10.33 MNK

The holy kept marching through the door out of their world into a hallway filled with lights. The eternal sky shone above them as they walked into the [Palace of Fates]. When they entered, each one would stop and gaze up. Then they would see it.

A wending road through the heavens, rising above the hallways of comforting wood and creaking floorboards of an inn. What else could heaven look like? They would kneel, interrupting the procession into this world, and gaze upwards into the shining sky.

There, he stood. The hallways were all open-ceiling, and the walkways and staircases branched upwards until they reached the place where the apostle stood, all four arms raised. His faith was a terribly painful light for all but the faithful to behold.

Pawn’s certainty pressed down on your soul. Like an ocean of light, his convictions shoved aside doubts, clashed with impurity of thoughts, and it burned. His army continued to gather. Already, over a hundred Antinium, despite the delays in how many could move through the door at once and their reverential pace.

Each warrior was over Level 30 at least; the very vanguard of the Painted Antinium’s crusade admitted only that level as foot-soldiers. The highest-level among them were over Level 50—equivalent to the greatest champions a nation might field.

There were at least twenty of them; perhaps more were waiting to come through and holding the door from their side of the world.

And this was only the thousand Painted Antinium that Pawn had come with. More were making their way to Liscor. All of them, marching from the Hivelands and their garrisons across the world. The faithful had found their day of miracles.

Their faith was warping reality. So much concentrated belief became a physical presence, like magic. Only, the faith of the Painted Antinium did exactly what they thought it did.

It invigorated their flesh, healed any wounds, and they smiled with courage, conviction, hope, respite, and strength. The things Erin Solstice had given them. The things they believed of her.

Then the miracles began affecting their armor and personal effects. Blades, enchanted and unenchanted, began to glow as they manifested blessings. Sacred relics charged themselves until they were as radiant as the sky.

The silliest was the food. A Worker who had brought a single ice cream cone walked forwards, and the blessing of the Faith of Solstice turned their cone into a quadruple-stacked ice cream cone covered with sprinkles, whipped cream, three cherries, melted chocolate—and each ice cream was a different flavor. Mint, cookies and cream, neapolitan, and caramel. The Worker couldn’t even figure out how to eat it and stopped the entire line of Antinium until they broke out bowls to share the bounty of ice cream.

This was the army of holiness to bring salvation to the world. Pawn was shouting from his position as he faced his Antinium.

“First, we shall march—not upon Liscor or Pallass or any city of Izril. We go, my flock, to Elvallian. Home of the Titan of Baleros, where She waits! The Forgotten Wing company shall be first to know our presence, and they shall join us in championing Erin Solstice. Or they shall become the witnesses of Her wonders.”

He raised his club overhead, and with it, he could split the walls of a fortress. His holiest warriors stood around Pawn, and the [Apostle]’s eyes were glowing. Those two eerie pupils swivelled right and left as the Painted Antinium clicked their mandibles and lifted their weapons in reverence and determination.

“We shall witness the birth of our Goddess. Then she shall lead us across this world upon her enemies. As she wills it, Roshal, the Blighted Kingdom, and her other foes shall be cast into Hell. Then we shall return here and open every door. Until She is in every world. Then, we shall return to our world with an army of the faithful that numbers endless billions. Then, Heaven shall be on earth as everywhere. This is the start of our final war! Rejoice!”

The Antinium coming through the doors moved faster, a frenzy of excitement and desperation upon hearing Pawn’s words. They waited, forming solemn ranks kneeling in prayer, some investigating doors, each one filled with visions of Pawn’s future.

The greatest army to ever come to Liscor now stood in the [Palace of Fates]. Pawn had the highest level in a faith class in this world. And he was praying. Levelling from simply being here.

Lyonette du Marquin gazed at Pawn’s army of faith from the corridor where she and the rest of her world had retreated to. She spoke softly.

“I can kill him.”

Ser Dalimont tore his eyes away from the horrifying—and awe-inspiring sight. He thought he’d misheard her. Certainly, Duke Rhisveri, rubbing his beard, turned his head.

“You’re joking. That Antinium might be able to match me if I was here in force. Well, not alone, but that army can’t be stopped. Not by you, and possibly not by Pallass. I’m preparing teleportation spells. If he turns hostile, I’ll bring you all to Ailendamus. We’ll have to mobilize every asset we have if his insane plans succeed, but that’s the only way to stop this lunacy.”

It said something that the good Duke Rhisveri seemed like the only voice of reason and hope in this moment. Lyonette didn’t take her eyes off Pawn. She still stood in front of the far humbler door that led to the past.

The world with the inn, the beach, the Winter Solstice—where Rags and her daughter had vanished. Of course…another Mrsha was there. Roots Mrsha was gaunt, tired, and she saw Lyonette’s gaze fall upon her. The [Princess]’ eyes were so empty.

Lyonette gazed at her daughter, but Roots Mrsha knew she wasn’t the real daughter Lyonette needed to see. She was only…the spare. The only Mrsha left, perhaps. No one knew where Rags and Mrsha were.

Everything was unravelling. Lyonette glanced from Mrsha to a frozen figure trying to make sense of all this. Kevin.

Kevin, from another time. Her eyes flicked away from him so fast that it was as if Kevin were also glowing like the sun. Lyonette took a steadying breath and repeated herself.

“I can kill him. I will erase his army and Pawn himself if I must. If I must. It will be the end of this [Palace of Fates], perhaps. But if he is so mad—then I will halt him here. I doubt I will survive the deed, and it may cost the lives of many of us. But I can do it. The question is—should I? There’s that Titan out there. I’ll kill it too.”

She wasn’t shaking or mad with grief. That was the unsettling thing that caused Root Mrsha’s hair to stand up. Lyonette’s face was eerily calm, but her words were heavy. Like Rags had been before she went to battle the Titan the first time. A woman facing her own death. The difference was—Lyonette’s eyes were locked on Pawn.

Rhisveri passed a hand over his eyes, then narrowed them. He learned forwards, so close he was almost pecking Lyonette with his nose.

“Huh. Say that again?”

She leaned away from him.

“What? I will kill him.”

The Wyrm rubbed his eyes again.

“You keep saying that. But this truth spell has to be malfunctioning. Because, heh, that would be—”

Lyonette’s blue eyes were glowing. Her face was almost bloodless, and her lips were stark red and crimson, almost Vampiric.

“If my daughter is dead, I will obliterate that [Apostle] and this entire place. No one will survive. Not you, Rhisveri, not that Titan if he somehow pops out of another door. I hope, earnestly, he doesn’t force me to it.”

The Wyrm’s characteristically superior expression became uncertain. He moved back a step, and from his perch, Pawn’s oration to his faithful faltered.

 

——

“—hour is coming! The—the—”

The Worker half-turned and saw the red-haired [Princess] gazing at him. Pawn’s glowing eyes blinked, turning black for a second to simulate the effect, and he gazed down at his hands.

He had one left. The [Priest] was burning. Not with faith or holy fire, but more mundane flames, eating away his broken carapace. He raised his head, and the [Palace of Fates] was…disintegrating.

Hallways were breaking apart and vanishing. Dead Antinium, his faithful, lay in mounds. Those who weren’t simply ash were charred husks. The imprints of metal armor and weapons were baked into the stone floors, which themselves had cracked with the heat or turned liquid in places.

Black soot covered the hallways, and the flames were engulfing everything. There was a single woman standing in the ash of it all.

Lyonette du Marquin, nineteen years old, lifting a burning weapon in her hands. Her clothing was aflame, and she was dying, arrows sticking out of her eyes. The [Apostle] raised his hands to stop her, and the final flare of light engulfed them both.

 

——

 

“Argh.”

Pawn recoiled from the vision and stumbled. His sermon petered out, and the Antinium started. The [Apostle] checked himself, but he knew this.

[Omen of Destruction].

It shook him. The omens were infrequent, but they spelled true disaster; even Mrsha and Rags’ ambush of him hadn’t triggered this. The last time he’d felt one occurring, a volcano had been poised to erupt over his faithful in Baleros.

“How…?”

That wasn’t the right question. The omens did not lie. Future Pawn half-turned from Lyonette, and rattled, he spoke to Purple Smiles.

“Purple Smiles, I entrust command of our world to you. Ensure the rest of the Painted Antinium come through safely. Leave enough to hold the door…do not let the guests of the inn take it. We may have to collapse the gate. I do not trust one like Archmage Springwalker with it. And the rest of you—do not provoke the people from this time.”

Uncertainly, he pivoted to Lyonette. He did not understand—but if that was a fate, then so be it. They would leave this place without a hint of a battle against her.

This is not my Lyonette who loves me. This one is more dangerous than she was. Far, far more. Far less faithful as well.

How beautiful. He hoped this version of himself was dutifully courting her. She hadn’t even brought him up. Perhaps he was dead?

 

——

 

The unnatural confidence the [Princess of the Inn] had was one thing. But mutually assured destruction was still destruction; the rest of the inn’s guests were arguing about what to do.

Grandmaster Normen was strategizing with everyone of sound character he could muster. So that meant, well, everyone.

If you weren’t standing in a semicircle, you were listening from the sides. Some of the inn’s staff were squatting around, rubbing at bruises, but the main discussion was centered around a few people.

Bird, Elia, Ishkr, Yelroan, Peggy, Rosencrantz, the other [Knights] of Solstice, Colfa, and Vaulont. The people who felt motivated to do something. Most of them had their arms crossed or were fiddling with weapons. Jewel was running a whetstone down a blade for Peggy as Pyrite shared around a bag of liquorice.

Normen had a rough map he was pointing at; Rosencrantz stood in the center of the circle, rotating helpfully. It wasn’t a good map; the [Palace of Fates] was inherently mutable, so it was essentially a map of the corridor that Apostle Pawn was in with possible vectors of attack drawn in little arrows.

The little arrows made Normen feel better. The Grandmaster eyed Pawn balefully with both his healed eyes and pointed out the obvious.

“He won’t go back. And every second, more and more of that army is coming through. We couldn’t even stop them when they were fighting barehanded. Even if we had Elia snipe Pawn or something…they are going to go to Erin.”

Though, admittedly, their ideas weren’t solid yet. The half-Elf jumped when they suggested she shoot Pawn and raised a hand.

“Me? I don’t think I can do that. Or rather, I don’t think he’ll die.”

Elia shook her head reflexively, and Bird raised her hand.

“I doubt Elia and I could kill Pawn. Even if I shot him in the head, I feel like his stupid rings would stop the arrow. Or his people. Or he would just heal. Then the Painted Antinium would kill us all, so this plan is terrible, Normen.”

“Well, what would you do? What would Erin do?”

Bird scratched her antennae.

“Talk him down and throw a cake at him? I do not know. What if we sent our Pawn at him? I think he’s in the Free Hive. Or maybe he’s somewhere else.”

“What would that do?”

Bird crossed her arms defensively.

“Maybe they’d get very confused and explode? I don’t know! We must distract him. I vote Lyonette seduces him.”

Jewel choked on a sip of water. She shook her head.

“That’s stupid. What if we just…sealed them in here? Think about it. They have to enter the [Garden of Sanctuary]. We just make the door vanish, and we’re set.”

That actually got nods from several people, and Normen brightened up. Peggy pointed excitedly behind her.

“That’s right! Erin’s [Garden of Sanctuary] doesn’t belong to them. We’ll just say, ‘no bad Painted Antinium’!”

She beamed until someone grunted and raised a hand.

“Pawn has a Skill that lets him transfer between worlds. The [Garden of Sanctuary] won’t stop him.”

Everyone turned, and all the Goblins flinched. Normen just eyed the big Hobgoblin who stood there as if he belonged, and Pyrite stopped chewing on some liquorice. He met the [Grandmaster]’s eyes.

“Or is that incorrect?”

Ishkr broke in, somewhat breathlessly.

“—No, that’s right. Er…er…Pyrite? We’ve never met. I’m Ishkr. From this world. Can I offer you a drink?”

He produced one via his [Instantaneous Order] Skill, and Pyrite accepted it with a faint smile. Then he grimaced as he glanced at the Painted Antinium. The Hob nodded at Ishkr.

“I know almost everyone here. From my world. I’m dead.”

He was too casual about it. Someone else flinched and walked away from the group. Numbtongue looked physically ill and shook his head. He couldn’t bear to meet Pyrite’s eyes or Kevin’s. But what was even worse was when someone tried to place a hand of concern over his shoulder.

“Br—Numbtongue?”

Headscratcher, the Goblin Lord of Sorrows, gazed at the [Soulbard] of this world, wondering why this Numbtongue had a silly beard. Numbtongue jerked around, met Headscratcher’s worried gaze, and then he ran with a cry.

The Goblin Lord of Sorrows almost ran after him, but Pyrite snagged Headscratcher’s arm, and the [Berserker] joined the strategy meeting. Ishkr offered Headscratcher a drink, and the Goblin Lord took a deep draft of plum wine.

“Okay, question. What’s the worst-case scenario here? Pawn and the Painted Antinium leave the [Palace of Fates] and join Erin in Baleros? They’re not going to hurt us, unless I’m misreading the situation. The worst case scenario is that Erin has…a free army of high-level Antinium keeping her safe and Roshal and the Blighted Kingdom are destroyed? Frankly, given what I keep seeing in these future doors, that doesn’t seem that bad.”

This voice of reason and logic came from Yelroan, who adjusted his sunglasses. Pyrite shaded his eyes and blinked at the [Mathematician], confused as to who this Gnoll with the shiny sunglasses was. But he nodded with cautious optimism along with everyone else.

“Right, that’s not bad. Aside from the g-g-God thing. Erin wouldn’t want to be that.”

Ishkr managed the word after a few tries, and Peggy waved a hand.

“Pshh, she can turn back. Probably. I dunno. She keeps saying the scary Three-in-One woman was that. Erin summons, uh, a hundred thousand super Antinium in a snap of the fingers? Sound pretty good. She does that for a while, then we fix it.”

You had to admit, it sounded like a winning strategy. When life handed you a bunch of lemons, make a lemon-crusade. Right?

It felt like the plan of action until Ishkr lifted a cautious hand.

“Small problem. Uh, does anyone know if Pawn can track Erin, or is he just going based on what we told him?”

They’d given Future Pawn some information about their world, or rather, the original Mrsha had. Everyone else shrugged, and Normen frowned at Ishkr.

“No. It sounds like he doesn’t have any ability to do that. I heard some of the [Crusaders] describing their wars, and it sounded like they ran down rumors instead of following ‘divine prophecy’. But they can go anywhere in the world they want, so reaching Elvallian might take them a day at most.”

Which was crazy, but a Level 60+ Antinium could work wonders, literally. Ishkr fidgeted and bit his lip, clearly wondering if this should stay a secret. Yelroan eyed him, and the [Head Server] decided this was too pertinent to keep under wraps.

“What…would happen, hypothetically, if Pawn marched an entire crusade to Elvallian, and even if Niers Astoragon were a reasonable man about the entire affair, Pawn were to find that the Erin Solstice that’s on the news…wasn’t the Erin Solstice he was hoping for?”

The others took a second to digest that, and Normen’s eyes narrowed. Jewel gasped.

“You don’t mean—”

Normen was the only member of the Order of Solstice who knew Erin well, which was sort of ironic, but he had said how odd she’d acted on television. Vess muttered as the pieces clicked into place.

“Oh, Ancestors. That might be bad. And it’s the Forgotten Wing company.”

Ishkr nodded.

“Not exactly a calm group who’d take an army showing up well. I’ve met Niers.”

Durene snapped her fingers in relief. She was very nervous, mostly because she’d come to the conclusion she wasn’t the strongest person in the room, not by a long shot.

“Oh yeah, I forgot! He was actually at the inn. He seemed nice at Daquin, right? He’s the world’s greatest [Strategist]. Surely he’d be reasonable…?”

Ishkr traded looks with Yelroan, and Pyrite raised a hand.

“I have met Niers. He is not reasonable. I have not met this Pawn, but if I stare at him…”

The former Goldstone Chieftain eyed Pawn, arms raised in benediction to his goddess.

“…I do not think he would take a fake Erin well. Or the second question. What if he makes this fake Erin a Goddess? Does anyone know who she is?”

Everyone turned back to Ishkr, and the Gnoll’s expression grew fidgety. Ever since he’d told the rest of the inn’s family about the fake Erin, they’d speculated, of course. There were only a limited number of people it could be, and Ishkr had privately done some thinking.

At first, before he’d talked to the real Erin, Ishkr had realized the other Erin was fake. His instinct had been that it was probably Ulvama. It made sense; the Goblin was the only person who hadn’t shown up. It could be Silvenia—some things fit, but Ishkr had doubted the Death of Magic had that much time or patience. A possibility, but Ulvama was the theory everyone had gone with.

…Then had come the Erin-meeting where she’d indicated quite plainly that she and Ulvama were in the same place. So Ishkr went back to the mental drawing board. He had conceived of a third person it might be, which was the most insane option of all. And because it was so crazy, he believed it was probably true.

He coughed into his paw.

“…If that could happen, you don’t want a fake Goddess. No matter who it is.”

It would be hilarious. He kept his face straight as Normen cursed and fidgeted with his helmet’s visor again. They went back to speculating as a few members of the group wandered away, either unable to help or processing what was going on.

Kevin, for one. He walked off, waving a hand at someone.

“Oh, hey, Peggy? Peggy, hi. It’s me—”

She screamed so shrilly that the Painted Antinium peered over at her, then she burst into tears and ran, much like Numbtongue. Kevin lowered his hand, gazed around, then stumbled away.

 

——

 

Kevin was terrifying to talk to. There was a reason people weren’t instantly coming over and engaging him in conversation.

“I mean, what do I even say? Kevin! My guy! Long time no see! I buried you! How’s it going?”

That earned Rose a laugh. A dark one that turned to wheezing and coughing, but it was a laugh. She helped the burnt man to walk a few more steps, then looked around.

“Is there a seat anywh—oh, wow. That’s convenient.”

Rose saw a stone bench set next to a rock garden in a hallway that was all glass. It was bright and cheerful, and when you thought ‘Devil’, you didn’t really associate the imagery with that.

Dead gods, there were little handprints of various species in paint on the ground. A Gnoll’s pawprint, a tiny Sariant Lamb’s hoof, a Drake’s clawed hand—Viscount Visophecin eyed the flagstones as he stumbled over to the bench, then sat down.

He looked like shit. Rose had no idea what degree of burns the Lucifen had, but he looked like a chicken wing done extra crispy. He was alive, though, and she’d brought him away from the Antinium on general principle.

“If…you need to speak to the image of your friend, I suggest you do so, Miss Rose. In my experience, you seldom get second chances in moments like these.”

Even half-collapsed on a bench with most of his suit burnt away, he was still a handsome guy. He had greyish skin, and he fit the image of a fit, suave, business-Devil that you had in your head. Again, extra-crispy. He actually smelled like burnt ashwood and perfume. How did you incinerate nicely?

Rose was vaguely allured, but mostly fascinated.

A Devil. She glanced around, but no one had launched an attack on the Painted Antinium so far, and besides, she was Rose.

Not the important person in this moment. That’s why she’d snuck away to help Visophecin. She felt like this was a job for an Earther. Of course, that was if he was on her side.

“I could see Kevin. But I think you need me more. You sure you don’t want a healing potion?”

Visophecin was breathing slowly, and he held up a hand.

“It has a limited effect on my physiology. I will survive. I must simply gather my strength in case I am needed. Why…would I require your assistance, Miss Rose? I barely know you, though I am indebted to you. I shall not forget it.”

A toothy smile. Rose shivered.

“Oh, that’s so cool. I thought since there were Demons, I’d never meet an actual Devil, but you play the part really well. Is that on purpose? Do you know about Devils? I know you’re called ‘Lucifen’, but if you were actually the Devil, I think you’d have known better than to fight someone who does holy damage like that.”

Visophecin’s smile winked out, and he gave her a cautious, appraising look.

“My exact nature is secret—”

“Right, right. Just like Colfa and everyone else. Lips sealed. Don’t threaten me, please, or put a bomb on my tongue like Ryoka had. I think she mentioned that? I’m from Earth. You know that too, right?”

A hesitation. He was playing a hand of poker, and he had the face to match. This was a bigshot from Ailendamus; Rose bet he was a match for any Archmage of Wistram with his political savvy and insights. But he wasn’t prepared for a young woman who’d hung out with Adetr Steelfur for the last few months.

Rose? Rose was playing checkers.

“I—am aware of your origins. I gather that was secret.”

“What? Yep, in the inn. But here?”

Rose indicated the [Palace of Fates] and leaned forwards.

“So do you know what a Devil is? I’m not saying you are one, but I don’t think you know, and it’d be useful to figure it out, right?”

The Viscount’s eyes flickered.

“Courier Ryoka did explain some of the legends of Earth to me. The—reputation my kind has seems overinflated, even if there were similarities. Rest assured, I am not evil by default, nor do I seek the downfall or souls of other beings on pure principle.”

On pure principle. Rose didn’t miss that. She gave Visophecin a sweet smile.

“Right, that sounds like Ryoka. She told you about Lucifer?”

“An astonishing coincidence. She did relate other beings of such natures, so I am well informed.”

“But she missed the part where you’re weak against holy magic.”

The Lucifen hesitated.

“—I was not aware that was a given rule.”

“It is in video games.”

“…That would be these fictitious games you play on devices from your world?”

“Yep.”

“Entirely fictional works loosely based on stories or events wildly exaggerated. Pure fantasy.”

“Mhm. But in video games, darkness characters always are weak against holy or faith-based damage. It’s super effective against them. Case in point.”

Rose folded her arms, and Visophecin’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth, clearly trying to work a hole into this terrible argument full of them. Then he regarded his skin which was charred black in places. The Lucifen tried to unslump, then leaned back on the stone bench.

“…Is there anything else I should know about, ah, Devils?”

“Hm. Let me think. If I were guessing what you were purely based on my information from Earth…I’d say you’re big on contracts. I’d be real wary of signing anything you gave me, unless I were trying to trick you. I’d assume you were fireproof—uh, present examples excepted, obviously—and that you were good at summoning stuff. You’d be darkness-magic flavored with fire magic as an optional. Oh, and I’d expect you to have a second form.”

Visophecin hadn’t been that impressed until that last bit. He sat up a bit.

“On general principle or because you saw…?”

The young woman gave him a thumbs up.

“On general principle! Some huge form that makes you tougher and more evil-looking. Like I said, video games. Holy magic is almost always your weak spot.”

“An entire type of class? It seems my people have been lucky up till now not to encounter such…is there any way to mitigate the damage?”

Rose was stumped by that.

“A…ring of holy resistance?”

The Lucifen nodded along, then caught himself. He coughed.

“You have no idea if that exists, do you?”

“Nope!”

They stood there, and at least one of them felt rather silly about all this. But Rose just sat on the bench and scooted over. She stared down at the children’s handprints on the tiles, then at this lovely hallway.

It was probably the most functional [Palace of Fates] she had seen, lovely and open. She imagined a children’s center might have a hallway like this, or a nice private elementary school. There were even plants in the rock garden they were sitting next to; fake, of course.

“So…this is your palace or something? Is this your personal hell?”

Visophecin was gingerly reconstructing his suit. He glanced up as he tugged at one cufflink and remade the dark fabric.

“Hm? Not at all. Oh, it’s not ideal, but I rather suspect it’s based on my subconscious. I have been…in similar locales a lot.”

“Daycares for children?”

His eyebrows rose.

“Hardly. Or rather—”

He exhaled.

“It resembles House Shoel’s mansion. The handprints are mementos of the children who visit. If this were a real location, the names would be written below—ah.”

He bent over, and Rose saw names written under each handprint. Visophecin sat back.

“A very clever Skill, then.”

“You…have lots of children who visit your mansion?”

Rose gave Visophecin a round-eyed look of innocence, doing her best Erin, and tried not to leap to the most obvious and darkest conclusion of why that would be. Visophecin noticed her stare and clarified.

“My people share space with our fair cousins. Agelum. They have a fondness for children and, well, mortality.”

“Oh. Oh. Ohmy—not-gods! And you’re hanging out with them? That’s so…”

Cute! Adorable! Unexpected! Hilarious! Heartwarming!

Visophecin’s red pupils dared Rose to say any of the words bubbling to the tip of her tongue, and she bit her lip.

“—Ironic.”

The Lucifen exhaled. His gaze shifted away from Rose.

“Yes. It is, isn’t it? Though what should I have wished for? Some…appropriate vista of your image of me? A castle of self-aggrandizement? I have heard stories of a court my people held, and it was…”

For a moment, the [Palace of Fates] seemed to flicker, and a wave passed across the corridor, turning the cheerful handprints on marble to a black-and-red checkerboard of tiles. Black columns rose upwards, the open windows took on an orange hue, and the odor of oil and metal filled the air. The ceilings rose, but points developed overhead, and Rose’s skin itched as if eyes were upon her; despite the grander vista, it seemed to bear down on her shoulders.

—Then the wave passed, and the hallway remained. Visophecin seemed just as surprised as Rose and blinked around. She leaned back.

“Yeah. That’s clichéd. So…you’re not an evil guy. You let little kids autograph your floors, and you were fighting pretty non-lethal back there. You’re not what Earthers would expect.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps I am in too many ways, like this weakness to—faith.”

Visophecin’s eyes stole back to the place where the Painted Antinium were gathered, and Rose noticed his wounds were almost healed. Which was surprising to him as well as her. He flexed one arm, and his muscles stood out on his body. Visophecin blinked.

“I feel invigorated. So that’s what we were missing all along.”

He closed his eyes, and Rose spoke, tilting her head.

“Faith, right? Oh! You guys need faith to survive or get powerful?”

He opened one eye, visibly annoyed by her pointing out what was probably some great realization to him. But then Visophecin just nodded and sat back against the bench.

“A lesson in hubris. One I have learned more than once, but it seems, not taken to heart. Hope amidst hellfire. It is raining, a downpour of sorrows, but there is always, always a brilliant figure standing amidst the storm, laughing in defiance of it. I shall do the same.”

He had a sword at his side, and now, his clothing was mended. He sat forwards, clasping his gloved hands together. Ready for battle, quietly determined. He seemed unsure, though, what else to say, and so Rose gave him a beaming grin.

“Welcome to The Wandering Inn. I’m Rose.”

She held out a hand, and Visophecin eyed her, bemused, then shook her grip lightly. He smiled at her, inspecting her now, and she shivered.

“You have legends about my kind, but you don’t fear me?”

“Eh. I was raised religious, but they did a good job of pushing me out of that. Once you decide God and his angels might not love you, the Devil himself seems nicer. We need help. Whose side are you on?”

The man in black studied Rose, one eyebrow raised, then his eyes lit up, and he lifted her hand and gently pressed his forehead against it before glancing up at her.

“I am on everyone’s side I care to be. Especially if we can strike a…deal. Do you need power, Miss Rose Cinevoy?”

She’d never told him her last name. Rose shivered again and then felt her arms tingling with excitement.

“What kind of power?”

He did not smile, but rather stood and offered her an arm. When she refused that, the stranger held the door open for her and offered her a light for the dark room. This was a palace full of doors, but there was always one more to surprise her. She stood a while at the entrance, mostly because it was appropriate.

He waited longer, pondering the consequences of his actions.

 

——

 

“Ushar, keep an eye on our visitors. I’m…going to prepare.”

Lyonette was white-faced, and Dame Ushar hesitated before bowing. She hadn’t a hope of keeping tabs on everyone; they’d already lost Demsleth, Taletevirion was still wandering around, and other people were moving off. But given her druthers—the [Knight] watched Ser Dalimont trailing after Lyonette and decided an impossible task suited her more at the moment.

The [Knight] was…lost. She had failed her oath so quickly. She had sworn to protect Mrsha, and the girl had done what she’d thought was right and vanished. Ushar hoped Mrsha wasn’t—dead—but she…

It was the same feeling as the Solstice. This helpless chaos made Ushar feel as though Pawn wasn’t wrong. Perhaps it was Erin Solstice or the inn. Here came events so great they would make the Thousand Lances of Kaaz fall to their knees.

The Thronebearer slapped one cheek lightly. Wait, she was being a fool. There was still another Mrsha here! She had failed, but at the same time—

She turned to her charge, and the place where the thin white Gnoll girl had been…was empty.

Roots Mrsha had vanished. Unlike the real Mrsha, she had made no promise to Ushar to trust the Thronebearer. The [Knight] swivelled around, then began panicking.

 

——

 

Roots Mrsha moved slowly. She was a bit tired after being cured of the Crypt Worms. She was just a tiny bit exhausted from all this unpredictable fate-stuff. Which was funny, because she was part of it.

She didn’t run off panicking like the others or march with dreadful intent like Lyonette did. Rather, Mrsha just left the [Palace of Fates], climbed up into the [Garden of Sanctuary], and hugged a little bee who came flying down to meet her.

Hey, Apista. It’s bad down there. Stay up here. I need a few roots.

The bee was confused, but she gamely followed Mrsha to the place the original white Gnoll had hid them: in the snow in the Drathian [Garden of Sanctuary].

The roots weren’t frozen or dying; they were the same as ever. Mrsha began to count.

They’d had eighteen. A number had been used on the doors, then re-used…had someone taken one or two of them? She glanced suspiciously at Apista, and the bee avoided her gaze.

Well, it’s all going to Rhir. Mrsha took four, leaving only a few left. She knew that each one was irreplaceable, unable to be reclaimed, the chance of a lifetime, yadda yadda. It didn’t matter. You could use one on any door and pull as many people as you wanted through, it seemed.

Besides…

It’s all falling apart.

Mrsha went back to the [Palace of Fates] and began walking down the corridors, searching for ‘her’ doors. They were slow in coming, as if even the palace were being overloaded by all these events.

Roots Mrsha had only one objective now. She knew it and wearily walked forwards as someone stalked her. One of the few people who really mattered in this moment.

Mrsha didn’t matter. She was a weak, young girl, despite her levels, and she was tired. She only mattered because of what she held. The roots.

“What are you plotting, child?”

Mrsha walked past that vast mirror that stretched down the hallway, and a Harpy towered over her. The [Empress] took one step for every two dozen of Mrsha’s, looming over the little girl—but the hallway was clear and sunlit from the windows on the far end.

Empress Sheta only existed in the mirror. She was not nervous nor frightened. That was good. It was actually reassuring to talk to her; you needed scary people for moments like this. Mrsha wrote on a card and pasted it to the mirror as she walked.

Hey, Empress Sheta. Is the other me dead?

“I do not know. I have never seen anything enter the doors, let alone fathomed what might occur when one closed. I asked the overseer of Skills to create this place for me, and that was never what I bargained for. Other aspects of similar design, yes, but not this impossibility. It is my creation; it already borders on the limits of what may be made with Skills. The [Pavilion of Secrets] is sentient. This palace has no true mind, but it is greater.”

Look, I don’t really get what you’re talking about. Do you mind saying it like a reasonable person?

Sheta hopped back a few times, aghast by Mrsha’s reply. She opened her mouth, then gave Mrsha a glare like a hunting eagle. She scratched at the floor with one claw.

“If I must be blunt—the [Palace of Fates] is less powerful in many ways than my pavilion. The [Pavilion of Secrets] has many functions, one of which is to uncover grand truths. With it, one may meet with beings, affect the world around them. It is the tool of a sovereign ruler in their prime. This…this is the quiet palace that exists for one who is tired and weary. Who wishes to know what might have been.”

To hurt yourself.

“Not just that.”

The Empress of Harpies turned her massive body away, shielding her face with one wing. Then she relented and glided towards Mrsha after a minute.

“Yes. No. The Unicorn uses it as I intended. You…have done what I wished were possible. Madness. Disaster. I ask you again: what is your will?”

The child gave her a bleak, silent chuckle.

It’s simple, Sheta. Mrsha and I thought this might happen. We’re the same person, after all. We made a plan in case this kind of thing occurred.

Not that they’d predicted holy Pawn and an army of faith, but they had thought of it. Mrsha’s first door she had opened, after all, had been to that raft. To speak with the one woman who would understand consequences the most.

“I see. Then what is your failsafe?”

The Mrsha from another world raised her head and gave the last Empress of Harpies a sweet, disarming smile. In her world, her Rags was dead. Her mother was frantic, searching for her. Her Lyonette…might be dead.

She had not given the idea the thought it deserved, had tried not to countenance it while she helped Mrsha in this world. After all, even if she could return…

I’ll just be stuck in the [Palace of Fates]. Unless, perhaps, I can shift where I pop out. She’d thought of that too. She could run away with the roots in her hand.

But she was afraid to open that door and ask if her mother was alive or dead.

All my fault.

All our faults. But we chose this. 

So, whether you believed it or not—

Mrsha would take responsibility. The girl wrote at length on her card, then gently licked it and slapped it to the mirror. The Harpy Queen blinked at the saliva-covered note. It said this:

If all fails, I will do what Mrsha would do: burn it all down. If there are consequences? So be it—she and I are ready. All we want is a world slightly better than it was. Are you a good person, Empress Sheta?

“I…”

The Harpy Queen hesitated in a moment of true honesty. She had been hiding. Hiding not from Pawn, though she did not know his class. She had been hiding from Demsleth. From that old man whom she had never dared invite into the [Pavilion of Secrets], her shame.

Much less here. She opened her mouth, and Roots Mrsha vanished. Skipping through the [Palace of Fates] to her destination.

Empress Sheta grew angry at this. She drew breath to cry out her outrage, for she was still the last Empress of Harpies, the final ruler of the nation that had ruled Izril forty thousand years ago.

Then she saw something below the note currently sliding down the mirror and leaving a trail of saliva on the ground. The Harpy went cross eyed. She bent down, her massive frame tilting forwards until it was mere feet from the ground.

There it was. A single, innocuous piece of flexible plant matter. A brown root blooming with yellow flowers.

She felt a chill on her wings as she had not truly experienced until the last moments of her life. The wind blew in the world of the mirror-palace, ruffling Sheta’s feathers.

One claw reached for the tiny object. Then Sheta hesitated. She wavered as the lifeline, that link to reality, to life waited there. Then, like an actor upon a stage, the Harpy Queen’s head twisted around while her body remained still.

That was horrific; the genetics of an owl let the woman’s head move in ways that would have killed another being. And it had saved her life before, you know. An arrogant Drake [Princeling] had once tried to assassinate a girl of six and only found out, later, that the girl had played dead.

You see, Sheta too knew what it was to be a burdened child with too many woes to take on. The only difference was that she’d grown up. She stood on one claw, resting the other on her leg, balanced perfectly, spreading her wings for balance, posing; Harpies loved to pose, each in their own manner. Another fact lost to the ages.

—And there was no one to know it. There was a root, her advent into reality, and the [Empress] hesitated, because…the girl had run away.

From her. Sheta spoke to the empty hallway, hesitant, giving her soliloquy to the unseen audience she imagined.

“I am dead. The ‘me’ who stands here is but a copy I gave to the [Palace of Fates] as part of my bargain. I am the Empress Sheta who walked here until the moment when I tired. Then—I spread my wings and flew out of this place to my final battle. I never returned.”

She waited, but the child was gone. The child, Mrsha, who had time for everyone and everything that mattered to her. Not…

“I am the last Empress of Harpies; I believe this to be true in spirit, if not in fact. The Harpy Empire of Iltanus was collapsing before I was ever born. I let it die. I tried to do it well. I could have clung to power, even, possibly, kept my empire burning another hundred years. Perhaps a thousand. But I would have had to become a slaughterer to overwhelm the voices who called out for freedom and their own liberty.”

No girl sat there, and now, the Harpy’s head searched around for something, even a gnat, to speak to. Not once had they asked her for her story. Sheta whispered.

“I did this because the Dragonlord of Flames taught me well. He showed me what cruelty hid in the shadows cast by the wings of ambition of an empire. So I damned it—and perhaps my people—that I might save more lives. That I would live without reproach. In doing so, I condemned so many to their painful ends.”

Her eyes shone with reproach for her champion and teacher, and Sheta hid her face with one wing, parting the feathers slightly to peek through, like an actress hiding behind a fan. But there was no young woman to confide in, none of the other heroines Teriarch had met over the years to share her story with—and she did not have the heart to speak to him.

“I have never seen roots such as these. Once upon a time, they laid a tribute before me: a length of rope made of Djinni’s essence. Their very magic and beings, memory and love and emotions, twisted into strings and melded together; a tool to call upon them and subjugate their will for war. It horrified me. This root scares me more. If I emerge, Mrsha du Marquin, I fear what I will do.”

Her voice dropped low.

“I was wrathful. I let my empire die at the end of it all. I have made war that melted the Continent of Glass. I was there when the Dragonlord of Flames burnt cities until they called him the Pyrelord.”

No Mrsha stood before her. The Harpy Empress paused, affronted to the core of her being. She spread her wings and reached for the root.

Then, once more, hesitated. She closed her eyes, and stood there again.

At last, the Harpy lowered her claw, backed away from the mirror, raising her wings. She flapped—and the hallway of mirrors vanished as a Thronebearer skidded around the corridor. Sheta removed the hallway from the rest of the [Palace of Fates], from any place a visitor would find it. Then she stood there, waiting.

Thinking.

After all, she had a moment to seize, but choosing when to take it was the wisdom the Dragonlord of Flames had taught her long ago. And then she wondered—where Roots Mrsha was going, if this was how she had begun her final gambit. If she had started with the last Empress of Harpies—what next?

Like Ushar, the Harpy flew off to find the girl. But the Gnoll had already vanished.

Great deeds awake. Mrsha, both of them, had always known what to do at the end.

She had just feared it. The children took the roots that so many beings coveted and used them on the things that mattered to them. A root—not for armies, [Heroes], or great relics and treasures.

She had always needed one root for herself, for this. And the girl had always, always saved one for her dear sister. Even if they weren’t really sisters by blood and hadn’t known each other that long—

There was no reality where the true Mrsha did not leave one for Nanette. Best of luck, the girl wished both of them as she opened her door.

Best of luck.

 

——

 

Nanette Weishart had lost her mother, the Great Witch Califor, to Belavierr at Riverfarm. The Stitch Witch had killed Califor. She had presented it like a deal: Califor could sacrifice herself to save Nanette from a cursed object Belavierr had planted on the girl, or she could watch her daughter die.

But that was just the lie Belavierr told. Califor had made the only choice she could. The only choice a mother would take. She had rode across the burning land and called a wildfire into her body.

Nanette had survived. Belavierr always kept her promises. Only then had the other [Witches] learned the truth: that she was Califor’s daughter. It had been a secret, even to witches like Eloise and Hedag that Califor trusted with her life. Even Nanette hadn’t…actually known it herself.

Well, she’d known it, deep down. But not consciously for a long while. Califor had told her she was a child she’d saved—to protect Nanette. The girl had grown up in awe of the Great Witch who had made her, Nanette, her first and only apprentice.

…It was so obvious in hindsight. And she had found out, eventually, and Califor had sworn her to silence. It had been Nanette’s proudest secret that she would have died before revealing.

At the same time, though, it had been hard. Califor could be a strict mother, and she treated Nanette like an apprentice. Not all her lessons were easy.

Nanette Weishart could remember moments when she made a grave error in alchemy, when she was sick, or—or just afraid at night. And Califor would treat her, well, like a [Witch] would treat an apprentice.

Harshly, sometimes. If Nanette was afraid of things under the bed, Califor would have her crawl under it with a dagger and a candle. Because she should be the woman who went into such places, not feared them.

If Nanette wasted something or put herself in danger, Califor would scold her. And sometimes—sometimes—the [Witch] would relent and draw a sobbing girl towards herself. Shelter a sick child in the crook of her arm and wrap her in that wonderful, old, magical cloak and carry her through the night.

Nanette’s favorite story of Califor wasn’t of the peaces that Califor had brokered, nor her feats of magic, like throwing a Wellfar ship out to sea. It was of the day when the Great Witch of Izril did battle against an entire pack of gargoyles. Tore up half a mountainside and fought off monsters an entire Gold-rank team would back away from. All for her lost apprentice. Her daughter.

There would always, always be that image in Nanette’s mind of the straight-backed woman striding along with a walking staff, a cloak of tattered warm shadows hanging from her shoulders and a blue hat pointing straight up at the sky.

If she closed her eyes, even so much time afterwards, she could believe Califor was around the corner or waiting for her.

Lyonette was a wonderful woman who truly treated Nanette like a daughter. Mrsha was a wonderful, brave, and silly sister. But Nanette would never forget her mother who had died for her.

So. What would you do? If you had a magical root in a palace to any future at all.

What would you do to be happy again? To hold someone you loved?

The answer was so dreadfully simple. All you had to do was find a reality where Califor lived. And then…and then…

Well, there was another Nanette in the way, wasn’t there? Didn’t you have to deal with her?

Think about it logically. You wanted a reality not so different from the one you lived in already. Not one where Nanette had tragically passed away—because that would make the Califor a grieving mother, different from the one you knew.

If you were that bereaved traveller, surely the most natural thing would be to find a world so perfect that you were happy in it.

Then…insert yourself into it. Like a hermit crab stealing someone else’s shell. A cuckoo bird pushing the real bird out of the nest.

It was so easy. Of course that’s what you’d do. To be happy, why wouldn’t you?

After all—they had no idea you were coming. Nanette Weishart, the ‘real’ Nanette, had watched for a while. And chosen her moment perfectly.

 

——

 

It was a beautiful, sunny day as Califor Weishart strode away from Riverfarm. She had a bit of a limp, but she was doggedly walking, and a girl followed her, nearly tripping on her robes, hurrying to keep up with the Great Witch of Izril.

After all, if Witch Califor had just banished Belavierr and saved Riverfarm with the coven of [Witches], brokered a great deal between all of witch-kind and the Unseen Emperor, who was Nanette, Califor’s best (and only) apprentice, to complain about a bit of footsore?

It had been an amazing battle. Nanette wasn’t sure how to explain it, but she was determined to get it right in her journal, which she had open. The blue tome with a yellow ribbon was filled with Nanette’s drawings and notes of the battle.

It had been eight [Witches], plus Ryoka, against Belavierr.

Califor! Hedag! Eloise! Mavika! Oliyaya! Nanette, Wiskeria, and Witch Thallisa versus the Witch of Webs.

It was lucky all of them had been there. Not Nanette; she’d sort of been extra, but without Witch Thallisa and Oliyaya arriving on impulse to this meeting, they might have failed to best Belavierr. But they’d done it! They’d hurled the Stitch Witch into a tornado made of fire and sent her flying back to Terandria!

The Order of Seasons and the Witch Hunters had given chase, led by Ser Raim. Belavierr had sworn vengeance, but for now, everyone was safe. Riverfarm had feasted them for four whole days and nights before Califor had announced they were leaving, much to Nanette’s dismay.

She liked Ryoka and Durene, and she liked Riverfarm, but Califor had insisted. She’d actually left their horses to help with the recovery efforts—she claimed she could buy replacements for the handsome reward that Laken had offered them. And she had promised to be back after helping [Witches] relocate to Riverfarm.

Who knew, they might actually settle down there. It was awfully exciting to think about. Nanette wanted dearly to find out more about these Goblins that Emperor Laken had brought with him.

“Nanette? Hurry up, would you? I intend to be at a town where we can purchase a horse, or at least a ride, by nightfall. We won’t be getting anywhere if you keep trying to write and walk.”

Califor glanced pointedly at Nanette, and the girl hesitated.

“But Miss Califor, I should get my thoughts down before they vanish! And training myself to write and walk seems like a thing I should practice.”

She pointed this out reasonably, and Califor snorted.

“Recording fictitious exploits is not a useful talent.”

However…the road was sunny, they were enjoying their triumph, and so Califor merely harrumphed and let her daughter record her daring exploits down. And that was possibly as close as Califor would come to reveling in her daughter’s pride in her. She would never admit it, and Nanette would never say it outright.

But this was the moment when little Nanette, twelve years old and apple-cheeked, still innocent, still filled with wonder and hope and her hat full of her craft, was happiest.

It happened as they passed by a few trees burnt down by fire. The withered branches and scorched wood was actually mostly intact. Califor stopped to survey the remains of a burnt homestead.

A good ways behind her, Nanette tripped as she scribbled down an illustration of the final battle. She squeaked and fell behind a burnt tree for a second. No issue; Califor was well within distance, even should a monster literally pop out of the ground.

“Nanette, hurry up.”

Califor rose from her inspection of the ruins; she sensed no death here. The owners had fled. There was a root cellar, and Califor was of half a mind to open it to take what was inside instead of leaving it to rot. But she decided it was better to let the original owners reclaim it; if it was still here on her return trek, she’d open it.

Her daughter hurried up the road, holding onto her hat, running in her hand-tailored boots and blue robes, and Califor paused to note how big Nanette was in her clothing.

Time to let the seams out a bit. Califor wondered how she hadn’t noticed Nanette was getting so big. She shook her head. Nanette was growing so fast…Califor resented thinking that, because every parent she had ever known had said the same thing.

“Come, Nanette. Hold my hand if you cannot keep up.”

Maybe she should teach the girl more magic so at least she could levitate the book. Magic was a crutch, but after Belavierr, the girl should begin learning…

“Coming, Mother!”

Califor’s head snapped around, and she almost hissed a reproval at Nanette. Even here it was risky—

No. It had been so damned close. One wrong move and they would have all perished at Belavierr’s hands. She will hold a grudge. Perhaps I should be more honest.

The older [Witch] tried a smile. It didn’t suit her. She held her hand out to her running, beaming daughter as she turned ahead, embarrassed.

A small hand that was overly sweaty slipped into Califor’s, and the woman resisted the urge to wipe her hand.

“Now, keep up. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

Nanette made no reply, just breathed in and out loudly, and Califor resumed walking. Nanette held her hand so tightly.

Someone was making a choking sound behind Califor. A faint, incredulous sound coming out of non-responsive lungs. Yet it was too late.

The deed was done.

—But Witch Califor heard that faint gasping noise and half-turned. For she was a mother, and she would check on her daughter…she turned. She saw her daughter.

Nanette, her earnest little child, stood in the road, her journal on the ground. A quill was still in her hand. She was open-mouthed, eyes bulging.

Choking. On her own incredulity, nothing else. Staring at…

Califor gazed at Nanette, and then the [Witch]’s second thought asked that pertinent question.

If that’s my daughter…who’s holding my hand?

She peered down, and a brown-haired girl, taller than Califor remembered, wearing an oddly clashing blue-and-yellow outfit that seemed frankly mismatched, stood there. She had no hat. She wasn’t an earnest girl anymore, but a growing teenager. And she was shaking like a leaf.

Califor blinked at the second Nanette—and jumped. She actually jumped three feet in the air and let go of the strange girl’s hand. She had her wand in hand before she caught herself.

Who? What? How?

The Great Witch said none of this. She caught her breath after a second, and her spluttering daughter stopped choking.

“Miss Califor! Miss—”

The older [Witch] held up a hand silently. And the trembling girl standing there stared ahead. Peeking at her mother out of the corner of her eyes.

 

——

 

What would you do? Honestly?

Murder yourself? Just to be happy?

Don’t be silly. Don’t be ridiculous. Even if you got away with it, even if it worked—could you be the same person ever again?

It was a silly idea, even putting aside the fact that Califor was a Great Witch and could read countless things in people she met. Guilt being one of them.

That voice that spoke in your head—Nanette knew it well. It was the voice that sounded so reasonable, that gave you every excuse to do what was easy or selfish.

Califor had taught her better than to listen to it. If she was anything, if she had pride in anything—it was that she was Califor’s daughter.

Califor said nothing as the younger Nanette ran forwards and put herself protectively between her mother and this stranger. She was only a bit younger than this other Nanette, but dead gods, she looked years apart.

Nanette Weishart of tomorrow was taller by a good two inches already, and breaking close to three. She had different clothing, no hat, and just—age. She fidgeted as Califor took another deep breath.

Shock. Nanette had never seen Califor shocked, but it was written over her face now.

It is worth it just for this. Even if nothing else…

Nanette hiccuped. Her eyes were glistening with tears. It hurt. It hurt more than she thought.

This is not my mother, but it is. Oh, Mrsha. Oh, Mrsha…what have we done?

She waited for what was to come. A blow. A question. A…Nanette stood still, trembling in agony, until Califor finally moved.

“Come on, Nanette. I said I want to be in the next village by nightfall.”

She kept walking, and both Nanettes nearly fell on their face. They gawped as one, and the younger one screeched.

“Miss Califor! Look at—”

A hand picked up Nanette’s journal; Califor adjusted her blue hat.

“I said come, Nanette.”

She held out one hand, and the little girl clung to it, hide-staring with baleful nervousness from Califor’s other side. The [Witch] walked slowly, measuring her stride with her staff. After a dozen steps, she glanced to her right. Her Nanette was peeking around her dress, eyes bulging with horror, confusion, distrust…

Califor met the older girl’s gaze, and it was the older Nanette who flinched and halted a step. But Califor’s voice was calm.

“Chin up. Widen your stride. We’re covering ground, not shuffling around on a dancefloor. What are you wearing, and where are your good walking boots?”

The Nanette of tomorrow jumped, then did as Califor bid. Her stride lengthened, and she seemed to realize she was taller and didn’t need to hurry so much to walk next to Califor.

“My—my boots? I got too big for mine—these are a gift. My clothing’s fine, isn’t it?”

“No. The colors do not match. That rain jacket and the leggings with the tiny witch hats…no. It makes you look more childish than you are. As for the boots…”

Califor eyed the bright red boots critically.

“They’re expensive. But they don’t seem fit for travel. Any [Thief] will have them off your feet.”

To the young woman’s surprise, she grew angry and burst out.

“They were a gift! I’m allowed to have nice things!”

Then she caught herself, flushed, and turned red, then white. Califor kept walking, and after a second, Nanette strode after her.

“I—should I get rid of them?”

“…No. If you’re to wear them, just make them match better and be prepared for [Thieves]. Did you enchant the stitchings yourself?”

“Yes. With a bit of help.”

The older girl showed Califor one boot, and the Great Witch breathed in and out. She jerked a nod.

“Good.”

Silence. Then there were three witches walking down the road. After a second, the choking sounds grew too loud, and Califor squeezed her hand.

“Nanette. A good [Witch] does not gobble like a chicken.”

“Miss Califor! What is going on? She looks like—”

“Nanette, I have ears. I should enjoy using them many decades more.”

The younger girl almost exploded into a sunburst of indignation and confusion. She peered around Califor at the other young woman, and the other Nanette waved at her, awkward. Young Nanette rubbed her chin with her fingers, and it was a sign she was Califor’s daughter; she began to think.

After about half a minute of silence, the young Nanette spoke in a crafty voice.

“Miss Califor, do you remember what we ate last week for lunch on Lundas?”

“No. I rather imagine it was whatever we had in our bag of holding.”

The girl’s face fell. There was a chortling sound—young Nanette stared at older Nanette, then pointed accusatorily.

“You don’t have a hat. And you’re filled with…sadness. And joy. And…”

Her voice wobbled uncertainly, and the older Nanette flinched away. She had no hat to hide her face, so Califor’s descended and covered her expression.

“It is unkind to point out such things, even to other [Witches], Nanette. Remember that. If a [Witch] has no hat, there is always a reason. Usually, it’s that the wind has blown it off her head.”

Both girls stared at her. The older [Witch] walked on. The young Nanette hesitated as the older one felt the hat on her head. Then the young Nanette stabbed a finger forwards.

“If you’re…if this is…what’s my favorite food?”

The older girl blinked at her.

“Honey drizzled on apples?”

“Hmf! What’s—what hair color did I want to have but I wasn’t allowed to?”

“Blue.”

Califor muttered under her breath.

“Because it would have looked ridiculous. Blue hair along with blue robes does not match, Nanette.”

“I could have made it look good!”

The younger Nanette insisted, while the older one, treacherously, shook her head along with Califor. The two Nanettes exchanged glances. The younger Nanette turned away first.

They walked on, now passing by an entire burnt forest. Califor tsked when she saw it.

“This entire land will starve come winter. When we return with [Witches], it will be with craft and resource, Nanette. The Unseen Empire will need [Witches] as surely as we need them.”

This time, the older Nanette broke in with a timid voice.

“It won’t be all that bad. Laken’s people starved once before. It would be more important to send food…elsewhere. Many people will come to him—I imagine. But farther-flung villages will starve, especially if worse happens.”

The younger Nanette blinked in outrage at this sacrilege: contradicting Califor. She waited for the older girl to get upbraided, but Califor just glanced down.

“Interesting. Those Drakes hit a number of lands, but they were nobles’ lands. It tends to miss commonfolk, who might see taxes rise and have goods levied, but you speak as if outright famine will beset places. What would cause that?”

The young woman hesitated. She fiddled with Califor’s hat, then whispered.

“Plague. More arson. And people buying up food and goods and moving southwards. Towards…new lands.”

“That’s an awful lot of predictions for someone who doesn’t know the future!”

The younger Nanette blustered, and Califor patted her on the head.

“It would be. If someone didn’t know the future.”

That stumped the girl so much that she kept her mouth open until she swallowed a fly. Then she hacked and spluttered and turned red until Califor slapped her back.

“Lunch. Let’s picnic somewhere out of the sun, but with an eye for hungry monsters about. Help me find a good place.”

The two girls searched around automatically, and both pointed towards a bluff of stone that wasn’t damaged by the fires as much as everywhere else. It was an eleven minute walk away, and they set out for it.

The older Nanette had been watching Califor all this while. At last, it seemed like she were unable to keep the words in, and they slipped out.

“D-don’t you have questions?”

Witch Califor kept walking, eyes on the horizon. She spoke, seemingly to herself, as the younger Nanette listened in.

“I rather suspect you’ll tell me. Wait. Stop. Look there. In the forest.”

She’d spotted something, and all three witches halted and peered into the burnt forest. What they saw were some glowing spots on the ground.

“Embers?”

The older Nanette hesitated, but the younger one clapped her hands together.

“Oh! Oh! Is it magicore? Fire magicore? That’s valuable! We should scoop it up in a bottle!”

Califor shaded her eyes.

“No, I think they’re Flarespot Shrooms. They’ll go very well in a sandwich or pottage, if we have enough. Come on, let’s harvest them.”

She trooped forwards, and sure enough, they saw magical mushrooms growing after the wildfires. They did indeed have glowing red spots on the caps.

“Careful. Use that sickle, not your hands, Nanette. And you…older Nanette. Take this.”

Califor handed the older girl a sickle and, bare-handed, picked a few mushrooms. The hot little toadstools went in a basket, but they nearly ignited the wicker.

“Should we spell the basket against fire…?”

The younger Nanette eyed the smoking basket dubiously, but the older one shook her head.

“What if we put some of the dead leaves and mud on the basket’s walls? It’ll keep them long enough to make a meal. ‘Wasting magic when hand will do is [Wizard]’s work.’”

The comment drew a pleased smile from Califor, and she nodded. The two Nanettes, awkwardly at first, began to gather up some mud by digging at it with a rock. They did the exact same thing at times and would spring apart, but sometimes the older one would take a different path from the younger and they would be surprised again.

Soon, the basket was lined with mud, and they were putting clean leaves on the bottom to contain the mushrooms when they were attacked.

A snuffling sound, and an ash-black boar trotted into view. Califor spun around.

“Sootboar. Stay calm, Nanette.”

The youngest [Witch] had frozen with wide-eyed terror when the big boar appeared. He had sharp tusks and was pawing the ground aggressively.

He wanted the mushrooms. The girl was right between him and the pile of them on the ground. It was the older Nanette who moved.

She pulled the younger girl away from the mushrooms and backed up slowly. She never took her eyes from the boar and made no sudden moves. Its head wavered from the mushrooms to the two girls. Then, it seemed not to like something about them and lowered its head and pawed the ground. It began to lumber towards the two girls, and the older Nanette reacted.

“Stop!”

She hurled something at the boar, and there was an explosion of light. A crackling sound and a squeal—the boar leapt sideways, and a little, round stone dropped to the ground. A jolt of lightning had emanated from it.

The boar’s reaction was to back off, but it then activated a magical power: its black hide blended in with the dark forest background, and it pawed the ground again, signalling it was going to attack from the shadows it had become.

This time, it was Califor who acted. She’d snuck up on the boar from the side, and as it lowered its head to charge, she brought her hands together and clapped right next to its head.

It was one of the loudest sounds the two girls had ever heard. The boar lurched away in alarm, squealing. It lowered its head, and Califor clapped again. She stepped quickly, forcing the boar to circle; it tossed its head at her, but she repeated the ear-splitting sound, then put two fingers in her mouth and whistled.

The loud, aggravating noises and the way the woman was pursuing the boar changed its aggression into uncertainty. It backed off a few steps, and Califor kept whistling, making the pitch warble, then dropping it low and ominous.

The older and younger Nanettes waved another stone and a wand, and flashes of light sealed the deal. The Sootboar took off running.

The [Witches] gazed at each other, then went back to their mushrooms.

 

——

 

Six minutes later, Califor debriefed them on the little side venture.

“What made you decide to use light to scare the boar away? It might have kept fighting.”

The older Nanette beat the younger one to her reasoning.

“Well, I thought we could let it take the mushrooms and leave, but it must have thought we were dangerous, so I threw that stone at it. Then, when it tried to hide, I thought it liked darkness. So light might make it think it was hunted.”

Califor made an approving sound.

“Sootboars love the aftermath of flames, but they are not fireproof. They hide in darkness, so light does scare them. It was a good thought. And if it had charged after all?”

“I’d have tossed more of my Elemental Stones at them. I have a lot. I would have used my whistle of friendship, but I rather thought we’d have to give it the mushrooms if we didn’t chase it off. And I’m not that generous.”

That drew a smile from Califor, and the younger Nanette, holding the basket, bounced forwards.

“What stones? Let me see!”

Nothing would do but the older Nanette show them her treasures, like the skeleton key, Stones of the Elements, and the whistle that signalled friendship to animals. Califor frowned.

“The whistle is from Gaarh Marsh. Not a bad one, either…I had something like that when I was younger myself. It wears out, but it’ll be years, and I lost the other one before I could take it to a [Shaman]. Those stones are magically powerful.”

“An Archmage of Wistram made them. A real Archmage.”

“Hm. The key’s the most valuable of the lot. Death magic and refined. With it, you could pick any door in the world.”

“It’s not as simple as just inserting it in a lock, though. I’ve had to practice.”

The older Nanette confessed, and Califor raised her brows.

“Well, of course. If it were perfect, everyone would have used it. But with it, I daresay even magical locks might open for you. Those stones might make starting a fire for some soup easy. You do that; Nanette, you see what we have for a soup or pottage. That barley and some meat, I think. I’ll see to the seasoning.”

They got to work with practice, and soon, a thick and flavorful pottage was simmering in the stove. Califor had the older Nanette reduce the intensity of the fire her stones made.

“I haven’t cooked with them often, but Flarespot Shrooms generate their own heat. Hm. Actually, I have a better notion. Let’s fry them up in a pan before they go in the soup. Get a bit of butter out, Nanette.”

The crispy mushrooms went in as big chunks in the soup; Califor carefully diced them up across the spots to remove the heat effect, and the magical pottage was simmering as they all sat there.

Only then did the older Nanette draw her legs up to her chin and stare at the pot.

“You’ve been awfully kind to a stranger, Witch Califor. I could be anyone or anything.”

The Great Witch snorted, amused.

“Unlikely.”

“I could! You don’t know what, or who, I am.”

The older Nanette insisted with a touch of annoyance, and she had forgotten Califor, in some ways, because the [Witch]’s brow arced.

“If I had to guess, I would wager you’re a Nanette from the future. Only a year or so. You talked of the future authoritatively. Something terrible has happened to me, I suspect, or you’d have your hat and wouldn’t have gone to hold my hand. I think someone has cared for you, since you have gifts and clothing and magical items, but they haven’t much sense of fashion or give you too much liberty. And I don’t think you’re some cunning monster or illusion or trick. After all—”

Her eyes glinted in pride and understanding of herself, and Califor lifted her hat from the older Nanette’s face and cupped the girl’s cheeks with her hands.

“I know my own daughter.”

Nanette Weishart’s eyes filled with tears. She tried to speak and swallowed, and then tried again—then her nose began to run. Califor just held her, gently, putting her arms on Nanette’s shoulders, and the girl threw her arms around Califor. She began sobbing and crying, and a hand patted her gently on the head. Not just for this moment, for the ability to touch a memory, to be here—but for the proof of it all that she had known but wanted to be reminded of, as every child did now and then.

Nanette truly did have a wonderful mother.

 

——

 

After a while, Nanette realized that her younger self was holding out a blue handkerchief. The girl blotted at her older self’s face timidly, and Nanette took it and blew her nose. Califor sat back and spoke.

“The pottage is ready. Let’s eat.”

It was surreal. She was so calm and collected, and she didn’t push—that was the aggravating thing. Nanette had never known what it was like to be on the other end of Witch Califor’s mind.

“Sh-shouldn’t you be asking what happened? If I should be here…? I didn’t know if I should have come, myself.”

Nanette sniffed as she took a bowl of pottage. Califor raised an eyebrow again as she took an experimental bite.

“It’s too hot for you, Nanette. Younger Nanette. As to your question, have you interrupted things terribly by coming?”

“N-no. But surely…aren’t you going to make me go?”

Califor glanced at her Nanette, and the girl was wide-eyed with the mystery of it all. The Great Witch turned to older Nanette.

“Do you think you should go?”

“I—I don’t know. There are things happening in my world. Terrible and important, but I couldn’t stay. I know I should have helped. There’s this girl who’s like my sister, and she surely needs my help if I can give it. But I had to come here. I should go. Yes. But how can I?”

The witch almost wept again, and Califor’s eyes sharpened. She put her bowl down and half-rose.

“Then, perhaps, do you think we should go?”

When the older Nanette blinked, Califor gestured.

“With you.”

When both Nanettes sat there, open-mouthed, the [Witch] grimaced.

“Honestly. What did you expect I would do? If I should meet another daughter…one is a handful enough, two might be easier in some ways. Three, with this other mystery child? But you are no [Witch] full grown. If I am needed, let’s go. Unless, of course, there are rules about how many can leave.”

“I—there are—but I could get another—just like that? This is your world! What about that and me and—I’m not your Nanette. You’re not my Califor! I didn’t think this would happen!”

The girl was in tears again, and Califor strode over.

“Of course not. I am a Califor, and if the other one is anything like me, I expect she’d have no doubt I’d go where I am needed. Nanette, my—no. Younger Nanette? We may need new names. But I am a wandering [Witch]. My apprentice, my daughter, is all that I need, truly need. If it is dangerous, I should know about it. But show me, at least. Or stay.”

She knelt in front of the blubbering girl—both of them, because one of the Nanettes was sympathy crying—and lifted her great hat, filled with magic and wisdom and determination.

And just for a moment, with a [Witch]’s magic that needed no spells—

All was right in the world.

 

——

 

The dead should stay dead. No matter how much you missed them…otherwise, what was the point of living?

That was the thesis that the former Three-in-One, Kasigna, had lived by. It was the root of her discontent with what was going on. At least, one aspect of her felt that way. The other half just wanted vengeance, to live…but the Maiden remembered her dignity as a ruler of death.

It wasn’t just to spite mortals. If you could revive the dead, would you not try to do it every second you had? Wouldn’t you think of a passing life as lesser, then argue and revive those you thought mattered most? If it were possible, no matter how improbable…it would be terrible.

But for one more reason she implored that girl to cease her madness. Stop, for it will hurt you.

Cease, before you tear that heart of yours to shreds on what is impossible, what will never be the same.

You cannot unwind time. Death has occurred; live with the time you have. Stop chasing those spectres. Naught awaits you but suffering.

Look. You’re already crying.

 

——

 

Sacrilege was hard. Breaking the rules that made up society was difficult if you weren’t actively mad—and even the insane knew the rules existed.

It was funny. Sometimes, people wrote the rules down, but often, they didn’t have to. There was ‘right’ and ‘wrong’, and everything in your life compelled you not to break these invisible laws that governed your existence.

It wasn’t like ‘don’t walk on the grass’, because plenty of people did that. In fact, because everyone broke that kind of rule, it wasn’t really a law at all. But there were real forces that shaped your very thoughts. Opposing those was far harder, because it felt wrong. Especially if you had been told all your life that something was bad…challenging that assumption was the most difficult thing to do.

Even if you questioned your beliefs, you’d have to endure the scorn of your friends, family, everyone else who saw you as mad. And if you had the will to go alone, to endure disdain and the loss of so much in your life—there would always be that voice in the back of your head questioning if you were doing the right thing.

That was how you knew you were thinking. If you never heard that voice of doubt in your head—then what you were doing was easy. And what was easy was sometimes right, but sometimes people who believed they were righteous were simply wrong, lacking all the facts, taught lies.

The point was—breaking the real rules was hard. And it weighed on him. He knew it did. Whenever the Drake’s head rose, he blinked at that heavyset face in the mirror.

So grim. So damn weary. He tried a smile on for size, and it just didn’t fit him anymore. He’d changed. He knew he had.

His class had changed him; he was more of a behemoth than he had been, oh, twenty years ago. Far weightier; he looked like he could walk into a wagon and win, because he could. The armor only added to the appearance.

Burnished, flaming orange plate metal, improperly matched with plain steel armor. Barely enchanted steel at that. Magnolia hadn’t commented on his armor, and he hadn’t asked for anything else.

This armor would do. This…Relic of his people was gift enough, even if he didn’t know how it worked. It wasn’t cursed. He was wearing a heirloom any [General] of the Walled Cities would have torn their neck spines out for. That was enough to make him feel like he was doing something right.

But ever and ever, that voice in Zel Shivertail’s head asked if he was making a mistake. He stood in the command tent that Magnolia Reinhart had given him, wearing the armor that she had plucked from her armories for her new [General], and studied the maps of the ground outside of Invrisil.

As if he had a strategy. He was just…biding time, really. Waiting for the Goblin Lord’s army to get in range. Everyone was looking to him for a plan when the truth was, Zel Shivertail didn’t really have one.

Oh, he was busy. He’d be busy meeting with officers from various cities, inspecting the troops, showing them the battle plans, but that wasn’t the same as high-level strategy. Zel Shivertail had worked with countless [Strategists], from idiots new out of Manus to self-taught geniuses to monsters like Chaldion. They could probably have come up with some kind of plan, dug out more of the battlefield, used some formations to great effect.

Zel knew he didn’t have the time nor control to go for any of that. In the coming battle, he would have his forces perform solely the simplest maneuvers—cavalry run down archers or intercept other cavalry, infantry hit infantry, and so on. What he needed was control.

This army that Magnolia was raising for him was ragtag. Too many disparate forces, not enough unity. All the best commanders had been siphoned off by Tyrion Veltras, damn the man. Zel’s army had to be able to pivot around him. If he didn’t have that, the battle was already lost. The rest of his strategy was simple.

Hit the Goblins when they hit us. Wipe out those commanders of the Goblin Lord, go for him. Arrogant it might be, but the plan was to endure the Goblin Lord’s assaults and have the allied forces buy Zel time to kill every high-level Goblin on the field.

Zel Shivertail was the highest-level being present save for perhaps Magnolia Reinhart. He could do it. He had to. But still, the voice whispered that pernicious statement.

They’ll never let you command an army in the Walled Cities again. Even Tyrion is sabotaging Magnolia. Forget saving the world with her grand plans, you’re going to die tomorrow.

“We’ll see.”

After a moment, Zel circled a hill with a bit of charcoal and put some archers there. He did wish he had someone, anyone to help him. Olesm, for instance, even if the [Tactician] was more of a boy.

Even Ilvriss. But who would leave the south to join the north? Only a fool.

Only him.

The [General] of Izril known as the Tidebreaker, hero of the Antinium Wars, was so preoccupied with the map that he didn’t realize someone was in the tent with him until the scales on his back prickled.

I didn’t hear anyone come in. But he sensed them—their presence was somewhat muffled.

[Assassin]? A bad one if so. But Zel’s claws opened slightly, and he glanced at a silver goblet he’d positioned—just in case Magnolia hadn’t been honest.

Strange. I can’t see anyone behind me. They must have been in his blindspot. The Drake whirled, ready to take a blow and fight if he had to. He had killed the Necromancer of Izril. He had fought every foe he could name for the Walled Cities.

He’d not die so easily, even alone. But Zel never lashed out with his claws, which could shred mithril and magic with ease. He stopped and blinked.

“Mrsha?”

The white Gnoll cub stood there, tears streaming down her eyes. It was Mrsha! Zel glanced right and left, thinking he’d see Lyonette, or Erin, that silly fool, would jump in and shout ‘surprise’!

He was ready to roar—this was about to be an active battlefield, and they’d chased him here!? But Zel’s breath caught as his mind noticed the incongruities.

Wait a second. This can’t be Mrsha. She’s too tall. She was far too tall for the child he’d said farewell to just last month, and she stood on two legs. More importantly, she was wearing clothes. A kilt and a shirt, both a bit worse for wear, but proper clothing.

Another white Gnoll? Another Doombringer? Zel’s mind flashed to the Stone Spears tribe. But he’d left those children with Gnolls he trusted—and he was sure he could tell Gnolls apart.

This looked like Mrsha. But it wasn’t her.

Illusion. You’re being tricked. Zel’s eyes narrowed, and he had no expensive artifacts or spells; he did the only thing he could and condensed his aura around himself, like a shield. He was unpracticed, but he could push hostile magic away from him or block it off if he tried hard enough…

Nothing happened. The girl kept crying, tears running from her brown eyes. She was hiccuping, standing in front of him and swaying, and she seemed so much older.

“Mrsha? What’s going on? Why are you here? Where’s Lyonette? Erin?”

Zel strode forwards after a moment, and she flinched when he reached out. He hesitated—then touched her head.

She didn’t explode or knife him, so, gently, he lifted her into his arms. She was heavier, but he was so much stronger that it didn’t matter. Zel inspected the girl. This would be the moment when a cunning [Assassin] rammed a dagger through his throat. But she just sat in his arms, hiccup-crying.

Then she reached for something, and Zel tensed slightly, ready for—

A card.

It was just a card and a quill. The Drake relaxed, slightly, when he realized she was writing, but his mind spun for other reasons.

It’s me, Zel. Mrsha. I’ve come for you, just like I promised myself. No matter what. It’s really you.

She made no sense. Mrsha couldn’t write. But—at the same time—it did make sense. It was a logical solution to her inability to talk.

“What’s going on? Who are you?”

A rougher tone of suspicion entered Zel’s voice. He put the girl down on his command table, and she scribbled again.

Mrsha. From the future.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Time travel is an idea from fantasy books and for [Mages] from Fissival to talk about. We live in the real world.”

The real world, where magic could kill or maim thousands. Where monsters walked and could cast terrible spells. But everything died if you ripped off its head. 

That was the world Zel Shivertail lived in; the Waning World, twilight of the great legends of old. Six squabbling Walled Cities, an Antinium threat—a Goblin Lord being the greatest foe of Izril—and where the world sat on his shoulders.

He did not recognize her, and she…realized she didn’t recognize him. The girl sat there, blinking at the Drake, and then she raised her wand to write in the air since it was faster. She saw him twitch. Tense, just a moment, and then she gazed at the Drake anew and figured out he thought she was a trick.

Some ingenious plot to kill him. He was suspicious, wary.

She had never known that of him. The Drake stood there, frowning at Mrsha, arms crossed, and she tried to explain.

 

——

 

“So you’re claiming this is the product of a Skill and the Faerie Flowers that Erin has. That in two years—less than two years—there will have been countless major battles, too much for even a Walled City to handle. That The Wandering Inn is one of the most important places in the world, a new part of the continent has risen from the sea, and monsters from the days of myths have re-emerged. And the Dragonlord of Flames.”

There was more, of course. But Zel summarized the big things, and Mrsha nodded. He scrubbed a claw through his neck scales, then turned to her. Zel held up a finger.

“One. Knowing Grimalkin or Chaldion isn’t impressive. Any Drake who’s been to Pallass knows the local oddities. Mentioning Rufelt and Lasica is a touch more impressive, but it’s public knowledge. Two. The odds of some of these events you describe, like Tyrion Veltras fighting alongside Pallass and Manus, is remote. I cannot envision a scenario like that. Not from him. Three. If the world is so dire, if Dragons have returned and there is such an overwhelming need for help—you’ve come to the wrong person. I am not your hero.”

He spread his arms, indicating himself, and it was true. He wasn’t. Zel Shivertail wore the Heartflame Breastplate, but he hadn’t figured out how to activate it. He was a Level 40-something [General of the Line].

Not a Named-rank adventurer. Probably on par with them, but no Zeladona. Not the King of Destruction or his Seven.

He was just…Zel. Mrsha’s tears had ceased, but she still felt like she was weeping. And it was hard—because he hadn’t gathered her up into his arms and hugged her. He was angry, disbelieving. But oh, it was him.

I know that. It doesn’t matter. I came for you, Zel. Only you. Of all the people in any world I would save, it was Moore, Halrac, the Redfangs, Kevin, and you.

The [General] shook his head, sounding bitterly amused.

“Lumped in with Goblins. I suppose that means something. If I believe you, prove it.”

He spread his hands, an invitation for her to take him by the hand and show him wonders. Mrsha didn’t. She could have brought him to the root and the door, but she had learned her lessons. She was not the real Mrsha who could speak with her new Skills and prove it—but it didn’t matter.

Mrsha wrote in the air, and she remembered when she’d found out. But she hadn’t seen his death. So even now, it felt like that bad dream she’d never woken up from.

You’re dead, Zel. You will die when the Goblin Lord faces you in battle. He will lure you away from the army and trap you in a dome of bones. When he emerges—you will be dead. The Walled Cities will mourn. Liscor will mourn. I will never forget it. You will die a hero, then terrible things will occur. Tyrion Veltras will march the Goblins to Liscor, and more good people will die. I wish history had changed. If you lived—the world would have been better.

As before, the words struck Zel Shivertail, and he felt his own death place a hand on his shoulder. The Drake staggered as if taking a blow, and Mrsha waited.

No blood ran from Zel’s face. He did not weep, nor cry out—instead, he let out a breath as that echo of fate stole over him, and he felt the truth of her words sink into his flesh. The [General] gazed down at his claws, then his head rose.

He stood, back straight, the awe-inspiring [General] she had known, that force for good—and then he began to laugh.

The Drake threw his head back, covered his eyes, and a chortle of mirth escaped his lips. Then a guffaw, which grew louder. The laughter was unnatural—Mrsha didn’t remember Zel ever laughing like this. It grew louder and louder until it bordered on the hysterical.

“General Shivertail? Is everything well?”

Someone called nervously from outside the tent, and Zel stopped. He glanced at Mrsha, then strode over to the entrance.

“Everything’s fine. I was merely—is there a [Silence] spell perchance?”

He re-entered the tent after a moment and avoided Mrsha’s eye. She sat there, unsettled, as the Drake strode over to a cabinet, opened it, and pulled something out.

A wine glass and bottle of wine. He stabbed the cork with a claw and yanked it out, then poured himself a huge cup.

“I won’t need to be sober, then. A drink? Do children drink wine in the future?”

His tone was sarcastic as he held a full cup out to Mrsha. She shook her head, and the Drake threw back the entire cup and filled the glass again.

This isn’t right. This isn’t Zel.

Only, it was. She’d asked for a world exactly like her own. She’d asked for Zel…but this was a side of him she had never known. The girl realized it was like everyone else in her life. She’d grown up knowing Relc as the big, kind guy until the Golden Triangle scam, and she’d seen him at his lowest. She’d watched Pisces evolve from the hurt [Necromancer] lashing out after Montressa and the others jumped him to the silly hero who fought Adult Crelers to the man who’d come back after Chandrar to…

Just like Erin. Just like everyone—she had never seen this side of Zel, because she’d been too young.

And this hurt almost worst of all. Because when Zel turned, he had a sneer on his lips.

“Mourned as a hero. Me. The Walled Cities…no, I can see it. When I’m dead, finally dead, they’ll panic. Their weapon against the Antinium will no longer be there, and Liscor’s army has no more Sserys. What, do I have a statue?”

In Liscor. And other places. You have one in Shivertail Plaza. They renamed it after you.

Another laugh. Too bitter. The Drake’s tail lashed across the carpet.

“A statue. Liscor was always best to us. Sserys has no damn statue. Not in Manus, which he saved, nor in most cities. Neither do I. I never wanted them—but Sserys deserved them. A hero. They have the gall to call me that?”

He swept the maps from the table, and Mrsha flinched as they fluttered past her.

But you are one. The Drakes know how important you are—

Zel spun and roared at her.

“Then why am I here alone?”

The girl flinched backwards. The [General] was wide-eyed. He slammed the goblet down and ripped a map out of the case Magnolia had given him. Zel spread the map out over the table, stabbing his claw into the Walled Cities in the south.

“Where is my backup? Where are my adjutants, like the ones Ilvriss has? Where are my Wyvern Riders flying in from Manus, my secret [Infiltrators] from Pallass? Fire support from Fissival, gold from Salazsar? Don’t tell me they can’t reach me. Manus could have Wyverns at First Landing in under a week if they had to! None of them came to aid me in my final battle, did they?”

No…no, of course not. Mrsha would have remembered that. She was about to write how far it was; they were in Invrisil. But she hesitated, because she had seen Manus’ forces arriving in Liscor. She knew that Pallass had Wyvern Riders too.

But you came to help Magnolia.

“Yes. I did. Look what she gave me. The Heartflame Breastplate.”

He touched the Relic on his chest, and Mrsha realized he didn’t know how to activate it. She was about to tell him when Zel slashed a claw through the air.

“More than any of the Walled Cities ever gave me. No, that’s a lie. They armed me well, at first. I had an army at my beck and call. Support and accolades—it all vanished so fast. Look at me now, Mrsha. Look at the ‘hero of the Antinium Wars’. It doesn’t matter that I broke from the south. I had nothing left to lose. Magnolia Reinhart, my ‘enemy’, gave me a piece of Relic-class armor to wear. She apologized that she didn’t have the other pieces! Look at my armguards!”

He tore one of the braces of metal off his body and hurled it onto the ground. Mrsha stepped over to it and picked up the piece of steel. Good steel, padded on the inside, scratched to heck and back from battle with deeper cuts that had saved Zel from harder blows. She could see where it had been repaired, and she guessed a Skill of his enhanced the metal. But it was…wrong.

The steel was heavy. And it didn’t have that magical energy she could feel coming from the Heartflame Breastplate. Even Normen’s Demas Metal armor felt better than this. This was just…

Steel plate armor. The kind she expected Yvlon to be wearing as a Silver-rank adventurer. Maybe a tiny bit better, but…Zel was watching Mrsha.

“You are older. Don’t you get it? That [Necromancer], Pisces, did. Anyone with eyes does. Tell me what you see, Mrsha.”

A hero. She didn’t write that. Instead, Mrsha hesitantly wrote—

I know Ilvriss has fancy armor and a sword because he’s a rich Wall Lord. But you’re a [General]. Can’t you pay for better?

“What cities employ me well enough to do that? I took on work for the Trisstral Alliance because it was the right thing to do. If we’d beaten Salazsar’s army, we would have ransomed them. But even at my best, I never had enough gold to…this is the armor I can afford. It breaks so damn easily. I’m lucky I don’t use a weapon or I’d be repairing that, unless it were a Relic. The Walled Cities never cared for me. I’m just a troublemaker to them, as good as a traitor before I came here. They’re just afraid because I’m their secret weapon for the next Antinium Wars. Now I’m dead. Hah. That’s something. How are the Antinium in this future?”

She didn’t reply. The Drake was drinking deeper. He sat there and glanced up sharply. Then he saw her expression and seemed to realize who he was talking to. Zel hesitated—put his cup down, and turned away.

“—You’re still so young. Don’t mind me. Just—tell me more of what’s going on. Politics. You said something about the Meeting of Tribes?”

So she told him the rest. Zel stood, pacing around the tent, turning away people who wanted to meet with him, reading her abridged account of all that had gone down in Izril, then the world beyond. And he was not silent. When he heard about the magic stolen from the Gnolls, and the plot around Doombearers, he began swearing.

“Fissival. Always Fissival. Did they ever tell me…? I’ve met Fissival’s Three before. If they’re the same ones, they might have hinted at it. But they never trusted me as much as other Walled Cities. I have met Chieftain Xherw. He’d do anything for the good of Gnolls. I liked him. Now that explains that odd feeling I always got around him, as if the dice were always in his favor.”

What would you have done in that moment?

Mrsha hadn’t mentioned the ghost of Sserys. Zel was more like the [General] she remembered for a moment, and he sat, thinking out loud.

“Me? Tried to negotiate. Told Manus to stand down; joined the fighting on the side of Salazsar. Ilvriss attacking Fissival. I can actually see it. It would be a disaster, but I cannot imagine I’d take Manus’ side, or Fissival’s or Zeres’.”

Good. That was the [General] that she knew. Then Zel shook his head and took another drink of wine.

“And so they’ve lost another damn army each. Chaldion’s out of Pallass, and they’re about to fight across these New Lands?”

Other nations are settling there, and a big Dullahan army just landed, I think—

“Then it will be war. The Dullahans have always hated us since the days of the Dragon Wars. The Walled Cities will try to claim as much as they can. It’ll be damned war with them; Pallass will be in chaos without Chaldion. Who’s leading them? Duln? Duln’s a solid [General]. Not imaginative, but he’ll listen to…who’s the replacement? Esor.”

It’s not Duln. It’s General Edellein and—

Zel Shivertail leapt to his feet and kicked a chair into one of the tent’s walls. It bounced off the enchanted fabric. He began swearing, and Mrsha jumped, heart beating in her chest. It might have been the drink—he didn’t drink this hard in front of her. He was always kind to little Mrsha.

“—scale-rotted, coin-grubbing [Senators] and their shortsighted, shit-filled hoarding ways! Edellein? He’s no Thrissiam! He rose to power on the merits of his family name! I’d trust any of the others over him! Now I have to fix all of this?”

He turned and punched a fist through the canvas wall of the tent. Zel blinked—then yanked his hand out of the hole in the expensive fabric. He stared at the gap, then at Mrsha, and flinched away from her eyes.

“I—I’m sorry. I’m just thinking of what would have to be done. If I went with you.”

If I went with you. She realized he was considering it. Yet—Zel Shivertail just sat back down, staring at his boots.

“I can’t. I’m not high-level enough for this. I’m not the trusted [General] you think I am, Mrsha. Even if I ‘emerged from the dead’ now, I think they wouldn’t heed me.”

That doesn’t matter. I just want you. I want you to live, Zel.

He shook his head.

“And do what? Hide away in comfort while I know they’re making mistakes? Change my name? I’m not one of those [Actors]. No. I’d want to try and make a difference.”

The Drake saw her expression and almost smiled.

“Did it never occur to you what the dead would do? Do you think we’d just come back and live happily ever after? I almost think the cities would execute me for abandoning them for so long. Even if I could save them—and I can’t. I don’t…want to go with you, Mrsha. I could, but to what end?”

His statements astounded Mrsha. Not because she hadn’t heard them before; every person whom the Mrshas had talked to had the same reasons. But it was how Zel presented his struggle. He didn’t talk about the people he’d leave behind or the impossibility of leaving. Just what a new world had to offer him.

This was the first time she’d ever heard that. The Drake spoke as if he was considering going with Mrsha, as if leaving wasn’t the greatest struggle.

Like he had no reason to stay, but even less to go.

Zel. You said the Walled Cities let you down. You mean they didn’t give you enough money or support. Why? Because you wanted them to do things right? Or that you don’t want war with the north?

What would cause all this? Him not being favored politically? Mrsha could sort of see it; Zel had always been someone saying the Antinium were bad and everyone needed to work against them. But it didn’t quite make sense.

The Drake avoided Mrsha’s eyes.

“If you don’t know…I suppose they kept that quiet too. Don’t worry about it. Tell me more about…”

He tried to change the subject as the girl watched him, and she remembered things she’d overheard in The Wandering Inn. No one had ever explicitly told her these things, but she remembered a plot with Relc and Klbkch to bury Zel somewhere else.

With Sserys. Which had made sense to Mrsha at the time, because they were both heroes. And she’d heard…something about his reputation being bad. So bad that only Selys and Tekshia had been at his funeral.

A hated Drake for reasons no one ever explained to her. Ordinary Drakes and Gnolls thought Zel was the best. But—but—

When Sserys had possessed Erin Solstice’s body, hadn’t he said the same kind of thing? Valeterisa had once said that she and Sserys were sons and daughters of the walls that hadn’t been wanted.

Why would anyone say that of Sserys?

She knew the answer. It was in all the little things building up in her head. Most of all, it was Elirr and Hexel giving Mrsha a serious talk. Helping make that private beach house…it was Rose of all people.

Mrsha’s eyes opened wide when she saw it. Oh. Of course. She held up a card.

It’s because you’re a Turnscale, isn’t it, Zel? You and Sserys. That’s why.

The [General]’s read her message, and his eyes glowed faintly as they narrowed. Mrsha was afraid. Zel rose slowly and ponderously, shaking his head. She backed up.

“That’s just a word.”

I’m sorry. I just meant—

“It’s just a word. It shouldn’t define me. It’s one word, one accusation they never actually proved in court of law against my entire military career. Against decades of service opposing the Antinium. The same for Sserys. He saved us all in the First Antinium War. The entire south was being overrun except for one Drake and his mercenary army who turned the tide. He died too soon, but I wonder—if he’d lived—would they have turned their backs on him? They did to me. Because of that word.”

His huge hands crushed the silver goblet, and he balled it up as if it were paper and tossed it across the floor. It rolled to a stop, dripping wine, and Mrsha stared at it, then Zel.

So it’s true? You like other men? That’s…the big secret why the Walled Cities hate you?

He refused to answer. Even in this moment, even here, with the future calling, he wouldn’t say it. Perhaps—couldn’t. Instead, the Drake gazed past Mrsha.

“Sserys had his army. They loved him, regardless of who he was, because they were always that distant city of yokels and fools in Liscor. And they could see his talent oozing out of everything he did. Small wonder Liscor were still mercenaries, even under him. He was obvious. And I? I was just some officer in my city. I didn’t graduate from Manus; I wasn’t a great genius in combat. I just knew how to hold the line. When the Antinium came at me, I did.”

That was his famous defense of his city where he’d held the Antinium back and emerged as a hero. Zel continued speaking, like a corpse giving witness to his life.

“I didn’t even realize…and if I did, so what? I was a [Soldier]. It was war, and it didn’t matter. Until the [General] of Liscor just had to meet the [Soldier] who’d fought so damn hard. Then it was like being poisoned. I hated him at first. Because he was so…wrong. Wrong to everything I believed. Then? It was a damn war, and I thought we’d lose it until the end. Who cared?”

The little Gnoll girl stood there, listening as Zel’s eyes stared blankly ahead, and he almost smiled. Almost—but the ghost of it vanished.

“He died like a raging comet, trying to put an end to that threat forever. He was higher-level, the [Spear of the Drakes], who could have lined them up and made the Walled Cities work together. He left me behind. That bastard never could wait for reinforcements. And they thought I could replace him. That’s all they could talk about those first few years. I ‘just’ had to hit Level 50 and I’d have command of all their armies. They’d put everyone behind me and win the Second Antinium War, and I was all for it.”

His claws opened and closed, and the Drake’s face was blank.

“Then they spoke about the Gnolls, and I asked them why we couldn’t have peace. Some of the fools were angry—some took my side. They had plans for the north; I said the north had saved us and the Bloodfields were a disgrace. Some thought I was an idiot. But they were right behind me because I was here and Sserys was not. Chaldion of Pallass found me, that old monster, and I think he approved of me. Dragonspeaker Luciva had my back. So I lowered my guard and said the one thing I shouldn’t have. And everything—vanished.”

Zel spread his clawed hands apart.

“That dirty word. As if I were sick in the head. I could sympathize with Gnolls or Humans and it wouldn’t matter. Chaldion told me to disavow it. He said I could be anything else. Any other kind of monster and they’d need me enough for it not to matter. But not that. I was too proud.”

Now, he was walking. Walking in a circle that spiraled outwards from the middle of the tent. Ranting to the child who stood there, paralyzed.

“Accomplishments became other people’s. I never took a position in any Walled Cities, even the ones that liked me. I had my allies, but what did it matter? I wasn’t the one to unify them. The Second Antinium War? The entire world unified against the Goblin King, but they wouldn’t follow me. Afterwards, it was always the same. They need me, they need me, there is no one else to do my duty. But no one will take my hand. Ilvriss—hah—he doesn’t know. My dirty secret.”

Zel kicked the ball of silver away. Then he spun and pointed at Mrsha, voice rising.

“Now they’re in trouble again. They’ve been in trouble since I was a child, and I gave everything to them! Why did I leave the cities? Because I had nothing left to lose! Traitor to them? They were the traitors to me! My life has been like crawling over Adamantium razors. War was the easiest part of it! Now I have to come back from the grave to drag them out of the mess they’ve made again?”

At last, he stopped and saw her again. Shamefaced, Zel Shivertail peered down at his boots.

“That’s all my life has been. To be needed forever and never wanted. I’m…sorry, Mrsha. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

The girl swayed as he sat down on a chair that could barely support his weight. And she regretted it, coming here. Oh, yes.

She had never wanted to know this. Not this side of Zel. Knowing that he had died so angry, so resentful at the cities who had spurned him just for liking other men. All the regrets of the lonely, abandoned General of Izril.

Mrsha stumbled forwards and reached for his shoulder. She was still short, so she wrapped her arms around his side, as much of him as she could reach, and hugged him.

He seemed surprised by the hug, as if he expected her to run away as well. Zel’s clawed hands hovered, then patted her on the head, as he always had.

“I shouldn’t tell you this. What am I doing?”

He glanced at the hole in the tent, though the [Silence] spell was still active, and Mrsha gazed up at him as she held up a card.

I’m sorry. Drakes suck.

“It’s not just my people. It’s just the state of the world. It’s me. Sometimes, I wish there were nothing…wrong with me. Sserys would put me on the floor for saying that. But it’s how it feels. Everything would have been so much easier if I wasn’t—me.”

The [General] was staring at his claws again, and Mrsha shook her head fiercely.

They’re wrong. They’re all wrong! You haven’t met Rose, who’s silly, or—or Elirr and Hexel, or Saliss…

She knew they were all secrets, but not to Zel. Not to the lonely [General]. Zel’s head rose, and he gave her a blank expression of astonishment.

“Saliss of Lights is a turn…no. Who’s Elirr? I don’t know—anyone, Mrsha.”

No one? But there were communities and—Zel shook his head.

“I was a young officer when I found out who I was. Then, one of the most famous Drakes in the world. Even if there were—would I endanger them by walking into a room like that? Saliss. Hah. Small wonder. He was always…kind to me.”

He rubbed at his eyes and averted his gaze. Mrsha tugged at him.

It doesn’t matter. You can come with us, and we’ll all love you. I promise. If anyone hates you like they hate Numbtongue, I’ll hate them forever! You don’t have to be so alone.

“It does matter. It is the very definition of what I am, and I have refused to change. I could have been their hero, but I made my stand here. I bet my life that they would bend before I did over this—one—thing. Now, you tell me my bet was always in vain. But I am needed. I can’t do it.”

The weary Drake bowed his head. A snivelling Gnoll girl clung to him.

Please. The world was worse when you vanished.

That alone made him smile. A quiet, endlessly sad smile from someone who had lost everything—lost it all, Mrsha realized, before he had found that silly inn. And that made her weep all the harder, but he patted her head.

“It may be ridiculous to say, but the days in the inn, as aggravating and strange as they were, were enjoyable. But I can’t go with you, Mrsha. There’s nothing for me there. At least here I can make a stand. Withdraw into Invrisil. Magnolia Reinhart has more to offer me than you do. At least she’s…an ally. Perhaps in both senses. There’s no way she doesn’t know.”

He brushed at his eyes, and Mrsha sobbed. Because it was the lesson both Mrshas had learned again and again. These people would never leave. Why would they?

But you’re so miserable.

“You get used to it. Don’t shake your head. What’s misery, Mrsha? If you had to be miserable every day of your life, but it saved just one person—let alone a hundred, a thousand—wouldn’t you try? Call me a coward, but I’d rather stay in this fated world. Try to change it from where I am. What does the future hold? A grave for me and even more burdens. Nothing changes about who I am and what they are. Maybe someday.”

His eyes longed for that day he would never see. Mrsha clung to his arm and wrote desperately.

If there were something, anything in any world that would get you to go with me, what would it be?

She had all the small power in the world—was there anything? And there was. Zel Shivertail stopped. She heard him draw breath, saw the Heartflame Breastplate rise, and her head shot up. Then he glanced away.

“—No. That’s a terrible idea.”

Tell me. I can do it.

What would it be? Something impossible, no doubt. A welcome in Pallass. Edellein’s position. Or…Zel sat there and murmured.

“Sserys. That would make it all worth it.”

Oh. Of course. Mrsha backed up a step.

General Sserys?

A spark entered Zel’s eyes. He twisted around and gave Mrsha a smile, like someone addressing a daydream.

“Yes. Bring him to the future and I’ll go. That would make it worth it. Go and ask him.”

Me? She had only so many roots—yet Zel’s face came alive at the idea, and she hesitated. The girl backed up towards the center of the room, and Zel tilted his head. She had never said how she came in here, and he swore he saw her grab…something.

I…for you, I could try.

“Wait. I only meant—”

He rose and put out a claw to stop her, but Mrsha vanished. And Zel felt as if he heard a faint sound in the distance. Like a door closing.

 

——

 

The Drake blinked, and no time at all had passed, but suddenly Mrsha came tumbling back out of the air. It was the same Mrsha, only, she was radically different.

“What in the world…?”

She was covered with graffiti! There was ink all over her white fur, and someone had put what appeared to be a bowl of noodles over Mrsha’s head. She tore it off her, and Zel saw there was a huge, red mustache colored on the Gnoll’s fur.

He almost snorted until he realized how miserable she was. Mrsha blew some noodles out of her nose and held up a card.

Sserys sucks! He won’t come!

“What? You met him? But no time passed—”

Time had eminently passed, and Mrsha tried to wipe the ink off of her fur as Zel found a towel to clean her with. She was silently screaming with indignation.

I went to see him! But then he beat me up, drew on me, and told me I was stupid!

“Sserys. You went to see—?”

Another door! Him and his stupid army!

“He hit you?”

No, but he dunked me in water and tried to get me to show him where the root was and explain everything! Then he said he wouldn’t come. Then he said he’d draw on my butt!

Mrsha’s face fell, and she stared at the messy towel. She gazed up at Zel, and he had to cover a snort as she pulled on her kilt, exposing more doodles. The [General] turned away; an indignant Mrsha threw her towel at him and he had to take a card to read what she said.

Sserys is an asshat!

The [General] blinked, struck by the statement, and he slowly nodded.

“He wasn’t—kind to people he didn’t like. It’s true. So he said no.”

His heart sank; not that he’d taken his wild idea seriously, but the girl had. And she avoided Zel’s eyes.

I tried. I really did. He won’t come. He’s dumber than…Leon is. He wants to win in his world, then rally all of the south and invade our worlds. Actually, he’s exactly as dumb as Future Pawn.

“Future Pawn? What? That sounds like Sserys. You actually met him.”

A disbelieving smile was coming over Zel’s face, and he started to grow excited. That place Mrsha had vanished…he stared at it and thought he could make something else out.

What if you took me with you? Then I could talk to him. The adult Drake was about to say that when he realized Mrsha was avoiding his eyes. There was something else, something that Zel hadn’t considered, and when it occurred to him, his jubilation faded.

“Oh. I was there too. Of course I was.”

Fool. If it was another Sserys, he already had a Zel. He should have asked for a future where General Sserys of Liscor was alive and…single. Dead gods, what a monstrous thing to request. And what a miserable pair they might have made. Mrsha nodded at the floor.

I’m stupid too. I didn’t think of it. Sserys is going to attack the Antinium. Only this time, he’ll take you with him. Maybe you’ll die or win. He’s too stubborn to do anything else.

Zel Shivertail rocked back on his heels and closed his eyes. He retreated away from Mrsha, as he had almost never done, and crouched down. Then, at last, he could speak with a wobble in his voice.

“At least—we’ll succeed or die together. Thank you.”

When he glanced up, he realized how much he hurt her with that. Zel turned away.

He knew Magnolia Reinhart would be here soon, if not because of his strange actions, but to meet one last time. Zel whispered as he gazed at the crumpled maps of the south. All the petty cities, the six Walled Cities.

“It’s always been like this, Mrsha. The cities cry out for Dragons. Real ones, leaders they create, regardless of whether or not they’re worthy. They don’t understand that they don’t need any more. Even the ones they have.”

Mrsha’s head rose slowly, and she fixed her eyes on the General of Izril’s back. Zel Shivertail closed his eyes and breathed in and out. Behind him was that girl with her world of terrible burdens. She had nothing to offer him but more pain.

But she needed help. So that’s why you went. Not because you were paid or because you would receive anything. If they had nothing to offer you, that was how you knew they were in need.

Zel spun on his heel.

“…Okay. Brief me on the situation. Is there anything I can take?”

What?

Zel bent over and picked up his worn armguard. Silently, he put it on, and the scarred metal still seemed brighter than his heavy expression. Yet the Drake merely rolled his shoulders.

“For your world. For this…real world where I am needed.”

You’re coming? But you said—

His grim smile was so damned weary. There was no hope in it. She had just offered him hope and taken it away.

“I’m coming. It doesn’t feel real; I suppose you know that. However, I believed you when you told me I was dead. The facts are that makes me believe this other world is the ‘real’ one, and if I want to make anything better, I have to go. It sounds like I won’t make a difference in this world even by my death. Besides—”

He glanced around the war tent and shook his head.

“—It’s not like I’m leaving much behind.”

No comrades. No dear friends. No allies greater than Magnolia or Ilvriss. Mrsha found herself asking the questions that should have come up.

But what about this world’s people? You have people in the inn. Selys. And…

She didn’t know anyone else. Zel spread his arms and shrugged.

“From what you’ve told me, it would have been better if we retreated at Invrisil. My death against the Goblin Lord may have foiled his army, but Tyrion Veltras was always able to overwhelm him. As for Selys…”

He paused and rubbed his face.

“—Is there a Selys, still, in your world?”

Yes. But Tekshia passed away.

Zel’s face crumpled up slightly. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and like a man taking a wound, kept moving, circulating the tent and picking up the few items he possessed.

“I would have liked to say something to her. A letter. I’ll write a letter. I owe Magnolia that. Though I can’t tell if she’ll send my words to Liscor or [Assassins]…”

He found an inkpot and paper, and then Mrsha realized he was serious. There truly was nothing holding the [General] back. To him, one world was as good as any other.

Or just as bleak. Her eyes were stinging. The girl gazed upon Zel’s heavy shoulders and realized that of course he was coming. The world needed him. So he would go. She saw those shoulders, which had relaxed in despair and grief and honest fury for the first time since she’d ever known him, rise once more. Zel glanced over his shoulder and grinned at her.

“Well? Aren’t you going to smile for me? Or don’t they do that in the future as well? And where is Erin? I would have thought she’d be the one stealing people from their fates.”

To his surprise, Mrsha did smile then. Mrsha du Marquin, Roots Mrsha, stood up suddenly and seemed to relax in great relief. Her lips curled upwards, and she wrote in the air with her wand.

Erin’s busy. It’s just me. I came to each and every world like this, Zel. You’re the only person who would come. And I see it now. My true choice.

She took a step backwards, and he tilted his head, bemused.

“What choice? Sserys or me?”

No. The girl shook her head, and her eyes were infinitely proud. Her wand flicked through the air, like someone casting a spell.

Mrsha and I were always selfish in this. We knew it. We brought misery and tried to steal happiness from these many worlds to fill our own. We did not consider the lives and feelings of those we stole, because we were mad with grief and the desire to hold our ghosts again. Truly, I am Orpheus. Erin was right. Or perhaps I’m Hamlet.

She held up her paws and stopped, inspecting her fingers, as if searching for the drops of blood. Zel just scratched at his head.

“More plays from Erin? Everyone is selfish, Mrsha.”

Including you?

It was such a ridiculous statement to hear from the Drake. Zel chuckled.

“If I were not so selfish, I would have forsworn loving Sserys. I’d have been that perfect leader and compromised what I wanted for the future for the betterment of Drakes. You’re allowed to want everything, Mrsha. It’s just—the cost that you have to calculate. You send [Soldiers] forwards, and it’s so easy on paper, giving orders. But if you’re going with them, or you have to look them in the eyes afterwards…that’s leadership.”

Mrsha nodded and swore she’d remember his words, all of them, though she had no desire to ever follow this gloriously tired hero’s path. Never again would she be able to read a book or listen to a story of a famous heroine or leader and not wonder how tired they were.

Yes. That’s the irony of all this. The one person who will come with me…has given enough. More than enough, and I will condemn him to suffering or death.

“I don’t have any intention to die.”

The Drake lied. He shifted back to his things, and Mrsha saw how resolute he was. Zel spoke to himself.

“I may not be able to affect things as greatly as I could in today’s world. I may be underleveled, but I have always done better with my back to the wall. I could hit Level 50; that would be something. And if I do, if the Walled Cities are in as much chaos as you claim, then perhaps…I didn’t care about my reputation, so I joined Magnolia Reinhart. But I was still too afraid to make a stand in the south. Perhaps I can. Meet these other people like me. Support them. Make the cities—Liscor, perhaps—more bearable for us. I’d like that.”

Hope glimmered in his tone, that spark of victory he chased in every single battlefield. Then, a question occurred to Zel. He glanced down at his armor and began to unhook it with his claws.

“I should leave the Heartflame Breastplate behind. Though, frankly, it’s not much of a Relic from what I can see. Still, it’s one of the Relics of the Walled Cities. Even Luciva’s glaive isn’t as legendary, you know. What became of it? What happened to Selys if her grandmother died?”

He didn’t know any of these things; it hadn’t occurred to him to ask. He’d seen a problem and engaged it before trying to pick up on the details. Sserys could do details as well as high-level vision. Mrsha’s ears perked up.

The Heartflame Breastplate? Oh, I just realized—you don’t know how to use all the features! It’s way cooler than you think. Selys got it. From your…when you died.

Her face fell, and he grew guilty and uncomfortable at her words. But then Mrsha’s eyes lit up, and she wrote on, feverishly tracing glowing words in the air.

She fought really hard to keep the armor! She and Tekshia hated your family! Um, sorry if that makes you upset.

To her relief, the [General] was grinning. He sat down in a chair, suddenly fascinated.

“Me? No. I don’t particularly care for…how did she keep my armor?”

Mrsha had to relate the technical details about Zel’s inheritance spelling out what happened to his gear, and the [General] slapped a claw over his forehead and genuinely laughed out loud.

“That little—? She was just a teenager the last time I had it drawn up, I think! She wanted to be an adventurer. I think Tekshia honestly pushed her more into it. I never thought she had to be. Her parents were good ones, you know.”

Good what? Adventurers?

Zel cracked open an eye.

“Hm? Of course. Selys’ mother, Tekshia’s daughter, was Gold-rank. So was Ilveem. I didn’t know them the best, but they were both decent to me. The rest of my family—”

He heaved his shoulders, not wanting to get into his relationship with his family, then decided to hell with it.

“—They know who I am. Pride in the Tidebreaker and disgust in me are difficult things to reconcile. Don’t worry about Selys taking the breastplate; they have enough money. I shared the wealth when I was first popular, and they hoarded enough of it away. But Berssila was always more understanding, because she’d been an adventurer. I didn’t save either one at Liscor.”

He rested his arms on his knees, and Mrsha stood there, so surprised that he wrinkled up his brows. She had to explain.

No one’s ever said Selys’ parents’ names to me. Berssila and Ilveem?

“Yes. I suppose Tekshia doesn’t bring it up because she lost them. Berssila was her only child to make it to adulthood, and, well, you know what happened to her, don’t you?”

They died defending Liscor when Az’kerash attacked. Mrsha nodded, and Zel stared blankly ahead.

“Good adventurers. Tekshia never blamed me for failing to lift the siege. Not once. Temper like a cat with its tail stepped on, and she’s as stubborn as Sserys was. She got ideas into her head as well, like me adopting a child or having one just to prove I was…but she raised Selys. She was a very good Gold-rank adventurer back in the day. Spearmistress Tekshia. Even when she became a mother, she told everyone courting Berssila they’d have to beat her before she’d approve of marriage.”

He found another cup and poured himself a second drink. Silently, Zel toasted the air, and Mrsha solemnly took a cup and took a sip, then made a face. But they chinked goblets, and she tilted her head.

Wow, so this Ilveem guy was better than Tekshia?

“What? No. She beat him black-and-blue so many times I told her to take it easy on him, especially because he was truly committed to Berssila. One day, the two of them ambushed Tekshia and beat her together.”

That made Mrsha laugh, and Zel felt himself warming up, not just with the drink.

“…Did Selys wear the Heartflame Breastplate? Is she an adventurer?”

Nope. She’s an [Heiress]. She loans it out to Gold-rank teams for big money. And she built lots of apartments in Liscor and just…makes money while existing. But she has a bunch of beavers in her mansion, so that’s nice.

Zel nearly spat out his drink.

“She rents the Heartflame Breastplate to—? And no one’s stolen it or taken it from her?”

Drake law, and I think she invests in good security.

“What’s mine is mine, and if you try to take it, I’ll stab you. Ancestors.”

The Tidebreaker rolled his eyes, but he had come alive for a second and ceased being that stressed, imposing figure. Mrsha remembered this Zel, whose face was far more emotive, who grew exasperated and…she leaned over the war table, suddenly, searching for something else to say.

Magnolia kept her promise, you know. She went to Oteslia and tried to get everyone to make peace. She wants to build this crazy big wall through the High Passes. So people can travel it at will.

“She did that? And no one assassinated her? Why a…a wall?”

Mrsha had to explain the wall-passageway from the north to the south, and Zel rubbed at his chin.

“That’s wildly expensive and impractical. But then again—I’ve heard Gnolls complaining that they’d love to go north if they weren’t afraid of being shot by the first Humans they encounter. They’d use that door. And frankly, the Bloodfields made Liscor an island on its own anyways. Eradicate it for good or just build another road and you’d connect it with the south.”

Oh, we already have a road. And Erin can now teleport people all the way to Pallass and Invrisil regularly without breaking her door.

“She can? That would have saved…I never even got to really tour Invrisil. What’s it like?”

So Mrsha described the City of Adventurers, and because she’d visited Pallass, Zel could actually talk to her about the Walled Cities like a person, not a big adult speaking to a child.

“That’s quite funny, you know. You’re always on the upper floors—the real sights in Pallass are the bazaar and lower floors. You’d have a lot more cheap places to mingle down there. The fact that you met Saliss and Pelt is extraordinary. I wish you had seen Oteslia, though. I like it of all the Walled Cities, and not just because they were the best to me.”

He paused.

“Okay, probably because of that. But they have vast gardens with magical plants. There are waterways over the lake with mangrove-type plants that have roots which can go hundreds of feet. They grow them down, and the [Gardeners] harvest them. Gnolls are welcome there. Fissival has more extraordinary sights, but they’re a nightmare to pay for anything at a fair price. And frankly—”

He grimaced, about to go off on the City of Incantations, but Mrsha waved her paws urgently.

Fissival flew!

“It did what?”

Then she described something Zel had never envisioned—a city, an entire city, held aloft by a single woman (and a Djinni). The [General] sat there, clasping and unclasping his clawed hands.

“Archmage Valeterisa. Yes, I remember her. She came back and…”

And Ilvriss! You’d be really proud of him, Zel! He really changed after you passed away. Everyone liked him when he had to leave for Salazsar, and he helped with so much! He came back with Nerul and Xesci, who’s like a person from a brothel, and he’s nice. To everyone, Humans, Drakes, Gnolls—

“Ilvriss. Turned over a new leaf? Wait, what’s this about a brothel?”

Mrsha described the surly Wall Lord’s transformation, and Zel shook his head, trying to imagine Wall Lord Ilvriss treating Erin Solstice like a confidant. Nay—

“He gave her his ring? That’s a sign of marriage in—”

Mrsha’s huge grin told Zel that she knew very well what it was, traditionally. Zel sat back, unable to encapsulate all these changes in the people he had known just by her words. But then he saw the message the Gnoll girl wrote.

Some of them changed because of you, Zel. Ilvriss did. I think he’s trying to do what he thinks you’d do. Valeterisa, the Gnolls I met in the south, there’s no one I ever talked to who didn’t know your name or like you. Even Fetohep said you were a real hero of the Drakes.

“…Who?”

That one word would have slain an undead Revenant-king, and it put another smile on Mrsha’s face. She stepped back as Zel opened and closed his claws. As if he were reevaluating them, seeing something—worth, perhaps—clinging to those bloodstained, worn claws.

—But then his head rose, and he brushed at his neck-spines.

“I let them down, then. In both worlds. I forgot what I did still mattered and grew selfish. I can make it up to them. Even if it’s only in some small way. At least let me try.”

He was getting up again, and Mrsha’s broad smile flickered as she saw his resolve had only strengthened. That was his problem. For one Gnoll child and a silly young woman in danger, he would charge a Goblin Lord.

Mrsha knew what she had to do and took a step back. She grabbed hold of something with her right paw, and the Drake didn’t notice until he turned around and saw the shimmering words.

That’s the problem. My world was always unworthy of you, Zel Shivertail. I can’t take you with me. You deserve rest. Something far better than anything I can give you.

His eyes widened, and Zel began to stride forwards, then stopped as he saw Mrsha’s arm tensed. She was at the step between worlds, and she could haul herself out of his reality in a second. He held out a clawed hand.

“Wait. I am coming with you. That’s what you wanted. Don’t be silly, Mrsha.”

She smiled at him, eyes shining as she stood there, so much older than the child he recalled. Mrsha wrote in the air with a flourish, with triumph.

Not you. Perhaps not anyone. I know exactly what must be done, I think. You cannot come with me, Zel Shivertail. We are battling dead gods, armies of Seamwalkers, and worse.

“That is why you need me. Don’t leave!”

Zel almost lunged, but he wasn’t that fast, and if she cut the root-thing she kept talking about—he saw her pull her legs into the air and backed up a step, holding up his claws.

“Mrsha. I don’t want—I don’t need to die here. I want to leave and see a better future. Not die at the Goblin Lord’s hands.”

She shook her head at him.

Your Heartflame Breastplate activates by hissing, and the flames protect you from harm. Selys told me that. It amplifies Dragonbreath—it probably gives you Dragonbreath too. If I don’t come back, retreat to Invrisil. Oh! And be careful; Tyrion Veltras will drive the Goblins from Dwarfhalls Rest and use them in a giant stupid army to siege Liscor with trebuchets from the Unseen Empire. Erin will stop the Goblin Lord’s army with her Goblin friends at Liscor. That’s where they might need you.

Zel was circling the tent, knocking over chairs, heedless of the things in his way, as she pivoted. He was rasping.

“Don’t leave me behind. You need me. Don’t go, Mrsha. Not like Sserys. Not again.”

She flinched, and he moved. So fast and sure of himself that he was holding her hand. Gently.

“I am coming with you.”

Again, the girl half-shook her head as she tried to pull back. She let go of the root a second to write with her glowing wand.

No. Not yet. Not my world. You don’t have time to wait here. So…I’m going to close the door. It doesn’t hurt. Believe me, you won’t even notice. I was in my own door, and it feels like a second. You’ll hear the loudest sound ever, and then…it’ll be one second, Zel.

He didn’t understand until he saw how thin she was; her unnatural maturity and everything else had prevented him from seeing the obvious. Zel almost let go.

“You’re from another door? But then that only proves my point. We are needed.”

Are we? Or are we spares in our own eyes, Zel? Dead men and women who can die for a great cause and not be missed? Because I am like you. And I know what I believe I am.

This time, the [General] was the one who could not reply. Mrsha continued, her neat little handwriting like a soft voice, gentle and precise, curling her letters so cutely you had to focus to see how her hand shook.

There is a home waiting for me…but everyone I love may well be gone. I have saved one last root for myself. But my Rags is already dead, and a horror is descending upon my world. We are all fake, figments of the truth. So therefore—wait. I will open this door and show you that world you desire.

Her plan, her final idea gleamed in her eyes, and Zel had no ability to read her thoughts. But the Grand Design of everything did, and it—the Second Edition—saw the shining spark in her thoughts. Redemption to this madness.

Mrsha had no way to make Zel let go of her arm. No force in the world could have. But slowly, the Drake released her. Then he confessed.

“I’m tired, Mrsha. I’d love to rest in The Wandering Inn. Truly rest and take my armor off for a while. But the Goblins…”

Strange, how they had seemed less evil over time. Strange, what knowing your death did to you. Had he been changed by this conversation? Or had he been changing even as he left?

So many regrets. Zel pressed the heels of his hands to his face, and Mrsha nodded as she wrote.

True respite. No more disasters. No—I lie.

She grinned like that mischievous, fry-stealing scamp she was, and Zel blinked at her. The girl laughed with real humor and flicked a card up. He caught it, bemused.

There will be disasters, I just bet! But more manageable. I promise you respite and trouble, Zel. But battles you can win. Lots of sadness. Some happiness. How does that sound?

It sounded…better than anything he had right now. Better than how she talked about her world. The [General] knelt, searching Mrsha’s eyes like he would gauge the heart of a new [Soldier] entering battle. Was she lying or would she refuse to break when the battle joined?

Her brown eyes were clear, and she stood proudly.

“You promise you won’t abandon me?”

I swear it.

Zel let out a huge breath. He sat down, cross legged, then decided he could stand. Just for a second.

“Then tell me, because I’m a [General] and I hate being left out of plans.”

So she got up, pretended to whisper in his earhole, and put a card right under the Drake’s snout. He blinked, read, and laughed.

“That’s silly. I like it. But what about your…the real world?”

The guilt he felt was mirrored on her face, and Mrsha stepped back again.

I reckon I’ll just let them cheat. One second, Zel.

She didn’t want him going with her, he realized, or she feared he’d be swept up in the chaos and never leave. Mrsha was right. The Drake shut his eyes, then nodded.

“One second. Then I’m coming after you.”

So, Mrsha swung herself back through the air and vanished with a smile. Zel Shivertail stood there, waiting, watching that root hanging in the air. He swore he heard a muffled thunking from just beyond, like someone swinging something into the air. Like, perhaps, someone trying to shut a door with something in the way.

Then he heard a voice from his world, just beyond the tent flap. His heart leapt in his chest as the familiar voice spoke.

“General Shivertail? Is everything well?”

Magnolia Reinhart. Zel glanced around the destroyed tent and wondered how he’d explain this. A fit of madness? He himself questioned if this was a mental breakdown. He half-turned, wavering, about to call out, and thinking if this vision of the future were just an illusion.

Then he heard it. That sound louder than everything. The [General] of Izril laughed, and he spun. Waiting for his moment.

SLAM.

 

——

 

Outside the door, a girl slid to the ground as the damn door finally shut on the root. She was almost positive it hadn’t severed the root. But just in case…

Running out of roots.

Eh. They’d had eighteen. More than enough to finish this. Then Mrsha wept for the one person she could not, would not take. Not to this world.

After a while, she rose to finish this folly. But it would be her triumph instead. She swore it, and left to find the last person she needed, the one who could, perhaps, make all this right.

Taletevirion for extra points. But the final piece of this puzzle she needed was, obviously—

Kevin.

 

——

 

They marched back to the burnt trees where the gate to older Nanette’s world existed, and Califor bade the younger Nanette prepare a cauldron. To make potions.

This surprised both Nanettes, but the younger one dutifully emptied water flasks into a smaller cauldron and chopped up Sage’s Grass—Califor Weishart gave her a list of duties.

“A magical draught may well make the difference if we encounter difficulties. Now is not the time for stinginess; put all the craft you have in the brews. I will tell you if you err.”

While the younger Nanette sweated over the pot, the older Nanette stood there, wondering if she should help; she had no hat. She could still cast magic, but she doubted it would be any good. To her surprise, Califor stood next to her.

Califor was shorter. No…Nanette was taller. However, not seeing her mother as a giant, but merely ‘tall’ felt wrong.

Califor seemed as bemused by the growth and patted Nanette on the head.

“Here I thought you’d be adorably short forever. I cannot imagine what will become of you if you reach my height. Or taller.”

“Taller?”

Califor was complimenting her? ‘Adorably’? It was a side of her mother Nanette had never known. Because of course, she had come back older, if not wiser.

This was the bittersweet power of the [Palace of Fates]. This was what it had been made for. To tell you all you wished to know. The regrets and heartache were your fault.

The roots just amplified the power. Califor murmured and shook her head.

“Our lineage, such as it is, comes from tall women. Northerners of Terandria, actually. The people of Golaen are all this tall—or even more ridiculous.”

“I’m from Golaen?”

Nanette squeaked. Califor grimaced.

“I am, and not related to the thickest bloodlines that intermarried with the half-Giants. One of the border-towns was where I grew up. I was considered average-height; short in the capital. Someday, you should visit. I would have taken you, but Terandria is not kind to [Witches].”

“You don’t fear anything.”

Nanette said that instinctively, and Califor made a faint sound.

“Hah.”

The young woman waited for anything else, and then their silence didn’t grow awkward—but Nanette felt peculiar. The chopchopchop sounds of her younger self working, the spicy tang of Sage’s Grass in the air, and the burnt charcoal…this was real. Beautiful. And then Califor spoke.

“Speak to me, witch to witch. Through that door, how dire are things?”

Witch to witch. Nanette chilled, and her heart felt like it would burst as Califor glanced at her. She tried to reply. Tried not to stutter, and she had an image of herself shouting at Lyonette. The young woman colored.

“I’m not a [Witch], Mother. I put my hat away after you…died. I’ve been more like a child these last few months. A fool.”

She remembered how she’d shouted at Mrsha after the other [Witches] had lectured her. And the girl had been dealing with this. Califor raised one eyebrow.

“Oh? Then you’re a bit older for admitting it. But you are a witch, hat or not. I would hope there would be a tiny bit of you that would always be a witch, even if you gave up your class. I did wonder, you know, whether I was doing you a disservice by teaching you the only class I knew. I feel the same right now.”

“What? But this is everything to me. I love it! I still do. It’s just that my hat was so heavy—”

Nanette tried to defend her mother from the guilty expression on Califor’s face, but the [Witch] just shook her head.

“I am not always correct, and with you, I fear every mistake I made. I nearly ran when I realized Belavierr would be there, Nanette. Not for myself; for you. My duty warred with my desire to keep you safe.”

In another world, Belavierr killed you with it. Nanette’s eyes stung, but she refused to weep. Not here. Not now. She jutted her chin out.

“I have never thought you let me down in any way, Witch Califor! As an apprentice or as your daughter!”

“Even for dying?”

—Dead gods, but she’d forgotten how her mother was so fast. Nanette was tongue-tied, and Califor glanced at the pot.

“Less Sage’s Grass in that portion, Nanette. Power is wasted if not used entirely! So. Witch to witch. How dire is it? Because I do not want to take my—younger Nanette into danger. Not so soon. Would it be better if you stayed here?”

And now they came to it. Nanette clenched her hands together, desperate.

“It is dangerous. Horrible! There’s an Old One Titan running about, and it’s not even the worst of what’s going on! Erin is missing—”

“Who?”

Califor didn’t even know. Nanette tried to list out the events that the [Witch] should know, and Califor’s face grew more dour with each new one. She exhaled after Nanette paused to think if she’d missed a problem.

“Interesting times. What a curse upon people’s lives they are. You should stay here. Stay and join me. Two daughters and a roaming [Witch]. It is not the safest, but it is better than that.”

She lifted an arm, indicating the open road and the world beyond. Nothing in sight but an adventure past the trees, under the blue skies and warm sun.

It was so tempting. Nanette had listened to the Painted Antinium’s philosophies of heaven, and if there ever was one…she glanced at her mother, and it called to her. Then the Great Witch swept a robed arm, and the blue cloth made the invitation vanish.

She hugged Nanette, enfolding her in a soft embrace, and Nanette stopped thinking. Califor murmured to her.

“Forgive me. It’s unworthy of me to even ask. If you are my daughter—this sister of yours, these people—you can’t abandon them, can you? But I am afraid for the younger Nanette. For you.”

She truly was. Mortal, ordinary fear stared out of Califor’s eyes, and that was what could lay the famous Califor Weishart low. The same thing as anyone else. Nanette blinked at her.

“But you’re going to come with me?”

“I cannot leave you behind. What mother could? I just cannot promise I will remain where it is dangerous.”

“The Wandering Inn’s not that dangerous normally—”

The older woman found a rock and briskly retied her boots. A sure sign she was preparing for trouble; loose boots could trip you up when you needed to run or kick the hell out of something. You started prep for trouble with your boots. Nanette did the same thing as Califor spoke.

“Hah. I recognize places and people who draw events to them. I am one of them. I used to be even worse, you know. I grew cautious when I had you; it doesn’t matter whether the place is filled with mana, luck, or at a crossroads or not. It is about intention and willingness, and—when you have seen them enough times, you will recognize places that draw in events. As if they were waiting for you to show up.”

“I’ve seen The Adventurer’s Haven. It’s not like that, I think…”

Califor shot Nanette a surprised grin.

“Larracel’s Haven? No, that’s not a place that invites chaos. Look at Larracel herself. She doesn’t want it, even for her beloved family. But that [Innkeeper] sounds much like Ryoka Griffin, who we just met.”

“Oh! I get it. A kind of…Ryoka’s not quite a busybody, but she thinks she matters even if she has no idea what’s happening. So everywhere she goes everyone gets caught up in her windiness.”

“Exactly. It sounds as if this place also actually matters. Well, there’s nothing for it.”

She was coming. Nanette was lightheaded. Califor strode over to the pot of bubbling potion and began to help younger Nanette. After a moment, they called her over, and the older girl stood there.

But I can’t lose you twice.

Nanette didn’t say it out loud, yet Califor seemed to glance up. Her eyebrows quirked in a silent reply.

I don’t intend to die twice.

The fear remained. Nanette twisted her hands in the hem of her shirt and glanced over her shoulder to the door, hidden in the forest of burnt trees.

“Miss Califor? The potion’s ready, I think. Can you add magic now?”

A timid young voice interrupted the conversation, and both witches turned. Almost, they’d forgotten little Nanette scurrying around and tending to the cauldron.

“So it is. Good work, Nanette.”

Califor eyed the pot and strode over to the mixture, which had turned a promising shade of bright purple with a weird line of glowing white mixed in. She bent over the pot, and the younger Nanette stepped back.

She hesitated, then came to stand next to her older self. They weren’t that far apart. A few months. But the differences between them stood out when they regarded each other.

One was a cute little [Witch] with her blue boots and robes and hat. She had round cheeks, an earnest expression, and just seemed…young. Her craft was happiness.

The older Nanette had begun her puberty. She was taller and no longer had the trusting expression of someone who was sure the world would work out for the best. She also had no hat and had on red boots and her own self-styled clothing.

So…Cute Nanette and Older Nanette. Clearly, Cute Nanette’s glances of dismay made it clear she felt like the future might not be the improvement she thought it was. Her little face screwed up with thought, and the older Nanette knew exactly what she was doing.

 

“If you can’t say anything nice, think of something.”

—Nanette Weishart, 23 A.F.

 

That was the motto the little girl lived by, and she was really having a hard time, but she eventually came out with something.

“I’m ever so much taller in the future! That’s very nice, isn’t it?”

“Mm. It is nice.”

Neither one said a word. As they watched Califor sprinkling some more herbs into the cauldron and briskly chanting a spell, Older Nanette murmured.

“You’re allowed to be mad. No one expects you to be a goody two-boots [Witch] forever. I’m putting you and Miss Califor in danger. Say what you’re feeling.”

She was harsher than she intended to be. The young [Witch] bit her lip and scuffed at the floor, and Nanette felt like the older [Witch Apprentices] who had bullied her for being Califor’s apprentice despite not being that talented. She cleared her throat.

“Sorry. It’s me. I’m…doing this to you.”

“It’s alright.”

Cute Nanette’s voice wobbled, and her chin rose with determination. Older Nanette fixed her with a glower.

“It is not.”

“No, it is! I swear on my hat! I was listening when you and Miss Califor were talking, and I agreed with what she said, even if I wasn’t as clever with words. We should go with you.”

“You’re not mad I’m here? Bothering your mother, making you leave your world?”

The older witch was caustic, trying to get a rise out of the girl she knew she had been. But her memory was faulty. She gazed into those round, brown eyes, expecting a flash of the irritation or anger she expected, and only saw…earnestness.

More faith than an Antinium [Crusader], goodwill exceeding that of a dog, and the simple pleasure of a girl who liked to give people flowers because it put a smile on her face.

It scorched Older Nanette’s soul. Not just in self-hatred, but to realize what she’d lost. And that was the thing. The younger Nanette saw exactly what her older self had lost, and that knowledge aged her.

Determinedly, the younger girl put her hand out and took the older one’s, making both of them start. Cute Nanette whispered, standing on her tip-toes so they were more level.

“That’s exactly why it’s important. I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I know what I’m like. If I lost Miss Califor, I—I don’t know what I’d do.”

Her face screwed up with uncertainty and dread at the very thought. Young Nanette rushed on.

“—So we must go with you, even if it’s dangerous. It’s the right thing to do. I shan’t look at it like you stealing anything, but me gaining a big sister. Then everything can be better. Not perfect, but better. That’s the [Witch] I wish to be, and if I can’t help myself, then how can I help anyone?”

The Older Nanette stared at her younger self for a moment, and the younger girl gave her a bright smile, like a sunburst in the middle of a rainstorm.

Dead gods. She understood now, why older [Witches] grew jaded and snapped at younger ones. She could see herself doing that to younger Nanette, and the words were inside her, ready to be spoken.

But again—why? Why bite at the little hand trying to pull you up? Instead, the Older Nanette bent down and gave herself a fierce hug. The little Nanette worriedly patted her older self on the shoulder.

“It’s okay. It’s okay! Don’t be too sad! Everything will be just right now. And I like your clothing, even if Miss Califor doesn’t. Do you think I could borrow some of it?”

“Absolutely. I promise.”

Older Nanette sniffed and stood back to admire her adolescent self. To fix this image in her head, properly, and remember it forever. Even if she had lost it, to know she had once been like this. She turned.

“The potion’s nearly done. I think it’s some kind of brew for battle? It looks serious.”

Califor was indeed making the liquid in the cauldron rise up, and it was changing to fantastic colors. Younger Nanette whirled and squeaked.

“Oh! That’s the strongest thing she’s ever made! Miss Califor! What is—?”

She ran over to ask questions, and the older Nanette took a few more steps back. It was such a beautiful image, the two witches standing together. How it should always be. She was the spoiler to this scene—yet they had accepted her with incredible grace.

Nanette took another step backwards, towards the burnt cottage and trees where the root was, and Miss Califor barked without looking up from the cauldron.

“Nanette Weishart. If you try to run and leave us behind, I will have younger Nanette sit on you.”

Younger Nanette’s head snapped up in surprise. The older girl froze guiltily, and she cried out.

“But it’s going to be devastatingly hard! Don’t you have regrets? This world is yours!”

Her reply was laughter. A [Witch] laughed, then began to cackle for the second time Nanette had ever heard, and Nanette’s hair stood on end. Califor swept her hat from her head and bowed, her eyes daring the girl to even try to leave her behind.

“My daughter needs me. I must go. Is it fair? Is it right? We are witches. There is only right, wrong, and whichever we choose to do. Now come. Stop crying. We have great work to do.”

 

——

 

So a witch hugged her mother and prepared to lead her out of her world into the hallway of infinite possibilities.

As she did, a real monster walked the halls of the [Palace of Fates].

Well, one among many. The trick of being a monster was luring the good, ordinary people of the world into letting you come among them and not recoiling in horror and fear. Illusions. Every old monster used illusions.

His was a good one. The illusions of monsters were often egotistical. Had you ever seen a ugly monster in disguise? Well, Taletevirion had. Sometimes it indicated how they viewed themselves, with humility.

Or it was their trick on the world: a victim that could be bullied so they could find vicarious joy in revealing themselves.

The Unicorn appeared like a half-Elven man when he chose to be, a lithe [Swordmaster], fit and old, eyes and hair silver, a healer and warrior combined.

It was what he was. It was the lie.

Healer. He could heal, yes, better than anyone in the entire world, perhaps. But he did not go around healing. He used his gifts sparingly, as he chose. In his way, as selfish as the ‘Healer of Tenbault’.

Warrior. All his battles were past. He was, again, one of the last great swordmasters of the world, but he defended a forest with no voices in it. He drew his blade seldom, and there were causes he should have fought for but had abandoned. If he was in shape at all, it was simply because he was a magical being, a Unicorn, and it was not hard to keep fit for him.

If the illusion of him was honest, it should have been a potbellied drunkard. A one-eyed, one-armed man with no legs covered in his own filth, smiling out at the world with rotted teeth, laughing at himself and everything else. Filled with so much loathsome self-hatred that he persisted out of spite.

That was who he was. And you see, that was the lie as well, because that was the image Taletevirion held in his heart. But here, in this [Palace of Fates], he could not hide from himself. He saw…

Everything. The Unicorn walked from door to door, shapeshifting. One second a man stumbling forwards, opening doors with his hands and pressing against the invisible barriers, the next a Unicorn kneeling, his horn brushing against the glowing fates trapped within. He took no notice of the Painted Antinium. He was blind and deaf to the world beyond.

What was he watching? A panting Gnoll girl halted as a Thronebearer finally found her. Both stopped and saw.

 

——

 

A child was standing. It was always difficult to stand for the first time. Everyone forgot what it was like in time, but that moment a baby rose on its feet was when the world changed. Humans, Gnolls, Drakes—they all reached that moment.

But horsekind had to stand within moments of being born. They entered the world and had to stand within hours of beginning their existence. They had to move, to run. Losing a leg or breaking an ankle was often death for them.

This Unicorn had only time to blink and draw breath for the first time as she emerged, wet, a nub of silvery material on her head; a horn, which would grow throughout the rest of her life. The most magical part of her. She had six seconds to lay there, then someone spoke.

“Up. Get up, Mauviron. You have to run.”

A panting Unicorn was speaking to her, trying to rise from her side. Her mother. The Unicorn, whose name was Mauviron, blinked in confusion, not able to understand. Then she heard a horn blowing.

“Get up, now.”

A voice rasped at her, and a far scarier face appeared; something poked her. A horn. The first sensation the child felt was a prickle of pain, then a jolt of energy; her legs moved, and she jerked, but didn’t quite get up. She tried to retreat from the male Unicorn, who swung around.

He was like her, but wrong. The child didn’t understand, yet, why, but the red splashed across his mane and flanks made him appear like a different creature. His fur was pale white; Mauviron’s mother was like golden grass. Their child was a viridian mix of colors.

The [Hunters] thought that made her more valuable. Taletevirion shouted, and the young Unicorn got to her feet. She began running as he charged, and an arrow scored her side. She gaped back, wide-eyed, and heard screams.

 

——

 

It was not a kind reality. From the moment the child got up and ran, she never stopped. She couldn’t; she was always hunted.

Unicorns. In the years before the Creler Wars began, after the Treants had marched into the sea, the last magical forest, the Vale Forest, diminished. There had been barely a dozen Unicorns left after the last and final war to defend the fragments of magic that kept the place an echo of the Greatwoods Forest it had been.

With the absence of the Treants, they became the only defenders. The hunted. A Unicorn’s horn was a Relic in any age; with the first Unicorn’s death and proof there were still some left alive, rulers and nobles launched expeditions into the forest, torched swathes of it, and fought each other for the miracle cures that could extend their life, cure infertility, add to their beauty—anything you wanted a Unicorn horn to be, it was, in their heads.

A dozen became six. And the last six Unicorns became desperate, because they were shielding the greatest folly of all: a child. A Unicorn with unique coloring—at least, in the minds of the hunters, who became obsessed with her.

Run and run and then fight. The child had to run through her first attacker when she was eleven. Stab a Drake through the heart and trample the dying body. She lost her mother when she was fourteen, her father the year after. Then they imprisoned her and used her as a healing tool, waiting for her horn to grow. Cutting shavings off it and selling it as a miracle.

She finally broke free when her captors had a visitor, a man with differently colored eyes. He pulled the bars of her cage apart and apologized to her with tears in his eyes: he had been asleep. Then he took the wounded girl and led her out into a blazing sea of flames. Flew her away, out of a kingdom he’d burned for what he believed to be their sins.

A century of some kind of respite. Learning. Arguing with a guilty Dragon who taught her what he knew and didn’t stop her from finding and slaying the Unicorn hunters and their kin. She became a better killer and bitterly left the Dragon to his den.

Then the Creler Wars began, and a chittering tide of dark thoughts arose from Rhir, sweeping over every continent. The young woman fled their advances at the start, even rejoicing in watching nations she hated vanish—until she realized they would not stop and began slaying them in secret.

Mortals she saved flocked to her healing powers, and she found some of them that defied everything she had learned of them. The Unicorn, Mauviron, joined forces with other immortals and warriors who gathered to stop these horrors of Rhir. She fought for a century. Five centuries.

She joined the Dragonlord of Flames and the other remaining Dragons as they took wing. She marched with the last three Unicorns against the Crelers on Terandria’s shores.

There she died.

It wasn’t the final battle; she was leading a charge on an Elder Creler when the ground fell away, exposing Adult Crelers in their nest. She fell, unsupported, and landed amongst a dozen of them. When she finally emerged from the pit in the ground, the Elder Creler was waiting.

It thought one word at her as it opened its body up, razor mandibles like a ribcage parting and revealing its brain inside its glowing shell. The pulsing mind said:

“Bleed.”

The Unicorn’s wounds opened, and she stumbled. Then the Elder Creler leapt, countless tons of shifting, malleable chitin falling upon the Unicorn before she could move away. It tore and reveled in its victory until Dragonfire engulfed it, the pink flames rendering the Elder Creler into a shrieking form—

 

——

 

Then and only then did the Unicorn leave the door. Taletevirion stepped back from the door that contained a future that had never been—a child he had never had.

“She never learned how to forest-walk. That’s how they get you. Teriarch must never have…that’s how they get you each and every time.”

That was all he said. A cavalier statement for his unborn daughter—or so it seemed. The Unicorn trotted left to another door marked by a glimmering horn, a Unicorn’s silhouette, their head raised high, and opened it.

He watched another Unicorn being born from the same mother and father, this one a boy. And another reality played out before him, years and centuries passing in the blink of an eye in this world.

The Unicorn left the door after his child died and walked over to the next. He left the doors open; he was walking under the roots of a vast World Tree, and where the roots twined downwards and formed natural arches were the doors to his [Palace of Fates]. Each one arranged in a line just so.

There were thousands open, glittering, proud futures, wondrous deeds, tragedy—lives where he had been a noble teacher and parent, and ones where he had died before even giving them their names. Realities where he’d fled or even had to do battle against his children.

But always, fates that fit him. He was the one constant in each door. Hero. Coward. Brave warrior—

The Gnoll girl stared into one and saw a Unicorn’s empty eyes gazing skywards. A battlefield was roaring around him; thousands of Unicorns fought with rearing hooves, horns stabbing, armored in regal wood barding, ironbark and magical materials.

This door played out the future in which the Unicorn died, taking a sword thrust through the side and unable to heal. Taletevirion had watched the world play out for the next three thousand years without him.

—And he continued. Door after door spilled their secrets to him, time accelerated so he could watch them, and the girl, Mrsha, jerked her eyes away.

If she had tried what he was doing, she would have gone insane. But the Unicorn was older than her by so many countless years…Dame Ushar was averting her gaze.

“Lady Mrsha, come with me. Your mother needs you.”

She wanted to take Mrsha with her, but the girl just held up her paw.

I am not the Mrsha you want, Ushar. I am Roots Mrsha, and this is my place. Whatever you have promised, it isn’t me. I have business with Taletevirion. If you’d like, you can help. I have to find Kevin as well. I don’t know where the real me is.

The Thronebearer hesitated. She knelt down.

“I believe you’re true and real, Miss Mrsha.”

A smile like Zel Shivertail’s crossed Root Mrsha’s face.

That makes one of us. But it’s alright. Even we ghosts have a purpose.

Unnerved, the Thronebearer moved to embrace the girl, to tell her it was alright. To stop—stop trying to look like her grandmother. But Mrsha didn’t even notice. She was watching Taletevirion.

On and on the Unicorn walked from door to door. Tormenting himself? She couldn’t tell; she’d done the same thing, but she had truly been in a dying hell. He had another purpose.

Around the base of the World Tree. It stretched up so high that even this copy of his memories was beyond comprehension. It looked big to Mrsha and Ushar; like they were two people standing before a skyscraper of Earth. The tree was vaster than that; their minds merely reduced it so they could stand before it without it taking up their entire thoughts.

Every now and then, after a dozen doors, the Unicorn would stop. Then begin walking up one of the staircases built into this vision of the old forests, to a higher floor. He would halt there and open a door. Watch for a few seconds, a minute—then close the door and turn away.

The doors up there were different. Unlike the other ones, he would only watch a bit. Finish a door, try another, then have to walk downstairs and keep seeing his other worlds. After the third time he did it, he noticed Roots Mrsha standing there.

“It’s you.”

It’s me. Hello, Taletevirion. We’ve never spoken. Or if we have, it’s not much.

“Sounds about right. I don’t talk to kids much. You’re looking a bit starved there. You should munch on some Yellats. They’re great for that kind of thing. They break down slower in your body, grow everywhere, and need less than other plants. They’re the real Sage’s Grass. When a Dryad invented that, she saved so many lives.”

Dryads invented Yellats?

The Unicorn nodded as he walked over to the doors.

“That’s what Teriarch told me. The old geezer forgets a lot, but he remembers credit where it’s due if it was a great deed. I make fun of him for his age all the time, but being here makes me realize how much I’ve forgotten.”

He trotted along, and Mrsha held up a card as Ushar followed them timidly.

Like what?

He gave her a smile of yellowed teeth, his big brown eyes in his horse’s face crinkling up slightly.

“What a bastard I was. All my failures and flaws I covered up in my head. Each and every one. How much worse I could be.”

He stumbled as he walked, and she realized his fur almost seemed semi-transparent, as if the visions were doing something to his body. She had no idea how Unicorn physiology worked. Before she could reply, his head came up, and his mane streamed through the air like moonlight.

“—And it also showed me when I did things right. I forgot that too, or how much it mattered. It’s hard to believe in your head, but I saw it. I remembered, even if the mes in the other futures did it wrong—I can be proud of that. My grandest deeds and my lowest sins. I wonder what Teriarch would see here. This might break him. Or he could wander this place…forever.”

Mrsha nodded and held up another card.

I have seen so many doors myself. You can lose yourself in them. Why are you doing this? I know how painful it can be.

She gazed up at the doors above, and the Unicorn pulled a new door open using a little latch near the ground. A latch for horses. Of course.

“This is just a way for me to view my life. For better or worse. There’s one about two hundred doors to the right that has the moment I beat a Dragon in single combat. It actually happened. Just go over and—eh, nevermind. Up there…”

He gazed into a future where he and Teriarch never went to war against the Crelers, then his head rose. Taletevirion whispered, hoarse.

“These are the doors where I could have made great mistakes. Had a child—a child—when there were twelve of us left. But I wanted to know, that sweet poison of what-if. Higher up is what this [Palace of Fates] was made for, I think.”

What it was made for? Roots Mrsha blinked. Many people had remarked upon the nature of the [Palace of Fates], how useless it was for a Level 70 [Empress] like Sheta. At the same time, how much it might matter, how much of a trap it was for the mind and heart.

But use?

What? Does it tell you the future? Because it’s always changing. So…

The Unicorn laughed in great amusement and shook his head as he shut the door and began to walk up the wide and narrow stairs fit for him.

“Predicting the future? Hah, I gave that up long ago. The puppets of the Great Trees love their prophecies, and I’ve met [Oracles], [Soothsayers], [Diviners]…no. This is what I’m looking at. See?”

He threw the door open, and Mrsha saw. Perhaps only she had earned Taletevirion’s respect enough for him to confide in her: she alone had seen as many doors as he. And what she gazed at made her blink, then sigh.

Oh.

A weary Unicorn was nudging a child. A tiny Dryad, who, similar to a Human baby, was curled up in the middle of a blossom of leaves, pulling herself out of a tangle of plant matter like a seed pod. Mrsha glanced up, and the Unicorn bent down and indicated something hanging from his side.

A bag of holding. Containing…the Dryad seed wand. Taletevirion walked past the door, opening another one.

Another image of a Dryad being born, this one different, and this time, Taletevirion wounded, balancing on three hooves. Another door opened—the Unicorn stood over a pile of ash as fire rained down, weeping.

Every door above was not the past, but the future. Futures where he took the wand and tried to raise the seed. Futures where he failed. Futures where he triumphed.

Still, Mrsha thought she was missing something.

“So you’re learning from the future?”

“No. I’m simply seeing it. The worst. The best. Futures where this single child becomes a monster. Futures where she revives the Great Forests—and it can be done. The most hope. The most despair. Until my heart bursts from all of it.”

The Unicorn bared his teeth again.

“That’s the trick of it, you see. This [Palace of Fates] can show you who people might be. It can show you what if, your heart’s desire. But that’s for good people. I’m a monster. So was whomever made this place. And if I think like them—I can watch every future, every terrible decision and weigh it against the good. Until I am so tired of it, so heartsick and weary, I can do what is necessary. Kill my best friend, because in grief, I have watched him truly die a million times.”

That was what he thought the [Palace of Fates] was for. When she heard that, Mrsha grew terribly uneasy and glanced over her shoulder.

No. It’s not for that.

The cynical blankness in Taletevirion’s expression faded, and he pawed at the ground as he looked away.

“Not for you. And perhaps, not for me. It’s not quite working. I am…look. This is one of the best futures.”

He was watching as a grown Dryad woman negotiated with the Five Families of Izril to let her forests grow. A Lady of the Flowers of Izril in truth. She shone with hope—the Unicorn kicked the door closed with a foot.

Now he was half-Elf again; he threw open another door and spun.

“And here is the door I fear.”

A burning figure, covered in flaming tar, writhed on a stake of wood. A future where they burned the last Dryad. Mrsha didn’t look away—Taletevirion shut the door, guilty.

“The best of it. And the worst. I am…the last Unicorn. I judged the puppets who thought themselves masters of this child’s future. I took her. Now, I have a choice.”

Let her live or don’t. It was more complicated than that, of course. He could wait or try to help the child—but it boiled down to that. Then, Roots Mrsha began to understand.

You want to know how difficult it is.

“Yes. Yes. Even if the best future awaits her, and it is far from certain. Look, Mrsha.”

The Unicorn walked back to that resplendent figure treating with mortals as equals. He rested his head against the invisible barrier, and the half-Elf whispered.

“She’s so…lonely. Always, always. Who’s her companion? Children, brave children whom she will lose? Me? A drunk, bitter warrior too cautious to show her the bright future? Teriarch, willing to get his heart broken by another young woman? If I bring this child into the world, it will be so difficult.”

Yet the doors called to him, so many futures where he stood or died and found the trial worth it. He was not afraid of his end, Mrsha realized.

Only the cost to that unborn soul. The Unicorn turned questioning eyes to Mrsha, and she held up a card.

Do you know what these roots do? It is cruel, you know. So terribly cruel what I have been doing.

A hand brushed Mrsha’s hair, and Taletevirion knelt down and rubbed her head gently.

“Yes. I don’t envy you. There is no one I would bring back into this unkind world. Not a one. Nor would Teriarch himself, I think. But we are old. We have made our own peace with death.”

She rubbed at one eye.

I have a way to fix it. But I am nevertheless a monster who ruins things. Once more won’t hurt. I have to go find Kevin.

“…I have no idea who that is. Sorry.”

She laughed. That was fine. Mrsha shook her head and held up a card, giving Taletevirion the smile of a real monster.

I have something for you, Taletevirion. Though you may murder me. I offer you a choice because I have an idea. One that changes these many doors. One that is not held in a single one of them.

The Unicorn raised one eyebrow, greatly amused. He glanced over his shoulder at the countless doors behind him.

“Oh? That’s impossible, but go ahead.”

Silly Unicorn. Mrsha led him down the stairs and met Dame Ushar. The Thronebearer hesitated, and Mrsha held up a card.

Dame Ushar, I require one of the Deathblades or whatever the heck they were called. The ones Ylawes got from Facestealer’s defeat? I know he took one, but don’t we have some around here? Either that or one of the working artifacts from the lightning garden.

Ushar’s brows rose, and she stole a glance at Taletevirion.

“I think—we may have a few? Master Hedault was due to analyze them or bring them to market, but after the Winter Solstice and all the…let me check.”

It didn’t actually matter which blade she got; she just needed a half-decent one. The Unicorn was intrigued and helped Mrsha as Ushar emerged with both a blade of lightning and one of the Graveswords.

“The City of Graves, I think. See that seal on the pommel? Skeleton wing. Classic Drakes. That one’s better than the lightning sword. If you’re giving them to me, don’t bother. My sword is a manifestation of my actual horn, and it’s better than both.”

Roots Mrsha took the deathly sword and gave Taletevirion an arch look. She re-wrapped it in the linen, careful to avoid the edge, and shook her head.

It’s not for you, dummy. It’s a gift. Follow me.

The Unicorn and Thronebearer followed Mrsha as she led them towards her part of the [Palace of Fates]. Taletevirion leaned over.

“Ushar, right? Do you ever think it’s weird we’re following a child around?”

“Er—ah—in this case, it feels appropriate, Sir Taletevirion.”

“True. You’re smarter than you look.”

 

——

 

The door that Mrsha came to was simple, and she produced a root, much to the horror of Dame Ushar.

“Lady Mrsha, what are you doing? There are only so many…”

The girl pointed a finger to what was inside the door, and Taletevirion and Ushar peered inside, frowning. She realized…they had no idea what was going on.

Look inside, Ushar. You too, Taletevirion. Do you recognize who’s in there? Do you know where this is? The hour has come to cheat. So cheat we will. I could go anywhere in the world. Steal anything. But this? Does this change things, Taletevirion?

He didn’t get it. The Unicorn inspected the gloomy image, frowning. He was peering, he realized, at a dark tunnel barely filled with light; small wonder he was hardly able to see. A [Light] spell was illuminating a group of idiots delving down into ruins.

Classic adventurers. Only, he thought he recognized them. There were four; another usual number. One was a young man wearing white robes, following a few silly skeletons armed with shovels, a woman with soon-to-be-bad arms behind, then an Antinium and a half-Elf with a bone hand. They descended down into the ruins, halting when they saw the glow from the tunnels beyond.

Creler eggs and baby Crelers in hibernation.

Dame Ushar didn’t know the history of the Horns of Hammerad well, but she realized where they were and started.

“This is—Albez.”

Still, the Unicorn seemed nonplussed. Mrsha moved the image away from the Horns. The view travelled down the hallway, past a teleportation trap on a door and above a pit with runes of [Insanity]. Within was a vault, small, compared to Udatron’s laboratory, but packed with magical items.

A magical staff, racks of weapons—among them a buckler that could produce a [Forceshield] spell, various artifacts of lesser magic…a bag of holding with an iron wand inside.

The treasures of Warmage Thresk. Taletevirion’s eyes focused on the bag of holding, then flicked to Mrsha. She was inspecting the room.

They never pulled out more than a fraction of the treasures from the room. See? These were the ones nearest the door. A Fire Elemental appears, and it blows the place to smithereens.

“It must have been better than a Fire Elemental, it sounds like. Regular ones can’t burn magic like that. How’d they kill it?”

With the door and an angry Yvlon. Look at all the stuff they never got. And that wand.

Mrsha had the root in her hands. A doorway to another world. Access to whatever you wanted. It would have given her a door into the vaults of Ailendamus or the Blighted King, which were actually probably really bad ideas because she bet they were trapped and there was no good [Rogue] around.

But this? She gazed up at the Unicorn and hefted the wrapped blade.

They managed once. It’s mean and cruel…but at least Yvlon won’t burn her arms. It’s up to you, Taletevirion.

He croaked, his voice hoarse.

“Why—why show me this? We can’t do more than change their future. Why bother doing that? Can you even steal things from other worlds?”

He’d never thought of that. She laughed at him and nodded. Then Mrsha pointed back at the endless hallways he had been looking at.

Your lonely fates. Tell me, Last Unicorn: is it worth it? Because if it’s not, I won’t open this door. But your choice—would it help if she were not alone, this unborn child? Or does two compound your sins?

She gazed up at him, that little monster tempting him, he who had nothing left to steal. Nothing—but hope for the future. The Unicorn recoiled away from her and put a hand to his face. He shuddered, and Dame Ushar moved in front of Mrsha, for what good it would do, because a real expression of wrath clouded his face. Then he drew his sword.

“This place is damned. And so am I. But I’ve been damned for centuries, and a dead man, too. Open that door, and I have no more excuses. It’s all been damned new ever since that Gnoll [Bartender] served me a glass of Rxlvn.”

Mrsha had no idea what he was referencing, but she saw a wild streak enter the Unicorn’s gaze, and she didn’t hesitate. The girl thrust a root into the door.

Be careful. The trap activates the Fire Elemental the moment you—

Too late. The Unicorn leapt through the door, and Mrsha saw him land in the hallway and cursed silently. She nearly went in after him; Ushar pulled her back.

“No, Miss Mrsha!”

Wait, wait, stop! The door’s trapped! It leads you to a—

The Unicorn touched the door, vanished, and Mrsha gulped. A second later, he popped back into place.

“Teleportation trick. Nice. Whoever made it never fought a real [Druid] who can wyldwalk.”

He flung the door open. The Unicorn sauntered into the room. He approached the bag of hodling and reverentially stopped before it. He spoke, a whisper, as Mrsha and Ushar watched.

“Not two to raise a generation of new Dragons like those poor idiots in the Walled Cities. Just to not be alone. You’re alive in there. You were already born; I won’t make you wait forever or be killed for some [Mage]’s magic. You are the last children of the old forests, and I will at least let you see this world.”

So saying, he reached into the bag of holding, grabbing the wand, and gently placed it in his bag of holding. Instantly—a burning shape began to coalesce out of the air.

“Intruder. You are trespassing in the personal sanctuary of Warmage Thresk. Identify yours—”

The Fire Elemental began and stopped. It was a roaring bonfire of flames, a being of pure infernos whose ‘face’ was multicolored fire. It glanced down at its chest.

Taletevirion’s sword was piercing through its magical gemstone heart. The Unicorn didn’t watch the Fire Elemental as it vanished with a feeble cry.

“Not a real elemental. Artificial one. Add it to my list of sins.”

He spoke, then seemed to realize Mrsha and Ushar weren’t with him. The Unicorn turned.

“…Huh. How do I get back?”

At this point, a Gnoll girl poked her head through the door and waved a hand wildly at Taletevirion, who accepted a card and the sword.

“Ah, right. Don’t steal the Forceshield or some of the other stuff. The best items? Well, it’s not this.”

He walked over and tapped the Forceshield buckler carelessly; the Unicorn placed the wrapped sword next to the bag of holding and wandered about.

“This staff. These robes—eugh, they smell like old man, even now. This, this, this…”

He began randomly tossing things into his bag of holding and stopped after about ten items. The room was still packed with artifacts.

“Those are the Relics. Anyone need a new sword or something?”

The Gnoll girl was trembling as she stood in the hallway, peering at the simple door which was worth more than anything else in the room. She half-shook her head.

Nope. The most important thing is right here.

“Hah! Wait, are you serious? That’s so sad you believe that.”

Dame Ushar cleared her throat a few times, pointedly, and both Taletevirion and Mrsha eyed her. Blushing, the [Knight] hurried into the room.

“If there’s so much—do you think there’s a few pieces in there fit for me? And Ser Dalimont!”

The Unicorn rolled his eyes, but helped her pick out a few items. Mrsha’s ears perked up. She heard voices; the Horns of Hammerad had dispatched the Crelers faster than she thought.

Come on, let’s go!

The Unicorn sauntered out of the room, closing the door behind him, and Mrsha was last to bail out. She saw lights coming down the corridor, slowing—she heard voices.

“Hsst. Hold up. I heard voices ahead.”

That was Yvlon. Mrsha scrambled towards the magical door that would one day become the [Portal Door] of The Wandering Inn. She just had to…there! She slapped a note on the front of it, then ran for the root.

By the time the Horns of Hammerad turned the corridor and found the door, their guards were up. They were covered in Creler goo, but excited. They approached the door warily, checking for traps, but it was Ksmvr who raised a hand.

“Excuse me, Captain Ceria. But there appears to be a note on the door.”

“A note? What th—what the heck? Oh, tree rot!”

Ceria squinted, ignoring Pisces and Yvlon hissing at her to get back in case the note was trapped. Ceria stared, tore the note off the door, and groaned.

“Some bastard beat us to it!”

“What? No!”

Yvlon cried out in horror, and Pisces clutched at his hair. The note was simple. It read:

 

Hey there, rookies, I cleared out the best items from the vault. No hard feelings. Careful with the door; it teleports you into a nifty pit trap. You might want to take it with you. Could earn some coins. Help yourself to what’s inside. I even left you my old sword to make up for it. Oh, and watch out for the Bloodfields. There’s an Adult Creler buried there. 

Much love, 

—The Thief of Fluff 

 

“The Thief of Fluff? Who’s that? I know there’s a Thief of Clouds—where are you, you bastard?”

Ceria began shouting, and Pisces had one of the skeletons open the door. It vanished, but the second one got the door open, and the adventurers gasped at the room filled with magical treasures. They gaped at each other, and Yvlon threw up her arms.

“She left all that behind? Who is this woman? It’s a trap—we’re being set up, and once we emerge—”

They began bickering, panicking, but in the end, after much paranoia, confusion, and discontent, they had to admit they might be super rich. Though each grimacing Horn clearly wondered—if this was what was left, what the heck had been taken?

 

——

 

Mrsha felt bad about it. Slightly. She felt like she had done the most obvious, Todi-brained thing in the world. You had magical roots, so don’t overthink it. Just loot alternate realities. But she had done this because…

Taletevirion held the two wands, and he glanced back at the doors in the [Palace of Fates]. But he didn’t move towards them. Now, he seemed well and truly afraid and perhaps regretted his impulsiveness. But his eyes held a resolve unlike the weary gaze of Zel Shivertail.

“I’m committed, then. And I feel oddly bad about stealing from another world, don’t you?”

Yeah. Especially when you look at her.

The two turned, and they had to agree—the real problem wasn’t them. Taletevirion had taken nine Relic-class objects, not including the wand.

On the other hand, Dame Ushar was posing with six different artifacts on and brandishing a jewel-encrusted scabbard in front of a mirror. She jumped when Taletevirion coughed loudly into his hand.

“You’re over your magical interference limit and will explode in about seven minutes. Also, your color coordination really doesn’t work.”

The blushing Thronebearer hastily removed some of her gear, avoiding Root Mrsha’s flat gaze. Taletevirion felt at his bag of holding.

“Right. That’s changed everything. Here.”

He handed Mrsha a huge staff taller than she was, then dumped a bunch of robes over her head. Mrsha blinked as she tried to balance the multiple Relics sitting on top of her. The robes were huge, but snapped together, and suddenly she was a miniature, robed [Wizard]! She pushed the hood back, sniffed at it, and wrinkled her nose.

Yuck, it did smell like old guy! She also, coincidentally, felt as strong as a lion. The staff was divided into two parts, floating around an invisible gap in the air where the pieces of twisted stone trailed out like filaments and vanished.

As if an invisible vortex spell were permanently sucking the middle of the staff away. Mrsha held it as far away from her body as she could, and Taletevirion wandered away.

“I need to start strategizing. Oh—don’t activate that amulet or open that jar. Those two I think are cursed. I’m not an [Enchanter], though. I just have good eyes.”

The amulet on her head and the jar being balanced there too? Mrsha froze in terror until Dame Ushar grabbed the objects and shoved them into Mrsha’s bag of holding.

“Taletevirion! What about all this?”

“Oh, there’s barely any magical interference.”

He nodded at them, and Mrsha almost felt at the void in the middle of the staff. Then she decided to poke a stick from her bag of holding into it. The stick didn’t dissolve or vanish, so she gingerly tried to twist the staff on the basis that the two floating halves could probably move, right?

“Miss Mrsha, please don’t mess with—”

Dame Ushar might have been impressed with Root Mrsha’s ingenious mind, weariness, and maturity, but the girl was still a child sometimes. She saw Mrsha twist the staff into a right angle, like the hands of a clock, then freeze guiltily.

Mrsha held up a card and wrote on it.

Sorry, Ushar! I can’t believe I—Ushar?

The Thronebearer was frozen in place. Mrsha blinked in horror. She saw the woman’s mouth closing and her eyes growing wide. Slooooowly—

“Oh, hey, it’s [Haste]. I bet you each angle corresponds to a different bound spell. So twelve spells if it’s hours. But it’s three dimensions so I bet there are more. [Wizards] love that kind of stupid stuff. You should really get Teriarch to look at that, but he’ll probably try to steal it.”

Taletevirion walked past Mrsha at her speed, and she screamed silently. The Unicorn winked at her, then strolled away.

Leaving Mrsha the Great and Terrible with the staff. She tried to run after him, waving the staff at him to call him back—then tripped on her robes. The red robes glittering with old truegold inlays from the age of the Rihal Imperium stretched slightly as Mrsha went tumbling—then felt the world vanish behind her. The girl opened her mouth in mute horror as she realized what was going on.

 

——

 

“—that!”

Ushar barely saw Mrsha and Taletevirion move. The girl blurred away with Taletevirion at such speeds that Dame Ushar couldn’t keep up. Then? Mrsha turned into a rotating orb of white fur and her green kilt, an uncontrolled somersault forwards. Whereupon she began floating upwards through the air. Levitating as she spun around in a dizzying circle like a living top.

Ushar saw the ball of white fur and red robes flying higher like a comet until Mrsha finally dropped the staff. The Thronebearer ran forwards, dove, and caught the girl. Mrsha sat up, held her mouth not to vomit, and then stared past Ushar.

The magical staff stood straight up and down in the ground like a lamppost, glowing, behind the woman. The girl and woman eyed it. Then they ran after Taletevirion, yelling at him to explain.

 

——

 

Another root down. It wouldn’t come out of the door when Dame Ushar and Mrsha got back with all the Relics safely secured away—except for the robes, because they made Mrsha feel cool. She washed it in the bathrooms with soap, though, to get rid of the old man smell.

“We can’t reuse the roots, Miss Mrsha?”

Roots Mrsha shook her head. She suspected the roots were, well, rooting in the worlds she put them in. Their ‘death’ when used up might actually be a side-effect of what they really wanted.

Each world is a new one for them. I wonder what the Faerie Flowers really do? Mrsha checked how many roots she had left on her. Then she wondered how many more they might need.

Well, I have used four. That is enough for now. To the last thing I must do, Ushar. You can go if you want. I’m sure Lyonette will be facing down Pawn, and we could all die from that showdown.

Verily, they were not the only people in the [Palace of Fates], but the damn thing was so big they could all miss each other unless they actively sought one another out. Ushar hesitated, but then shook her head.

“Not without you, Miss Mrsha. Last would be—Kevin? The Kevin from the world of the beach garden? Why…him?”

Why indeed? Mrsha put her hood up and strode down the hallways.

Because I promised to talk with him. Or rather, other Mrsha did. Because he’s the key to helping Zel. To resolving our disasters. We could do it without him, honestly, but Kevin fits. He’ll judge us. If anyone could speak for, well, everyone, it’s probably him. Come on. Let’s find him.

They set out and began to walk. But what they realized was…Mrsha blinked as they came to an empty hallway, that grandiose and generic [Palace of Fates] that it seemed to be when no one had an image. She poked one wall, even wrote a note card.

No, no. Show me Kevin.

—The hallway flickered, and the girl stood there with the [Knight]. Mrsha glanced around, confused, and a figure alighted in the reflection of a window. Sheta’s vast eye appeared and scared the daylights out of Dame Ushar. She spoke.

“There are places beyond these hallways of doors. You must walk to find him.”

Beyond the doors? Mrsha’s eyes widened. She nodded at Sheta and strode forwards, realizing the [Palace of Fates] was changing around her. She had to come back for Ushar, who was stuttering. And it was Kevin, appropriately, who had found the rest of it.

The [Palace of Fates] was, after all, more than just one thing.

 

——

 

Kevin Hall walked. He just walked away from these people from the real reality, away from the crazy army of religious Antinium, away from it all.

He’d forgotten he wasn’t the main character. Sometimes he forgot and the world would helpfully remind him. Seeing Lyonette swearing to ash Future Pawn while a bunch of people stood around in a war conference for the fate of the multiverse really helped in that regard.

It’s not like he had cared about being the main protagonist of this crazy story, and story it was, when you thought about it.

“It’s like…A Kid in King Arthur’s Court. Wow, that was a terrible movie. The dude made a bicycle out of steel and rode it around, which doesn’t work because it’d have shit traction and be too heavy to ride. And I did the same thing.”

That’s, uh—

That’s where he’d gotten the idea from. Unoriginal. But when you thought about it, this entire world was a story.

Kevin hadn’t thought about it like that since coming here. It got real. You forgot to consider home except in terms of getting back and what you might use. Maintaining the idea that you were a protagonist in a game or storybook only worked when you hung around other Earthers.

When you were around people in this world, you figured out they were just—people. So utterly unlike NPCs from a video game that you just didn’t think of it.

But now he felt like a storybook character. His example? A superhero comic. The Justice League, uh, a Marvel squad, any of the bigshots standing around during a multiverse arc. They’d be facing Vortdoom and his army of evil multiverse alternate-reality superheroes with all the odds against them.

Then you got all the heroes together for the volume-ending anthology—and you had to buy like six different comics to find out what happened from each hero’s point of view—and it’d be a giant disaster that usually left almost all the heroes alive and the world was mostly repaired by the time their next arc started.

…Kevin remembered why he’d stopped reading superhero comics as a teenager now. Nothing seemed to matter, including death. You realized that even if someone died, they’d be back in a reboot. The status quo never changed.

Spiderman never would be happy without a disaster happening. Batman would never get over his parents or get laid. Powers changed, villains came and went, but the status quo remained the same. With all the power in the world, the Hulk destroyed buildings that always got rebuilt, Superman saved the world, people still presumably died of hunger, and supervillains always came back.

In their way, the comics he’d grown up with were as depressing as Kevin’s faith in the world of Earth changing for the better. He liked cycling, surfing, having fun, playing games, doing things he could control. But the world he couldn’t fix and wouldn’t know where to start.

In this world, things could change. Or at least, he had believed that. He couldn’t do it, but Magnolia Reinhart could. He’d seen Erin Solstice pull off miracles around her. Whatever she wanted to claim, she had real protagonist energy. So did Ryoka. Perhaps it was what you made of yourself, but Kevin hadn’t wanted to be them.

In this hypothetical scenario, though, it was the end of the world where most of the Human population might be wiped out. The last heroes were gathered to make plans, and they’d assembled in their watchtower or space fortress.

Captain Continent, Heroinewoman, the Sunglasses Dude, and so on. Cosmic heroes…and Roy from accounting. All these superheroes ready to do the Right Thing, and Roy jumps in and asks if this is all fiscally responsible or something.

(In this scenario, Kevin was Roy.)

So he left. He just walked away because what Kevin had been wrestling with was his own death, the knowledge that he was fake. The impossible decision to leave his world and perhaps join another one where he was needed and wanted. And he realized—they didn’t have time for his little existential crisis.

“It’s all cool dudes, you save the day. I’ll just…stay out of it. Head down. Like other me did, unless he was trying to be a hero. Dumbass.”

That was unfair. Real Mrsha had told him how he had died—trying to stay out of the way. Only, someone had decided he was a main character and shot him.

“With a fucking gun.”

It still bothered him. Bothered him enough that someone had seen him as a legitimate threat to assassinate, seen Imani like that. Bothered him because…that person, Roshal, the Emir Yazdil, had seen right through Kevin.

He wanted it. Oh, he couldn’t be an Erin, but someone had known what lay in Kevin’s heart. The owner of Solar Cycles was making bicycles for the rich and powerful. Had they, in fact, found the secret plans he’d tried to hide away? Did they know he was giving Goblinhome information?

“I’d have done it. That’s the fucked up thing.”

Kevin was passing by doors—doors as he walked through his version of the [Palace of Fates], which, fittingly, looked like an interstellar space station, some hideout of superheroes. He trod over red carpets and impressive, rich interiors and shook his head.

“No, I don’t want to see other futures, thanks. Also—these super headquarters are way too rich. Turns out my superheroes were more like Hollywood elites. Fuck, man. This day just keeps getting worse and worse.”

The doors stopped appearing, and Kevin wished for a place away from all of this. So he kept walking, not paying attention as the walls morphed back to regular marble and stone and kept thinking out loud.

“I would. I’d be sneaky about it. Like—I wouldn’t make a gun. But maybe I take some of Octavia’s matches, some fire magicore, a tube, and—okay, that’s a gun. But who can tell? Then I go over to Rags and go, ‘hey, that Wyvern Lord dude? Give him one of these.’ She’d do it, and I’d pretend she made it.”

That was his lame attempt at being a hero. His middle finger to the powers threatening the people he liked. Buying toilet paper for Goblins because they enjoyed the texture. Gifting bikes to Goblins such as Rianchi that not even the monarchs had.

Someone had known it. Seen that Kevin wanted to be That Guy and shot him dead. That’s why it stung; it was proof Kevin wasn’t That Guy and that he was lying to himself.

“I could have been. I don’t know. I’m dead. I should go with Mrsha. But even if I went—”

Then he’d be ‘other Kevin’, the Kevin who had died but come back. Imposter. And you know those were the real redshirts, the expendables.

Stop thinking this is a story. Kevin banged his head against a wall. That hurt a lot, and he shook himself.

He was now in a different part of the [Palaces of Fates]. A huge, marble staircase was descending towards these massive doors. The doors appeared locked, and Kevin felt like they were too big to even yank open. So he turned the other way.

“This place is amazing. I wish I felt it.”

Hands in his pockets, he moved away from the front doors, down a side-staircase. These led to less-magnificent doors with big glass panes and a clear view of outside. A bright day. No, wait, there was some mist. Still, pretty impressive. Kevin pushed the doors open and blinked.

“Huh.”

He shaded his eyes and stared up at the sky, but there was no real sun. Moodily, Kevin kicked the ground as he wandered around the interior garden or wherever he was now. He wondered if you could get lost and almost doubled back before seeing another staircase leading downwards.

Down fit his mood, and he reckoned he could retrace his steps, so he descended. The hallways of stone became rougher walls. Kevin shuddered.

“—The heck is this, a dungeon? What do I do? Pyrite didn’t even hesitate. ‘I’m dead, so there’s no second chances.’ Dude, that’s hard as fuck.”

He couldn’t do that. If someone gave him a second chance and told him the alternative was dying, he’d take that chance. He just wished—

Kevin stopped, slid down against one wall, and covered his head with his arms as he curled up.

He wished he’d seen his family once. Written them a note goodbye. 

 

——

 

The young man sat there for a long time. How long, he didn’t know, but the faint light playing over his skin made him gaze up. He wiped his eyes and blinked.

The dungeon-like hallway was filled with light. Reddish, grungy, and hella ominous. But other, brighter lights cast flickering shadows down the long hallway.

“Uh. Hello?”

He didn’t like it. This was too spooky for him, but Kevin had been told this place was safe…

…No, wait, no one had actually said that; he’d assumed it was safe because it was related to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. But everyone had been talking about fighting. And no one had mentioned spooky dungeon lights.

Kevin was edging back towards the stairs and the garden with the hedge maze; he thought he’d seen people walking around up there. But then he swore he heard his name.

“Kevin.”

“Oh my god. No, I’m not doing this. Hey, I’m not doing this, you hear me?”

Kevin cupped his hands together and shouted. He knew stories and clichés and rules. You did not do this. But the voice spoke again, and he swore it was his name.

Why did any idiot go towards the ominous lights and the voice calling his name in the empty magical palace in defiance of common sense and everything he knew of stories?

Well…you did it because you were mostly worried about what happened if you ran away. You didn’t want the monster sneaking up on you. And you did it because curiosity was a bitch who’d knife you for the rest of your life if you didn’t.

But mostly—Kevin did it because he was dead, and so what else did he have to lose?

 

——

 

Past the cellar door set into the grand palace was a stone tunnel filled with bleak cobblestones, and the iron bars in the door’s window cast long shadows like prison bars into the darkness.

When the door swung closed, the daylight halted a bare dozen feet as the hallway descended downwards, like the mouth of a giant. It was never black; before the pure darkness could take over, a faint, red light filled the other end of the hallway, like a living creature’s open maw.

The light moved, pulsating as if invisible bellows lay beyond, but the smell was not of a creature. It was the faint odor of oil, fire and metal. The air was still, not filled with dust as you might expect. It was only the illusion that there should be dust and debris here.

And where did that red light come from? If you walked down the hallway and turned right, you would come to a chamber. Here, the rough stone had become obsidian-black, semi-reflective like a pond of night. Or ink, if someone had pressed a hexagon-shaped stone into it. There were six sides to the room.

Six mirrors, each one eight feet tall and half as wide, looming over the young man who stopped in the center of the room. Each one stood by itself, unnaturally straight, with no visible supports or backings; as if someone had cut open a piece of reality and placed it just in front of each wall.

The red light came from them; if you looked into the mirrors, it seemed as if crimson clouds were mixed with black fog, swirling about their depths. They felt wrong, like six holes in the world. If you stared too long into the void, it felt like it was pulling you towards the mirrors.

Down.

The only thing that kept this tunnel from being nearly devoid of light was the pale blue glow from the second room, just a few paces down and to the left. An archway of pale stone separated this place from the hallway, forming a point at the apex, then curving down to either side.

Here the black stone lightened, and past the archway was a circular room filled with white quartz, like a gemstone trapped amidst the crude stone around it.

That room had only one mirror, which stood in the center of the room instead of in front of the walls. This mirror had a frame; white wood carved like feathers and leaves forming a frame around the rectangle, giving it a tranquil, ephemeral feel. From the mirror shone light so pale it was almost white, tinged with blue. There was no color in it in the natural world; it was the same vision as when you opened your eyes on a sunny day.

Light and dark. The hexagonal room was filled with whispering as the young man entered, faint voices, all inaudible, coming from the six mirrors.

When he saw both rooms, Kevin took off his shoe and threw it at one of the dark-room mirrors.

“This is so fucked. Seriously? Who the hell would go in there?”

His shoe bounced off the mirror, and it flickered, showing him those red-black lights shimmering across the glass. Kevin ducked back, heart pounding.

Then he realized he’d tossed his shoe in there. He stared down at one sock and one shoe and wondered how much his feet would hurt if he walked back like this.

Or I could take off my shoes and be the sock runner…aw, hell.

Kevin stomped into the room, deliberately not looking at the mirrors, ready to scream and run if anything started crawling out of them. He bent down, yanked his shoe up, and swore he saw something in the dark veil of the shimmering mirror closest to him. Kevin whirled, and the voice spoke, predictably, when his back was turned.

“Kevin.”

He screamed. Anyone would. Kevin began running and tripped—one shoe meant a bad gait. He stumbled, arms windmilling, and heard laughter.

It was merry, infectious, and not at all scary. A great laugh, or so Kevin would have believed—but he hated it.

You always hated the sound of your own voice.

The young man froze. He stood there, back to the mirror, and the laughter died down.

“Sorry, dude. But that was hilarious, you have to admit. Come on, turn around. We need to talk.”

This is a trick. If it’s not a trick, it’s fucked. Kevin stood there, shoulders hunched.

“You’re another me from another world. No, wait. You’re some version of me that’s conjured by the Skill. You’re a Kevin from some fucked up function of this place.”

He could just imagine summoning versions of people you’d known to talk to and cry about. This place was messed up. He hoped Erin never got this Skill.

The voice, his voice, sounded amused.

“Nope. Try again.”

That had to be it. Kevin refused to turn his head around; he had the idea that some monster was mimicking his voice, and when he turned, that’s when they got him.

He was also, he realized, afraid. So afraid because this felt surreal, and it made him doubly sure he was fake and unimportant and would vanish when this place ceased to be.

“Then what? Come on, fucker. Just be straight with me. I’ve had a bad day; I’m not dealing with this well. Just…what then?”

The chuckling sound faded, and then the speaker cleared his throat.

“Sorry. This is…well, you were close. How about another old standard? Mirror to hell?”

The Kevin of better days froze and felt that chill run down his spine. Slowly, he turned his head, and he saw a figure waving at him in the mirror. He stood on red ground in a sea of ghostly shapes, and the land beyond him was terrible and bleak.

But there he was. The [Mechanic] grinned and gave Fake Kevin a pair of finger guns.

“Straight from Hellste. This is the coolest thing ever. You can’t see it, but the Goblins are all over this thing, and the Lucifen too. Hey guys, don’t get in the—”

A blurry, but recognizable Goblin’s face appeared in the mirror, pressed against it and upside down. A small, grinning green figure with red eyes but hazy like someone had blurred her out. Fake Kevin recoiled—the Goblin went flying with a screech, and both Kevins ducked. He rose, chuckling.

“This mirror thing wasn’t here a bit ago. It just…drew me over. Then I heard you muttering to yourself. Hey, uh, me. What the fuck.”

He spread his arms, and the two Kevins regarded each other. Fake Kevin was at a loss for words. He realized he knew more than this Kevin; the other him was flabbergasted.

“Dude. Dude, are you from Earth? Or wait—are they cloning me? Did Magnolia clone me? Or was it a Skill? Am I alive?”

His tone grew hopeful, and the Fake Kevin realized it was his job to explain…

Fuck. You thought it couldn’t get worse, and somehow, something worse than actually dying happened. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“No, listen. It’s not that. I’m you—from the Winter Solstice. Only, there’s no war with some weird triple woman. I’m a fake version of you.”

“Huh?”

There was an easy way to answer this. Fake Kevin spread his arms.

“Dude. Alternate realities. Multiverses.”

Kevin, the real Kevin’s eyes widened.

“No fucking way. Are you serious?”

Someone came up to Real Kevin, a figure that Fake Kevin couldn’t make out, and whispered to him. Aside from Kevin, the other ghosts crowding around were blurry, and Kevin glanced over his shoulder.

“What? I’ll explain—look, find another Earther. Where’s George? Get him to explain it. Sorry, that was Velan. He’s in charge around here—well, one of the leaders. Everyone’s been freaking out about recent developments.”

“…Velan as in Velan the Kind?”

The ghosts in the mirror susurrated, and Real Kevin smiled ruefully. Then he seemed to realize the sound wasn’t coming across.

“They’re all laughing. Can you hear that?”

“No. Just whispering. Can you…see anything behind me? These other mirrors?”

“What mirrors? No, I can just see you, as if you’re standing in the void. Do you, uh, have one shoe on?”

Fake Kevin sat down and put on his other shoe. He began speaking.

“This is crazy.”

“Multiverse shit. So what reality are you from?”

“A fake one. That’s all. Fake.”

Fake Kevin rose to his feet, and the real Kevin leaned forwards. His eyes were alight with curiosity, and he seemed—older? As if he’d seen more, maybe?

In the nature of the dead, Kevin’s face was shifting from a slightly younger man to how he imagined himself to—Fake Kevin recoiled—

A young man with a hole in his chest where his heart should have been. Kevin saw the gesture, touched his chest, and then shifted back to normal. His smile went out.

“Sorry. That happens here. How do you know that you’re fake?”

The other Kevin tried to explain. It was confusing, but Hell Kevin snapped his fingers.

“Oh, the [Palace of Fates]! Hey, Velan, it’s the [Palace of Fates]! Another of the Goblin Kings was right. Some people remember it, but they’re really old Harpies over that way. Some of them survived; most of the ghosts got munched up, but all the people in hell plus us refugees made it. The Goblins have been getting us up to speed and vice-versa.”

“In hell.”

“Hellste.”

“Does it…hurt?”

No one was torturing the other Kevin as far as he could see, and Hell Kevin spread his arms and grinned.

“Nah. Apparently, the Goblin Kings think the torturers never got ‘installed’. There are some people called the Lucifen who keep trying to take command, but the Goblin Kings are sort of the top dogs around here. Even the really fucked up people can’t take them out. Those people are sort of…squished down below, in rivers. They’re super fucked up. The worst you can imagine. You learn to ignore them speaking to you.”

He glanced to the side and down, and the Kevin from the beach world imagined rivers of souls like some depictions he’d seen of hell.

“So that’s not great because we’re, like, sharing space with them, but aside from that, you just hang out and shoot the shit. Talk to everyone about what’s going on. Apparently, the Deadlands were like that, but you’d drift apart and lose focus. Here you’re just chilling. No food, no fun, but you can play chess or other games in your head. I was doing a roleplaying session with people to see how it worked. There’s even plays.”

“What the fuck.”

That summed up everything Kevin had to say about this. He was speaking to a ghost from hell in the middle of an empty palace. The only thing that didn’t make this a horror film was his counterpart’s jovial attitude.

“I know. But technically it’s ‘Hellste’. I didn’t choose the name. That’s straight from the Goblin Kings—”

“Wait, wait, wait. Back up a second. Goblin Kings. Like Velan the Kind. He butchered an entire continent of people. He’s a monster! You’re hanging out with him?”

Real Kevin held up a finger.

“Ah, right. Okay, let me explain. It’s not his fault. Hear me out! Velan’s chill. So are most of the Goblin Kings. Some are bastards, but what happens to each one is that when they become a Goblin King, bad shit happens. When they die, they come here as they really are. So Velan’s actually really nice, just like his name—wait, hold on, I just realized I’m talking to you—hey! Hey, I need a list of important stuff to tell myself!”

Kevin waved his arms and began screaming, and the frenzy of ghosts around the mirror grew even more intense. One of the Goblins reappeared, and Kevin stared at a weary-looking Goblin—

“Who’s that? Only he’s visible.”

“That? That’s Velan. You must be seeing the Goblin Kings.”

“One was tiny!”

“That was Sóve, the Island Queen. Okay, now listen. Uh, uh—”

The real Kevin was getting excited with all kinds of ideas and secrets to share from the lands of the dead. But the fake Kevin just sat, cross legged, and put his chin in his hands.

“Don’t bother. I’ll get the real Mrsha—no, wait, she’s vanished. I’ll get real Lyonette or someone to take notes. Don’t tell me. I’m gonna vanish or die.”

“Er—hold on, guys. Alternate Reality Me just said something really weird. What was that?”

Hell Kevin held up a hand and saw his counterpart just…sitting there. Despairing.

“I know I’m not real. Real Mrsha found me. She was trying to get me to replace—you. She told me I was dead, and I felt it, man. I’m from a future that’s better than hers. An imposter. I shouldn’t be here, but the Faerie Flowers breached all these doors. Not the flowers even; they grew roots and they can go through anything.”

“Waitwaitwait, roots? Those fucking—there are roots that can let you enter and exit alternate realities? We’re actually doing a multiverse arc?”

“Yep.”

It was refreshing to speak to someone that thought in the same way he did. That was something. Real Kevin wavered.

“Those roots—”

“Oh. Should I let you out?”

Fake Kevin stirred. That would be something. But this Kevin was clearly a ghost. Not exactly ideal. He began to stand, and Real Kevin shouted.

“No. Never. Keep those away from here at all costs! Understand?”

He was so intense that Fake Kevin recoiled.

“Why—?”

Real Kevin was casting around, clearly relieved this conversation was only audible to him. He lowered his voice.

“Sóve, I need everyone back. Back—listen to me. There are so many fucked up monsters in here that if they were unleashed, they’d destroy the world. Not just that. There’s this woman who kept trying to get in here. We got her good, but the Goblin Kings reckon she’s still alive. If she did enter, we’d all be dead, and there’s five more. None of them can be allowed to enter the lands of the living. But most of all—you’d let them out.”

Real Kevin’s eyes were wide, and he glanced around. Fake Kevin felt that prickling getting worse.

“Who?”

Real Kevin licked his lips.

“The Goblin Kings. They’re super chill except for—but that’s because they’re dead. I don’t know what happens if there was a way out. If all of them had a route straight outta hell, they could crack the fucking world in two, man. Don’t do it.”

That was the scariest warning he had received so far from his ghost trapped in hell, and Fake Kevin swallowed. However—he felt like in this scenario he had to be the more drastic Kevin here. He pointed back up the tunnel.

“Listen, I get that, dude. But did they—did they tell you what happened to Erin? You might have been, uh, shot before they described what Roshal did. Seems to me that if these Goblin Kings like you, and therefore like me, we could use dozens of Goblin Kings tearing shit up around here. Sometimes the world needs breaking, right?”

Maybe just one or two? Airdrop them on Roshal, the Blighted Kingdom, and, uh, Wistram? Flip a coin on Wistram. He was being facetious, but he thought there was a point…

Real Kevin stood there and shook his head. He opened his mouth, messed with his hair, then turned.

“—Okay. How about this? Hey, Sóve? Quick question?”

A blurry shape came forwards, unmistakably a regular-sized Goblin, visibly shorter than Kevin, barely four feet tall. Like the others, she was ‘clearer’ even in the fog. Fake Kevin heard a voice, and Real Kevin nodded.

“Yeah, just—you’re the Island Queen, the Goblin King who made the Isle of Goblins, right? A safe-haven, etcetera and so on. When you did that, literally raised an island from the sea and made it float and stuff, all the other nations tried to stop you. You—and I’m quoting here, ‘destroyed their fleets, their ships, and took their lives until they formed islands of the dead and turned the seas crimson’. Because they were attacking your people, your island. I get it. Do you…”

He swallowed and stopped.

“Do you regret that? Any of it? Any of the bloodshed?”

Regret. Not ‘would you do it again?’ or ‘was it right?’ or justified. Just…

Sóve peered at the fake Kevin, then grinned and spoke a single word. The Hell Kevin turned to his counterpart.

“She said—”

“Yeah, I heard. ‘No’.”

They both fell silent, and Fake Kevin decided that was an answer. Then he saw a blurred, green shape step over. A taller figure whispered, and the Kevin in hell stopped. His eyes lit up, and he turned.

“Velan said ‘yes’. There’s things they won’t tell me, but it’s like that, Kevin. We’re all dead down here. But if there were…”

If there were a door, then things would be different. The Fake Kevin nodded and dropped the idea. Or at least, put it under the same category as Antinium Crusade.

“Got it. Lips sealed. I didn’t see anyone else around here, and I’ll warn people. Anything else?”

“Uh—uh—I’ll download all of it to you. The big stuff, yeah, Sóve. Waitwaitwait—okay, don’t tell him too much about the you-know-whats or he’ll get struck by Halflings from the moon. Wait, is that a joke? That’s a joke, right…?”

It seemed like there was conflicting information, even in the lands of the dead. Real Kevin brushed at his hair distractedly, a bad habit from when he’d been trying to be a cool surfer dude, which was somewhat of a contradiction in terms. True wisdom was understanding all surfers were bums at heart.

“—Most important points. Erin’s supposed to know most of it. Goblins are chill, but Goblin Kings are as bad news as it gets. No one’s in eternal suffering here. People keep appearing who’ve died, good and bad. This is like—everyone’s here now the Deadlands are gone.”

“What about that mirror that seems to go to heaven? Damn, it’s all blurry behind you…”

Real Kevin actually craned his head in an attempt to see and turned.

“Hey, guys, does he mean Diotria…? Okay, the Lucifen are real excited. That’s apparently ‘heaven’; aside from people called Agelum and real good people, no one goes there. Okay, excuse me, some kind of people who have the right requirements.”

“Right. But there is a heaven…?”

“You should check. Ah! Aaaah! But there’s also heaven here! At least, we think it is! It’s floating over there past the bounds of our place. There’s a bunch of Antinium in it, and we keep communicating via sign language. Actually, they’ve begun drawing on the walls. They have tons of fun stuff.”

“…Antinium heaven.”

Fake Kevin slapped himself a few times. Then he nodded. There was a lot to catch both sides up on, but he took the moment to interrupt.

“Let me tell you what’s happened to me first. Then I’ll get Lyonette, okay?”

Real Kevin hesitated, but nodded. He listened as Fake Kevin told him everything he knew and what was going on. His face grew confused, troubled. Eventually, both sat and had a conversation at what felt like the end of both their worlds.

 

——

 

“I wish I had a beer. I wish we both had a beer.”

“That’d be nice.”

They could imagine it, sharing a cold one and just toasting each other in silence. Now, the Real Kevin understood what troubled his fake self so much. And despite all his hope, his levity and goodwill in death, his death did weigh on the Real Kevin.

“It was Roshal who shot me. The Emir Yazdil. Some of Roshal’s people turned up here. Lots of them, actually. Apparently, Fetohep blasted the entire city because he’s awesome like that. But one of them was Iert.”

“Who?”

“The Naga’s right hand. Real piece of work. He told me personally that the Naga thought I could make guns, and he wanted me dead, if he didn’t get me himself. Frankly…I’m glad it was death over capture. But I didn’t want to die.”

Kevin touched his chest. The other Kevin averted his eyes.

“Now Mrsha’s searching for replacements. I’m sorry. I think she thought I’d be you. We’re probably similar. But I’m—sorry.”

He was speaking to the one, the only Kevin there ever was or would be. And the ghost bowed his head and seemed as if he would have wept but for the other ghosts around him. Then his head came up, and he offered his other self a fake, pained smile. But he did smile.

“Sorry? What for? It’s not your fault. The world needs more Kevins, man. Antinium, Human—go for it. Get out there and make a bunch of guns and give them to the Goblins or something. Or maybe be smarter about it. But go on.”

He stood, beckoning Fake Kevin up, and the imposter raised a haggard head.

“What? Dude. Didn’t you hear me? I’m not you. I’m a fake.”

“You and I can finish each other’s sentences, you think like I do, and you’re alive. Go with Mrsha. Just—tell her I’m here as well, okay?”

The real Kevin’s smile flickered, but he brought it back with supreme force of will. He stuck up a thumb at his counterpart, and Fake Kevin stood there.

“You know I’m not you.”

Kevin’s eyes were shimmering, and he stood in Hellste, surrounded by the ghosts condemned to the worst fate—and Goblins.

“No, I don’t know that. You look like me, sound like me—even if you’re more depressed than Eeyore on cold medication—and you’re alive. So go on. Do something, dude. I give you my blessing.”

The real Kevin pressed his hands against a mirror, and his face was serious.

“I should have used my chances better. I didn’t take it seriously. I’d do it all different if I could. Believe me. I want to. I think about it, and I’m only glad…Imani’s not down here with me. They should have made sure she was dead. Go on. Be safe, but make something that will blow Roshal in half.”

He was rarely so intense as this. Kevin—Kevin from the beach world backed away a step.

“But—”

“If you keep saying you’re fake, I’ll climb out of hell and kick your ass, man. Sometimes, there are ways out. Don’t you get it? People have been summoned from hell before. There are stories; it used to happen more. People would communicate with the dead, summon ghosts—this is all a big game to them. They decided to eat everyone, and they got their asses handed to them, even though they won. This world is real, but it’s also a game, and we were summoned as the players!”

The real Kevin hammered on the mirror, and his voice rose with the whispering behind him. They sounded, faintly, like screams. The living Kevin backed away from the mirror, and his own voice haunted him.

“But it’s real. It’s real, and we should have taken it more seriously, just like Erin and Ryoka. It’s on you, man. Don’t lie and say we can’t do anything. That’s how we died, and I regret it. I regret not trying everything to be the person I wanted to be. I wanted to be a better person, and even if I couldn’t fight like Halrac, you don’t want to be down here and say ‘I have regrets’.”

His voice was roaring now, like the real hellfires of perdition that a younger Kevin had been taught was waiting for sinners when he was growing up. That terrifying voice and the flashing red lights nearly chased the living man away.

But then the wrathful voice changed. The red light shifted—and it was still red, but like the crimson of Goblin eyes. And the other Kevin said.

“I’m down here. But I am still here. And you know what? That’s just fine. Halrac’s here too, and I’m surrounded by heroes and interesting people. I’m still…here. So long as I’m here, I think I can wait a long time and not go crazy. Someday, maybe, they’ll open a door to Earth. And if they can and we don’t bomb each other—I hope someone becomes a [Necromancer] or [Medium]. So I can tell everyone I love what happened to me.”

He grinned, and for a second, he was standing right there. The flickering visions of flames left him, and his shifting figure became solid.

Then Kevin Hall was facing Kevin Hall, not a see-through specter, but a young man wearing a custom T-shirt with Solar Cycle’s logo hand-stitched on the front. There was a bit of oil and grease on the sides and his pants where he kept wiping his hands instead of a rag, and he had a bunch of mechanic’s tools on his belt.

His eyes were shining with hope, even in the middle of hell itself. Kevin swept back his sandy hair, and his tanned skin was peeling in places. His lips quirked up.

“Who knows? Maybe we’ll even get out of here. That’s the great thing about this world, other me. Anything’s possible. So if you want to do anything—study necromancy or something and find a way to revive me. But, uh, don’t get it wrong because you don’t want to summon some of the people here.”

He glanced to the side and half-smiled ruefully.

“Actually, revive Halrac first. Or Moore. Or a ton of people. I could make a list of the best people to bring back.”

He stood there like the hero of surfing and bicycle repairs, that ridiculous guy—but he looked like a hero to the other Kevin. What other Kevin could see of him through the tears.

“Dude. When did I get cool?”

“Did that sound cool? Good. I was seriously getting ruffled back there.”

Kevin felt at himself. And the other Kevin—no longer Fake Kevin—stood up slowly. He began to really breathe again. It only took a pep talk from yourself in hell to get back on your feet.

“I…well, fuck. When you say it like that, I guess I’ve gotta make a gun.”

The other him laughed at the same time, because it was such a stupid idea that neither one wanted to do.

“Maybe just work on a jetpack or something for Fighti, huh? Go on. But come back with Lyonette! And good luck!”

Kevin cupped his hands and shouted as the other him walked away. He saw the other Kevin hold up a thumb, which was probably the coolest thing he could think of doing. But he was sniffing so hard that he ruined the effect.

Nevertheless—the Kevin in hell kept grinning and laughing. Because the other Kevin still looked a bit cool.

 

——

 

Kevin Hall was ascending the stairs when he ran into Mrsha and Dame Ushar. The two were warily peering down the hallway.

“Kevin! There you are! Thank goodness—Miss Mrsha, keep back from that hedge maze! Those aren’t our people in there!”

Dame Ushar had a badass shield, and the girl was wearing the most awesome red mage’s robes that Kevin had ever seen in his life.

He managed a smile.

“Hey, guys, what’s up?”

Beach Kevin! You okay?

He bent down and ruffled Mrsha’s hair, then impulsively hugged her. She smiled in relief, and Kevin knuckled the top of her head gently.

“It’s Kevin to you, Mrsha. I’ve decided I’m real. Or real enough.”

He grinned at her perplexed expression. Roots Mrsha pointed down the hallway.

What’s down the definitely-not-cursed hallway, Kevin?

“A mirror to hell and heaven.”

Mrsha’s face became an ‘o’ of horror, mirrored by Dame Ushar’s. Roots Mrsha reached for her signature weapon—a root—and Kevin stalled her.

“Better not. They told me we might destroy the entire world if we open a, y’know, portal to hell here. Let’s talk. Did I worry all of you?”

They had a lot to do. There was a crisis coming, and Mrsha led Kevin away from the basement and mysterious maze, back towards the doors. Though not without glancing over her shoulder.

I have a request for you, Kevin. It’s the final part of my plan that’s gone so wrong.

“Okay. Name it.”

He was braced, ready. All of Kevin’s despair over his mortal condition—he regarded Mrsha and wondered how he could explain his conversation to the other people who doubted if they were real. Halrac. He had to talk to his Halrac and Moore.

But they’d still leave their world behind for this one. For one where they were dead and faced only uncertain, difficult times. Even if they were willing to leave, like Zel, how could you ask it of them? That was the truest test, and it seemed Mrsha had a solution of some kind. She relayed her meeting with Zel Shivertail, if not in so many words, and Kevin closed his eyes.

“Zel. Fuck. I never knew him, but he sounded like a good guy. Magnolia was all torn up about him. There’s so many people we could revive. Not enough roots.”

Even if they had one root per world…no, wait, that could be enough. What if they went back to before everyone…no, that still missed people like General Sserys. Kevin began thinking. Mrsha stopped him.

I could have revived my tribe, Kevin. I’m ashamed, but it wasn’t my first thought. So many people. I understood with Zel that we’re giving them danger, death, and if people realize they’ve come back from the dead, they will be targets.

Like I’d be if Roshal thought I was alive. It wasn’t easy, even now. Kevin scrubbed at his hair.

“So what’s the solution, Mrsha?”

In answer, she gave him the gentlest squeeze of her hand and produced a notecard with the finest embellishments in writing yet. Like an official contract, she handed it over, and Dame Ushar and Kevin read together.

Kevin Hall. On behalf of my world and the worlds that I, in any form, have opened, I have a request to make of you. This ‘real’ world is painful, difficult, and the wars we fight are not necessarily fair. I believe in better worlds. I have no right to ask a painful future of anyone. So, therefore…I ask that you take them into yours. Your world is the best version: let them come. Zel, Brunkr, the other Erins. Everyone who wills it. There will be battles. Struggles. But let everyone go there. One happy world for all.

His eyes opened wide as Roots Mrsha unveiled her final plan. Then Kevin saw it as Ushar gasped.

My world? His world, where there was trouble and chaos and drama? But—better. His world, where Zel Shivertail could step out of the shadows along with another Erin.

“Are you sure? Your world—”

Mine isn’t happier. Perhaps a final world for all of us, then. But I think yours will do. And if there is trouble, Roshal—you’ll have the Tidebreaker on your side. And at least one other Erin. There is one who needs to heal and rest.

That was the entirety of the girl’s plan. And Kevin immediately saw the flaws in the logic. He shook his head.

“What about me, Mrsha? What about people who want to help your world?”

Her eyes were serious as she replied.

I think this state of affairs cannot long continue, Kevin. I have chosen so harshly for them—this is all I can do to make amends. One world with hope. One world with suffering. Both have struggles, but the ‘real’ one…is harder. If I can make a difference, I will stay and help.

So two worlds, two choices if you wanted to leave your reality. Heaven and hell. It was appropriate given what Kevin had just seen, and he exhaled.

“Oh. That’s pretty traditional too, y’know. This is all crazy, but I think—”

He bent down and held out a hand as she slipped hers into it.

“…I think I know where I’m needed.”

They began walking back. He knew it would not go perfectly; an army of faithful Antinium didn’t seem like a good sign, nor the roots to other worlds. But if it was madness, then let him remember, let them all remember that this was still The Wandering Inn.

There was a bit of light that shone even amidst the darkest hours. He would believe in it until the day he went to hell himself. Kevin had it on good authority it was a fun place to be.

As for Mrsha? She clutched his hand tightly. These two imposters. Fakes—but she had always cared. In this or any other world, she hoped she would always do what she thought was right.

In the silence, they swore they could hear Kevin Hall laughing still.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

In the course of editing this chapter, I drank a cup of coffee. I have mentioned it is my secret weapon in regards to work; if I don’t drink coffee daily, it has an outsized effect on my energy levels.

I was so tired that I drank a second cup of coffee at 11 PM, my time. But it got me to finish the chapter, and here we are.

What shall I say? I have one last chapter ⅔’s written, and it is a big one. We are approaching the ending, now, but even endings to these arcs won’t go down easy. The biggest test for the way this will play out remains, and am I ready?

We’ll see if I need more time, but I am gonna go for it. Hellfire and damnation if I fail. I used to listen to Hellfire while writing. It’s probably my favorite Disney song. I was also listening to Hell’s Wardens by Andrea—and her ability to bring the battle at the Bloodfields to life is amazing. Listening to your own work or re-reading your own chapters is something I took from hearing comedians did the same thing to analyze their own performances.

…I’ve mentioned that too. I’m also watching a video where people are set on fire for fun by ‘I did a thing’, the Youtuber. So I think fire’s on my mind. Nothing to do with the chapter.

I’m focused on the writing, I think. Not reading different stories or doing much other than writing and unwinding. It’s focus, and some people in my life have described it like ADHD but backwards. These are my thoughts.

The [Palace of Fates] always had the doors, the mirrors, and that maze. It used to be I didn’t have each part so separated, but for the clarity of the reader, it matters. I’ve never actually played a Dungeons and Dragons game or a tabletop as the player. As a kid, I did try to DM a game—twice. But if I were playing, I’d want someone to design the [Palace of Fates] for me. If the story mattered.

I’d want this palace, I think, myself. Or I’d fear it as much as it should be feared. The garden, the palace, are things I’ve thought about, one of the stories older than The Wandering Inn itself. I even forgot about them as I started writing…and they reappeared in my head. As such things do.

Death is something I’ve seen countless stories, games, and other mediums do. Every time you come back, people argue you cheapen death. This entire multiverse arc is criticized on the way the trope is used in other mediums—often poorly? But we can’t stay away from death. There are other stories who never acknowledge the mourning and loss beyond a single scene. That’s equally as bad in a different way. So, death and afterlifes.

Something of a theme for this chapter. Let’s see what the conclusion to this one is. Hope you enjoy the next one.

 

 

Corusdeer by Enuryn the [Naturalist]!

Portfolio: https://enuryndraws.art/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/enuryn

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Enuryn_Nat

 

Priest Pawn by Amiel, commissioned by pirateaba!

 

 

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