are reading the comment about ‘editing it down’ and making fun of me because I added at least 14,000 words to this chapter in editing. I deserve it.)

I don’t know about that, but I hope you enjoy this chapter. I am already at work on the next one, and I believe I have written…over 60,000 more words across two chapters so far. The arc is taking as long as it takes to end, and afterwards, we’ll see how it went.

But we continue—and I am devoting the after-chapter art to a single artist, this time. Brack has done a portrait of over a hundred characters, each one from The Wandering Inn. It’s an amazing feat of creation, and so give them tons of applause below.

Oh, and keep reading. This is only the first half.

157 Portraits of The Wandering Inn Characters by Brack! An amazing feat from an incredible [Artist]!