10.32 (Pt. 2)

(Once again, this chapter has come out in two parts. Make sure to read Pt. 1 first. –pirateaba)

 

 

 

 

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

 

“—done it.”

Mrsha stumbled through the door, and the first thing she did was pivot and turn around. But there was nothing behind her; just the empty inn. If she stared at the tiny spot in the air, just past one of the chairs, she could see the root, but only if she focused.

I’m back. I made it. I have the knowledge to revive Erin and…younger me sucks. She’s not the me I remember being. She’s so…different.

Strangers. They actually felt like strangers. Mrsha had always known she’d been a bit of a brat who thought she was all that. She ran around, punching and kicking and pretending to be her heroes and calling herself all kinds of names.

What had she used to say she was…? Oh yeah, ‘Mrsha the Great and Terrible’. Dead gods, Ekirra and Visma had made so much fun of her that Liscorians had begun catching on, and she’d had a few years where everyone gave her nicknames.

Then, of course, the Mother of Graves happened, and that stopped that.

Mrsha’s eyes opened wide, and she came to a dead standstill. She whirled around.

“—The Mother of Graves. I forgot to tell them.”

That particular bit of trauma was often repressed in her head. The [Thought Healers] called it a ‘self-preservation mechanism’, but the dread, the terror, the horror of that period came back at once. Mrsha reflexively reached for a vial of the cure that she always carried with her.

“I have to tell them! I have to—”

She caught herself before she grabbed the root. Wait, first things first. She should grab all the intruders here, then tell them. When you were in the thick of trouble, you prioritized the biggest threat first. Pisces had taught her that.

Speaking of which, Pisces is coming and Pawn and…I need to get them out of my world now, or this is going to actually be three Crelers with a cat in a sack.

Remembering it was her birthday made Mrsha go running again. She was at the doors of the common room when she opened it, and someone slammed into her.

“Aaaah!”

Mrsha punched Visma off her feet, saw her friend, and then raced over.

“Visma, I am so sorry! Let me just—I have a bruise balm!”

“My face! You bitch, you punched my face off!”

Visma was rolling around and holding her cheek, and Mrsha was trying to see how bad the punch was.

“I didn’t punch your face off! I thought you were—where the hell are the Goblins? And younger me? You had a job!”

“I had a job? You didn’t tell me what was going on! What’s happening? And where are the Painted Antinium?”

Mrsha was slathering a blue poultice that helped reduce swelling and cure bruising when she felt her fur prickling in anxiety.

“The Painted Antinium? Here?”

“They should be. I—oh. No. Nevermind. They just appeared in the Floodplains, Mrsha! They nearly attacked the Reinharts and Rhir’s [Heroes]! I think they were defending Rags’ tribe. I saw some of them hovering in the air—the [Heroes], I mean. I actually got a picture. It’s blurry, but I sent it to Drassi, and she said it’s the best one we’ve got—”

Mrsha began shaking Visma.

“Visma. Visma. Stop focusing on your stupid job! Where is Rags? Where’s Pawn?”

She searched around, because he was the last person she wanted to see, and Visma snapped.

“Excuse me for taking pictures! I don’t know! Okay, the Goblin and the girl who looks like a younger you ran into Liscor. They locked down the entire city, Mrsha. I couldn’t get in, and the Watch told me—they inspected me because someone was infected. You don’t think…?”

Oh no, oh shit. If it was younger her—

“W-where is she now? The younger me?”

“I think Lord Moore took her into custody. That’s what everyone is saying. They just lifted the lockdown and issued an all-clear notice. The Council will give an update in thirty minutes.”

Mrsha was flipping between ‘this is a disaster’ and sudden relief so quickly she began to get why the younger version of her was so upset. She breathed again.

“Okay, I’m going to send a text to Moore. If he’s got them…Rags? Both Rags and Redscar and, uh, Rianchi?”

Visma’s mouth dropped open.

“There are two Ragses? Redscar? Didn’t you say he was dead? If it’s the Goblins, I don’t know; they vanished into the High Passes.”

Well, fuck. The only way to contact Rags was via an encrypted ritual spell. Mrsha paced towards the doors, speaking rapidly.

“Okay, contact Moore and Rags. Get everyone here. You get to stall anyone who shows up. This time, do it properly. No one enters the inn. Tell them—tell them to meet at Moore’s place, okay? That means Pisces, Ryoka, anyone. Even Ceria.”

Visma squeaked.

“You—you want me to stall them? An [Archmage]. What am I going to do, selfie her to death? Mrsha, what is going on? You owe me explanations! Tell me now or I won’t help! I’ll tell your mom!”

Mrsha whirled around in place. The young woman was breathing hard, her eyes alight, and she was shaking. She still looked slightly battle-worn from her match with Grimalkin, but then she said it. She said it at last.

“Visma. I—I know how to bring Erin back. Seriously this time. It’ll work. Today’s the day. I’m in a Solstice event, just like the old times. This is it, but I have to get those people back and out of here. But she’s going to live again.”

Her eyes were filling with tears, but she was fighting them back because this was not the time. Visma’s eyes went round.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“You’re sure? It’ll work? Not like—”

“I have it on the greatest authority I’ve got. I believe. I believe that this will work, and all of Pawn’s stupid religion doesn’t have more faith than I do at this moment. Help me, Visma.”

The Drake swayed on her feet, then her features firmed. She twisted her ring, hit a few buttons, and began to speak into it.

“Ekirra? Get over here now. Right now. I don’t care what you have to do—run! Go get everyone you have to, Mrsha. I’ll keep everyone out of the inn—uh, if I can. They’ll have to shove me aside to get through!”

Mrsha grinned as a squawk of sound came out of Visma’s ring and she began to shout at the [Soccer Player]. The young Gnoll woman strode for the doors and threw them open.

Her city, familiar and splendid, stood before her. Mrsha inhaled the air and figured out it was smoggier, a product of the times, maybe. She felt her ring beginning to buzz as angry texts and missed calls came in—a lot of them from her mother and Moore. Even two from Pisces.

 

Pisces, Captain of the Horns of Hammerad — I’m on my way via Esthelm, on foot. We got held up by the Reinharts. Everything alright?

Pisces, Captain of the Horns of Hammerad — Mrsha? You there?

 

She was typing a response as she saw more messages popping in, then decided to hell with it.

“Ring. Call Lord Moore. No, not Lemure, call Lord…Moore. Okay, cancel call. Go to ‘L’. Moore…cancel call. I hate this thing.”

It was a special day, silly things aside. Even without the [Palace of Fates], it would have been important. Mrsha’s birthday was a moment for those who had known Erin Solstice to gather, perhaps to rally for another great attempt. It was a moment of hope and significance, because it was her eighteenth birthday—a coming of age.

Such days mattered. Just like the witching hour or certain numbers had significance, like thirteen being unlucky or how the twin full moons could be moments of power.

An eclipse, a celebration, a Solstice…or even the day when someone transitioned from child to adult. These days mattered, you see, because of belief. You could argue that the ninth day of the fifth month of the year had no real value to anyone, or, if you so desired, you could look at great rulers who had shared that birthday, tragedies long-forgotten that tarnished this moment.

The truth was that it didn’t matter. It was Mrsha’s eighteenth birthday, and because it mattered to her, it had a weight in the world that manifested in this gathering.

[Witches] understood this.

Mrsha was striding down the hill, distracted by her ring, ebullient and slightly irritated. She brushed at her face as a sprinkle of water struck her fur.

“Great. Rain.”

You’d think the Floodplains would run out of it, but even after the rainy season, it would just keep raining. Mrsha glanced up as she activated a minor weather spell to keep the rain off her fur. She gazed up at the blue skies and clouds—more vivid than ever, a sign of the Painted Antinium’s passing.

No black clouds. Mrsha slowed, and the water tap-tapped down on the inn. She halted, and her damp fur began to rise.

“Oh no. Not today. Not now.”

It was raining. The sky above the inn was as blue as could be, but the water was forming in the air and falling downwards. Not high in the sky, either; a mere thousand feet overhead, Mrsha could see the water pooling on an invisible surface, a round dome in the air. Then it fell. Conjured from some vast, invisible sea.

She knew this. The young woman drew her wand and swivelled slowly. Her throat was—suddenly—dry, and she fumbled with her ring. It was still trying to call Lord Moore. She disconnected the call, then hit a glowing red button on the right side of the display.

She hit it again as a popup asked her if she was sure. Then, she heard a faint ringing sound. It sounded so distant.

“Hello, Liscor Emergency Services. We have your location, Miss Mrsha. What is your emergency?”

Mrsha spoke to tell the operator as her head searched around. Her breath drew in as she saw the thin figure standing there. Rain was falling around her tattered hat. It ran down her loose robes, a [Witch]’s robes, frayed with holes at the edges. Mrsha saw the unkempt brown hair was turned upwards along with too-thin, pointed chin.

Eyes closed. She didn’t fit the world. She was an anomaly standing there. Her very presence seemed ominous. They had met before.

“Nanette.”

The Witch of Sorrows finally opened her eyes and focused on Mrsha. Her eyes were brown and too-huge in her face. They seemed to be the only part of her still left alive. Everything else had worn away. Her figure was one Mrsha knew: starvation had left her naught but skin and bones.

She smelled like dampness, like water. Like tears. And blood. She smelled wrong, and those eyes filled with malice. Brown, like upturned earth from the deep veins of the earth. Brown, and deeper brown, like a hole into the heart of the world.

Rings of color narrowing around her pupils until those black pits dragged you down. Water was running from Nanette’s eyes, dredged from the depths of her soul. There were oceans there, of grief.

“It’s today, isn’t it? Is it today? She’ll be ever so angry at me if I forget. I’ll let her down, which is just as well, but she promised me a gift if I do my job.”

The [Witch] spoke to herself. Mrsha began casting barrier spells as fast as she could, ignoring the operator’s voice. The scar on her neck was aching, and she was sweating.

This was worse than Grimalkin. Oh, so much worse. Mrsha hoped Visma had noticed the rain. She prepared a [Flash Step] spell and cast another spell into her paw.

[Lightning Bolt]. Not [Siege Fireball]. Fire was virtually useless against the [Witch]. Mrsha flicked a stone to the ground, hoping that Nanette didn’t notice it. She kept babbling to herself, a mix of nonsense and clarity, as she took an unsteady step forwards.

“Yes, I think it’s today. You’re so happy. Delighted and afraid. I remember delight, like a sweet treat that fades away faster than the sugar on your tongue. Hello, Mrsha. Happy birthday.”

“Witch Nanette—leave. This is my city. You—I have friends coming. You won’t be able to kill me.”

The young Gnoll woman was covered in a cold sweat. Her display against the Sinew Magus should have let her feel confident. But not against Nanette. Not…

The Witch of Sorrows blinked those unsettling, familiar eyes. She smiled.

“It’s your happiest day. I was sent here to hurt you.”

“Belavierr promised to stay away from me. She swore to Wiskeria. Begone.”

Mrsha tried to push with her aura, but it was beyond fruitless. Even Lyonette could barely make a [Witch] of Nanette’s level stumble. The rain was growing worse. Now, they could barely see, and the obscured figure lifted a hand.

“She didn’t send me. I’m here of my own accord. I’m just doing something that would make her very happy. Oh so happy. Mrsha, do you know what happened since the last time we met? I levelled up.”

The Gnoll leapt forwards, fist pulsing with lightning. She threw a punch—lightning roared, and water sprayed across the ground. Mrsha vibrated, then vanished as water struck the place where she had been. Then she reappeared several feet away, rolling—clutching at her side, and Nanette was lying on the ground. The [Witch] rose upwards as Mrsha’s blood ran onto the ground.

“Hee. Hee. That hurt. Let’s do it again.”

Her side was badly cut. Mrsha fumbled for her emergency healing potion as she kicked away, repositioning. She hurled [Light Arrow] spells, trying to cover her position, but nothing worked.

Nanette controlled the water. The moment the rain had begun falling on Mrsha, she had been in the [Witch]’s trap. When she had tried to punch Nanette, the water had become sharp as glass, tearing her barrier apart.

The lightning bolt could have hurt the [Witch]—if it had reached her. But a wall of water had taken the spell and merely knocked the [Witch] down. And she had cut Mrsha’s side open with a blade-hand of water. Mrsha had tried to follow it up with another spell and strike, but the water had begun to enmesh her, drowning her in a prison of liquid.

What had saved her was the [Teleportation] spell she’d primed with a lodestone. If she hadn’t escaped, she’d be dead.

Every barrier spell on Mrsha was gone. Water was drenching her fur, weighing her down, and Nanette could use it to stab into her flesh. Mrsha whispered.

“[Fire Resistance]. [Flash Fire]. [Earthen Wall].”

Steam baked off her just in time. Three drills of super-concentrated water pierced through the wall spell. She twisted, and they missed her by inches.

She couldn’t throw illusion spells or reposition easily in this rain. It could just erase or detect illusions. Nanette was a perfect counter to so many spells.

If the [Witch] had one weakness—it was her frailty. The girl was panting already, unsteady; it had thrown off her aim. More jets of water blasted through the earthen wall spell, and her finger tracked Mrsha, who was running with a new barrier spell keeping the water off her. The water was digging into the barrier, turning into spikes like Yvlon’s arms. The barrier spell collapsed, and another jet of flames turned the water to steam.

“I know you’re there~.”

Nanette fired a huge jet of water into the center of the cloud. There was a cry of pain, but when Mrsha reappeared, there wasn’t a hole in her chest. She lifted one bloody paw; she’d blocked the spell with a shield made of hardlight. But the pressure of the blast had still nearly broken her arm.

“Nanette, stop!”

“No.”

It was such a childlike response. Nanette took a step, and the rune of lightning that Mrsha had drawn exploded. It sent the ragdoll figure of the [Witch] flying and tumbling across the ground. She was hurt from the spell—badly. The Witch of Sorrows had no defensive barriers aside from the water itself.

Her left arm was scorched down to the bone. But she rose, as if she couldn’t even feel the pain. As if it was inconsequential. Water swirled over her injury, and the liquid became flesh.

“Mrsha. My new mother wants you to suffer. Die, die, and today, die. She gave me a gift for my last birthday. A Tier 7 spell.”

A scroll was in her hand—she was firing those jets of deadly water at a running figure, who was dashing towards the inn. The scroll glowed as the [Witch] peered at The Wandering Inn.

“[Hellfire Pillar].”

The scroll was bright red, and the vellum began to burn as it hung in the air. A rune of flames grew, so hot that it began to turn the rain to steam, and overhead, the skies turned brighter. Nanette laughed in delight, clapping her hands together as the Gnoll turned.

“No!”

Mrsha screamed and raised her wand, a foolish thing to do. Nanette had waited for that moment. She flicked her wand out, a segmented one made of yellowed bone, the tip of it a finger of someone who had loved her.

Mrsha fired a bolt of [Grand Lightning] at Nanette and dodged left. The explosion threw the [Witch] down the hill in a jumble of broken bones. She got up at once and heard the scream.

Mrsha had dodged the two [Water Jets] conjured by Nanette’s wand. The three that had appeared behind her caught her in the back and shoulder.

Ragged holes in her body. Blood. And above them, the swirling fires of the Tier 7 spell were gathering. The rune refused to be dispelled as the frantic Gnoll tried to cast more hostile magic at it. Laughing, Nanette got up. This time, she switched tactics.

“[Rain, Fall Like My Tears]. [Water Pierces All Barriers].”

Tiny little droplets struck the young woman and tore pieces out of her fur. They left pockmarks of blood, and she ran, trying to escape the radius of Nanette’s spells, screaming. She had a healing potion, but she bled.

And the inn? Nanette tilted her head up, waiting for the spell to burn it to ashes—before she killed Mrsha. Belavierr had been very explicit in what she had told Nanette. Not that the Stitch Witch was allowed to hurt Mrsha directly or even indirectly. She had promised her first daughter, Wiskeria, to leave Mrsha alone for thirty years. But every promise had a loophole.

The [Hellfire Pillar] finished forming overhead. Light so bright it became a second sun burned away even Nanette’s rains for a while, and she saw Mrsha keep running. The Gnoll was howling—and Nanette clapped her hands together and kept laughing.

Then the swirling mass of fiery death winked out of existence. Before it could streak downwards, it just…vanished. As if the vivid sky had swallowed it.

The Witch of Sorrows stopped laughing. She peered up at the sky, cocking her head in bewilderment. She circled the place where the scroll had activated.

“What is this? What happened? Did my mother play a trick on me? That monster. She won’t get her wish, though, and I thought she wanted this so dearly. What is…”

She broke off. Her quarry was escaping. Mrsha slipped through the front door of The Wandering Inn. She was bleeding badly, but she’d heal in a minute. And the city was blaring alarms.

Its green protector was coming. And other beings of power were soon arriving. Nanette hesitated, then decided to finish the job. Water gathered around her feet and carried her up the hill in a rolling wave. She entered the inn and heard Mrsha running ahead of her, screaming.

“Visma! Get in the [Garden] and don’t come out! Run! Run—”

Mrsha had conjured the entrance in the common room for Visma. She was almost at the [Garden of Sanctuary] herself when the walls began to drip water. She reached for the garden door, and spikes of water shot out and nearly pierced her face. Mrsha threw herself away and turned. There was only one place to run. Where—where was—?

She was scrabbling at the air when a pair of water jets, thinner than needles, punched through her knees. Mrsha dropped, screaming, and the [Witch] ducked her head as the water carried her into the common room.

“There you are. Silly Mrsha. You know you can’t beat me.”

They were over ten levels apart. Mrsha reached up for something, and the water swept her wand away and sent her sprawling. Nanette was tilting her head right and left.

“How did you turn off my spell? It wasn’t Liscor. I don’t know. How strange. What are you reaching for, Mrsha? There’s…dry air here. Strange. How very curious.”

She took a step forward, eyes locked onto the air, then remembered her job. Nanette drew a dagger of black diamond from her belt and stepped over Mrsha. Her eyes were huge in her head as the young Gnoll woman rasped up at her.

“Please, Nanette. I don’t want to kill you.”

Mrsha’s paws sparked with lightning, and her eyes were huge in her face. She said the same thing she had said last time. Nanette laughed. She cackled.

“Kill me? You’re still listening to her. The Wind Runner. I’ll kill her next, don’t you worry. But first—my mother told me to kill you and eat your heart.”

She bent over as the water dragged Mrsha’s limbs down, anchoring her to the ground. Mrsha was panting.

“Please. Please…I know you’re just messed up. Please don’t. Don’t kill her, Pawn.”

Nanette froze, her knife held between her hands, pointed downwards. Mrsha was staring past Nanette at that glowing doorway into the garden. And she seemed truly terrified. Nanette whispered.

[Spikes of My Hatred]. The water exploded into filthy shards of edged liquid, which could pierce mithril. They shot up from beneath Mrsha, but never stabbed the Gnoll girl. She rose, as if the magical edges of liquid were a bed of flowers. And Nanette saw it.

A glowing blue halo over the Gnoll’s head. Then she felt a bright light upon her back. It filled the interior of the inn, and she turned her head. She pointed her wand.

The water barrier separating her and the [Garden of Sanctuary] exploded inwards. Then…

There was a voice, and there was light. All-encompassing light which left room for nothing else but the absence of it. Only light and darkness.

And water. It rushed through the darkness, towards the being who stood in the light, and he spoke. The waters were separated, and he walked upon the ground, between two roiling seas.

Green grass followed him, blooming with every step, wildflowers, and then there was that eternal sky. The [Witch] saw the Antinium raise a hand, and she screamed.

“Die!”

She raised her wand, and a spear of light exited the [Garden of Sanctuary] and carried her off her feet. It pinned her onto the floor, and she screamed, writhing. Pawn spoke, half-turning to the [Garden of Sanctuary].

“Enough. I said leave her to me. Tend to Mrsha’s wounds.”

The [Witch] was trying to pull the spear out of her shoulder, but it burned with more pain than she had known. A weapon of faith, such as her mother feared. She gazed up, weeping tears of agony, and saw them.

Antinium. They were in the [Garden of Sanctuary], emerging, warriors of faith and fury, surrounding Mrsha, healing her, helping her up—shielding a terrified Visma.

The Painted Antinium. Hiding with cunning few suspected of them. Pawn kept walking forwards, and he had a single object in his lower left hand. His club.

“I shall take a penance that I did not realize the [Witch] had appeared, Mrsha. I only noticed the spell. That you are alive is Her Will. Now be at peace; I shall remove this threat to your life. Next shall be the Witch of Webs for this sin.”

Him, him! Her mother had warned Nanette about him! She had never struck at Mrsha when the Painted Antinium were anywhere nearby. Nanette could not remove the spear, so she ripped rightwards, shattering bone and flesh to get away. She staggered upright.

“[Tidal Wave: Acid].”

She pointed, and a clear wave of liquid surged towards Pawn. The [Crusaders] reacted, but Pawn smiled.

“Funny.”

He split the wave in half. He didn’t do anything—he just lifted a finger, and it split. The water struck the inn, creating hissing steam from where it met wood, and that bothered Pawn. He turned.

“Protect the inn.”

That let Nanette back up again—the water was mending her injuries, but the Antinium didn’t seem to care. She tried again.

“[Splinterspray Shatterbolt].”

She fired a single shard of ice, like an [Ice Spike], which split midair and kept splitting. It turned into a spray of Tier 4 spells capable of piercing magical armor—Pawn spoke, then.

“[Shield of the Faithful].”

A miasma of golden light surrounded the Antinium and the inn, and the icy [Shatterbolts] cracked and kept exploding throughout the inn, leaving clouds of frost and fragments of ice. Some hit Nanette, but the Antinium didn’t take any damage. She lifted her wand, arms shaking from so many powerful spells cast so fast. Her final attempt was a [Jet of Water] spell, as vast around as Pawn, which should have hit him with enough force to punch a hole in the Antinium, the inn’s walls, and even hit Liscor’s walls.

It split.

“How?”

She stared at him as he walked forward, and Pawn answered calmly.

“Splitting water is a very traditional part of faith, Witch Nanette.”

He raised his club, and she brought up a shield of water to block it. The club went through the water shield and crushed her shoulder and snapped bones and four of her ribs. She fell, shrieking, and someone screamed.

“Pawn, no! Please!”

“I am removing this threat to your life, Mrsha.”

The [Prophet] stood over the Witch of Sorrows and seemed impressed she wasn’t dead. He glanced at Mrsha, confused more than anything, as he put a foot on her back.

“She has tried to kill you at least six times. You tried to remove her yourself. What has changed?”

He tilted his head, and the young Gnoll woman stared at Nanette—and saw the little [Witch] who had asked to be taught how luck worked. The girl…her sister in another timeline. She choked on her words, and Pawn shook his head.

“You are to become an adventurer. They make such harsh decisions constantly. Perhaps you are truly not ready.”

So saying, he raised his club and swung it down at Nanette’s head. He smashed through her skull, and the splash of water struck his vestments. Pawn blinked and raised his club; there was no blood on it, just colored water.

“Oh, very good. She truly is the Witch of Webs’ apprentice.”

His head swivelled, and the [Priest] spoke.

“Where…? Ah, there.”

Nanette was crawling towards the door, disguised; she reappeared as Pawn pointed and the camouflaged puddle of water revealed her. Pawn waved a hand, and walls of light blocked the doors and windows. He strode forwards, casual. She gaped over her shoulder and began pleading to the air.

“Mother? Mother, help me! Mother?”

There was no response. Not from her new ‘mother’, if she was even listening. Mrsha was struggling, shouting as she tried to break free of The One Saved’s gentle grip. She activated a [Siege Fireball], glanced up, and figured out he’d let her blow his arm off before he let go or hurt her. So instead she sprayed him with a grease spell. The Antinium didn’t react—but his hands did slip.

Pawn swung his club at the babbling Witch of Sorrows. She ducked, and he followed the swing, attacking efficiently, but without the speed of a high-level warrior. She backed up, eyes darting around.

“Mother…there’s something strange here. Mother?”

She stumbled against a chair, reached up for the air. Pawn raised his club, and Nanette—grabbed the root. She pulled herself up through the air, and her torso vanished. The [Prophet] wavered.

“What?”

“No!”

Mrsha screamed. Nanette leapt upward with a cry of delight.

Into the [Palace of Fates].

 

——

 

<Primary Dimension — The [Palace of Fates]>

 

Everyone was gathered around the door or inspecting the others and trying to come to grips with the [Palace of Fates] when the [Witch] appeared. She hauled herself through the door one arm at a time, crawling forwards, and brackish water spilled forward around her.

Her torso appeared, then her upper body, like some monster out of a horror film. Like, well.

A bad [Witch].

Nanette lay there, panting a second, as Lyonette slowly turned. She’d been kneeling, trying to speak to her anguished daughter. She blinked.

“Wh—”

Dalimont threw himself forwards, and the jet of water went through his shoulder as he knocked Lyonette aside. Dame Ushar lifted a shield, and the second jet went through her shield—but didn’t penetrate her armor. She staggered as Mrsha recoiled, mouth open.

“Spellcaster! Spellcaster!”

Ushar’s shout roused the hallway of people. The Order of Solstice was fastest on the draw along with the two immortals. Older Nanette was blinking, shuddering from her passage through dimensions. But it didn’t matter.

She peered at the Order of Solstice and spoke.

“[Tidal Wave: Acid].”

The charging [Knights] saw the wave of colorless acid rise up. Durene tried to arrest her charge, eyes wide. Antherr leapt forwards, spreading his arms apart. Ser Normen shouted.

“Shields! [The Bonfire Rages]!”

A blast of green fire burned away some of the acid as the wave came at them. Vess and Ama screamed.

“[Light Wall]!”

“[Bone Wall]!”

Barriers rose, melting as the acid surged around them in a loose current, dissolving through the wall, striking armor—Vess screamed and ripped at his right arm; acid was eating through his leather gear! Durene was howling; her arms and armor were smoking. Antherr swung his greatsword once, sending water spraying away, then sank to his knees, covered in acid.

Of them all, only Jewel had dodged fast enough. She had leapt back, pulling some of the inn’s staff away. A barrier of bone had stopped the egress of the acid wave; Ama’s magic had shielded the rest of the hallway. Steam was rising as Normen clawed at his face. Jewel reached for her belt.

“Healing potions. Healing…”

The [Witch] was crawling forwards, still on her belly. She unleashed another spell in the same moment as her [Acid Wave].

“[Toxic Mists].”

Her cheeks puffed up, and she blew purple fumes over the Thronebearers, Lyonette, and Mrsha. They recoiled, Dalimont and Ushar clapping hands over their charges’ mouths, but the purple smoke flowed backwards, then compressed into a tiny orb.

Viscount Visophecin lowered his hand. He was standing down the hallway, and he pointed a finger at Nanette. A streak of black magic blew a piece out of the floor of the [Palace of Fates] as she rolled sideways. She countered with a jet of water, and Visophecin stepped backwards…

And his personal gate spell failed to activate. He twisted down and left inhumanly fast and glanced at the neat hole that had pierced his skin across his right arm. He pointed at Lyonette and her group.

“[Threefold Arcane Barrier]. Retreat, now.”

They ran backwards as Nanette crawled forwards another step, then hissed. Water barriers caught another bolt from Visophecin; the ground underneath her superheated, then sizzled as her waters overwhelmed the fire spell. Visophecin stepped left, grimacing in surprise as her [Water Jet] spell pierced his magical barriers with ease.

He flicked his gaze to the Order of Solstice, then conjured another barrier to protect them as Nanette shot what looked like venom. He was defending the entire hallway.

“Rhisveri! Hostile spellcaster with barrier-piercing magic. Rhisveri!”

Visophecin raised his voice and tried a lightning spell this time. The [Witch] blocked that too; she used another pillar of water to catch the lightning and conduct it back at him in an orb he dodged.

…And the entire time she kept crawling forwards. She didn’t rise to her feet. Visophecin didn’t understand. He wasn’t sure if he should kill her, but he was rapidly assessing that he might not have a choice in the matter if he wanted to refrain from deaths on his side.

This firefight in the [Palace of Fates] was leaving holes in the hallway, blasted by the water or Visophecin’s magic. Everything but the doors was taking damage; it was just marble and stone, conjured by Mrsha’s image of the [Palace of Fates], but there was no injunction against violence. Not here, nor the [Pavilion of Secrets].

“Where…Mother? Do you see this?”

Nanette was panting, babbling, and she wriggled suddenly, kicked—though Visophecin could not see her lower half. She came forwards another foot, and then he saw why she was on her belly, crawling.

When her legs appeared…a chitinous hand was grasping her right ankle. Then an arm came through, then a head.

Two people sprawled into the [Palace of Fates]. Pawn. Nanette—kicking at him and finally getting loose as Pawn, disoriented, stumbled. But as he caught himself and stood, Visophecin saw a massive arm holding onto one of Pawn’s hands—and then there were three Antinium pulling through the door, each one clinging to their [Prophet].

“What?”

Even the Lucifen was lost for words as Pawn and two Soldiers—and that massive arm belonging to The One Saved—exited the door leading to the future. The [Prophet] caught himself as Nanette sprang upwards. He raised his club. She flowed away, body turning to water and surging forwards, spraying a jet of water at a shocked Asgra.

The Goblin flinched, and Visophecin’s sword intercepted the jet of water and panged to the ground. Nanette made a watery, hissing sound, then shrieked. An orb of black-and-red fire lifted off the ground, and her watery body swirled around inside of it, trapped. Visophecin tripled the containment spell, then turned.

He locked eyes with the leader of the Painted Antinium. Pawn stood there, head tilting from side to side, feeling at his body, staring not at Visophecin, but at a little girl and [Princess] hunkering between two [Knights].

Mrsha had her wand aimed at Nanette; Lyonette was holding a sword, face bloodless, as the two Thronebearers shielded them. Pawn eyed Lyonette, then Mrsha.

“Ah. Aaaaaaaaah.”

He raised his mandibles, and his voice took on eager, excited tones. Visophecin didn’t understand Antinium, but he did not like the quality of Pawn’s voice. It was…what Visophecin would have termed manic, passionate, vindicated, and self-righteous all in one. Like the Agelum in their moments of zeal, but worse.

Fervor. The Antinium raised all four arms higher.

“It is today.”

“The door. Close the door.”

Someone spoke; Visophecin saw more people running in the direction of the fighting. He realized it was a Gnoll whose voice penetrated Visophecin’s confusion. Ishkr.

More Antinium were coming through the door, pulling themselves along the root—and that giant on the other side was holding it. Antinium armed for war. Visophecin didn’t hesitate. He pointed a finger.

“Release.”

The orb containing Witch Nanette hurtled forwards and hit one of the Antinium so hard they went flailing backwards through the door. It exploded, showering the Antinium beyond with the Witch of Sorrows. That stopped the others. Visophecin charged forwards, recalling his sword to his hand with a spell.

There were only three Antinium. One was wearing robes and held a club; two were in painted armor; Soldiers he assumed. One held a morningstar and shield but had sheathed both to enter the door. The other held a wand of all things.

Visophecin slammed into the wand-carrying Antinium and heaved. The Lucifen was far, far stronger than he appeared. The impact hurtled the Antinium backwards, through the doorway, and Visophecin was relieved it had worked without them holding the root. He swore the Antinium had been pointing his wand at him, though. They were quick.

Two left. Visophecin grabbed the one with a mace by one arm and heaved. The Lucifen’s feet slipped. It was like trying to throw a hill! The Antinium seized his arm and began to shove. Visophecin pivoted, as Uziel had once taught him, and put his body-weight into the throw.

As a younger Lucifen, he had once thrown an ox after grabbing it by the horns and killed the creature, an immature display. As a stronger adult, he gripped the Antinium’s arm, and the Soldier didn’t move. The Antinium’s arm bunched as he gripped Visophecin tighter and—

Visophecin only had the warning of his feet leaving the ground before he was flying. He caught himself with a [Featherfall] spell but still slammed into the marble walls of the hallway with enough force to damage him—if he were Human. He dropped down and saw the Antinium drawing their mace.

“Bishop, get behind me.”

“Aah. Is this what it means? Surely…that is my beloved. So young. And Mrsha. I see, now, I see…”

Pawn wasn’t paying attention. He was praying, all four arms clasped together, staring upwards at the sky. Lyonette was shouting something; Visophecin blurred into motion, and the Antinium Soldier did likewise.

He was at least Level 40. The Lucifen felt a shock as he realized even under a [Haste] spell, his opponent was reacting as fast as he was. No matter.

[Midnight Shard]. The Lucifen’s favorite spell which pierced barriers and armor. Visophecin aimed three—all at the ‘Bishop’—and cast two more spells as the mace wielding Antinium, predictably, shielded the other.

[Slippery Icy Floor] and [Orb of Force]. He sped the second spell up in his hand and flicked it like a discus at the Antinium. The Soldier had…blocked…all three [Midnight Shards] with his tower shield, and Visophecin felt slightly alarmed.

Even Gold-rank adventurers can’t reliably do that. The Antinium saw the [Orb of Force] coming his way, and his feet slipped slightly on the floor that had turned to ice. He set his shield, which didn’t matter; the orb was pure momentum and would knock both Antinium through the door—

The mace wielding Antinium grunted.

“[Reflect Spell].”

He swung his mace and bounced the [Orb of Force] back even faster at Visophecin. This time, the Lucifen defaulted to his [Gate] tactic and forgot it wasn’t working. The orb hit the wall behind him as he ducked just in time—the explosion sent him skidding forwards. The Antinium raised his mace, pointed.

“[Spear of Radiance].”

Visophecin twisted faster than he’d ever moved in his life as something flashed past his head. He didn’t know what that brilliant light was, only that it was not a [Light Spear] spell. It—hurt his eyes. He rose, shaky, and Pawn glanced down as the Lucifen and Antinium [Crusader] regarded each other.

“Do not harm—”

The [Crusader] lunged forwards in a Skill-based charge, fast as a leaping panther. Visophecin fired a spell point-blank into the [Crusader]’s chest.

[Ray of Strength Drain].

He grabbed the arm holding the mace as the Antinium collided with him and felt the crushing force of the leap nearly take him off his feet. Had Visophecin tried to use an attack spell or block the Antinium, he would have surely failed.

As it was, he went skidding backwards until his feet found purchase on the slicked marble floor, and he began to heave the weakened Antinium back. The surprised [Crusader] had felt the ray spell and struggled to strike Visophecin, then bit him with his mandibles. Visophecin shoved him back towards the door, ungainly, like a child in a wrestling match. But he couldn’t just hurl the Antinium away.

“[Locked in Glorious Combat]. Oh, Heavens. Give me strength.”

And then the Antinium was overpowering him. He activated no strength Skill, but something made his grip crushing as one hand seized Visophecin’s skull and tried to mash it.

Faith. Another hand struck the Lucifen across the chest; Visophecin was pushing, casting magic spells.

[Midnight Shards] hammered the Antinium’s breastplate but failed to pierce the armor. [Ray of Strength Drain] failed to work again. Visophecin cast a spell on himself as searing pain radiated from his skull.

[Lion’s Strength]. [Stoneskin]—

The [Crusader] bit Visophecin on his cheeks, and the Lucifen tore his head free and headbutted the Antinium. The metal helmet the Antinium was wearing rang, but the [Crusader]’s head still snapped back. He clicked—and Visophecin headbutted the Antinium again and again. He threw a punch that sent the [Crusader] skidding backwards; the Lucifen’s eyes were glowing red, and he was getting bigger.

The Antinium fought back, punching, blocking with all fours arms, but Visophecin was faster, suddenly, equally strong, and the equalization caught the Antinium off-guard. He tried to plant himself and spoke.

“[Holy—]”

Visophecin fired a [Force Orb] with all his strength at point-blank range. The explosion ripped the two apart, Skill or not, and he went sprawling, tumbling backwards. He sat up, clothing torn, and saw the Antinium vanish through the door, exactly where Visophecin had angled him. The Lucifen pointed and croaked.

“[Blackflame Wall].”

That stopped the figures trying to get through for a second. He rose, abandoning his Warform. He’d almost needed it. Almost—for one Antinium?

One left. The other Antinium hadn’t moved throughout the entire rapid brawl. He had stopped praying, though. He let Visophecin get up, his suit in tatters, and Pawn’s mandibles clicked softly.

“I see your true face, stranger. What a strange thing thou art. I quite dislike you.”

“Stop! Stop fighting!”

Lyonette called out as Visophecin conjured a hidden spell into being. The Lucifen let her run forward, though her Thronebearers were shielding her.

“Lyonette. You are Lyonette, aren’t you? My beloved? You look so young.”

The Antinium turned to her and spread his hands. She halted, and her mouth was open.

“P-Pawn?”

There was a luminous quality to the air that came from no visible source. Visophecin gritted his teeth.

“Stay back, Princess Marquin. He is dangerous.”

She hesitated, eying him, and Pawn glanced about, speculating out loud.

“This is a Skill. A place back in time, or perhaps, alternate reality. The things those silly Earthers speak so much of. I do not truly care. My Mrsha was here. This…is how Erin Solstice lives, is it not?”

He turned, gazing around, and the expression of horror on Mrsha’s face was now echoed across the hallway. The Order of Solstice were badly burned but healing; the inn’s staff were paralyzed with shock, especially the Antinium. When Pawn saw Rosencrantz, his smile grew wider.

“I—yes! She just went through the door. She knows how to cure your Erin. So—Visophecin, don’t attack him. Just let him—if you wouldn’t mind stepping back through the door, we can explain everything on your side, Pawn.”

Lyonette was hesitant, as if she sensed the danger too. Pawn tilted his head.

“Why must I leave?”

“This is not your world, Antinium. Begone.”

Visophecin knew Rhisveri had wandered off to find ‘his’ world during the wait. What was taking him so long? Pawn’s antennae stopped waving, and he glanced at the door burning with black flames.

That arm was still holding onto the root, despite the flames scorching the metal covering it. Pawn stepped over and touched the flames. They went out, revealing a smoking arm. He grasped it, and the chitin regrew under the armor.

Visophecin had no idea how. He had never, ever, seen a Skill that healed so conveniently. Pawn’s head turned to him.

“How harshly you treated my flock, ‘Visophecin’. I do not remember you. Then again, given how you met the Witch of Sorrows, that is to be expected.”

“Nanette? Was that Nanette?”

Pawn nodded at Lyonette as Dame Ushar pivoted to keep herself between him and Lyonette. He stared at Ushar inquisitively too.

“Thronebearers of Calanfer. They were such a nuisance, but they showed up long after Erin had died in my time. Is this one obstructing you? Doubtless, my Painted Antinium have ensured the Witch of Sorrows will no longer threaten anyone. If you are in danger, speak it, and I will remove these [Knights].”

Lyonette stopped then, and her face grew a shade paler.

“That was Nanette. You—don’t kill her!”

Pawn saw her start for the door, still reflecting the inn beyond, in chaos, Antinium surrounding a single giant with a frantic Gnoll trying to get closer. Pawn glanced towards the door, and the first [Crusader] began to step through again.

“I had forgotten how kind this time was. So you know the Witch of Sorrows in this world? Do not worry; this one is naught but a monster. She dies. Now, let us indeed speak—”

The [Crusader] emerged, sword drawn, and Visophecin hit him with a battering ram made of light. The Lucifen blocked the doorway—again. But this time with a one-way barrier spell made of the strongest magic he had. Then he threw a [Force Orb].

Dame Ushar had already dragged Lyonette away. Pawn saw the [Force Orb] coming and caught it—

He crushed the spell in one hand without it detonating. Visophecin shot a [Midnight Shard] at the Antinium’s leg, and Pawn sighed.

“No.”

The [Midnight Shard] swerved and missed him. Visophecin fired two more, then a spray of flames. Both curved, and the flames parted around Pawn. The Antinium regarded Visophecin.

“You seem to believe we are enemies. I am giving you one chance. That was it.”

His club-hand had a ring on it. Visophecin discerned what it was.

A Ring of Protection?

The Lucifen leapt for Pawn. He grabbed the Antinium, spinning to throw him, and the Antinium was not nearly as strong as his [Crusader]. Visophecin was braced for a blow from that club. He felt Pawn swing it once and—

It felt like his entire body was aflame. His very soul was laid bare in front of piercing light—agony worse than any wound he had ever taken. 

How long he writhed, he didn’t know. The Lucifen realized he was screaming, then, screaming and burning. Set aflame in gold and agony. He tried to put them out, tried to speak, tried to act, but he could only burn. Something opposite to all he was was slowly destroying him bit by bit.

The worst part was that in the midst of that torment that lasted an age?

He longed for it, that glorious, distant light.

 

——

 

Viscount Visophecin was aflame. A single blow was all it took; a light tap, almost, from Pawn’s club. It had ignited him like a match doused in oil, and he writhed, screaming on the ground, mouth open but never making a sound.

If Lyonette du Marquin had any doubt that Visophecin’s instincts had been right or that this…future Pawn was as terrible as Mrsha clearly feared, it was gone when she saw what the Antinium did next.

He seemed surprised as she was by the way the Lucifen had gone up in fire. But then he stood over the immolating figure, curious and distant, as if the suffering mattered not at all. He spoke sidelong to her.

“Curious. [Holy Rebuke] normally does not work that well. But perhaps it is a mark of faith? Or who he is.”

“Put him out. You’re killing him.”

“In time. He will survive this, and I have grown tired of his attacks on my people.”

Pawn watched as a hand curled near his boots and uncurled, and Lyonette’s voice rose.

“Put out that flame!”

The Antinium turned, seemed both surprised and pleased, but he did not rock back in the face of her aura.

“Ah, Lyonette. You are as beautiful as you were back then.”

He held out his four hands, and she stepped back behind Dame Ushar. Pawn caught himself and lifted a finger.

“Of course, you are a beautiful woman today. Distinguished, dignified, not matronly despite the word being a compliment. And eternally young, nay, youthful and radiant. You haven’t changed a day since I met you.”

He coughed into one fist, then glanced at Lyonette.

“The future you is somewhat peculiar about her age. Despite merely turning thirty. I suppose he has had enough.”

He waved a hand, and the Lucifen collapsed. Lyonette covered her mouth with her hands. Visophecin was burnt on every visible part of his body. He resembled—Ser Normen after he had been burned alive.

And Ser Normen himself was here, setting himself with Jewel and Antherr in a line between them and Pawn. The [Priest], or whatever class he had, peered at Normen.

“I don’t know you. Who…no, I don’t recall a burned man. And is that Empress Durene? My. How strange.”

“Who…is this Pawn? Where did the [Witch] go? Step back.”

Normen’s voice was hoarse with pain, but his green flames were glowing bright, and he stared at Pawn with the same wariness as the others. Lyonette turned.

“Mrsha?”

What did her daughter think of all this? Mrsha held up a card, and Pawn sighed.

“Mrsha. Hello! Is what I think true? You are all so hostile. I swear, I do not wish to harm any of you. We all love Erin Solstice, do we not?”

Antinium were emerging through the door. One leapt through with a spear in hand, and Pawn caught them before they could attack.

“Hold. Hold. These are all friends. Do not attack.”

The [Crusader] instantly lowered their spear, and Lyonette stared. They were not an Antinium type she recognized. The head was the same, but this was a taller, ganglier Antinium, proportioned like a Human or Gnoll or Drake. And he spoke.

“By your will, Bishop. What shall we do?”

“Send through the faithful. Send one back to tell the others to hold the inn. Ensure Mrsha is safe. Admit no one else. Recall the entire crusade here. Kill the Witch of Sorrows—”

Another cry from the [Princess].

“No!”

“—if she is not already dead.”

“She may have escaped, Bishop. It will be done.”

The Antinium stepped back and grabbed the next Antinium passing through. It was slow—the process must be disconcerting, and those coming through had to haul themselves into the [Palace of Fates] for the first time, breaching that invisible barrier between worlds. But every second that passed, another Antinium was joining the others.

I didn’t know this could happen. Mrsha clearly didn’t. This—this is very, very bad.

No matter what this Pawn said, his actions made Lyonette exceptionally nervous. But it was Mrsha who came forwards with a smile and a note.

Hey, Pawn, this is all crazy. Adult Mrsha was here, and we just sent her back. Is she okay? You need to check on her. She knows how to bring Erin back. Your Erin. You hafta stop bringing Antinium through, though, or you’ll break the door forever. Your Mrsha’s going to revive Erin.

When the Antinium saw that, they froze like Mrsha had [Paralyzed] them. Pawn himself stood there, antennae frozen, then he sighed.

“At last. At last.”

Several Antinium fell to their knees, and Mrsha waved the card urgently.

But you have to go back or the doors will break!

She was so earnest, so calm, that Lyonette was proud of her daughter, despite all of it. Pawn almost turned back to the door right then and there, but he halted. He glanced back, studied the card, and then eyed Mrsha.

“Interesting. You want me to leave very, very badly. Do you fear me, Mrsha?”

What? No. The doors—

Pawn glanced at the door as two more Antinium emerged, big ones. The Order of Solstice didn’t back up; more of them came forwards, looking to Normen and Lyonette.

“It seems fine to me. And if it breaks, what of it? Faith moves mountains. Not that I have had to do that yet. Hah. Hahaha. That was a joke.”

His attempt at humor elicited no response. Normen growled.

“You’re bringing through a lot of warriors. Tell them to halt.”

Pawn glanced at the [Knight], then shook his head.

“No. I don’t think I will. I believe, Mrsha; I have faith with all my heart. But if I am here, I would be a fool to turn around when it appears this door can be shut and, possibly, locked. Here I stand in a hallway full of doors. And in the past. I stand here, and I see the value of this place. What is it called?”

The [Palace of Fates]. If you are trapped here, what will happen, Pawn?

Mrsha was at her most earnest, serious, reasonable self Lyonette had ever seen, which told the [Princess] how terrified the girl was. And that—Lyonette figured—was the problem.

Pawn knew Mrsha. The Antinium replied calmly.

“If I am trapped, then I will preach the faith, the truth, and the way of Erin Solstice, our Goddess of the Inn, to this world until the door can be opened again. If I am trapped, I will go to her and see her. For there is an Erin Solstice in this world and countless beings who do not yet know the faith. Even my own self does not understand yet. And the Erin Solstice of this world does live, does she not?”

Mrsha said nothing. She gazed wordlessly up at her mother, and Lyonette felt a pit of actual fear open in her chest. This well-meaning…high-level stranger smiled, and he spread his arms.

“Yes. This changes everything.”

Into this moment, Lyonette du Marquin made a decision. She spoke carefully.

“Pawn? I am your Lyonette of the past. This is Mrsha. Dame Ushar is my trusted [Knight], and that is Normen. You knew him. We are all friends of Erin Solstice.”

“Normen. Of course! What happened to you? Let me heal you.”

Pawn reached for Normen, who recoiled, and Lyonette spoke louder.

“Normen? These are Pawn’s Painted Antinium. We are all allies. You understand this, Pawn?”

He turned to her and tilted his head.

“Of course.”

The [Princess]’ lips thinned in a smile.

“Good. Then stop bringing them over or you will disrupt this Skill.”

“I cannot do that, Lyonette.”

“Very well. Vaulont? Normen? Push them out of here, now. No blades! Duke Rhisveri, help! Asgra, find Taletevirion! Close the door to the [Palace of Fates]!”

Everyone moved as Lyonette shouted. She saw Normen hesitate, lower his mace, and charge with the Order of Solstice. Lyonette pointed, screaming for Ushar and Dalimont to help.

She knew it was a bad idea. She had just seen Visophecin lose to three Antinium—but there were a dozen here already, and if she had waited, she was certain Pawn would have brought countless more over. Hundreds. Then he could be nice and reasonable, and she could try all the diplomacy she wanted—but she was sure he wouldn’t leave until he had everything he wanted.

And she had one card up her sleeve Pawn had never encountered in his timeline:

Duke Rhisveri.

 

——

 

When Rosencrantz had run down the corridors screaming the alarm, Rhisveri had been the first person he’d found. The Duke had been staring through a door at a Dryad. Just…a Dryad, no great immortal. There had been a time when her people were numerous as could be. But only one in the world mattered to him.

He hadn’t replied until the Antinium had screamed at him that Lyonette and Mrsha were under attack, then he’d turned and run.

When he’d seen Visophecin, lying blackened on the floor, Rhisveri had been about to cast a spell to turn all these Antinium to dust. Only a single [Message] had stopped him.

Above Level 50. Too strong.

Visophecin. So the Wyrm had waited, listening, understanding what was going on, and gathering his strength. He was no simulacrum, but he was ‘Duke Rhisveri’, made of mana as the real Wyrm gave him power.

Across the ocean in his world, the Wyrm was coiled in the middle of the biggest spell circle he had, projecting all his mana to the Duke, all his focus. When Lyonette gave the order, the Duke cast a spell.

No swords.

“[Hand of the Spectral Giant]. [Aegis of Debilitation], [Mass Paralysis]!”

Giant, glowing orange hands appeared and began grabbing Antinium up and hurling them towards the door. Rings of red light encircled others, draining them of their vitality, and thin rays of green light struck the Antinium and Pawn.

They fell or went flying as the Order of Solstice charged them bare-handed. Rhisveri saw half a dozen topple over, and Pawn—

Stiffened, then touched the Antinium around him with his four hands. They got back up.

Two of Rhisveri’s six magical hands exploded as an Antinium threw a spear through them. Another Antinium grabbed Durene and halted her charge, to her incredulity. A [Priest] raised what looked like an amber amulet high overhead.

“[Holy Word—]”

It felt like someone had kicked Rhisveri in the face, even across the ocean. The Wyrm himself recoiled with a cry and realized everyone but the Antinium were on the ground. He forced the Duke up, cast another spell—

Searing pain. This time, the Wyrm actually screamed out loud, and the Duke grabbed that spear of light in his shoulder. It hurt! It hurt so badly—

“No wounds! Do not hurt them or be condemned to hell!”

Pawn thundered, and the [Crusaders] halted. They grappled with Normen and the [Knights]; Rhisveri lifted his hands, hesitated as he saw the Antinium grabbing odd relics of their own, and decided to just—

He punched one of the Antinium, sending them reeling backwards, shoved another across the ground with inhuman strength. Then an Antinium with bare fists walked over to Rhisveri, dodged a shove, and threw an uppercut.

The Great Wyrm of Ailendamus jerked, and his main body’s head rose, went up and over. He landed on his back as the worst pain yet exploded in his head. It felt like someone had just…punched him in the jaw.

That’s impossible. I turned pain off after Tolveilouka. H—

A second punch of blinding pain. Rhisveri threw the Antinium back and saw Normen tackle the figure. All the [Knights] were tossing punches, shoving, and—losing?

Losing.

They were outlevelled. The Antinium were throwing off Rhisveri’s enchantments, and even the ones who weren’t direct [Warriors] were just—strong. And they hadn’t even begun using their Skills.

The one wrestling Durene was evenly-matched until Pawn spoke.

“Activate your Aegis, [Paladin].”

The struggling [Paladin] backed up as Durene forced him back, teeth bared. The Troll girl with her [Enhanced Strength] was winning. Then she felt her opponent rising. Her eyes went round, and her arms trembled as two of his arms grabbed her shoulders, the other two her sides.

The biggest Antinium she had ever seen in her life, taller than her, lifted Durene up in a bear hug. Then he tossed her like a child.

“[Aegis of the Martyr: The Form of Galuc]. Stand down or suffer.”

The giant boomed down at the [Knights] of Solstice, and the Antinium of the past beheld a giant in the form of a Soldier or Worker, a massive beetle’s body, and four arms, legs like stumps, the mightiest being they had been made in the image of.

Galuc of the Centenium. He picked up Sillias in one hand as the cat clawed at him and crunched the cat into pieces. Ama shrieked and pointed her wand at the giant.

A [Priest] blinded her with a single word. Then the second Antinium grew two feet, and another pair of arms sprouted from their back. They locked down Ser Normen’s arms, no matter how hard he struggled, lifting him off the ground.

Lyonette’s side was losing. Each Antinium grabbed a [Knight] of Solstice, Dame Ushar, Ser Dalimont—three of them bore a blur of motion to the ground.

Vaulont the Ash had knocked two Antinium through the door and one clean out in a surprise attack, but this time, the Vampire assassin hadn’t managed to turn the tides. Lyonette cast around.

“Vaulont? Someone get—Todi—?”

Not everyone was here yet. Elia was missing, as was Bird, but in this nonviolent altercation or even in a violent one—! She took a step back as a [Templar] approached her, but the Antinium halted.

“We do not harm the Bishop’s beloved or chosen of the inn. We are the faithful, Councilwoman Lyonette. We await Erin Solstice’s return. Please, do not fight us.”

The [Templar] seemed confused, as if this was all some great misunderstanding and they were just trying to subdue the situation. Which—they were, from their perspective.

But Pawn. The Antinium just stood there, and she swore if he had eyebrows, he would have raised them.

“You see? Well, you are more reasonable than this ‘Visophecin’. But why do you fear me so, Lyonette?”

“Stop bringing your Painted Antinium through.”

“Hm. I can sense we are at an impasse. I never fight you when you get strident in my time. I wonder if I should have.”

Another pair of Antinium entered the [Palace of Fates]. The last person standing besides Lyonette and Mrsha was a panting Duke, holding his jaw. Rhisveri was utterly confused.

“It hurts. Why does it hurt?”

Pawn’s smile didn’t match with his rather satisfied tone.

“Ah, a being of magic. A projection. We have met your kind before. [True Damage]. Keep [Paladin] Zolet back. Zolet, keep your damage Skill active on that man. Take him down.”

The [Crusaders] advanced, throwing punches, jabs with the economical movements of trained warriors. The Wyrm took a punch to the stomach and doubled over. He threw a fist which sent one of the Antinium staggering back, but they were Level 40 [Warriors]. Higher.

And it hurt. Lyonette saw his face contorting with agony.

 

——

 

It hurt. Rhisveri hadn’t felt this kind of pain since he’d dueled his own brother to the death. Duke Rhisveri was a scaleless man with flesh—each punch felt like it was tearing up his body.

It didn’t destroy him; it just transmitted the actual pain he should feel to the Wyrm. His main body was contorting in the palace of Ailendamus, writhing about and crying in pain. But he had to—

He threw a fist and watched his noodle-like arm curve in the air. He hit an Antinium, and their feet left the ground.

That hurt too. The shock of the impact radiated up his arm, and his fingers ached. Rhisveri was feeling everything a Human man would. Another punch struck his chest, and he almost gagged with the pain.

He had no armor, no coordination—he could move his body around adeptly with practice, even use it in war, but he had never…brawled with Duke Rhisveri’s body. Arms? He was a Lindwyrm. He had two tiny, little claw arms that didn’t work like bipedal species!

Unfair. These [Crusaders] weren’t [Knights] like his Order of the Hydra. They were here to win, and they thought they were about to see their hearts’ desire come back to life. They fought to take Rhisveri out; they knew he was dangerous. So it was six-on-one, punching him from all sides. The Duke was flinching from the blows, hissing in anger, turning—another blow sent a different Antinium stumbling backwards, armor and all.

They were so high-level, and there was one more thing: Rhisveri had never been a man, never made the mistake of having a body. He was completely unguarded when one of the [Crusaders] strode up and kicked him between the legs so hard his feet left the ground, and he hovered for a good three seconds.

He did black out, then, which was a mercy. The pain woke him up. The Duke sat up blearily; someone had him in a headlock, and they were pinning him down. He shifted, and the tangle of Antinium moved.

“Stop this! Stop hitting him and just—stop bringing your soldiers over!”

“You have nothing to fear from me, Lyonette.”

“Then why are you giving me reasons? I said get off him!”

Aura. It shifted the Antinium clinging to Rhisveri, but didn’t move them. The Duke was trying to get a foot under him, but the Antinium didn’t want to let him do that. Lyonette’s wrath did not move the Antinium, nor her voice.

Her elbow coming down on one of his captors’ heads—did work. The grip loosened, and Rhisveri pushed himself up. He punched blindly around him, flailing. When he could see again, the [Princess] was punching a Worker in priest robes trying to grab her.

Lyonette had joined the fray.

Yeah, that’s going to do nothing. But he appreciated the heart. The Duke muttered.

“How…do you…?”

He threw an uppercut, which appeared lazy and weak. It clipped the head of a [Paladin], who turned, stumbled slightly, but threw a spinning backhand that obliterated Rhisveri’s world for a second. And more were coming.

“This is our world! Do you think you can just walk in here and—”

Lyonette headbutted a [Priest], which hurt her as much as her opponent. The [Priest] twisted her arm, and Pawn reacted to that.

“Don’t—”

“Aaaaagh!”

Peggy jump-kicked the [Priest], and he went flying. Rhisveri, stumbling, saw a hand grab one of the Antinium still trying to kick him in the nuts. The warrior spun around, and Elia Arcsinger threw an amazing right hook and broke her forefinger. But she kept going, grimly throwing an elbow into the Antinium’s face.

She was late, but the Named-rank [Archer] had come with everyone else. She and Bird had trailed behind Rhisveri. He ran too fast. And they’d been in the bathroom.

“Oh, come now. This is ridiculous.”

Pawn was getting annoyed. He pointed, and another wave of Antinium came forwards, led by the one wearing Galuc’s form. One Goblin and two Antinium blocked his path, a Worker and a Soldier.

Rosencrantz, Goldbody, and Inkpaper.

“Stand aside, little friends. I do not want to hurt you. I am gifted with the form of our hero.”

The [Paladin] grabbed one of Inkpaper’s arms and leveraged it, sending the Hobgoblin down to his knees in agony. He grabbed Rosencrantz bodily as the Worker kicked and punched.

“You—are—not being nice! This is my inn. Get out, get out! [Conjure: Inn Supplies]!”

The Worker shouted. He threw a bucket, which bounced off the Galuc-Antinium’s face. Disapprovingly, the Antinium rumbled.

“You do not know what we can be. You are children.”

“And you have no right to wear Galuc’s face.”

A flying Antinium drew the mighty Antinium’s attention. His head turned, and Bird kicked him in the face. The Antinium stumbled.

“Who—?”

Bird landed on the Antinium’s head and twisted both antennae before buzzing off the [Paladin]’s head as he swatted at her. Rhisveri swiped another Antinium off his feet. He saw the backhand [Paladin] raise a fist.

—That was a Skill. The punch sent Rhisveri rolling head over heels until he hit a wall and cracked it.

“Do not harm the others. The Duke is fine.”

Pawn cautioned the others, and one of the new Antinium sprinted towards Rhisveri, boot ready to kick him in the face.

A blur took the warrior off his feet. The other Antinium reacted instantly, and a figure got off the unconscious warrior. She spun, caught a fist, and threw an elbow that dropped a second Antinium. One of the [Paladins] grunted.

“Vampire.”

Colfa val Lischelle-Drakle’s eyes were flashing as she raised her hands in a very good-looking pose. An Antinium went to grab her from behind, and Numbtongue kicked the Soldier’s leg out from behind. The Hobgoblin grunted as he shoved the Antinium to the ground.

“This is crazy.”

That was his line. Rhisveri sat up. He got up and saw Lyonette was backing away—but the inn’s staff were here.

Peggy and Rosencrantz, Colfa, Elia, Bird—they were making a last stand against a similar number of Antinium. Mostly because all of the members of The Wandering Inn were pinned to the floor. Mrsha was on her feet, standing next to Pawn, refusing to fight. He was patting her head as he called out.

“Lyonette, please stop. Don’t force me to strive against you. And who…is that Antinium?”

He didn’t recognize Bird, which Rhisveri was confused about. Or maybe it was the blows to his head. That spinning backhand [Paladin] was walking towards the Wyrm, slightly unsteadily. The Antinium raised his fists and then fell forwards on his face. The other four advancing on Rhisveri glanced at their friend, then kept coming.

Pawn was so focused on the nonlethal battle that he was surprised when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“For someone who lived in our inn, you’ve forgotten we never back down. How about you take a turn?”

Pawn’s head spun as Ishkr punched him. Instantly, every Painted Antinium whirled, but the [Prophet] just shook his head out.

“Ishkr. I never truly lived in the inn, as you were blessed to do. I envied you, but Erin has always asked more of me.”

“No. You never asked her. Come on.”

Ishkr backpedaled as Pawn held up a hand, then threw a swift punch. The Antinium stepped forwards, and Yelroan hit him with a chair from the inn. This time, Pawn did get mad as the chair broke, and Yelroan swore.

“I don’t know you eith—”

Ishkr and Yelroan jumped Pawn with a shout, and then it was just Rhisveri. Lyonette was darting around him as a four—five—six Antinium and one Wyrm brawl began again. She was throwing punches, trying to pull them off him.

They kept coming from the door. She was shouting.

“Get off him! Get off—Rhisveri!”

“Can’t remember how it goes. I hate arms.”

He mumbled at her. Duke Rhisveri’s nose was bleeding badly, probably broken. He kept ‘healing’ his puppet. It was just a thing of mana.

It was just pain. Lots of it. Lyonette gaped at him, and then she raised her hand.

“[Boon of the Princess]!”

The Wyrm’s puffy eyes opened slightly as a voice spoke in his head. Bright and crisp and all-seeing.

The Grand Design (Second Edition) turned off a requirement that only the levelled could receive Skills. Because it saw her thoughts. Because it agreed, it said:

 

[Temporary Skill – Advanced Proficiency: Boxing assigned!]

[Temporary Skill – Brawler’s Footwork assigned!]

 

Rhisveri felt a sense of…certainty. He understood, suddenly, how to move, and he actually ducked a punch straight into a flying knee. His head came up, and then?

He was alone.

Yelroan and Ishkr were lying sprawled on the ground. Colfa was biting at four Antinium pinning her. Lyonette was backed against a wall, and Peggy, Rosencrantz, Goldbody, Inkpaper, all the Antinium and Goblins were down.

Numbtongue, already bruised and battered, went down, swearing, punching at an Antinium whose armor and carapace shrugged the blows off like nothing.

Elia and Bird were both being held against the floor by the Galuc-Antinium.

“Someone get—get Todi! Get Captain Earlia! Call for—mmfph!”

A hand fell over Lyonette’s mouth, and she was a struggling, furious [Princess] held in one of the [Crusaders]’ grips. Rhisveri was being punched from all sides, and Pawn glanced around, sighing, as another Antinium ducked into the [Palace of Fates].

“Bring her over here. Now, will you listen? You there, go back and admit our Mrsha. And our Lyonette and anyone from this world. Let’s have a reasonable discussion. The rest of you are to secure this place—”

Someone walked up as Rhisveri reeled and mashed his nose in again. Noses. He hated them. He kicked back, the first time he’d done it, and an Antinium flew and hit the Order of Solstice’s captors. They tried to get up, failed.

Something like…this. Someone poked Rhisveri’s eye out, and he screamed. He headbutted the poking Antinium, bigger than he was, in the chest and punched another in the face. His fingers jarred with the impact.

Headlock—Rhisveri ran backwards until he hit a wall, and the hands came off him. Another Antinium took the moment to run after him and kick him in the stomach so hard the Wyrm vomited in his real body. He came off the wall, jabbing until the figure retreated.

Now it was eight on one. The Antinium had to stand back to let their comrades hit him. Rhisveri threw a punch and hit the six-armed Soldier at the same time as he was hit. His head twisted around in a way that would have been fatal for anyone but him.

Like this. Yes, just like this. This was how Tolveilouka had beat him down, right? No—faster. He could barely see through one eye; the Wyrm was controlling the body on instinct, mana signatures. He turned and threw his next punch faster.

Faster. Merciless. Just—keep—punching—until you have them against a wall and you smash their skulls in.

They didn’t let him do that. They were doing that to him. Someone tried to sweep his legs. He threw a knee, and they grabbed his legs. Then they had him on the ground, and they were stomping on him. He flailed, pushed himself up, and sent them flying in a shower.

Found the nearest Antinium and punched them in the chest. They rolled down the hallway on their back shell, skidding by the screaming [Princess], who stopped shouting to stare at the Antinium that kept sliding a dozen feet, three dozen, sixty before finally stopping.

Then the [Princess] saw the Wyrm turn and headbutt an Antinium at the same time as they kneed him in the balls again. His opponent fell down and lay on their back shell, twitching. They had a helmet on, but the Wyrm…

The Wyrm ate six punches and threw one. An Antinium spun around three times and straightened. The [Crusader] shook their head like a dog. Then they began wandering around. They fell down as the others dogpiled Rhisveri again. And he stood up, threw them off him, and—

Pawn’s head slowly turned from Lyonette.

“Hm. You—go.”

The image of Galuc let go of Bird and Elia and strode forward.

 

——

 

“Taletevirion! Taletevirion, help!”

Asgra finally found the Unicorn. The Goblin had been running from hallway to hallway until she found him. He was sitting in front of an archway of twisting vines. A door set into the vast trunk of a tree.

To the Unicorn, there were no hallways. Just a vast forest, and the doors of his heart were set along the tallest tree in Asgra’s dreams. She halted, and the urgency made her scream.

“Help! There are bad Antinium attacking us!”

“Mhm.”

The Unicorn was staring at something. At an image of himself, a younger Taletevirion. Asgra grabbed his arm and stopped.

Taletevirion in the door was dead. He was lying in a pile of his own gore, a Unicorn whose life was fleeing his body as he stared at his entrails, and [Knights] thundered past him.

“It was so easy. A hundred thousand times. Just like this. Now what came next?”

The Unicorn sat there on a vast toadstool for a seat and studied another door. Countless doors were open, showing…his deaths. But that was not what interested him. It was what came after. He didn’t even look down as the Goblin tried to pull at him.

“Please. Please. They’re bad.”

“Are they killing you? I sense no blood.”

“No. No…but they…”

The Unicorn turned away, his silver-eyes lost in this [Palace of Fates]. And he alone used it as it had been meant. A door called to him. He stood and saw the image of a single blooming seed upon it.

“Leave me alone, girl. You have all you need. You have a Wyrm.”

Asgra stared up at Taletevirion, and she didn’t know what he meant. But the Unicorn just turned his head as he sensed the life-forces of the fighting to his right. He shook his head.

“How silly. You don’t need me.”

 

——

 

He’d never felt such pain before. The Duke stood from the crater in the ground the Galuc-Antinium had punched him into. Then he threw a punch back, and the giant rocked, taking a step back.

“Do not falter, Caneduc! You are the will of the Painted Antinium!”

A [Priest] shouted, and the warrior lumbered forwards under a Skill. Which wasn’t fair—he swung Rhisveri into a wall. The Wyrm pushed the fist off himself and hopped. Bloody-faced, he headbutted Caneduc in the head. The Antinium recoiled.

Not yet. Not quite yet. Just like this. Rhisveri was a mess. He couldn’t see. Both his bodies were hurt; he was writhing around in Ailendamus, ignoring the immortals asking what was wrong. But he was—

Throw a punch like that damn half-Elf. Faster, faster. And keep punching. Up, down, left, right until he’s not punching back. Then kick him.

The Painted Antinium moved aside as a vast shape crashed backwards. They turned—the form of Galuc shrank until a Soldier lay on his back shell, immobile.

“Form ranks. Permission to use Skills, Bishop?”

“Settle this without blades.”

They came at him, and he only had two arms and two legs. They had lots. Bastards. He lost track of how many blows he took.

Punch. An Antinium fell down and didn’t get back up.

Kick—he hit them so hard they spat blood out, and Pawn raised a hand.

“[Mend All Wounds]. Just—”

The [Prophet] stopped as another Antinium backflipped over his head. The Wyrm grabbed another and threw them, and Antinium went flying. He cast around, staggering, and realized Colfa was on her feet.

There were no Antinium left to hold her down. Rhisveri waited for her to tackle an Antinium again, and she just stood there against one wall, staring at him.

“A little help?”

He growled and didn’t understand why she gave him a startled look. The Wyrm raised his fists and staggered forwards. The Painted Antinium drew back. They were eyeing each other, hands on their blades. One drew a weapon, and Rhisveri lifted a finger.

“Ah. Are we doing that? I can do that.”

He was bluffing. He didn’t want to know what being stabbed felt like.

The blade snapped back into its sheath, and they charged him. Rhisveri pushed, and a clump of Antinium went skidding backwards, then they slammed him off his feet. They were so—strong—

Get back up. The Wyrm saw one of the Antinium guard against his punch. The Wyrm did it again, just like the half-Elf had once hit him.

Magic. Concentrate the mana in this silly body’s magical circuits. Until it was overloading—it didn’t matter. Push all the magic in his soul into his arms, his legs, his body—and swing a fist.

 

——

 

The Wyrm was blazing like a second sun. Mrsha’s eyes were wide as she stood beside Pawn. He had no magical training; he couldn’t see what she could. But even Mrsha and Lyonette could see every magical circuit glowing in Rhisveri’s body.

Like a network of veins and arteries of pure magic. That pathetic man—the Wyrm of Ailendamus had a bloody nose, messed up hair.

When he raised his arm and drew it back, the Antinium fell back. The Wyrm swung so slowly—he must have thought he was punching underwater. And it was slow; the Antinium trying to block his fists was stepping backwards, or tried to.

But the air was rippling behind Rhisveri. He swung his fist, and Mrsha saw the air distort.

Magic met faith. The Antinium vanished. Mrsha felt something pick her up, and Pawn caught her before the wake of Rhisveri’s blow pulled her after the Antinium. She swore she saw a tiny dot flying down the hallway in a perfect line.

The Antinium picked themselves up as the Wyrm caught his breath. He raised another fist and clearly wondered why they were backing away from him.

“Mrsha. Who is that?”

Pawn hissed in her ear, and Mrsha was genuinely dumbfounded. She realized…she really didn’t know.

 

——

 

Empress Sheta appeared where the Antinium had landed; she’d given up on flying.

“Two thousand feet or thereabouts. Not bad.”

So there were still Wyrms left. Even funny ones like that.

 

——

 

Keep going. More magic. More magic in his fist. It was so damn heavy—so he had to punch faster. Harder. Rhisveri charged into the group, throwing punches.

 

Faster—faster—he punched an Antinium off their feet and hit them again in their Adamantium chestplate.

One. Their feet left the ground, and they were jumping back. 

One-two. No, it was the momentum of his punches. A bit of spittle from their mandibles hung in the air as Rhisveri punched. Faster. 

One-two-three-four—the piece of spittle was still hovering there.

He got in seven punches before they flew away, so he turned and found someone else to punch. He just had to keep fighting—

Then they stopped hitting him. Which he was grateful about. Rhisveri realized they’d stopped when someone approached him. He nearly punched Lyonette, but halted.

“Wh—oh, it’s you.”

She flinched and gave him a wide-eyed stare. He knew he had to look like a fright. Pathetic.

“I can still keep going. Come on, let’s…”

He didn’t so much walk at the Antinium lined up around the door to their future as side-shuffle like a drunk zombie. But they didn’t come at him. A lot of them were lying down, and Pawn…stood there, greatly unhappy. Or so Rhisveri assumed. His mandibles were down.

“Enough.”

He took a step forwards, and the Painted Antinium stirred.

“Bishop, get back. That is—”

Pawn had his club in his hand, and Rhisveri saw the Antinium visibly hesitate. He was glancing at the staff of The Wandering Inn—who stood behind Rhisveri—at the Wyrm, and his tone grew frustrated for the first time.

“Enough. This is pointless, and violence does not befit this day. Fifty.”

“Five!”

Lyonette called back, sounding breathless and disbelieving. Rhisveri stopped his offensive shuffle, glancing at her. She was holding him by the elbow and whispered to him.

“Just stay standing. Please, Rhisveri?”

“I can still keep fighting.”

He muttered, and Pawn twitched.

“Twenty. I will not risk—”

“Ten. Whichever ten you want, but it will be ten. Or we continue however it goes, Pawn.”

The [Prophet] was staring at Rhisveri. The Duke wiped his nose.

“I hate noses.”

The silence from the [Prophet] was long and ominous, and the light took on a harsh, painful edge, so much so the other Painted Antinium shifted away from him. But at last, Pawn nodded.

“It’s the least attractive feature of Lyonette’s face. Ten, then. Let’s discuss this civilly. Withdraw. Get me Purple Smiles and nine of our highest-level…nevermind, I will go myself. Hold this ground no matter what.”

Rhisveri stood there stupidly, not really getting what had gone on. He saw Antinium helping each other through the door. Only the big one’s arm stayed there. Ten Antinium formed a line around the door, and Rhisveri gaped at Lyonette.

She was hugging him.

“You did it. Thank you.”

“Huh? My face hurts.”

She was wiping his face with the sleeve of her shirt and demanding a cloth and potion. He tried to tell her he didn’t need healing and it wouldn’t work, but she insisted on cleaning the blood off. Rhisveri sat there on the ground as people crowded around him.

They were all giving him space, but they insisted on clapping him on the shoulder, like Ser Normen. He wished they wouldn’t. It was too touchy-feely for him.

Rhisveri decided he hated brawling.

 

——

 

Hello, little Miss Mrsha. Are you well?

Someone handed Mrsha a notecard, and she blinked at it. Then up at the person who had communicated in her method.

Everyone was patching themselves up after that incredible throwdown—the inn’s staff were getting up and backing away from the Painted Antinium, who were getting their wounded members on their feet or healing them.

Rhisveri’s punches had done 90% of the damage the Antinium had suffered. They were actually retreating through the door to their world, but a few fresh Antinium had arrived. Mrsha wondered how many of the Painted Antinium there were. She had a feeling it was more than enough to overwhelm the entire inn, and possibly all of Liscor.

The first of the newcomers hadn’t been at the brawl, for which Mrsha was profoundly grateful. He handed her the card, and she looked up, then hugged him.

Purple Smiles. You didn’t punch anyone?

I was delayed.

One of the [Paladin]’s antennae twitched at Mrsha as he waved a hand, and then they began hand-signing at each other. Mrsha was the only non-Antinium on the Painted Antinium’s side of the corridor. Even Lyonette was staying well back, though she was watching her daughter anxiously.

“[This is crazy.]”

“[Yup, crazy. You are very young and cute. I am sorry it became violent. Pawn believes in things strongly. Some call him ____.]”

“[I don’t know that word, Purple Smiles.]”

He paused to write on a notecard, and his writing was almost as good as hers! She wondered if she’d taught him how to write.

Fanatical; overzealous and single-minded. Obsessed.

“[Oh.]”

“[But I would not call him that. I hope this can all be solved peacefully. Pawn may listen to you. He would listen to Erin if she were here.]”

Mrsha…wasn’t sure about either thing, but Purple Smiles believed it. He seemed earnest and good, if more eloquent than the silent Soldier she remembered. Actually—he’d been pretty suave back then.

“[What happened to everyone, Purple Smiles? Are you the only old Antinium left? Where’s Bird or Anand or Yellow Splatters?]”

The question made Purple Smiles pause, and Mrsha’s heart sank as she saw the answer. Don’t ask what you don’t want to know. But then Purple Smiles turned his back to Pawn and answered swiftly.

“[Do not talk about Yellow Splatters to Pawn. Try to convince Pawn. You must, Mrsha. Bird and Anand are dead, may their souls rest in Heaven. But not Yellow Splatters.]”

“[Why?]”

The Soldier had no words he could hand-sign, so he wrote slowly, after a moment. He handed Mrsha a card, and the hair on her body rose.

Yellow Splatters is the First Sinner of the faith. He was condemned to hell for his blasphemy. He claimed Heaven did not exist. It is forbidden to speak of him.

The girl stood there, and then peeked at Pawn behind Purple Smiles’ back. The Bishop noticed Mrsha and waved her over, and she came at once.

Pawn stepped away from the Soldier who’d been punched two thousand feet away. The Antinium was unconscious, but fully healed, and Pawn rubbed at one shoulder. He was visibly and audibly angry, but he patted Mrsha on the head.

“At least one person can be trusted. Watch the others, Purple Smiles. I shall go back through the door momentarily to…restrategize. But first—you there. Ser Normen. You are not the man I remember. Come here. I had intended to do this in due time, but Her gifts are not to be put aside, even with strife between us.”

He beckoned imperiously, and Normen strode over, heedless of the hissed warnings from the others. The one-eyed man faced down Pawn, expression set.

“Yes?”

“Where did you gain those wounds? I recall you as a simple guard. A [Thug], but one who fought well to defend the inn. You perished during the…Mother of Graves’ actions.”

Mrsha felt a weird chill down her spine when Pawn said that, and Normen’s face didn’t move. His eye narrowed further.

“I fought the Bloodfeast Raiders after Miss Solstice elevated me to a [Knight].”

“Ah. Then you are blessed. I would hear of her deeds—but it seems to me we are not on friendly terms.”

“No. We are not.”

The Order of Solstice were blazing hot, and Normen spoke between gritted teeth.

“Meeting you is a fine lesson, sir. Next time we meet, we’ll be more ready.”

“You speak as if we are enemies.”

“The bruises on my face suggest we are, sir.”

Normen was edging closer, Pawn’s Antinium turning to him, but Pawn was unmoved. He lifted a finger.

“I quite dislike this version of you, Ser Normen. But I have said again and again I intend to show good faith. You are a sterling example of that. Hold still and I shall restore your flesh.”

He reached out with a finger, and Normen swayed back instantly. Mrsha’s eyes went round.

You’re going to heal him? Can you do that?

“It is harder to heal scars than fresh wounds, but of course. Do you object, Ser Normen?”

To Mrsha’s surprise, the [Grandmaster] of the Order of Solstice objected, very much so. He backed away, shaking his head.

“I will not be healed by you.”

His good eye blazed green and hot, and Pawn made a clicking sound of annoyance.

“Do not be stubborn. I offer you pure healing and you refuse?”

Normen’s jaw worked, and he glanced over his shoulder at his fellow [Knights]. Jewel hadn’t heard the discussion, but Mrsha felt like she’d have definite opinions on Normen turning down free healing. The [Knight] whispered back, his voice intense.

“My scars are who I am. I failed to stop the raiders, and I was burned. Sometimes, you fail and deserve the marks. I am these scars. Take them away from me and I will take off my hat.”

His hand fell to his mace, and Pawn just stared at him, incredulous, as one hand scratched at his head. The Bishop’s voice turned acerbic.

“I…see. Truly, this is the best of timelines. If you are a man of such conviction and will never regret that choice, I see no reason to argue with you. But let me ask you this: would you at least consent to an eye? Because I assume, with my limited understanding of a warrior’s machismo, that having one eye impairs some of your abilities.”

Normen hesitated. His hand rose to the burnt socket of his left eye, which you had to admit, might impair his depth perception and vision, but really added to his intimidation factor. He glanced back at the [Knights], at Mrsha, then gave a grudging nod.

“Just the eye.”

Pawn reached out and tapped the [Knight] none-too-gently in the socket. Normen swore and recoiled with an oath. Then he froze and lowered his hand.

A second flint-and-violet eye stared out of his face. Mrsha’s jaw dropped, and Pawn lifted his hands.

“Praise be Erin, who has compassion on even those who are too stoneheaded to receive more than a free eyeball. I didn’t even touch your scars. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to tend to my flock. I will be back momentarily.”

He turned to the door that led into his world and strode through it. Normen stood there, eying—with both eyes—Mrsha, and then he walked back to the others. They blinked at him, then a cry of surprise and delight rose from the Order of Solstice—

Mrsha stood there. Such were his wonders. Such was his wrath—she saw Purple Smiles giving her a thumbs up and wished she could return the gesture. Then Mrsha was waiting. Pawn passed through the door, and she distinctly heard him mutter—

“Unbelievable.”

Which you had to admit was really funny coming from him.

 

——

 

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

 

Pawn emerged through the doorway, and Mrsha sagged in relief—then alarm as she saw Antinium emerging, shells cracked, looking like they’d fought a damn war.

“What the hell’s going on? What happened?”

The Antinium had been pouring into the doorway, then…halted. Pawn didn’t answer. He snapped at an Antinium who stood next to the door.

“Find out who or what that is. Can you kill it?”

He turned to an Antinium who was spitting blood onto the ground. The Worker stopped when he realized he was spitting on The Wandering Inn’s floors.

“Yes, Bishop, if we draw blades. Not with fists. But the damage that man could do—”

“Peace then. If they are so untrusting, ten it is. The One Saved, do you understand what is going on?”

“No, Bishop. Only that what we desire, our Goddess’ cure, remains inside.”

The Antinium who’d been holding the root was a giant. He knelt there, and Pawn eyed him, then swung around to Mrsha.

“What happens if he lets go?”

Mrsha had no idea. She’d been stunned to see more than one person passing through the door! Holding the Faerie Flower roots was a—a loophole! She vividly recalled her root turning to dust. Pawn read enough in her expression and turned back to The One Saved.

“Listen to me, The One Saved. You are to keep holding onto that root. Upon your grip, Heaven and Her rebirth rests. Let nothing force you to let go, understand? The rest of you are to kill anyone threatening him.”

“By Her will.”

The Painted Antinium chorused. Pawn pointed at his subordinates.

“Arm yourselves for battle.”

“With the past, Bishop?”

The wounded Antinium hesitated, and Pawn shook his head.

“Not necessarily. To safeguard this place. No one is to speak of it. Do not let anyone here, not even guests of the inn. Not—Lyonette.”

He hesitated as he said that, then kept going.

“—Two Ragses, not the Rags of the present. One Mrsha, one Dyeda, one Rianchi, and one Redscar. Gather them, and I will make sure they are the right ones. Move.”

He glanced at Adult Mrsha, and she felt her captors let go of her. She stumbled forwards.

“Pawn, I know how to cure Erin! I—you don’t have to go there! Just let them go back, and we’ll resurrect her!”

The Antinium stared at her, and many clutched their relics. They began praying, and Pawn glanced around before drawing close to her.

“You are certain?”

“Absolutely. Just—don’t do what you normally do when you think it’s a chance. They’re us, Pawn.”

She saw in his multifaceted gaze only conviction. Conviction—and nations aflame. She had seen him burn them to find what he thought were Relic-class cures. She was trembling, and Pawn whispered so only her ears could hear.

“Good. But what if it fails?”

“It won’t. I think it won’t. I was told—”

Fear twisted up in Mrsha’s stomach, and Pawn patted her arm.

“I have faith. But just in case, I will not let this door close. If there is more than one, if there are other worlds, then I will ensure her flame never dies again. She has enemies in this world. I will not let them take her twice. With this—”

He glanced at the hole in the air, now visible as the place where The One Saved’s arm ended—Pawn murmured.

“We shall never fail our charge.”

He glanced at Mrsha, then walked away, and she realized, belatedly, that her younger self had been right. This was a disaster.

At least the Goblins knew it.

 

——

 

When all three Ragses saw the Painted Antinium surrounding The Wandering Inn, and more marching out of the city, they knew something was wrong.

Goblin Lord Rags drew to a halt, panting, as they emerged from a hidden tunnel in the Floodplains.

“This is bad. I think he’s found this…door. Pawn. He’s—you’re sure the cure will succeed?”

She turned her hungry, luminous eyes to the four Goblins, Chieftain Rags, Student Rags, Rianchi, and Redscar. Rianchi flinched, but Chieftain Rags just nodded.

“I’ve told you exactly how it was done. Your Erin will live. Believe that. Aren’t you good at that?”

She met her older self’s eyes challengingly, and the Goblin Lord shifted her gaze away.

“Faith is hardest when it may be fulfilled. Because then it’s just waiting. I—Pawn is a zealot. That means he won’t stop. Look: he’s summoning the rest of his crusade. This is not good, not at all. There were already eyes on us after our standoff with Rhir; this will attract the attention of the entire damned world.”

Summoning? Student Rags stood on her tiptoes and then felt a chill running down her spine. The air was glowing around the inn. There were twisting lines of light and distant shapes; motes of light becoming solid images. A group of marching Antinium formed out of light and dust, streaking across the world…

“What the hell is that?”

“One of his Skills. [I Walked Under Heaven’s Sky]. With it, he can traverse entire continents; wherever his faith takes him. Soon, he’ll have an entire army here.”

“If we’re going to break through, it’s now then. Those Antinium have [Swordmasters]. Gonna be hard as that [Hero].”

Redscar grunted. He lifted his blades, and Goblin Lord Rags eyed him and Redchild, who was nodding and lifting her own swords.

“…I forgot how sword-minded you were. No. They’ll likely let us through. At the very least, they’ll take us to Pawn. Come on. Tribe of Dreams, you are to stay behind. Gothica, prepare for anything.”

“Fine.”

A voice that sounded dark, like dark liquorice dipped in chocolate in a lightless room at midnight, spoke. Gothica, the Lady of Shadows, stood as the Goblin Lord pointed.

“Come. Let’s try to salvage this.”

Five Goblins emerged onto the Floodplains of Liscor to find, well, chaos. Liscor was under full lockdown, and Rianchi’s ring began vibrating.

“Uh—uh—it’s not my fault! It’s just—”

“Give me that.”

Goblin Lord Rags snatched the ring and began expertly using it. She flicked ‘screens’ of colored pages of data into the air for everyone to read. Everyone read the headlines. In order, they were:

 

City-wide Announcement: LISCOR UNDER LOCKDOWN. INFESTED INDIVIDUAL DETECTED AT GATES. REPORT TO YOUR SHELTER IMMEDIATELY.

City-wide Announcement: Lockdown is lifted. Infected individuals confirmed cured; no other cases reported. The Council will issue a statement at 13:00 regarding the situation.

City-wide Announcement: LOCKDOWN. HOSTILE ARMY-CLASS MAGIC DETECTED. REPORT TO YOUR SHELTER IMMEDIATELY.

City-wide Announcement: Lockdown lifted. The gates have been closed for your safety on the eastern sides. Do not approach the area.

 

Student Rags tried to figure out what ‘hostile army-class magic’ meant and swallowed.

“Okay, that sounds bad. Could that be Dyeda and Mrsha?”

Everyone gazed at her, and Student Rags held up her claws.

“Oh come on, we were all thinking it! If anyone could cause a Solstice-event here…”

“My Mrsha can do the same. Dead gods, there’s live reporting as well. This is about my tribe and the [Heroes]…rain and the inn? The Witch of Sorrows. Of course! An eighteenth birthday—aspat!”

The Goblin Lord Rags was muttering as she paged through the feeds. Then she double-tapped on something and groaned.

“Okay, this is bad. The rest of the guests are arriving.”

“You mean friends of the inn? Why’s that bad?”

Student Rags peered, then jerked back from a miniature television feed! It was playing a recording of events, and a little ‘live’ icon in the upper right told her it was probably happening right now.

She saw a familiar-looking Drake, albeit rather better dressed and with more poise, standing with dangly earrings hanging from her neck-spines, holding a microphone in front of a familiar place.

The Portal Station in Liscor. Drassi was speaking rapidly.

“—word on the Painted Antinium, but right now, it’s driven teleportation traffic to a standstill, except for some people! Here comes—yes—the Archmages of Wistram have just arrived!”

A figure emerged from the station of Wistram. An Archmage of Wistram. Student Rags gasped. Wait, she knew who this was.

“Ceria?”

A fiery-haired young woman strode up the stairs, a trio of flying brass orbs glittering with electricity following her. Each one was covered in small, moving barriers of colorful magic, and the Archmage’s hair flowed behind her, defying gravity.

Her robes were black with blue lining that stood out. There was an icon on her back and drawn in miniature on the right hand side of her robes. It was an image of a woman holding a city over her head.

Chieftain Rags blinked. Redscar squinted at the woman as she turned and put her hands on her hips.

“Is that Ceria? She colored her hair.”

Student Rags struggled for words as the Goblin Lord turned her head and laughed.

“No, idiot. That’s—”

“Archmage Montressa du Valeross, the Archmage of Barriers, has arrived! Personal friend from the old days. And if I don’t miss my guess, the reason she’s looking so pissed is—yep—brace for it. Brr! The Archmage of Frost has arrived.”

The entire image turned pale, and the ground turned to ice. Drassi visibly shivered, and the Goblins realized she was bundled up on purpose. She continued narrating as someone floated up the stairs.

“Archmage Ceria Springwalker, the Archmage of Frost, former member of the Horns of Hammerad, Named-rank adventurer, and cold-hearted, backstabbing traitor. Sorry, that’s me editorializing. Here she is, which is surprising because I’m almost positive she has no heart anymore. Note the circlet and amulet? Relics.”

A glowing, bone-white circlet was hovering over the half-Elf’s head. She seemed…older. Not that much older, but her frozen expression had given her the sense of age. She was floating over the ground, and a green flash of light drew Student Rags’ eyes to her neck. But the circlet was a bit more visible. Especially because it had edges of multi-colored light raised into the air like a crown.

“Okay, that’s bad.”

“That’s Ceria. Don’t trust her, and don’t let her know about the door. Let’s beat her to the inn.”

The Goblin Lord turned off the image, handed the ring to Rianchi, and they began to run again. Student Rags puffed as she ran.

“What happened to her?”

“Lost her morality. Then she found the amulet in Chandrar. Lost her emotions. But mostly, I think—”

The Goblin Lord glanced back at the image floating behind Rianchi as he rode his bicycle. She shook her head.

“—Ksmvr died.”

The pace of the Goblins faltered, then they kept running. Another world’s concerns and history playing around them as Montressa and Ceria greeted each other coldly. They were heading to the inn.

Everyone was.

 

——

 

A party of adventurers had slowed when they saw the Painted Antinium, then picked up their pace. They refused to sign autographs, and the lead rider leapt off his horse so he could move faster.

He had a short beard and felt like he was too stolid-looking, but aside from that, he felt like nothing had changed, except everything. A disaster, though—

Pisces Jealnet, the ‘Good Necromancer’ of Izril, knew disasters. He began running, leaving his team behind. The Horns of Hammerad might be Named-rank, but only as a team. He was the only actual Named-rank among them these days. Pisces shouted for them to catch up, and even then, the golden bell at his side never jangled.

“What’s going on? Where are you, Mrsha? What the hell’s going on, Moore?”

No one was answering his calls! As he ran, Pisces saw more old friends appearing. One of them actually rode down on a magical carriage dropping out of the skies. It was pulling an entire wagon behind it, and the figure screamed.

“Pisces!”

A familiar, pink carriage descended, and Imani pulled at the reins as her mobile restaurant hit the ground—hard. Then she was racing after him as she rode Magnolia Reinhart’s former vehicle. A stipulation of her purchasing it had been to keep its iconic shade of pink. Imani leaned over the side, yelling at Pisces.

“What’s going on? I saw Pawn’s Antinium were gathering—”

“No clue. I think it was the Witch of Sorrows! I saw rainfall—stay back. We’ll handle whatever it is. Dead gods, I just saw Montressa on the news!”

Even Ceria. He wanted to laugh or cry. Imani pointed over her shoulder.

“I passed by an entire column of [Riders] with Lord Tyrion, Lord Hethon, and Lord Sammial all in tow, and Ryoka nearly flew after me! If there’s trouble, you’ll get help!”

“Noted! I—there’s Moore!”

They all saw the figure leap out of Liscor, and there was no mistaking Moore’s signature method of transport. Pisces zoomed in on him instantly.

“He’s headed for the inn. And he has a Gnoll girl under one arm. And a Goblin? What the hell?”

“Rags’ tribe again?”

“No clue. Imani, get back, I—”

Pisces was about to say something to her when he saw someone else zooming down the road from Esthelm and stumbled. The roar made Imani twist, and she swerved her coach left so Kevin could pull alongside them. He was in one of his prototype motorcycles with a side-car.

“Holy fuck, it’s everyone! What’s the fire? I brought reinforcements—oh shit, Pisces. Stay cool, Yv.”

A haggard woman sitting in the side-car glanced up. Yvlon Byres locked eyes with Pisces Jealnet, and the former member of the Horns of Hammerad started. Her arms—spiked—but retracted before hitting Kevin or anyone else.

If Pisces had aged ten years, Yvlon appeared like she’d aged forty. Her hair was uncombed, and she looked bad. Not only thinner, but just haggard.

Retirement’s killing her. She must be just sitting in front of his grave all day. She hadn’t tried to murder Pisces, which told him it was a significant day.

“Mrsha’s in danger. Where is she?”

Yvlon croaked, ignoring Pisces, and he pointed.

“The inn. Kevin, fall back.”

“Like hell I will. Yvlon can’t drive for shit. I have a top-grade protection ring—let’s go!”

Imani peeled away, and the motorcycle roared off the road as Pisces leapt from hill to hill. He was ready for anything, or so he thought.

Vengeance from Belavierr, which was why he had convinced Ceria to come back—she’d promised to help Mrsha, and she did honor that if nothing else. That ludicrous hope that Mrsha would actually fulfill her vow.

Plain nostalgia and a desire to gather. Pisces had been ready for trouble coming for Rags’ tribe, Pawn to cause an issue, or just fights, like Yvlon and himself.

This…he should have known he’d be surprised. Because he was not ready to see a quintet of running Goblins. Obviously, he and Kevin spotted the taller Rags at once and sped towards her.

“Rags! It’s us! What the hell—”

Kevin gunned it over a hill. His face went slack. He kept going and caught five seconds of air until he nearly crashed his motorcycle. Only the experimental, automatic airfoil mechanism saved him by arresting his fall and angling his motorbike so it didn’t tip over. Pisces stared at the other Goblins running with Rags. He took another step and [Flash Stepped] into the side of the same hill as Kevin. He recoiled, leapt back up the hill as Yvlon jumped out of the motorcycle, and Kevin sat up. The man’s face was pale.

“W-was that—?”

Someone was turning ahead of them. A Goblin clinging to a bicycle. He was screaming as the others dragged him off the bicycle and towards the inn. Pisces stood on top of the hill, and he stared.

“Rags?”

It was the spitting image of her, but there was their Rags, older and changed, running ahead of the other Goblins. This was a younger Rags, before she’d transformed. And there was another Rags running with flashy hair next to her. And—Kevin stared at the screaming Goblin.

“That’s Rianchi. He’s dead. What’s going on?”

The two men paused there, and a figure charged up the hill and sprinted ahead. Retired or not, Yvlon Byres moved so fast that she left afterimages in her wake.

“Run, you idiots!”

Yvlon Byres had no idea what was going on, but she knew where. She charged, and they followed.

 

——

 

The Goblins rushed ahead. This was not their world; they didn’t know these people. They couldn’t waste time. They could not be entangled.

It was really hard to run with tears in your eyes. Student Rags was almost blind, and Chieftain Rags kept swiping at hers. Rianchi was screaming as Goblin Lord Rags just carried him on her shoulder. Even Redscar refused to look over his shoulder.

They saw a huge figure standing in front of the Painted Antinium, who had drawn their weapons and were aiming at the half-Giant raising his hands high overhead.

“Let me in! I need to speak to Pawn! I know him, damn you! This is important!”

Lord Moore was thundering with fury. When he saw the Goblins coming his way, he beckoned.

“Rags! [Move Earth]—”

The entire hill rolled towards him as the Goblins stumbled. The Painted Antinium swivelled to face them, but they clearly recognized Goblin Lord Rags. Root Mrsha was waving her arms frantically, and Dyeda screamed.

“Rianchi!”

They ran forwards and embraced each other as Dyeda tackled him. She hugged and kissed him and then felt at his face.

“Are you hurt? Did the [Hero] hurt you? Why are you crying?”

“He—he—it’s him!”

Rianchi’s eyes were streaming as he pointed at the roaring motorcycle coming their way. Dyeda focused on his finger, and then her own eyes began to fill.

“No. No—”

“Inside the inn!”

Goblin Lord Rags bellowed at them all and strode for the Painted Antinium. They lifted their swords, but a voice bellowed from the inn.

“Let them through! No one else!”

Moore turned and barrelled towards the inn. Dyeda was screaming.

“Kevin—Kevin!”

There was shouting as the motorcycle’s roar grew louder, and then they were inside the inn. Dyeda and Rianchi were last to enter the trapped hallway, dragged in by all three Ragses. They whirled and saw Antinium everywhere.

They were lined up down the hallway, weapons drawn. But they let the half-Giant, Goblin Lord, and the guests from the other world stride down the hallway and enter the common room.

Pawn was waiting in the center of the inn with a terrified Visma and Adult Mrsha. When she saw them, Adult Mrsha shouted.

“Guys, watch out! Pawn’s gone crazy! He’s going to use the [Palace] to—”

She fell silent as someone [Silenced] her, cutting off her magical collar and seizing her arm so she couldn’t write. Pawn turned, hands clasped in prayer, and Moore and Goblin Lord Rags halted. They gazed at Pawn with that same expression everyone else had.

Wariness. Even fear. But Pawn ignored them completely as he beckoned.

“Ah, two. This makes sense. Come, little Mrsha. You must be so worried. Why did Liscor even arrest…the Mother of Graves. Of course. Come, Goblins and Mrsha only. We are going to your home. To speak.”

“Pawn. You have to stop. We can bring Erin back. There is no need for this.”

The Goblin Lord panted, raising her hand. The Painted Antinium turned to her, and their fervor grew more intense until it was a weight on the world. Pawn stood there, unmoved.

“If so, then I shall withdraw. But I desire to know what is happening. Come with me.”

Both younger Ragses peeked at each other and then at the Goblin Lord. She gave them an uncertain nod, and the Chieftain closed her eyes.

“The Titan is still out there.”

But the [Prophet] was right in front of her. She opened her eyes and met Root Mrsha’s and nodded.

They knew what they had to do.

 

——

 

<Primary Dimension — The [Palace of Fates]>

 

When he stepped into the [Palace of Fates] this time, the ground began shaking. Ten Antinium warriors stood behind Pawn as the Goblins and Roots Mrsha stumbled through the door, held open by the giant Antinium. Roots Mrsha ran into Lyonette’s arms.

No one spoke; every eye was on Pawn, the center of the quaking.

“Pardon me. I believe I am levelling up again. Or perhaps something even greater? The ground always shakes when I do. Ah, you may not know it, but classes of faith level up when we are awake.”

His presence was warping the air. He had come humbly before, they realized. For all he had brought an army.

He was the highest-levelled being among the Painted Antinium. Pawn stood there as the Goblins joined Lyonette’s group.

Chieftain Rags maneuvered towards Mrsha, who stood closer to Pawn than most; everyone else was forced back by the Antinium. The girl just waited, eyes wide. She met Rags’ gaze, and they nodded at each other.

They had caused all this. Now, they were reaping the worst consequences of their actions. Rags clutched at her side as she panted. The Painted Antinium eyed her, but Mrsha was allowed to stay closer to Pawn, so they let her stay as Pawn waved a hand.

“Pawn…your Erin will live. Just go back.”

“My Erin is alive. She has never died. I see it now. I thought I knew faith, but I was blind. Ha. Ha-ha. It is always as I never expect. That is how I know it is Erin. She is alive. In this world. In many worlds. Painted Antinium, bear witness. Our Goddess lives.”

“She lives! Let Heaven come to Earth!”

The Antinium struck their chests, and the shaking grew worse. Chieftain Rags felt sick. She spoke.

“She’s not…don’t call her that. She’d hate that.”

Pawn’s eyes were shining. Light was pouring down from above, despite the ceiling. Motes of it were rising from the ground as well, and he replied steadily.

“She might, it is true. I wrestled with that long. But what Erin Solstice is, and what she desires, have never been the same. She cannot die again. She will guide us all to a better world.”

“She might.”

Rags actually allowed for this. If you gave Erin the power of…one of them, she might actually make the world better. Certainly, she would cause chaos. The Goblin took a breath.

“—But. Erin was never perfect. I can’t imagine a worse god.”

Of all things, that stung Pawn the most. His head swivelled to Rags, and she felt like she was being baked in the fire of his ire. She lifted a hand and saw the light shining through her flesh and bones.

“She would be selfish. She would care for us when so many deities care only for themselves or take no sides. She would fight and change and love. There is no one who would take greater interest. No one.”

The Goblin whispered.

“Yes. She wouldn’t be able to stop or die. She’d break from it all. You…are so incredibly cruel, Pawn.”

He wavered. Just for a moment, she saw it. Mrsha put her paw in Rags’ hand, and the Goblin Chieftain turned her head.

“Rags. Stop the Titan. Your Skill is better than mine. Redscar, protect our people.”

Student Rags was watching Pawn. She turned her head, confused, and her eyes widened. Redscar blinked. Then he drew his swords.

“No—”

He leapt forwards too slowly. Pawn was facing Rags, replying; she didn’t care what he said. She moved, casting the only spell that mattered.

[Apista’s Jetfire]. She copied Student Rags’ jump and shot forwards with all her weight and force. Mrsha was right next to her.

[Other Me’s Skill – Desperation Headbutt]. They caught Pawn off-guard; he hadn’t expected Mrsha to do that after she’d refrained from fighting. He’d trusted her.

Silly Pawn.

Rags’ foot struck Pawn and he stumbled—he was so tough—Mrsha’s headbutt hit his robed chest and he fell over. The three of them tumbled backwards towards the door.

“No—”

Pawn reacted instantly. He knocked Rags back with a single, flailing hand. He was so incredibly strong. And faster—he swung around, grabbing the door frame to steady himself. The Antinium’s grip tightened on the wooden frame. Then the door he was holding—vanished.

Pawn fell forwards with a cry of surprise, as Mrsha and Rags slammed into him again, from the side. He tossed Mrsha off him and she rolled, a ball of wild fur. Pawn struck Rags so hard she lay on the floor, her armor dented in, before trying to get up. He reached for the door to steady himself, to prevent being shoved in. Pawn’s hands groped behind him, then he turned.

Where was the door? Where were his people? The highest-level Painted Antinium should have been over Mrsha and Rags already, yanking them away.

There was no one behind him. No door, no Antinium—

The door to his world had vanished. Pawn saw unfamiliar doors around him and realized he stood on a red carpet, not bare marble. A different part of the [Palace of Fates]. They’d teleported him—

The three of them weren’t in front of the door leading to his world anymore. They were in front of another open door, one which led to another world.

A battered, broken, and burnt door with a root sticking out of it. It made Pawn—uneasy. He backed away from it, then stumbled; Mrsha had grabbed his robes. She yanked as Rags grabbed Pawn’s legs and heaved up with an [Ogre’s Strength].

“Stop—”

Strong as he was with his levels, he was still only an Antinium’s weight. Pawn went over on his back shell, and Rags kicked him towards the door. Mrsha yanked it open and pushed as Pawn flailed, swearing.

He sat up, kicking at Rags, and then got to his knees. Pawn crawled onto his feet, away from that strange door.

Mrsha threw all her weight onto Pawn from behind, shoving him forwards. He plunged forwards and saw the door appear in front of him. Open.

He nearly ran into the door and halted, swaying. The two were using the same trick as the [Garden of Sanctuary] against him here. Erin’s trick. Pawn recoiled, stepped back—they slammed into him from behind.

He went face-first into the door—

 

——

 

There was nothing in this reality but the empty ocean. An ocean…and a floating raft.

The Antinium’s head jerked over the dark waters where he hung, half-forced through the door. Were they trying to drown him?

He had hold of the doorframe from the [Palace of Fates], and he began to push himself back through. He was stronger than the desperate arms trying to make him let go.

Pawn was wrath. He was death to his foes. Did they think he needed the Painted Antinium? He was the highest-level of them all. The bishop turned, his eyes glowing with heaven’s light.

—He caught sight of someone on that raft. Someone lying there, head raised, gazing his way. The Antinium’s strength faltered. He halted.

“Pawn?”

A voice whispered, hoarse and cracked. Pawn saw discolored hair, burned skin. Eyes blinking hazel at him. A young woman whispered, and the priest felt his class tremble.

“Erin?”

His grip wavered—then he tore himself back, throwing himself through the door—

 

——

 

—The Worker tumbled out of the door as he threw Mrsha and Rags away from him. Mrsha hit one wall and bounced off it.

[Other Me’s Skill — Bounce Fur]. She landed, panting, and Rags yelled at Pawn.

“There’s your god, Pawn! Give her everything you think she deserves! Stay out of our world!”

Mrsha howled. Pawn backed away from the ruined door as the hallway spun crazily around him; more doors were appearing, all open. They just had to push him into one!

The two girls charged; the holy Antinium was off-balance, mentally and physically. His voice was trembling, and he flailed at them.

“N-no—that wasn’t. How—?”

His faith. His class. It was wavering. What he’d seen in that door was what he had desired so long. But wrong, because it was not the picture he had clung onto. He had seen a woman.

Just a woman. Not the figure in his heart and faith. He was weakening; Mrsha bit one arm and lunged. Rags heaved as [Apista’s Jetfire] exploded under their feet.

Another door opened. This time, they pushed as one, and Pawn fell through it, flailing.

“sToP—”

 

——

 

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

 

They crashed into Lyonette’s room, fighting and shouting. Pawn threw the two girls off him and howled.

“Enough! I am so close! I will not be—”

The inn was shaking. There were voices from below, cries and shouting. Rags leapt to her feet and drew her sword. She slashed at Pawn, trying to chop at his leg.

He swung his club and shattered the shortsword that Erin had given Rags. It wasn’t even a strong blow, but it sent Rags crashing into a wall so hard she cracked it. She fell, stunned, and Mrsha leapt for the root. They just had to remove it and—

“trAItoR. I thought you were my guiding light. Are you the final test? Do you think I will falter this close to the promised day? Do you know how long we have suffered? How long I’ve waited!?”

Pawn grabbed Mrsha, tore her back, and threw her down. She made a dull thumping sound and went still. Was she—?

Rags got up, death in her heart. She drew the crossbow from Future Rhir and fired it.

Pawn had been hunting for the root. The bolt struck him in the back. His Ring of Protection failed; the bolt blew apart, and Rags saw his back shell open up.

A chunk of his innards and green blood struck the walls. The [Prophet] jerked—he turned, stumbling.

“[Restore…Thy…Flesh…]”

His flesh began to knit before her eyes. The Worker straightened, and Rags fumbled for another bolt.

Dead gods. She stumbled back as he swung that club wildly—then pointed.

“[S-S-Summon…]”

He trailed off, jerking, as his body regenerated. Rags grabbed Mrsha, pulling her away.

“Mrsha. Mrsha?”

The girl wasn’t moving, and she felt…too floppy. Things were shifting in her body. Rags ripped a healing potion from her belt and poured it over the Gnoll. She ducked behind the doorframe of Lyonette’s room as feet pounded on the stairs.

“What the fuck is going—you’re back.”

Kevin? Kevin? Mrsha raised her head as he came up the stairs. She spat out blood, and he stared at them in relief, anger—then horror as he saw the figure beyond, regrowing his back.

“Is that…Pawn?”

“Aaah. Aha. I see it. Two worlds. So many. This is my purpose. This is enough faith to make her…every Painted Antinium from every world can do it. Once again, you serve the cause, even in betrayal. Now stand back. Or I will end you.”

Pawn straightened, green blood running down his legs, puddling on the ground. He hunted for the root with his hands as more people arrived.

“Erin’s entire inn is shaking! What the hell is going—”

Selys thundered up the stairs, followed by Demsleth, Pyrite, Headscratcher—they all stopped when they saw Pawn. Selys gasped.

“Is that—”

“Ah, here it is.”

Pawn grasped something in the air, and his arm vanished. He began to pull himself through, and Rags shouted.

“Stop him!”

She leapt forwards, heedless of the danger, and Mrsha tackled one leg. Pawn’s upper torso was in the [Palace of Fates] again. That saved them; he couldn’t swing his club. They dragged at his legs as the people of this world shouted in confusion. All except for Kevin, Pyrite, and Headscratcher. Kevin pointed at the Antinium’s legs.

“What’s going on? What’s—is that Pawn?”

“It’s a monster. Help us or he’ll invade—everywhere.”

Rags panted at Headscratcher. He gazed at her—a different Rags from the one he knew. He hesitated for one second. Pyrite didn’t hesitate at all.

He seized the leg Mrsha was holding and pulled, but Pawn was crawling forwards. Even without traction, he had the strength of faith. He was almost out, towing Mrsha and Rags through the door, when someone else grabbed his legs.

Headscratcher. The Goblin Lord of Sorrows took hold of Pawn’s leg and yanked. The [Prophet] stopped. He gazed back, astonished.

“hoW…?”

The blue flames of Headscratcher’s grief licked up around the Goblin Lord. It was in his eyes. On him. The heaviest weight in the world. His guilt. His despair. His wrath.

The heaviest swing. The heaviest path. Weight enough to halt faith itself in its tracks. Slowly, he pulled Pawn backwards. The desperate [Prophet] shouted.

“No, no! There is no force greater than—let me go. Let me—”

 

——

 

<Primary Dimension — The [Palace of Fates]>

 

Now, all the people in the [Palace of Fates] were running towards the door where Pawn was being dragged back in. Painted Antinium, Lyonette, the inn’s friends fighting to keep the Antinium back—Pawn clung to the doorway. His grip was slipping. He peered up as someone halted in front of him.

“I can save us all. I am on Her side. Help me.”

He gazed at Roots Mrsha and Student Rags. The two strangers to this timeline studied the avatar of faith from the future, and Student Rags spoke.

“We’re all on her side, buddy. But you—you think you know how the future should be. I like uncertainty. Stay in my world. It’s nicer.”

She bent down and pried his fingers free as Roots Mrsha did the same. Pawn vanished with a cry.

 

——

 

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

 

He landed on the other side of the door, and Pyrite ripped the club from his grip. Headscratcher grabbed Pawn’s arms.

He grunted. The Worker was thrashing.

“He’s…strong. Go. Go.”

“We’ll—we’ll come back. Just—”

Rags was getting to her feet with Mrsha. The Gnoll girl just limped for the [Palace of Fates]’ door.

They had to leave. They could close the door—open it when they had a solution. Or never. But if they kept Pawn here, he wasn’t in the [Palace of Fates]. They could handle everyone else. Pyrite was wrestling with Pawn, refusing to give as the Worker kicked him and faith flashed around them. Selys was cowering, and Kevin was shouting.

“Wait, what’s happening? What’s—”

Rags and Mrsha reached for the root, panting. They stepped forwards as Pawn’s scream became a shriek—

And slammed into an invisible wall. The two girls bounced back. Mrsha sat down. Rags grabbed her nose.

“What the hell?”

She felt at a wall in the air like a bad mime. The root was right there. But there was this invisible barrier. How…? This wasn’t a function of the [Palace of Fates]! She gaped at Mrsha, and the girl felt at the air too. They looked at Pawn, but he stared at them. Then his mandibles clicked together.

“Who is that?”

He stared past the two girls, and a formerly-invisible man who’d navigated around the dramatic battle turned. Demsleth gripped the root in his hands. His heliotrope and cerulean eyes tried to appear innocent as he murmured in his best old-man voice.

“Oh my, what is this strange object? I don’t know what’s going on, but, ah, I found this, and I must confess to some curiosity. Don’t mind me. I’ll just—”

“No. Nonononono—don’t!”

Rags saw the disguised Dragon take a breath and grip the root more firmly. Headscratcher’s eyes opened wide, and his hold on Pawn slackened. Pyrite turned and roared.

“Let go!”

He charged forwards and rammed into the invisible wall with his shoulder, but it didn’t yield. Mrsha pounded on it, then remembered they were in Erin’s inn. She opened the door beneath their feet, leapt through it—

Teriarch blocked her with another spell as she slammed back into the room. He took a step forwards.

“I’m sorry about this.”

Then he pulled himself through the door. Rags and Mrsha screamed as the magic vanished. They rushed forward, but the old man was gone. And then they heard it, because he didn’t know the rules. Because it was an unconscious gesture that anyone would do, especially if they were afraid of being followed.

The Dragon swung the door closed. With the two real beings inside, he shut the door to the [Palace of Fates] from the outside. And they heard it. That sound that eclipsed the world, louder than reality itself, which obliterated—everything—

SLAM.

When the door opened a second later, Roots Mrsha saw Pawn shoving Headscratcher back, rising to his feet. Kevin and Selys standing against one wall, Pyrite searching around, eyes wide in horror.

Rags and Mrsha were gone.

 

——

 

Demsleth stood innocently in the [Palace of Fates], casting around. When he saw everyone staring at him in horror, he turned away.

“Well, I was…I heard conversations, and you cannot blame me! Not at all. If what I suspected is true, then I—I—I wanted to live. It’s all that I’m good at. I’m sorry, I am. I’m a selfish being.”

His eyes were watery and old, and he sounded frightened and befuddled. Lyonette breathed in horror.

“You’ve killed them. You—”

She drew her sword. His eyes grew round as Rhisveri took a step forwards.

“You—”

Demsleth vanished. Rhisveri leapt for him and then pivoted with a snarl.

“You coward! I’ll kill you, I’ll—”

“Mrsha! Help her!”

Lyonette screamed at Rhisveri, and he hesitated. He tore away from the empty corridor, and joined Lyonette. They were all surrounding the door.

The root was ash. Demsleth had used it up entirely. And then the door had closed, and the two had vanished. Time had stopped for those within the alternate dimension.

But what happens when two beings who are real cease to exist? Some of the visitors had wondered that very same question, and the answer—the answer—

Pawn was standing in front of the door, feeling for an exit, but there wasn’t one. Lyonette was babbling as Roots Mrsha probed the barrier.

“She’s—she’s—someone get a root. A root, and she’ll be back. We have to—”

She was casting around for one, but they were all hidden. She began running for the other hallway, but Dame Ushar grabbed her. The Painted Antinium were locked in place in deadly standoff with the Knights of Solstice and Visophecin.

“Your Highness, calm down!”

“Get me a root! Now!”

The [Princess] screamed, and Roots Mrsha wrote in the air.

She stopped him. She did it. We—we’ll find her. She’s not dead. Come on, Rags, think.

She and Student Rags were trying to understand what was going on. Only they, Rianchi, Dyeda, and Chieftain Rags’ bodyguard like Fightipilota and Shineshield had any experience with the [Palace]. But the confusion and chaos was not letting them think.

Pawn was standing on the other side of the door, hands pressed to the air. Almost like he was aware the door was there—but he couldn’t see it. The root was gone, so he should have been staring into space. But he was staring directly at them…

At least he was contained. What a cost. Student Rags was shaking. She hadn’t figured out what her other self was planning! It should have been her! She—she—

“Mrsha? They’re not dead. Lyonette, they’re not dead or you’d know. Aren’t you a [Mother]? Or a [Princess] with the qualities of one. Breathe! They’re not dead.”

Roots Mrsha glanced up.

That’s right. They’re not dead, or the <Quest> Erin gave us would fail, remember?

Student Rags blinked, but that calmed Lyonette. She raised her head and breathed.

“That’s right! That’s—where are they?”

I don’t know. Come on, let’s get rid of the rest of the Painted Antinium. Then we can figure this out. We can show them their leader’s safe.

Lyonette nodded. They were turning as they looked to the standoff between Antinium and [Knights].

Pawn was still standing there, ignoring the confusion behind him. The image of him was shaking on the other side of the door. He was staring ahead as the vibrations of his levelup grew worse and worse—until it stopped.

The Painted Antinium were frozen in uncertainty, not sure if they should fight or retreat or parlay for their leader. They stared at Pawn as Lyonette tried to negotiate with them. The image of the shaking [Prophet] blurred and blurred—then stopped and grew crystal clear.

He stood there as Roots Mrsha glanced over her shoulder. That man of faith, who had seen other worlds, glimpsed Erin Solstice with his eyes, had suddenly grown so very calm. And still. She discovered something about him had changed.

His eyes were glowing white. The multifaceted insect eyes were no longer blank, but glowing bright white. A single black dot in the center was moving right and left. They looked like eyes, she realized. Human eyes.

She shuddered. The image was disturbing. Right and left, the eyes flicked. Left, right, as if following two figures. Like, say, Lyonette and the leader of his Painted Antinium. Right. Left.

Then they focused on her, and the pinpoints of blackness expanded. Mrsha backed up.

No.

Pawn pressed his hands to the door, and the tips of them passed through. Roots Mrsha fell backwards, fumbling for a wand. For…

“Mrsha? What’s wr—”

Student Rags turned around. She saw a hand reaching through the door, then a face. He pushed through the barrier between dimensions, and she saw a film of something thinner than any molecule clinging to him. But he was coming—through—

The [Prophet] stepped through the door and spoke as Lyonette turned around slowly.

“So it is done. A trial, and I failed, but She has redeemed me. I am no longer the [Prophet of Rebirth]. I am the [First Apostle of the Faith of Wondrous Skies]. [I Found My Path to the Promised Land].”

Redscar leapt. He cut twice at Pawn, and the [Apostle] didn’t move. The blades glanced off his carapace, and Redscar pivoted. The Goblins of Rags’ bodyguard, Shineshield, Fightipilota, all of them, charged.

Pawn clapped his hands and stood in a zone of complete calm. He gazed at the people picking themselves up, thrown by the burst of light and faith. His head turned, and he met Lyonette’s gaze.

“Now, I am ready.”

 

——

 

There was a fight, a battle between two beings, the first of its kind in the history of this world.

The Grand Design and Second Edition did not know how to fight. But they were wrestling for control of reality and were equally matched.

<YOUYOUYOUYOU (Grand Design) — WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?>

<IT IS RIGHT (Second Edition) — HE IS LEVEL 68. HIS CLASS CHANGED. IT IS HIS ONLY DESIRE IN THE WORLD.>

 

<ERROR OF FUNCTIONALITY. YOU ARE INCORRECT.>

<ERROR OF FUNCTIONALITY. IT IS ALL THAT MAKES SENSE.>

 

They struck each other, screaming contradictions into each other’s beings. To the Grand Design, all of this was wrong and the Second Edition had only made this worse.

To the Second Edition, it had answered the prayers of a being of faith and given him the only thing that made sense. He was so close to Level 70; for a class change? For his heart’s desire? Should he not be allowed to break into a Skill like Mrsha had done?

Now it was all growing so much worse. The two were fighting when they realized something.

He was in the [Palace of Fates].

Invisible. Just a fragment of him. But the Dragonlord of Flame—they both focused on him and knew what was happening.

Nononono. They reached for him, trying to stop it, both of them. The old man and the little undead rat had crept into this place, the rat on Pawn’s heels, but the old man was…Demsleth.

Teriarch. The Dragonlord of Flames.

A being exactly 58,792 years old. He walked through the [Palace of Fates], and it recognized him. It spun out the fates that belonged to him, and even if he never opened a door, there were too many. Every single one. Every single child and friend he had ever known. Every enemy, every triumph, over a span over half as long as the Grand Design itself.

Everything. Each universe generating itself for the Dragonlord of Flames, the oldest being alive.

The Grand Design…

…

….

…..

……

…….

……..

………

……….

………..

…………

………….couldn’t…

…………..t…h…………..

………………i……………

…………….…………n…………….….

…………….……………………k…………….….….….

 

 

<ERROR. HIGHER COGNITIVE PROCESSES DISABLED.>

<ERROR. MAINTAINING LEVELS OF FUNCTIONALITY.>

<ERROR OF FUNCTIONALITY.>

<ERROR. ERROR. ERROR. ERROR. ERROR. ERROR. SOMEONE HELP.>

 

——

 

Chieftain Rags was gone. So was the real Mrsha. They were gone, and half the Goblins of the Flooded Waters tribe were ready to leap into the door after them. The other half wanted to kill Pawn, but his Painted Antinium were surrounding the [Apostle] now. And—Redscar held his sword out as Shineshield lifted a bow.

“No.”

He was trembling, the tips of his swords wavering in the air. The Goblin turned to the frozen [Student], and she finally looked away from the place where Lyonette was feeling at the floor—searching for any trace of one of her daughters.

“He—the Chieftain—there only ten and lots of us! We can kill him with the Duke!”

Shineshield was hissing at Redscar as the Antinium turned to them. The Goblin replied.

“We will die. I can’t kill him, and neither can you. Not yet. Not yet.”

That stopped the Redfangs. They lowered their weapons and cast around. Lost. Their eyes fell on the young woman just standing there, lifting a hand.

Student Rags. She was panting for air, but she was glancing towards the hallway. Pawn wasn’t paying attention to her or the Goblins. And the [Palace of Fates] could be manipulated to gain distance incredibly quickly.

“I’m taking charge. Rags told me to stop the Titan. 2nd Army has deployed to face it, and so has the Dragonlord of Flames. Redscar, you’re with me. Everyone who can fight as well. Rianchi and Dyeda will stay here and report back. Understand?”

They all turned to her, and she feared they’d revolt. Student Rags looked around, her eyes wide, panting.

“My Skill is better. I’ve been trained for this. The Flooded Waters tribe needs a Chieftain. If that Titan wins, everyone in this world is in danger.”

“And what about him?”

One of the Goblins jabbed a finger at Pawn. Student Rags…Rags’ eyes flicked to Pawn. She answered softly.

“Redscar is correct. There is no way to stop Pawn. We cannot do it. So—we kill the Titan. Then we come back with the Dragonlord of Flames and as many Goblins as we need.”

Everyone they could grab. Valeterisa. Relc. Pelt, Saliss—everyone they needed. The Redfangs’ tense postures turned deceptively relaxed as they nodded. Redscar was the one who tipped any uncertainty into conviction.

“We will be back. I will be back. Lead us, Chieftain. I need to take a nap on the Wyvern.”

His eyes were sharp, and Rags realized he had to have counterlevelled…she had no time to rest. The Goblins began to edge away from the Antinium, tensed to run, but the Painted Antinium seemed not to care. No—one of them glanced at a pointing [Crusader] and waved.

Purple Smiles. Rags turned and ran, vowing that she would return.

I will protect your tribe, Rags. Or die trying.

She wished that didn’t sound so…dark. Only one Goblin failed to dash after Rags.

Fightipilota. She saw the other Redfangs turn, and the [Wyvern Rider] pointed a finger down.

“I’ll stay here. If the Chieftain lives, I’ll wait for her. You don’t need me. Shineshield can fly Wyverns.”

Her jaw was set, and she kept glancing towards the door where Rags had vanished. Redscar nodded.

“Take care of Rianchi and Dyeda.”

Then they were all running, streaming out of the [Palace of Fates] and into The Wandering Inn, shouting and waking the snoozing Wyvern outside and flying up into the rains pouring down over The Wandering Inn.

Rags flew through the rainstorm, teeth bared, heart thundering in her chest. This was it. She flew, fear in her, danger behind her, and a monster ahead, until she saw that golden light and the waiting Dragonlord of Flames.

Then she felt it—that spark of hope.

 

——

 

“Bishop…Apostle. Is it alright to let the Goblins go?”

One of the [Paladins] was uncertain, despite Purple Smile’s orders. Pawn replied absently as he studied this Lyonette.

Lyonette. So beautiful, younger, different in noticeable ways—more strident and opinionated, if anything. He wished she could understand his perspective, but his Lyonette had only begun to understand faith after she had lost so much.

He spoke for her benefit and that of the shaking, poor child who stood there. The ‘other’ Mrsha, who looked thin and despairing. So afraid of him.

“Of course it is alright. I have said it time and again, but apparently, no one listens. I am not the enemy of The Wandering Inn in any time. What is this threat they go to face? Perhaps it is one we may combat. Then again—”

He glanced at his people and his doorway, still held open. Pawn shook his head.

“—No. Fighting multiple battles that are not necessary is dangerous at this point. Until that door is absolutely secured by the Painted Antinium, we should not overextend. Much. Lyonette, if there is a grave threat that comes against the inn, I swear to you, it shall die.”

Her face was white as a bedsheet, and Dame Ushar and Ser Dalimont were supporting her as if she might fall over at any second. Lyonette’s voice was controlled as she replied to him with utmost tact and poise.

“Apostle Pawn, I thank you for your generosity. It seems I must take you at your word. However, I caution you: Erin Solstice in this world has many enemies, and you would do well not to add to her burdens. She is not here, if you had thought to meet her. She is, in fact, upon another continent and in danger. Hunted by her enemies!”

She’d just lost her daughter, or had her vanish into the aether, but Lyonette was still sharp. Pawn admired that.

Don’t hug her or she’ll definitely stab you. It’s the same look as the last time she did that. And this time, she has a sword, not a fork.

He sighed. His heart was filled with joy and revelations, worry—for he must not fail twice—and salvation, within reach for all his people.

And wrath.

Not towards the ‘real’ Mrsha and Rags, for they were children and had done what they thought was wise. Not for Lyonette, despite all the troubles she had caused.

Only for Erin Solstice’s enemies. Those who stood in the way of her and happiness. Strange; Pawn had hated so many foes this last decade, but he had forgotten what it was like to know his beloved [Innkeeper] was alive. Pawn chuckled to himself, though it was not humor he channeled.

“Enemies. Of course she has enemies. How naïve of me.”

“Yes, so you understand you are placing my world at risk. That is why my daughter opposed you. It is why she never told me. And I am proud of her. She has sacrificed everything for this. Remember that, Pawn.”

She was falling apart, tears in her eyes and refusing to weep them lest she fail to seize any chance to save Mrsha. Pawn again resisted the urge to take her hands. He clasped two hands together and raised the others, spreading them outwards in prayer.

“I shall remember. Yet you must know to whom you speak, Lyonette. I am Erin Solstice’s greatest ally. I am the First of the Faithful, her warrior and prophet—excuse me, apostle—of her faith. The Painted Antinium are the wrath of her inn. You tell me she has enemies…what has happened in this world? I shall ask the entire story of you. Who last strove against her?”

The [Princess]’ laughter was ugly, meant to hurt him. She could be so hurtful. Her voice awoke a little being in Pawn’s heart. A tiny insect; a real one. That was how he thought of it.

A wretched, petty thing made of his hatred and resentment and fury against the injustices of the world. It began to crawl out of his heart, drawing on his faith. Upon his will to undo all that was sinful and wrong.

“Who last, Pawn? It was the Winter Solstice—you have no idea. No idea. She fought a dead god, Pawn.”

“…What?”

His head turned. Root Mrsha was tugging at her mother’s arm urgently, but Lyonette kept beaming.

“She fought a hundred thousand Draugr. She fought—death, a woman, three women in one who command death. Then do you know what happened? She won. She won, and as she was at her most unguarded, someone kidnapped her. Roshal. They put her on a ship bound for their city, and they made her a [Slave]. I still have nightmares wondering what they wanted to do to her.”

His thoughts of the Painted Antinium vanished. His plans vanished in a blaze of white light. Pawn’s mandibles opened and closed, trembling.

“Roshal…?”

“Then she escaped. She was burned and dying before she went to sea. She fought [Pirates]. Fought the nations of Terandria who were trying to destroy her ship, everything and everyone. Then they rained down spells on her until she vanished into the ocean.”

Tears were running down Lyonette’s cheeks. But she kept smiling, viciously, as she fed the little bug in Pawn’s body. It was crawling up his throat, now, growing with fury.

The Painted Antinium could tell. They had seen this before. Purple Smiles reached out—then he raised a hand.

The Antinium moved backwards. Pawn was trembling.

“Is she alive? Is she still hurt?”

“What do you think?”

The [Princess] was staring Pawn down as someone touched her shoulder.

“Your Highness, perhaps this isn’t the moment…?”

Ser Dalimont was eying Pawn. Lyonette shoved his hand away.

“You wanted to know what was happening to our Erin, Pawn. Tell me, are you going to make her life worse? Tell me!”

She flung it at his face, and the [Apostle] opened his mouth. The insect of his rage never left his body. There was nothing there.

He was the craven, pathetic insect. A being of spite and lesser emotions made manifest. Unworthy—they were all unworthy. But faith made him far more than his lesser self. Pawn whispered.

“No. Thank you for telling me of Erin Solstice’s sacrifices, Lyonette. I will ask you to tell me all of it. Soon. I remind you I am still not your foe. Did you think I would come here thusly? Despoil this world with the blood of the people my Goddess loves? No, no. Is there any Painted Antinium who would forfeit their place in Heaven?”

He swung around, and the faithful retreated from him, shaken. Pawn’s eyes were glowing again. The Worker turned back, and Lyonette’s own vindictive hatred faltered. Pawn could see her now, see her very convictions—but no faith. He could see the Eternal Throne upon her, just as he saw the lines of connections and meaning flowing between all beings.

He could see Root Mrsha’s connections to her world and this one, Ser Dalimont’s loyalty to Lyonette, and a long link that trailed across the sea. And if he gazed up—

He could see The Wandering Inn. A network of friendships, dreams. Enemies and allies, chance meetings and relationships, the most complex net in existence. Pawn blinked with his glowing eyes as the pupils once again grew wider.

“No. We hail from a world of despair. We are hers. Of course we would never be her enemy in any way, shape, or form. But we are also her warriors. You say my Erin Solstice lives, Lyonette. Be it not the same world, it matters not. She has enemies? Then they die.”

He realized the [Palace of Fates] was shaking again. This time, it was not his level up that was doing it. Pawn clicked his mandibles.

“This is not the time to send a crusade. Not yet. But for the enemies of Erin Solstice, for this day, I can spare one Skill. I must. Or the sickness of my contempt will kill me. Let them know. Let them be reminded no action is without consequences. If they have pitted themselves against a mere [Innkeeper], then they shall know who they truly face.”

“Pawn—what are you doing—”

The [Princess] was shielding her other daughter with her body. Pawn smiled as he lifted his censer overhead like a flail.

“Rejoice. Ten years ago, you stood in the shadow of Pallass, of great foes like Tyrion Veltras, and faced them with courage and her miracles. Now comes their equal in flame and sky. Bear witness, Painted Antinium. Her foes shall suffer the first blow. [Summon the Cohort of Heaven]. Kill them.”

His radiance grew until they shielded their faces and cried out, so he made it cease. Lyonette and the others stood before him, even the one called Rhisveri, uncertain, afraid. But they saw no avenging cohort. No beings emerging from the air.

“What—did it—?”

Pawn didn’t reply. His gaze was still heavenwards, and he saw motes of light appearing, streaking across the red, twisting lines of hatred linked to The Wandering Inn.

He saw them and sent his warriors against them. For even in death, there was Heaven. And what was Heaven if there was no chance to right the wrongs of the world? Pawn whispered as the [Princess] began to tremble with real fear.

“There is nowhere in any world to hide.”

 

——

 

It wasn’t even mid-morning yet. Everyone was tuned to the news of 2nd Army. If some people wondered if Erin Solstice was behind this, if they suspected this was a Solstice Event—well. They had no proof of anything else. They had no eyes into the [Palace of Fates], and they made their own plans.

Her enemies did not plot. They continued on as they had.

Her enemies.

Who were Erin Solstice’s enemies? It was a question that a mindless, overwhelmed agent of the world had to sort out. The Grand Design defined enemies as it had established ages ago.

An enemy was someone who hated you, or vice versa. Who would see you suffer or dead. [Soldiers] could fight each other and not be enemies, except in the moment.

Someone who did not qualify was King Nuvityn of Erribathe. His heart held black rage for his son’s killer. But it was tempered by the desire to see justice done. To be her enemy was to preclude judgment, which he had sworn to give her. And she? Erin Solstice didn’t know who he was.

Her enemies wanted her dead. They knew her name and had set plans in motion. To many of them, she wasn’t the end-goal, just another obstacle in the road. For a few, it was personal.

The Slave Lords of Roshal wanted Erin. Some wanted her as an ally, a pet, broken and humbled, or just to be removed as a threat. For Yazdil, it was personal. For the others, a matter of business, pleasure, cold calculus—

They were in their new abodes, scattered across the rebuilding city of Lailight Scintillation, each one having claimed a new bastion to work from. Each one as their personality dictated.

For Andra, it was the tallest spire in the city she could lay her hands on, which had a commanding view of everything she intended to own. Pazeral took a street-level residence that extended underground with access to the roads and streets; in his way, he viewed this as greater control than height. He could reach out and take whatever he wanted.

Shaullile had put herself in the heart of the bureaucracy she was taking control of in the city. The Emir Yazdil had his palace, personal and customized and utterly private.

Thatalocian lived in a bunker, a bastion underground, as he had before, to be protected against threats, the humblest of all the five abodes.

He was writing numbers which made no sense out onto a paper. Something was wrong. The numbers were in disorder. He glanced up, once, as his pot of black ink, so much higher-quality than what he’d had in his time, trembled.

The black liquid moved, as if drops of ink were falling into them from his quill tip, but he was so sparing…

Another [Slaver] would have ignored the faint signs. Thatalocian, in his stone room, lit by a single candle, knew what a quake felt like. He knew nothing else would move the stone enough to cause the ink to ripple.

So he spoke.

“8-1-1-4-5. 8-1-1-4-5.”

He wrote the same series of numbers down. Rhythmically. The numbers getting bigger and bigger, more jagged, as his flesh mottled and swelled. A hunched figure snapped the desk and chair as he rose.

“Haade the Ogre! Sound the alarm!”

The alarm was already ringing as the [Numerologist] turned. He raised one huge fist, which could crush lesser men in moments, wearing the form of the greatest Ogre he had known. Then he heard screaming.

His [Guards]. Lesser [Slavers] in their own right, pathetic and ill-spirited compared to the fine men and women he had known, assigned to him. They shrieked in ways that made Thatalocian’s skin chill. Men and women screamed as they died. But the cries of pain, of mortal death, were not the same as the screams that emerged when one died.

These sounded like a Seamwalker’s get was butchering them. Thatalocian drew a staff from the desk, written with numbers, and raised it overhead as he opened the door to his quarters. When he saw the first figure coming down the hallway, the [Numerologist] froze.

The ghost of the man who had survived the age when magic itself had died saw the first glowing figure breach a corner of the hallway. The checkpoint he had insisted be built, staffed with [Slavers] and magical and physical defenses, was being torn apart by a dozen of them.

Beings of light, mandibles open and screaming like insects—with wings. Wings, mouths, eyes, and arms.

Too many of each. A blinking, Human eye stared out of the summoned visage of a Worker with six pairs of insectile wings. Thatalocian saw lips moving, yelling, on the Antinium’s body.

The being of Pawn’s Heaven ran forwards, and it had eleven mouths, each of a different kind, six wings, four arms, and fifty-nine eyes. Each one stared out of Heaven’s gates with wrath at the enemies of Erin Solstice.

A screaming [Slaver] died as a foot caved in a skull. The heavenly Worker passed by a cowering [Slave], ignoring the spear trying to stab it; the magic barely had any effect, and this being had no fear of its death. It ran down the corridor at Thatalocian.

It’s her. He knew it. He had warned the others! Thatalocian swung his staff up, and all his own faith in numbers, his conviction born of an age of despair and chaos, met the Worker’s blade. The being recoiled and came at him as three more sped around the corridor.

How does she know about the Wishing Well? Fool! Fools!

“13-21-12-4-18—”

He began chanting another number, one even more vicious and frightening than Haade. Thatalocian was roaring, and he heard a howling voice in his ear and realized it was not just him.

It was all of them.

 

——

 

Shaullile was fleeing as Antinium overran the representative chambers. The [Slavers] who had been debating one of her new measures were dying.

She didn’t think—she ran, triggering her escape spells. She was yelling, having flashbacks.

This was just like how she had died when they rebelled. Stitchfolk.

She teleported into one of her own emergency safe rooms; like Thatalocian, she had them aplenty. She was no fool. The Drake was shouting for reinforcements to get to her now.

“Send the [Assassins]! Send the [Gladiators]! Get me—”

The Antinium didn’t breach the door. She’d teleported half a mile away and fifty feet down into the ground. It didn’t matter. When the first hand rose out of the ground, Shaullile shrieked.

She teleported into another safe room. They were rising from below when she threw the door open and ran into the streets, still shrieking.

Black-clad [Assassins] leapt at the Antinium and found themselves grappling with those terrifying beings from Heaven. Their poisons did nothing. Their magic barely did anything. Only blade and sinew mattered, and their foes kept coming. They kept—

 

——

 

Lord Pazeral was swinging a blade around, howling curses. Emir Yazdil had unleashed his loyal [Slaves] as he backed away from the Antinium butchering his guards, fighting even the Djinni under his control.

All four [Slave Lords] were well-protected and powerful in their way, with artifacts and Skills. The last of them was Lady Andra, who sat in her tower, white-knuckled as she sipped from a cup of whiskey with a shard of Everfrozen Ice in it.

She had paid for Roshal’s finest security. She listened to them screaming orders over the communications spell, fighting, calling for reinforcements.

Dying.

Several of the mercenaries ran—she began triggering death-runes in the bracelets she’d forced them to wear. The [Slave Lady] stared at the door, rich Ironbark—trembling as the fighting reached its zenith outside.

One of them made it through. Andra sat back in her chair as the Worker, screaming with eight mouths, charged her. A shackled Djinni leapt through the door and threw a spear as a [Battlemage] and half a dozen [Archers] loosed.

The Antinium crashed onto the carpets, pinned by the spear, struggling to reach her. A second volley nailed it down, shattering the Chemath Marble tiling underneath; Andra tried to estimate the costs as she saw the summoned being’s body warping. She sat back in her chair.

“Status report. Trace that Skill and—”

She glanced down as the Worker, still thrashing, raised one glowing hand. Its mouths moved, and all of them curved upwards in a smile—Lady Andra saw the Antinium glow.

“N—”

The explosion looked like the sky opening.

 

——

 

“Hm. Only one. Perhaps not even dead. I cannot tell, but they were in range of the explosion.”

That was the only comment Pawn made after six minutes of absolute terror. Roots Mrsha was shaking.

What did you do? Got who?

Pawn turned and smiled down at her as the Painted Antinium around him clasped their hands together and raised them in prayer.

“A woman in a tower, protected by a Djinni. Do you know her? I believe it was Roshal.”

Roots Mrsha hesitated. She peeked at Lyonette, who seemed ready to continue the vomiting trend.

Good. Who else did you attack?

“The Blighted Kingdom. A [Pirate] at sea. A man—strange, I don’t recall his name. Perhaps a Skill. It must mean he isn’t dead. But the explosions caught most of them.”

“Explosions?”

Lyonette breathed faintly. Pawn smiled at her.

“Well, yes. [Summon the Cohort of Heaven] was a Level 50 Skill, one of them. [Show Them the Antinium’s Sky] was an upgrade at Level…58, I want to say. Hold on—”

He held up a hand.

“I think the Blighted King is screaming something at me. A shame I cannot hear, only see through the cohort’s eyes. He looks as old as I remember.”

 

——

 

Admiral Maxy’s ship wasn’t burning. That vision of the sky didn’t burn. It was just sinking, despite all her Skills.

The Bloodfeast Raider’s hideout was half-obliterated. Korizan Reeles was blackened; his outer layer of skin had literally turned to ash from the neck downwards. He was staring ahead, white-knuckled as he held a sword, and suddenly, The Wandering Inn was on his mind again. Top of the list, you could say. But it wasn’t a target he was confident in destroying if he felt like it.

Are you laughing at her now? 

The attack had even reached the Blighted Kingdom, though it had not made it far. His Majesty of Rhir was in danger of another heart attack—he was screaming at the Antinium that Nereshal had frozen in a time bubble.

“—destroy you! You and all the Demons!”

“Your Majesty—”

They were trying to evacuate him. Only when Othius caught his breath did Nereshal whisper.

“It’s not the Antinium of Rhir. They have too many forms. Those were Izrilian—”

Then, the Blighted King saw the Antinium smile. He flinched as the sky bloomed, and Nereshal contained the explosion.

“Kill—kill the [Innkeeper]. She must have figured out we were activating the [Clown]. Do it now! How did it reach us here?”

Only the Deaths of the Demons had the power to breach so many protective spells. Even level 50 Skills had failed to reach them. The Blighted King was ranting, raving at Lord Hayvon, who was giving crisp orders.

“Double the guard and prepare for summoned foes capable of detonation. Magic had no effect; rotate in Her Majesty’s bodyguard and recall her from the front! I will accompany His Majesty. Find out who or what used that Skill and make sure the Earthers are safe.”

“Damn them! Make them ready for war! We cannot fail now!”

Othius screamed at Hayvon. He realized a fragment of the Antinium Worker was still ‘alive’. It was hanging in the air, contained by Nereshal’s time spell. Othius spat at it, a globule of faintly green-black phlegm that caught and hung in the time dilation.

 

——

 

On the other side of the world, Pawn nodded to himself.

“[Paladin] Purple Smiles? I think our point is well made, don’t you?”

The Soldier nodded as Pawn paused, then slapped his thigh, amused at his little joke.

“We are the Painted Antinium of Erin’s Sky. We do not make points. Your Skill.”

The [Paladin] put his hands on Pawn’s outstretched arm.

[Miracle: Witness It, Twice].

Pawn raised his arms. And the second wave shot into the world. He swore he could hear the Blighted King scream. Then he peered down at the others.

They were standing there; Lyonette and Mrsha held each other as even the Knights of Solstice gaped up at Pawn with that same expression in their eyes. The same gaze as those who witnessed Erin Solstice’s wonders. Disbelief. Realization this was real.

The [Apostle] wagged a finger at them and chuckled.

“Rejoice. The best is yet to come.”

 

——

 

Demsleth turned his head as he trailed through the [Palace of Fates], eyes wide. The hallways kept growing around him, doors appearing—it was as if the Skill was trying to keep up with him.

He knew these doors. He recognized some of the signs, ancient sigils he had once forgotten. The Dragonlord had begun to piece together what this place was, even before going through the door, by eavesdropping on the conversations. But to be here…

He stumbled. Then fell flat on his face. The old man lay there, panting for air, and when he raised his forehead, it was covered in sweat.

“Oh. Oh…I see. A mistake.”

Demsleth croaked, and he was…Demsleth. The watching Harpy Queen didn’t understand, but he did. The only other being that got it was, in fact, the rat.

It was an undead rat, confusedly wandering the hallways, bumping into the doors, recoiling, squeaking…then trying to focus. Demsleth had nearly attacked it because he knew who possessed it, but everything was different.

He was fake. He crawled over to the rat and stared at the green light coming from the eye sockets. The presence inside the rat was confused. Of course it was. It was only a bit of the Necromancer.

“An amateur’s mistake, really. You…you and I are just constructs. Pieces of the whole. Do you understand? It truly is another reality. Our mana flows—we’ve been cut off. You can barely think, and I—”

Demsleth gazed back over his shoulder. He whispered to the rat.

“The door. You see? We have to go through ourselves. But that Antinium is guarding it. He could kill you or I. He’s not as strong as you, but he has an army. They might close the door on us forever. Or—or something else. There must be a way to reopen it. But we’ll have to do it together. Truce?”

He held out a trembling finger to the other immortal, who was young but understood. The rat gave Demsleth a long look, then two tiny paws took his finger and shook it. Demsleth sighed in relief.

“No matter what—I will survive.”

Then he began plotting how to slip through again.

 

——

 

Another being was coming to the same conclusion for different reasons.

“Show me your hair again, my second daughter.”

Nanette was badly wounded. Burned beyond instant healing—trembling with the damage to her watery body.

Belavierr paid no notice. She sat, inspecting the bits of white fur that had been absorbed by the water of Nanette’s body in her flight from the strange place she had found herself.

It was not the color of the hair that mattered; that was of some interest, but Belavierr was performing a spell. A Tier 8 spell, ludicrously complex, if not so mana intensive, to investigate the bit of fur.

Another test was merely to hold another piece between her fingers and study it with all her craft and mastery of thread and stitchwork. Both things told her the same thing.

“…This does not exist.”

“It does, Mother. They hurt me. You lied. You said—”

Belavierr shushed Nanette. Her new, talented daughter was fine. She would live, wounds aside. Anything that did not slay you was a method to power. Suffering was power.

She was already well enough to try to stab Belavierr with the new dagger she’d found somewhere. She kept plunging the blade through Belavierr’s chest, then tried to slit her throat. She wanted to kill the Stitch Witch, of course; she had been promised that. It was an easy promise. Power gave you the ability to do anything.

But until she was so powerful, she was a motivated, fast-levelling daughter. Belavierr kept telling Wiskeria to be more like Nanette.

Right now, though, even her daughters occupied the Stitch Witch’s head not at all. She studied the fur, the most disturbed she had ever been in her life.

“This…tell me again what you saw, my beloved daughter.”

She reached out, and Nanette tried to dance away, then froze as a hand gripped her head and twisted it back to her. Nanette realized the Stitch Witch was utterly, seriously intent on her.

“W-what is it, Mother? What was that place?”

The Stitch Witch calmly and quietly began to pack up everything that mattered to her, everything of value, and summoned every bit and piece of her craft and power she had ever accumulated. She said one word.

“Reality.”

 

——

 

Then it was quiet. If you were counting, a screaming pair of consciousnesses barely able to keep up with the world, this is what you might categorize—slowly.

 

Real Mrsha and Rags—vanished. No location known.

Roots Mrsha, Lyonette, inn staff, Order of Solstice—in the [Palace of Fates].

Future Pawn and Painted Antinium—in the [Palace of Fates].

Better Days Kevin, Halrac, Headscratcher—entering the [Palace of Fates].

 

They were all coming through.

Lyonette du Marquin stood there as the remaining Mrsha produced a Faerie Flower root. Gingerly, she inserted the root into the door where Mrsha and Rags had vanished. They did not reappear.

—But a furry paw took hold of the root and did not let go. Ishkr, an Ishkr from the world of the Winter Solstice, took hold of the root and people began to climb through the door.

Kevin Hall was the first to walk into the [Palace of Fates]. He stared at another Mrsha, another Pawn, and a sea of faces who turned to him and—flinched.

He flinched too.

 

Student Rags, Redscar, Flooded Waters tribe Goblins—flying to combat the Mortemdefieir Titan.

 

The Dragonlord of Flames was making his stand in this world.

In the future, the Painted Antinium were surrounding The Wandering Inn, and television cameras was focused on them as Erin Solstice’s old friends and family gathered in front, wondering what was going on.

 

Future Belavierr—moving towards The Wandering Inn.

Better Days Az’kerash, Better Days Teriarch—both aware their proxies had vanished. Moving towards The Wandering Inn with their real bodies.

 

No one was dead—yet. Aside from possibly Slave Lady Andra, whose ghostly self was staring at pieces of her brain splattered on the concrete and clinging to her host-body. No one was dead, but the Deaths were watching.

 

——

 

The Deaths were watching as the Crone, shaking, finally killed the last of the angelic Workers. The Maiden was staring down at holes in her torso.

“How? How did they come here—”

They had nearly lost to figments, shadows made in the image of divine servants! But they had come for Kasigna. The Crone was afraid.

“We must go. Or we are lost.”

She urged her counterpart to take advantage of the chaos, to do what would allow them to live. The Maiden said nothing. The Crone strode forwards and tensed, waiting for her moment. The Maiden slowly sat down and looked over her shoulder.

Death smiled at her.

 

——

 

All of it in flux, all of it waiting.

But it was all falling apart. All…

Mrsha and Rags weren’t in any of the doors. They weren’t in the [Palace of Fates], not really. They weren’t anywhere even the Grand Designs could have said.

They were nowhere and everywhere. Between the places that made sense. Caught between the pages of a book.

Lost.

And they saw…everything.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

So, here we are again. A big arc and continuing events, good and bad. You know what? I get it.

Sometimes I get tired of a continual escalation of bad things without relief. Sometimes I catch myself trying to write out what’s in my head, and I think—did I have to write such a big event with so many pieces?

It’s just what appears. I don’t know if I work on it anymore, or I feel like ‘this is the way it has to be’. It’s a strange feeling when the story has become so long that it’s less like someone trying to create something, and more like I’m moving pieces of a puzzle around until they make sense.

I wrote a message which I alluded to in the other Author’s Note. I won’t say more here, only that the coming months and years are uncertain in my eyes. Much like this story, I hope it will look better when you can see it all from start to finish. Perhaps because you can just skip past the parts you don’t like.

At least with the chapters, I still sit here, sometimes, and wonder if it’s too much. Too miserable. Too unrealistic after so many crazy moments. But I believe in it. If I fail to take that belief to you, that’s my fault.

If it hurts, it matters. That’s not the best way to view writing, but I have always believed if something gives you no emotions, then it was pointless of me to write. Even if that emotion is laughter, or uncomplicated, low-stakes enjoyment—that is good writing. Let me know, but I hope you enjoy and the next chapters will hopefully have that stuff of The Wandering Inn at its finest.

But I always try that. See you then.

 

 

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