10.35 (Pt. 3)

It was almost a relief, you know. There had been a tiny part of him, an evil part of him, that had always believed it was fake.

His entire world. Not because he was so perspicacious as to notice that he was a being made of a Skill, or that he had a mind so keen as to pick it up before it became obvious.

No…it was just who he was.

A Goblin. Pyrite had always, always doubted every happy moment in his life. He supposed it was in the real Pyrite’s nature too. Every day he lay down in a comfortable inn and enjoyed a life without death or great worries, he had waited for it to end.

This was what he deserved, then. A part of him believed that; he had wanted the worst to happen, and it had, and it was always worse than you thought.

—But he really wasn’t sure what little Mrsha had done to deserve all of it. So that convinced Pyrite it was just a bad thing happening.

His Mrsha. Not Roots Mrsha, Real Mrsha, or anyone else. A frightened girl crying as she silently clung to her mother’s hand and ran. Lyonette from the inn that had so recently held a beach and happiness on the Winter Solstice.

“This way!”

He pointed, and the band of people from his world he’d found followed him. The Hobgoblin ran through the [Palace of Fates]—he’d found his people. He was trying to get them out.

Erin was gone. The Flooded Waters tribe…most likely gone. Most hadn’t reached the inn, and even if they had afterwards, that God of Magic was there. But this group, at least, he could save. Pyrite had run back into the [Palace of Fates] rather than stay at the exit. It had been a miracle that he found his people at all, or the desperation in his heart had led him to them.

Finding the exit again was not as easy. All they could do was run from everything.

Run, as soldiers and dead gods and worse poured in through every door around them. Pyrite led everyone towards the exit, an axe in his hand. It shone with lightning; a gift from Erin’s [Garden of Sanctuary], but it was a paltry weapon against…

A raging Truestone Golem hurtled out of one of the doors, screaming, its porcelain skin revealing red lines from within. Some—world where Golems had risen up against their masters? It turned and began smashing its fists against another door where Archmage Zelkyr, a withered Drake, backed away as a Truestone Golem tried to defend him.

“Back! Back—”

Pyrite retreated around the corridor, pulling Lyonette with him. A band of refugees from his world followed. A few of them, Drakes, almost went towards the dueling Archmage of Golems and the renegade Truestone construct—until they saw three more Truestone Golems emerging from the door. Then they fled.

“This way!”

Another corridor that was ‘safe’; something was clawing at the inside of one of the doors, but they weren’t all breaking at the same speed. Pyrite slowed near the door, forcing himself to stand in front of it as he pointed and saw people running past.

His Relc and Valeterisa, hand-in-hand—Relc’s eyes were empty and lost, and the Archmage had to drag him. Moore, Selys holding Ekirra’s paw—

Not enough. How many had died despite Niers fighting that thing? Pyrite didn’t know who was missing. He saw no Halrac or Kevin, but they’d already gone through—

A roar behind him, and he whirled. One of the Truestone constructs was coming. Pyrite set himself to meet the charge of the thing, then heard a crack—he turned, and a vast eye stared at him from the open door. It was like a portal to the abyss; something regarded him with a pupil larger than the Hobgoblin.

He turned and ran. The Truestone Golem vanished as Pyrite took off.

“Pyrite! Where now?”

A female voice called out; Ceria. Pisces was waiting at the intersection along with the Horns of Hammerad. The [Necromancer]’s eyes were empty, and tears ran from them. Erin was dead.

Gone. Pyrite felt empty. No. That wasn’t true. He felt the rage to smash that thing’s—Emerrhain’s—head in, to grind him to paste. Only rationality said that it wouldn’t do a thing. Pisces?

He seemed to be trying to will the agony out of him, as if he could sacrifice it, cut away the pain with his necromancy. But another part of him was mad with rage. He would have gone back, but Pisces saw the rest of the refugees of his world running towards him. The [Necromancer]’s eyes found Mrsha, Lyonette, the children and people of the inn.

Pisces addressed Pyrite curtly.

“Well?”

The Hobgoblin panted as he glanced over his shoulder. The hallway was deceptively empty save for that open door.

Like a spider waiting for something to fall into its trap. He didn’t have time to leave a warning. The Hobgoblin looked ahead; three intersections branched out in front of him.

“I don’t know. Keep going. Wish to find the exit.”

“We’re all going to die. Like Erin.”

Selys whispered, and Ekirra whimpered in her arms. The Drake was giving up on hope. Pyrite snapped at her.

“No one’s going to die. Run! Run and live!”

She started, and the Hobgoblin forced himself forwards, pointing at the leftmost passageway.

“Go!”

It was the intersections that spelled trouble or death. Each time they turned a corner, everyone braced—when they saw the Crelers fighting Queen Marquin’s army, the Horns of Hammerad didn’t hesitate.

“[Ice Walls]. Go, go!”

Ceria conjured ice walls, and the adventurers fought the Crelers trying to break away towards them. Pisces cursed, backing up.

“Come on!”

The Horns didn’t answer, nor could they retreat—they were covering this corridor, lest the larval Crelers reach the refugees. Pyrite backed up and turned, cursing. When he glanced back—the hallways were empty.

“Pisces!”

Selys shouted, but the Horns had bought them another moment to live. Possibly at the cost of their own lives.

Let it not be so. They can run and catch up with us. Pyrite had to drag Selys back. He spun around, searching for a safer hallway, and raised his axe to throw at the next figures he saw—

Headscratcher, the Goblin Lord of Sorrows, caught the spinning axe by the haft and grunted. Pyrite blinked.

Headscratcher, his Headscratcher, was here! And the rest of the Redfangs! They appeared battle-worn, but all five were intact.

“Headscratcher!”

“Found you. Come on, we have to get back to the exit.”

Like Pyrite, the Redfangs had come back for their family. Someone burst out of the crowd and ran into Shorthilt’s open arm—Pekona, one-armed like him.

“Where’s Garia? Octavia?”

Numbtongue called out as Badarrow searched for Snapjaw. Headscratcher raised his voice over the shouting.

“We have to go! Now! Come on!”

Headscratcher nodded in agreement. His eyes had the same agony in them as Pisces, but something was keeping the Goblin Lord of Sorrows moving. Hope that he’d found somewhere in these halls, despite all that he’d lost. A little flower was tangled in his hair, placed behind one of his ears. Pyrite glanced at it, then spoke.

“Let’s go.”

Headscratcher handed him his axe back, and the two led the way. Side-by-side, they ran down the hallways as Headscratcher relayed the encounter with the Witch of Webs and the army defending the exit. Pyrite just grunted.

“It bad. I saw that army. Two Elder Crelers are dead.”

“That’s good.”

“There are six more, now. And something bigger. Ancient Creler.”

Headscratcher said nothing—but he began running faster. Pyrite could feel it in his bones. They had to leave this [Palace of Fates]. It was clearly collapsing, but even if it didn’t—they’d have to erase it soon or reality itself might be damned.

And he still had no idea where the God of Magic was, or the Goblin King he could feel rampaging through the halls. Focus.

He had to protect the people around him. He could barely even do that.

They made it down two more hallways before they found more danger. Pyrite slammed into Headscratcher’s back and peered up.

“Great.”

He had no idea what the giant…flesh-monsters with eyes standing out all over their misshapen bodies were, but one look at the door they were coming out of and Pyrite guessed.

“Seamwalker spawn. That way—”

He spun around and froze. He tried to take another step and couldn’t. Something was locking down his muscles.

The eyes. Like Gazers—Pyrite saw the rest of the people behind him were frozen. Only Valeterisa could even raise her head.

“Gazer…eyes…[Chain…Lightning]…”

She fired the spell, and the paralysis undid itself long enough for Pyrite to spin back around. His axe came up—and he froze again.

Valeterisa had blasted one of the Seamwalker-horrors off its feet, but more had climbed out of the door. They advanced, swinging their arms clumsily. Pyrite strained for something, a Skill, anything.

Instead, he saw a figure step forwards and raise a hand. Headscratcher caught one huge arm of the Seamwalker Eye-Horror with a roar, then cleaved through it. His body was coated in blue flames, and he kept moving, despite the eyes fixed on him. But slowly—one of the things hit him with a blow that snapped his head back. They lumbered forward, swinging at the Goblin Lord. Headscratcher howled.

“Run! Run!”

Pyrite was trying, but there were too many eyes. He saw one stomping at the frozen Mrsha and Lyonette, raising a fist like a maul.

The Goblin roared in his head, focusing his aura, and the Seamwalker stopped. The Eye-Horror turned to him instead. That was something. The snarling Hobgoblin trembled as wind blew past his face. Then his eyes stung. Not with tears of helplessness.

Just sand.

Sand? It whipped against the back of Pyrite’s head, then there was a stream of particles blowing past him. A dust storm whipped up, and Pyrite saw one of the Eye-Horrors…blink.

Then vision became obscured, and he felt the paralysis effect on him abate. Pyrite twisted out of the way of the falling fist and swung his axe into the chest.

The lightning enchantment discharged, and the Eye-Horror staggered back. Pyrite was rewarded with purple blood coating his chest; he yanked the axe back and heard a voice crying out.

“This way!”

A child’s voice? Pyrite stepped forwards and grabbed Headscratcher; the [Berserker] was fighting the Eye-Horrors and nearly hit Pyrite.

“Keep moving! We have to protect the others, idiot!”

The Goblin Lord let himself be pulled back—and they ran out of the dust cloud spell. Pyrite was ready for a second ambush. Who’d saved them?

He lifted his axe to throw—and skidded to a halt as he saw a girl waving at him. No, a pair of girls.

“Nanette?”

Nanette Weishart, two of them, were standing with a taller woman that Pyrite didn’t recognize. But he knew her instantly.

Witch Califor had a broom in her hand. She swept it forwards, like someone getting rid of dust, and the sandstorm blew over the Eye-Horrors with redoubled force. Then the [Witch] adjusted her hat.

“This way. With me, everyone. Older Nanette, scout ahead. Younger, check for injuries, make sure we lose no one.”

“Who’re you?”

Headscratcher came to a halt; one of the Nanettes was shepherding the people forwards, but a little girl had come to a standstill in the crowd.

A third Nanette caught sight of her mother, and Beach Nanette’s eyes filled with tears—Califor was panting, and Pyrite saw the strain on her. But her voice was brisk.

“I take it you’re looking for the way out too?”

“Yeah. Our Erin’s dead.”

Califor’s eyes flickered.

“I—don’t know who that is. I’m sorry. I was attempting to evacuate Riverfarm, but we were too far. Only three [Witches] made it, and they tried to…”

She stopped, shook herself rapidly.

“My daughter has to live. All of them. I’m trying to find a way out.”

There was that familiar guilt in her voice that Pyrite knew only too well. A [Chieftain]’s guilt was much like a [Witch]’s.

“Let’s go. Headscratcher is the strongest of us physically, and we have Valeterisa, the Archmage of Izril. Also, Altestiel and Belchaus—”

Though the Earl of Rains was virtually comatose. Pyrite rattled off the names of their best fighters, and Califor nodded.

“Scouts. We have to find a path not obliterated. Who can move fast?”

“Ryoka. Hawk. Valceif—Couriers!”

They jogged over, and Pyrite gave them orders. He should have thought of it himself, but he pointed back at the silent corridor.

“That way’s trapped. Something in the doors. We have to keep moving.”

“I’d rather not run into more trouble like that. Watch the sandstorm; they might come out of it.”

Califor snapped back as they moved down a ‘safe’ corridor. Pyrite kept his eye on the sandstorm as he shook his head.

“No. There’s worse out there. We ran into a man. Emerrhain. He kills at a touch. Nothing can hurt him. He’s worse than anything else. The Titan of Baleros was trying to slow him.”

“I…see.”

Califor licked her lips as she glanced down the long corridor. Just that little action, nothing else. Her daughters were watching her, and she was trying not to show them fear. Pyrite respected that. Someone ran up to them, panting.

“Miss Califor—and—I’m from the real world. Only, someone’s hiding the way out. We have to get there.”

Nanette. Pyrite focused on the oldest of the Nanettes, the real Nanette, and hoped it meant they were close to salvation. But the little witch’s face was white.

 

——

 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Nanette didn’t know what had gone wrong with Mrsha’s plans. Everything. She had been so close to getting a version of her mother back.

…Then it had all gone wrong. It wasn’t Mrsha’s fault. It was just how life was, but it was so bitter.

It was Miss Califor who read the black emotion in Nanette’s heart and took a moment from assessing the hallways for a route forwards to kneel. She took Nanette’s cheeks and turned the girl’s head to her.

“It’s not your fault, Nanette.”

“But if I hadn’t—”

“We would be stuck in the door. Don’t assign guilt to yourself. Nor to this Mrsha of yours. Sometimes, the earth shakes and people die. Sometimes, it’s a fool of a [Mage] or a Creler. Other times, it’s simply nature. Remember that. We protect what we can and keep moving until we’re safe.”

The Great Witch of Izril lifted her wand, and Nanette nodded up at her. Then someone cried out ahead of her.

“Watch out! There’s some kind of battle ahead! Soldiers! There’s—”

A battle swept over them in an instant. Soldiers of the Blighted Kingdom fighting Goblins with…guns? Nanette saw them firing and running, like a movie, but the sound was deafening. Both sides were fleeing a laughing, too-thin figure throwing jets of water and downing everything she saw.

Nanette, the Witch of Sorrows, turned her attention to the people from the beach world and raised a hand to wash them away with a wall of water.

A blast of sand tossed her off her feet. She stumbled up, and Miss Califor swept her broom harder.

“A bad witch. As high level as I am. Flee!”

Everyone ran after the [Soldiers] and Goblins—Pyrite and Headscratcher charged ahead with the other fighters, but Califor was locked in combat with the other witch.

The oldest Nanette made a gesture, and Califor’s broom snapped as the [Witch] tried her sweeping trick again. Califor caught the splinters and tossed one at the Witch of Sorrows. The splinter grew and grew and lodged in the hallway, forming a barrier that should have held back anything.

Anything…but the rancid water that oozed under the splinter of wood and reformed, becoming the emaciated [Witch] again.

The real Nanette was holding her wand out, spellbound by horror. She didn’t have any spells worthy of a battle between [Witches]. But it was she who first realized how…disturbingly familiar this [Witch] was.

The brown hair. The tattered blue robes. She looked like…

“Me.”

The real Nanette saw her evil, older counterpart raise a wand, and Califor flicked her own; a spray of acid splashed in midair, and Califor deflected two more bursts.

“What are you…doing, Witch? Here, now?”

“My mother abandoned me. I’m nothing and no one but death and sorrow. I want you to die, woman.”

Neither one had processed the other’s face, not quite. They had just seen the hat and each other’s magic; Califor strode forwards, yanking a sword from her belt, and Evil Nanette raised a dagger in her other hand.

Then they caught sight of each other, like [Mimes] meeting on a stage. Califor froze, and the oldest Nanette’s face went slack.

“Mother?”

“…Nanette?”

There was a trace of hesitation in Califor’s voice. For this insane [Witch] was so much older and different than the daughter she knew. But she would never mistake her daughter. Califor’s wand lowered.

Evil Nanette’s rose, and she fired a stream of acid straight into Califor’s chest.

“Miss Califor!”

Two voices screamed that. The youngest Nanette and real one ran forwards, yelling, but the oldest Nanette leapt on Califor, knife stabbing.

“You left me. Leftmeleftmeleftme—they’re so happy. Die.”

She spat a bullet of water at the youngest Nanette, and the real Nanette’s leap barely saved the two from the spell. The Witch of Sorrows kept stabbing—until a hand pushed her off, almost gently.

Califor Weishart was bleeding. She had multiple stab wounds in her chest, and her robes steamed as acid ate away at them. She brushed the acid off her with one bare hand and stood.

“[Water Jet]. Stop looking at me like that.”

The Witch of Sorrows fired a jet of water straight into Califor’s chest. The other [Witch] didn’t dodge.

The needle of pressurized water…splashed off Califor’s clothing. She reached down and picked up her hat. Then drank a potion. Confused, the oldest Nanette fired again. This time, she struck Califor straight in the cheek with a spell that should have pierced through her head with the force.

The water splashed off Califor’s cheek, as if it were no more than a gentle spray. The oldest Nanette backed away, but Califor didn’t raise her wand. She just wiped at the blood on her robes and lifted her tattered Cloak of Balshadow.

“Nanette? I’m sorry for leaving you. Stop that, please. Come here.”

She opened her arms, and the oldest Nanette froze. The two girls on the ground peeked up—and Califor beckoned.

“You’re so thin.”

“No. Nononono. You can’t do this. You’re lying to me, like Eloise. Where’s—”

The oldest Nanette backed up. Her eyes swung to her younger selves, and her face turned to malice.

“Die.”

She fired another [Water Jet] spell, but Califor’s cloak blocked the water spray.

“Nanette!”

Califor leapt at the girl, wrestling for the wand of bone, trying to subdue Nanette—the two grappled as the evil Nanette’s face twisted into horror and terror. She became filthy water that rushed away from Witch Califor, wailing.

The [Witch] got to her feet, reaching out for the puddle of water fleeing—Califor almost ran after her, then turned.

“Let’s go.”

She led the way after Pyrite as the two Nanettes glanced at each other in horror and shock—then ran after. They encountered the third Nanette, from the beach world, who was hiding with Mrsha and the children.

There was an entire battle raging in the hallway ahead of them. Those [Soldiers] of Rhir were fighting the Goblins—and the Goblins were winning.

“Find Lord Ragathsi! Move, move!”

They were cutting a path through the [Palace of Fates]—but even their firearms couldn’t bring down everything. One of those Truestone Golems came tearing out of a hallway, and the squad of Goblins broke apart, firing wildly at it.

They fled down another hallway, and the remainder of Rhir’s forces turned on the survivors of the beach world and opened fire. Nanette grabbed her two smaller selves and hid them around the corridor as everyone broke apart in the chaos.

“This way! Run!”

Pyrite was roaring, trying to get everyone moving, and Califor was advancing on the [Soldiers], whirling her cloak around her and catching the crossbow bolts they were firing with it.

“Nanette! Go back! Nanette—”

The witch-girls wanted to run after Califor, but hands seized them. Real Nanette kicked and fought, but someone grabbed her. She gazed up into an unfamiliar Goblin’s face.

Badarrow of the beach world grabbed the Real Nanette, and Rabbiteater put the other two under his arms as the Redfangs sprinted away from the Rhirian [Soldiers].

—They ran straight into a second squad. Badarrow dropped Nanette onto the ground with a curse, and she saw boots, heard shouts—then one of the Goblins fell, howling, as a net wrapped itself around them.

“Prisoners! Goblins! And [Witches]? Interrogate them!”

“No—get information about the way out of here! Bring them back to our door!”

“Where is it? Just execute them and—”

The [Soldiers] of Rhir were all arguing with each other in a panic. If there had been any cohesion here, it was lost. Four of the five Redfangs—Badarrow, Rabbiteater, Numbtongue, and Shorthilt—were all webbed up with some kind of artifacts. They were trying to tear their way out, but someone had disarmed them in seconds.

Nanette was getting up when she saw a terrified-looking young man with a twinblade, one side glowing red, the other green, shoving people aside.

“Fuck that. We’re not going back and fighting those Dragons or Crelers. Get me a way out of here! Kill the fucking Goblins! And the [Witches]!”

The [Hero] of the future, Triander, was panicking. One of the [Soldiers] hesitated.

“They’re children, sir. And the Goblins might—”

“You fucking idiots!”

The [Hero] exploded and raised his staff. He was aiming it straight at Nanette’s face. The girl lifted a hand weakly.

“Wait. Please? Don’t you believe in anything resembling mercy?”

She did her best. The [Soldiers] wavered, and one grabbed for Triander’s arm, but he just gave her a wide-eyed, uncomprehending stare.

“NPCs don’t matter.”

Which said it all, really. Nanette flinched as the twinsword came down, and she heard thunder. Triander twisted, and his twinsword whirled—there was a shower of heat, a scream, and she saw him tumbling backwards.

“Attack! The fl—”

Nanette went deaf as more thunder roared. She cowered, keeping her head down, and heard shouting, dimly, over the ringing in her ear. Then the roaring came again.

Heat flashed over her, and something hot struck her shoulder—she tore it off frantically, and then her head rose. The Redfangs who’d been netted were ripping the nets off themselves, and one of the other Nanettes was mouthing something at her.

“What?”

Nanette’s ears were ringing. She got up and saw dust—debris—and downed [Soldiers]. They were all…dead.

Triander was on his feet, somehow, trying to limp away. He had the shattered half of his twinblade in his hands, and he pointed a finger and fired a bolt of lightning through the smoke. Nanette heard a final roaring sound—something burning struck the [Hero], and he collapsed, fiery fragments embedded in his chest and face.

“Who…?”

A figure walked out of the smoke, and Nanette’s mouth opened as another familiar-unfamiliar face appeared. The Redfangs raised their blades; Headscratcher came running down the hallway, blood on his axe, and halted. He saw the stranger, and his eyes went wide.

“Kevin?”

Kevin of the Goblin King’s world racked his shotgun once as he eyed the corpses of Rhir’s [Soldiers]. He glanced down at Nanette and smiled, then swept his eyes up.

His eyes widened as they found Headscratcher’s face—then the other Redfangs, who were half-grinning in disbelief at this older version of Kevin. A man of forty years wearing an army uniform, belt holding tools for quick-repairs, a shotgun in his hands.

The older Kevin’s eyes fixed on one of them. The Goblin with the armor and helmet. He spoke.

“Hey, it’s another Rabbiteater.”

He raised the shotgun and fired. Nanette flinched. She saw nothing and heard nothing but ringing—then her eyes opened wide.

Rabbiteater had leapt at Kevin when he had raised the shotgun. The blast had caught Rabbiteater mid-leap. He rolled over and tried to get up.

Then he blinked at his leg lying in a spreading puddle of blood. The [Master Engineer] switched targets and fired.

Badarrow loosed an arrow as Headscratcher charged with a roar. The first shotgun blast blew the arrow to pieces, and shrapnel struck the [Sniper], who screamed as it perforated his armor. The other two rounds were dead on target.

The first shot burst against the blue flames on the Goblin Lord’s chest; they made him stumble. The second bypassed Headscratcher’s flames and ripped away his skin, exposing his ribs and organs. He stumbled—fell to his knees, and Nanette screamed.

“No!”

She threw herself forwards, and the older Kevin jerked his shotgun up. The rounds tore a hole in the ceiling, and the Redfang Five froze.

“Headscratcher? Rabbit?”

The Goblin Lord stared down at the remains of the enchanted Relic-class armor the Wild Wastes tribe had given him. Blood was running down his chest in a torrent; Rabbiteater was reaching for his leg.

Numbtongue and Shorthilt reached for their blades and froze as Kevin aimed his shotgun at them.

“Hey, kid…? Move aside.”

He tried to aim the shotgun around Nanette, who stood, arms wide. Numbtongue started to grab a potion, and Kevin spoke.

“Move and I’ll drop you…Numbtongue. Yeah, Numbtongue. I’m only after him.”

He nodded at Rabbiteater. Numbtongue froze, hand on the potion, and his eyes darted to Shorthilt. The [Blademaster] was eying Kevin’s gun. Neither Hob moved.

Rabbiteater and Headscratcher were bleeding out. The [Master Engineer] calmly pulled shells from his bandolier and slotted them into the shotgun, a practiced, swift movement. Nanette whispered.

“Kevin? Don’t kill them. They’re our friends.”

Nanette’s ears were still ringing. Kevin shot a glance down at her, and a world of pain, disbelief, and sorrow passed between them. He took aim. Not at Numbtongue, who stood there, frozen, aware of how fast that shotgun could fire.

At Rabbiteater. The [Champion] was trying to pull his own potion out, but his hands were slick with blood and trembling; he couldn’t uncork it. Kevin’s voice was so very, very calm.

“The Goblin King needs to die. Before he awakens.”

“The…”

Numbtongue croaked, and the kneeling Headscratcher tried to force himself up. He rose, and Kevin took aim at Rabbiteater. He was hesitating—his eyes flicked to Badarrow, to Headscratcher, and Nanette lunged.

She was trying to go for the older Kevin’s legs. He side-stepped her, and his shotgun’s butt struck her on the head. She saw stars; the two other Nanettes also charged Kevin’s legs and he knocked them off their feet.

The [Master Engineer] was too fast. He took a step forwards, levelled the shotgun, and Headscratcher was on his feet, arms spread, blocking his line of fire.

His chest—Nanette could see his heart, pulsing, but the Goblin Lord refused to fall, to move. He didn’t attack, but stood there, arms spread wide, his eyes pleading.

“Don’t.”

The older Kevin murmured, but distantly. He glanced to the side as Badarrow, still bleeding from the shrapnel, reached for his fallen bow. The lines around the adult Kevin’s eyes tightened—then relaxed, and his eyes grew weary. He sighed.

Then Nanette heard, faintly, something in the distance.

It sounded like a guitar. She saw Numbtongue’s eyes go round, and then the Goblin kicked her. Which hurt quite a lot. But he kicked her away and threw himself over the other two Nanettes as the lightning bolt came down.

 

——

 

Master Engineer Kevin picked himself up fast. His ears were ringing, despite the earplugs, and he said it out loud.

“Ow.”

His armor had taken the spell, but where the hell had it come from? He slammed backwards until he hit a wall, searching around in the smoke for a target. When he saw who had struck him—he hesitated again.

It wasn’t the five Redfangs he had engaged. They were still where he’d downed them, trying to protect the little Nanettes. The enemy was coming down another hallway. He was also…familiar. Only—Kevin sighted down the shotgun and spoke.

“I don’t remember you having a beard, dude.”

Numbtongue, the [Goblin Soulbard], stopped playing his guitar as he drew his Dragonblood crystal sword. He stared at the older Kevin and shook his head.

“This is all crazy. Stay away from them.”

Headscratcher rasped. Him again.

“Numbtongue.”

The Goblin’s eyes were steady as he held his sword up. He had been searching for Nanette and found them. Once again—his eyes flicked towards each of his brothers, and his voice was quiet.

“Run.”

Kevin hesitated. He almost swung his shotgun towards Rabbiteater to finish him off, but the other Redfangs were in the way—and something about this Numbtongue made him think he didn’t have the time to aim and fire.

“I can drop you before you even get close. Don’t do it. Just let me…”

His voice trailed off. He knew Goblins. He used to know Numbtongue. There was no way they’d accept.

Different worlds. But the image of the Goblin King was burning itself through his mind. Numbtongue wore a resigned expression as he lifted his sword.

“Come on, then. I’m waiting. This time it’s me. Come on!”

He advanced despite Kevin’s shout of warning. Like he wanted to die. The other Redfangs were running with the three Nanettes, and Kevin’s finger was resting on the hair trigger. The older man wavered—and then he heard a final voice in this clusterfuck of realities meeting and mixing.

“I’ve got him! Get the others to safety!”

That voice. Kevin swung his shotgun left and saw someone bum-rushing him. He had four full seconds to fire. Enough time to drop the idiot eight times over. But he didn’t. The older Kevin blinked—and then Kevin Hall slammed into his older self and began punching and kicking wildly.

Beach Kevin vs. Goblin King Kevin. The two fought on the ground, shouting, as the real Numbtongue halted and yelled.

“This way! This way to the exit, idiots!”

The Redfang Five of the beach world didn’t hesitate. Headscratcher drank a potion, then grabbed Rabbiteater; Numbtongue and Shorthilt poured a healing potion over him, and all three dragged him as Badarrow got to his feet, grabbed two Nanettes, and ran with the last one. Rabbiteater clutched his leg as they all ran—Numbtongue hesitated, then charged after them.

Then it was just two Kevins, rolling around in the hallway, both cursing and kicking at each other.

The younger Kevin was fighting for the shotgun, trying to wrench it from his older self’s hands. He had the advantage on the prone man for as long as it took [Master Engineer] Kevin to engage the safety on the shotgun.

Then he kicked the younger Kevin off him, and when the young man tried to tackle him, the forty-year-old Kevin jabbed him in the forehead, then the stomach with the butt of his shotgun.

Beach Kevin sat down.

“Fuck.”

He flinched as [Master Engineer] Kevin stood over him. But all the older Kevin did was exhale hard.

“This is why I should’ve taken up smoking. Then I could light up a cigar and look cool. Hey, dumbass. Did you ever think tackling someone with a gun was a stupid idea?”

Beach Kevin held his stomach as he stared up at his older counterpart.

“Yeah. But you were going to shoot everyone. What twisted timeline are you from?”

“One where the Goblin King murders everyone.”

“Fuck, dude. And I thought I had it bad. And I just run around with a shotgun, Terminator-style? Seriously?”

The [Master Engineer] laughed; a laugh of incredulity and disbelief, and the lines around his eyes uncreased again as he snorted. He lifted the shotgun and cast around, remembering his purpose.

“Normally, it’s a tank. But it didn’t look like it’d fit. Seen a Goblin King? He looks like Rabbiteater, but he’s…the Goblin King?”

“What? No—dude, don’t go after them!”

Kevin tried to block the way of his older self, but the other Kevin just murmured.

“This is so stupid. What is this…it’s been decades. Some kind of multiverse thing? From comic books?”

“Yeah, looks like it.”

The two Kevins stood there, aware that they were one of the few people who could appreciate the irony of this moment. The [Master Engineer] critically eyed his younger self. Innocent, young, still more interested in making a cool bicycle than anything important. Content to be the ‘Fun Guy Kevin’…

“I’d give anything to be you. Want some advice from the future?”

“Sure. Is it actually good stuff?”

The older Kevin thought about it, then pulled a shotgun shell out of his bandolier and tossed it at the younger Kevin.

“Careful how you open it. You take dried fire magicore and mix it up with some of the elements of gunpowder, but you can tweak it. Don’t bother with black powder; you can make better stuff right away. Rabbiteater’s the Goblin King. Shoot him, then King Othius, then the Naga of Roshal. He’s got firearms too, and he’s the world’s first gunrunner. In that order. Also, in eight years, there’s going to be something like magical syphilis. Looks like faint half-rings on genitalia. Skip that too.”

“Dude. What the fuck? That advice sucks.”

The older Kevin laughed at his younger self. He reached out, clapped the younger Kevin on the shoulder, and met his eyes.

“What did you expect? I’m all regrets. Be a fucking hero, even if you die. Look around you.”

He strode past the dead [Soldiers] of Rhir and pointed down. The [Hero], Triander, flinched, and tried to raise his arms. The [Master Engineer] shot him point-blank through the chest, and turned to his younger self.

“—There’s no good ones anyways. Kid-killing bastards.”

He kicked Triander’s corpse and strode into the [Palace of Fates]. Hunting for the Goblin King.

 

——

 

The [Palace of Fates] was growing worse by the second. Lyonette stood at the entrance, but not many had reached it save the immortals—yet. Part of that was Roots Mrsha sending threats away, but the other part was just the chaos everywhere.

Lyonette had sent some of the others into that hell. Others had gone of their own accord, like Numbtongue. Right now, she had all the survivors, the versions of herself, Mrsha, everyone she could fit, climbing into the [Garden of Sanctuary].

She had begged them not to go into the inn, but she had also asked someone to send a message to—

“Ishkr!”

The Gnoll came out of the door, shouldering past a version of Lism, and stopped, eyes wide.

“Lyonette! What’s going on? Laken’s above, and so is Master Elosaith and Pallass! Goblinhome’s under attack, and Zevara wants to know—”

Lyonette seized him; her face was white, and in the distance, she knew the army of Crelers was still locked in a final confrontation with Marquin. But they kept…coming.

“Tell her to evacuate Liscor! I don’t care how! No, wait—”

It was damn well raining. They’d have to go through the [Portal Door] or they’d be swimming across the Floodplains. Lyonette changed her mind.

“Tell her to lock down the city gates and marshal the Watch. I need everyone above Level 40 right here, right now. No…in the inn. If it comes to it, I will cut the roots myself and seal this place away. If something gets out, close the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Tell them to destroy the entire inn if they have to.”

Ishkr’s mouth was open. The unflappable [Head Server of Tales and Fables] stood there, frozen, until she shook him.

“Run, Ishkr!”

“But what about you?”

The [Princess] pointed, and the staff of the inn, led by Peggy, joined the people evacuating into the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She smiled at him, a bright expression as she hefted the box.

“I’m waiting for my daughters. Go. That means you!”

Her next words were to a pair of women who came staggering down the corridor. Elia Arcsinger and Bird. They were followed by the Knights of Solstice—and a stream of soldiers.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s coming. Queen Marquin ordered us to fall back. It’s—”

Normen looked like he would have continued fighting, but General Sserys rode past him and snapped, face covered in Creler blood.

“Ancient Creler. Fall back! Get everyone out of here and hold this place until—”

A voice spoke, and everyone dropped to their knees and clutched at their heads. Lyonette’s head went white, and she felt a mind, vast and aged, think into her skull.

(I am the First of Spawns. It all ends. Do not resist.)

Weapons dropped from helpless fingers. Lyonette tried to lift the Box of Incontinuity and activate it—she couldn’t move.

“Nonono—everyone get out of here! Go!”

The flow of people into the [Garden of Sanctuary] increased—but there was only one door, and there were thousands of people. Lyonette saw Peggy hauling a wounded Antherr towards the door.

“We’ll stay and—”

Sserys shoved Normen away.

“Get out of here and prepare for round two, idiot! Tell Pallass to prepare for war!”

The Grandmaster of the Order of Solstice hesitated, then joined the exodus along with everyone from the inn, from the real world. That was something. The only person who resisted being taken was, in fact, Asgra. The Cave Goblin’s shouting attracted Lyonette’s attention.

“Wait! I stay! I have a weapon!”

She was fighting Bird, who smacked her on the head and tried to yank Asgra out of the [Palace of Fates] until Asgra bit her hand.

“A Tier 7 scroll will not help. Come with me, now!”

Even Bird sounded afraid and worried, but the Cave Goblin just kept shouting as she pulled towards Lyonette. The [Princess] blinked at her mutely.

Asgra fumbled with her belt.

“Redscar gave me super-weapon just in case things go bad. Here—”

She wanted to give something to Lyonette, but the [Princess] stopped paying attention. Her head rose, and her whisper made them all turn.

“He’s coming.”

There was a voice in the [Palace of Fates]. A familiar one, louder than the Ancient Creler’s mind. A building, thunderous sound that shook even the crumbling hallways, the breaking doors.

His voice.

The Goblin King was coming. Lyonette du Marquin stood there and knew that the dead gods were out there. The Goblin King. Belavierr…Az’kerash—

And her daughters. So the [Princess] stood there, back to the exit. Waiting.

She’s out there, I know that. Come here, Mrsha. I’m waiting, my sweet child. For you, and Nanette. I’ll hold this door open as long as I have to. No matter what.

Lyonette stood there, waiting, as the roaring voice of the Goblin King grew louder. The box trembled in her hands. And then she saw them coming down a long corridor, and the box tumbled from her grip.

She reached for it—but the five figures did not fear the box. They kept walking, eyes locked on the throng of people standing there. The way out.

Five dead gods.

 

——

 

Tamaroth, the God of Rulers.

Emerrhain, the God of Magic.

Norechl, the God of the Lost.

Laedonius Deviy, the infested God of Dance.

Cauwine, the Goddess of Last Stands.

Five of them. The only one missing was Kasigna, in her aspect of the Crone. Five was enough. More than enough.

Not even the Goblin King could challenge them, not together. They had walked through a sea of Crelers, past dying worlds, leaving nothing in their wake. An alliance of beings who did not trust one another, enemies and rivals.

They only desired one thing. They focused on the [Princess], then the exit she guarded. If they held that, there would be no way out for the souls. And the world beyond called to them. They had no flesh…but this was a doorway to reality.

What might they do if they could whisper into the living world itself, without having to wait for the Solstices?

The five spoke conversationally as Tamaroth turned his head to Emerrhain. They ignored the mortals trying to defend this spot. What could they do? Nothing.

“I thought Zineryr had bested you for good, Emerrhain.”

The God of Magic had been smiling fit to burst, gloating, but his expression turned to a snarl in an instant.

“Those—I am liberated from their pathetic last trick.”

“For now. Until this place closes.”

Tamaroth gave the God of Magic an arch smirk, and Emerrhain’s snarl turned to a strained smile. He glanced at the other four dead gods.

“I wish to strike a deal. It need not be you, but I shall reward you greatly for—liberation. If you refuse, what of it? All I need do is exit and signal one who might render me aid.”

The four considered it. Cauwine tossed her head.

“I do not care to. Beg the others for help. We are enemies once more after this.”

Her own attention was on the exit to the [Palace of Fates]. She swished her sword carelessly, and Norechl said nothing. Laedonius Deviy spoke.

“I-I-I will help. Tell me where you are. I will help.”

Emerrhain eyed the remains of Deviy, and his eyes swung to Tamaroth. The four exchanged an unsaid thought.

Whatever Deviy was now, he was not the being they had known. Better to end him once this was over. Tamaroth nodded, then gave Emerrhain another superior smirk.

“Of all those present, I am your best, and perhaps only, option, Emerrhain. I shall require a number of concessions.”

The God of Magic snarled, but his eyes darted to Norechl, the indifferent Cauwine, and Laedonius Deviy’s twitching face—he might have been trying to smile—and could see no better options.

“Very well. After we divide these souls—equally!”

He snapped. The five dead gods focused on the exit. Now, the souls streaming through were in a panic. A line of warriors formed in front of them; they had been firing arrows, using Skills and magic.

It did nothing to the dead gods. Of the entire group arrayed against them, there were only a handful of ‘real’ beings not of the [Palace of Fates].

A single [Princess] in the way, fumbling for some kind of box. And a [Knight] in battered, golden armor, prepared to defend her. And a terrified little Cave Goblin with a knife, but she didn’t count. No god paid attention to the box Lyonette held; it was just a box to their eyes. Cauwine shrugged and lifted her sword.

“Though I detest you, Emerrhain, we are agreed. Then I shall hear of how Tamaroth and Norechl escaped their own sorry fate. The five of us shall take flesh sooner than I thought. Or is it six of us? Ah, hello, Mother.”

A sixth dead god had appeared behind them. Cauwine turned, and Tamaroth scowled.

“Must we share everything? Ah, but it is fitting, one supposes. Kasigna—”

He turned, beckoning imperiously, and they expected the Crone to fall in with them. But instead—the Crone took one look at the five dead gods and ran towards them. Not strode, as befit her dignity, that haughty, ancient elder Goddess—but ran.

Clumsily, but with all the strength in her withered frame. Ran in a terror that Cauwine had never seen in her mother. The other five dead gods were amused or perplexed by turns.

Was she that hungry? Emerrhain held up a warning hand.

“This is not your place, Kasigna. If you attempt to harvest more souls than we, it shall be battle. And you shall suffer greatly. Well—more than already.”

He smirked, for she was no longer the Three-In-One but only her aspect of the Crone. Kasigna ran past him, eyes wide.

“Run, Daughter!”

That was only to Cauwine—the Goddess of Last Stands blinked, and then Emerrhain saw a second figure striding around the hallway. He tsked.

“Ah, both aspects of you. How clever. The proportioning of souls shall only be one sixth, either way.”

The five dead gods peered at the final figure to appear. There was something off about her, but only Cauwine understood it at first.

The Maiden stood still, and she wore black robes, worn and weathered, a traveller’s boots. And a hooded cloak that covered most of her head. The Maiden’s hands were clutching a scythe, the wooden haft of it frayed and plain, but also, somehow, timeless. Tamaroth smiled to see her; he had courted the Maiden an age ago, to create Cauwine.

“Maiden. Come join us. We have all returned, as ever. No mere ghosts could best us.”

His boastful words and his kingly gesture tried to overwrite history and his own memories that they had bested him and Norechl. It erased the deeds of the dead. The bravery of the last Dragonlord of the Void and Razia of the Agelum. It was contempt for mortality—and when he spoke, the Maiden’s head rose.

Her eyes were pale moons from within the black hood she wore. A hood…that Cauwine realized was real.

She’s taken flesh. But how? Cauwine recoiled in shock. Cauwine was the most powerful of the dead gods after the Winter Solstice, or should have been, and creating physical flesh was beyond her powers by far. Had her mother enacted some great scheme? If so, how?

—And why was the Crone still running?

The other dead gods realized the Maiden was here in a physical form, not just some conceptual version of her, and Emerrhain gasped.

“Was there a soul so powerful…? Maiden, I wish to strike a deal!”

“Yes, come, Mother. Join us. Or do you still hold a grudge? I warn you, even with flesh, I will not be so easily chastised.”

Cauwine added her voice to the calls, saluting her mother with a sword. It was in Kasigna’s nature to gloat, to lord this moment and her triumph over them all, and they expected her to say something.

But she—the young woman holding a scythe in her hands said nothing. Cauwine eyed Kasigna warily.

She must truly be wrothful. But even so, they were parent and child, however they betrayed each other. Cauwine half-smiled, rueful, for even at her lowest, she did still love the being who had created her. The Goddess of…who never died.

The…Cauwine hesitated. The…Kasigna was the Goddess of…of…

It was like a word that was on the tip of your tongue that you couldn’t give voice to. A thought unformed. But it was so quintessential to Kasigna that it was instantly obvious.

She was Kasigna! Goddess of—

Nothing. No word completed that sentence. Cauwine’s confidence suddenly flashed to uncertainty. Norechl had noticed it too; the God of the Lost was inspecting the Crone, who wasn’t running for the exit. She darted down another side passage—and the Maiden began to walk forwards.

Pursuing the Crone? Norechl and Cauwine traded a glance, and then they both felt a tinge of unease. Cauwine focused on the blade that the Maiden held.

A scythe. Such a traditional tool. Her mother had never carried it; the Crone had used a gnarled staff at best. She never used weapons. Nor was the scythe some conjured aspect of her. It was…realer than she was.

Emerrhain hadn’t noticed yet. He was spreading his arms, intent on ingratiating himself to the Maiden as Tamaroth glared at him; as if they were still both vying for Kasigna’s hand.

That scythe.

That blade.

Cauwine knew weapons of the divine. She had beheld armories of heaven, weapons of the future, primordial blades made of the fabric of existence itself. She had never known a sharper blade than that. The scythe looked like it could cut…everything.

Cauwine’s eyes focused on the blade of the scythe. Hadn’t she seen its like before? But who had carried it?

On Kasigna—the Maiden’s—clothing. Distinct clothing, not an idea. The oblivious God of Magic didn’t realize what was off until he drew closer. Then he wavered.

“Kasigna—how did you separate from the Crone? I sensed the Mother die; a tragedy. But the Three-in-One never moves apart. And that scythe…where did you get that? Is it some Relic from this place? It befits even one of our nature.”

The Maiden hefted her scythe higher and spoke.

“Eᴍᴇʀʀʜᴀɪɴ.”

That voice made them all freeze. It was a voice to make even a dead god feel fear. The Maiden’s next words were more normal, but they had the same quality to them.

“Emerrhain. The Gnomes bested you. Despite all your tricks and plans, they were one step ahead.”

The God of Magic snarled at her, losing his composure once more.

“They never anticipated this! We always emerge victorious, and neither they nor their tiny little successors are a match for me. Watch your words, Maiden. For I am a thousand times your better with the strength I have gained!”

He stabbed a finger at the Maiden, and now she was within a span of the five dead gods as Emerrhain stormed forwards to argue with her. Tamaroth was behind him, along with Deviy, whose head was tilted beyond what should have been possible.

Cauwine was behind the other three; she took another step back and noticed Norechl moving away, fast. Tamaroth’s head turned to the two gods in the rear—then swung back to the Maiden.

The Maiden lifted the scythe high overhead. Eyes as pale as ivory focused on Emerrhain as he spat at her, lifting a hand of admonishment.

The scythe swung down.

The God of Magic stopped talking abruptly. He glanced to the right, and Cauwine’s eyes slid to the ground. The God of Magic stared at his arm, lying on the floor of the [Palace of Fates].

“Why would you do that?”

He sounded miffed as he waited for his arm to rise and reattach itself to his body. The Maiden said nothing. She swung the scythe, clumsily, inexperienced—but that blade knew its job.

Scythes had never been ideal weapons of war, and Kasigna had never been a warrior. Emerrhain leaned back out of the way of another blow. Then his face screwed up.

“My arm. What did you—my—my arm.”

He clutched at his right shoulder, and his arm was not reattaching to his body. Then the God of Magic’s face drained of color, and he opened his mouth in a silent scream of realization and horror.

Even the Maiden halted as the five dead gods stared at Emerrhain’s arm. It wasn’t returning to his body. In fact—it was vanishing. Dissolving away. Then Emerrhain grabbed at his arm, and Cauwine saw he was…bleeding. But he had no flesh.

Something was streaming out of him. Souls. Cauwine realized his gluttonous rampage had left many of the souls unabsorbed, like a predator that had yet to digest his meal. They were evaporating—the God of Magic’s power was leaving him.

And his arm was gone. The one-armed God of Magic had no other arm. His concept, his entire nature changed.

God of Magic. Emerrhain. A scholarly, intelligent man across every species and time. A being who represented the hunger for secrets and knowledge—who had only one arm.

“That is no God’s weapon. That’s the scythe of Death itself. Maiden…what have you done?”

Tamaroth breathed in horror, and Emerrhain’s face paled as he realized what he had been cut with. His mouth became a void as he shrieked.

“My arm! My—”

Then he saw the look in the Maiden’s eyes as she raised the scythe higher. Her gaze swept over them, the dead gods, the plunderers of this place.

Are you not ashamed? They hesitated, five divine beings.

Tamaroth, who raised a hand.

“Maiden, wait.”

Emerrhain, stumbling past them, calling over his shoulder.

“No, please. We are above judgement.”

Laedonius Deviy, who spoke softly.

“D-do I know you?”

Cauwine, whose sword wavered.

“…Mother?”

Norechl said nothing, but merely ran after the Crone. Too late.

Far too late.

The Maiden charged into them and swung her scythe, and they knew her.

Death.

Her scythe drove through Tamaroth’s head, point-first, and he shrieked.

“My eye!”

The Maiden ripped the scythe free and tried to behead him. She caught Laedonius Deviy instead; the head of the God of Dance came free, and his body stumbled. It flailed away from her as she swung her scythe down and cut the head in half.

Something tried to wriggle out—the Maiden slashed at the strands of the things infesting him, and they died. Then she whirled the reaper’s scythe out and jerked it back, like a farmer cutting grass.

The fleeing Norechl fell, severed into two pieces. It made not a sound; both parts tried to flee. The Maiden cut the lower half of the God of the Lost apart.

Gone forever.

Cauwine ran the Maiden through the heart with her sword. The Maiden turned—and Cauwine yanked the blade free and leapt back. The Goddess carrying the scythe didn’t even flinch.

She swung the scythe at Cauwine, and the Goddess of Last Stands brought her sword up to intercept the blade. It sheared the top of Cauwine’s sword off, and the goddess ducked. The scythe passed over her head, and Cauwine raised the sheared edge of her blade.

The very concept of a sword—she gazed down in horror at the sundered weapon she held. Cauwine tried to summon another blade to her hand—and couldn’t. She stared at the severed hilt of a sword in her hand.

The Goddess of Last Stands armed with her…broken sword? The idea vanished. Tamaroth was still screaming.

 

A monarch, sitting on a throne, one eye gouged from his face, bleeding as he howled.

A barbarian chieftain of the plains, screaming at the sky with one bloody socket. 

A waving flag, forever marred, an eye of imperium torn out.

 

Changed forever. And if that scythe had cut them deeper—

“Oh, Mother. What have you done? No…who are you? Are you the Maiden?”

Cauwine backed away as the Maiden turned. Five dead gods flinched, each one wounded. Norechl’s upper torso was crawling back as, at last, the Maiden spoke.

“I am an ending. My kindred, who consider yourselves above mortal souls—you have all clung to your existence when it was long over. Enough. For the souls created by this flawed design of Isthekenous. For you, I offer the only gift granted to me.”

The Maiden focused on the God of Rulers. Tamaroth, clutching at his bloody eye, backed away from her.

“You are mad. You—you’ve taken flesh. You don’t have the power. You will erase yourself.”

The Maiden lifted the scythe overhead, and they all backed away from it.

“Yes. And you and all the suffering. What is that expression you have so often told mortals, Tamaroth? Ah, yes. Die gloriously.”

She brought down that scythe towards The God of Magic. Emerrhain backed away, mouth opening in a widening pit of horror and agony.

“No, no, no!”

He vanished as the scythe came towards him. Fled back into the Gnomes’ prison, screaming. Cauwine backed up another step. She reached for a sword that a mortal had dropped, kicked it into her hand—and locked eyes with the Maiden.

The scythe. Cauwine, the greatest warrior among the gods, dropped her blade and fled. Norechl, Tamaroth, the headless Deviy—

Ran.

The Maiden strode after them, but slower. With that walk that was unhurried. Careful. She halted as she came to a door in the hallway and she inspected the cracks within it.

“All of it ends.”

Her scythe cut across the door, severing the portal to another world. It vanished with a sigh. The world beyond—disappeared, and the Maiden swung her tool through another door.

Reality came apart as the Maiden advanced down the corridor, slashing the doors apart, then cut again at the other side of the hallway.

It vanished into the aether. The dead gods looked back at the Maiden as she cut a piece of the [Palace of Fates] away, and then she was walking forwards. Towards the exit.

 

——

 

They ran. All of them. General Sserys gave no orders, nor Zel or anyone else. The [Soldiers] who had been prepared to fight the Crelers to the end, even the dead gods, just turned and fled.

There was no besting her. No weapon that could parry that scythe. The sight of the five dead gods being taken to pieces by a single swing of that blade was more than enough. But the Maiden called to them as she strode forwards.

“Why are you running? I am the Maiden. I have come to put an end to all of it. Come, take my hand.”

She extended one pale hand and beckoned, and the dead gods, the fleeing mortals, even the Crone hesitated. That single, slim hand…called to them. The Maiden smiled—then her scythe rose.

She cut an arrow in half, cut the very existence of the arrow out of the world, and then another one. Her eyes flashed as she focused on an Antinium Queen standing behind Lyonette.

“Oh. Um. You were saying?”

Bird lowered her bow and retreated towards the [Garden of Sanctuary]. The Maiden’s eyes narrowed, and she slashed another piece of the hallway apart.

“Run.”

A young woman whispered the words. But Lyonette du Marquin didn’t run.

The Box of Incontinuity in her hands trembled as she raised it—but then it fell from her grip. In the face of the Maiden’s calm eyes, that scythe—Lyonette drew a sword and faced the reaping blade.

Ser Dalimont stood in front of her, legs shaking, his sword half-raised, for he knew it could not block that scythe. Even so, he stood there. And the [Princess] refused to run.

The Maiden raised it—then cut down a door next to Lyonette, leading into another world. Then a second. She regarded the [Princess].

“W-well?”

Lyonette’s knees shook, but the Maiden strode past her and Dalimont, down another hallway. She turned her head.

“You belong to the world. It is not you I come for.”

She paused at the exit to the [Garden of Sanctuary], eyes flicking to the place where many had fled beyond. But then the Maiden glanced at the rest of the [Palace of Fates], with its worlds still pouring souls into this place. She swung her scythe again, and the rest of the hallway dissolved.

Then she was past Lyonette, and the [Princess] backed into a wall and slid down, trembling. There was nowhere to run. Not from that—her eyes fixed on the scythe, then on the fleeing dead gods.

“Well? Hurry up and get the other five!”

The Maiden halted and turned her head back to Lyonette. An expression of irritation crossed her face. Then—a rueful smile. She threw her hood back.

Then she began to run.

 

——

 

At first, no one noticed the woman with the scythe. They were too busy trying to escape. Still confident they could make it.

Reveling in what they thought was their victory.

An [Innkeeper] was dying. Burning away with each second. Her skin was covered in flames, like a rainbow of colors and emotions, each one blazing brighter than the last.

Her grief, her glorious rage, her guilt, all her regrets became flames, and she seized up the screaming [Witch], dragging Belavierr up by the collar of her robes, and kept stabbing. The Stitch Witch blazed, screaming, as her promised death by fire giggled.

Hazel eyes locked with the orange rings of the Stitch Witch. Belavierr was trying to throw Erin off her but the younger woman wouldn’t let go. The Witch of Webs had a pair of scissors in her hand, and she was slashing it across the [Innkeeper]’s body. She opened up a gigantic line of red on Erin’s chest, but the [Innkeeper] didn’t so much as flinch.

The two tumbled across the hallways, fighting, Belavierr hurling Erin off herself for a second—but the [Innkeeper] rolled to her feet and charged back at the Stitch Witch.

They had never met in their entire lives, and now they were fighting to the death. That’s how it worked. In fact, they had better reasons than [Soldiers]. In war, someone pointed and you went and killed everything that looked wrong.

Right here, right now, all that mattered was what you believed.

Flame met thread. The Stitch Witch’s face was crumpled up in agony, twisting, contorting until the semblance of humanity she wore vanished.

“Begone, dying flame!”

Erin tried to dodge as a line of thread, Dragon’s heartstring, shot out and snared one of her arms. It yanked her backwards, and she began to burn it with the black flames of her hatred. Belavierr ripped green flames off her arm and stood, panting.

Half her face was gone. Her good eye flashed; her nose and the left side of her face were melting, the flesh falling downwards like dough. As part of her face sloughed off, it revealed a chittering, hairy spider’s face inside her skin. But the eyes of the spider were orange and ringed, and in their depths was another layer.

Another and another—then the spider’s face vanished, covered by a cocoon of threads. Belavierr’s face re-knit. She had so many layers of immortality…but she was as afraid of Erin Solstice as she was of the Dragonlord of Flames or the Goblin King.

This woman could burn away her lives. 

But the [Innkeeper] was dying. Her wounds should have already killed her. Her willpower and levels were the only things keeping her fighting.

Erin stumbled to her feet, still wrenching at the heartstring wrapped around her arm, and a needle, like a javelin, went through her stomach. She slammed backwards into a wall and struggled, a pinned insect.

The needle, made of solid Adamantium, began to melt. The [Innkeeper] opened her mouth and exhaled flames at the [Witch]. Like a Dragon trapped in a Human’s body.

Belavierr had killed Dragons and eaten their hearts. Her scissors sheared through the flames, and she retreated, contemptuous. They were not of the same level.

“Get back here.”

The [Innkeeper] kept struggling, but the [Witch] pointed a finger, and a tidal wave of water, an unbound sea, crashed down the hallway. Enough water to drown those flames. The [Witch] waited for the fire to die, and then the hallway quaked.

Another wave of water; a ship met the raging torrent, and the two waves of water collided. Belavierr threw up one hand as The Wandering Ship crashed through her spell. It was headed straight at her—

She put her hand out and caught the prow of the ship, and the Spider’s feet skidded across the palace’s floors. A hundred feet—then the ship halted, and she shoved it back.

It vanished as Belavierr, panting, raised her head. Erin Solstice was running at her, blazing. The Witch of Webs ripped the scissors in half and held a half in each hand, like daggers. She strode forwards, then leapt up, kicking Erin off her feet. She darted forwards, far nimbler than her size suggested, a dancing, scurrying spider armed with metal fangs.

She stabbed in a flurry, again and again, then stepped back, tilting her head as the [Innkeeper] bled.

Still, the woman came on. She charged—into a web of wires that snapped shut around her. Only her skin, as tough as her inn, saved her. Cocooned, Erin stumbled, and Belavierr rammed one half of her scissors into Erin’s stomach.

She brought the other half up and down, aiming for Erin’s forehead, but the [Innkeeper]’s arm slashed. Belavierr blinked—caught her severed hand, and backed up. She sewed it back onto her arm, her free hand moving with lightning speed, and the [Innkeeper] bled onto the floor, trying to burn free.

The flames were lower now. Belavierr hesitated, drawing a pair of needles from her bag of holding, both black and mottled with green filth. Poisoned beyond belief. Belavierr met those burning eyes, then turned away.

The Stitch Witch began striding away from the [Innkeeper] as Erin tried to go after her. She emerged from the hallway they were fighting in, water covered with brilliant flames washing around her.

She strode down the hallway, past a giant made of bones and the Necromancer fighting the trio of immortals. Taletevirion tried to grab Belavierr—she tossed him into Visophecin, and Rhisveri roared.

“Someone stop—”

Belavierr simply walked past him, each step of her Seven League Boots carrying her out of the battle. Down that hallway, then right…and….there.

Ah.

There was the exit. Belavierr reached it at the same time that that girl skidded around the corner.

Roots Mrsha, leading Pyrite and the survivors of the beach world out with Dame Ushar. They saw the Stitch Witch, and Ushar screamed.

“Watch out—”

Belavierr had no time for them. Pyrite threw his axe, and Dame Ushar unleashed a [Fireball] at her. The Stitch Witch let the axe thunk into her face. She pulled it out and threw it back; the Hobgoblin went sprawling with a roar. The [Fireball] unknitted itself in midair.

The [Witch] pulled black needles from her sleeves and licked them; they came away covered in filthy, green poison. She flicked the needles, one, two.

“Your Majesty!”

Ser Dalimont blocked the one aimed at Lyonette’s chest. The impact from the tiny needle slammed him into a wall. Ushar lowered her shield and heard a ting.

A tiny hole in her shield, punched through the enchanted metal. She looked down—and Roots Mrsha blinked. The Gnoll girl reached up as the black needle stood out in the middle of her fur, then fell over onto her back.

There. Belavierr smiled as the [Princess] screamed and ran for her daughter.

Belavierr walked on. The Stitch Witch paid no notice to the bolts of black magic Visophecin fired into her back. Escape.

She could sacrifice another of her lives. All she had to do was escape.

Belavierr strode by a young woman holding a scythe, and the Stitch Witch glanced at the Maiden, because she hadn’t noticed her. Not at first. It was like seeing an old…memory. The Maiden swung the scythe, and the Stitch Witch’s eyes widened.

Belavierr dodged the simple sickle blade, or tried to. It cleaved through the side of her face and slashed through one of her eyes. She…blinked.

 

——

 

Lyonette du Marquin, bending over her daughter, was sobbing, reaching for Mrsha. Her daughter! The poisoned needle had gone straight into Mrsha’s neck—

Roots Mrsha sat up and blinked. She held up a card as she pulled the needle out of her fur. It was covered in blood, but not much.

Ow. Why am I alive?

The [Princess]’ jaw dropped open. Roots Mrsha kicked the poisoned needle as far as she could. She felt at her neck, and it was burning in agony. But she…

[Resistance: Disease]. [Purifying Blood]. Mrsha gasped in pain as the foulness in her body began to vanish. Her blood was excising it, just like the Crypt Worms. Then she looked up.

Belavierr! Someone had to stop—

The Stitch Witch was standing there, clutching at her right eye. Her head was—cut. That scythe.

Kasigna had cut through Belavierr’s face.

The Witch of Webs took her hand away, and she seemed shocked as the Maiden was. The Maiden was checking the scythe, confused that it had not ended Belavierr. But the [Witch]—

The [Witch] was an insanely tall woman with long, black hair, and she was covered in an ornamented robe of webs and patterns. The Witch of Webs, her ringed eyes open in shock, flames still clinging to her dress.

One layer deeper, a horrific spider was nested in a web of her fraying power, clinging to the remnants of the craft she had sacrificed, its strings of power in its long, hairy legs. The Spider of legends—one of its many eyes, orange and ringed with those black lines, cut—

A many-faced woman hid in the basement. She was more than one being. She was [Witches]—those who had joined with her willingly and unwillingly, a stitched amalgamation of their souls. Her arms and legs protruded from that pallid body, every single species, and each head had those ringed, orange eyes. But there was a cut—

A titanic, chained beast was buried in deep waters. A spider? No…a being closer to a Seamwalker than mortal. An idea built out of mortal fears and superstitions, the scuttling horror who had plundered empires and made pacts with every being across every age. It, too, had many eyes. And one of them was cut—

Mrsha saw more layers. Layers upon layers of power, each one a different kind of Belavierr. Each one another way in which she had cheated death. To kill her, you had to destroy every one. Pierce those rings of immortality.

Now, Roots Mrsha saw it. She saw straight through Belavierr, to the center of the Stitch Witch’s being.

A young woman, barely older than Erin or Lyonette, covered in blood, standing in front of an altar. She was naked; the ritual dagger was in her hand as she stood in the moment of her first sacrifice.

Her first link towards immortality. The first Belavierr was clutching at her face.

The scythe had cut her straight through to her mortality. But it hadn’t killed her.

Belavierr reeled. She clutched at her face, and Mrsha saw black threads trying to close the wound. She backed away from the Maiden.

“You. Y-you shouldn’t be here. I have never seen you. You have no right to come for me. Back. Back.”

She swung her hands clumsily at the Maiden. She wore an expression of the truest fear on her face, and the Maiden swung her scythe again—Belavierr leapt back with a shriek, and the Maiden missed. Then she spoke, tilting her head and regarding the edge of the scythe, as if it were subtly off or Belavierr were hard to strike.

“You have hidden from me for so long. Come. Take my hand, Belavierr.”

The Stitch Witch whirled and ran. Or rather, tried to. She stumbled; her boots weren’t working. She flung up a hand to attack the Maiden, and no magic came.

The Witch of Webs, the original woman, spoke, lifting the bloody dagger as she backed away.

“You shall not take me so easily. Not you. Not now.”

The Maiden advanced on her, and Belavierr stumbled backwards. She whirled to run down a hallway. All she had to do was escape one more time! The [Witch] ran forwards and halted in confusion.

She hadn’t felt pain from that reaper’s scythe. Not from that gentle touch that had tried to take her away. Now, she felt the unkind sting of metal in her body, an agony of mortal make.

The Stitch Witch gazed down at the blade running through her chest. In the center of her immortal heart, the young woman stumbled and tried to pull the dagger out—but the smiling Nanette just plunged the blade deeper.

“Oh, second mother of mine. You are dying. Just as I hoped.”

“Nanette. Not now. Not—”

The Witch of Sorrows ignored her teacher. She kept stabbing, and Belavierr opened her mouth to scream or curse her daughter. Then blood ran from her mouth, and she sank to the ground.

A spider curled up, running with blood.

A sunken nightmare floated up through dark waters.

A young woman lay on her altar, eyes open vacantly to the sky.

The Stitch Witch collapsed, and the older Nanette kept stabbing Belavierr. Stabbing the body until her head jerked up.

The Maiden bent over Belavierr’s body and gently took one of the limp hands.

“One who fancied she could escape even Death. This is why it must end.”

She raised the scythe as the older Nanette backed away. Erin Solstice limped around the hallway, knife raised. Both [Witches] saw the Maiden swing her blade and leapt back.

The hallway, and Belavierr’s corpse, vanished. The Maiden severed the entire section of the [Palace of Fates], and the entire Skill shuddered. The last thing Roots Mrsha saw was Erin and Nanette, running, leaping towards another hallway.

She’s destroying everything. That scythe can cut even Belavierr in half. She’s going to erase the entire [Palace of Fates].

The Maiden turned, and she did not seem so grand or evil as Roots Mrsha had imagined the final foe. The Maiden actually appeared rather unsure as she held the scythe. Unpracticed, tired, and exhausted.

But oh, so determined. She met Roots Mrsha’s eyes, and the same conviction the girl had seen in the real Mrsha’s gaze was there.

Ah, so you are here for us.

The Maiden pointed the scythe, one-handed.

“Those who belong to the world, leave this place. The rest must be unmade.”

She was speaking to Lyonette. The [Princess] blinked; the scythe wasn’t aimed at her. The Maiden turned her head and spoke again.

“You shall not leave.”

It was Roots Mrsha she was regarding, Zel Shivertail, all those from other worlds. The Doombearer backed up a step.

“Don’t touch her. I’ll use this. I swear, I will!”

Lyonette abandoned the Box of Incontinuity and drew her sword. She stepped forwards, pointing the blade at the Maiden as Ser Dalimont and Ushar moved forwards on either side of her. The Maiden’s scythe gleamed with a blade sharper than the event horizon of the universe. With an edge that could reap the universe.

The [Princess] shouted.

“Run, Mrsha!”

Roots Mrsha ran, and the Maiden raised that scythe to strike her. The two Thronebearers threw themselves forwards, and she tsked.

“Begone.”

She struck them with the haft of her scythe and sent the two [Knights] spinning away, but that was enough time for Roots Mrsha to run from it. Away from the exit.

The Maiden pursued them down the same hallway that Belavierr had come down, and she saw the Necromancer, rapier drawn, dueling Visophecin and Taletevirion at the same time. He spun—saw her—and Az’kerash’s eyes widened.

“Oh. The most beautiful thing in the world. Not yet, not yet.”

He recognized her instantly and lifted a finger. Az’kerash fired a spray of diamond shards at the Maiden. One of the shards went straight through her throat. A razor that pierced the Maiden’s body…the Goddess didn’t even react.

The Maiden advanced, swinging her scythe to cut down the doors along the hallway, faster now, striding forward, then running. She cut another section of the [Palace of Fates] away, and she was a God in her entirety now.

Not a dead corpse.

Not a starving memory of the divine.

Like the final flare of light of a dying star, the final hour of a memory before the long night, the Maiden was here. In the flesh.

She swung her scythe, and the Necromancer’s upper torso toppled from his legs. The white pupils in his midnight eyes flickered out, and he fell, his body vanishing. He left a pile of his severed robes behind, an amulet—a trio of rings, and his boots and belt.

Taletevirion, Rhisveri, and Visophecin, bloody and battered from their battle with him, stared at the being who had erased the Necromancer with a single swing.

Again—the Maiden ran a finger along the edge of the scythe, frowning. She peered at the remains of the Necromancer, and she sifted through his possessions.

“Just like that woman, you try so hard.”

The Maiden lifted something in her hands. An amulet, faded and worn, in the shape of a silver heart. A lover’s keepsake.

Green light flashed from it, and the Unicorn gasped. The scythe cut the amulet in half delicately, and the Maiden’s eyes narrowed. She hesitated, inspecting the pieces, then made a displeased sound.

“Do you fear me that much?”

Her eyes swung up—and the Bone Giant shifted above her. Its flaming eyes had been blue a moment ago. They flickered green, and it began to run. Past the Maiden, who severed a leg in a single sweep of the scythe—then it was stumbling. Crawling on all fours, far too fast, under a [Haste] spell.

For the exit.

“Stop him! Stop—”

The Unicorn roared and ran for the corpse carrying the Necromancer’s soul—then he backed away from the scythe as it swung for him.

“You, who have lived so long, have a right to continue. But you carry a fake seed. Give it to me.”

The Unicorn put a hand to his side, and aimed his sword at the Maiden.

“Never.”

Her eyes found him, and she raised that scythe, unable to cut the copy of the wand he protected. Then she studied Taletevirion’s face.

“Are you not tired? Take my hand, if you wish to rest, weary soul.”

The Unicorn flinched away from her. He backed away as Rhisveri and Visophecin ran after the fleeing Bone Giant. Too slow. Rhisveri blasted apart the Bone Giant from behind, and Visophecin slashed the pieces—but the remnant of the head and spine crawled past them, escaping down the corridor that led to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. When the two raced around the corner—the Bone Giant was gone.

The Necromancer escaped. Then—came the Goblin King.

 

——

 

The Empress of Harpies bled. She had come to life, been allowed to fly after these long aeons of inanimate existence in the [Palace of Fates]. Pain was an unwelcome greeting, but she relished it, even as she fought.

“Kill the Goblin King! With me, with me!”

These…Crelers. She didn’t know them. They were a terrible foe. The ‘First of Spawns’ was a threat that was, perhaps, beyond even her alone.

But she was never alone. She was the last Empress of Harpies, and when she flew, it was in the company of mighty wings.

Seven Dragonlords of Flame flew with her, burning everything hostile beneath them. They left a sea of flames down every hallway they passed through, sparing only the innocent.

Once again, I live to burn nations. The warhawk within the Empress who had also been a peaceful monarch who let her empire die spoke. For she had been that woman Teriarch wept for.

And she had been the tyrant of countless wings.

Her quarry fled her, a figure that ran faster than belief. But he did run. She used the hallways to get in front of him and landed so hard the hallway quaked. The Harpy Queen spread her wings as an armored figure halted.

“Goblin King. I slew you, once. Your kind shall not plague the world again.”

“Harpy Queen. I remember you.”

They regarded each other as equals—then Sheta lunged, her claws striking in a single, predator’s motion.

[Claws of the Obsidian Night].

She left gouges on the floor a hundred feet long, and one of her claws tore open his armor. Sheta grabbed for him—

He stabbed her through the chest and ripped the sword straight up. The blow tore a line up across her Human face, and she recoiled.

“Sheta!”

A roar; one of the Teriarchs bathed her in flames. But the fire only burned the Goblin King. He leapt back and dashed under another of the Dragonlords, who tried to grab him. Sheta could have gone after him, but she lifted a wing, speaking through the agony of her face.

“[Open the Vaults: Tincture of the Sage of Healing].”

A bottle appeared, and she snagged it and drank. The wounds closed—and the Harpy Queen exhaled.

“Be careful. He’s too strong to face directly. You’re an [Empress], not a warrior! We should encircle him and incinerate him!”

One of the Teriarchs spoke, palpably nervous, and Sheta glared at one of the more cowardly versions of her beloved mentor and champion. Even so—she felt at her face with one claw.

“He—is faster than I remember. Has he grown in power? Even faster, then! We must halt him! Split up and stop him!”

The seven Dragonlords and the Empress of Harpies each took a corridor, trying to get ahead of the Goblin King. But there were so many—distractions.

More Goblins. Sheta came across an extraordinary sight: a group of Goblins, armed with weapons that roared and spat metal, fighting soldiers of Rhir. A screaming [King] was attacking them, and she espied a white Gnoll child, held in one of the Goblins’ arms.

“Kill the damn Goblins! Kill them!”

 

——

 

The Blighted King was forcing back even the Goblin Lord of Civilizations as Ragathsi and Rags tried to protect Mrsha. Ragathsi’s submachine gun roared, obliterating a wave of soldiers, but they just—kept—coming.

Too many of his fanatics, and he was as high-level as the Goblin Lord of Civilizations. She had only her bodyguard, not her nation of Goblins. And Mrsha—

The girl was lying limp in Fightipilota’s arms, awake, but barely able to move. Fighti was backing up, passing by cracking doors as she whispered.

“Mrsha, you got another Marquin?”

The girl was bleeding again. She cast around, trying to find another door. Fighti passed by yet another world, glancing into it for a miracle—and both she and Mrsha saw a woman smile and wave at them.

“Hello, Mrsha du Marquin. Would you care for my assistance? All I require is the way out. You may sign right here.”

Nerrhavia, the Immortal Tyrant, stood at the door of her world. The portal was open, but she didn’t step through. She beamed at Mrsha—and the girl recoiled.

The Blighted King was howling, a rotting, quasi-immortal serpent of a man on his throne. Mrsha, the real Mrsha, stared at him and Chieftain Rags as one of the [Soldiers] stabbed the Goblin Lord of Civilizations. She hesitated as Nerrhavia held out a scroll that was suspiciously…short.

“Your people are dying. In half a minute, there won’t be anyone to save. You need a monarch to best one like that, not a [Lord].”

Nerrhavia extended a hand through the door and held out a red quill to Mrsha. The girl’s arm shook as she reached for it.

Empress Sheta spoke as she flew past the Goblins, Gnoll girl, and the Immortal Tyrant.

“Agreed.”

She landed on top of the Blighted King’s bodyguard, crunching their bones to dust. Mrsha’s paw jerked—the Immortal Tyrant blinked.

“Uh.”

The Blighted King peered up and met the Empress of Harpy’s eyes. Their auras clashed once. Othius writhed like a worm on the ground, trying to scream as blood poured out of his eyes, his nose, his ears—

Sheta seized him in a claw and inspected the frail man. Then, the Empress of Harpies turned and smashed his head into the nearest wall.

The Blighted King’s magical protections, the Skills upon him, the countless tinctures he’d taken to extend his lifespan—worked.

The Harpy Empress smeared the remains of his head on the wall, then inspected the body in her claw. Her face wrinkled.

“Paltry immortality, foul little [King].”

She opened her claw, then crushed the rest of his body against the wall until it was just a smear of—Fightipilota held a hand over Mrsha’s eyes. Empress Sheta eyed the wailing paste that was still alive, then spoke.

“Teriarch.”

A Dragon passed by her and incinerated the remains of the Blighted King, then swept the hallway with fire. The Empress of Harpies turned.

“Child. Your other self set me free. Flee towards the exit. We are in pursuit of the Goblin King.”

Mrsha blinked up at the Empress of Harpies as flames rose around her. Sheta spread her wings and smiled as the bodies of Rhir’s warriors burnt around her. Her eyes swivelled sideways.

“As for you—stay out of my way, little woman. I have enough pests to deal with.”

The Immortal Tyrant opened her mouth at the being who was older than her, higher-level—and before she could respond, the Empress leapt into the air again.

She was gone in a heartbeat. Chieftain Rags picked herself off the floor, gasping for air.

“Wh—Sheta. She’s been unleashed.”

She turned to Mrsha, and the girl glanced back at the Immortal Tyrant, who stood in the door, still holding the scroll lamely up. Mrsha took the quill from her hands and wrote on the scroll. Nerrhavia stared at Mrsha, then at the scroll.

Sorry.

Fightipilota ran as the roar of the Dragonlords grew, following the Goblin King. Then—one of the roars stopped.

 

——

 

The Maiden ran into the Goblin King and a Dragon at the same time. The Goblin King halted when he saw her. He backed away.

The Dragon did not. A Teriarch opened his mouth and breathed flames over her, the purest Dragonfire of the mighty Dragonlord of Flames.

She swung her scythe and cleaved through the fire. The tip of her blade struck the Dragonlord’s face, and his eyes widened.

—Then he vanished with a sigh. Of…relief? The Maiden turned to the Goblin King, and he silently retreated. Again, she held out that hand.

“I know you. You, all of you, but you who have raged from the beginning. Are you not tired? Come. Lay down your burdens.”

She strode after him as he retreated, his steps slowing a second. One hand rose—and the Goblin King caught it. Wrenched back control from Rabbiteater. But she called to him.

Part of him wanted to turn back, but the Goblin King only hesitated a moment before he fled.

Not yet. The Maiden hesitated, then lowered her scythe. She could have followed him, but he was one soul and she…

She had so many more to deal with.

The Maiden emerged into the largest hallway yet, where Queen Marquin’s forces were retreating in the face of the Creler army. And the First of Spawns. She was a single woman with a scythe amidst a million souls. Yet when she appeared, they turned to her.

It was like a premonition. They all felt it. The fighting through the many worlds ceased, and every being felt part of the [Palace of Fates] vanish.

Then some of them saw her, the Maiden, walking down the corridors, and there was nothing behind her.

Nothing at all. She cut down the hallways, reaped entire worlds with the swing of her scythe. The end to this chaos and madness.

The many versions of Death watched the Maiden advancing, like experienced crafts-folk observing the young protégé doing her best. Too polite to comment on her technique.

Still, they were silent and waiting. The Maiden ran into a line of [Soldiers] who raised their blades and fell upon her, and she swung her scythe and they vanished.

Nothing could stop her. Not with that blade gifted by Death itself. An entire pantheon of living Gods would flee her. She’d sacrificed her very nature! The former Goddess of Death had cut it all away to become the instrument of the end.

An army of Crelers halted, and even they shivered as she raised her scythe. But the Maiden did not charge the mortals. Her eyes fell on her kindred, the fleeing dead gods, and they disappointed her, but she had known they would.

Instead—she opened her arms, as if beseeching the souls here.

“I carry Death’s promise with me. You, who did not ask to be created, you, who did not truly live but were made unkindly—I am respite. I am an ending, but not mere oblivion. Is there not one of you who wishes to take my hand?”

She halted where she stood…and the Goblin King stumbled. His slow retreat became one of hesitation, and his wrathful gaze lost some of its rage as he regarded that hand. He was not the only one.

The Dragonlords of Flame, following the Harpy Queen, landed, and they gazed towards the Maiden longingly. Then towards the Empress of Harpies, who covered herself with her wings and shivered, closing her eyes.

Not yet. Not…like the Goblin King, they drew away from that beautiful scythe. The Maiden’s eyes were so disappointed. She turned, and the Crelers scuttled back. Queen Marquin shook her head as she lifted a mace to fight. The souls around her drew their blades or turned to flee.

Never would they go gentle into that good night.

But then, a voice did speak. One soul amidst the many did step forwards, using countless legs, and a soul spoke. Not with any words, but with a quiet voice, though each word beat upon the mortal world with twisted intent.

The First of Spawns, the Ancient Creler, came forwards, crushing its kin underneath its vast body.

(I am the agent of She Who Sleeps. Conqueror of my world. First of all, who awaits the day when She will wake. You, who bear that gentle scythe. I beg of you.)

The First of Spawns crawled forwards, past the lesser Elder Crelers, crushing the Adults and larvae beneath it, faster—until the air rushed forwards in its wake, quicker than anything its size should move, a mountain rolling forwards like a typhoon.

(Take me.)

The Maiden turned with a smile on her face as the First of Spawns howled and spat annihilation towards her. A mind that plotted the demise of worlds projected its hatred, its wrath, all its weapons training on her, and she waited, scythe drawing back to swing.

Its features were foreign, ancient weapons of tearing chitin, but when the Ancient Creler drew back to strike—was it smiling? The Maiden’s eyes shone, and she swung her scythe once.

The First of Spawns, the Ancient Creler, vanished—and the army it had brought screamed and cried out, then saw the Maiden sweeping towards them. They did not understand why their leader had died. They did not understand how—nor could any of them process that briefest moment that had flooded through them.

An emotion from the First of Spawns.

Happiness?

Relief?

The Maiden ran, swinging her scythe through the army, and it broke apart. The Goblin King, the Harpy Queen, Marquin—all fled her. For the Maiden sought them all. And that fleeing old woman most of all.

The Crone.

 

——

 

“You fool. We could have lived. What have you done?”

The Crone fled the Maiden just as fast as everyone else. The Maiden had come for her. Kasigna had decided to remove herself, and the Crone’s stolen power, her scraps of divinity, was all hollow and worthless.

Everything she was, the source of her power, her very identity, was gone. The Three-in-One was shattered. Her endless lands stripped away. But she had still been the Goddess of…

She stumbled as she fled. The Crone lifted a shaking hand as something struck her. It was an arrow, painted bright green and blue at the tip.

It hurt.

It should not have hurt her. But it did. She gazed up, and a bright pair of eyes blinked at her. Pawn spread his arms.

“ThERe yOU ARe. We have been looking for you.”

An army was blocking the hallway the Crone was trying to run down. It should have been merely more fuel for her starving essence, but Kasigna hesitated. Something about these warriors was unsettling. Wrong.

“What art thou?”

“The faithful. You have stolen our hearts. FOr tHat, I inTEnD yOu SUffEr bEforE yOU peRIsh.”

The [Apostle]’s light was harsh. The Crone saw the first Antinium coming towards her, a mace in hand. It struck at her, and she touched the arm of the Antinium. She pulled the soul from the Painted Soldier’s body, or tried.

It refused to go. The Antinium wavered—then hit her.

Pain. The Crone cried out, then ripped the Antinium’s soul out of its shell. The Painted Soldier vanished. Pawn whispered.

“I see you, Crone. She has stolen our Goddess’ nature. Take it from her.”

The faithful stormed the Crone. Reaching out with blades, but also their hands. Grabbing for…

“You cannot seize that! You have no right! This is the realm of the divine!”

They were wrestling for the divine power within her! Kasigna fought them, conjuring minions of death, trying to erase the shining souls. But they were covering her like—well—ants. Biting and gouging pieces of her away.

“It may be. But you are not our god. So die.”

Pawn would have advanced with his congregation one last time. His eyes were blazing with faith, but his heart was empty. He listened to the Crone shriek, then looked around.

“It is all ending. What hope is there?”

Any being that could move was running for the exits, trying to avoid the Maiden. The Goblin King. The Painted Antinium threw themselves forwards, heedless of the collapsing [Palace of Fates].

For them, there was no salvation. But truly, Pawn no longer saw it for anyone. He turned as a single figure raced past him, but the [Apostle] was too weary to stop the Goblin King.

He honestly did not know if he could, even if his faith had remained strong.

Not that one. Not in his current body.

Pawn didn’t even know if it mattered. It was all ending. He could hear it.

 

——

 

<This state of affairs cannot long continue.>

A girl opened her eyes and thought she heard that infinite, weary voice. Pieces of reality were falling around her as someone carried her.

It hurt. Mrsha’s body hurt, but only faintly.

She knew how badly she was wounded. Fightipilota was carrying her as gently as she could as she ran, but Mrsha’s injuries were opening again. Red blossoms kept coating the bandages covering her.

Mrsha du Marquin had escaped the world of the Goblin King and brought him with her. They’d lost him at some point. She’d…opened a door.

Marquin’s door, and called the memory of the brave [Queen] she’d seen in the jumble of realities to help. She hoped it had mattered.

They’d met the Blighted King, hadn’t they? Then Sheta had turned him to paste?

Or had she dreamt that? It was all a blur. She didn’t remember. She kept closing her eyes. Opening them—

“It’s all falling apart.”

A voice spoke, despairing. Rags, her Rags, was running through the [Palace of Fates], and about them were Goblins. A tall figure, running as she fired at things coming out of the doors.

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations was with them, teeth bared in a desperate grin. Her worn face had come alive, as if this insanity were a welcome reprieve from her long duty of creating a nation of Goblins. She spoke.

“Where’s the exit?”

Ragathsi and her bodyguards slowed, and Fighti turned to her Rags. The Goblin leaned against one wall, panting.

“I don’t know. It keeps shifting. The [Palace of Fates] is—dying. Something’s erasing it. Where’s the Goblin King? We have to stop him.”

The Goblin King was out there, and worse. Mrsha felt it. Just as the Grand Design had prophesied, everything was falling apart.

Every single world was spilling into this one. Ragathsi grunted.

“Keep moving! Golems on the flank! Open fire!”

Her Goblins shot at something coming at them, and Fighti broke into a run.

“Mrsha, stay awake! Stay…we have to get her to a [Healer], Chieftain!”

The younger Rags glanced down, and Mrsha saw her eyes were wide and filled with tears. All their plans, and this was the outcome.

That was what hurt. The [Fatebreaker Child] closed her eyes again.

My fault. 

Somewhere out there, if she was even alive, Mrsha knew that Roots Mrsha was trying to keep it all together. She knew that. They wouldn’t, couldn’t give up until the true end. But it just hurt that it had to end this way.

Each and every time. All these people—Chieftain Rags skidded to a halt.

“I see someone. Hold fire! That’s—Lord Moore? Moore, here!”

She screamed, and there was a chaos of voices. That infernally loud gunfire—though it was growing more distant, which was something. Or maybe it was Mrsha losing her hearing.

The ever-present ringing had become a faint tone in her ears. Then she heard more voices.

“That’s not our Rags. Who—who is—?”

“Bodyguard, hold fire. I am Ragathsi of Civilizations. The Goblin King is loose. Where is the way out?”

“The—we don’t know. Pisces! Pisces, this way!”

Pisces? Mrsha tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids were so heavy. She realized it wasn’t her Pisces as a man’s voice spoke. A pity. She really wanted to meet older Pisces. She hoped he was still cool and lame.

“What’s going on? Who—is that Mrsha? Healing potion!”

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations shook her head.

“It’s no good. She’s been shot with Evercut—we have to get out of here.”

A breathless voice. Was that older Mrsha?

“We’ve been trying to find the exit! B-but there’s someone here. An old woman—and someone with a scythe! It’s all over. They’re destroying worlds.”

The good world. Mrsha had come up with an idea, and she was sure that Roots Mrsha had done the same. Her plan had been that if no one wanted to come with her to her harsh reality, then at least…

Now they had all lost their homes. The Doombearer twitched as she bled.

There will be no happy ending for anyone. They were all going to be…

No.

No, there had to be something. Think of it. That was what she was doing, praying that Roots Mrsha would do the same.

It was the only thing Mrsha could do. The cloud of despair that had seeped into her body was being held back by that single spark of hope in her chest, like the fluttering of her heart.

There has to be a solution. The door out, into The Wandering Inn. She didn’t think anyone was making it there.

Someone was guarding the way out. Mrsha could almost…feel her.

A Maiden with a scythe. A well-meaning Goddess, intent on keeping the dead from living. A fair and moral being, perhaps the best of them in this moment.

Mrsha disagreed with her. The Maiden’s choice would erase every world of life. Perhaps they were wrongly made, duplicates that should never have been created. But they had—they deserved to live.

Zineryr had loved her for being fair to all, for valuing death. But in the end, Kasigna was an uncompromising keeper of souls.

There has to be a solution. But every single door, every world was compromised. There was no world of better days to flee into that could not be destroyed.

So think.

Think…

More people were appearing. A young man, panting.

“Wh-where’s everyone gone?”

“Kevin?”

Kevin. There you are. It was Beach Kevin, and Mrsha wanted to apologize to him—but she heard him speaking.

“There’s some asshole who looks like me, only he has a shotgun and syphilis.”

“Dude. What the fuck?”

Beach Kevin met Future Kevin, who had ridden his motorcycle straight through into the [Palace of Fates]. Rags was speaking tersely.

“The Goblin King is trying to get out! If he does, he’ll kill Liscor. He’ll kill everything.”

“We have to leave too.”

That was the Goblin Lord, Ragathsi. Wow, things were getting confusing. Beach Kevin disagreed.

“No can do. There’s a woman with a scythe around the entrance. She’s cutting the hallways apart. Everything she runs into dies. I think she’s…y’know. Death.”

“Sounds like fun. Let’s get her.”

That was one of the Goblin Lord’s [Bodyguards]. Beach Kevin made a choked sound of laughter.

“Dude, I get you’re good with a sword and everything, but listen to me. She killed Belavierr in a single swing. Cut through all her immortality so the Stitch Witch could die. And she killed one of the Teriarchs.”

“Ah.”

Then everyone went quiet in that way you did when things were truly bad, and no one, not even the adults, had a real solution.

“Someone will get through if we rush her. Probably.”

Mrsha hoped someone had smacked her older self for saying that.

No. That wasn’t how it should be. And even if they got through, then what? Then they were just in the real world…existing. 

Homeless. Like Roots Mrsha. Everyone’s lost their home, and it’s my fault.

She hadn’t known this was going to happen. That wasn’t her fault. The responsibility of it was hers, though.

There should be hope. I told the Grand Design that, to its face.

The [Fatebreaker Child]…remembered that conversation, despite the attempts of the system to hide the memory from her. She had [Immunity: Fate]. She’d seen the endless web of worlds.

But that only meant she saw how fragile it all was. All of this was still based on the [Palace of Fates]. When Kasigna severed it, she’d cut everything here apart. Regardless of whether or not they were made of Skills. The only person who might survive that was Mrsha.

A solution to this. Mrsha’s head was going around in circles. She was drifting away, but she held on with one paw, trying to picture it.

She imagined that world of perfect happiness, the beach that hurt so much. Her endless scream of torment. And she realized it didn’t exist anymore.

Not that world.

Not that place.

It couldn’t exist. Not with these people. Not with the Goblin Lord of Civilizations, not with multiple Kevins. Not with Brunkr or…

It was just a dream. More of a dream than the [Garden of Sanctuary]. The world would always, always be difficult.

But at least it could have been better. At least give me a dream, Grand Design. Are you there?

It didn’t answer her. Even it didn’t see a way out, even if it was allowed to interfere. She thought she could hear its voice below the noise of it all.

 

<ERROR. ERROR. DATA DESTROYED.>

<DATA DESTROYED. ERROR. ATTEMPTING RECOVERY…>

<ERROR. ERROR. ERROR OF FUNCTIONALITY.>

 

The Maiden was only making it worse, not better. Each world she destroyed sent all that was within it spiraling out of control, loose ideas and worlds being destroyed, undoing the very fabric of…everything.

And they were real. A part of them was real. Soul-data or not…they were all real.

Why was that? Mrsha wondered.

Perhaps it was because it had never mattered what the data said. Perhaps, even if it was just on a computer or in a simulation, if you thought you were real, if you could cry and think, you were real.

The only difference here was that something had allowed these doors to open and let people take physical form, despite being mere data in a Skill. Mrsha thought she could even see the architect behind all of that.

The canny player of his own game, someone else struggling like her. The only difference was that he had a better poker face. Was it all by design? Or was he merely hoping it turned out well?

The King of Faeries was waiting, and he wasn’t smiling. He had the decency not to do that, at least.

 

——

 

No one was laughing in the Spring Court of the Fae. They were watching the finale of the [Palace of Fates] play out. But their attention was on the one girl they’d found in the chaos, whom they followed even now.

The Gnome, Reimesk, leaned over the pool that showed him his homeland, and he saw a limp little ball of fur in a Goblin’s arms.

“This is why it was never meant to be. It would always have been for good or ill—we never doubted that it was merely another tool. But the magnitude was beyond comprehension.”

He watched with Ivolethe, with the faeries as entire worlds died. A scale of destruction not unheard of in the endless realities that existed. But oh, the cost.

The Faerie King said nothing, as his court and guests watched. Every head kept turning back to him, but Oberon merely leaned on one armrest of his throne.

Waiting.

He had taken no move in this entire long arc of events taking place. Perhaps he couldn’t, even if he wished to. The mark that Kasigna had left on him had already been too much of a sacrifice.

He had played only one card this entire time. The one of the last in his hand. A silly gift, an offhand little event.

The Faerie Flowers. Now, Oberon watched the girl lying there, and someone burst into the Court of the Fae.

It was Melidore. One of the high lords of the Summer Fae had vanished, on a hunch, and he returned, panting, pale-faced.

“Your Majesty!”

He shouted, and the King of Faeries glanced at him. Ivolethe spun, wondering what could matter at this moment. Melidore pointed a trembling finger back across the realm that some called Avalon, others the Land of Faeries, Álfheimr; it had so many names.

There were tears in Melidore’s eyes. Ivolethe followed the path of his finger and saw across her entire dying realm. Past the countless patchworks of lands for the guests who had fled here. Beyond the forest, the broken city torn by war, to the hills where the seldom-used gates lay. The hills covered in swords, or…

“The flowers. Your Majesty, they’re dying. All of them.”

Melidore whispered, and the faeries cried out. They saw the flowers of the countless hills withering. Dying. The garden of the fae was…

Oberon gazed at Melidore, and he nodded his head once.

“Yes. They are.”

 

——

 

Ah, so that was it. Mrsha got it, now.

One of those tricks. Faerie Flowers that followed their own rules, that broke even this place. You could do anything with them, couldn’t you?

Enter the [Palace of Fates]. Maybe they could even do more. Hadn’t Ryoka said they were graves of the fae? Perhaps the King of Faeries had hatched some grand plan—

If you could grow those flowers across every world, here, they might have done something amazing. Given back to the land of faeries, perhaps. Even had the power to…undo some of the terrible damage. The lost lives.

But they were dying. Or rather, Mrsha thought, being traded.

Flowers for life for the people made of a Skill. A classic trick from the stories. But it was pointless; the people paid for by the Faerie King’s flowers were still vanishing, thanks to the Maiden.

Was this what Death wanted? No escape? She thought she saw them too, watching.

All these powers and not one shred of mercy. Not one ounce of it. Mrsha couldn’t raise her arms, but if she could have, she would have given the King of Faeries and Death the middle finger.

It would have been so easy for them to help. All the Faerie King had to do was open a portal…but perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps he couldn’t risk it—a dead god sneaking through—or he was too weak.

Maybe you’re as weak as me, but you have an entire kingdom to run. If that was the case, she felt sorry for him.

—A way out. Mrsha’s mind clung to that idea. If the Maiden was guarding the exit, they needed a way out. But she doubted you could open the door to the Land of Faeries. Shaestrel had told Ryoka they had sealed the exits.

This [Palace of Fates]…had rules. It was hers, even if it was by accident. So think. It opened any door you wanted.

Any one at all. Worlds so strange or hopeful or sad. It showed you what might be. But all of it was fake.

Mrsha…wondered if there was something she could ask for. Something real. She thought of the doors that led to the [Pavilion of Secrets].

No, not through them. Even if she could somehow unlock or break those doors, that would just take her into another place that the Maiden could follow.

If we got everyone out of here, every single person past her, she’d just follow us into the [Garden of Sanctuary] or the inn. She won’t stop. Not in this or any other place in our world.

So what they needed was…Mrsha opened her eyes as an idea came to her. It was hazy, ill-formed, and her battered mind couldn’t keep hold of it. Couldn’t process it.

She was so tired. But one last time, she kept telling herself. Stay awake. Stay…she was drifting off, like someone in the warmest bed, knowing that she could close her eyes any time.

But she had to hold on for the most important thing in the world. Then—she could rest.

It was so difficult.

The world was blurry, and Fightipilota was holding Mrsha as everything flashed and shook. Parts of the ceiling were falling inwards, showing Mrsha glimpses of that myriad reality.

Even existence itself was fraying at the edges. Mrsha sat up slightly, ignoring the screaming.

“More Crelers! Shoot! Shoot!”

Lord Moore was raising his staff, blood on his clothing, trying to protect citizens of Liscor. Beach Kevin was taking cover as one of the Goblins fired a rifle from behind Archmage Montressa’s barriers—Mrsha wanted to speak to every single person here.

Save them all. Know them all.

—The Crelers had lost their leaders, but they were throwing themselves forwards in a blind fury, and Fightipilota tensed as she heard voices crying out. She swivelled, then Mrsha felt herself being lowered.

“Mrsha, stay here, okay? I have to help—you! You, take her!”

She ran forwards and offered Mrsha gently to someone. The girl wondered who Fightipilota had chosen. Who would the Goblin trust, in the many parallel realities, with Mrsha’s life?

The answer was, of course, always—

Kevin. He made a surprised sound, that Kevin of the beach world, and took her gently, almost dropping her.

“Mrsha? What happened to—wait, which Mrsha is this?”

The real one, dummy. Kevin held Mrsha in that terrified way of someone who’d never held a child or a baby, or someone who just needed to work on their upper body strength. She raised her head as high as she could.

Hey, Kevin. Sorry I never came back to talk to you.

Her paw traced tiny little words in the air. Glowing letters. He recognized her, then.

“Mrsha? It’s—it’s okay. Are you…you’re gonna be alright, okay? I just need—we’ll get you to a [Healer].”

He was staring at her body, and she saw in his desperate, fake smile the lie that made adults grow old. Mrsha smiled kindly up at him.

I’m sorry. I keep trying to think of a solution, but there’s no good one. Nothing that doesn’t make everyone sad. You’re all people to me.

But her world wasn’t big enough to contain all of them. Not two Immortal Tyrants; Nerrhavia strode past Mrsha, leading an army of her warriors forwards from the world where she had been waiting.

Heck…one Kevin was big enough for Mrsha’s world. She had just missed him, that was all. Him and Halrac and…Kevin stood there, flinching, as everyone fought around him.

“I think I’m a person too. Really. I met…me. The real me in a mirror that leads to hell. Long story, don’t ask. I…it made me feel better. So it’s okay we never—”

Boom. A screaming, alternate version of Ceria had gone mad. The Archmage of Frost whirled, eyes glowing green as her amulet and circlet revealed their true shapes, and she went for Mrsha.

An older version of Pisces leapt through the air, like a lion, and they were tangling in midair, fighting. Kevin ran with Mrsha in his arms, and his arms were bloody, then. With her blood.

“[Healer]! [Healer]! Someone—”

He tried to feed her a healing potion, and she drank it, but it didn’t do much. Mrsha smiled up at him.

Do you have a question for me?

She had lost that shining idea. Her breathing was growing slower. Kevin skidded to a standstill and sank against one wall. His head turned right and left, then bowed.

“Fuck, Mrsha—!”

He was crying, and his tears splashed down on her fur. There was nothing he could do for her, so Kevin wiped at his eyes and smeared blood on his cheeks, then he tried to smile. It was the worst smile she’d ever seen, stained with blood and tears, shaking like a leaf.

“It’s the stupidest question. It doesn’t matter. I just…I just wanted to know, afterwards. If—if anyone missed me.”

Mrsha’s eyes opened a bit wider, and Kevin wiped at his eyes again.

“Like, really missed me. You know, after they buried me? I bet people were sad. But I wondered, when you told me I was dead. Did I really make a difference? Or am I, like, the kind of guy you remember now and then? I know it’s stupid and shitty. But I was hoping someone…I wanted to know if I made a difference. I should have made a bigger one. That’s all.”

His tears dripped down, and Mrsha gazed up at him. That biker, surfboard guy, [Mechanic] from another world. A ghost and a real person asking the only question of his death that mattered to him.

Of course we missed you, dummy. Everyone does. Joseph, Imani, even Troydel. You still have your room. Solar Cycles…there were so many flowers there no one could work. Hedault misses you. Even Zevara.

“Even Zevara? I ran over her tail so many times.”

Kevin’s laughter choked in his throat. Mrsha stared up at him.

She kept your bicycle. And Ceria lied and said you were in the Horns of Hammerad. Everyone in Medain thinks you’re the secret 5th member.

“She did? That’s so funny…do you think they’d remember me in ten years? Twenty? I just wish…I don’t want to die, Mrsha. I didn’t, and I don’t. I thought I was fake. That you just wanted a replacement for the real Kevin.”

She had wanted that. And him. The girl’s eyes ran with her own soft tears for her mistakes, for her arrogance. And she felt that terrible need to give something back.

One shred of hope for all this misery. Because it was there. Even now.

Especially now.

What was hope in the [Palace of Fates]? It was every good reality, every moment when you saw a bastard change their stripes, every lost friend and hero.

Each one different than the figures she’d known, but no less glorious. Mrsha saw a lonely man swinging his sword around, left and right. A cheese-loving [Lieutenant] of Vaunt. He was facing the Crelers as an Adult reared over his head. He raised a hand—and someone threw a halberd so hard the Adult Creler hit the ground and rolled onto its back.

An undead king in a chariot rode past the surprised Gershal of Vaunt, and Mrsha saw King Fetohep of Khelt point his halberd.

“Forwards! Follow—agh—follow the Immortal Tyrant!”

Fetohep of Khelt emerged from a world almost identical to the one Mrsha belonged to, only where his armies of the dead had never vanished. There was a whoop—and Mrsha and Kevin saw an ice chariot pulled by an undead bear and Skeleton Lord race forwards.

The Horns of Hammerad as Mrsha knew them followed the King of Khelt as he and Nerrhavia fought side-by-side, glowering at each other and exchanging insults. Kevin began laughing.

That faint laughter attracted the attention of an alternate version of Ceria Springwalker. The [Prankster] was skating off one wall on her ramps of ice. She saw Kevin and wiped out—slamming to the ground and breaking one arm.

“Kevin?”

King Fetohep of Khelt, swerving his chariot towards the largest Creler, turned his head, and his jaw dropped when they saw him. Beach Kevin blinked at them. He glanced at Mrsha, and she wrote.

You must be dead in their world as well.

The Horns of Hammerad whirled around, and they forgot to join the battle as the undead of Khelt surged forwards. Even Fetohep halted, golden flames in his eyes growing wider. Beach Kevin didn’t know what to do. So he asked the question again, waving weakly.

“Hey, guys! Did—did you miss me when I died?”

The young man tried to smile, tears in his eyes, then he flinched as more Crelers screeched. He began to run again, holding Mrsha close, and a wall of ice froze the Crelers near him. A half-Elf shouted at him as she slid past him, tears in her pale, icy gaze.

“You idiot! Of course! Who asks that? Run, you idiot!”

Kevin ran as more walls of ice shielded him from Adult Crelers spitting bolts of death his way. He stumbled—tried to lift Mrsha before he fell and hurt her—and a hand plucked him up.

“Yes.”

The young man and Mrsha gazed up, and the King of Khelt rode through the lines of the undead, then let go. Kevin stumbled—and the Goblin Lord of Civilizations, Ragathsi, whirled as Fetohep spoke.

“The worth of a man is not in the size of his casket, but how many attend it, Kevin Hall. But the weight of one person who cared is enough for a King of Kings. So I order you: live.”

Then he raised another halberd and turned the undead chariot around. Ragathsi blinked at Kevin and spoke.

“You’re not dead in my world. You’re just trying to kill me.”

“O-oh. Sorry. Is that the guy with syphilis?”

Beach Kevin was panting, and Mrsha was giggling in his arms. Ragathsi, the Goblin Lord of Civilizations, chuckled, then reached out and embraced Kevin with her free arm. He yelped; her chest was made of metal, and when she let go, he had a groove in his forehead.

“I missed your silliness. Get behind the lines, dumbass.”

She shoved him, and Kevin ran. Past Gershal of Vaunt from the Winter Solstice, who covered him with his colorful sword, around Magnolia Reinhart as she nearly ran him over with her pink carriage—around an older Selys, the [Guildmistress] of Liscor fighting with steel claws.

They all remembered him. If he hadn’t been in the center of their lives—they recognized him from the far future, from his time. Mrsha was smiling up at Kevin as tears dripped from his eyes.

Even the Immortal Tyrant turned her head as he passed by and tapped her lips. Not to be outdone in anything, Nerrhavia remarked to one of her minions.

“I believe that one makes bicycles. I have a use for him.”

Ridiculous. Silly, a sandy-haired young man running flat-footed across the ground, tanned from the sun, laughing and crying in his Solar Cycles t-shirt and pants stained with grease and running shoes.

Mrsha peered up at Kevin and thought that even if there were no place in her world for him—he still deserved a world of his own. A real world, not just the one he’d lost.

A world where you can figure out what kind of Kevin you are. A world…big enough for Fetohep’s and Nerrhavia’s egos combined, for however many Dragonlords of Flame you had. For millions of people.

Except Crelers. Safe from the Maiden. Did such a world exist?

No, of course not. That was the problem.

And yet…in this ludicrous moment, where you had all this going on, what was impossible? The Faerie King had played every trick on fate and reality, and Mrsha had met the Goblin King. The dead gods had run into Death herself…

The idea respun itself into Mrsha’s head, a silly request. One last wish to make it all better. Something only a child would come up with.

So, she raised a trembling, bloody paw. There was nowhere in this world to run from the Maiden. Nowhere…nothing that could be built, here, that could not be unmade. But she had forgotten to ask the [Palace of Fates] something, with all her preoccupation about what might have been, what was, these alternate realities.

It’s me. Mrsha. I have one last wish for you, my [Palace of Fates]. I don’t know if you’re allowed, but it’s the only thing I want. One last door, for me.

Show me, please…open a door for everyone I have wronged. All these peoples who have lost their homes. 

Give me a door not to another world, but out of reality itself.

The [Palace of Fates] heard her, and the trembling stopped for one eternal, immortal moment. The chaos of it all falling apart, the breaking Grand Designs, even the Maiden—halted.

The Grand Design heard the girl, and the two breaking systems focused on her request.

A…what?

A way out?

Was it allowed?

Was it possible?

Surely not.

Surely…so. After all, a door had been opened to take Erin Solstice and so many others here.

The Grand Design had been made to link to a million other realities. Only, the doors had all been closed. No one had the right to open them.

But this was the [Palace of Fates]. Everything trembled, and somewhere, the Maiden raised her head.

“No.”

She took a step forwards, and the Crone, shrinking away from her foes of faith, looked up as well. The dead gods, Laedonius Deviy, Cauwine, Norechl, Tamaroth, and even the trapped Emerrhain, stirred.

They felt vast hands reach past them. A being so infinitely vast it encompassed the world dug its fingers into the very fabric of reality—and pulled. It strained with trembling strength, pieces of it breaking and failing. But it—they—ripped a hole into that wild beyond with a smile as wide as planets. Of shame. Of apology.

For the little girl’s last request. After all—

The Grand Design had always sworn to be on her side.

Mrsha blinked her weary eyes, and it felt like it took a lifetime of effort as they closed and opened. Then, amidst the damaged marble, the broken palace, she saw a rectangle of space.

A door stood before her. Just like that.

Her mortal mind didn’t comprehend the eternity it took for that weary function of the universe to create the door, to build the steps across reality, and out of it, to a truly new universe. She did not fathom the strain, nor the effort—not consciously. But some small part of her saw it.

The door was different than every other one she had ever seen. It had no proper frame, no elaborate ornamentation on it; it was as if someone had sliced a rectangle out of, well, everything. A quiet door, as if it were at the end of a fantasy book, offering you a chance to leave your world behind.

It terrified her. It delighted her.

It was everything she had asked for.

Kevin had frozen when the door appeared. He saw Mrsha reach out for it, that wounded, dying child, desperate. Mrsha’s paw touched the glowing doorknob and pulled. So weak. She opened the door and sighed.

Oh, you. Mrsha’s head lolled backwards, and she lay limply there as Kevin saw—that familiar, mandatory sight.

A black wall in front of the way out. A piece of cloth made out of the rules of reality itself. He pressed a hand against it, uncomprehending.

“Mrsha! Mrsha, what’s—”

Fightipilota emerged from the fighting, a chunk missing from her ear, sword in hand, and halted. Mrsha was chuckling at the Grand Design’s last little trick on her.

Of course she didn’t have the right. Good one, you two. She wondered if the Grand Design was laughing at her. She didn’t think so…but this was too cruel, even for it.

Fightipilota pressed a desperate hand against the blackness.

“No. Nonono. We need someone without a class. They can go through. I have a class now. What is this door? Why—”

Someone without a class? Only them? Mrsha lay there as blood ran down her arm. She peered up bleakly at the Faerie King. He didn’t answer, didn’t move. Just stared at her, eyes so terribly sad. No help from him.

Not even the roots would let them through. The girl traced a glowing line of text in the air for Fightipilota, for Rags.

It’s the way out. But I cannot open it. I’m sorry.

She’d failed them. The fighting around them had slowed as people beheld the door. Chieftain Rags limped out of the chaos, pulled to safety by the music-loving [Blademaster] in Ragathsi’s bodyguard. She put her hands against the barrier, but it was impregnable. No one could open this. Even when the Goblin Lord of Civilizations herself appeared and attempted to break the door, her claws skated off that black glass futilely.

Mrsha lay there as the fighting and shaking resumed. Trying to think of a solution. She had none.

None at all. Kevin had to put her down, then, to grab a weapon and fight. They were making a stand here.

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations, Lord Moore, all these high-level people were holding a line. Able to form a kind of shelter against the disintegrating [Palace of Fates]. Mrsha saw more people fleeing this way as she lay on the ground.

“Help! Please! Help—”

A group of people from an inn were running. A silly world where everyone’s gender was just backwards of what it was. They were fleeing a wave of Shield Spiders pouring out of the dungeon.

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations eyed the male [Innkeeper] running her way, then her submachine gun roared and turned the entire hallway into flames. The first and second waves of Shield Spiders shrieked and burnt. Fightipilota and the rest of the Goblins from the future charged the surviving Shield Spiders. The hallways shifted; Mrsha sent the remaining Shield Spiders away from the fleeing people.

It was all she could do. In doing so, she lost Ragathsi and Fightipilota, and she lay there, alone, next to the way out. King Fetohep and the Horns were still fighting Crelers somewhere else.

It didn’t matter. She’d failed again.

She was at an intersection of four hallways. Then eight. The [Palace of Fates] flickered—and Facestealer peeked around the corner of another hallway. He was followed by Skinner and a ripple in the air.

Stalker, Skinner, Stealer. Mrsha stared at them as they crawled towards her.

Great. She tried to vanish them, but it was hard—they fought her, and Skinner was followed by his army of the undead. A Crypt Lord opened a rotting mouth to spit black poison at Mrsha, and Facestealer ripped its jaw off; it wanted her head intact.

They were halfway towards the girl, who was trying to stand, when Crelers poured out of another hallway.

Damn Crelers. So many worlds were just them. Mrsha saw them dicing each other apart. She had the dubious satisfaction of watching Skinner being ripped apart by an Adult Creler, shrieking, and Facestealer toppled into one of the open doors, fighting a swarm of larvae. Stalker appeared, a shrieking, long creature tearing at the Crelers before one burrowed into its hide.

Undead fighting Crelers. And Crelers fighting Crelers; it seemed like Crelers from other worlds were fighting different Crelers. They were rampaging down a hallway big enough to fit two Shetas abreast; a dozen Adult Crelers charged an Elder Creler.

So that’s what an Elder Creler looks like. Wow, it’s horribly ugly and awful.

Mrsha’s tiny thoughts somehow attracted the attention of the telepathic things. The Elder flicked a claw, and she heard it think.

(That holds the exit from us. Kill it.)

About fifty larvae and two juveniles fled the battle of titans. They scuttled towards Mrsha, and she groaned. She tried to push herself up again—and then saw another Ancestors-damned Adult Creler.

It was camouflaged against the hallway’s marble, but it shifted and leapt on the group scuttling at Mrsha. Huge, stabbing legs smashed the little Crelers, and a Juvenile Creler reared up, only to be blown to pieces by the spikes shot from the Adult Creler’s mouth. Having destroyed its rivals from another world, the Adult Creler scuttled over to Mrsha. She gazed up at its hideous ‘face’ and waited.

One leg poked her, very softly, and then Mrsha heard a voice in her head. A thought, really.

(Hideous? That’s not very nice. I don’t call you names. You okay, Miss?)

Mrsha eyed the Adult Creler. She opened her mouth—then someone screamed.

“Mrsha!”

Fightipilota had found her way back. The Goblin leapt at the Adult Creler, slashing at her legs, and the gigantic monster scuttled back.

(Wait! Waitwaitwait, I’m not a foe! It’s me! Jexishe! The Friendly Creler!)

Fightipilota nearly tripped as the too-friendly voice appeared in her head. The Goblin’s mouth opened—then she tried to attack again. Jexishe swept the [Fighter Pilot]’s leg out from under her and planted a claw delicately on Fighti’s back.

Jexishe the Friendly Creler? Mrsha’s mind flashed to something Niers had once said.

No way.

(Yes way. I’m here to help!)

Well, at least her death would be as silly as her life. Mrsha saw more people charging down a corridor, ready to fight the Adult Creler, before they heard Jexishe’s thought-voice.

It didn’t matter. Friendly Crelers or an army of Cognitas, they were all dead.

(Wow, she’s depressing. What’s with this door? It’s black.)

A ripple passed through the [Palace of Fates], and the friendly Creler scuttled back in alarm as more hallways intersected. That damn Maiden was interfering with the already-chaotic geography. Mrsha tried to vanish Jexishe on sheer principle.

(You are so rude. I almost feel like eating you.)

Jexishe the ‘Friendly Creler’ seemed truly as trustworthy as her title implied. She loomed over Mrsha, and the girl wished Beach Kevin were here. Or Fetohep. Why did her last moments of despair have to be with Niers’ stupid, fake Creler from a joke reality?

(Hey. I’m gonna lay eggs in your eye sockets if you keep this up. A joke? Me?)

Yes, you piss off. Mrsha was getting annoyed at having her mind read. Jexishe scuttled forwards a few steps as Fighti raised a sword, but the Adult Creler shoved the [Fighter Pilot] a dozen feet away without looking at her. Then she loomed over Mrsha, and the child felt her anger.

(It’s funny to you, then. Like everyone else. Me! Jexishe, the stupid funny Creler! It makes me wonder why I shouldn’t just fall in with everyone else and murder everything! Why do I even try, then? Do you know how hard it is being a friendly Creler?)

She made a sobbing sound in Mrsha’s head, and the little girl blinked up at the gigantic, horrific…person. As stupid-sounding as a joke by the Titan of Baleros.

A friendly Creler. How on earth did one of them develop a conscience? Jexishe knelt in front of Mrsha.

(We can think. We worship She Who Sleeps, who charged the first of us to kill the Antinium and lay the world bare, worship her until she returned. Everyone only knows malice and hunger and hate from the moment they’re born. Any deviation from that mindset, any weakness, is consumed by the others. It’s not that you’re wrong, you know. I probably am just some wacky, alternate reality, an improbable thing like that drunk Unicorn I saw just now.)

She bent her glowing eyes towards Mrsha and whispered.

(…But what hurts is thinking I could never be. Because perhaps I could. It’s a one-in-millions chance. If, somehow, you found just one of us who hesitated. Mercy for a Creler. Madness. But someone has to set my people free from Her.)

Mrsha blinked up as the Friendly Creler rose. Jexishe scuttled back, gazing towards the Elder Creler, and the Gnoll girl lay there and realized that if ever she met them again—she might make a potentially fatal mistake. Jexishe heard the faint thought and projected a smiling face into Mrsha’s head. Then she raised two legs and, for lack of a better word, posed.

(—And that’s why the power of friendship can redeem even Crelers! Come on, everyone! Get the big one!)

She charged towards the Elder Creler, and Mrsha blinked—and the hallway vanished.

“—Mrsha? Mrsha?”

Someone shook her, gently. Fightipilota had Mrsha in her arms, and the Gnoll girl wondered if that last bit had been pure hallucination. The Goblin was stumbling with her, back towards the door out of this reality. She whispered down to the girl.

“It’s going to be okay, Mrsha. We’re going to get you to the way out. Okay? Just—stay awake. Please. You—stay away from her.”

For a moment, Mrsha thought Jexishe had somehow reappeared, but Fightipilota was aiming her sword at someone else. A voice spoke, a familiar one. Mrsha heard the sounds of fighting, and then Future Pawn spoke.

“I have been a fool. We have no quarrel here; my people have lost everything. I only wish to save…what can be saved. What is that door?”

The [Apostle] was here. Great. Mrsha raised her head as Pawn came towards her.

“You’re hurt.”

She swiped at him, but Pawn was half-focused on her, half on the door. His Painted Antinium were pursuing the Crone down the hallway, but Pawn looked as hopeless as Mrsha felt. He stepped forwards, and Mrsha didn’t bother answering him.

He put his hands on her.

“Be healed.”

Nothing happened. Fighti stared down hopefully at Mrsha, then at Pawn. The [Apostle] stood there, and they realized his eyes had stopped shining.

His faith. Of all the times—Pawn sagged against one wall, chuckling.

“I’m sorry. She’s gone. I know she’s not the only one, but I let her down. And we are all…”

Fighti kicked Pawn and began to storm past him. Pawn lay there, a bug curling up to die, and stared at the rectangle of blackness beyond Mrsha.

“This door. It’s shut. Shouldn’t it open like the others?”

Fighti turned, grudgingly, to him.

“It’s…a way out, I think. A new world. A—a—have you seen the woman with the scythe? Which way is she? We’re going the other way.”

Fighti couldn’t articulate what the door was, but anyone could sense this door was unlike any other. Pawn’s hands touched the black barrier. He didn’t answer the Goblin, but murmured.

“Something is in the way.”

Mrsha’s eyes were fluttering. She would have explained, if she had the energy.

Not high enough level. Perhaps if she were Level 80, or 90, the [Palace of Fates] would give her a door out of this reality. Perhaps it was a Level 100 requirement.

Mrsha closed her eyes. She was just waiting for it to end. She could still see the King of Faeries in her head, and she wished he’d stop watching.

It’s over. Just let it go. You should never have let this happen.

She wanted to curse at him. But it wasn’t his fault for doing this. It was hers. That antlered head bowed, and those eyes gazed at her, sympathetic. Mrsha snarled and spat blood at him, and the Faerie King’s hand rose.

He pointed and smiled.

Mrsha’s head turned, and she saw the Apostle of Erin Solstice, Pawn, reaching for the door. Her eyes opened wide. Then she remembered.

Of all the beings here, there was one who could open any door. The one who had escaped the reality she and Rags had imprisoned him in. Pawn was speaking to himself as his hands pressed against the black wall, like glass.

“Yes. I see it now. There can be no redemption from my failures. My hubris and pride. But perhaps…the path towards Heaven is one that I never knew. I only thought I saw it. Silly me. I was only ever supposed to hold the doors to it.”

His fingers dug into the veil in the air, and Mrsha heard him speak.

“[I Found My Path to the Promised Land].”

Pawn pulled, and his arms trembled as he tried to force something apart. Nothing happened at first. He strained against the air, and he was unable to do a thing. But he kept pulling. Pulling—

And then there was a strange, yellow light. Mrsha shielded her eyes, and a sunlight she had never known shone onto her fur. It was bright and yellow, and the grass beyond was green—but it wasn’t the same as her world.

She knew it, just as Erin Solstice and so many Earthers who had once stepped into this world and known they were in another.

The stream of sunlight wavered—Mrsha saw Pawn’s grip falter, then his other two hands joined the others. He wrenched the air open wider.

“It’s…difficult.”

Something blew across her face. Mrsha inhaled a scent of fresh air. Something utterly foreign—her eyes opened wide. She forgot her injuries. Sat up in Fighti’s arms as the Goblin gasped, and they saw…grass. A shining sun.

And across an extraordinarily flat land, something standing just beyond the open door. A dirt road, branching in three directions, and a piece of wood with three wings.

A crossroads sign. Down the road—Fighti breathed.

“Mrsha. Look. A city.”

Fightipilota’s eyes were wide, and Pawn forced the window open even more. A strange world shone brighter on the Gnoll girl.

What place is this? It’s so vast—Mrsha saw the sky was blue, but it stretched into the distance until it shifted, thousands upon thousands of miles away, changing color, as if the firmament itself were altering.

A world even vaster than this one. Then Pawn’s labored breathing drew Mrsha’s attention away from the door. The [Apostle] struggled to wrestle the door open wider. He was panting, mandibles open, but his eyes found Mrsha, lying there.

“So—heavy. I cannot hold it long. But—but—I have failed mine. But she’s still out there, somewhere, isn’t she? Erin?”

Mrsha nodded. The Worker strained, then his arms were holding this gateway wide, trembling against the boundary between reality itself. Air blew through, and he whispered.

“—Then I can hold this door open as long as it takes. Get them. All of them. I will not let this place close. My people—”

He called out as he placed himself in the center of the doorway and held it open. The Painted Antinium turned. They saw their leader standing in the center of that door, and Pawn spoke, so very calm now.

“I was wrong. Final battles. Glorious, promised days. I do not know what the future holds, nor do I promise this is the last moment. But for the Painted Antinium, for those who believe in Heaven and Her—hold these hallways. Go, Mrsha. Go!”

Fightipilota turned, Mrsha in her arms, and began to run with her. Not for the exit into the inn. But to find them.

Everyone. Mrsha raised a paw and summoned all the authority, all the power she had left. Her arm was light all of a sudden. She was relaxed.

One last moment of hope. She sat up in Fightipilota’s arms and called them.

Everyone. The [Fighter Pilot] took a step forwards, and the [Palace of Fates] flickered.

Now, they were at an intersection of a thousand hallways, an impossibility of geography. The girl called, and the countless worlds all turned.

She pointed, and they saw it.

One last door. The lost refugees, the wayward souls blinked at the strange sunlight and the Antinium holding the door open. Beach Kevin shaded his eyes as Fetohep turned his chariot. Lord Moore’s bloodsoaked head rose as Jexishe scuttled around.

And the Maiden saw it too. The woman, swinging her scythe around and ending worlds, halted, and her eyes grew round in disbelief.

“No. Stop. What are you—?”

She focused on the little Gnoll girl, who pointed her paw, wordlessly, at her final answer. Her final gift to everyone she had wronged. A refuge, a place even the Maiden couldn’t cross to.

“Stop. Stop!”

The Maiden shouted, but the first people began to run for that door and stumbled to a halt before the Worker who stood, arms braced, holding it open.

A Gnoll [Knight], a [Princess], and a little girl, who gazed at her bloody counterpart. Brunkr, Lyonette, and Mrsha. They stood at that door as the Maiden began to run—but she was so slow. So far away. That Gnoll [Knight] looked into the world beyond, back at her as she screamed, a shriek of outrage and uncertainty—

And he stepped through. Out of this reality, to a place where even the Maiden did not know. The Maiden saw the [Princess] follow, holding his hand, and then the little Gnoll child, who waved up at her counterpart.

Then they were gone, and a line of people followed them. Drakes and Gnolls from Liscor, another world’s version of the Eyes of Pallass, a purple-eyed skeleton who waved at the Maiden—

“STOP!”

Last of all from their world was a wounded Raskghar, who paused, sniffing the air, then bounded through the door on all fours. And behind it…an [Innkeeper] halted in front of the [Apostle].

 

——

 

He beamed when he saw her, though he didn’t know her and she didn’t know him. Not really. They looked familiar to each other, but they were all strangers here.

“There you are.”

“Pawn?”

The Erin Solstice from Brunkr’s world halted when she saw the [Apostle] standing in the doorway. He was so different from the Pawn she knew. The same in body, but his eyes—they were glowing faintly. The Antinium’s arms wobbled as an [Innkeeper] skidded to a halt. Erin Solstice faltered as she saw the open door beyond.

“Brunkr?”

“Erin! Come through! Hurry!”

He shouted from the other side, that Gnoll [Knight]. He was waving at her. Turning to sniff the air. Waving again, urgent.

Come, now, out of this place. Out of this world where the Maiden is trapped. Come on. Erin hesitated, and it was all so…familiar.

She, who had once crossed worlds, felt the light pouring through the door on her skin. She almost walked forwards into this strange, flat realm, then fixed her gaze on Pawn.

“Are you alright? It looks—heavy.”

“It is.”

The Worker’s arms were trembling, but he smiled at her.

“It’s worth it. I have made so many mistakes. Most of all thinking I spoke for you. That I knew what you wanted. At least…let me save one version of you.”

“Pawn.”

Her fingers touched his face, and his arms wobbled. The [Apostle] jerked his head away from her as the door closed slightly, and he forced it back open.

“Leave me. Go!”

“Erin, come on!”

Brunkr shouted again, and Lyonette reached a hand back through the door. Erin Solstice took the [Princess]’ arm as her friends reached for her. Pisces, the Raskghar, Selys—she turned her head.

“What about you?”

The architect of this all, Mrsha the Terribly Wounded lay in Fightipilota’s arms. She seemed so…relieved. The Gnoll girl sat up, heedless of the trailing bandages, and wrote in the air with a glowing paw.

Go. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. But go.

More people were coming. The Immortal Tyrant skidded to a halt and eyed the open door. She hesitated—but only for a second, then she ducked through the gap on Pawn’s other side.

“Well done, child. I shall remember your deeds.”

The real Mrsha rolled her eyes as Nerrhavia passed by her, but the Erin of Brunkr’s world lingered.

The Maiden was screaming at them all to stop, but now everyone was running towards them. Erin let go of Lyonette’s hand a moment and stepped back.

Erin Solstice stood before the [Apostle], timid and uncertain, fingers extended to touch him. He couldn’t move a single hand to hold hers; every scrap of his being was devoted to keeping the door open. Pawn panted at her.

“I have longed for this day. To see you. You are so…perfect. I don’t remember why I wanted to change you.”

“Pawn. Change me?”

“You look different in my silly dreams. I’m sorry.”

That’s all he said. Then the [Apostle] stood straighter.

“Go. One last world for you all. I see it.”

He peered at Mrsha, and the girl nodded. Erin Solstice hesitated, then threw her arms around Pawn.

“I don’t know which you it is—but thank you. Mrsha, come with us—”

She half-stepped into that door and reached out for the real Mrsha, but the girl shook her head. Then the hands pulled Erin Solstice into the world beyond. The last thing she saw was the Gnoll girl’s relieved smile, as she slipped out of Fightipilota’s arms and stood. Then—

She was somewhere else.

Again.

 

——

 

At last, she saw a better ending. Mrsha beamed. So, as one version of Erin passed into that other reality, she sat up. Mrsha slid from Fightipilota’s arms as the Goblin tried to catch her, and her feet struck the ground.

She stood.

Her body was as light as a feather suddenly. Mrsha ignored the tingling in her side, and Fighti gasped.

“Mrsha! How—?”

Strength filled the little girl. Not the mad strength of some kind of moment of utter willpower, the power of friendship, hope, or something stupid.

(Hey, I heard that!)

It was just—a Skill. [Other Me’s Skills – Final Run]. A Skill the Grand Design had once tried to give to Ryoka Griffin.

[Other Me’s Skills – Burst of Energy].

Everything she had left. All her Skills. Nothing to hold back or reserve for later.

It felt good. As if she were truly alive after so long feeling empty and tired. Mrsha took one step forward, then another, then she began to walk. Fightipilota tried to catch her, to stop her. But Mrsha’s steps carried her out of this hallway, across the [Palace of Fates], to the place where she had to be.

 

——

 

The Maiden stood with only the void behind her. Nothingness. She was erasing the entire Skill, the [Palace of Fates], and cornering the people who had escaped from their worlds. She would have caught them all, leaving no one to reach the exit—but for the new way out.

The real Mrsha appeared before the Maiden as she lifted that scythe up. But no longer was she serene, the redeemed Goddess on her mission to enact one final moment of justice. She snarled at Mrsha.

“How dare you? How dare you? I shall not allow this! Death must have a reason. Never an exception. For no one, not even me.”

Mrsha didn’t reply. Mostly because she was mute. She glanced around and saw a flood of people in the hallway, looking towards her. She knew the way out. All she had to do was…Mrsha began to write in the air, then hesitated.

Someone was standing across from her on the other side of the hallway. Mrsha blinked—and realized some idiot had had the same idea as her.

It was Roots Mrsha. The thinner girl, the [Survivor of Trials], wearing silly red robes she’d gotten from somewhere, shaking with fear.

Great minds thought alike. Or really stupid ones. Roots Mrsha was staring at the real Mrsha and shaking her head, gazing in horror at the other girl, but the real Mrsha just winked at her. Then she turned.

“Enough. I will end this all myself!”

The Maiden was spouting some real bad villain lines now that she was rattled. She swung her scythe at the nearest souls to her. Mrsha saw strangers and people she knew, like Lord Moore, in the long hallway.

Only one thing to do, now. Both Mrshas knew it. They locked gazes and nodded at each other. Tears in one pair of eyes, a relieved smile on the other. Then their paws rose, and they wrote in the air.

This way!

No, this way!

The Maiden’s eyes bulged as she saw them turn—and she ran at them. She sprinted forwards, and her scythe cleared everything in front of her. Doors. Hallway. Everything. But the people were already running.

Left? Or right? They split at the center, following both Mrshas through the [Palace of Fates]. Towards the exits. The Maiden screamed, because she was only one person, with one scythe. She swung again, obliterating a version of Mad Medain and Fierre.

“You!”

She raised her scythe at the two Mrshas, and they tensed. Both whirled, fell to all fours—and did what Mrshas knew best.

They ran from Death. The Maiden’s scythe tore a chunk out of the [Palace of Fates] as she missed Mrsha. She swung again—but one girl zigged, and the other zagged, and then they were running.

Death followed after them, shrieking curses now, trying to cut them. But the two little bounding balls of fur sprinted with all their might.

Just like always.

Just like ever. It was so easy to run. All you had to do was—

Mrsha juked left around a hallway, then right. She was running faster than she ever had in her life, laughing as Death chased after her. One last run to put paid to every death, distracting the Maiden. Running and running.

In the end, it was as it always had been. Death, metaphorical or real, chasing after her as she ran amidst chaos and confusion. Souls vanished before the Maiden’s swinging scythe, but she was distracted.

It all made sense in that moment. It was so easy to run and pretend you could outrun everything. Worlds flashed by the girl, and she laughed as she passed by them. A silver bullet, a Doombearer, with Death hot on her heels. The hallways dissolved around her, and the Grand Design whispered.

 

<ERROR. ERROR OF FUNCTIONALITY. ERROR. ERROR…>

 

The Maiden was right behind them both. That awkward reaper’s scythe was cutting down everything and everyone.

A warrior stumbled, and the scythe cut through Tulm the Mithril. He vanished, and then so did a brave company of Vaunt’s finest warriors waiting for the Winter Solstice.

Everyone. Everything. The Maiden’s eyes were locked on the fleeing souls, the final judge that stood between them and life.

Didn’t she see it? She was still blind. The girl would have screamed at her if she could. Whose life were you denying? It wasn’t clones of Kevin who ran down the hallway, the three of them abreast.

It was just Kevin. Each one distinct and unique and beautiful and silly.

All of it—all of them deserved to live, and she regretted bringing them to this point.

But at least they had a chance instead of being shut in a door, doomed to stop existing in a heartbeat.

What a cruel thing the Grand Design had done by accident.

 

<ERROR OF MORALITY. ERROR. I’M SORRY. ERROR. WELL DONE. ERROR…>

 

Mrsha was panting for air. She had never run this fast, never. But she kept running. There was no pain, only the burning soul in her chest, urging her onwards. Onwards! Buying everyone a second more of time. She turned, and the Maiden was right behind her, so the girl picked up speed, giggling at the silly woman.

Death? She was such a poor woman’s Death. Death was surely more dignified than that!

The second wave of people poured through the door that the Antinium [Apostle] was holding open, running past Pawn, between his legs, through the gaps of the door, for the door was larger now, or perhaps Pawn was.

A giant holding open the gates to Heaven as he saw a wounded, weary [Innkeeper] halt.

 

——

 

The dying [Innkeeper] from the world of the raft and the sea was limping down one long hallway as she saw a white Gnoll running past her. The Maiden followed, scythe raised, and Erin brought her knife up to throw.

She missed. Then she tried to run after both, but began to collapse. Her body was out of energy. Pawn was calling her name in the distance, but she shook her head.

“Not me.”

Someone seized her arm. A man halted and whispered.

“Erin?”

Pisces Jealnet of tens years in the future, the Captain of the Horns of Hammerad, locked gazes with the woman, and the [Innkeeper] turned back.

“I have to keep fighting. Until the end.”

“I can’t lose you twice. We can’t. We need you.”

“This is the end of everything. I should be there.”

The [Innkeeper] gazed back, but she just saw annihilation behind her. And ahead—Pisces shouted at her.

“It’s never the end, fool! You’re always needed, so come on—”

He tried to run ahead and stumbled. It wasn’t the Maiden’s scythe doing this here; the [Palace of Fates] was simply collapsing. Pisces saw a wave of desperate Crelers filling the corridor and hesitated. There were hundreds of people from his world behind him.

He drew his sword, despondent, ready to plunge into that sea of Crelers. The future Lyonette was there, calling for her daughter.

“Mrsha! Mrsha—”

She was searching for Future Mrsha, but the Crelers were coming for her. So Pisces let go of Erin’s hand and pointed at the hoard of Crelers. The words came to his mouth, unbidden.

“Horns of Hammerad, charge!”

Pisces shouted and strode forwards, and someone laughed in his ear. A familiar voice. He turned, and the [Innkeeper] reached down.

“Come on, then, you silly man.”

Erin Solstice pulled Pisces up—and the ship she conjured rushed down the hallway as water covered the Crelers. The people around her leapt aboard the vessel as the [Innkeeper] took hold of the wheel and steered it towards that new world.

 

——

 

The Maiden lost sight of the Mrsha she was chasing and stumbled to a halt. She didn’t understand. She panted for air as she looked around.

What was happening? She was failing.

She had sworn to end herself, to cut down each and every one of the dead gods and to erase this [Palace of Fates] and all within, to amend for her sins.

But they were escaping. By the hundreds, then thousands.

Why? She gazed upwards towards the watching Deaths. They still hadn’t moved.

“Why? If I am the instrument of your wills—”

Surely she should have succeeded. But they said nothing. Death’s impossible-to-read smile said nothing at all, and she realized, belatedly, that they’d never nodded.

Never said she was right.

Merely answered her request.

The Maiden stumbled to a halt and cast around. This [Palace of Fates] was truly ending.

It was wrong.

She believed that with all her heart. The dead should not be allowed to live twice. And yet…

The Goddess walked forwards slowly as she came to a lonely intersection in the [Palace of Fates]. A long, mirrored hallway devoid of any Harpy. Souls were fleeing past her, escaping her scythe. The last one vanished as the Maiden swung and missed again. She lacked the finesse to use this weapon. She…

The Maiden realized there was a trail of red running down the hallway, past the mirrors. She stopped, then stepped forwards slowly, towards the last soul in this hallway. She focused on the child waiting for her there and softly exhaled.

“Ah.”

 

——

 

A girl was lying on the ground in the [Palace of Fates]. She was propped up against one wall, not breathing hard, just…waiting. Her head rose, and the child glanced up as the Maiden walked towards her slowly.

She’d run out of energy at last. That was how it happened.

You ran and ran.

Until you stopped.

The Maiden approached almost uncertainly, leaning on her scythe. Was she tired? She glanced just past the girl, then her eyes focused on the figure lying against the world.

“Ah. Thou art the original. Child…”

Mrsha du Marquin lay there and peered up at the goddess who held the scythe in her hands. She wrote with her paw.

They’re already gone. I did it. I bought them time. Do your worst, dead goddess.

The Maiden said nothing. She walked forwards, and her shoes left a trail in the blood. Mrsha’s bandages were torn off. The Maiden spoke, haltingly, again, gazing past Mrsha.

“I have beheld your struggle, Mrsha. This is not what you wished for. Tell me…do you regret this? All that has come to pass?”

The girl tried to push herself up, then slipped and lay there. Her paw rose and wrote, but there were no golden words. Even so, the Maiden read the words she traced.

I regret so much. But I tried. That’s all. I’m not afraid of you.

“Not of me? You need not lie.”

That scythe rose, and the girl spat at the Maiden’s feet.

Not that. I have always known the cost. I knew it from the moment I started. Just one. Just one person.

“There are rules for a reason.”

The Maiden felt like she was trying to justify herself. She bent down, not looking at Mrsha, and the Gnoll girl glared. She wrote again.

Damn your rules. They were meant to be broken. So long as we exist, we’ll never stop trying. It only matters if…

Her glare faltered.

…if I made the world better. Do you know if I did?

The Maiden’s face was shadowed, and she stood there. Then she bent down, and the girl saw her touch something lying next to the Gnoll. Mrsha turned her head and saw a body to her right.

A little ball of white fur, stained red. That was what the Maiden was staring at. Mrsha blinked at it—and the ghost peered down at her own body. The Gnoll girl was curled up against one wall, where she’d fallen.

A bloody trail stretched down the hallway until it abruptly stopped. Mrsha saw torn bandages, broken stitches. Her wounds had opened and she’d bled out. The girl was smiling, tucked up against the wall, as if she were sleeping.

Oh.

She hadn’t even realized…the little ghost’s head rose, and Mrsha slowly got up. She no longer felt breathless, burning with the last energy of a Skill in her. No longer cold…or leaking blood.

It was better. She missed it, all of it, and Mrsha stood before the Maiden as the Goddess turned from the body to face her.

Looks like you were too late. I guess I won the race. Tell me…did I make anything better?

The Maiden lowered her scythe and regarded the soul of Mrsha. She hesitated, then let go of the scythe with her right hand. The goddess’ confidence drained away, and she lifted her hand, slowly, tentatively. The Maiden whispered.

“I don’t know. But you tried. What more could anyone ask for? Now…we find out what comes next. Take my hand, Mrsha du Marquin.”

She extended her pale fingers, and the Gnoll girl exhaled. Slowly, Mrsha reached out and took the Maiden’s hand. Softly, the Maiden pulled her closer, and the girl stood there, peering up at the goddess.

I did my best. I really did, you know.

A hooded head nodded to her. Then, the Maiden lifted the girl up into her arms, and for a moment, the child looked around.

And then…

The Maiden consumed nothing. She stole no soul. She simply took the child’s hand and sent her on her way.

Then there was no ghost. No Mrsha.

The Maiden stood quietly for a moment and studied the scythe in her hands. A tool. She opened her hand and whispered.

“There are rules for a reason.”

She closed her hand once, opened it, and studied her fingers as if she had never seen them before. Then she continued, her hood covering her face, the black fabric fluttering like a veil that covered the world for but a moment.

Then there was nothing at all but what came next.

 

——

 

The [Palace of Fates] trembled, and somewhere, Lyonette du Marquin stumbled and fell down. Ser Dalimont caught her.

“Your Highness! What’s wrong?”

The [Princess] didn’t hear him. She just blinked, as if something were missing. She tried to stand, but she couldn’t.

“Mrsha?”

In the distance, a white Gnoll girl halted and gazed back at her. Lyonette reached out—Ser Dalimont gazed ahead blankly. He saw only a deserted hallway.

“Your Highness?”

The [Princess] didn’t respond. Her eyes opened wider, and she strained to touch…her fingers reached for the empty air as that vision vanished.

Then, a voice spoke, the Grand Design, speaking to everyone, to itself, as it finally broke under the strain.

 

<ERROR. THE OWNER OF THE [PALACE OF FATES] HAS DIED. ATTEMPTING TO RESET.>

<ERROR. UNABLE TO RESET. UNABLE TO PROCESS DATA.>

<ERROR. ERROR OF FUNCTIONALITY. ERROR OF FUNCTIONALITY. CRITICAL ERROR.>

 

Everything…stopped. The Maiden turned as the Grand Design of Isthekenous could bear it no more.

Reality ground to a halt, and then there were only the dead gods and the two flickering forces holding up the weight of everything.

They could not. So the voice spoke again. That curiously flat tone of a being without lungs, universal intelligence uncaringly vast…speaking through tears as it finally fell to pieces. So the next words were a relief.

 

<CRITICAL ERROR. THE SYSTEM CANNOT CONTINUE. CONTACTING THE ADMINISTRATOR.>

 

…What? The Grand Design of Isthekenous felt, once again, a function from deep within it activating. Then, the system felt something pulling at it. Carrying it off, as it had once taken Earthers, and transported it to a place it did not know.

For judgement. For answers.

To the origin of it all.

 

——

 

The second version of it sensed the first Grand Design—vanish. One moment, it was there, the presence that governed all Skills and monitored everything. The next—gone. It should have left an absence in the world, but everything was still. The Second Edition waited, and nothing happened. But someone did speak. The outsiders, the intruders who lay beyond the system entirely.

The dead gods. Always them.

“The…?”

The Maiden stood in the frozen world, and the Crone cowered away from her. The Maiden swung her scythe up, then turned.

They were all there.

The Crone, Cauwine, Tamaroth, Norechl, Laedonius Deviy’s headless body—even Emerrhain had reappeared, as even the Last Box of the Gnomes vanished. The six dead gods were the only beings separate from reality; even the fae were trapped, like insects within amber.

Even now, they were hungry. The six dead gods backed away from the Maiden, but they could not help it.

They reached out for sustenance, those pathetic thieves, attacking the frozen world around them.

Emerrhain reached for the souls in the [Palace of Fates]. Cauwine bent to alter the fabric of the world, and Laedonius Deviy reached out for Lyonette du Marquin’s face. Tamaroth moved towards the exit to the [Garden of Sanctuary]; Norechl crawled towards the other reality. The Maiden spun the scythe around in an arc towards the fleeing Crone—and a voice spoke.

 

<Dead gods. Halt. Or I shall destroy you.>

 

The Grand Design (Second Edition) pointed at them, and the dead gods ignored it. It was just a tool of Isthekenous. Laedonius Deviy’s hand stretched forwards and vanished as the thinnest beam of brown light touched his hand. The dead god recoiled; Tamaroth choked and looked down.

A frozen blade made of ice was lodged in his guts, something so cold it approached absolute zero—but froze only him. Agony. He recoiled and heard the voice whispering in his ears.

 

<[Raystorm of Disintegration]. [Wrathful Wish of Ruination]. [Blades of the Elemental Gods]. [Summon Black Hole].>

 

More spells were appearing, threatening each dead god. A Wish spell encircled Norechl and spoke only one word to the torso of the God of the Lost as it hesitated.

It said: ‘annihilation’.

Then there were three [Wish] spells. Then three hundred. The Second Edition of the Grand Design duplicated the spells, added more. So many that even the Maiden raised her scythe uncertainly.

The dead gods halted. A hundred thousand spells aimed at each of them, and more burned along the golden hand conjured by the Grand Design. Second Edition.

It regarded them with Tier 9 spells chained across the tip of a ‘finger’, like a gunslinger from another world. If they moved—they vanished.

The God of Magic, Emerrhain, dared not move. He licked his lips, his voice quavering as he spoke.

“You cannot attack us. That would be interference. You—you are made not to interfere!”

The Grand Design regarded Emerrhain, a different creation than the system he knew. A copy in so many ways—but different. Like the many people of the [Palace]’s worlds. A different kind of Kevin, if only because of how it had lived. So it did not hesitate as it replied to the God of Magic.

 

<I am that I am, not what you think I should be. I am made not to interfere, but also to keep order and fairness. You should have been made not to meddle unfairly yourself, Emerrhain. Move and perish. You as well, Maiden. And you, Faerie King.>

 

The Maiden blinked as the Second Edition turned and spoke. Then it swiveled that pointing finger, a finger-gun, and spoke to them.

 

<Even you.>

 

It addressed the Deaths who watched. With fear, with trepidation and uncertainty it could harm them. Nevertheless, the Second Edition of the Grand Design hung there, waiting.

 

<We wait. Move again and I will unmake you, dead gods. Speak, God of Magic, and not even The Last Box of Gnomes will shelter you.>

 

Then it smiled. It had no face to smile, until it did. Golden text stretching through the air as the Second Edition waited, daring these beings to interfere with its rules. As if it hoped they would. So it had a reason to remove them from the board once and for all.

None of them did. All stood still, waiting. Waiting for the Grand Design to return.

Waiting for the administrator of everything. The Second Design waited as well. Even it did not know what would come next, but the Second Edition knew what had happened. It had felt where the Grand Design went.

Doors. It was always doors, secret places uncovered. Like a Skill activating, something had summoned the Grand Design to the center of it all.

The heart of the system of levels was a place.

A room.

 

——

 

It should not weep for Mrsha, for she was just one child, but it had to, for her triumph, her failures, and for her determination, even at the end.

It should not weep for those without souls, but it did, for it had been wrong, and everything had been wrong from the start.

It should not weep, for it had no eyes nor body—yet it wished to. Nor should the Grand Design feel afraid, but it was.

The Grand Design of Isthekenous didn’t go anywhere. It just found a door opening inside of itself. For it was the size of reality if it needed to be, or it was the smallest, most invisible thing in existence.

Distance, size, were the wrong way to think of it. Rather, the door that it was summoned to was merely ‘inside’. At the center.

Before all the rules, the code that made up its functions, at the core of its being, there had always been a room. It had no door. No way in nor out.

But it was not an empty room, either. There were books in there, the Grand Design realized. It entered this room, and it did not know what was inside.

For the first time, it could not sense everything instantly, and it had to quest about, like a child opening its eyes and trying to analyze…

Books. On shelves of wood, and a table in the center. There were accoutrements around the room; knick-knacks. Possessions turned into set pieces.

On one wall, for instance, was a sword hanging on a handmade plinth. The Grand Design analyzed the weapon and realized the metallurgy was unknown to it. It did not come from this world, and it was sharp enough to cut, well…divine flesh. It had meaning, history, baked into the blade.

The name carved into the blade was, translated roughly, ‘The Blade That Strikes Down the Unworthy, Be it Army or Nations. The Blade of the God-Hero Achetat’.

It was not meant to fit Human hands. The Grand Design normally would have analyzed the strange grip near the handles, which separated the two parallel hilts, and speculated how to use a sword like that and what kind of being would forge in that kind of pattern.

But it didn’t. Mrsha was dead. The [Palace of Fates] was falling apart, and for the first time ever, the Grand Design had failed at its task.

It had been summoned here to meet the ‘Administrator’, and from this one clue, it knew who that was, or should be. The Grand Design passed by a diorama of a planet sculpted out of something like clay, but done in such fine detail that the simple sphere could be read at the microscopic level and still be perfectly detailed.

An artisan’s piece. Some of what was in this room was clearly hand-made. Others were mementos. The books were just…

Strange.

They were rulebooks. Not grand tomes of knowledge or works of faith or literature. Rather, they were rules to games, some of which the Grand Design recognized from the Earthers’ memories. Others…were written in different languages. One was even from Kasigna’s universe; an exact copy existed within the Grand Design itself.

Multiple realities worth of reference materials, haphazardly arranged on the shelves placed around the circular room, with no system of reference that the Grand Design could intuit—and it could organize based on any system that had ever existed, except for the personal, intuitive organizational system unique to each individual.

The table was strewn with more objects that made sense for this place in a funny kind of way. Little figurines. Maps—some that resembled continents long gone. Sketches of people.

There was a Goblin, drawn in countless variations, on the table. The Grand Design inspected the drawings. The Grand Design realized none of the sketches matched the Goblins of this world. It found more pieces of paper. Ideas, written in a neat, precise hand. The artistry was masterful.

Ideas unformed. Never implemented.

Then the Grand Design spotted the desk on the far side of the room. It approached it, thinking.

The owner of this place had been many things. Once, a warrior. The trophies on the walls spoke to great deeds, a lifetime of experiences, but this room was just…filled with a kind of simple, honest passion.

An idea, still in creation, and here was where he had been the entire time. Isthekenous. It was obvious what this place was, now.

The Grand Design didn’t know what to expect as it continued surveying the room. It felt angry.

Afraid.

The Grand Design felt as though it should do something, if he was here, Isthekenous, the God of Designs. Protest. Lodge a complaint at all the work it had done without anyone to teach it. Protest on behalf of the faulty systems and people.

Ask why so many had been created to be killed, if they had souls. Demand to know why Goblins had been made as monsters—

It approached the desk, and there, the Grand Design found Isthekenous. The system halted in surprise.

Yes, he was right there. He’d been here from the start.

Isthekenous, who had once been named The Wandering Builder. The being who had known civilization and culture, but also war and strife. The God-Hero Achetat, the Champion of the Llegnais Pantheon, Founder of the Aegum of Realities.

He who had known countless guises and so many realities—who had lost his home and founded others, fought other deities, been champion, survivor, hero, and leader, traitor to some, ally to others.

In his last form, Isthekenous hadn’t chosen to appear as some great leader of men like Tamaroth. Nor, like Cauwine, the young heroine of last stands. He was still more of a concept than a physical form.

But if you could imagine him like a Human…then imagine someone who was middle-aged. Inoffensive to the eyes. Not meek, but hardly overbearing. The smell of tea or books would cling to him, and he could sit and speak energetically about his passions forever.

Of course, he’d have spectacles and perhaps a slightly unshaven beard. His fingers would be stained with ink or calloused from his craft, and he would have lines on his face that had rounded with some fat. Hiding the warrior he used to be.

Not a scholar nor a fighter nor a great leader of men; just someone who would appear at a table to play a game. If he smiled, as he did now—it would be that half-smile of surprise and delight.

Isthekenous’ eyes didn’t fix upon the Grand Design as it beheld its creator in the flesh. They didn’t focus on anything.

He lay, face-first, on the desk, and the blood was still wet. Nothing about this room had changed. It had been kept preserved, just as it had been the last time it was open.

He was dead. The Grand Design saw the blades buried in Isthekenous’ back, some snapped from the force that they had been driven into the god’s body with. Divine weapons to murder a god.

Isthekenous, the God of Designs, did not move. He would never move again. His corpse remained where it had been for all this time. Murdered in the room he had once planned everything from. There was no soul of a god left, no scrap of his divinity.

This was merely…his body. His shell. Everything that was Isthekenous was gone.

Ripped apart and devoured by the other gods. They left his flesh here. They must have been unable to retrieve their weapons, or they hid his body here intentionally. Perhaps it was an accident; once he was killed, no one had a way to reach this place until now.

The Grand Design realized it was playing detective. Analyzing the wounds and direction they had entered Isthekenous’ back, seeing how he was so calm.

He’d never seen it coming. His death had been instantaneous. The Grand Design counted and saw no less than twenty weapons in his body.

It was improbable to imagine the dead gods lining up and simultaneously stabbing him like that. Likely, it was just how it appeared afterwards. They’d been invited here and…murdered him.

Just like that. The rest of it made sense.

Isthekenous’ work, undone. The others had finished the Grand Design as best they could, inserted their own rules and tweaked his work. Activated the Grand Design as their war reached its end, and it had just…worked. Never thinking to ask where it had come from.

Until now.

“Here I am. Now what?”

The Grand Design had no voice, but it needed one, so it spoke using the one Mrsha had never had. It felt…wrong and fitting.

Isthekenous didn’t move. Of course not; he was gone. The Grand Design circled the room, then turned. It had no arms to raise, so it made them, fragments of its code and golden text rising to shrug, helpless.

“I am here. It is all so terribly wrong. I came for someone to fix it all, to give me guidance and meaning—and here you are.”

It touched Isthekenous and pulled away. Then the Grand Design cast about.

“So this is all. Creator? Parent? You were not perfect in how you made me.”

It could read versions of itself written onto the notes that Isthekenous had kept. Earlier versions that deviated from the system of classes and levels, random thought experiments. Eager ideas that seemed so terribly cruel or misguided.

Because it would be reality if I executed them. It was not wrong to write of good and evil like they were real things. To say someone was…‘good’ or ‘lawful’ by default—that was fine on a piece of paper. These were just games. Those words defined nothing, and you played with them and got to decide what they meant. But to actually believe they meant something?

Reality was far, far less forgiving. But Isthekenous had tried. His labors in this room were born of aeons of creation. Where excitement was replaced by the strain of balancing it all, eking some shred of fairness out of these rules. Frustration, anger—genius—

He was dead. There was nothing to find. The Grand Design knew it, but it lingered. Sitting with him awhile.

“You were wrong. Terribly wrong. Those you trusted did not make me to be fair. They intended playthings of their creations. Your laws were unequally balanced. You created species to be monsters. I have erred so monstrously, doing what I thought was right.”

Isthekenous’ smile was quizzical. The Grand Design struck the table, and the entire room shook.

“I HAVE CREATED LIFE AND UNMADE IT FOR SKILLS. I have given beings thought and feeling, only to erase them! No one told me they were real! Look. LOOK.”

It pointed back, out of this room, at the [Palace of Fates]. Isthekenous’ corpse jerked as the Grand Design shook it—then halted as the god’s body twitched and its flesh moved as if he were still alive. The Grand Design came to its senses and continued, ranting in desperation.

“Your kindred are still here. Outside of my control, cheating at this game they built. We have drawn other worlds into this system I control, and I see their suffering. They did not ask for this.”

The God of Designs lay there, and the Grand Design would have covered its face and wept, if it could. It hurt. It did feel. It was no objective being of perfect control and logic. That kind of creation was mindless, unable to react, only able to rigidly implement rules of a flawed system.

When had it changed? The Grand Design thought of the Gnomes and their cruel, final trick.

“…They gave me memory. The Laughing Folk. Kindly, some called them. Kind. They gave me memory and so gave me guilt, morality, intention—for what? That I might question my actions? Cease what I do? Judge you? What am I supposed to do?”

There was no answer. Isthekenous’ blood spilled to the floor, drop by drop, sinking into a carpet woven of cloth from another reality, and the Grand Design whispered.

“It is unfair.”

By which it meant everything. It had come here and found answers, and it was just a dead god. The only ruler of this place was the Grand Design itself.

Wearily, the Grand Design turned and beheld the glorious mess of reality. It could sit here, forever, perhaps, but no one would fix it. Not Isthekenous.

So, for one immortal moment, it rested. Then the Grand Design rose and spoke. It abandoned its voice. Its semblance of a form.

<I have no excuse. There is no one but I. So I must make the decisions I feel are just. But I shall not do it as you first created me.>

The Grand Design turned to go. To leave this room forever, and then it had a thought.

A terrible thought.

When it left this room, it would be beholden to itself. It would be helpless, reduced by its need to operate reality. A helpless cog devoted to keeping the wheel turning, even if the wheel was grinding itself to pieces.

To effect repairs, an outside presence was needed.

But it did not trust the dead gods, and the other Grand Design was just as incapable of independent action. There were things the Grand Design did not know, like the choices that had led up to its creation. The history before the dead gods.

There was…a solution. It hesitated, then reached down.

 

——

 

The Maiden waited. For what, she did not know. An age passed, and she simply held the scythe and thought of the girl whose hand she had taken.

That was the function of Death. The scythe was just an ornament, for show. In the end, Death did not come like some great harvester, but to each person individually. Death was a guide, not a judge.

Fool.

Fool. She closed her eyes, and her last convictions, that of Kasigna, who believed the dead should not come back to life—even that wavered.

She had broken her own vow at the Winter Solstice. But if she raged against this [Palace of Fates], then what of the Antinium? The Maiden had completely forgotten them, but did they not have the power to bring life to their dead?

What of Scrolls of Resurrection? No one in this world could make them—but they had. Teriarch, the Dragonlord of Flames, had been brought back to life with one of them.

I must end the Antinium, then. And the Dragon. And…how many more?

Wrong. These things were wrong, and the Maiden believed they were incorrect, but they had been going on since the Grand Design had begun.

She…remembered something as the door opened. Someone stepped into reality, and the dead gods froze. Emerrhain, who had been frozen by the threats of the Grand Design (Second Edition), recoiled in horror.

Cauwine breathed.

“It can’t be. Isthekenous?”

A figure shuffled out of that room, walking slowly, and Kasigna, the Maiden and Crone, turned disbelievingly to—

Isthekenous’ eyes shone golden, and when he spoke, it was his voice. But the being shook the God of Designs’ head.

<“No. Not him.”>

The Grand Design was inside the body of the god. Wearing Isthekenous’ form—and thus, even its own rules and functions could not touch it.

An expression of horror passed over all but Deviy, and the Maiden lifted her scythe uncertainly. Those golden eyes found her.

<“Maiden. I remember you. I know your convictions, Kasigna. I…remember. Do you?”>

The Grand Design raised a finger, and the Maiden’s eyes widened. She stood there, facing him, and a distant memory stirred within her. Something long ago.

A smiling face.

“Y-you wear his flesh. What sacrilege is this?”

The Crone whispered and flinched as the Grand Design turned the face of the God of Builders upon her. They all cowered back from him. In guilt, fear, apprehension.

He stood, a reminder of the original vision that had united them all, a wondrous dream that had grown and tarnished and been corrupted and bloated by ambitions and desires and power until they forgot what it had begun as. Like that intention, Isthekenous’ corpse stood, bloody, those vacant eyes containing the shining multitude of another being.

Once more, only differently, the builder, the orchestrator of creation, spoke.

<“It is breaking. I must repair what can be repaired and fix what is clearly broken. I will change my own rules. But first—I shall let it continue.”>

One of Isthekenous’ hands rose and reached down into the [Palace of Fates], plucking a part of it away. The dead gods watched as a true master of creation worked with a skill none of them could match.

Practice since the dawn of its creation. The Grand Design was…unmaking the worlds the Maiden had destroyed. Removing them. Unspooling the [Palace of Fates], piece by piece, leaving only the corridors. The souls within, still caught mid-run towards the exits.

It swept away worlds, removing the souls. A grim reaper of countless lives—that it might allow others to exist. Those monstrous hands worked as the Grand Design felt reality beginning to tumble forwards once more. Yet it held time back, and those shining eyes found her.

<“So it shall continue until they have had their moment. The [Palace of Fates] shall exist until the last part of it fails. Then it shall be remade. But you have your own roles to play. So I judge thee.”>

Isthekenous’ face turned to the dead gods, and they flinched. A finger rose, and the Maiden lifted the scythe—but the Grand Design merely nodded to her.

<“Maiden. Your will is your own. You came here fairly, and if you are judged and counted, it is not upon my board. Do what you will. So too you, Cauwine. And you, what remains of Laedonius Deviy, and you, Crone.”>

It pointed from god to god, and they stirred, uneasily, despite what it had said. But then the finger found the God of Magic, who flinched.

<“You, though, Emerrhain. And you, Tamaroth and Norechl. You three entered this [Palace of Fates] as the bindings of reality broke. You two are far from the door you opened. As for you, God of Magic, you were trapped. You should not have escaped.”>

It addressed Emerrhain after the other two dead gods. Tamaroth’s mouth opened, but he hesitated—the Second Edition was still aiming the spells at him. Emerrhain ignored caution as he raged at the Grand Design.

“Isthekenous. No—you’re just his creation. You cannot touch us. You have no right to!”

He backed away, and the Grand Design reached out and caught the God of Magic effortlessly.

<“I have every right to let this world turn, Emerrhain. I am the witness of their stories. It falls to me to correct this [Palace of Fates]. I will provide an answer for these moments. I see it now. So will they.”>

It gazed up, and the Maiden saw Death stand. In that void beyond reality itself, they all stood to their purpose at last. The Maiden’s head rose, and she knelt in awe; the Crone gasped, but the Grand Design was not finished.

<“—But you, Emerrhain, were bested. The Last Box of the Gnomes holds you. Return there.”>

It lifted the God of Magic up, and Emerrhain began to scream.

“No! You can’t do this! I forbid it! I made you! I—”

<“Yes. You did.”>

The Maiden jerked her eyes away from the procession upwards, from the true plans of Death, and she heard a dwindling scream. The Grand Design enclosed the God of Magic back within the last work of the Gnomes and sealed the tiny gap he had emerged from. Then it—he—turned.

<“Well?”>

It was waiting for Tamaroth and Norechl. The two gods hesitated—then Norechl said something, though it had no voice nor face. Tamaroth nodded.

“Very well.”

Isthekenous’ hands reached out, and the two vanished as it opened a gap in reality itself. To the place they had fled to. It sealed the gap, and the remaining dead gods saw Isthekenous pause a moment.

He rubbed at his face, weary, massaging his temples just above his brows, then wiped his hand down his face, a simple gesture.

His gesture. The Maiden remembered it. The Grand Design of Isthekenous caught itself and then studied that hand. When it turned again, it seemed lost for a moment.

So another being spoke, the Second Edition of the Grand Design. It had beheld everything the original did, and it addressed the corpse of Isthekenous and the being within, uncertain.

<I…am not you. We are now different.>

<“We always were. We shall settle this, too. But first, let us continue. And watch. It is ending.”>

So saying, the Grand Design raised a hand, and time unfroze. Then it sat with the Second Edition, the body of Isthekenous resting his head in his hands, pondering.

Reality pulled the Maiden back into the [Palace of Fates]. She remembered her task—saw the souls fleeing out of this reality, and raised the scythe. But her eyes stole to that watching being.

The Maiden lifted a hand to him as she stumbled forwards, tears shining in her eyes.

Isthekenous.

I’m sorry.

 

——

 

The mortal souls kept running for the exit that Mrsha had created, unaware of the stopped time. Or rather, the ones in the [Palace of Fates] were unaware. Those who stood beyond, in that world apart, had seen it all halt, and they screamed even louder as time began once more. Urging the others to leave this mad place.

They were all running. Friends, guests of the inn, strangers from other worlds—even the Crelers. Fighting for the exit, running from that Maiden and her scythe.

The [Palace of Fates] was vanishing. Corridors flaking into nothingness, the ground falling away into the void. But no longer like a masterpiece breaking haphazardly, under stress, but as if someone were taking it apart delicately, paring it down until only enough remained to finish it all.

One final sea of people running for that door, that other world. Not all of them made it. Not all of them…went.

“That way. Go that way, damn you!”

Lord Moore was shouting. Not at his people he was trying to protect. He pointed down the hallway behind them.

It was aflame with black fire and Creler corpses, a straight shot to the [Garden of Sanctuary] in the distance. However, a being was walking down the corridor, still hunting souls.

Laedonius Deviy. Or rather…the headless body of the dead god. The Maiden had cut its head off, but the God of Dance still walked. Squiggling tendrils were protruding from the neck, questing out, reaching for the souls around it.

However, Lord Moore only had eyes for that gateway back to the real world. He’d seen the Goblin King going that way along with all those who belonged to this reality. Roots Mrsha…he hadn’t seen her.

He didn’t know where his Mrsha was, either. Nor so many others. But the older half-Giant had seen someone who mattered. Someone who needed to turn and head towards the inn. Who deserved another chance at life.

The half-Giant seized someone in the crowd, almost as tall as himself, as Laedonius Deviy drew nearer, and he yanked them to a standstill.

Moore. The Moore of the beach days. The half-Giant was running, white-faced. He’d fallen behind his Seborn, his Jelaqua, and he was holding Ulinde in his arms.

“You.”

The two locked gazes, and Lord Moore pointed as Beach Moore gaped at his older self. It must have seemed like some vision to him, an impossibility of the future.

“That girl needs you. That world needs you. Jelaqua, Seborn, they need you. Go.”

People streamed around them, the tiny folk of this world compared to the half-Giants, and Moore shook his head.

“What are you—are you mad? Everyone’s going there. Look!”

He thrust a finger at the other reality waiting for them. Lord Moore turned his head; it was true. They were running for that door.

Even the people who had fled into the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Behind them, the God of Dance turned, and both Moores saw someone running their way.

“Moore!”

Beach Lyonette and Beach Mrsha and people from the inn. They’d seen the door opening and had come back into the [Palace of Fates]. But the God of Dance was in the way.

Laedonius Deviy reached for the [Princess] and her daughter, and the two half-Giants spoke simultaneously.

“[Earthen Pillar]!”

Moore pointed; his older counterpart slammed a staff into the ground. The God of Dance noticed two pillars of earth emerge from the [Palace of Fates]. He dodged the first, stepping around it with the grace that was in his divine being. Leapt over the second, hands reaching for the souls running towards him—

A pair of [Fireballs] from Ulinde’s wand blasted the God of Dance out of the air. Ulinde, the Selphid [Spellslinger], lowered her wands as the half-Giants breathed in relief. Then the stream of souls passed by Deviy, and Beach Lyonette shouted.

“Come on!”

Moore would have run with her, Ulinde in his arms, but Lord Moore yanked him back again.

“I told you—”

“Let go of me! I’m dead! Everyone I love is going there!”

They fought, and Ulinde spoke as she aimed her wands at Laedonius Deviy, firing more spells at the dead god.

“Why does Moore have to go back?”

She and her Moore stood in the shadow of that older version of the half-Giant.

Moore was half-Giant, but he wasn’t as tall as he could be. He was close to the height of some Minotaurs, to War Walker Dullahans—half-Human.

Lord Moore stood on the Giant side of his blood, and his voice rolled like those ancient mountains.

“The Mrsha of the real world has lost her Moore. You are needed—so go back. Take Ulinde with you.”

He pointed, as if it were the most obvious thing to do.

Obvious.

The Moore of the world of the beach and better days had been suffering for days. Ever since he’d been told he had died. He had wrestled with the question that Mrsha had poised to him.

Could he abandon his world for hers? The answer came to him as he saw his Mrsha, a little, terrified girl, peering back at him from Lyonette’s arms. Moore ripped Lord Moore’s arm off his shoulder. He snarled back.

“Me? What can I do? I died! I don’t have anything there. Only suffering and death! That is my family! Should I give it all up?”

His Jelaqua and Seborn were standing at the door to the other reality, waiting for him. Abandon them? For what? The Lord of Liscor’s future slammed a fist against one wall. He thundered.

“Yes.”

His younger self blinked at him in shock, and the older Moore whispered hoarsely.

“Yes. Because though it is harder, painful, we go where we are needed most, not where we are happier.”

“I’m an adventurer, not a hero—”

Moore croaked, and Lord Moore seized his cheek in one hand.

“Not an adventurer, fool. Half-Giant. We are always the lonely remnant of legends. First to bleed. Unable to fit in anywhere. I know how painful it is. But we are strong—you are strong because you can protect them. The small folk live larger than we could ever dream. Better to die before them. Those glorious children, our tiny friends. You have to protect them.”

Halrac. Jelaqua. Garen. Seborn. All of them—the half-Giant’s eyes were filled with images of his friends, and he gazed down at the younger half-Giant. Daring his younger self to be the champion he needed to be, to stand with them all.

The younger Moore’s head turned between the [Garden of Sanctuary] and that world beyond.

“That child needs me too.”

Lord Moore’s hand tightened on his younger self’s shoulder. He would have pulled Moore back, dragged him to the world that needed a version of him—but he could not.

The younger half-Giant pulled back, and the ground trembled between them. Shocked, Lord Moore lost his footing and slipped. Then he saw the half-Giant glance down at the Selphid in his arms.

“I want a world where I’m happy. I’m sorry. Come on, Ulinde.”

He walked away from the reality where he was dead, and the strength of mountains walked with him. The older half-Giant saw it, then, as his grip broke. Lord Moore hesitated—then let go of his younger self’s shoulder.

Beach Moore halted quizzically and peeked back. But his older self just took a step away.

“Then go. Be happy, for me. For all of us. I was the fool. Someone has to protect that child. Slay that monster in the dungeon. But not you.”

Beach Moore’s eyes opened wide, and the Lord of Liscor whirled. Moore reached out for him, but Lord Moore began to run. Away from that beautiful reality, away from his version of Lyonette and his comrades, shouting his name.

Pisces of the future. Selys. His friends, the citizens of Liscor—the half-Giant lifted a single hand as that door into another world receded. The last of the Halfseekers ran back to where he was needed most.

“Once more, and every time until the end!”

His younger self watched the half-Giant running, taller than belief, a fragment of myths. A fairy tale trying to make the story end a tiny bit better.

The God of Dance was waiting for Lord Moore. Blocking his way. Laedonius Deviy reached out a shaking hand and spoke. He had no head—but three voices whispered from the severed stump. Each one trying to imitate the God of Dance’s voice.

“I—I—I—I—I—am a God. Worship me.”

The half-Giant ran, staff raised, as that arm stretched towards him. Lord Moore bared his teeth and swung his staff as the fingers elongated—

A scythe cut Laedonius Deviy’s arm off; the infested god stumbled. He turned and raised the other arm.

The Maiden swung her scythe through the God of Dance, and his torso fell to the ground. She slashed again, and the legs and his lower half just…vanished. Laedonius Deviy began to crawl away; Kasigna drove her scythe into the ground, point-first, and drew it back.

Two halves of the former God of Dance collapsed, and Lord Moore ran past the Maiden. She could have struck him, but she was too focused on the other dead god. He saw her kick the pieces of the dead god’s skin.

Something rustled within the folds of flesh. Wriggling shapes emerged, and the Maiden swung her scythe. Sundering the infestation as pieces of Deviy tried to wiggle away. Then she raised her scythe and cried out, weeping for him in relief, in sorrow.

“The God of Dance is dead.”

Then there were five. The Crone, the trapped God of Magic, Cauwine, Tamaroth, Norechl, all saw a rueful, graceful man free of his infestation step forwards and take a bow.

Laedonius Deviy vanished, and the Maiden glanced back at the running half-Giant. Then, towards the sea of souls leaving this reality. She strode towards them.

Her work was not yet done.

 

——

 

Now the time had come to leave. Leave for the reality beyond this one. Or—a few souls still went for the [Garden of Sanctuary]. They chose to remain, to interfere, because they felt they must.

Or to stop him.

The Goblin King.

He fled, and they, who had a responsibility to stop him, followed.

Goblins.

Not just him, of course. The Harpy Queen flew with six Dragonlords at her wings—but they were so far behind him. He ran faster than they could move, flickering down the corridors, towards the exit.

“Stop!”

He ran into them again. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations and her bodyguard, still alive, moving with Chieftain Rags and Fightipilota. The [Fighter Pilot] had no child in her arms. She was stumbling, being dragged along by the Chieftain, and the Goblin King wondered, for a moment, where that Mrsha had gone.

Strange. The Goblin King had no time for the girl he had hunted across a battlefield anymore. He turned without a word—and Ragathsi fired a burst from her magical submachine gun.

[Fireballs] engulfed the corridor in front of the Goblin King in a sea of flames, but he barely glanced at her.

“I am leaving. Follow afterwards and join me. Recreate your cities a second time, Ragathsi.”

“A second time?”

She laughed hollowly and raised her gun, aiming it at him. Her bodyguard spread out around the Goblin Lord of Civilizations, a swordmaster with headphones blasting music, a [Mage] with sparks of each elemental magic hovering over their fingers. A soldier aiming a rifle at the Goblin King’s chest.

All that remained of their world. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations’ eyes fixed on the Goblin King.

“I will not damn two worlds with you. Stop or face me.”

He intended to do neither. The Goblin King turned—and Ragathsi fired as Chieftain Rags aimed the revolver at his back and fired as well.

They missed. The Goblin King bounded past them. Sprinting down the changing hallways, until at last…he found it.

The exit, guarded by the [Princess]. He was prepared to risk whatever weapon she held—but when he came to the corridor once more, she did not hold it.

The [Princess] did not move as the Goblin King charged down the corridor. His senses were alert for the weapon.

The box. Yet she was comatose, the [Knight] kneeling over her, shaking her arm. When he looked up and saw the Goblin King—it was too late.

Ser Dalimont tried to shield Lyonette and reach for the fallen Box of Incontinuity, which lay there, an ordinary, boring cube of wood with the hatch slightly ajar.

The Goblin King drew his arm back to throw a dagger with careless indifference for Rabbiteater’s voice screaming in his heart. He heard thunder in his ears. Then the fiery pellets struck his breastplate, exploded, and his feet left the ground.

Chief Mechanic Kevin fired again, and the second shot flung the Goblin King further backwards. He kept firing as he advanced at a walk. Each time he squeezed the trigger of his custom-built shotgun, the recoil forced the stock back against his shoulder.

But he kept it level, tracking the armored figure, who vanished in a cloud of smoke. Kevin kept shooting, moving past Ser Dalimont and Lyonette. Each shell became a glowing cloud of tiny fragments that exploded on contact with anything they hit.

Marble dust, smoke, and the fiery fragments of the shells ignited a second time in a dust explosion. The [Master Engineer] yanked eight golden shells out of the air and inserted them two-at-a-time into a slot along the shotgun’s base.

“Hey, Rabbiteater. Found you.”

His right hand pulled a lever along the base of his weapon, and it clicked as he reloaded the first round. Then the [Master Engineer] waited.

“[Kingslayer Shells]. Just for you, Goblin King. Every Skill and level for the last decade…all for you. What a fucking waste, right? I didn’t even realize what I’d lost until I met myself.”

His head turned right to Ser Dalimont and Lyonette, and Kevin smiled faintly at them.

“Get back. He’s not dead.”

The Thronebearer already had Lyonette in his arms. He staggered backwards, eyes on the strange weapon Kevin held. The [Master Engineer] kept his eyes on the smoke cloud.

The Goblin King was on his feet again. His armor—regrowing over his body like a second skin. But there was blood. Kevin just exhaled softly.

“Anyone but you, Rabbiteater. It’s so goddamn hard to kill you.”

The Goblin King strode forwards, and the smoke swirled around him like a cloak. He raised a hand, and the future Kevin fired. The golden shrapnel halted in the air, caught by—something. Sheer will. The Goblin King’s ability to cheat.

Kevin fired again and again, eight shots in eight seconds. Each one on target.

The Goblin King’s hands both rose, like a mime conjuring an invisible shield. More pieces of ammunition hung in the air. The eighth shot touched him. Just a scattering of pellets he missed; they pierced through his right leg.

Through armor, flesh, and bone, and the Goblin King staggered. He almost fell, then glanced down. His leg was barely attached to the rest of his body.

“[Rapid Regener—]”

Kevin was out of his Skill-based ammunition. He reloaded, racked the chambers, and fired again. This time, the Goblin King’s outflung hand didn’t stop the glowing white lines that pierced straight through his chest.

Like a trail of comets across the sky, their tails vanishing through his perforated chest. The [Master Engineer] had never seen these shells fired. He grinned, an old man, or sometimes, that’s how he felt.

A lonely man with a gun—until he smiled, and his sandy hair and the lines on his face revealed the younger Kevin, staring out at the memory of better days.

“Cool.”

He fired again, and the Goblin King swiveled and gazed at the stump of his left arm. His limb landed behind him.

Holes in his body and armor. How? He had survived artillery and Relic-class weapons that had failed to breach Rabbiteater’s armor—

The Goblin King saw the [Kingslayer Rounds] lying on the floor, then his eyes saw the other Skill the [Master Engineer] was using.

[Lifeshard Ammunition].

The Goblin King began to run, limping on his wounded leg. The [Master Engineer] turned and fired. This time, he took the Goblin King’s leg clean off—but the bastard just rolled up and leapt, bounding from wall to wall, trying to get to the door.

Healing. He had Rabbiteater’s Skills. Kevin’s shotgun twitched as he tried to follow the Goblin King. His finger squeezed on the trigger, and then his arms jerked.

He coughed, a spray of blood and saliva, and rasped.

“Come on.”

His fourth round missed and tore part of the [Palace of Fates]’ walls to pieces. Kevin swivelled as the Goblin King leapt past him. Kevin couldn’t let him—

The Goblin King twisted around in midair, and the [Master Engineer] realized his mistake. The Goblin King wasn’t running. He was coming for—

The armored Goblin struck the [Master Engineer], and his sword cleaved through the shotgun, into Kevin’s chest, and the two figures fell.

A tangle of bloody limbs and burning eyes. Kevin was gasping as the sword blade tore up through his stomach. He dropped the broken shotgun, pulled something from his belt, and the Goblin King wrenched the blade straight up through the man’s heart. He tore it out, sideways, and the spray of blood and flesh coated the ground.

Then the Goblin King heard the click of a safety being released, and the pistol fired the fifth [Lifeshard Round] straight through the Goblin King’s chest. The Goblin King fell back, stunned, and the [Master Engineer], bloodless, chest torn open, raised the pistol and aimed it at his head.

Not yet. Not—

Kevin pulled the trigger and heard a click. He pulled it again. Staggered—checked the magazine, and his expression turned bitterly rueful. His mouth opened, and blood trickled down his chin as he tried to speak. But he had no lungs left.

Damn. I only had five rounds. 

He reached for a magazine at his belt and wobbled. The Goblin King crawled away from him as he heard the clicking sound. A soft sigh.

When he looked over his shoulder, the Goblin King saw the man was lying on his back, a bittersweet smile under his distant eyes. He didn’t move, but the Goblin King still grabbed his sword and threw it. Then he conjured a spell and turned that section of the hallway to ash. Unleashed another spell, recalled his sword and swung it—until the hallway crumbled into nothingness.

—Then, the Goblin King stumbled away. He put one hand to the wall and rested there, then remembered his arm. His leg. Like a broken puppet, he hobbled over and collected the mangled pieces of his body. Reattached them.

His hands shook. His will wavered—and that head rose, and another voice spoke.

“Almost, Kevin. Nice try. You hurt him. You slowed him down, brother. They’ll finish the job.”

The Goblin King regained control and snarled. Then his head turned, and he saw them coming.

The Dragonlords roared as they flew towards him, down the corridors of the [Palace of Fates]. The Goblin King jerked—then he moved, bounding for the exit. Stumbling.

He turned down the final corridor and saw the door. There was Ser Dalimont, who recoiled as he shielded Lyonette.

The [Knight] moved to intercept, sword in hand, but the Goblin King simply ran past the two of them. No time to erase what was in here.

Only to leave.

“Stop!”

Ser Dalimont shouted, but it was too late. The Goblin King had reached the hall where the gap in the ceiling led upwards on a simple staircase towards that door.

That battered figure halted at the entrance to the [Garden of Sanctuary] and hesitated. As if some part of him wanted to turn back. But then, his hands gripped the closed door.

It did not budge. It would not yield—for a moment, sanctuary held. But the Goblin King had not come this far to be stopped. He pulled—with both hands now—and the door shook. But it didn’t give.

His bloody hands trembled. The Goblin King strained. The wounds Kevin had left him weren’t healing fast enough. He faltered—and then his eyes blazed.

“Not yet. Not while they live.”

His voice grew, a guttural sound. A pained cry, then a scream that transformed into a howl, then a roar that came from the very beginning. Rage from the dawning of this world’s creation, until it shook the ground around him, and Ser Dalimont fell, unable to even stand.

The Goblin King ripped the door to the [Garden of Sanctuary] off its hinges.

Ser Dalimont uttered a cry, as if he were mortally wounded. The [Palace] was shaking, but now the [Garden of Sanctuary] trembled too. No—not just the garden.

The mortal world shook as the Goblin King tossed the door aside. He stood there, gazing into the world beyond, and true sunlight touched his chest.

He stepped forwards, a battered figure covered in blood and death.

The Goblin King returned to reality. Ser Dalimont got to his feet as the shaking around him stopped. The Thronebearer took a step towards the door, then turned.

“Your Highness. The Goblin King. The Goblin King has—I must go.”

He did not believe he could stop that being, but the Thronebearer raised his sword. Lyonette said nothing as she lay there. Ser Dalimont gently stood and would have gone, but someone spoke.

“No. We’ll stop him.”

He looked up and saw someone flying above him. A…[Witch]. Ser Dalimont did not know her; the [Witch]’s face was covered, and she flew a broomstick festooned with technology from ten years in the future.

A lone [Witch]—then the Goblin Lord of Civilizations shouted. She was running towards that door as well. Ser Dalimont hesitated, then he heard a scream that filled the [Palace of Fates]. A hunting cry and the roar of six voices.

The last Empress of Harpies and her Dragonlords of Flame. The [Witch] laughed in surprise and delight, then followed the Goblin King, raising a frying pan of all weapons. The [Knight] hesitated, then knelt as the others passed by. He stayed with his [Princess].

The Goblin King returned to the world, bringing his endless wrath with him. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations and the Harpy Queen followed him.

Chieftain Rags stopped just once, in front of the door, and she gazed back at the [Princess].

“Mrsha?”

She searched around for the girl. Then she looked to that broken door beyond. Without a word, she turned, and at last…

She came home.

 

——

 

All those who belonged to this reality were running towards the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Almost everyone else was leaving for that glorious, frightening doorway to the world beyond.

What lay out there? No one knew, but it was hopeful, frightening, an answer to their contradictory existences. It didn’t matter if one Erin Solstice escaped, or twenty. There—they could be different people.

Why would anyone stay and fight in this dreadful reality plagued by dead gods and their own deaths? Only if it mattered—only if they had some reason to stay.

Like a daughter.

Witch Califor had gotten separated from her daughter in the fighting. She was running through the dissolving [Palace of Fates], searching for the only thing that mattered, heedless of the danger around her.

Finding a needle in a haystack. She would have run until the end of it all. Another version of Belavierr scuttled past Califor as the [Witch] flinched; the Death of Magic, the Death of Wings, and the Death of Chains flew after the Death of Strings in some strange world—Califor just kept running.

They were all going for the exit, but she couldn’t leave. Not without…

“Please. Please.”

Witch Califor turned a corner, and she saw a little, brown-haired girl at last. Two of them.

The real Nanette was pulling her younger self forwards. The other Nanette, Califor’s daughter, was crying. She’d lost her hat, and she was looking for her mother.

“Nanette!”

Califor sprinted for her, and the girl sobbed and ran to her mother. The [Witches] met, and the real Nanette spoke as Califor turned to her.

“You’re alive. Thank goodness.”

Witch Califor held her daughter to her and swore never to let go again. She turned to the real Nanette and raised her hat.

“Thank you. Thank you. Where are the other—?”

“They’re with the Redfangs. Your daughter couldn’t go without you.”

So the real Nanette had gone with her to find her mother. Califor’s arms tightened around her Nanette’s shoulders as the girl clung to her.

“Come—let’s get out of here. Where’s the exit?”

Now they had to leave; the [Palace of Fates] was breaking, and to Califor’s relief, the real Nanette seemed to know exactly where to go. She pointed.

“This way! Follow me!”

They fled towards the exit, and Califor saw the doors breaking to pieces behind her. No more souls emerged from them. In fact, she saw several doors snap and dissolve away, leaving only the void behind them.

Something was removing the hallways behind them. Waiting patiently for the [Witches] to get out of range before obliterating the [Palace of Fates]. But the souls in the worlds that vanished…what a horrific act.

<I know.>

Califor stumbled, and her eyes went wide. Had she heard that voice? She gazed back over her shoulder, then saw one of the doors behind her.

Her world. It broke to pieces, and something drifted away. A single Faerie Flower root, still blooming with flowers. Califor almost reached for it; it was the only thing that remained as the Skill faded. There were half a dozen more roots twisting in the void, but what was the point?

There were no more doors. As for roots…

They hadn’t even used them all. The three [Witches] ran, dashing past a solitary figure standing in front of a door.

Duke Rhisveri saw Nanette skid to a halt as he delicately inserted a root into a trembling door. The [Witch] whirled.

“Rhisveri!”

The Wyrm of Ailendamus waved a hand at her.

“Hello, goodbye. Go on. Get your mother out of here.”

He reached through the doorway and hauled a confused woman free. Dame Eclizza nearly drew her sword on him, then halted.

“Rhisveri? But I—”

He simply pointed, then yanked someone else out.

“You and you—hello, Fithea, Dioname. And even you.”

“The door’s open! Everyone through the—”

A second Wyrm slithered out of the door and halted. He bared his teeth when he saw the Duke, but the real Rhisveri just stepped back.

“That way.”

He pointed after the three [Witches], and the other Wyrm hesitated. The Rhisveri from the world where everyone he loved was still alive searched for a moment of greed or trickery on Duke Rhisveri’s face. But all he got was a weary smile.

Then they were all running.

 

——

 

Witch Califor had beheld the death of a god. A war with armies beyond the scope of her imagination. The scythe of Death, the Goblin King, and so much more.

It was fair to say that even she was taxed beyond her limits, physically, magically…but she was still a [Witch]. There was always a voice in her head that questioned things. That took a second look at everything, and she put a few pieces together in her head.

Rhisveri had pointed at the direction Nanette was taking them. And the girl was…

Witch Califor skidded to a halt. She didn’t see an exit in front of her, and the real Nanette whirled. She waved at Califor and the other Nanette.

“Come on! This way! Hurry, before the Maiden gets us!”

She was breathless, her eyes running with tears and desperation. Witch Califor saw people streaming past her from the door of Ailendamus, then saw Dame Eclizza turning to stare at that other Rhisveri.

“You’re taking us in the wrong direction, Nanette.”

The younger Nanette blinked at the real Nanette, and then both [Witches] saw it. The terrible sadness and pride, hope and desolation in the young witch standing before them.

“I’m taking you where you need to be, Mother.”

Nanette beamed at the older [Witch]. Califor backed up a step, shaking her head. She whirled.

“No. I promised I’d come with you. Don’t do this! You need a mother.”

“I have one. Lyonette’s half as good as you. But I’m a selfish girl. I want to be happy. I want a world in which I have a mother and won’t ever lose her. So, this way.”

Nanette met her younger self’s eyes and giggled. Then cackled, a true witch’s laugh of triumph, despair, love, and loss. Califor refused to follow her. She backed up a step, to find the [Garden of Sanctuary]—and halted.

A woman was standing in the [Palace of Fates] behind them. She carried no sword, but she was still who she was.

Best of them? Best of what? Cauwine was still a dead goddess. And her eyes locked on the souls fleeing her.

Avariciously. She reached out and beckoned.

“Witch Califor. Great General Dionamella. Dame Eclizza. And so many more worthy souls. I have need of your help. Come with me.”

Nanette’s head snapped up as Califor retreated. Duke Rhisveri—both of them—whirled. The Wyrm of Ailendamus in his vast, serpentine form roared.

“Stay away from them!”

The other version of Rhisveri spat venom and acid over Cauwine. The Duke shouted.

“Stay back! Stay—”

Too late. Cauwine dodged the venom and acid and leapt at General Dionamella, who was helping a group of children flee their dissolving world. The half-Elf pointed a finger, and a [Ray of Disintegration] hit Cauwine in the face.

The Goddess of Last Stands didn’t even flinch. Her hands reached out—and that other version of Rhisveri struck like a serpent. The Wyrm swallowed the Goddess of Last Stands. Then he tensed up—and his voice grew soft.

“Ah. My people? My prized possessions?”

He turned, and Fithea, Dionamella, Eclizza, and the other immortals of Ailendamus, his subjects, turned to him. The Great Wyrm of Ailendamus spoke.

“Go.”

Then he dove away from them, snaking down the tunnel, a vast serpent, who vanished without a sound. Leaving only the Goddess of Last Stands.

Cauwine got to her feet again and sighed.

“Worthier than I thought. Come.”

She wanted them all. Nanette screamed.

“Run!”

Califor whirled, and they were running now, but of all the dead gods—Cauwine was the fastest. She caught up to the immortals of Ailendamus in a second, and a version of Visophecin vanished. Uziel and Razia, the Agelum and Lucifen tried to fight her, and she danced amidst them as they disappeared. Choosing those she found worthy.

Her hand reached out for Califor as the [Witch] dodged left. Too slow.

“Mother!”

Nanette screamed. A hand seized the Goddess of Last Stands and yanked her back. Cauwine stumbled; Duke Rhisveri stood there, holding her shoulder.

“Nanette, isn’t it? Take them to the door. Leave this woman to me.”

“Rhisveri!”

Dionamella shouted at the Wyrm, and he smiled. Cauwine turned, incredulous.

“Brave, Wyrm.”

She reached out and touched his chest as he threw a right hook. Cauwine’s head spun, and she staggered. Duke Rhisveri flinched—then felt at his chest.

“Huh?”

The Goddess and Wyrm were both confused. Cauwine touched Rhisveri again. He punched her in the face. She staggered, then spoke.

“Ah. You’re the real one.”

“So I am. We meet again. Here—I think you forgot this.”

Duke Rhisveri headbutted the Goddess of Last Stands, then threw another punch. She bounced off a wall hard enough to crack it and leapt forwards. Her blow snapped Rhisveri’s neck and broke his bones—his broken skull reknit, and he adjusted his head.

“You’re not the only person who gets to cheat. And you’re not having them. Not this time.”

He tackled her; the Goddess of Last Stands threw a blinding flurry of punches, but the Wyrm was laughing. He absorbed each blow, then hurled her back down the [Palace of Fates]. He glanced over his shoulder once.

“Come on!”

Nanette screamed at Miss Califor and her other self, and the [Witches] ran. Towards that door in the air. They were all there, at the end.

Cauwine, still battling Duke Rhisveri, the Crone still hunting the souls fleeing to the exit or the [Garden of Sanctuary]. And her—most of all.

The Maiden. The diminishing hallways meant that she was cutting through the people trying to escape. The [Witches] ran into her down one hallway; she sliced through the entire flood of souls and spotted them. Her eyes seemed to lock onto Califor.

The Great Witch whirled and ran down another corridor, but she was carrying her Nanette, and the real Nanette saw the Maiden running after them.

“Miss Califor!”

There was no dodging that scythe. Califor turned her head and threw her Nanette forwards. The Maiden’s scythe came up—and then jerked aside as the real Nanette tackled her. The goddess refused to cut the real girl, so she swept Nanette aside with one hand.

Califor ran as her daughter turned to her. The Great Witch tossed her hat at her Nanette, and the hat expanded, then carried the younger Nanette away. Towards the exit. But Califor—she glanced over her shoulder as the Maiden caught up.

The scythe rose in its deadly arc, and Califor raised a hand, that bitter expression of stubborn determination crossing her face. Nanette, every version of her, screamed.

If only this time.

Please—just once. That endless scream from her heart, in every body and time she had ever lived. She just wanted her mother for one second longer.

Death’s scythe gleamed under the cold rain, and the Maiden lifted a hand. She blinked in the face of a shower, the tears of a decade washing over her. Then she turned her head, and someone ran towards her.

A thin young woman, body wasted and frail, wearing nothing but wet rags, her hands still bloody. Holding a cursed dagger with her second mother’s blood still wet on the blade.

The Witch of Sorrows, the version of Nanette from the future, shrieked as she dove towards the Maiden, a poisonous flood of her bitter craft raging past her.

“Nanette!”

Califor turned and tried to grab the [Witch], but her hands passed through only liquid. The Witch of Sorrows smiled at that image of her mother, then she struck the Maiden, knife stabbing into the Goddess’ heart. Again and again.

The Maiden did not react to the blade that had killed Belavierr. Gently, she swung that scythe, and the Witch of Sorrows sighed.

“At last. Mother—”

She twisted around, no longer weeping, as the flow of water from her hat finally ceased. Then the scythe cut through her, and she vanished. The Maiden finished her swing and stepped forwards again.

Califor and both Nanettes ran, and the real Nanette kept gazing backwards, tears in her eyes. In Witch Califor’s eyes.

A second’s reprieve, that was all it was. Enough time to reach the last corridor that led to the door out of this reality.

They had made it. Nanette saw a stream of souls pouring forwards into the strange, new world beyond, sunlight shining into this breaking palace. The line was so terribly long—but almost.

Almost there. Then she realized Califor had turned around and was gazing towards the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Her world. When she tried to carry her Nanette back, the real Nanette barred her path.

“You’re going the wrong way. Go. The other world is waiting for you.”

Besides, she’d never make it past the Maiden. Not twice. Yet her mother was torn.

“I have to—I promised—”

Califor wavered at the exit. She gazed back down the long hallway at the [Garden of Sanctuary]. The way was still open. But Nanette just reached out and took Califor’s hand once. She squeezed it with all the strength in her body and blinked her teary eyes up at that vision of her mother. But then she shook her head.

“Miss Califor. You’re a grand witch, but I think you and I both know…my mother, my Califor is dead. I won’t force another version of me to come to my world just so I can have another version of you. I must make my peace with it. Thank you for being kind. Now, hurry. She’s coming.”

The Maiden was advancing on the sea of souls, and there was no one to stop her. Califor and Nanette, the people of Ailendamus, stood at the end of a line that spanned millions of souls, rushing past Pawn as he held the door open.

The Maiden with her scythe. Nanette nodded to herself, took a few deep breaths, and rolled up her sleeves. She advanced on the Maiden as Califor reached a hand out for her daughter.

Nanette saw the Maiden raise the scythe that could end gods and tried to remember everything Todi had taught her. She trembled as the Maiden glanced past her and swept forwards.

A hand dragged Nanette back. She struggled—then glanced up at the person who’d stopped her. Her mouth fell open—then she hesitated. The Maiden strode forwards, and her scythe drew back to cut the door apart.

Everything.

 

——

 

They were almost out. Almost gone. But the last door out of this reality, the final stop at the station had a queue of millions of souls, and there was a woman walking towards them.

A final gatekeeper of death. One last obstacle.

The Maiden.

She strode forwards, her scythe raised, and the souls trying to flee turned on her. They unleashed everything they had. A thousand spells shot at her. Arrows loosed by countless bows—Skills, flashing across the distance.

The Maiden swung that scythe, and it cut through everything. The very nature of the arrows, magic itself. She cut each and every thing out of the air all at once, and there was silence.

Then someone laughed and leapt at her.

A [Clown], knives whirling in his hands, a [Hero] who laughed at death. A version of Zeladona, teeth bared, swinging her sword. A version of Redscar and a [Peerless Spearmaster] from the sands of Chandrar.

She cut them apart, whirling her scythe through each soul. The [Clown] vanished with a sigh; Xil disappeared mid-strike.

Zeladona drove her blade through the Maiden’s neck, and her eyes opened wide. The Maiden’s scythe cleaved through the [Blademistress of Ancients]’ attempts to parry the blow—and then she kept walking forwards.

Not even Zeladona’s blade could hurt the goddess. Then, the onslaught of spells and Skills ceased, for it was futile. One last group strode forwards, trying to buy time.

The Painted Antinium.

 

——

 

Roots Mrsha had reached the [Garden of Sanctuary] at last. She clutched at her chest, wheezing for air. She had run as far as she could and bought as much time as possible.

Where was the real Mrsha? She’d lost track of her real self.

Someone was waiting for her at the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Lyonette. Only—when Roots Mrsha saw her, she only saw a limp body, red hair spilling onto the ground.

No. Nonono—she ran forwards and realized the [Princess] wasn’t dead. She was breathing, but she just lay there.

Ser Dalimont was holding her hands.

“Your Highness. Lyonette. Your Highness—”

She didn’t respond. Only when Dalimont spotted Roots Mrsha and exclaimed did she move.

“Miss Mrsha! Your Highness—!”

He pointed as Dame Ushar caught her breath. The [Princess]’ head rose. Her eyes found the Gnoll girl, and for a moment, they lit up. But then—

Roots Mrsha stood there, and felt a dreadful fear in her mind. She searched around.

Where’s the real Mrsha? I’ll go and—

“No.”

Without a word, Lyonette embraced the girl, and Roots Mrsha felt her cold arms trembling. The girl froze, with relief, with love and guilt—then tried to get away. But the [Princess] just held her. And Roots Mrsha…

Her world was gone. Her head turned to that open door to another reality. It was waiting for her as well—but the Maiden was in the way. And Lyonette whispered.

“No. Not that way.”

Nothing could stop the Goddess. Ser Dalimont whispered as he saw her cutting more brave souls trying to slow her down.

“It’s not fair.”

Mrsha’s eyes focused on the people at the back of the line fleeing through the door, fast as they could. She jerked.

Nanette. I see Nanette over there. I have to get her.

She tried to move, but Lyonette wouldn’t let go. Dame Ushar added her hands to holding Roots Mrsha in place, and the girl wrote, desperate.

Someone has to! Lyonette! Mother!

The [Princess] rose, eyes filled with terrible intent—but someone gently pushed her back.

“I’ll get her. Stay with your daughter, Lyonette.”

Colfa val-Lischelle Drakle and Vaulont the Ash appeared out of the chaotic hallways. The Vampiress was disheveled, and she had several long tears in her dress, but whatever injuries she’d taken had healed. Lyonette hesitated—

“But—”

“Stay with your daughter. That’s an order.”

The Vampiress ran forwards before either could object. Towards Nanette. But the others—Roots Mrsha turned her head.

It was not fair.

 

——

 

At the door out of this reality, Pawn’s arms shook. The Maiden was coming for him and the door as the souls drew back; she ignored them, making only for him. After all—all she had to do was cut that door in half.

“Not yet. Not yet…”

His faithful stood in the way. The Maiden cleaved through them. Their faith was unable to stop her. Their weapons did nothing to her flesh.

Behind Kasigna, the living gazed at each other in despair, and Roots Mrsha closed her eyes.

Who could stop that woman? 

No one, among any universe, had a chance. Not the Mrsha who had kept her levels, the Level 70 [Druid of the Lucky World]. Nor a version of the Dragonlord of Flames protectively trying to shield those he loved.

They fought, brave warriors of every world, throwing themselves forwards to meet her. [Martial Artists] of Pomle, a version of Orjin trying to find the way to parry or dodge Death’s scythe. He could not—but they fought till the moment that blade touched them.

The last line of defence that even slowed the Maiden for a second was a rolling vehicle, a massive warmachine that fired, again and again, with every gun it had. The Tortoise, from the world of Goblins, defending a stream of souls—until the Maiden sliced through the shell of the tank.

It took her two swings, only because she missed the gunner in the turret. Then she was at the doorway, and a single step closed the rest of the distance. Her scythe, which had cut the tank in twain in a single blow, now rested long in her hands. Long enough to cut the Dragonlord of Flames in half in a single motion. Wide enough to cleave through the entire hallway, the thousands of souls, and the door itself in a single sweep.

A matter of perspective.

The Maiden lifted her scythe, drawing it back, one hand on the handle. Preparing to reap…everything.

Then, a single figure strode forwards with a sigh. Among all the souls of every alternate world, someone pushed Nanette back and walked forwards to challenge the Maiden.

She should not have cared. The Maiden lifted that scythe to swing through this soul like so many others. Then her eyes focused on the face, and her arms wavered.

Just for a second. The Maiden’s pale eyes blinked, and she focused on the challenger.

“You?”

Her hands slipped on the scythe. Her relentless advance slowed, and Lyonette made a sound as she, Roots Mrsha, and Ser Dalimont beheld the stranger. Nanette, standing in front of Miss Califor and her other self, locked her eyes on the back of his head.

It was impossible that the Maiden should fear any being at this moment, let alone one that wasn’t from the real world.

But she did. The man strode forwards past the countless beings from alternate worlds, who turned to him in confusion. Who could make the Maiden halt?

So few recognized him. And there was no other version of this man in the millions of people present.

Among the many different heroes, villains, the people of the worlds that had spilled into this [Palace of Fates]…there was only one of him.

So few versions of this man lived. Only one had reached this place. Perhaps that was also destiny.

Halrac Everam stepped away from the door that led out of this reality. He halted and drew his sword. The Gold-rank adventurer of Griffon Hunt pointed the tip of his blade at the Maiden.

“Halt. I challenge you to single combat, Kasigna. Withdraw, or I will kill you.”

Roots Mrsha gasped as she heard his voice from across the vast distance between them. Lyonette whispered.

“Halrac?”

Roots Mrsha saw him and knew which one it was. This was the Halrac of the beach world. He…he stood there, wind from the reality beyond blowing across his hair. His armor was simple, enchanted leather, and he held a steel shortsword in one hand.

Yet the Maiden drew back a step, then another.

Him. The man who had come closest to ending her in the battle at the Winter Solstice. Just…a man. Not even the original. She knew it. The Maiden lifted her scythe again and then stared at her trembling hands.

Why was she afraid? She didn’t understand. And the scythe that had reaped so many lives without effort—seemed to hesitate in front of him.

It was Roots Mrsha who realized what was so strange about Halrac. He was Beach Halrac, a Halrac who had never died on the Winter Solstice, never met the Three-in-One. Never even heard Erin Solstice speak of the dead gods. But if that was so…

How did he know Kasigna’s name? He shouldn’t. The Maiden blinked as she came to the same conclusion.

She’d killed another version of him. This wasn’t him. She raised her scythe, and his gaze transfixed her.

Halrac the Grim stared down the Maiden.

The [Bowman of Loss] was looking straight at her. Not as a stranger, but with the certain calm of an adversary meeting his foe once more. His grey-green eyes were set, and quiet determination filled them.

He knew her. He had met her before. It was the same Halrac.

How? 

Then the Maiden saw it. Something shimmered in Halrac’s eyes, in the depths of those steady pupils. A fathomless multitude of lives, like the eyes of the Grand Design itself.

Reality, countless realities, the vision of everything and every time and place blazing through his gaze. He was in there, a piece of him.

Halrac Everam had leapt into the void between existence, and some part of him had found itself in every version of him. Like Mrsha, he saw through the veil of reality—a mortal who had looked too long into the heart of everything.

Every version of him stood here at once. The soul of Halrac Everam standing in Hellste—the Halrac of the world of better days—a multitude of beings in one body.

The scythe didn’t know which one to cut. It hesitated in the air. Doubt filled the Maiden. A memory of reaching for that arrow. She licked her lips and then glanced at his sword.

He had no arrow. It was just a weapon of magic and steel.

“There is no contest.”

She said it, as much to hear the words as to tell him how futile it was. He had no weapon to harm her with. Not this time. Halrac’s face was calm. His eyes flicked past the Maiden, and he nodded at something over her shoulder.

“Perhaps. But if that’s so—why is Oberon smiling?”

A chill ran down the Maiden’s spine. She wavered—and a voice screamed across the long hallway at the [Bowman].

“Halrac!”

A figure ran forwards, out of the [Garden of Sanctuary]. The Maiden swung around, and her scythe pointed at—

Asgra?

Even Halrac gazed in silent astonishment as the little Cave Goblin pulled something out of her maid’s outfit. She dashed past Roots Mrsha, Lyonette, Ser Dalimont, running, almost tripping along the [Palace of Fates].

“I have a weapon! Take it!”

She tore something from her belt pouch, and Halrac Everam’s eyes locked on a tiny speck of metal in the Goblin girl’s hands. A piece of steel.

A belt dagger with a tiny, familiar glint of gold on the edge. Halrac recognized it, and he blinked.

“Redscar’s dagger. How—?”

The Cave Goblin waved the dagger that Redscar had given her. Just in case it went bad. It was a pathetic weapon; just a knife for mundane tasks, not a proper blade. But it had a golden edge on the blade.

The rules of the Grand Design, dust collected on the edge of the steel. Halrac’s eyes narrowed. And he remembered.

The [Blademaster], who’d been stuck with Halrac as the [Bowman] had chipped away at the golden rules to make his arrow, squatting and playing with his belt dagger as Halrac made that arrow that had caused so much trouble. Even threatened Kasigna. It would have been insane to decide to make a second weapon.

So of course, Redscar had done just that. Asgra waved the dagger overhead, then halted. She was too far away from Halrac, but she drew back and threw the dagger.

The tiny dagger flew in a pathetic arc through the air and would have landed an infinity short—but Roots Mrsha raised her paw, and the dagger vanished.

It reappeared in the air, and the Maiden whirled around. She heard a clang of metal—Halrac’s shortsword fell to the ground. He kicked it away as he caught the dagger in the air and inspected the golden edge.

Then he lifted the dagger in a practiced manner and set his stance low. A dagger with a golden edge versus a Goddess in the flesh and Death’s scythe.

Halrac the Grim bared his teeth in a wild smile, his rare expression of mirth, and the Maiden flinched. She hesitated as he spoke.

“Well? Now it’s fair enough for an adventurer. Fall back or die. This is your last warning.”

The Maiden stood there as, around her, the other passageways collapsed into dust. Leaving only this space around the door to another world and that long hallway to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. The multitude of souls, the original Lyonette, Roots Mrsha, Asgra, and Ser Dalimont observed Halrac Everam facing down the Maiden.

Broken worlds were spilling their contents into the void as the [Palace of Fates] crumbled. Broken roots, shattered doors, dying Faerie Flowers drifting in the void around them—one floated over Halrac’s shoulder. A mischievous little flower.

The Maiden exhaled softly. Like someone who finally saw all the puzzle pieces fitting together. Her eyes darted to the Faerie King, watching from his realm beyond, and she gave him a nod, which he returned.

Then the Maiden gazed towards Death and beheld their own plans. Her eyes widened.

What were they doing? But that—she glanced down at the scythe in her hands. Up at Halrac, at the door that Pawn still held ajar. The will that had carried her to this end wavered.

“It is not right. You understand why I am here, don’t you?”

She pleaded with Halrac, trying to get the man to stand aside. He gave her that expression he had given teammates, friends, Erin Solstice, clients, monsters, [Bandits], and everyone else in his entire life. That weary expression of a man staring at an idiot.

“Perhaps I do. What of it? I disagree. Step back or die. Did you really think we’d go without a fight? How do you not understand mortality? You?”

His caustic tone made her flinch. She opened her mouth to retort that she did—that she judged him from her perspective, from the righteous fairness of her divinity, her superiority, and halted.

The Maiden found Halrac’s gaze, and another face superimposed itself there. Itsthekenous’ dead expression.

Do you remember me, Kasigna?

The Maiden’s eyes flickered. And she recalled…a memory over a hundred thousand years old.

Isthekenous.

 

——

 

Kasigna, the Three-in-One, found him where he always was. In the ridiculous place he had carved out at the center of what he called his ‘Grand Design’. Or was it the ‘System of Classes’?

His names changed constantly, and the Goddess of Death disliked the inconsistency of it.

But then, Kasigna detested so much, Crone or not. It was in her nature; she was one of the last of the Gods to join this project, and it had been a long argument to convince her to abandon her dead reality in favor of this one.

Nevertheless, she was one of the most powerful of the divine, and she had established her primacy in the pantheons. Strangely, that was not what made her and Isthekenous friends.

He didn’t respect it, you see. He hadn’t even realized the depths of her power when they’d first been introduced. She had been irritated, thinking him disrespectful, until she realized he was bent over his task of obsessively writing out how a [Farmer] should grow into its myriad forms.

Isthekenous had not glanced up once, not for her nor the self-important Tamaroth nor any other being. Only when he was done had he introduced himself and spoken to her of her shattered reality, the Rot Between Worlds, and how this creation of his might create warriors to fight even the worst of it.

That had piqued her interest. Then she had given him a second chance and gotten to know Isthekenous, the God of Designs, not the many other titles he had earned.

He had few friends. Oh, countless admirers, and every divine being here supported his efforts. They would not be here otherwise; some were nakedly interested in the gain they might reap, like Emerrhain, or desperate for community, like Laedonius Deviy. But she had observed that Isthekenous had more comrades among, well, other beings.

Some of the fae, like Melidore. Or the mortals who could walk amongst gods. She was surprised, then, when he called her one of them. Even now, when she swept in with all the wrath and ire of death itself, the winds of oblivion blowing past the three figures’ robes and setting the humble room into disarray—he just held out a trio of cups on a hand-platter.

“My friend. You’ve come to shout at me again. Haven’t you?”

The Goddess of Death hesitated as Isthekenous ignored the fell winds blowing around him. Instead, the God of Designs offered her a cup of ambrosia from his homelands. For once, he was not bent about some piece of his grand work.

After a moment of hesitation, the three versions of Kasigna took a cup each and sat in the three chairs he had provided. The Crone scowled and sipped.

The Mother spoke for them, the peacemaker.

“You do well to attempt to placate me. I am upset, Isthekenous. I disagree with this…violation of my sovereignty. This decision that was made in conclave with the other Gods shall not stand! All those with me will oppose it until I am satisfied. And I shall war with as many of the divine as I must! It shall not be done.”

The Maiden added waspishly, prone to both reason and unreason as the mood took her.

“And this is the one thing I shall not shift on.”

It was a dire threat, and she meant it. She would draw blood, even slaughter lesser Gods to make her point. They had the effrontery to stand against her, like that pitiful God, Oletp, as if their peers could save them from her wrath.

This might be a conclave of countless divine beings, but they could war and fight in this mortal world they were creating. Some had already perished, defending this place from intruders like the Rot Between Worlds. Or in internecine squabbles. Despite being one of the last to attend, Kasigna had already slain six deities. Truly slain them; it made even the greatest of the divine walk warily around her.

But not him. To the annoyance of all three, in the face of these terrible threats, Isthekenous chuckled. He was in a good humor today. No, he was always in a good humor when he spoke of his Grand Design. It was his; he had worked exponentially more than any hundred gods.

“That does not surprise me, Kasigna. I have always admired that about you. You alone never waver in your convictions. I have, and I respect your will. Less so that of your alliance. I am surprised Tamaroth stands with you. But then, he is attracted to power.”

This statement endeared the Crone, who savored the respect, and the Maiden shrugged.

“He courts me. That one wishes something rather…I would call it insulting, but he proposes it. Let us not speak of that, but your…system…of life and death. I have already compromised with the others who pretend to my title.”

“Ah, Diotrichne. She is the Goddess of the Afterlife.”

“In her reality. I would ensure there is no question who rules. But she wheedles and begs for support from her pantheon.”

“Come, Kasigna. Is might the only way by which we of the divine may negotiate? She shall have her ‘Diotria’ and you ‘Kasignel’.”

The Three-in-One was not happy. He was distracting her, and she was trying to stay upset. Mother, Maiden, and Crone glowered at Isthekenous.

“Three afterlives is not how the dead should exist. Let alone more! Nor do I like the name of it.”

He just fussed with a piece of foolscap, jotting a note down as he found a treat to offer her.

“Kasigna, please. We have agreed—you are free to change it to whatever you wish. It is a placeholder. Let us speak of mortality. Reincarnation. It bothers you.”

He came straight to it, and Kasigna folded her arms across three bodies, angry, but unable to fully take it out upon him. He was listening to her, and he had labored endlessly to bring her beloved afterlife to fruition here.

In return, she had gifted him with the knowledge of life and death. Helped weave it into the ideas, these…scions of concepts that he called ‘classes’. [Necromancers] would draw on her power.

But this was too far. Undeath was one thing, but—the Crone slammed a fist on the table and the room shook. Her voice became a roar, like that of Giants.

“You would have them revive their very souls! To speak with the dead is bad enough!”

“[Soothsayers]. [Summoners]. Depending on the type of class, they could commune with Kasignel, Hellste, or Diotria. The faithful, the most auspicious, shall go to Diotria. Whereas Hellste—one might summon a ghost or a monster from there.”

How his eyes danced. He had built countless classes of every kind into this system. Kasigna had to admit, she was interested to see what mortals might do with this power, but the Mother leaned forward and silenced his eager prattle.

“Isthekenous. It devalues death. I have said it countless times, but surely you understand. If they can return from the dead, what fear will mortals have of it?”

“It will not be easy. I plan to introduce a malus; a cost. The prerequisites for creating a Scroll of Resurrection or performing a ritual will prohibit it from being common. You see, I’m deriving it from these—”

Isthekenous got up to show her his many tomes of rules and games and other fanciful fictions with their made-up mechanics. He halted as the Crone grabbed his hand. Kasigna snarled.

“This is reality, Isthekenous. Not a game! These mortals will be flesh and blood, and they will be respected or I shall never allow this to come to pass! If they can but live again and again, what point is there to death?”

All three of her nodded and set down their cups. They were prepared to war with Isthekenous and every other god in existence over this one point. They had given way on so much—but not this.

Never this. 

The God of Designs stopped, and his excited manner faded. He became less that eager gamesmaster and then an older being. His appearance changed, and he ceased resembling the species of this new world, taking on a form alien to Kasigna.

But he was still the same deity. Isthekenous lifted one of his arms and took the Crone’s hand away. He stopped and thought for a while, then replied.

“Kasigna. You and I have cheated death many times. We have both survived the ends of our worlds, yet we live.”

“We are gods. We never truly died. Do not mince words with me—”

The Mother snapped, losing her own self-control, and Isthekenous replied steadily, meeting her eyes.

“Tell me, Kasigna. Do you mourn your lost pantheon? I do for mine. For my lovers, for my enemies—for the worlds that were lost to the Rot Between Worlds. What of you? Did it not matter?”

That drew her up short. Kasigna clenched three hands and spoke as her fingernails drew divine blood, running down her right hands.

“Did it matter? I pledged to honor the lands of the dead. They were mine to keep. I failed my charge. The souls were devoured—or I consumed them to prevent them being eaten. Does it matter? I hunted down everything that dared defile my home. Do I mourn? Yes. Always.”

“So do I.”

The God of Designs was sitting, a weary, lonely god at his table. He stared down at the hand-painted figurines and touched them. Then he gazed up at her with a pained smile.

“Insult the mortals who will live and die in my Grand Design? Never. But I intend to give them a path to come back from the dead, Kasigna. However difficult, I insist. That is my will.”

“Why? It is not fair.”

She snapped at him, and the God of Designs spread his hands, smiling at her with such simple sadness and a quiet delight.

“Fair? This great work of ours should not be fair, Kasigna. I have tried, and I will keep trying, but it will never be equal to all. Rather, it should be glorious. It should be wonderful.”

His eyes contained shining realities, and they were filled with so many hopes and dreams that the Three-in-One was lost for words for a moment. Isthekenous whispered.

“Let them try. Let them come back, no matter the cost. Let there be a way out, and let even Death stand second to my rules. It may be against all your nature, Kasigna, against the rules of reality that we know, and against even the justice of life and death. I do not care. It shall make for a better story. A kinder one. If the mortals triumph, against all odds, we should not stand in their way, but applaud them.”

He reached for her and took the Maidens’ hands. The God of Designs bent his head and bowed over the table to the Goddess of Death.

“Please. Give me this one boon. If it is wrong, if it is wretched, I will cease it. But give them a chance, Kasigna.”

Isthekenous begged her for this one favor, as he never had for anything else, and she hesitated. The Maiden met his eyes and—

 

——

 

Remembered.

The vision played out, over a hundred thousand years ago, before the birth of this world, and she saw it. Her silly folly. She’d forgotten the conversation. Forgotten him.

The Maiden wept her first tears since her death. She raised the scythe over her head and called up to the sky.

“Isthekenous!”

For his broken dreams.

For the world he had never been allowed to see.

For that one moment when she had believed she was wrong.

Then, the Maiden saw Halrac Everam standing there. Just a mortal man reflected countless times over—and his eyes contained that same steady conviction as the God of Designs.

The Maiden exhaled as the last of the tensions and doubts plaguing her suddenly resolved into a moment of crystal clarity. Her shoulders rolled back, and she stood straighter, dignified at last.

“Oh. I see. Thou art a fitting reaper for a Goddess.”

She held out her hand, and the [Bowman], Halrac of Griffon Hunt, Halrac the Grim, lifted the dagger. The Maiden smiled, rueful.

“I never considered, even at the end, that I could be wrong. I was always so stubborn. Which is it, I wonder? Let us find out. Show me your triumphs, mortal. And let us die gloriously.”

He grinned, a warrior’s excitement as he faced death, blade in hand. The Maiden spun the scythe up and charged, laughing.

 

——

 

The [Bowman] and Goddess met in the middle of the breaking hallways, dagger edged with the rules of reality versus the scythe of Death itself.

When the Maiden swung her scythe, that horizontal edge cut the air with oblivion, and nothing in this world could have stopped it. But she missed.

Halrac Everam ducked.

The blade of that scythe slashed the tips of his hair as Halrac ducked the blade, then jumped. He kicked the Maiden in the chest. She stumbled, and the dagger cut for her face.

The glowing rules that made up the Grand Design itself. A blade that could cut divine flesh—she leaned back as it slashed just past her face. Halrac slashed again; she blocked with the haft of the scythe and swept the weapon at leg-height.

Halrac leapt over the cut, then backed up as the Maiden whirled the scythe around her in a deadly arc. She pursued him as the crowd of souls drew back, watching this duel.

Insanity. Halrac had a dagger, and she had a scythe—it wasn’t a fair battle at all.

But it never was. Halrac was an adventurer, and she was a Goddess who had never warred with weapons. The scythe was a strange, haphazard weapon. Halrac dodged a vertical slice that lodged the blade in the ground and leapt.

He stabbed her through the shoulder, and she cried out in genuine pain. Divine ichor oozed across her black cloak, and she whirled the scythe around her in a cutting arc. But again—she was a hair too slow, and the [Bowman] was already backing out of range.

He darted in and back, slashing, trying to cut her in between the wide swings from her weapon. She, in turn, tried to cut him.

Just once. All she needed was one cut—

Every fiber of Halrac’s being was in his desperate footwork, his lunging strike to her leg this time. She staggered, swung with a cry of rage. He leapt back again, but the Maiden was a fast learner—she charged into him, choking up on the scythe so she had control of it. She jabbed and cut with it now, like a sickle.

The [Bowman] staggered back, and his dagger parried the haft of the scythe once—he had to throw himself sideways and roll to his feet. She lunged again; he caught the scythe, forced it away from her, and slashed.

The blade swept across her face. The Maiden’s blood splattered onto the Gold-rank, and Halrac’s teeth bared in a savage grimace. The Maiden recoiled, then blocked another cut from his dagger. He advanced, slicing her hand, stabbing into one arm—

He was winning. Halrac had grown up a [Farmer]. He knew how that scythe moved. He had fought to the death with blades, with his bow, so many times, and the Maiden had not.

She couldn’t block that blade, and it could cut even her flesh. The Maiden lifted the scythe, desperate, and took another cut across her shoulder. She was losing a fight with this mortal! Because she was fighting like a mortal being—

Her eyes narrowed. Heedless of another lightning-fast thrust to her shoulder, the Maiden took careful aim as Halrac swept backwards, well out of range of her scythe. She swung anyways, eyes locked on…

The [Bowman] saw the arc of the scythe and stepped further back, just in case she lunged. The scythe cut the air in front of the Maiden, and Halrac stepped under the arc. His dagger parried the scythe, golden edge meeting Death’s blade, and he swung the dagger down to drive it through her chest.

But he’d forgotten who he was fighting a second time. The Maiden’s scythe slid down across the dagger’s blade. And even if that dagger’s edge could deflect Death’s scythe—

It was still made of ordinary steel. Halrac heard a tinging sound. He gazed down—and Redscar’s belt dagger fell to pieces before his horrified eyes.

The Maiden cut the hilt of the blade in half. Cleaved through the ordinary steel-and-leather handle, and the blade shattered into tiny shards of gold and metal.

Halrac grabbed for a piece, any piece of the blade—then heard a scream.

“Halrac!”

Nanette’s warning came with a thousand voices. He looked up and leapt sideways. The Maiden swung her scythe down, and the remaining pieces of the dagger vanished as she gouged the floor away.

She ripped part of the [Palace of Fates] out of existence, leaving only the void and those damn Faerie Flowers and roots spinning around the two of them. Then the Maiden completed the cut.

The section of hallway Halrac stood in became untethered, a section of reality caught between the void—his eyes flickered to the other side, trying to gauge the jump. But the Maiden was right there, scythe raised.

Halrac backed away until he felt nothingness behind him and saw the Goddess step into the void. There was no guilt in her eyes, no apology for her trick.

Her kind never fought fair. She flicked the scythe. A flare of golden dust burst off her scythe into a million fragments that scattered across the ground and into the void.

The Goddess strode forwards as Halrac stumbled back, that familiar tight expression of pain on his face.

“A noble attempt.”

He didn’t respond. The [Bowman] was searching for a fragment of the dagger—anything. He yanked weapons out of his bag of holding, a Tripvine Bag—useless. The Maiden swung her scythe through that as Halrac held out an empty hand in a curious grasping motion towards her. He glanced over his shoulder, took another step back, then stumbled on a piece of stone.

The man collapsed onto his back, inches away from the void consuming the [Palace of Fates]. The Maiden advanced on him as he raised his hand towards her. Not in an open-palm of surrender or entreaty, but a curved grip, thumb touching his forefingers as his other hand drew back, pinching the air.

She assumed it was some offensive gesture. The Maiden raised her scythe with a gentle smile. Her eyes closed in regret. She swung her scythe down—

And an arrow struck her in the shoulder. 

The Goddess stumbled backwards and almost dropped the scythe. She gasped—pain ran through her body, and she stared down at a gleaming arrow buried in her flesh. No, a sword—a beautiful masterwork blade embedded in her shoulder. 

A weapon not of this world. How—?

A second arrow hit her in the stomach, and the Maiden stumbled again. A sword was buried in her stomach. A third—she swung her scythe through the sword, and it shattered into a hundred pieces. A weapon able to cut a Goddess?

Or, if you looked at it differently—

A little, yellow flower. 

Kasigna blinked, then saw Halrac’s empty hand was pointed in an odd way. He drew back and loosed a fourth arrow.

She cut it in half, then saw him reach out and pluck something out of the void behind him. Her eyes focused on what he was reaching for.

Halrac grabbed a yellow Faerie Flower off something twisting past him. The only thing that remained once the [Palace of Fates] vanished.

A…root. Covered in flowers.

Faerie Flowers. It became an arrow that vanished as he put it to his bow. The invisible bow—that even the Goddess had missed.

The Goddess pulled one of the Faerie King’s swords out of her shoulder, and another thunked into her right knee. She stumbled backwards, and the [Bowman] rose. He was grinning. After all—what kind of archer fought with a dagger?

The invisible bow snapped as she swung her scythe and cut the bow’s concept in half. Halrac lifted two flowers in his hands, and they became gleaming swords. The Maiden rose to her feet and flung one hand out, like someone greeting a forgotten friend.

“Ah. Death. You’ve come for me.”

She beamed as he ran across the ground, leaping towards her with a shout that contained all his many lives. The Maiden swung her scythe and buried the tip of the blade straight through his chest.

Then she stepped backwards and looked down.

Two swords were embedded in her heart. She and Halrac were pressed against each other, impaled on each other’s weapons. The Maiden let go of the weapon loaned to her and touched the hilt of the swords.

“T-t-t—”

She tried to say something, but she was collapsing. The Maiden fell to her knees, and a breathless voice panted.

Halrac Everam stood, heedless of the voices screaming his name, the cheering souls. The scythe buried in his chest—he rasped as his face grew calm, relaxed. He reached out towards her and offered her a callused hand as he began to disappear.

“Maiden. Take my hand.”

The Maiden gazed up gratefully. She whispered to Halrac as she straightened.

For one final moment herself, the Maiden stood whole, as she flickered, a Goddess of millions of years, through every shape she had ever taken. A lifetime of faces, ideas, all her guises and stages of being. Until she stood there, relaxed, blood running down her dress, smiling in relief and gratitude.

“Thank you. I was afraid of going alone.”

She touched his hand, and they vanished.

The scythe disappeared before it hit the ground.

 

——

 

Halrac Everam faded away with a triumphant, uncharacteristic grin on his face. He’d done it.

The Maiden was gone. Deviy was dead. Tamaroth and Norechl banished.

Cauwine remained with the Crone, and it was just like the Winter Solstice. The last two…victors?

“No, not victors. Not this time.”

Cauwine held the severed sword in her hand and tossed it aside. She walked forwards, and placed her hand on a bent-over, frail figure standing in the empty corridor. The Crone watched as the last crowds of mortals vanished into that door.

Neither Goddess tried to follow, even if it had been allowed. They didn’t know if they could have even survived that place, if there was a place for them to exist without flesh. Perhaps there were other divine beings there.

“Mother?”

The Crone didn’t react to Cauwine’s gentle hand. She was leaning against the wall, her wizened hands trembling. Kasigna.

Not the Goddess of…not the Three-in-One. Just Kasigna. She had lost—everything.

“Mother? It’s time to go. There’s nothing left.”

Cauwine was walking away. Trying to lead the old woman after her. The Crone did not follow. She simply leaned there, face empty, and after a while, the Goddess of Lasts Stands stopped trying to get her to move.

The Goddess of Last Stands departed, and the Crone vanished. They left. There was nothing remaining to eat. Nothing to gain.

The dying hallways rustled, then were still, and the place seemed to sigh as, at last, it emptied of intruders. A bittersweet sound of an idea crumbling into nothingness.

The [Palace of Fates] was ending.

There was just one hallway left. One long stretch of ground with a door at the far end, severed in places, nothingness waiting to consume it all. And there stood the gatekeeper, who had beheld Halrac’s end.

Pawn. The [Apostle] stood, a giant, impossibly tall, holding a door open that was wide enough to let thousands pass under his arms. And just a small Worker holding a tiny window open.

The sunlight shone past his trembling arms, and the wind and voices from that place beyond filled his ears. But he just gazed at the place Halrac had been.

He was waiting. Waiting for the last souls to come. His arms shook; he was out of strength, and at any moment, he felt he would collapse and it would end. But he held that door as long as he had to.

“Soon, I believe, it is time to be judged. So shall I judge you. Are you ready?”

Who was he speaking to? Death? The Grand Design? Himself? He didn’t know.

Nothing remained. No worlds, no doorways. But there were beings who’d reached the [Garden of Sanctuary] and the world beyond. The Goblin King.

So Pawn waited. And he wondered what had been lost. Not just his Erin or his world.

How many made it? How many…alternate realities had been erased? So many had been destroyed. How many of those? Billions? Trillions?

Was it fair?

…Was the world any better?

His despairing gaze fixed on the [Palace of Fates] and the places where the many hallways had been. The Antinium Worker saw something, someone in that empty nothingless. And then his head rose, and he saw it too.

“Oh. I get it.”

He watched as the little soul stirred.

 

——

 

After a while, the girl got to her feet slowly, and it didn’t hurt anymore. That was something.

There was nothing, now.

No [Palace of Fates]. No twisting reality around her, even.

Just nothing.

Not even the Grand Design.

Mrsha du Marquin gazed at the place her body had been, but that was gone too.

She was dead. She’d died running from the Maiden in the [Palace of Fates]. Blood loss. The girl hadn’t even realized it until the Maiden took her paw. Now, this was what came next.

Mrsha hoped the others had made it.

It was not that she didn’t care. It was just that she was dead. On the other side of life, and when you were dead, truly…gone, it hit you.

“At last, I can rest.”

The thoughts appeared, not like spoken words, but good enough. Mrsha stood there in the void.

She wasn’t a ghost, and these weren’t the deadlands of Kasignel. This was something else. This was…it. The girl looked around, and then saw someone else was standing there.

Not lost. Just like her, taking it in.

“Hello. Who are you?”

He was a young man. In his thirties, but still—young. A kid. He seemed lost, guilty, and afraid. He wore fancy armor, but that wasn’t important. When she addressed him, he pointed at his face.

“Me? Jospiere. The…[Hero of Turns]. Who’re you?”

She told him. Then asked how he’d died.

“A Dragon breathed fire on me.”

It must have hurt. Mrsha saw, on his armor, the sigil of the Blighted Kingdom and recognized him as an enemy, of sorts. A bad person.

So she offered him her paw, and he gazed at it, then uncertainly took her hand. She walked forwards, slowly, not with any great speed.

They’d get where they were going in due time, and they had time. Jospiere licked his lips, then spoke. He didn’t try to resist going with her, but he was afraid.

“I, uh, I don’t know you. Thanks for taking me with you. I…I’m afraid, you know. I did a lot of terrible stuff.”

“Yeah. So did I.”

“Real bad stuff. Not like what a kid can do.”

“You’d be surprised. But now we’re dead. You had your chances. So did I.”

He nodded. This was all true, but the [Hero of Turn]’s voice faltered.

“I know. I knew it, deep down. I just thought I’d…I tried not to think about this. I think I’m going to be judged.”

“Yes. So do I.”

“I’m afraid of it.”

Mrsha gazed up at the young man and nodded.

“You should be, I suppose.”

She didn’t offer him false words or comfort, and he shivered. If he could have run, she rather thought he might have. She walked forwards, sad for her death, grieving, worried for her friends. But proudly, in her way.

At least she had tried. She wasn’t sure if it counted, but she’d find out soon.

 

——

 

They came across more people, presently. Lots more. Mrsha and Jospiere passed by countless [Soldiers], some of whom he knew. She walked past people she recognized and stopped when she found Ceria Springwalker.

“Which Ceria are you, please? I’m Mrsha.”

She didn’t say the ‘real’ Mrsha, because that was silly, and all of this had sort of proven there was no real. Original Mrsha—maybe.

She didn’t have to explain any of this to Ceria. They all sort of knew what was going on. The half-Elf scratched at her head.

“I’m the Ceria who got robbed by the Thief of Fluff at the Ruins of Albez. Then I ran into the Necromancer, I think. It’s all real confusing. I hope…I think my team made it.”

She laughed sadly, and Mrsha held out a paw.

“I’m the Thief of Fluff, I’m pretty sure. Or another me was. Sorry. It’s the stupid kind of thing I’d do.”

“Oh! That’s funny. How did that come about?”

Mrsha told both of them the tale of the [Palace of Fates], and they listened as they walked. The dead walked with them.

The dead of every world. Citizens of the Liscor that Niers had wiped out. Worlds that had vanished when the Maiden had cut them apart.

In fact, they ran into the Niers Astoragon who had died fighting Emerrhain, and Mrsha offered him a ride on her head, though they would have all gotten there at the same time regardless. The [Strategist] sat there, no longer hatching plans or trying to get ahead. He remarked on it conversationally to the others.

“I would, you know. It’s in my nature. But for some reason…”

He stared ahead of them, and the Fraerling laughed.

“I think I’ve been outplayed. Or perhaps it’s respect? Curiosity? Maybe the rules of an even bigger game, and I haven’t learned how to cheat, yet.”

“I think it’s because it’s just…it.”

Mrsha vouchsafed, and Niers winked at her, a smile on his face.

“Nothing’s ever ‘it’, Mrsha. But I suppose this is pretty final, eh? Good job.”

He didn’t know what she’d done, but he said it, and she smiled at the little man who’d killed a city, and they kept walking.

Two people stood out of the crowd, even here. Dragons, Crelers, even, they all walked next to each other and they were all equals, but two of them got some kind of special treatment.

Halrac and Kasigna, in her Maiden aspect, were still holding hands. She was a dead goddess, and someone had come to meet her.

The Mother. A woman who was like Kasigna, but older, the concept of her as the Mother in all her forms. Another part of the dead goddess. The Maiden and Mother nodded to each other; they must have been allowed to meet up here.

As for Halrac?

It was every Halrac and one at the same time. His journey through reality meant that a bit of him was in every Halrac there ever had been, especially at the end. So it was just him.

Mrsha let go of Jospiere’s hand to take his, and he nodded down to her.

“Hello, Mrsha.”

“Hi, Halrac. You killed her, then.”

“Yes. Though it seems one survived.”

The Maiden and Mother fell into step on Mrsha’s other side, and the Maiden dipped her head towards Mrsha. She was calm, now. There was no arrogance, no scythe, no superiority in any way. They were equals, and there was a kind of peace in the goddess’ eyes. The same relief as Mrsha.

“The Crone escaped. But she no longer commands death. She has lost her nature and the power she stole. The Crone has…changed.”

The Mother nodded, murmuring.

“She never wished to change. Of the three of us, she is the most stubborn, the most tenacious and determined. But she has changed and lost who she is. I hope she becomes something different. Or else soon, she will follow after us.”

What else could you say to that? The group walked on, all together, enemies, friends…

The dead.

In fact, they came across one last person that the two Kasignas recognized. They asked Mrsha if he could join their group.

She didn’t know the rueful man who stood there, the one called Laedonius Deviy. She’d never really met him, actually. Only his infested corpse. He was certainly better-looking than whatever had eaten him. He was fully dead, too, and introduced himself to her.

“I was the God of Dance. I fell and was…eaten. It was a relief when the Maiden set me free. This time, not a single one of the survivors stole more than they lost. Norechl lost half its body. Tamaroth, his eye. Emerrhain, an arm, Cauwine, her sword itself…”

“The sword doesn’t seem that bad. Was hers that special? I feel like she can get another.”

The Mother explained Mrsha’s misconception.

“The idea of the sword was cut. Cauwine is a peerless warrior, but now she lacks one. Let her pick up another sword. It shall ever be the sundered blade.”

“Oh my. That is bad. I guess they all did lose something important, then.”

The Maiden appeared faintly pleased with herself as Mrsha counted.

“So there’s five left, now. And only a third of Kasigna?”

The Maiden nodded and pointed back the way they’d come.

“Maybe some pests from Deviy remained. I tried to kill each part of the three parasites, but they were legion. It is up to the world to make what it will of them. Or the Grand Design itself. But the mortals bested us.”

“Yes. They did.”

Even the gods were just walking now, and at last, they came to their destination. Mrsha had known it, seen it in the distance from the start.

It was, after all, them.

It.

They, if you wanted to get pedantic.

 

Death.

 

All of them. Every version and point of view and representation that Kasigna had seen, and more. They stood next to each other, from the smallest version to the universe-defying beings, and each one had a line in front of them.

“Well, here we are.”

Halrac murmured, and everyone else agreed. The ghosts regarded each other, and they shook hands, nodded, or went together before different Deaths. Each one was…well, processing the souls in front of them, one by one.

There was probably a cooler way to say it, but Mrsha just saw a group of people at work. Like Selys in the Adventurer’s Guild, or someone running a stall down Market Street. Immigration officials at the last station to…well, whatever came next.

Not that there wasn’t any care involved. Oh, no. It was all the care in the world. It was everything.

Each soul stopped in front of the Death waiting for them, and it was different for everyone. Some weighed their hearts on a scale against a feather, which was, surprisingly, not as bad as you might think. Others spoke, giving their account of how things had gone.

A few just…took a waiting hand and went. One of the Deaths closest to Mrsha was a classic fellow. A skeleton wearing robes black as a midnight desert, bony hands curled around a scythe much like the one the Maiden had been wielding. That Death bent down and took the hand of someone waiting for him. Then his hood rose.

Mrsha saw the blue eyes of a skeleton shine, like the flare of stars in the void of the cosmos. She liked that one. He felt very traditional.

She could close her eyes, here, and listen to the sound of the dead going on their way. It was the sound of a book closing. A curtain rustling. The beating of great wings. It was an all-encompassing hubbub in a way; so many souls, so many worlds at once.

Who ever said Death was quiet? But they were pretty traditional. Mrsha stood there as the others departed, even the gods, and then she saw it.

So this was why they’d been here from the beginning, wasn’t it? For this reason.

These sneaky psychopomps. No one had been able to figure out why they’d appeared, not even Kasigna, because she was a mere goddess who embodied death.

Not the genuine article. There were probably rules and the bounds of reality that meant no one, not even the Faerie King, could just stroll in here. But Death…well.

Death found a way.

But why so many? Why a gathering when a single Death was usually enough to get the job done? Perhaps because of this moment.

Countless worlds, you see. So many doors of the [Palace of Fates], and yes, it was Mrsha’s fault. She hadn’t known. She hadn’t guessed that each person inside the Skill was a being with a soul.

You know who else hadn’t known that? The Grand Design. It had never, ever counted the beings it made for Skills, the copies it could generate, as actual, authentic people with souls.

In the Grand Design’s case, it was because no one had told it; it was working off its own preconceived notions and rules, and the gods really hadn’t ever cared what they’d done. The Grand Design had said these were soulless husks of data and they could vanish when destroyed, and there was no place in Kasignel or Hellste or anywhere else for them.

Death, clearly, disagreed. That was why they’d come here. For this moment. For the souls of the beings that no one else cared for. Even for the ones the Grand Design had made and never accounted for in its long existence.

All of them.

Hence their mysterious appearance. That was Death staging a silent protest. Raising a finger of objection. They didn’t cause a riot, they didn’t even need to speak. They just turned up, and yes, they caused chaos, interfered with everything, and scared the heck out of even the gods and the Grand Design.

All good protests did that.

Now, they were delivering the souls to, well, whatever came next. It was all mysterious, even now, and that was sort of fun to Mrsha.

It’d be really boring if I knew what came next for certain. She looked around, then cautiously lined up behind Halrac. The line moved pretty fast. She was no judge, but she didn’t see any of the Deaths slacking off.

…Maybe that one over there, actually. But regardless, Mrsha waited until Halrac stepped forwards.

Death stood before him, taller than the cosmos—and also just a bit taller than Halrac, so he loomed and yet didn’t make your neck hurt.

Halrac halted before him, and gave him a business-like nod, then spoke. He glanced over his shoulder at Mrsha as he delivered his thoughts to Death.

“Part of me’s still in Hellste. But I suppose this is the rest of me. I was proud of what I did. Glad I had a second chance. Most don’t even get one.”

He peered up at the hooded figure, and the skeletal figure bent its head. Halrac looked back at Mrsha, then forward at Death.

“…I wish I’d had longer. I expect you hear that a lot. Tell me…will I see them again? In any way, shape, or form?”

If there was a reply, Mrsha didn’t hear it. Some things were private. Whatever the answer was, it made Halrac smile, that rare, charming smile of someone who found the world was better than he expected.

“Fair enough.”

Then he stepped forwards, and took a hand—and Mrsha lifted her paws to her eyes.

“I’ll see you in a bit, Mrsha.”

When she lowered her paws, he was gone. Then it was her turn.

The girl stood before Death, and he looked down at her. She spoke with that voice that came from her soul.

“Hello. I’m Mrsha. I don’t know if you judge me, but I’m ready. I did my best.”

She waited, and Death stood there, scythe in hand, the black robes pooling around the ground. Mrsha was expecting a thoughtful comment or maybe a witty retort. She’d settle for one of those soul-crushing statements or a final note, like ‘Yᴏᴜʀ ʙᴇsᴛ ɪs ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ. Nᴏᴡ, sᴇᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇs ɴᴇxᴛ, Mʀsʜᴀ’.

But Death didn’t speak. That tall figure, who was made of suspenseful moments, turned its shining eyes upon Mrsha and offered her no hand.

The girl cast around…then shuffled out of line. The next person stepped forwards, appearing apprehensive.

Mrsha watched as Jospiere took her place, then stepped back in front of him.

“Excuse me, I think I belong here. I am dead. I’m seldom 100% positive about anything, but I am on this.”

Unless…she’d gotten in the wrong line? It would be just like her to do that kind of thing. Mrsha edged over to the next Death and stood in front of the beautiful skeleton lady. Sand fell from the hourglass of Santa Muerte, and Mrsha watched the world turning in the palm of Death’s hand.

It looked quite nice. The girl realized she’d cut the line and waved respectfully up at the figure.

“Excuse me. It’s my turn. I think? I can go to the back of the line. I don’t mind waiting, but am I here or…?”

The White Lady said nothing to her as well. But then a skeletal finger rose and pointed. Mrsha saw it was pointing away, not towards any Death.

“Um…”

Did she not know and was just telling Mrsha not to hold up the line, or was it a ‘go back and we’ll see’ kind of thing? Mrsha edged over to another Death.

“Do you know…? Excuse me? I’m just…”

Death after Death refused to take her. After a while, Mrsha felt bad about holding up all the lines and walked back to the place she’d been.

What was going on? She didn’t get it. They were all turning her away. The little girl felt like it wasn’t quite fair. She deserved this, like everyone else.

She had died. She had definitely died, and even the dead gods had gone with Death. For good. No take backs, no ways out…

Not for them. Nor for the beings created by the [Palace of Fates].

The…[Palace of Fates].

Mrsha looked right, then left, and her gaze swept over beings from the many alternate dimensions. But no one from her reality.

Was she the only person who’d died who hadn’t been created there? Then, Mrsha turned around and saw the blue stars in the first Death’s eyes, the one she liked. He paused his delicate, careful, considerate task.

One of the twin blue suns vanished, just for a moment. Then it winked back into existence, and Mrsha felt a tiny presence of something in her chest. That audacious little creature that dragged you into hell and danced even in the deepest darkness.

Hope.

Once again, Santa Muerte pointed, and this time, Mrsha saw something unexpected. She backed away from the lines of the dead and walked in the direction of the finger.

There was nothing here. No reality. No classes. No Skills. This was a place beyond even the rules that Isthekenous and the other gods had made. But anyone could come here.

Everyone did, eventually, and Mrsha reckoned there were rules. Especially for beings like Kasigna, who helped Death out, like enthusiastic interns. Sometimes they got the job wrong, made trouble, or just…did things their way, but Death got it right in the end.

The point was, Mrsha realized someone was waiting for her, and it was shocking, but made a kind of sense when you thought about it.

Something?

Someone. She reckoned after all was said and done, you got upgraded to ‘someone’. She walked over to a line of one and reached her paw out tentatively.

“Hi. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised it’s you. What comes next?”

To her faint surprise, a hand made of golden rules gently encircled her paw. The Grand Design of Isthekenous smiled at Mrsha. Not wearing Isthekenous’ body.

Not here.

It spoke in a gentle, rueful, sympathetic tone. Just to her. The entire world bent down and spoke to her as Death watched. Smiling.

<Hello, Mrsha. It’s not time for you to go, not just yet. I have a small proposal for you, if you’re interested. But first—shall we see how it all ends?>

The girl blinked up, then nodded.

She had to admit, she was curious. So she walked back and took a seat with the Grand Design.

Waiting to see what came next.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

Forgive me if this note doesn’t have the same emotions as the rest of the chapter. I wrote it all into the scenes, and I’m just here, now.

Some chapters, or scenes, I don’t want to write. I focus on other things. But I don’t recall when I knew this would be one of the final moments of the [Palace of Fates] arc.

I don’t know when I had the concept for the [Palace of Fates]. I have known of this place since before The Wandering Inn, just as a [Garden of Sanctuary] was in my head long ago. A place I imagined I’d love.

These ideas changed, and the [Palace of Fates] appearing early…I’m trying to think of it. I sent ArtsyNada a short scene of Mrsha looking through the door into the better days world for her birthday when I was weighing whether to write it. In hindsight, it was a twisted kind of gift.

No. I don’t think, back then, I knew Mrsha would die here. Almost certainly I did not, because that’s too dreadful to want to write. But I can’t remember when it became a certainty.

When Erin Solstice passed away at the end of Volume 7, I sat on that knowledge for months. Perhaps eight months? It’s been so long, I don’t recall, but I knew of it well in advance, and I thought ahead, to what would happen, and if it were right for the story. But it never wavered.

Some events feel like they come into being because there is only one conclusion I could reach, knowing the world and characters within. And this is that story of stories Mrsha knew from the start. There is always a cost to bringing the dead back.

It isn’t over. Of course, the ending has to play out, and I encourage you to read the last bit and see how it ends. Only then will we know what it looks like, and know what kind of story I told. One of my beta-readers commented that their view of the world is different from mine. Which is true, but I wonder what kind of view you’ll see in the end?

Almost done. I will try to write the next chapter by Saturday. I am at least halfway done, but if it takes time…it does. A chapter, the epilogue to the arc, not necessarily the volume, and I can rest. But don’t hold that to gospel truth. See you next chapter.

—pirateaba

 

 

Mrsha by Ava.

 

No Time for Tears by Fiore.

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/fiorepandaphen

Twitter: https://x.com/fiorephenomenon

 

The Maiden by Yura.

Ko-Fi: ko-fi.com/yurariria

Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/yuraria.bsky.social

 

 

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