10.36 – Pt.1

(The Wandering Inn store is selling new frying pan keychains! Not suitable for combat except for Fraerlings!)

https://store.wanderinginn.com/products/frying-pan-keychain

 

 

 

 

On the thirty-eighth day in the Fraerling village of Dretonamis, Erin Solstice was eating a bowl of salad greens for lunch. She kept stopping mid-chew and frowning at her food. Her confusion kept mounting until Ulvama stopped feeding the Battle Hamster pieces of bread dipped in soup.

“What’s wrong, Erin?”

“My salad tastes sorta sweet. Do you think they’re putting sugar in it?”

Erin poked at the bed of greens and veggies. It was a non-fruit dish, hence her suspicions. Ulvama peered at the bowl, well aware by now that Erin was firmly anti-sugar.

It made her physically feel unwell to have honey or direct sugars, hence her avoidance of the stuff. Even in bread; Erin had happily traded the breads she could produce with ‘Tallfolk’ ingredients for the rye breads that the Fraerlings made. She was all about savory flavors; Ulvama popped a bit of an orange roasted squash into her mouth and chewed. She took another piece of Erin’s meal.

“…Nope. Tastes like salad. Gross. Why are you eating that for lunch?”

Ulvama returned to her bowl, which was as strange to Erin as lunches got. The [Innkeeper] was eating leafy greens, which didn’t taste sweet, but less…bitter than she remembered. More palatable, even with a very thin oil dressing. Ulvama, on the other hand, was not a big salad person.

She liked sweets, pizzas, and, Erin was realizing, junk food. Ulvama’s month of isolation in the wilds had left her thinner, but she seemed determined to eat well in the Fraerling village. Even so, Ulvama wasn’t always keen on a bug-themed roast from the Oven House. So, during their foraging for food—an occurrence most adult Fraerlings willing to leave the village participated in—they’d secured the [Shaman]’s new favorite food.

Chia seeds. That’s what Erin called them. Fraerlings called them hydroseeds, because of the unique ability of the seeds to form a gel-like substance around the seeds when exposed to water or other liquids. It made them fascinating to the [Shaman], and she was eating a big bowl of ‘pudding’ that was just milk, the chia seeds, and some wild sugarcane along with any fruits she had.

It was way too sweet for Erin, who pointedly went back to munching on her lunch.

“I bet it’s because I’m not eating sugar. Everything tastes a bit sweeter, even though it’s, y’know, less sweet. Because I’m not consuming actual sugar.”

“Makes sense.”

“Salad’s super tasty. Well, tastier. I bet this is why hamsters and vegetarians can do it all the time.”

“Yep.”

Ulvama went back to feeding the Battle Hamster its lunch. Erin scowled at the uncooperative Hobgoblin.

“I’m trying to start a conversation here, Ulvama.”

The Hobgoblin gave her a narrow-eyed stare.

“You’re eating salad. You eat salad every day. This isn’t conversation, it’s the other thing. Tiny-talk.”

“Small talk.”

“Yah. I don’t small talk about salad.”

“Okay. How about the weather, then?”

The [Shaman] flicked a piece of bread at Erin’s face, and the [Innkeeper] leaned across the bench they were sitting at. She grabbed a piece of tomato.

“Don’t start a war you can’t win, Ulvama. I’ve got [Unerring Throw].”

Erin grinned, and her hazel eyes flashed with good humor. Ulvama inspected the [Innkeeper] as she held her hands up, feigning meekness. They were eating outside the Oven House, and the spring air was blowing the [Innkeeper]’s hair as Erin flipped the bit of tomato into her mouth. The strands of hair still had discolored patches, but it was regrowing on the places of her head where it had fallen out, and the scars and—lines, like that of a much older woman—were vanishing.

Not all her scars. She still had the brands around her neck and on her wrists, but they were no longer as raw. Her skin wasn’t disintegrating. And she could dodge errant pieces of bread. Erin’s eyes flicked to the houses at the edge of the village.

“You’re nearly out of chia. You’ve gotta stop eating so much. You’ve eaten it every day for two weeks, Ulvama. Don’t you get bored?”

“Nope.”

“Well, let’s get some more. Maybe the Brawling Bros are up for it?”

That was Erin’s name for Zemmy and Mera, which neither one of them cared for. She stabbed aggressively into her bowl until she had as much salad as she could fit on a fork, and then the [Innkeeper] tried to eat the entire bite. That was her approach to salad, because it ‘got old’ at some point, and Erin just wanted to finish it without wasting time on each leaf.

It was sort of gross, but then—Ulvama eyed the bulging Battle Hamster’s cheeks as it slapped the table, demanding more pieces of bread.

“Children. I’m dealing with children.”

She complained to the Corundum Beetle, who was snacking on mildewed bark to the side. It stared at her, and Erin made an outraged noise.

“Childwen? U’re ve wun who—”

The [Innkeeper] was having a…calm day. Not an ordinary day. She’d left those long ago. Rather, she was just adjusting to this stay at the Fraerling village. ‘Figuring things out’ was how she’d have termed it.

‘Recovering’ was how Ulvama, Eurise, and the other Fraerlings would have called it. The [Innkeeper] had lost track of time, in truth. She hadn’t even used the Pavilion of Secrets that much for two weeks, only checking on people she knew. She’d been feeling—odd since last night, though.

She didn’t know why. Only like something off was happening. She put it down to indigestion from something the Fraerlings had given her.

The sun was shining down on her when the world…stopped. Erin’s chewing, the passage of the sun—everything—halted.

No one noticed while it was going on. Everyone—Erin, Ulvama, the Fraerlings, the Battle Hamster—stopped. They hung there, suspended, until the moment reality resumed without a hitch.

Then, the [Innkeeper] swallowed and cast around, feeling at the back of her neck. Ulvama hadn’t noticed anything.

“Chew and speak.”

She spoke to Erin like a child, but the [Innkeeper] was frowning.

“Hey, did you feel that? It was like an [Immortal Moment] just…”

She kept looking around, and Ulvama raised her eyebrows.

“Nope. You used one to eat salad?”

“Hah. No, I’m serious. I…”

Somewhat unsettled, Erin went back to eating her food. She sensed nothing more, but that strange feeling was upon her again.

Her inn. She was so far from it, but she felt, sometimes, like she could sense aspects of it, like when it was busy. Or…was something wrong?

It was just a feeling, but Erin stopped making small talk during their meal, and Ulvama noticed. They ate quietly as the Battle Hamster finally got enough food in its cheek pouches and curled up while it chewed.

Erin and Ulvama were bussing the dishes back to the Oven House when the [Innkeeper] stumbled. She went sprawling over the ground, and the [Shaman] turned.

“Erin?”

A bowl and cup made of wood bounced over the dirt, and the [Innkeeper], normally surefooted with her [Dancer] Skills, hit the ground and gazed up.

“No.”

Ulvama thought it was for her and hesitated, her hand outstretched. But it wasn’t about her.

It was the voice that spoke impassively in Erin’s head. A thundering roar only she could hear. A voice so terrible it drowned out the hubbub of the Fraerlings around her. A hand pulled her out of her bubble of healing and respite.

She woke from the pleasant dream she’d been having.

 

<Mythical Quest – Keep The Wandering Inn Safe Until I Return.>

Optional Condition (Impossible): Don’t let anyone we love die.

<Optional Condition failed.>

 

“Erin?”

Then, the [Innkeeper] felt her skin writhing. The cold metal of a shackle on her hands and around her neck. She smelled ships burning, and the [Shaman]’s hand withdrew. The Hobgoblin spoke again as she stepped back.

“Erin? What’s wrong? Your aura—”

“Who?”

The woman pushed herself up slowly, painfully as the laughing Fraerlings turned in sudden alarm, flinching away from…

The [Innkeeper] was sweating suddenly. She felt at her chest.

“Something’s wrong. H-how? Who…?”

She was tearing at the clothing the Fraerlings had given her. Ulvama reached out for her.

“Erin? What?”

“Something’s wrong. The inn. Someone’s trying to get into my [Garden of Sanctuary]. Something dead. And now someone worse. Who—”

She thought she saw someone staring at her. Crimson eyes, a gaze made of wrath. Erin felt hands pressing at something important to her. Not her heart, but almost. She was trying to stop—

The Goblin King tore the door to her [Garden of Sanctuary] open, and the [Innkeeper] split in half before Ulvama’s horrified eyes. The [Shaman] saw hands emerge from Erin’s chest and pull something apart—

“Erin!”

She was screaming for help—but then the [Innkeeper] was kneeling, not torn in twain. But sweat was pouring down her face. Ulvama stuttered.

“What was—was that a Goblin’s—?”

“He’s in my inn. He broke into my [Garden of Sanctuary].”

“Who?”

Erin didn’t know. But she knew. She could have described that being made of wrath. Tell you exactly who he was, but never know what he looked like until she laid eyes on him. It was like a burning brand of hatred in her chest. She clawed at it. Then tried to run.

“He’s going to—”

Too far. Too far to stop anything; thousands of miles away. The [Innkeeper] cried out as Eurise came running and Ulvama shouted for help. But there was nothing to do.

Just—wake up. Wake from her beautiful daydream.

[The Wandering Innkeeper], Erin Solstice, whispered to that intruder.

“Stop. Stop. I’ll kill you, I swear it. Stop!”

Ulvama’s hands leapt away from Erin’s shoulders.

The [Innkeeper] was burning with black flames.

 

——

 

Mrsha du Marquin was dead.

The [Palace of Fates] had fallen to pieces, every world gone with it. All that remained was a single door held open by the Apostle Pawn.

The Goblin King had reached The Wandering Inn and returned to reality. Along with the Necromancer.

 

——

 

He stopped a while in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. He had no choice, you see.

Even the Goblin King had never been here before. His gaze swung right and left, around the strange, peculiar place he had broken into.

He knew it—and did not. One part of him had been here before.

Rabbiteater remembered this place. But Rabbiteater was one aspect of the ‘Goblin King’; the being who controlled his body, who raged, was separate. The original Goblin King versus all the Goblin Kings he became, if that made sense. So this was his first time here, as he was. The Goblin King shook his head as he realized he was in error, in fact.

“Second. Ieriv visited one of these places once.”

It was just one memory from the Goblin known as Ierlv the Bloodtide, who had waged a war from the seas. A [Garden of Sanctuary] belonging to a Drowned Man, a [Captain of Ships], long ago. A completely different place than this…

The Goblin King’s head rose towards that hill of mists, then swung around. He gazed at the beings in the [Garden of Sanctuary], cowering away from him.

The Lyonette and Mrsha of another world, guarded by a band of [Knights]. Crimshaw, Normen, a world where the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings had all risen to the Order of Solstice. Stragglers who’d escaped here only to run into him. His hand reached for his sword—and halted.

“No.”

It seemed as if he was talking to himself, because he was. The voice that spoke was Rabbiteater’s. The Goblin King of Traitors held the Goblin King’s arm back, and so did the [Garden of Sanctuary].

Sanctuary. The Goblin King could understand this Skill; it was all around him, trying to halt any kind of real violence. But he was beyond the Skill; he had broken in.

He could oppose both Rabbiteater and the Skill, but the Goblin King was…tired. His strength allowed him to do the impossible: breach the [Palace of Fates] or the [Garden of Sanctuary], destroy great foes, even escape that black hole that the God of Magic had imprisoned him in.

But the more power he used, the more tired he became. The [Princess] and the Gnoll girl weren’t important, so the Goblin King stood there, letting Rabbiteater turn his head. Survey this familiar place.

The Goblin King ignored the Knights of Solstice, Lyonette, and Mrsha as they ran for the [Palace of Fates]. Escaping him—fleeing towards that door out of reality that had been created.

He let them go. They did not matter. The Goblin King even ignored the bee that flew around his head, stinging at his helmet. The sole defender of this [Garden of Sanctuary] buzzed around his face, terrified of him, but fighting to the last. His head turned, and Apista froze—but the hand that reached out and plucked the Ashfire Bee out of the air was gentle.

“Apista. There you are. It’s been so long.”

Rabbiteater? The Ashfire Bee was confused. Rabbiteater had smashed his way into the [Garden of Sanctuary]? What the heck?

He let go of her, and Apista buzzed backwards in alarm. The people in the [Garden of Sanctuary], multiple versions of Lyonette, people who should be dead—even another version of Apista—were all fleeing back into the [Palace of Fates].

Anything to escape the Goblin King. Rabbiteater spoke.

“Fly away, Apista. Don’t follow me. I’m holding him back as much as I can. Run. No—stay here.”

Then his voice shifted, and Apista buzzed away in a terror as the Goblin King spoke.

“Are you done looking around? Nothing will remain afterwards.”

“Not this time. I forbid it. Not this time.”

They were arguing with each other. Multiple souls trapped within the same body. The Goblin King turned away from that hill of mists, gazing towards the exit. To the inn.

He walked forwards and realized that the [Garden of Sanctuary] was beginning to burn. Black flames sprouted up around his boots, trying to eat at his armor. He ignored the flames of rage, the distant authority pressing against him.

It was all impotent. Nothing stopped him. Only Rabbiteater—the Goblin King raised a hand and inspected it as it twitched, two wills warring with each other.

“You cannot oppose me. You know my purpose. You have seen them. Six. Six!”

His rage was burning a physical hole in this place; the inn itself was flickering in the air as the [Garden of Sanctuary] began to fail around him. The Goblin King continued, then, voice suddenly—calm.

“Six. Dead gods. I know each of them. Though I only saw two aspects of the Three-in-One. There were hundreds left when they were bested. Six remain.”

He smiled, such a rare act that he had almost forgotten how to do it; his lips rose, and he bared his teeth, but it was the rictus of a bloody warrior, not a true smile of joy. The Goblin King continued his monologue, trying to convince Rabbiteater, and savoring it.

“The rest are nothing, now. Not even shadows. They are gone. Asebotc the Songsmith, Lloediy, God of Elves—I speak their names and there is no echo. No faith or recognition to give. Gone.”

This was his triumph. His victory in his long war against the memory of gods. Long had he known they had been clinging to life—defeated shadows who might resurface if remembered. Corpses gathered around the fire of belief.

But even corpses rotted away. The rest had not endured this long vigil he’d kept; they had fallen to time, to each other, or to the war amongst the dead he had learned of; mere Seamwalkers, not even the true Rot Between Worlds had eaten them.

This was his victory, but to the Goblin King’s frustration, Rabbiteater did not care. His attention was focused on the [Garden of Sanctuary], the inn. The Goblin King’s voice grew impatient.

“But six have regained too much strength. They must be destroyed.”

“Then go back and fight them. But you can’t. They’ll win.”

This, too, was true. The Goblin King’s eyes flashed, but he could not deny it. Even with fractions of their might—he was outmatched by all six of them.

The flames were burning up his legs as he stood there. But the fire of rage and invisible hatred didn’t do anything to the Goblin King. He was those two things to his very core.

The fire wasn’t even warm. But another being flinched away from the flames as he emerged out of the [Palace of Fates]. The Goblin King’s head turned, and a floating skull and an arm of bone pulled itself out of the [Palace of Fates]. The remnants of a spine; all that remained of the Bone Giant was its upper shoulder and head.

The broken skull had green flames in the eye sockets. It was no mere undead; the Goblin King spoke.

“Necromancer.”

Az’kerash flinched when he saw the Goblin King. The rest of his body entered the [Garden of Sanctuary], and the Goblin King saw he was under the effects of [Greater Invisibility] and other spells.

Even the Dragonlords would have had trouble noticing him. Not least because this version of Az’kerash was damaged.

His soul was vanishing. His main body was destroyed. He’d sacrificed it—his Chosen—and inhabited this breaking vessel. Still, the Goblin King was aware he would be a dangerous foe to battle. So he tried diplomacy.

The Necromancer might be a good distraction for the Dragonlords. The Necromancer’s voice, projected from the Bone Giant’s mouth, was confused and desperate.

“What is this place? I—I could not enter until you broke the door. Me. Everyone else could, but not me.”

“It is called the [Garden of Sanctuary].”

“You can’t enter unless invited, stupid.”

Two voices spoke; Az’kerash flinched back from the Goblin King. Then the bone head swivelled, and he saw the second door. The way out. He began crawling to it.

“Escape. There has to be safety—they’re following. A Unicorn, a—you can have my spellcraft, my minions. Belavierr is dead! Teriarch’s turned traitor! Just aid my escape—!”

The Goblin King said nothing. Did nothing. The head of the Bone Giant turned back to the Goblin, and the Necromancer realized he had been ignored.

I must live.

The undead Bone Giant crawled into the inn. The first nightmare unleashed on the world. The Goblin King continued musing.

“They must die. But how? They cannot follow me here. They have no flesh. But if they gain it…”

“Aren’t you tired? Of killing?”

The Goblin King was amused by Rabbiteater’s question.

“No. Not yet. I have not even begun, while they live. Be silent. Where do I start?”

He was thinking, for he had a quandary. You see…the Goblin King did not rage aimlessly. It might seem so to the world, but whenever he arose, it was to a purpose.

The original Goblin King was no fool. The first few times he had pulled his soul from Hellste to make war on the world had been true, blind rage, but after that, he had tempered some of his rage for a purpose.

He knew he was born out of the Goblin species; if they should ever vanish, so would his ability to resurrect in the world beyond. Each Goblin King also had their own desires, regardless of the fact that they merged with him.

Thus, he was like a kind of Djinni, a twisted wish fulfilling itself. The Goblin King would do what each Goblin King desired if it was within his power and matched his goals. Then he would do what advanced Goblins in the long term—or weakened the bonds of the world.

In Sóve’s time, it had been creating and defending the Isle of Goblins; a permanent staging ground for reinforcing Goblin tribes around the world. Curulac of a Hundred Days had begged for vengeance upon the Terandrian Kingdoms; they had exterminated kingdoms and ended the bloodlines of the Hundred Families and the hated Lucifen and Agelum, servants of the enemy.

Darker ages for Goblins had seen him called forth. Parithcae the Liberator had emerged when Goblins had been enslaved by the millions under the will of the Slave Nations, when Roshal’s kind were legion.

He had erased countless nations by blood and fire. Even, during the era when magic died, acted as a protector for a time. Hithzerene the Scaled had been his curious body then, a Goblin that had escaped from an [Archmage]’s laboratory as magic died—Goblins had been so few in number that he had been forced to safeguard the remaining tribes.

—But he always sought the end of things, even if it meant leading Goblins to war. The problem was that not all the Goblin Kings had a desire he could fulfill.

Velan the Kind had longed for peace. He had been opposed to the Goblin King, so the Goblin King had destroyed a city and made peace impossible. He would have rampaged across Baleros, but Velan the Kind had offered him something the Goblin King desired more.

The north of Izril. They’d almost taken it, and even if they had failed at First Landing, the Five Families and the Flowers of Izril had died in droves, their power broken. They would have taken the north of Izril if not for Velan’s trick.

That cunning Goblin King, that [Healer] and [Alchemist], had prepared a draught that put even the Goblin King to sleep for a time, hiding the weapons looted from his campaign away in the High Passes. Handicapped the Goblin King’s rampage.

Similarly, Rabbiteater hadn’t had anything he desired. When he had awoken and beheld the Goblin King’s destruction, the Goblin King of Traitors had lost everything that mattered to him.

It had been Ragathsi’s dream of civilization that the Goblin King had pursued in that fake world. A permanent way to empower Goblins and slowly take all of Izril. Regardless of his clashes with the Goblin Lord of Civilizations, the Goblin King had been content with that plan.

But now…the Goblin King had returned to life, yet he had nothing. No armies; each Goblin King always arose with their followers, with powerful Goblins.

No Goblin Lords, no tribes ready for war, nothing. Or rather, the only Goblin Lords were behind him in the [Palace of Fates]—and they were opposed to his existence. If there were any beyond Izril, he wouldn’t sense them until he left the [Garden of Sanctuary]. But then the world would know he had returned.

And he had the dead gods alive and active. No time to wait for another chance at revival. Hence, the Goblin King’s quandary.

He thought, a warrior planning the next move in his long war against foes he only vaguely understood. A survivor of the last war, still screaming for vengeance over eighty thousand years later.

The black flames were covering his torso and armor now, and the crackling of rage mixed with the thundering of blood in his ears. The backdrop to the pulsing of his soul.

If it was too quiet, if he listened—he could still hear the screaming of Elves.

The Goblin King’s closed eyes opened, and Apista heard him whisper.

“Liscor is worthless. You may keep it, unless you oppose me. Pallass is connected to this inn. That will do. It still has armories full of failsafes. Wall spells. Activate those—strike Rhir. Yes…if this is the same world as the one I left, Rhir. Other Walled Cities. The tribes.”

Unleash everything Pallass had stored away. Tier 8 spells, if they had them left. Ruination upon other nations, who would reply in kind. He needed a map of powerful countries.

First Pallass, then the next Walled City, or he’d have to reach Wistram. Keep activating their treasuries until the entire world was rubble and every nation rained down armageddon on each other.

That would hinder the dead gods the most, without enough souls to worship them.

It was the most direct plan the Goblin King had. There were only two rooms between him and the portal room. The Goblin King turned towards the door that led to the common room of the inn. He walked forwards, trailing flames.

Faster. Faster—rage building in him as he saw the door swinging closed. He struck it and grabbed the doorframe. And felt it resisting him again.

It didn’t matter.

Annihilation was coming. The Goblin King whispered as his clawed fingers dug into the wood, cracking it, and he heard a female voice screaming. Two—one in rage, the other in agony, both trying to hold the door closed. The Goblin King smiled; an ageless being greeting the mortals who stood in his way, toys before a furious child who had seen his parents die. Again and again—

“I’m back.”

 

——

 

The Goblin King had re-entered the world. Nations would burn. But where and how?

She had to know. The Empress of Wings flew through the [Palace of Fates] and knew the Skill would vanish shortly. Each world consigned to oblivion, the souls gone.

Nevertheless, she had to know. So she conjured a door and opened it.

A vision of the future.

The Goblin King reached Pallass in eight minutes. In the first minute of the Goblin King’s arrival, the casualties passed three hundred thousand.

The City of Inventions quaked as two floors collapsed, buildings and people showering downwards. A single figure in armor, leaping downwards.

Until he stopped.

In this alternate reality, the Goblin King’s head turned, and he glanced up at something in the sky. Those burning eyes wavered with confusion, then he spoke. Sounding…annoyed.

“You.”

Empress Sheta slammed the door in the [Palace of Fates] and spoke. Her wings beat faster, unsettled.

She’d seen all she needed to. And yet he had seen her. Her voice snapped as she called out.

“He is going for Pallass.”

Six Dragonlords of Flame turned to her, each one panting and battleworn. They were flying for the exit, pursuing the Goblin King. But the Harpy Queen was holding something in her talons.

A door?

The door to the world she’d summoned, in her talons. The Harpy Queen dropped it. She’d conjured it; this was, after all, her Skill. One of the Teriarchs rumbled; the Archmage of Scales was relatively unwounded, save for Creler venom that had scarred his face; he opened one eye still steaming and spoke. He was haughty, proud, a Dragonlord in a world where he was the respected fount of magic. Ego, vanity, but also the one who had continued to interfere with the world he knew.

“Pallass. Why Pallass?”

Another Teriarch spoke; the Dragonlord who had partnered with the Goblin King, the Teriarch of ten years in the future, the most overweight and broken of them all. He had watched even Magnolia Reinhart perish, keeping to his vow of noninterference. His eyes were filmy, and he blinked, as if trying to pull himself into the world he’d abandoned.

Still, he flew for Empress Sheta, the Harpy he knew. They all did. His voice was panting with effort.

“Weapons of war, most likely. We must stop him.”

Six Dragonlords and the largest Harpy living. The [Palace of Fates] was disintegrating in their wake. They were behind the Goblin King; they’d been fighting the Crelers and trying to slow down the dead gods.

Eight minutes until a city broke. Empress Sheta spoke.

“[Chronomancer’s Conference of the August].”

Time slowed. She didn’t bother to invoke the rest of the Skill; that would have sat them at a table to plan and discuss. The [Harpy Empress], she who had reached one of the highest levels of any Harpy ever, spoke as wind rushed under her wings.

Level 82 [Empress of Issrysil, Queen of the Empire of Iltanus, Almighty Monarch of Wings]. Everything that flew owed her sovereignty.

—But she had no more empire. Nor was she a being who normally fought her own battles, a champion like the Dragonlord of Flames or the Goblin King. This world beyond was unknown to her, so she asked.

“Pallass? Is this an important Drake city?”

All six Dragonlords turned to her, blinking in confusion. One of them was a survivor from the Creler Wars, fresh from his world—he had watched his fellow Dragonlords slain by the dead gods. He was the greatest warrior present, in the prime of his life, and still so terribly old. His response was more understanding than the others.

“Pallass is a Walled City. It arose long after your empire collapsed, Sheta. Perhaps it was around when you ruled? It would have been a village of Drakes with a penchant for engineering.”

“Curious. That is a Walled City? What of Lesegoth?”

Sheta knew Walled Cities. The ones from her time had predated the Harpy Empire, even if they had knelt to her royal bloodline. She didn’t understand the reaction of the other Dragonlords.

“The City of Shields? Destroyed.”

“Why?”

Another Teriarch answered, the panting survivor of the beach world, eyes filled with guilt for the people he had abandoned.

“Treachery. Obliterated by a Tier 9 spell.”

“Irvoryth?”

Yet another one spoke, voice husky with memories.

“Destroyed with their World Tree. Oteslia remains. It has a sapling.”

“I don’t know Oteslia. Grunvel, then—?”

“Every Walled City north of the High Passes is gone, Your Majesty.”

Her feathers shivered. Sheta opened her mouth and spoke, hoarse.

“What…are the High Passes?”

Even the oldest Dragonlord, Teriarch of the Creler Wars, just looked at her. And then he realized…

“The High Passes are the tallest mountain range in the world, Sheta. You knew them as the Skolvec Ridges. They were raised into the vast mountains by an [Archmage] after Iltanus fell. That…is what became of the Mount Iltane. There are no structures there anymore.”

Her head spun. Sheta’s wings faltered, and her eyes went round, like the Dragonlords remembered. A wide-eyed child—only her expression was one of horror and loss.

A familiar face they had seen countless times in their mirror scales. The Dragonlords faltered with her, then her wingbeats accelerated.

“Long have I been dead. I knew it. Is there…not one city that I would remember?”

They thought, and the Dragonlord of the Creler Wars spoke.

“Ah, of course. Maakdel—”

One of the other Dragonlords drew a claw across his throat, and the Creler Wars Teriarch flinched.

“Even the City of Letters?”

“Collapsed by the end of the Creler Wars by an Elder Creler; the Demons destroyed the rest of it. The Death of Magic detonated the walls when she rose against the Blighted Kingdom.”

“The who? Don’t tell me that the bastard came back after killing magic!”

“No, not him! Silvenia.”

“Silvenia? The half-Elf girl leading the magical corps? She became a—?”

The confusion from the Creler Wars Teriarch was answered by explanations from the others; one of the Teriarchs spoke to Sheta.

“…You’d remember Zeres, Sheta. And perhaps Manus’ academies? It became the City of War later.”

“Zeres. The Port City of Waves. Yes. That is enough. We fly in defense of Zeres and Manus, then. We will emerge and destroy the Goblin King; he is entering through some kind of door. Information?”

They turned to the Beach Teriarch, who rasped for breath.

“Door of Portals in Skill-based form. Not as powerful as the Relic-class object, but more than enough for him. Can’t be deactivated or stolen. Only the [Innkeeper]’s death will stop it.”

The Empress of Harpies nodded. Her Skill was running out of power; she spoke.

“[By My Decree: Extend Skill]. [Wings of the Wind Dragon].”

They sped up, and she could see the exit now, a distant door where that [Princess] stood. No—she’d fallen down. The Harpy Empress saw the Maiden striding past the Dragonlords and her, scythe raised. The Maiden glanced up, but the Empress had no time for her.

Nor the Maiden for her. They passed by each other, headed for their respective fates. The Harpy’s voice was cold. With each passing second, she felt more alive. More burdened.

“This [Innkeeper]. Dragonlord—Dragonlords, rather. Can one of you cast [Greater Scrying] and strike her with a [Ray of Disintegration]? If she is anywhere on this continent, your combined magic should be suitable for the task. Is she valuable enough to leave alive?”

Three pairs of wings faltered—the Archmage of Scales turned to Sheta, mouth open in shock. Some of them had forgotten her, remembered only her finest qualities.

She was still the Empress of Wings, and if she could save a city…three hundred thousand lives in the first minute versus one. It was a simple calculus.

“—She’s in Baleros. Don’t touch her. Don’t you dare.”

A presence. Sheta almost spun in an attacking slash—until she saw the golden, torn scales of the final Dragonlord.

The true Teriarch, the original, couldn’t fly. He was limping after them, towards the door, one leg broken, and she didn’t know if she’d ever seen him closer to death. Not even when he’d fought three other Dragons at once to defend her—

He was included in her [Conference of the August] Skill, and she heard his voice clearly.

“Very well. If she has your regard and she is another of your apprentices—”

“She isn’t. Leave her alone.”

The real Dragonlord was insistent, so Sheta nodded and spun back around.

“Battle, then. If we cannot destroy the door, keep the Goblin King from the door. If we are too late, then take him out of Pallass if possible. Otherwise, ensure he does not reach the armories. He intends to fire every spell he can at other nations to provoke a Cascade of Responses.”

She used a term from her time; a term for what happened when two opposing sides continued to respond and escalate in response to the others’ actions. The Dragonlords nodded.

“Tactics? We could devote ourselves to a set of spells or engage him by pairs? The six of us plus Empress Sheta will foul each other’s areas of control—”

They weren’t counting the wounded real Teriarch who was unable to fly or maneuver. The Archmage of Scales glanced around, and a Teriarch who came from a world where he’d not breathed fire on Erin Solstice and instead taken her under his wing spoke, incredulous.

“He’s the Goblin King. Any spell we use on him he’ll tear apart. Any plan. We must simply wear him down, exhaust his ability to use his damned Skills. No matter the cost. He’ll kill at least one of us.”

The other Dragonlords turned to him, opening their mouths to decry his statement as pure foolishness. There were six of them and Sheta! They were the Dragonlords of Flame…

None of them could quite voice their scorn. He was the Goblin King. The last time he’d died had been a miracle shot as his armies were beaten after a month of bringing him to battle. This Goblin King was fresher, and he had that damn armor on.

And this Teriarch…the Empress of Wings focused on him and eyed his back. He was much like the others, heavier than she remembered, older, so much older than even the proud Dragonlord she’d known. Gone to seed, she would have said if she were unkind. A bird without his wing feathers—but he still burned.

This Teriarch had thrown himself against the foe until his scales were no longer reflective, marred by a million scratches and blows. But even so, there was still something tied around his neck. A tattered, red…cape.

His version of Erin Solstice had made it for him. He’d sent her out of this reality, to the door. The Teriarch of Erin’s Friendship spoke with all the morality he had taught her, and she nodded tightly.

“Then we fight and die. The Goblin King is stronger than I remember. He nearly slew me when I attempted to kill him. Twenty thousand years has made him a far deadlier foe.”

“Forty-three.”

Her wings faltered. She had to stop asking…the Archmage of Scales was thinking. He spoke as they began to dive towards the door.

“This plan of engagement is flawed. Nevermind how we coordinate. Think of it. He’ll just run.”

“Run? He’s the Goblin King—”

“There are six of us. What would you do in that situation? He’ll run and go to ground, and believe me, if he’s as good at hiding as he is at fighting, how easily could we find him? We need a decisive blow against him. A way to bring him to battle. But he has no armies nor Goblins…”

“What about those ones?”

Sheta glanced down and met the eyes of a running group headed for the exit. Goblins.

Chieftain Rags, Ragathsi, the Goblin Lord of Civilizations, her bodyguards, and Fightipilota. Why were they running after Roots Mrsha? Sheta opened her claws, and the Goblin Lord of Civilizations aimed something up at her.

Danger.

Sheta sensed it and narrowed her eyes. She jerked her head.

[Royal Diplomacy: Feather of Peace]. Five minutes. Unconditional.

A moment of tension—the Goblin Lord of Civilizations accepted. Sheta heard another Teriarch speaking.

“—Not them. He won’t miss this opportunity, not with the dead gods around.”

“I see. The what?”

The other Teriarchs nodded as the Goblin Lord of Civilizations turned and kept running. They were trying to speculate on what would work.

“Lock him down with multiple chain spells. Continue breathing fire on him. That always works.”

“Unless he uses a fire immunity Skill. Does he have one of those?”

“Let’s use the old [Pentagram of the Five Alchemies]. Immobilize him in the gates.”

The real Teriarch panted at them.

“It didn’t work on the Draconic Warrior. It’s not going to work on him.”

“…There’s a Draconic Warrior still around?”

They all turned to him, and the Empress of Harpies flicked her wings uneasily. One of the Drakes’ war weapons? That was as bad as a Goblin King in many ways.

So many things that had to die. She turned her head as they descended towards the door.

“What are dead…gods?”

All six Dragonlords of Flame regarded her. In their eyes, she saw that thing she hated the most, had hated from the day she grew old enough to realize he kept secrets. The thing that had inspired her to make her [Pavilion of Secrets], in part.

The Harpy Empress’ eyes narrowed as she landed by the door. The first Dragonlord flew through, still in their slow-time effect from her Skill. One spoke.

“It—ah—I wanted to tell you. But it changes nothing, really. So I—”

He vanished. The second twisted, trying to explain.

“I couldn’t tell even my daughter. The danger if we did…I’m sorry. It’s the six of them. They’re beings beyond even us.”

“Who? Why would you never tell me? My empire crumbled, and I let it die because of your teachings! You kept secrets from me, I who died trying to fulfill your morality?”

Her voice rose. She shrieked at them, and they flinched; two broke away, circling the door. The second Teriarch vanished, and the Superman Teriarch landed, then sprang forwards like a cat. He walked past her, ducking his head.

“I would have. I swear. But I—”

His face twisted in brief confusion.

“—I don’t know why I hid it. I think some secrets were so painful I didn’t even tell my daughter. My own daughter, Sheta. We all have secrets we wished to take to the grave.”

He bowed his head lower to her, and his confession calmed her. She nodded to him, and he walked past her. To war.

Three Dragonlords went, and the Empress inhaled; her wings folded around her, and the fourth Teriarch, that warrior who had fought the Creler Wars, murmured.

“There is always a stronger being.”

“Not to us nor him. We are the only beings who can halt him; if not us, there is no higher power. Mortal armies will be slaughtered by the millions to stop him.”

Sheta spoke with certainty as two more Teriarchs passed through the door. Leaving only the Dragonlord of the Creler Wars and the original, still crawling their way. The Creler Wars Teriarch nodded at that comment.

It was the real Teriarch who rasped, a hint of confusion in his voice.

“…Are we lying to Sheta even now?”

She twisted around, fast as a striking hawk, and her eyes flashed with sudden paranoia and anger.

“Lied?”

“About why we never told her of the dead gods. There is a reason. The same reason we failed to tell Nirayicel.”

The Creler Wars Teriarch frowned, a full glower of genuine anger and astonishment at his counterpart.

“We did not! We simply refused to tell her because it wasn’t pertinent to…anything…”

His brows furrowed, and this time, Sheta noticed the same odd hitch in his speaking. As if he himself were unsure of his reasoning. Or—her feathers suddenly felt cold—

As if his memories had been altered. She had seen the like many times in her reign. The real Teriarch’s voice rasped.

“Of course. The rest of you don’t recall him. I do, because that bastard just beat me to the edge of death and back. Remember him! The guardian of the moon! The Halfling!”

The Creler Wars Teriarch’s eyes snapped open, and he reflexively spread his wings in a defensive posture and looked up.

Up…at the ceiling of the [Palace of Fates]. Sheta eyed him. She had seldom seen him so afraid. The Creler Wars Teriarch breathed.

“I—I remember! Dead gods, my mind was wiped—why hasn’t he come down? We are in the thick of war with the dead gods themselves! He should have destroyed this entire place!”

“Unless he can’t see it.”

The two Teriarchs were exchanging significant glances, and Sheta snapped.

“Explain what is going on! Original Teriarch—what Halfling? A Halfling?”

She knew Halflings, but they spoke as if there were only one. The Creler Wars Teriarch exhaled.

“In this time, every Halfling is dead, Sheta. The species extinct. Save for one. He is some kind of magical guardian from before the creation of everything. A guardian empowered by the magic of Elves. That one could destroy four Dragonlords in battle. A monster who comes if you reveal the truth about the dead gods. Wait—”

His eyes flickered.

“—once we leave this place, we must be careful not to invoke them. Damnation. Another problem. But why? Why has he never come for the Goblin King?”

The real Teriarch was panting as he dragged himself down the last few corridors towards the [Garden of Sanctuary].

“…Oversight? Perhaps he doesn’t invoke…the Halfling has the magic of Elves.”

“How is that possible?”

Sheta’s head was swinging from Teriarch to Teriarch. The last two argued with each other, the Creler Wars Teriarch frowning as he tried to reason this out, still rattled by his returned memories.

“It’s not that they wouldn’t have noticed, surely. So why…?”

It was the original Teriarch who answered with a sigh, as if it were suddenly obvious to him.

“They’re Elves. The Goblins were children. Who points a weapon at children?”

The Creler Wars Teriarch groaned softly.

“A monster who can best us. Another threat. Unless—”

His eyes narrowed a second, and he broke off. The real Teriarch stopped dragging himself forwards, and Sheta saw the two Dragons exchange another glance. This she recognized.

He had just hit upon a plan. Without a word, the Creler Wars Teriarch nodded and turned to the door.

“We must stop the Goblin King at any cost. If needs must we gamble with our lives, we shall.”

The sixth Dragon spread his wings and flew through the door to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. It was Sheta who turned and addressed the seventh and last Teriarch, still crawling after her.

“I shall have answers afterwards. In time. The six Dragonlords of Flame fly to war with the Empress of Wings. But not you. Stay back, Teriarch. You…are the ‘real’ one, aren’t you? You are far, far too wounded for this.”

He just snarled at her as he limped down a long corridor empty of life. The Dragonlord passed by a trail of blood, panting.

“I must. Someone has to stop the Goblin King and set things right.”

Clotted blood flaked off his scales, and there were hundreds of wounds in his armor. Sheta had no time to argue. She snapped, spreading her wings wide.

“I am the only thing that is needed! This is all I have returned for!”

Her eyes shone as she spoke, bitterness in every word.

“Great purpose. My empire fell to dust. This world…seems so much poorer and worse than the world I left. It always does, I suspect. But I long to fly. I have no time to build. No people to lead, even if I dared repeat the mistakes of old. All that I can do is destroy, like him. So: who vanishes? The Nagatine Empire? The horrors of Rhir’s infested shores? Which arrogant Terandrian or Chandrarian nation must burn?”

He didn’t answer. The Dragonlord of Flames had halted in the [Palace of Fates], head turned to the side, gazing at something. Distracted. Or perhaps his nerves had gotten the best of him after all.

Sheta had no time to discuss anything else. She yearned for this—this glorious cause. So the Harpy Queen spread her wings and whirled away from the last Teriarch. Then she flew into the [Garden of Sanctuary]. For a second, Sheta appeared in a garden much like her own. Then she heard the Goblin King’s roar and gazed up.

She flew straight up through the hole in the domed ceiling, and her first view of the world was rain. Rain—and a strange, flooded valley. A city she did not know—mountains she had never seen. The Harpy Queen shrieked, one long cry of despair and triumph and wonder. Then she looked down as her wings shielded the small inn under her.

A vast bird, plumage brown and dark blue along her wings, jet black on the tips, and her green eyes turned blue for a second, a brilliant blue avian stare like a spotlight. Gazing down.

Looking for her prey. But was she too late?

 

——

 

Twenty-seven minutes ago.

 

The Wandering Inn was not empty while the [Palace of Fates] was collapsing. It was just empty of innocent people.

Knocked over chairs, food still steaming—even coins on the tables. That was something. Ishkr picked up a silver coin and gazed at it. The finish of the Shamefaced, blank silver coin was reflective enough for him to see his face in it if he polished it with his thumbpad.

His heart was pounding out of his chest. He felt sick with fear and terror; when he tossed the coin down, he heard voices arguing.

Pallassian [Soldiers], what few had remained. The rest had been forced back to the portal room and into Pallass. But the people who replaced them should have run too.

Laken Godart and his Unseen Empire, brawny [Farmers] and [Soldiers] in his army. [Witches], arguing with Yelroan and Calescent, who were blocking the door to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. One of the [Witches] was making gestures with her cudgel, threatening where she’d put it if they weren’t allowed in.

[Necromancers] too. Rheirgest’s people, including Rittane’s mother. They were all waiting for something to come out of the [Palace of Fates]. Waiting to see what was coming.

It was a bit like a dream to Ishkr. Would anything come out of there? Into the real world, that was. A part of him could deny it was real, that surreal [Palace of Fates]. But once someone, something emerged from those doors…

They’d see it. Laken, [Witches], Pallass, the spies probably hanging around the inn, Calanfer’s servants.

The world would change.

“…But it’s always changing. It always doesn’t feel real until it is.”

So saying, the Gnoll reached into his bag of holding and brought out two fistfuls of gold coins. He scattered them on the table, and they bounced and struck the ground and rolled, louder than the rain pouring down on the roof of the inn from above.

Someone turned and stared at him; that annoying Pallassian [Major]. Ishkr gave him a blank look. Something would come, he knew. And then he’d be here as long as he could. He could run away—and never level again.

A weapon. He cast around and picked up a mug in his paws and realized he was no warrior. But still, he stayed. Someone had to evacuate the staff.

The door to the [Garden of Sanctuary] burst open, and everyone spun. Alevica nearly dropped the first person running through the doors with her signature spell—Witch Eloise yanked her arm up, and the bolt of magic hit the roof and ricocheted over Peggy’s head.

“Run! Run! They’re coming!”

The [Floor Boss] sprinted out the [Garden of Sanctuary], followed by every Goblin and Antinium in the inn’s staff. They were all screaming, and the one-legged Hobgoblin slipped; her pegleg was cracked.

Yelroan caught her. The [Mathematician]’s customary smile was replaced by an expression of concern, and his shiny glasses were askew.

“What’s coming? Does Lyonette need—?”

“No. It’s too much. There’s an army of Crelers coming. A-and the Goblin King. And Belavierr and the Necromancer.”

She seized his arm, and Ishkr felt a chill run up and down his fur. A shock to his head. He stepped forwards.

“We have everyone over Level 40 that Lyonette asked for. I sent for Saliss. Should we send them—?”

Then her words hit him.

“The Goblin King?”

The Pallassian Major, Uraike, turned around, and he gave Peggy a long stare. He was furious, scratched from fighting the Bush Shamblers outside, but now, his eyes bulged, and he let out a huge guffaw.

“The Goblin King. The Necromancer? Oh, come now. Is that the best you’ve got?”

He grinned, his teeth flashing, as he turned to the [Witches] and Laken. The Drake visibly relaxed, and the Emperor of Riverfarm raised two eyebrows in polite disbelief. So this is all just a trick.

Even the [Witches] had trouble taking it seriously. They tried, but Ishkr saw them covering their mouths with their hats to whisper at each other. He himself…just peered at Peggy, that way someone who knows the threat is real, but can’t believe it is.

She turned to him—then just started running.

“Everyone out of the inn. Out! Out! Run!”

Rosencrantz dashed past her, the Antinium’s shell cracked. He had Shakespeare’s verse written on his backshell; the words glittered as he spoke.

“All Antinium, evacuate to Liscor. Across the bridges if you must. Rouse the Hive! Tell the Free Queen!”

That—stopped the laughter from the [Major]. Ishkr felt his fur rising. Run into the rain? Over the bridges and water? That was suicide for the Antinium, but they plunged out of the doorway. Ishkr turned to the others.

“You heard Peggy. He’s coming.”

“Ridiculous. If you’re going to waste my time—”

Ishkr saw something in the door to the garden. It was a flicker as more of the inn’s guests kept pouring out. He walked forwards to the [Garden of Sanctuary] and pulled it open as the last person, Asgra, emerged.

“H-he fighting. I gave him the dagger.”

Her eyes were filled with tears. Ishkr spoke to her dumbly, like one of the uninformed guests of the inn in a crisis.

“Who?”

The Cave Goblin turned her head up to him, and her eyes were shining with tears.

“Halrac. Fighting the Maiden.”

Laken Godart’s head snapped around.

“Did she just say—?”

The [Witches] took a step forward, and Ishkr turned to them. He put his paw on the door and swung it open.

The [Garden of Sanctuary] was filled with people. Hundreds—milling about, terrified, lost, calling into the second door where more people kept coming. They were shouting.

“The door! There’s a door out! That way!”

Someone leapt through the entrance that led to the [Palace of Fates]. Ishkr saw Moore, the half-Giant he knew, face white with terror, holding Ulinde in his arms—at least, he guessed it was the Selphid with her pale Drake’s body—and the Gnoll recoiled.

Moore glanced up as he ran back into the [Palace of Fates], and his eyes found Ishkr for a second. Then he was gone. Ishkr stumbled back, then looked over his shoulder.

No one else had seen it. The [Major] strode forwards along with several [Witches] and everyone else. Relc, Valeterisa—Ishkr pulled the door wider, his eyes flashing across familiar faces.

He saw himself ushering a version of Selys towards the door into the [Palace], but that wasn’t enough. Not enough to tell Ishkr this was a dream. His eyes flashed over the people, and then one of them whirled.

“Everyone, into the [Palace of Fates]! Everyone we know and love is heading for that other world. You can stay here—but this isn’t our home. That Mrsha gave us a way out. Let’s go.”

—There she was. Erin Solstice stopped when she saw him. Ishkr heard the [Major] trip behind him, and Relc stopped breathing. It was Erin…but not his Erin.

This Erin Solstice was an Erin of the world where she met the Dragonlord of Flames and never needed to run away from him. She didn’t have scars on her wrists and neck. No discolored hair—rather, hers was bright along the tips and cut short.

Her hair shone with the same golden glitter as the Brass Dragon’s scales; a cosmetic she’d made by grinding down the Dragonlord’s excess scales. She had on a vest and leggings made of metallic cloth, which glittered with more dazzle than a million sequins; it was patterned like scales.

She also had a sword in hand, which she pointed towards the door leading to the [Palace of Fates]. She didn’t join the rush of people heading back through the door. For a moment, she stood, urging people back the way they’d come. Then she flashed a smile at Ishkr.

“Hey. Is this that inn I’ve heard so much about? Cool garden. The Goblin King’s coming. My friend’s trying to stop him, but I don’t know if he can.”

She gazed around at the dumbstruck people in the inn, peering over their shoulders at the interior like an interested tourist. As if she had no idea what this place was or why it mattered.

“E-Erin?”

Relc breathed, and the young woman, the [Dragonfriend], gave Senior Guardsman Relc Grasstongue a puzzled look.

“Hi. You must know another version of me. Sorry, buddy. No time to chat.”

She whirled to the door, and Relc saw another version of himself running with Valeterisa. They locked gazes—the [Major] was muttering.

“Illusion. Illusion—”

“Excuse me, what is everyone looking at? Gamel? Gamel, use your Skill. Who was that?”

Laken Godart couldn’t see anything, obviously. Which was mildly hilarious. Ishkr saw that version of Erin grin at him. One last proof she wasn’t his Erin—she had what he could only describe as golden veneers on her teeth, made from the Dragonlord’s scales. Her smile flashed like a Dragon’s treasury, then she was gone.

“Uh. What the fuck was that?”

Witch Alevica didn’t pinch herself; she stabbed herself in the side with her wand and seemed unsure if it hurt enough.

Did you believe yet? No. It was like opening your door to see the most unbelievable sights outside your house. The end of the world; frogs falling from the sky, but you didn’t believe it. Not yet. It was just an unbelievable sight on your television.

You had to touch it. Ishkr could smell a hundred conflicting scents: burnt flames, magic, blood, sweat, and fear, but—his paw stretched into the [Garden of Sanctuary], and then someone ran out of the [Garden of Sanctuary] and knocked the [Head Server] flat.

“Move it, pal! Evacuate the inn! The Goblin King is coming! Get ready!”

He assumed it was another Erin. Then the swearing Courier swung an arm, shoving Gamel aside.

Valceif Godfrey pushed the [Major] back, and his voice rose.

“Evacuate the inn! Notify every city in a hundred miles! This—this is the inn. The Goblin King is coming!”

He spun, and his eyes were bulging, a young man who should be dead. Panting, covered in sweat; they gazed at him, and he roared.

“I am a Courier of Izril! Sound the alarm!”

No one knew who he was. Ishkr vaguely recalled stories Ryoka had told about a Courier…he turned as someone collapsed backwards.

Valeterisa. The Archmage of Izril was whitefaced. Her mouth opened and closed but she couldn’t make any words come out. Valceif gazed at her in disbelief.

“Is that Valley…? Everyone, get out!”

No one moved, so he turned and grabbed Alevica.

“Excuse me, miss—evacuate the inn!”

“Wh—put me down! Hey, put me—”

He was running for the portal door with her over his shoulder. That broke the trance. Major Uraike laughed, shaky.

“I swear, I know that one. That’s bad taste, you know. Even for an illusion spell…”

He turned to Ishkr, and the Gnoll raised a paw to slap the Drake as hard as he could across the face. Then both of them lurched away from the door.

Someone else hurtled through; Bird. At first, Ishkr thought it was another world’s Bird until he recalled she had wings and was green now. Right—the Queen was carrying someone else.

Elia Arcsinger. The half-Elf was bleeding from one arm; she yanked something twitching out of one bicep and hurled it down.

The remains of the Creler mandible was still twitching. The half-Elf panted, then spoke.

“We can’t stop him. We have over a hundred thousand Crelers coming for the door—and the Goblin King. Can we close the [Garden of Sanctuary]?”

Ishkr hesitated.

“No. But it shouldn’t let them in…”

Bird disagreed. She was turning to look over her shoulder.

“He is going to get in. He is very angry. I am going to tell the Free Queen. We must evacuate…no, take all citizens of Liscor into the Hive. Lyonette is behind him. That is good. Nothing in front of him lives. Clear the inn.”

Bird straightened and ran past the [Major]. Now, the Drake just stood there as one of the Eyes of Pallass came forwards. She was gazing at the place where Valceif had been.

“That was Valceif. Major—”

“What would you have me do? Sound the alarm in Pallass for this?”

He turned to her, smiling, and then Ishkr realized nothing would convince the man. The [Witches] had seen enough.

“Those are real people. Every [Witch] under Level 40 will fall back to Riverfarm. Prepare for the [Portal Door] to go down. Every [Witch] without a combat class, likewise. Every [Witch] unwilling to die—retreat.”

It was Witch Thallisa who gave the order. The Great Witch of Izril turned—and that left one [Witch].

Margrave Mavika. The two exchanged glances as Eloise hesitated, then moved back. Mavika spoke, eyes flicking around the inn.

“It could be a misunderstanding.”

“My eyes deceive me often, but my instincts—never. Mavika, I suggest one of us go, one of us stays. There is a duty to stand, and one to survive and save what can be saved in the face of his wrath. Which shall we be, the pair of us? Shall we play sword, scroll, potion for it? I prefer to stay.”

Thallisa held out a hand, and Mavika just blinked at her. Then shook her head.

“I can retreat by wing and feathered means faster than you from anyone or anything—”

She began, and Thallisa cut her off. The [Witch] drew herself up, and her black hair framed her face as she adjusted her patchwork hat made of so many fallen [Witches]’ hats. The air was humming around her, truly humming. Like the beginning of a song.

“In that case, I stay. If the Goblin King comes through that door, we shan’t waste time fleeing. This is my place and my cause, Witch Mavika. I claim it. Begone.”

The Crow Witch’s eyes widened, first in outrage and shock—then she seemed to take stock of Thallisa’s determination. Mavika hesitated—then plucked something from her arms.

A feather. She gave it to Thallisa, and the other [Witch] tucked it under her hat.

“I cannot give you more—”

“I will make do. Go.”

Mavika whirled. Without a word, she burst into a shower of crows. They flashed past the other [Witches], now moving for the [Portal Door] in concert. The sight of that unnerved the other [Witches]; they began running, not striding along.

That…made the folk of Riverfarm hesitate. They eyed their [Emperor], who was trying to digest all this.

“That was…how dangerous would you call the threats beyond the door? Anyone?”

His head swiveled, but he was blind and unable to get a scope for the threat. So Yelroan answered. He was striding for the door.

“I am heading to Pallass again, Your Majesty. I have to talk sense to General Edellein—he has to hear sense! I suggest you move back to Riverfarm.”

“I came here to help—”

“More dead bodies will help no one, Emperor Laken. I suggest you fall back. The worst you can be is wrong and gullible. Consider, I ask you, what happens if this is reality.”

Witch Thallisa called out across the inn, voice ringing. That decided the [Emperor]. He raised a finger, and his voice was remarkably steady.

“Farmer Ram. Bring everyone back to Riverfarm. Secure the door with—everyone. Gamel will stay here with me.”

“Your Majesty! What about—”

Ram was already striding for the portal room, but he and the others whirled. Laken’s voice was flat.

“I’ll leave when Durene gets here.”

The Knights of Solstice weren’t back yet. Several people from Riverfarm broke away, but the rest went for the [Portal Door]. Ishkr watched it all, and someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“Ishkr. Not to bother you, but should we be here?”

He turned to Master Elosaith, and the Gnoll blinked at him.

“You heard them.”

“Yes, but believing is another thing.”

The [Necromancer] shrugged his shoulders, as if the sight of a golden Erin wasn’t enough. Ishkr glanced at the others.

“If I were you, Master Elosaith, I’d send everyone back to their village. And…have them ready to hide or evacuate. If you’re willing to stay…”

Elosaith was over Level 40. He nodded with a smile as the others conferred.

“Leave the undead here. Take only the heirlooms with you.”

By ‘heirlooms’, he meant the valuable undead. Rittane’s mother, Leiithe, nodded, and a cluster of undead followed them out of the inn.

“This is ridiculous. Nothing has come out of that door that can’t be an illusion or someone with an acting class and a few illusion spells.”

The [Major] protested, and Ishkr turned. He was polishing his mug with a rag. Which he supposed didn’t add to the gravitas of the moment. It was just a nervous habit.

“I suppose you’re right. Nothing bad’s going to happen at all. Trust me.”

He winked. Then felt like throwing up.

The garden door opened, forestalling a response, and the Knights of Solstice dragged Normen into the inn. His armor was torn to pieces, and Durene was bleeding across one eye; she had Creler mandibles buried in her flesh as well.

“Durene! What—”

“EVACUATE THE INN. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

The half-Troll girl roared, and the Knights of Solstice moved for the door as Antherr stumbled through. Jewel spoke.

“We have to slow—”

“Liscor. Get us to Liscor. This inn won’t survive. Get to the portal and close the [Portal Door]. Do you understand me, Ishkr?”

Normen’s head rose. He grabbed Ishkr’s fur, tearing some out as he passed by, and the Gnoll spoke. His eyes were on the door to the Garden.

“You defend Liscor. I’ll be right after you. I’m waiting for Lyonette and Mrsha.”

Normen’s eyes—eyes?—jerked back towards the door. The Eye of Pallass noticed that as well and nearly did a backflip in surprise.

“They’re not—?”

He began to turn back, but Ishkr threw out a paw.

“You’re almost dead. Go. I’ll get them.”

He strode forwards, and someone caught his arm. Ishkr turned—and sagged with relief as someone pulled him off his feet with extraordinary strength.

“Hey, what are you doing acting like a hero? That’s a job for idiots. One side—idiot coming through. Hey, Major Dipshit. General Dumbass sent me.”

Saliss of Lights moved Ishkr behind him with a grin and put his hands on his hips. He was naked. The [Major] stared down—then his eyes snapped up.

“Alchemist! This is all—”

Saliss put a claw on his shoulder and pushed as another Drake followed behind Saliss. It looked light; Ishkr was the one who saw Saliss’ tail was curled up with tension. Also—the Major flew six feet, crashed through a wooden table, and rolled to his feet.

That was another clue. Saliss of Lights strode towards the [Garden of Sanctuary], took one look inside, and turned.

“What the hell. Hey, Mirn—look at that.”

He jerked a thumb at the door, and someone else strode forwards. Mirn peered through the door.

“Ancestors. Are they…blood magic clones? Like you said people tried to make? Or alchemical—?”

Saliss shushed him as he glanced around. The Drake [Alchemist]’s face was filled with relaxed mirth. His eyes—like a ray spell. He turned, and his eyes found Ishkr.

“What am I dealing with?”

“Multiple worlds of—an army of Crelers. And the Goblin King. And Belavierr.”

To his credit, Saliss only blinked three times in rapid succession, then he turned.

“Mirn? Get out of here. Find Grimalkin—and tell him to stay in Pallass. Tell the idiots to drop a scrying crystal in the inn. Then get the old man. If he’s not here, he’s in his apartments. I don’t care if he’s asleep. Wheel him into High Command’s chambers. If he’s still out of it—contact Luciva and that bastard in Salazsar. Eschowar. No, do it anyway.”

Mirn backed up a few steps.

“What? Saliss—”

The Drake pushed Mirn—gentler, but the Drake still went stumbling back a dozen paces.

“Will’s in the top left cabinet. If this is a joke, we’ll laugh about it. Until then—everyone out! What are you idiots waiting for?”

He spun and shouted across the inn. Then his eyes locked on Relc.

“Hey, Senior Guardsman, you belong in Liscor.”

Relc hesitated, spear in hand.

“But I—”

“Get your cute girlfriend out of here. And you—you’d better be corn or I’m not responsible for you dying in vain.”

His finger pointed at Thallisa. Valeterisa searched around for the cute girlfriend before realizing that was her. She floated back a few paces—then frowned.

“I have a number of highly useful spells, Alchemist Saliss. Such as a healing spell and, um, others. Also, I live here. I have an apprentice. Montressa? Where are you? I believe you should evacuate with Bezale, if she is here.”

Valeterisa kept glancing at the two Pallassian Drakes as she tried to justify her position here. Saliss just hissed at her.

“You’re not a Named-rank. You’re an Archmage. I want corn, not beans. Ancestors fuck these analogies. You know what I mean!”

He jabbed a claw at her as Montressa came rushing downstairs. Thallisa tipped her hat at Saliss.

“I am the realest corn there ever was, Adventurer Saliss.”

Saliss’ eyes narrowed.

“Then why aren’t you preparing a better battleground? This is a terrible spot.”

The Drake’s eyes swivelled around the common room, which was spacious, filled with overturned chairs and leftovers—an ideal place for brawls. One had just occurred. But something displeased Saliss.

“That bastard can run circles around everyone. So can she.”

“The—Goblin King?”

Major Uraike was still gamely trying to find all this funny. He turned to the Eye of Pallass, Captain Fallma, and then the joke he was about to make died on his tongue.

He turned back around and remembered the files on Saliss of Lights that any soldier probably read once they had clearance. The parts that weren’t redacted listed his military career.

Of the beings in this room—the only one who had ever seen the Goblin King would be Saliss of Lights. But that didn’t mean…

The [Alchemist] was taking this seriously. He rotated around, eyes flickering.

“—Hallway. Long space. Could be longer. Killing spot. The Goblin King could go through the walls, but we block the [Portal Door]. That’s a weak spot. Fall back!”

He went tearing into the hallway. Ishkr followed him along with everyone in the inn except for Laken—he was having trouble figuring out where everyone was. Saliss retreated until his back was against the door out of the inn.

“Anyone got barrier spells? I want them staggered to the left and right. Multiple sections paced ten feet apart. Leave me an opening five feet wide in the center. Oh, now that’s handy.”

Ishkr glanced over his shoulder and saw the hallway stretching in front of his eyes. [Long Hallways]—a new Skill of Erin’s. It was triple the length, and Saliss smiled.

“Well? Barriers?”

Thallisa shook her head.

“I double Skills. Or amplify them.”

Valeterisa and Montressa were casting magic for Saliss. Or rather, they began to when Saliss turned and gripped Montressa’s robes. She started; the [Aegiscaster] broke off a wall spell.

“Master Saliss?”

“I said leave. What kind of master are you? Do you want to put your apprentice against the Goblin King?”

Saliss’ grip was gentle on Montressa’s clothing, but Valeterisa hid behind Relc. Her gaze swung uncertainly to Montressa.

“Apprentice…you should go to Liscor or Invrisil.”

“But Master—”

The Archmage of Izril eyed Saliss, then spoke with more firmness in her tone.

“Go.”

Someone else nodded; Master Elosaith raised a wall of bones as his undead shuffled down the corridor. One of his oversized Bone Horrors halted behind a barrier, and he turned to Saliss.

“Does that formation look properly defensible, Master Adventurer? The undead could pop out—that’s how we do it with bandits.”

“Sure. Extra ablative shielding in between the walls. Put more walls up to shield us from the bone fragment spray.”

Saliss let go of Montressa, and she hesitantly stepped back to the doors. Saliss whipped around.

“Neat, walls are going up. Whomst the fuck has barrier spells? I want every layer you’ve got, all permeable!”

Saliss roared around, and Montressa turned again. But that was her specialty! Elosaith shrugged helplessly, and before Montressa could volunteer to help her master, someone else brushed her aside. Grimalkin shouldered through the press of bodies around the [Portal Door].

“I’m here. Which kind of barriers?”

Sinew Magus Grimalkin! Ishkr’s eyes widened as the Sinew Magus yanked the door to the inn itself opened. He’d teleported all the way back! And he was holding the hand of…the Gnoll’s eyes bulged.

A woman wearing a bag over her head? Even the Drake [Major] had to stare at Lady Pryde. But the imperious [Lady] just strode into place next to Saliss, who did only a single take.

“[Ladies] shouldn’t be fighting here. Get lost. Same for Sinew Magi who bring dates to death battles.”

“No. What am I looking at?”

“Goblin King, apparently.”

Saliss commented as Ishkr heard more voices from the common room of the inn. Was Laken coming? The Gnoll was panting; there was no one in the common room anymore. Just the group at the entrance to the inn.

Ishkr, Pryde, Saliss, Valeterisa, Elosaith, Relc, and Thallisa. No—he turned his head.

Elia Arcsinger was restringing her bow, blood still running from the bite in her arm. She glanced at him.

“He is coming.”

Grimalkin did a double-take. Then he whirled.

“Why aren’t there alarms in Pallass?”

“General Dumbass and this pisspot.”

Saliss jerked a thumb at the [Major], who was, by now, a tad bit concerned. He spread his claws as Grimalkin rounded on him.

“Sinew Magus, I saw a lot of what I can’t confirm. No one can enter the [Garden of Sanctuary] where we have an alleged threat coming through, and Adventurer Saliss is taking it seriously, which I respect, but—”

Grimalkin’s eyes were flickering. He didn’t believe it, not him. But he turned to Ishkr, and the Gnoll helpfully added.

“Multiple worlds, remember? Multiple timelines. You were actually right.”

“Ancestors.”

The Sinew Magus blanched pure white, which Saliss took note of. He hated it when his suspicions were confirmed. The [Alchemist] switched the potions at his belt out for ones encased in very thick bottles marked with warning symbols. Thallisa eyed Ishkr and Grimalkin. The Drake spoke.

“Major. On my authority as Sinew Magus and [Captain] of Pallass’ 1st Army, I declare an emergency. Lock down the door to Pallass. Sound a citywide alarm and issue the same for Liscor. Get 2nd Army here. Now.”

The [Major]’s mouth opened. Lady Pryde nodded several times; when the [Major] didn’t move, she slapped his arm.

“Well? Go! So much for Drake chain of command!”

Even now. Even now, the [Major] held out his claws.

“Sinew Magus! If you’re wrong, this will destroy your reputation. I will put 1st Army on alert—and I am sure they are already mustering! But a city-wide alarm? For a Goblin King when there isn’t even a Goblin Lord on Izril?”

He was right. Also, Sinew Magus Grimalkin didn’t outrank the [Major]; the Drake was making the right assessment. Just not for The Wandering Inn.

Every reasonable bit of evidence pointed to this not being a Goblin King. You’d have to be mad to believe it without knowing Erin Solstice. This was all true.

Grimalkin was a logical man. He was aware of what kind of disaster this would be if he was even a hair wrong. He had seen Adult Mrsha, but this was another level of crazy. There was probably a voice in his head saying the same thing the [Major] was.

He hesitated for a second, then raised a glowing claw and traced a symbol on his cheek. It flashed, and Ishkr saw Grimalkin’s shoulders roll back. His voice snapped.

“Code Isthix-Aleph-Lassicne-55346. City alarm. Attention, to the residents of Pallass and Liscor. This is Sinew Magus Grimalkin. I am declaring an Armageddon-class threat in the Floodplains of Liscor. Lock down all gates. The location is The Wandering Inn.”

He didn’t mention the Goblin King. But from the way the [Major] jerked away from him—Ishkr heard nothing for a moment. Just the pounding of his heart, wall spells rumbling as they rose—the roar of rain.

Then he heard a siren in the distance. His Gnollish ears picked up, across the Floodplains, a piercing wail coming from the distant walls of Liscor. Then—through the portal door leading to Pallass, the same alarm, but tenfold louder. Followed by the boom of a voice.

“Attention, to the residents of Pallass and Liscor—”

Grimalkin’s voice, a perfect recording, was sounding in Pallass. The [Major]’s scales went dead white as his speaking stone exploded with a voice—General Edellein’s. Grimalkin just gave him a casual salute.

“Get ready to fight or fall back, [Major]. He’s coming.”

His head turned to Saliss, and the Drake was laughing. Insanity. Ishkr was grinning fit to burst at the ludicrous nature of this all. And he was believing it—

Pryde reached out and gripped Grimalkin’s arm. He blinked down at her, then smiled. She tugged. Then glowered at him as he raised his brows.

“Hmm?”

“You put your head down when I tug like this, Sinew Magus.”

“Why?”

He bent his head closer to her, and she hopped up and kissed him through the bag on her head. Grimalkin blinked.

“That’s why.”

Ishkr’s grin faded. He gaped at the two of them and realized what had happened. Pryde and Grimalkin—Saliss reached out and shoved them.

“Okay, job’s done. Get out of here, you two lovebirds.”

“What? Ridiculous—”

Grimalkin squared his shoulders, and Saliss pushed him. He was regarding Pryde now, and his voice was calm.

“You’re a big meatshield, but you’re under Level 50. Get lost. We only need Level 50 or higher here. Right, Thallisa?”

“Correct.”

The [Witch] adjusted her hat, and Ishkr felt Saliss nearly toss him through the [Portal Door]. He went flying—

—Teleported back behind the bar of the inn with a crash of breaking whiskey. Swearing, Ishkr leapt to his feet and charged back out of the common room. Grimalkin was still there too, despite Saliss’ orders.

“We’re not going.”

“You. Are. Going. To. Die.”

“Well, so are you if it’s the Goblin King. I have met him before. House Ulta did not run that day. Nor will it. I have every right to be here, Adventurer Saliss.”

Lady Pryde shoved past Grimalkin as he went sliding back. Saliss put a hand on her shoulder—and she didn’t budge. The [Alchemist] hesitated; he gripped her shoulder, and the floorboards shook under their feet. Then he let go with a broken laugh.

“Fair. Okay. Who’s still here? Elia? You going?”

He turned to her, and the half-Elf put an arrow to her bow. She was shaking. She had seen the Goblin King. But of them all…

She had never run. Not then, and not now. The [Ranger] spoke as she drew the arrow back.

“Give me a clean shot at him. He’s got armor on this time.”

Her quiet voice was trembling. Her entire body was, but her bow-arm was steady. It looked hilariously funny, only Ishkr had stopped laughing. His attention was on the door now. It was closed; he should have left it open.

“I-Ishkr? What’s going on? I heard something about a Goblin…”

Liska made everyone jump. She emerged from the Portal Room, and Ishkr whirled and shouted at her.

“Liska! Get to Liscor! Close the door and don’t let anyone out! Got it?”

“But what are you doing? Where’s Lyonette and—”

They still weren’t here. Ishkr turned to Elia, and Saliss took a step forwards.

“Should we—?”

“There are a lot of passageways in the palace. He could dodge them. But he’s coming this way.”

The [Alchemist] nodded. He had two potions in his claws, now. And he spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“I’m going to toss everything I’ve got. Don’t worry about getting hit. My Skill protects you from it. Understand?”

Everyone else nodded. Ishkr pushed Liska. Her eyes were round.

“Ishkr. Come with me.”

She grabbed at his arm, and he smiled at her.

“I have to see it myself. I let Erin down last time. I was so proud about Facestealer, but I wasn’t there at the Winter Solstice.”

“For what it’s worth, you have Pallass’ support, sir. We can pull a full company in here if it makes you feel better.”

Major Uraike was back from his speaking stone call with General Edellein, and Captain Fallma of the Eyes of Pallass had drawn a dagger. Saliss was gazing at Ishkr, eyes full of exasperation—then his head snapped up. So did Elosaith’s, and the [Necromancer] snapped.

“Undead.”

Ishkr thought Elosaith meant his own—then an oppressive weight covered Ishkr. His heart faltered in his chest, and he gasped, trying to draw breath through leaden lungs.

The door to the common room. Saliss took a step forwards as something rushed forwards. Then they saw it.

A giant skeleton’s head, one eyeflame glowing green as it faced them. Ishkr was turning to Elosaith, still thinking, dumbly, the [Necromancer] had animated it. Then he saw the old man’s face was dead white.

“Bone Giant! Eng—”

Saliss threw a handful of vials so fast that Ishkr didn’t even see them hit the Bone Giant. The explosion in the common room deafened him—he heard a roar of grinding bones. Then the door at the far end of the hallway exploded inwards.

The upper torso and head of a Bone Giant squeezed through the gaps and crawled at them—one arm and the remnants of a ribcage was all that was left of it, but it moved so fast, reached forwards with its right arm, pulling itself along, then dragging itself forwards in a blur.

A [Haste] spell. Its mouth opened, and Saliss howled.

“Cover!”

He swept Ishkr’s legs out and tossed Liska back into the portal room, and Ishkr swore he heard an echoing, horrifically vast voice speaking.

“[Mass Corpse Detonation]. [Deathblast].”

“N—”

Elosaith’s scream was the last thing Ishkr heard for a while. He hit the ground, rolled up—and saw a black wave of energy shooting towards him.

—He teleported again. Behind the bar. Ran out from behind it, deaf, and saw the chairs and tables were gone. A hole in the wall. A shaking [Knight] in front of the Unseen Emperor at the far end of the room—

Ishkr ran back through the hallway, and a second explosion nearly perforated him. Half the Bone Giant’s skull blew inwards as it crashed against magical barriers in front of Saliss and the others. Elia loosed an arrow, which blew apart more of the skull—it spoke a second time.

“[Bone Deton—]”

This time, Ishkr tossed himself backwards in time. He saw the spray of bones exit the hallway and punch holes through the far wall. A sprinkle of white fragments—he sat up, then shouted.

“Liska! Liska—”

When he rounded the corner, his ears were still ringing. What Ishkr saw was a flickering barrier going out. Destroyed walls. Shattered wall spells—and Saliss of Lights.

The Named-rank adventurer lowered the vial he had brought up to throw as Ishkr ran towards him. The Bone Giant was gone. It had exploded—Ishkr heard the voices of the others, raised over the ringing in their ears.

“Wh—what was—”

Relc lowered his spear. Fragments of bone stood out in his armor, and he reached down and yanked a piece out; it came away red, trailing blood. He was standing in front of Archmage Valeterisa. He turned to her.

“You alright?”

“Wh—wh—”

She was shaking, eyes wide. Ishkr realized everyone was alright; the door opened, and Liska appeared, open-mouthed.

“—detonated itself. Was that a minion?”

Saliss was speaking too-calmly. He stood there, inspecting the destroyed corridor as Major Uraike picked himself up and stared. It was Elosaith who replied, breathless.

“That was no minion. There was something in it. It got away. It—he—sacrificed the body.”

“Thought so. We’ve got a high-level [Necromancer] on the run, or a ghost. Or…well, fuck. Was that him?”

The [Alchemist] turned to Elosaith, and the leader of Rheirgest licked his lips.

“I never met…maybe?”

“They felt the same as the man I encountered. It was him. The Necromancer.”

Relc’s head swung to the Witch, Thallisa. She was wiping dust off her robes and grimaced as she nodded at the other two. Elia Arcsinger drew another arrow, and her face went paler.

The Necromancer. Relc’s arms jerked as he hugged Valeterisa. His scales had gone dead white. Saliss’ voice snapped.

“I want a confirmation—later. What’re the odds he just went to New Rheirgest?”

“None. He went north without stopping.”

Elosaith whispered, and the [Alchemist] nodded. His eyes flickered.

“Reset the wall spells. Barriers up.”

He stood in the hallway as Elosaith began casting, then turned and snapped.

“Get ready! That was just the warm-up!”

His eyes swept over Major Uraike, Captain Fallma—and Saliss caught himself and smiled. The [Major] had lost his grin. He pulled himself up.

“That was a Bone Giant. The [Necromancer] who can…that’s not him. He’s dead. This is—”

He was in shock. He wasn’t the only one. Relc was snapping his claws in front of Valeterisa.

“Valley. Valley—we have to—”

“The lowest [Necromancers] can cast [Deathblast] at is Level 50, unaided. Spontaneously controlling a Bone Giant w-with [Haste] and body transference is theoretically possible at that level—controlling other undead held by a hostile [Necromancer] is—”

She was babbling. Relc tried to get Valeterisa to focus. Saliss shouted in the Archmage’s face, spraying her with spit.

“Barriers!”

She flinched. Her eyes found Saliss, and—Relc turned. He met Elosaith’s gaze.

“The Necromancer? That guy? You’re sure?”

Elosaith didn’t reply; he just nodded tightly as more walls of bone rose. Relc twisted around, met Valeterisa’s eyes as she lifted a shaking hand—then he scooped her up into his arms.

“I’ll tell Zevara and the Council.”

“Relc?”

He strode into the portal room and turned back to Saliss.

“Sorry, I just—”

“Lovebirds don’t fight well. Get out of here.”

Saliss didn’t even glance at him. He jerked a thumb.

“You too, Sinew Magus.”

Sinew Magus Grimalkin hesitated. He turned to Pryde and nudged her. She didn’t move; the woman was adjusting the paper bag on her head, which had nearly been torn off. She wasn’t trembling; at least, not as visibly as Valeterisa. Grimalkin hesitated, then reached down.

He would have tried the same thing as Relc. But when he tried to lift her, he grunted, and his arms jerked downwards.

“[Pride is Weight]. Try that again and I will step on your foot with a thousand pounds.”

That was all the Lady of House Ulta said. Relc strode to the door to Liscor and paused.

“I’ll—”

Saliss snapped.

“Go.”

The [Spearmaster]’s shoulders hunched—then he gazed down. Valeterisa was trying to object. Before she could lift more than a hand, the Drake whirled and kicked the door open. He vanished into the rainy streets of Liscor, and Ishkr heard his raised voice.

“Man the walls! Get me the Antinium—”

The door slammed shut, and then someone else moved.

“Let’s go.”

Captain Fallma, the Dullahan from the Eyes of Pallass, grabbed Major Uraike. He didn’t react. He was holding his sword with a shaking hand. Eyes still locked on the corridor.

“But that’s not possible. Fallma, you saw that. Those barrier spells had to be weaker than normal. It just destroyed them and—that wasn’t—am I dreaming?”

She dragged him towards the door to Pallass as a [Doorgnoll] adjusted the dial, and Ishkr saw Liska’s face turning to the [Major]. The [Soldier] gaped at Saliss, and the [Alchemist] turned. His eyes were alight, yet without mirth or his usual sarcasm.

Instead, the naked Drake stood straighter and threw the crispest salute Ishkr had ever seen. So precise that the [Major] and [Captain] straightened, and the Drake actually returned it. Saliss’ voice was kind and authoritative.

“Yes, you are, Major Uraike. Go wake up. Then resign your commission.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ishkr thought he heard both of them say it. The door opened—closed—and Ishkr realized Saliss was eyeing him now.

“Well?”

Every piece of Ishkr wanted to run. His ears were still ringing, and he was about to piss himself. He couldn’t imagine slowing that Bone Horror. The Gnoll gazed down at the mug in his paws, still unbroken. Then he locked eyes with Saliss.

“If I run, I’ll have to run next time. I can’t fight properly. But I can expand a single Skill into a group Skill.”

Was that anything…? The [Alchemist] stopped, and his eyes flickered. Then he nodded once.

“Good. Use it on Pryde’s ego of invincibility. It’ll keep us all alive for one hit. Thallisa, buffs?”

“One second.”

The corridor was filled with walls of bones again, but their magical barriers were all gone. Grimalkin was recasting what he could. Ishkr turned to Thallisa.

The [Witch] was lifting her hat. And the last people were coming.

Not the beans in Saliss’ analogy of the world. Just corn. Just the mad, the insane, the determined. Ishkr’s head swung right, and Elia Arcsinger was checking her arrows, re-ordering them in her quiver. She met his gaze.

“If I still had it, I’d ask you to try it with [Line-Ender Shot].”

“Right. Sorry, it’s not that kind of Skill.”

“And I lost it. You should run, you know. Bird ran. She’s smart, for all she looks.”

Ishkr looked down at his feet.

“I’m too ashamed to.”

That made her grin and laugh, a soft, melodic chuckle. Her bow rose—she spun so fast she was pointing an arrow at the door behind them before Ishkr could even register the sound of it opening.

“Hey, stranger. The inn’s closed. Monster attack. You might want to turn around and leave.”

Saliss glanced over his shoulder; the Drake lowered the vial he’d been about to squirt at the drenched figure who strode into the inn and halted. Himilt wiped his mouth as rain came off his coat. Ishkr detected the unmistakable odor of vomit, but the Vampire merely inspected the damage.

“I heard an explosion. I swore something went out of the inn, northwards, towards the mountains.”

“Necromancer. The.”

Himilt val Lischelle-Drakle was not immune to incredible events. His eyebrows rose—then he took in the shattered corridor. His eyes flickered to Ishkr, Liska, the common room, and the man planted something on the ground in front of him.

It was…a scythe. The farmer was carrying just an ordinary reaping scythe, the kind you used on any harvest. For some reason, it made Ishkr shiver here and now.

The haft was solid wood, oak or something, but the blade appeared incredibly sharp, and the metal seemed darker than regular steel. Saliss eyed it. Then he jerked his head towards the shattered opening.

“Goblin King, apparently. Turn around and get out of here.”

The Vampire’s crimson irises shone, and his gloved hands tightened over the haft of the scythe.

“Again? Has anyone seen my wife?”

“Colfa? No—I think she’s still in the…palace. With Lyonette. Vaulont was with her.”

Ishkr realized he hadn’t seen her. Himilt checked the edge of his scythe, then took a few steps forwards. Grimalkin put out an arm.

“This palace is big enough for them to evade…he’s coming here. Master Lischelle-Drakle, I really would turn around.”

Pryde was eying the Vampire as Himilt’s gaze flicked to the others. His eyes focused on Elia, and then there was the ghost of a smile.

“It really is him. Colfa always tells me miraculous things happen in the inn, and I have only seen a few…and you intend to stop him.”

“Nope. Just get in the way.”

Saliss offered Himilt a cheerful smile. Thallisa murmured.

“I intend to stop him. What of you, Master Himilt?”

He turned to the door and the rain and closed it behind him. Then he leaned the scythe against one wall and adjusted his gloves.

“I’ve come too far to go back; my stomach turns when going over those damn bridges. And my scythe’s been humming all night long. It’s a family heirloom.”

A family heirloom. Ishkr was confused about the comment about bridges. Himilt meant the bridges over the hills? Over…ah.

Running water.

The Vampire took hold of the scythe again, and no one asked if he could use it in a fight. He stood there as Ryoka Griffin had once seen him, a farmer to his bones holding a simple agricultural tool.

A wearied man with a black scarf over well-worn black clothing, standing like a nobleman of the land itself with the dignity of a quiet king of the night. A warrior, the scythe gripped in his hands. And if Ishkr noticed it…the [Alchemist] spoke.

“You look familiar.”

“I can’t be. I have a very forgettable face.”

“Maybe it was a cousin. You ever fought Goblins?”

“I remember the last Goblin King’s face.”

Elia Arcsinger turned to Himilt, and a third veteran of the Antinium Wars traded a cool look with the [Alchemist]. The Drake grinned.

“Which army?”

“Irregulars. Who didn’t fight the Goblin King’s armies?”

Elosaith grinned.

“They never made it to Rheirgest. Not much over where we were, I suppose. Some of the younger folk went off and never came back. Are you sure?”

Himilt shook a few droplets of water off his wide-brimmed farmer’s hat. He smiled, a tiny half-twitch of his lips, as if even this was only to be expected. The way he checked and re-checked his grip on his scythe betrayed his actual tension.

“Colfa’s late for lunch.”

Perhaps he didn’t fully believe it yet, like that shred of doubt that was in Ishkr’ chest, even now, even after all he’d seen. But then again—perhaps Himilt had been there before.

They all had their reasons not to run away.

The door to the common room opened, and Saliss twitched; he had the vial ready to throw, then had lowered it in a blink of an eye.

“Hey, pal. I hear you’re causing trouble in Pallass. What’s up?”

Numbtongue. He was limping down the hallway, his Dragonblood crystal sword in hand. He shouted at them.

“The Goblin King! He’s—”

“We heard. Door’s that way.”

The [Sybarite Soulbard] slowed when he came to them. He almost went for the portal door. He turned…then hesitated. Stopped, as if he was unable to go through the door. Then he cursed.

“We’re going to die.”

Saliss’ voice was steady.

“Maybe. You gonna give us a tune or what?”

“What?”

The Goblin gave Saliss a pop-eyed stare, and the [Alchemist] gestured at the guitar on Numbtongue’s back.

“You’re a [Bard]. Music. That sword’s worth shit to me.”

Uncertainly, the Goblin pulled the guitar off his back and stared at it. This was surely not the time for music, but to everyone’s surprise, Thallisa snapped her fingers.

“Ideal. That’s just the thing. Mind if I join in? [Copy Tool].”

She reached out and plucked a second guitar out of Numbtongue’s hands. He recoiled, and the Witch raised her brows.

“Haven’t you heard I love music?”

Ishkr remembered—Thallisa was usually accompanied by a burst of music. But he’d forgotten that; her other notable trick was using a tree like a broomstick.

The [Soulbard] didn’t react, so Thallisa took the initiative.

Witch Thallisa strummed on the guitar, and the music sounded like the Singer of Terandria’s music. Pop. Numbtongue blinked at her as his bass tried to synchronize with the wailing of Thallisa’s guitar.

The first of Numbtongue’s musical Skills began to activate, and Thallisa’s magic flashed over Ishkr’s fur. He felt his hair rising not just because of the static-electricity. Saliss began laughing.

“You can all run. No one will ever know or blame you, save yourselves. This is madness. And you—what the hell are you doing here? I can’t stop the others, but I’ll throw you through that door. Mirn!”

He roared, spittle coming out of his mouth, and the [Protector] drew his sword.

“I delivered your orders. But then I heard what you said. The Goblin King. Did you think you were the only idiot with a grudge? I was in the Second Antinium War, same as you.”

Saliss went to shove Mirn, but the Drake ignored him. Then the [Alchemist] spun. His eyes flashed across them.

Grimalkin, Pryde, Elosaith, Elia Arcsinger, Ishkr, Mirn, Himilt, Thallisa, Liska, and Numbtongue—the Drake spoke slowly.

“Listen to me. This isn’t your job. You know where Relc is? Guarding people. The Archmage of Izril likewise. This is death. You can go. No one will ever blame you or know. You understand that, right?”

He spoke to Elia, and she shivered and sighed. But she didn’t lower her bow. Saliss gazed at Mirn, at Grimalkin, and shook his head ruefully. Thallisa and Numbtongue were in harmony now, and the [Witch]’s strumming intensified.

Suddenly, there was a spotlight shining down on them from above. A miniature concert—Ishkr heard Saliss’ voice rising above the music, like a counterpoint. The Drake was laughing to himself. He strode forwards.

“Some days, you run away when nothing’s on the line but pride or money. Every other day, you hold the line, and the world breaks or you do. Because there is no one else. You’re the last line in the sand. Got that, you cute rookies? It’s your turn next.”

“For what, Level 50?”

Pryde was cracking her knuckles, and Saliss just snorted at her.

“To be called that silly word by everyone. ‘Heroes’. It’s so hard to run after the first time you forget to. Now—ah. He’s here.”

The [Alchemist] turned, and Ishkr felt something run through him. He heard the door of the [Garden of Sanctuary] crack, and he ripped at the fur on his chest, feeling a phantom pain like something tearing apart there. Someone was trying to leave the [Garden]. And someone else trying to stop him.

Erin—!

Then—silence. The pain dissipated. A door creaked as it came open, and nothing stirred in the empty common room. It was like the world had held its breath, but they felt it.

An oppressive presence, like a sword aimed at their chests. It was like someone was breathing, just inside the inn. A vast, horrifically angry presence, leaking out of the broken [Garden of Sanctuary].

Once more, sanctuary ended. The door became just a door, and his hand was upon the handle.

Saliss whispered.

“Yeah, that’s the angry bastard. Fuck. He feels stronger than last time.”

“Liska—go. Get out of here.”

Ishkr said it faintly as he raised his mug. Pryde gripped Grimalkin’s claw, then let go. Thallisa finished playing, and the guitar vanished in a cloud of sparks. She lifted the hat from her head and pulled a wand from it like a [Magician]. She took aim at the door as Numbtongue’s song faltered, then continued.

Like the backdrop to Ishkr’s racing heart. Elosaith and Himilt stood next to each other, two weary farmers of different kinds—and Himilt took one hand off his scythe, and Elosaith let go of his staff with his right hand.

They shook hands, and nodded at each other.

Everyone waited—as the Goblin King mused inside the [Garden of Sanctuary]. A timeless, terribly long moment where Ishkr’s heart was beating out of his chest. Waiting, waiting for what felt like forever as sweat ran through his fur.

Then he heard a voice. A rumbling roar deep in the chest, building and vibrating every copper nail in the inn.

The Goblin King. Ishkr’s insides clenched, and he tensed—but the roar didn’t immediately fill the inn. It halted, and someone gasped.

“No.”

Every head turned. Saliss pivoted—and she was right there.

Liska.

The [Doorgnoll]’s arm was thrown out. Her eyes were wide with terror, and her fur was standing on end. She had her back to the wall, and her arms were spread.

As if she were trying to hold something back with all her might. With all her Skills.

The door to the [Garden]. It was broken but she was holding it closed with all her might. Ishkr’s eyes went round.

“Liska! What are you doing?”

The [Doorgnoll] didn’t respond. Sweat was running down her brows, and she was straining against something.

[Enhanced Strength: Door]. [Hold Door]. [Lock Door]. [Lesser Forcewall]—

Every single Skill she had was going into holding the [Garden of Sanctuary]’s door from the inside. The [Innkeeper] was helping her. But she was up against him.

The Goblin King.

For a second—Liska’s eyes bulged as she screamed.

“He’s coming out—”

“The hallway! Put him in the hallway! Don’t hold him or he’ll kill you!”

Saliss roared. Liska’s feet were sliding across the ground, though there was nothing to move her. Ahead of them—the [Garden of Sanctuary]’s door appeared down the hallway.

“No! No, you can’t! No—”

“Liska!”

Ishkr howled. He saw his sister’s eyes close—her slide halted. Then he heard a crack. She screamed, once, and he swore he saw a claw grab her and push—

Saliss spun, yanked a potion from his belt, and threw at the same time as Grimalkin pointed with Thallisa.

“[Levitate]!”

“[Elastic Form]!”

Saliss’ vial burst into what seemed to be green clouds—and Liska vanished as something threw her. She hit the wall of the inn so hard that Ishkr felt it.

“Liska?”

There was no response. Ishkr whirled, took a step, then turned his head.

The door was open. A helmeted figure stood in the [Garden of Sanctuary], burning with black flames covering him. Red light shone at them through his ruined visor, and his armor was covered in blood.

The Goblin King took a single step into the inn, and it was quiet. So silent that Ishkr realized he wasn’t hearing his heart beating anymore. Nor the rain.

Trembling. A faint rumble. It wasn’t the inn. Nor the Floodplains or the waters outside. The Goblin King took a second step into the world, exiting the [Garden of Sanctuary], and the door vanished.

The High Passes started shaking as every [Dangersense] on the continent went off. Every monarch in the world felt it.

 

——

 

The Blighted King napped after lunch and his treatment of alchemy, magic, and chronomancy. He was leaning on one fist on his throne when he sat up and clutched at his chest.

“What? No. No, it can’t be.”

“Your Majesty?”

His servants spun, and the Blighted King’s mouth formed an ‘o’ of horror. He listened to the ringing alarm in his head that he had heard only once before. Like the screaming of Goblins. Othius spoke with a trembling voice.

“Not him. Not now.”

 

——

 

The Goblin Isle had gone quiet. Every bird froze with wings open wide, but it was as if someone had cast [Stasis] on them. The Goblins had halted, as if they had just heard a voice calling to them.

It was the Goblin Lord, Izikere the Guardian, who stood.

Her calm face had turned to confusion, then a kind of agony. She spoke in the perfect Goblin language she’d been taught in this protected place that he had created generations ago.

“Not him. Impossible. There was no warning. How? Kanadith gave no message. It’s not Kanadith nor Greydath nor Wirothe. There are no others nearly strong enough. So who…?”

This presence. This…rage was unmistakable. But it was familiar. Like that new—her eyes widened. Izikere’s head spun, first to the northeast, then northwest of her island. Impossible. He’d barely awoken. It couldn’t be—

 

——

 

The Goblin Lord of Heralds felt it too. They all did.

But it was they who were most surprised. For they were Kanadith. The Goblin Lord of Baleros, one of those who watched and waited, even among Goblin Lords. That was their role and duty.

Kanadith the Herald. Proclaimer of the Goblin King. Just like Kanadith had once foreseen Velan the Kind, the Goblin Lord had the gift of proclamation. Of knowing when the hour came.

“…Him. But not him.”

The Goblin Lord spoke in the midst of a frenzy. Goblins were shrieking, raising their weapons for war, swept into that familiar rage, but Kanadith lifted a hand, and quiet fell.

“This is wrong.”

“Lord Kanadith!”

A Goblin wearing a Naga costume bounded forwards, grinning in delight, but also confusion. She was one of Kanadith’s helpers, and her mother was one of the greatest Goblins of Baleros. She stopped in front of the Herald.

“What’s going on? Goblin King back! Why are your bells not ringing?”

Kanadith the Herald should have rung them already, but the great bell upon their back was silent. The Herald spoke, eyes narrowed.

“…There are two of them. One is right here, on our soil. The other…Izril.”

“Two what?”

“The same Goblin. Not exactly—but it is him. Be quiet. Be silent.”

Kanadith spoke, and the Goblins fell silent. The Herald stood. Closing their eyes, trying to sense what was going on from so far away. One eye opened and fixed on the nearest Goblin.

“Find the Champion. Find him right now.”

Then the Herald waited. Two or not—they could feel the Goblin King’s rage from here. The world would quake. Kanadith’s head bowed.

“More death, mad King?”

There was no response to the Goblin Lord’s question, but Kanadith needed no answer. The answer was always the same.

 

——

 

They felt it in Pallass. The proximity to the [Portal Door] in their city meant that the [Soldiers] in front of it felt the shockwave of terror in their [Dangersenses]. Then the alarms redoubled in volume, but it was too late.

In his room, a drooling Drake woke up.

No one had gotten to him; they hadn’t even known where he was for a while. Chaldion of Pallass was always just at the inn, or in his rooms. No longer surrounded and monitored at all times. Comatose. His head didn’t rise from his wheelchair, nor did he stand.

He just…started giggling. Laughing and wheezing as his head lolled back. His rheumy gaze focused as he heard the alarms growing louder, and then he fell back against his chair.

Laughing harder. Chortling with uncontrolled mirth, then what sounded like genuine amusement and delight.

That was how they found him when they rushed into his room, shouting for him—the [Healer], the [Soldiers]—a Drake laughing as tears streamed from his eyes.

Like the only person in the entire City of Inventions who got the joke. Laughing as they wheeled him out of his apartment, begging for orders.

His head merely rose, and he grinned up at the 5th Floor.

Waiting.

 

——

 

The Goblin King stood there and plunged the world into chaos. Sovereign rulers felt him appear, a challenger to every throne. A hand grasping for their necks.

The High Passes shook, and the tribe of people at the top who had waited for Goblins to climb and claim their King’s reward sighed. Not in despair, but disappointment for a noble [Healer]’s dreams.

Once more, there would be only death.

He stood there, head swivelling right and left, for all of half a second. Then he caught the vial Saliss threw at him.

It detonated anyways. A searing bolt of lightning emerging from the vial—until the Goblin King compressed it in his hands. Closed his grip on the lightning and made it vanish.

His eyes focused on the Drake, and he charged. Down the [Long Hallway] as the Sinew Magus threw a [Siege Fireball].

A second bolt of lightning crackled down from Numbtongue’s guitar—the Goblin King ran past it before it touched down. He burst through the [Siege Fireball] and pulled the flames in his wake.

“Two of them?”

The Hobgoblin whispered as he dropped his guitar. No one understood what he meant. The Goblin King was moving faster.

Faster. Witch Thallisa pointed, and an arc of magic shot from her wand, a literal shooting star. His shield came up; the star burst over the shield and flashed—

The Goblin King ran out of the sphere of light, abandoning his shield as the shooting star burst, still stuck to the metal. A trio of vials; he sliced through two and ignored the one Mirn had thrown. The Goblin King saw a speck of something in the blue liquid and the boiling red spray of mist.

Seith dust—

The explosion didn’t roll back on the figures waiting at the far end of the hall, but blew out both sides of the trapped hallway as if the wooden walls weren’t there at all. Ishkr saw a roaring wave of blue fire clearing the waters—a hilltop vanished as the blue cloud went right through it.

He raised his mug and threw it. Saliss lifted a quartet of vials in his claws, waiting. Eyes flicking to both openings—

The Goblin King shot out of the cloud, armor ripped back across his body, pulled by the force of the blast until it almost seemed like a screaming face made out of the metal. Saliss’ vials sparked as he sped under them—

They vanished into a cut in the air as the Goblin King swung his sword, and Saliss cursed. A trio of [Deathbolts] splashed over the Goblin King’s armor. He was a hundred feet away now. He raised his sword, and Ishkr reached for Pryde as she stepped forwards, squaring her trembling shoulders.

Himilt waited, scythe raised, eyes locked on the Goblin King’s helmet.

Then the Goblin King’s mad charge stumbled. He tripped over nothing at all. His head rose, and Ishkr heard that building roar catch—and halt.

He slowed, and the Goblin King’s eyes focused on that figure who’d stepped forwards. Her bow was raised, and she stood, hair braided behind her, an [Archer] with a bow.

That was all. Just a woman, her body trembling, her bow steady. But she was right there. Just like last time.

Just like his memories.

“Sprigaena?”

Her spitting image—wrong in so many ways, but too close. The half-Elf loosed her arrow, and the Goblin King stood there, dumb, unable to move. He tried to as that streak of death came for him again.

[Piercing Shot].

Rabbiteater did nothing. The Goblin King hesitated for that one moment. And the arrow struck him in the head. His right eye.

Just like last time. He collapsed backwards as Elia Arcsinger put another arrow to her bow. She saw the armored figure fall, and her breath caught.

Once more, the Goblin King fell, an arrow shot by the [Archer], a moment of luck and bravery from the woman who refused to run.

This time—his helmet came up, and Elia saw the tip of her arrow had snapped off in the mangled metal visor.

This time, he had a helmet. 

Elia drew an arrow and loosed again as he leapt, a howl of treachery in his throat. The half-Elf grinned once, that bare-toothed smile, as her long dream finally ended as she had known it should.

She swung her third arrow up and exhaled softly.

Then—

—he was—

—upon them.

 

——

 

Lord Xitegen Terland’s eyes moved away from the battle for Goblinhome. He forgot the camp he stood in, Magnolia’s servants, General Shirka, and her army, divested of their weapons.

Everything.

He woke up from that long dream he’d had.

A boy dozing on the battlements of a keep besieged sat up and opened his eyes. He lifted an arm that was more bone than flesh and peered past the stones shielding the surviving souls from arrows and spells.

All he saw were burning fires. Glowing-eyed soldiers hunkering behind shields. The boy licked his lips. 

“…Mother? Father?”

His head turned, and he saw them resting together under the shadow of the walls. A Golem walked past him, its glowing heart still tic-ing away in its chest.

The only sound in the castle. The boy didn’t disturb his parents’ sleep. He rubbed at his eyes and gazed at his filthy hands.

“I had a wonderful dream.”

His eyes were blurry. The drumbeats rose, and in the distance, he could see another line of Goblins moving across the land. Everything was burning. The boy saw the Golems’ footsteps slow. Faltering. So he reached out, and his hand touched the pendant on his father’s chest. He removed it and put it around his neck.

The gemstone glowed, and the Golems kept walking. Xitegen Terland lay back.

“I had a truly terrible, splendid dream.”

Then, with his legs shaking, he pushed himself up. A flag. He called out, weak. Someone—raise the flag. To show the Goblins. For anyone to see.

They had to know House Terland still stood. The boy reached out—

—And Lord Xitegen Terland, the man, heard someone speaking. He woke from the dream—but he was still right there.

He always had been.

“—Sound the alarm. Tell my family to activate the Crown of Flowers. Find me Teriarch—no. Send word to the Great Companies of Baleros. Inform the King of Minos, and find me Khetieve and Mauri. Ask the Luminaries and the Nagas where they are. If they have any idea—”

Magnolia. That strident woman, just like the teenage girl he remembered marching into the meeting of the Five Families as he looked on. Her face was terribly pale, but she was giving orders.

“General Shirka. With me. Xitegen? Xitegen Terland!”

“Yes. I’m here. Seconda, prepare for battle. Prep your Golem Heart for detonation.”

“Yes, Lord Xitegen. It has been an honor to serve.”

The [Lord] didn’t move. He was fumbling for something. Ignoring the people running around. He, who loved to jog, to run, and to eat, finally found the thing he was searching for.

A speaking stone with his House’s sigil on it. A special one. It lit up as he triggered it twice, then waited.

“—Xitegen? What is going on? Every [Dangersense] in the mansion just activated. I feel…”

A voice quavered in his ears, sounding so terribly old and fragile. Not like the heroine he knew her to be. It should have been two voices. Xitegen spoke calmly and clearly into the stone.

“Hello, Aunt Ulva. The Goblin King is back.”

The speaking stone went dead, and then she spoke, a flurry of denials and…his eyes swung towards the Floodplains of Liscor.

“No, I don’t know how. Rally House Terland, Aunt. I love you dearly. I’m sorry, I don’t know. I have to go. Evacuate Celum for me. He’s here. There’s a city—I have to go.”

Then he dropped the speaking stone as she kept talking. Shouting at him. Giving him orders. Xitegen didn’t hear her.

He jogged downhill, past the broken stones of the battleground, heading towards the cliffs. Mountains between him and…

He was running. Stumbling—he tripped and bounced off a rock, but his magic rings and armor protected him. Xitegen got up, a boy with shaking, emaciated legs, and realized he’d forgotten something.

His hand clutched the pendant of House Terland, and he cast around.

“The banner. Banner…”

All he had was a handkerchief. It would do. He fumbled it onto his vest, blue and white, a shining heart of clockwork and magic. Then he kept running.

He had gone six hundred feet horizontally and four hundred feet off three cliffs when the pink carriage finally caught up to him. Reynold steered his carriage near-vertically down the rock face as Magnolia Reinhart threw open the door to her carriage. Shirka had to grab hold of Ressa as she shouted.

“Xitegen! Get in, you fool!”

His face turned blankly to her; tears were running down his cheeks. Without a word, he caught Shirka’s hand. The carriage accelerated as Seconda, the porcelain Golem, clung to the roof.

No one else. Not Gaellis or Lectara—

The noblewoman and the Drake [General] pulled Xitegen into the carriage. He sat. Waiting.

The boy sat upright, straight-backed, like his mother had always tried to get him to do. On his best behavior.

He didn’t know what came next, now that he’d woken up. He turned his head and saw a breathless young woman of sixteen, a sword clumsily propped up next to her, as her [Maid] tried to make her stay behind. The blonde [Lady] nodded to him, and he half-bowed to her.

He’d always liked her, that older, dashing [Lady] who said they could be, had to be better. Next to him sat a child, even younger than he was. A Drake girl, scales half-burnt away from Wrymvr’s acid and worse, playing with a belt dagger and a little potion someone had given her.

Xitegen sat there as the carriage rumbled, and the rain pattered off the roof. The boy waited as that familiar presence drew closer and closer with each agonizing second. Those careless, burning red eyes. That hand that rose and obliterated cities with a wave.

His chin rose. He squared his shoulders. The boy patted the handkerchief tied to his collar, then put a hand on the dreadful sword he had never truly wanted to unsheathe.

“We’re still here. Fly the banners high, until the end.”

Then he waited.

 

——

 

Seven minutes after the Goblin King entered the real world, he stepped out of the [Garden of Sanctuary].

Ten seconds after that, Ishkr Silverfang opened his eyes. He pushed himself off the ground. Reached for the body lying in front of him.

“Saliss?”

The Drake was staring up at the sky as rain fell over the two of them. The roof was gone. The [Alchemist]’s face was bared in a half-snarl, a bitter expression of defiance. A struggle. Always the struggle.

“Saliss…?”

The world was so very quiet that Ishkr couldn’t hear anything. Just the rain drumming down on him. He shook the Drake’s shoulder. Saliss’ eyes stared up as the raindrop struck his face, unblinking.

Ishkr tried to pull the Drake upright and saw a golden mess of hair. Elia. He reached for her too, then fell. The Named-rank [Archer] was buried under a piece of the inn. Ishkr collapsed, and a hand caught him—and pushed him back up to his feet.

Then he heard a voice.

“What?”

Ishkr stumbled and caught himself. Saliss of Lights blinked, then he stood in a single motion. He plucked a vial from his belt.

“I said—‘how are we still alive?’”

Then he threw the vial, and the world exploded. Ishkr felt something kick him in the back—then he was running. He seized the piece of wreckage and pulled, but it was too heavy—someone else reached down and heaved.

Lady Pryde Ulta’s clothes were torn, and she was bleeding from underneath the bag on her head. Her tendons stood out as her arms lifted the rubble up—and Elia Arcsinger rolled upright, bow in her hand, and fired once. Ishkr turned.

They were alive. Lady Pryde let go of the rubble, and it slammed downwards. Her eyes were as disbelieving as his.

How were they—? Then Ishkr saw something flick past him. Himilt, scythe extended, his eyes wide and glowing as he swung at a flash of grey armor—

A sword. Ishkr dove and grabbed Pryde and Himilt. They reappeared behind the bar of the inn—and he scrambled up to see the room was open to the rains.

The entrance hallway was gone. A sword cleaved through the ground where Ishkr had been, and he shouted.

“Elia! Saliss!”

A scar in the ground. Ishkr ran forwards as Pryde and Himilt sprinted past him. Someone emerged from the gap in the doorway.

Numbtongue, supported by Witch Thallisa. She’d lost her hat, and she turned and fired her wand, white shooting stars following a blur in the water.

Grimalkin tore past them, clutching at one arm—he reset the dislocated wrist with a crack of bones and stopped when he saw Pryde.

“Saliss is fighting him with Elosaith! Come on!”

Himilt and Pryde joined Grimalkin as he whirled, and Numbtongue collapsed onto the ground, clutching his guitar, which was half-shredded, all but one string ripped off. Someone else splashed healing potions over him and Ishkr, and the ringing in the Gnoll’s ears faded.

Mirn. The former alchesoldier was crouched behind what remained of a wall as Thallisa waved her wand over them.

“Hat, to me. We have to keep him from Liscor. He’s moving too fast—”

She whirled her wand, and more of the roof disappeared as the [Witch] deflected up a slash through the air. Mirn uncorked a vial, threw it, and took cover as lightning flashed. Then the Drake said something with that too-calm voice of disbelief.

“We shouldn’t be alive.”

That’s what Ishkr had been thinking. Thallisa nodded, and Numbtongue let go of his guitar.

“He missed.”

The Great Witch turned to the Hobgoblin.

“He does not miss.”

Numbtongue raised his head to the others, his eyes wide and disbelieving. He patted his chest as he turned to Thallisa.

“Then explain this.”

She blinked at him—and then Ishkr saw the Goblin King at last.

That armored figure was—running over the waters outside of The Wandering Inn. Just running on top of the water as if it were solid ground, forming a spray of liquid behind him. His sword was drawn, and his red eyes flashed through the slits in his visor.

He swung his blade—a horizontal slash that should have cleaved the entire hill the inn stood on in half. A Vampire stopped it with his scythe as Lady Pryde threw herself in front of the cut along with Grimalkin.

A trail of explosions followed the Goblin King; Saliss of Lights, throwing ahead and around the weaving Goblin King. The world’s most powerful Named-rank Adventurer—for five minutes. Even the Goblin King had to be wary of—

He lunged, and the armored figure covered two hundred feet in a single step—he swung around, racing towards the [Alchemist], who cursed as Elia Arcsinger and Elosaith moved to strike the Goblin King.

Too slow. The arrow and shards of bones missed the monster running for them. A snarling, roaring Goblin King drew back a claw to cut the trio out of this world—and a second armored figure grabbed him and pushed.

The Goblin King’s slash tore up the water, and a geyser exploded upwards, becoming a tidal wave that washed down and knocked Elosaith off his feet. Elia shot an arrow into his robes before he could be washed off the hill, and Saliss spun.

“[Expanded Blast: Spiderweb Pattern].”

A trio of vials flashed, and the Goblin King leapt out of the flaming pattern. Yet it wasn’t a spiderweb’s pattern, but straight lines, like a tic-tac-toe board.

[Checkerboard Pattern], idiot. The [Alchemist]’s trick didn’t work. The Goblin King was leaping backwards into one of the expanding clouds of flaming debris—and his foot found purchase in the air.

[Double Jump]. He jumped again—and an armored hand seized his foot and dragged him down.

Straight into the cloud of flames that washed over his armor. Pellets of steel perforating the exposed flesh in the superheating metal.

 

——

 

The Goblin King landed as Saliss frowned. The [Alchemist] was so surprised that his second vial he’d aimed up failed to detonate.

“What the hell is—?”

His vial curved down towards the Goblin King, and the armored figure reached up to grab it. Saliss focused, and the vial stopped in midair.

[Telekinetic Grip]. 

This time, he saw the armored figure leap up, faster than thought, and toss the vial at him. It exploded in a cloud of pale white particles that instantly expanded and became doughy, immobilizing everything they touched.

The Goblin King ripped out of the immobilizing cloud as Saliss transmuted it into a metal; the metal strands snapped on his armor. He spoke at last.

“What are you doing?”

No one could see the person he was speaking to. Only Ishkr had any inkling at all—the Goblin King ran backwards, avoiding more of the [Alchemist]’s vials, and someone kept pace with him.

Step for step. Faster than anything else in this world. An armored Goblin grinning behind his helmet.

Rabbiteater. The Goblin King of Traitors tripped the Goblin King. Forced one of his legs to slip, and the Goblin King slowed just enough for one of Arcsinger’s arrows to strike him. He turned—caught the arrow—

She should be dead. The Goblin King charged that imposter with a roar of fury. All his rage and betrayal and outrage, running through the barrage of spells.

—Rabbiteater slammed into him and threw the Goblin King across the water. Now, the Goblin King halted. His head turned to regard the soul in rebellion. The other owner of his body.

“You were never this strong.”

He spoke to the shade of the Goblin, who had been nothing more than a mad, wailing voice in his head for years. The Goblin King, Rabbiteater the Traitor, grinned.

“I had nothing to fight for. Now I have a second chance. I was just waiting for my moment.”

That [Innkeeper] with the flaming hat and ship. The Goblin King recalled it. From that moment onwards…

His head snapped up, and he weaved, avoiding the spells the mortals were sending at him.

“Enough. [Imperial Soul Cage]. You will not oppose me.”

Rabbiteater’s control—and the Goblin King caught the other Goblin’s soul and began to lock it away. But he was trying to cage—

Another Goblin King. The spell—twisted, and a voice whispered in his mind.

“You and I have never fought. Now, we’re fighting. Not my brother. Not this inn.”

The Goblin King was wrestling for his body. He was stronger, the gestalt of over eighty of the mightiest souls in the world. He forced back Rabbiteater’s control, grappling with the other Goblin. The [Champion] could not best him.

So Rabbiteater took an arm, and the Goblin King felt it rise. He tried to dodge—

 

——

 

Saliss of Lights knew he was a dead Drake. This was only a postponed funeral, a fluke. They didn’t have a chance of besting the Goblin King once he dodged Elia’s arrow.

His best new potions couldn’t do more than slow the Goblin King. They were dead—he saw the Goblin King standing on the waters as he reached for more potions.

Then the [Alchemist] observed the Goblin King’s right arm rise and punch himself in the face. Saliss fumbled a vial. He grabbed for it desperately—then stared.

“No way.”

Even Saliss of Lights turned his head to give The Wandering Inn the longest stare of his lifetime. It wasn’t possible. For armies, Pallass, yes. But not the Goblin King.

Then his head snapped back, and he saw the Goblin King—fighting himself. That was the only way Saliss could describe it. The armored figure blurred as he threw a punch at himself—blocked it, swivelled, as if two forces were in control of his body.

“There’s two of them.”

That comment came from Numbtongue. The [Bard] was holding a backup guitar, and every head on the hill turned to him and Ishkr.

Himilt, Elosaith, Elia, Thallisa, Grimalkin, Pryde, Mirn, Saliss—that open-mouthed expression of pure incredulity. Then the Goblin King’s head turned to them, and he pointed.

“Cover!”

Saliss dove into the water a moment before the chain lightning blew across the hill. He rose, feeling tingling in the water as electricity earthed itself and spread out, diffusing; Witch Thallisa had caught several bolts of lightning in her hat. Grimalkin had done the next logical thing and appeared from behind a metal rod in the ground.

He was still after them. 

 

——

 

Rabbiteater couldn’t stop him forever. The Goblin King regained control of his limbs. With effort—he was straining to activate more Skills and to hold off the second Goblin King fighting him for every movement.

The battle with the dead gods had exhausted him, and he had fought a war earlier that day. Even his will had limits. However, the Goblin King thought at Rabbiteater.

You cannot save them anymore than they can stop me.

The surprise attack had bought them a minute of life. Rabbiteater’s mental reply was weak; the image of a grinning Goblin, eyes shining with defiance.

That’s all that it takes. Have fun with the Dragonlords.

The—

The purple flames laced with gold engulfed the Goblin King and burned through his armor. Seared his skin black until he activated [Immunity: Flames]. And even then he burned with magic and other elements.

He dropped into the water as the first Dragon roared a challenge. The Goblin King cursed.

“Him.”

Rabbiteater corrected him.

Them.

From the depths of the water, the Goblin King, scattering terrified fish, saw a second golden apparition flying above, gleaming with flame, like the largest fish swimming through the rainy skies.

Ah.

The Archmage of Scales pointed down and spoke.

“[Lightning Meteor Swarm].”

The first meteors appeared, a wave of a dozen, each as large as a house—and they hit the water and electrocuted everything in a hundred feet from their impact point. The Dragonlord swept the waters with the first wave—then a second.

Then there were three Dragonlords. Then four. Then—the Goblin King began to swim away.

Evacuate. Regroup. He didn’t have the energy to waste on them.

He leapt through the water, pulling it with him, swimming past dead fish rising upwards, belly-first, and the water exploded as the largest fish of them all hit the surface, then raised a snarling head towards him.

The Brass Dragon exhaled as the Dragonlord of the Creler Wars locked eyes with the Goblin King.

Water turned to steam.

 

——

 

Six Dragonlords preceded her, a regal procession of wings, before the Empress of Harpies flew out of the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Her wings snapped open in the skies, and the rains fell upon her vast feathers, then ceased.

The Empress of Wings took to the air and gazed up as she circled around the Floodplains of Liscor. Her wings cut through the ever-present rain and banished the clouds. She looked around at the tiny hills of green poking out of the turgid waters.

So small. This basin was but a divot compared to the mountains that stretched up ever-higher. The Empress of Harpies gazed up at the High Passes. She should have fallen upon the Goblin King the moment she had emerged, but she was distracted by all she saw.

These mountains. She did not know them. Her vision swept across the inhospitable stone with dismay.

Where was that lone mountain ringed by carved stone and metal? Where was the seat of Iltanus? 

No more. She mourned it for one moment, as the [Kings] and [Queens] upon their thrones, gasping as the cold hand of the Goblin King reached for them, felt a moment of relief. Then unease.

For they all sat in the shadow of her wings.

“I have returned to the world of the living. Six of my greatest champions assail the Goblin King. I sense war amongst the mountains. The foul taint of a [Necromancer] fled hangs in the air. Reality trembles from the palace hidden in the inn. What will I?”

The Empress of Wings landed as the Floodplains boiled with steam. Teriarch, the six versions of him, were hunting the Goblin King in the waters. Sheta did not deign to enter the fight. Not yet.

Her mind was stretching across the world.

There was no empire of hers to command; yet she was nevertheless the [Monarch of Wings]. Izril and Terandria were her former domains, and the shadow of her authority reached across the globe.

Farther than she thought, even. There was something…northwest of here. Terribly far.

“Rhir? The only wings of my people that still fly are…”

Sheta’s head swung around, and far away, the Death of Wings felt her advent like the others. Every Harpy screamed as they took wing.

So few.

So far.

A fraction of a fraction. Sheta’s mind cast southwards, and she flinched.

“The Mountain-Roosts of the Garuda. Only one is left. What is this wretched world? The Continent of Glass. I don’t…”

She had known it would be painful. But this? The Empress cast around, lost. Then that raging soul drew her attention. A wordless, screaming aura radiating hatred below her, and six hearts of burnished metal.

The Harpy Empress almost smiled in relief.

Ah, most excellent. A distraction.

Her eyes found the small building, the village, and the steam rising as yet another flare of Dragonfire burst from the waters.

Miniscule from where she flew, even the Dragonlords of Flame. Yet he was not.

His rage shook the High Passes. The Goblin King was as vast as she was, compressed into this fragile body.

He refused to die. Her eyes picked out a Dragon snarling and diving into the water, only for the entire section of water to heave up in a geyser, sending her champion of flames tumbling into the surf.

“Tsk. So soft. All but one of him has forgotten how to war.”

He fought like an honorable [Knight], not the savage and cunning Dragonlord of Flame. Even the Dragonlord of the Creler Wars…Sheta’s eyes narrowed as she angled her wings and dove—

Even he had lost his edge. The Goblin King was in the water, moving through it like he had been born there. The Dragonlords were hunting him with fire, turning vast swathes of the Floodplains to steam—but a second one of them surfaced, tossed upwards like a great carp.

The Harpy Queen dove like a swallow, her talons skimming across the water for the first time in tens of thousands of years, and she smiled, indulging in the sensation. Then she wondered how many fish lived in this place.

She sensed no Merfolk nor other conscious minds save for the Dragonlords of Flame and the Goblin King.

“Good. They will survive. [The Emperor’s Voice: Tongue of the Natural World]. [Skysplitting Screech].”

The Empress inhaled, then ducked her head underwater. She opened her mouth—and screamed. A shriek of wrath, the hunting call of an eagle, magnified a thousand times by her size, and then a hundred times more by the Skill of a Level 82 [Empress].

The basin of the Floodplains did not shiver or tremble like a glass of water disturbed. The rippling surface of the disturbed water—exploded upwards, and the quake hit Liscor three seconds later.

The Harpy Queen folded her wings as the water rained down around her, and hills collapsed into the water. Not just water; sediment and corpses of fish rained around her. She reached out and delicately snagged a fish; its skin had been practically blasted off its body.

The downpour knocked some of the brave mortals fighting the Goblin King flat. The rest were puking from the soundwaves that had come out of the water. The waters rippled; then the first fish began to rise, belly up.

Dead.

The Empress of Harpies sensed less than a hundred things in the water had survived her scream in this region of the Floodplains. She waited, and one of the Dragonlords emerged from the water. He stumbled onto a hill and then threw up.

A second Dragonlord floated upwards, and his eyes focused on Sheta. His eardrums were doubtless all but broken. He snarled, blood running from his mouth, nostrils, earholes.

The Empress of Harpies stood upon one leg, waiting.

She knew he’d felt that. She waited and hopped back, spreading her wings.

The hill she stood on exploded, and Sheta blocked the spray of dirt and stone with her aura. She tilted her head inquisitively, her eyes narrowing.

“Another Skill I do not know. [Deathstep Landmine]. What strange times you come from, Goblin King.”

She knew he stole Skills from his many lives. The armored figure leapt out of the water, trailing liquid. Blood. Sheta smiled, and her wings glowed.

“[Fall As Rain, Seeking Arrows of Iltanus].”

She flapped upwards, and the Goblin King swung his sword as a shower of arrows flickered down from her wings, twisting towards him in a spiral. His swing destroyed a thousand of the conjured arrows, fletched with long feathers from Harpies’ wings, twice as long as the ones other species used.

But the arrows kept falling, following the Goblin King as he leapt from hill to hill. He was forced to keep swinging his sword, destroying and deflecting the volleys of arrows that had slain armies. Then his helmeted head found the Empress of Wings.

“[Open the Vaults: Bow of the Emperor of Lightning]. [Fit For My Talons]. Sleep, Goblin King.”

The bow doubled in sheer length as the Goblin King beheld a Harpy wielding a bow. Empress Sheta had no arms, only wings that met her humanoid torso and the long talons of a bird.

Even less similar to humanoid species than Garuda. How could any species like that use tools or fight? A Harpy wielding a bow? Ludicrous—until you saw her delicately holding the bow in one taloned foot, drawing back the string with that oversized arrow, drawing the bowstring back, back, manipulating her flexible legs until she had drawn the bow beyond the limits of any arms.

Empress Sheta loosed, and the arrow struck the Goblin King at close to the speed of sound. To her displeasure, he dodged.

The bolt of true lightning merely blew one of his arms and his shoulder apart, exposing charred flesh and white-hot metal. The thunderclap and flash revealed his stumbling form, and she struck the ground, talons digging into the dirt.

Teleported. Far faster than he used to be, and his new body withstands more than I recall. Unless she slew him outright, it seemed he’d regenerate.

The Harpy Queen opened her wings again.

“What is the Empress without empire? First, my faded Dragonlords. [Champions, Arise to Battle in Armor and Health].”

The very same Dragons she had wounded jerked upright, and four winged forms broke the water, gleaming. Not just their scales.

They were each wearing armor, curved around their scales. Burnished platemail forged by masters of her era, protecting their frames.

Their wounds—mostly healed. It displeased her, but her Skills did not work perfectly on beings as powerful as Teriarch. Nevertheless, she smiled at them. More than one gave her a gaze of betrayal or shock.

“Have you forgotten how you taught me to war, Dragonlord? Now come, let us put the Goblin King in his grave.”

She lifted a talon, concentrating. Yes.

“[I Am Imperium. Summon My Armies!]”

Her eyes glowed, and she reached across the world and pulled. If there were any Harpies who still flew Rhir and answered her call—

Far. But she sensed that someone was trying to answer her, someone else attempting to fight her. That pitiful [King] again. Sheta concentrated her aura. It had been an age since she had done this, but she aimed a burst of her will across the very world. To snuff out a lesser heart by sheer force of her authority.

The Harpy Empress was so overconfident that her focus on her Skill and battle with the Blighted King deafened her to the voice roaring at her.

“—eta! Watch out!”

Her head snapped up. The Empress of Wings saw two Dragons, an armored wing outstretched, trying to shield her. She spread her own, and her eyes, which saw everything, be it classes, Skills, even souls, saw more new Skills hanging in the air.

[Summon the Battleship: Full Salvo]. [Magic-piercing Shells]. [Piercing Shot].

Shells? Wh—

 

——

 

The Empress of Wings opened her eyes underwater, and her chest shrieked in agony. She jerked, clawing at the air and flapping her wings before she reoriented herself.

My—her robes were ripped apart. Two of her magical rings were shattered. The hide of a Dragonlord was equivalent to her royal protections.

He broke through two of Teriarch’s wings. What—what strange Skills does his current body have?

Rage flickered in the Harpy Queen’s mind. She began to speak, ignoring the water around her.

“[Royal Retribution: Summon the Shrouded W—]”

The Goblin King plunged into the waters, engulfed in pink flames, and the Harpy Queen jerked. She twisted—saw him conjuring a spell she recognized.

[Mass Transmutation: Water to Wyrm Acid].

—A screaming Harpy burst out of the water, feathers burning, and she clawed at her chest. Shards of Skill-made metal were embedded deep in her.

“[Open the Vaults: Tincture—]”

No, wait. She had used that Skill. Then—

“[Open the Vaults: Lifetender Gole—]”

He burst out of the waters and caught her as she flapped upwards, trying to gain altitude. The Goblin King was tiny compared to her massive frame. But his sword stabbed through her stomach in a blur.

A dozen stabs before she threw him off her. He should have gone flying down to the waters below, but he jumped through the air after her. She tried to use another Skill—

“Sheta!”

One of the Teriarchs caught the Goblin King, and his claws tore at him as she flapped away. The Harpy Empress landed hard on a hill near the inn, held a claw over her torn chest leaking her blood. She had to heal. She’d underestimated his strength again. What kind of Skills did his new body have?

“[Royal Command: Heal].”

Her flesh closed—partially—and she saw the Goblin King throw one of the Teriarchs down. He came towards her—

Hit a second Teriarch in an explosion of sound. The Empress of Wings backed up as the two figures crashed into the water. The Goblin King popped into existence on the hill just in front of her.

[Tracer Teleport]. She snarled and raised her right foot, talons striking at him.

“[Talons of Radiance]!”

She made the mistake of assailing him with a lower-level Skill. Without the element of surprise, the Goblin King simply twisted around her striking talons and threw his sword straight for her forehead.

The world—slowed—and Sheta jerked her head out of the way just in time. The sword cut through part of her cheek, and the panting Archmage of Scales roared.

“Keep him off—”

The Teriarch with the cape and Beach Teriarch emerged from the water and exhaled flames onto the Goblin King. Fire that could humble even Great Wyrms—but the Goblin King had known they would try to defend her.

A pair of glowing orbs filled with death magic flicked from his hands before the two Dragonlords had opened their mouths. No sooner had the flames begun to burn before the [Death Orbs] detonated in both Dragons’ throats.

They cried out, gagging, as the death spells hit them in a vulnerable spot. The Archmage of Scales tried to attack, but the Goblin King had already leapt.

“[Empower the Ch—]”

He kicked her flat onto the hilltop as she tried to get into the air again. He was focused on her. He knew her Skills could—

The Harpy Empress shielded her face with her wings, and her feathers turned hard as adamantium. The punch still drove her into the earth, and he caught his sword as the time spell ended. The Goblin King slashed across the Archmage of Scales’ face as the Dragon charged him. He raised the sword in both hands to stab downwards—turned his head—

The Dragonlord of the Creler Wars seized him in one taloned fist. His reward was the sword driven straight through his scales, but the Teriarch who had battled Crelers merely ignited his claws.

The explosion bought Sheta time; she sat up, coughing.

The air. Get up! The first lesson of any Harpy was to fly when there was danger. She flapped up—and the Goblin King sprouted a pair of scaled wings like an Oldblood Drake.

He couldn’t do that—the Dragonlord of the Creler Wars shot past Sheta, a roaring comet, knocking the Goblin King down. But then he twisted and flung his wings wide.

A hail of black javelins pierced his scales, and he fell, roaring. Sheta’s eyes went wide with horror.

[Dragonslayer’s Javelin]. [Scatter Throw].

Another Skill he hadn’t had when she met him. Too many lives. Too many Skills! But it was that body he wore. Who was this Goblin King? She read the class too late. Their classes stopped leveling when they joined with him—

[Goblin Lord (The Wandering Inn) — Rabbiteater of Champions. The Invincible Knight. True Hero of Rhir]. Level 77. And the Skill burning behind his eyes.

[Wondrous Deed: Beyond Any Limit].

A being from the [Palace of Fates]—fit to be a Goblin King.

“That…truly is not fair.”

The Harpy Queen whispered faintly. She’d earned her levels. She’d—

She dove as the Goblin King leapt up at her again. He soared through the air on his conjured wings and ignored the arrow shot from the mortal archer below. A beautiful shot, but a mere arrow. Unenchanted.

Though it was tied to a bag of holding—

The explosion kicked Sheta back through the air, and she wondered if one of the Dragonlords had come to her aid. But no—it was one of the people of this world.

The half-Elf—and the Drake. The Goblin King landed, shaking his head, and they assailed him.

“Don’t!”

He was going to kill them in a second. Sheta flapped back as the Goblin King produced another javelin to throw at her, then swung his sword at a Drake and a Human charging at him.

Lady Pryde and Grimalkin met the sword slash, and it tossed them back—but they hit the water, unharmed. The [Lady]’s shield of ego had protected both her and Grimalkin with Ishkr’s help.

That opening was all that Himilt needed. Witch Thallisa pointed, and for a second, a Vampire as large as a half-Giant swung his scythe and caught the Goblin King across the chest.

The Goblin King blocked the blow, snarling, and deflected another arrow from Elia and dodged Saliss’ potions—straight into a single Potion of Blast thrown by Mirn.

Sheta watched, open-mouthed, as the armored figure emerged from the fighting, then leapt away from them.

He was slower, suddenly! Far slower—as if something was hindering his every move. But when he turned to her—she dove under a [Ray of Disintegration] spell that vaporized her wingfeathers.

Whatever was holding the Goblin King back didn’t care about her. Panting, she tried to get away, but he—kept—following.

Every time she tried to use a Skill, he interrupted it, and each blow—

[Skillbreaker’s Blade]. It broke the Skill, wasting her most powerful abilities. Sheta was screaming curses.

He didn’t use to be able to do that!

The six Teriarchs were all roaring at her through their shared communication spell.

“Sheta, fall back! We can’t shield you and take him on—”

“Nor defend the damn inn! The water’s shielding him, and we can’t maneuver here!”

“We have to get him out of here.”

That last, weary voice came from one of the Dragonlords catching his breath on a hill. The Empress of Wings said nothing, tight-lipped as she weaved and dodged through the air, trying to shake the Goblin King racing after her.

He’d abandoned the damn inn, realizing that so long as he fought there, the people would get in his way. Her voice was clipped.

“Five—ten minutes! Just give me a moment to—”

If they could only stop him or buy time for her to use her Skills! She had no armies! And she’d wasted her summoning Skill.

She flew up—then cursed and dove under a rain of glowing comets that nearly struck her. The Goblin King wove around the [Valmira’s Comet Storm] spell with ease, and Sheta began screeching curses at the air.

Someone was firing spells at them! Other nations—she felt the intent behind the spells clearly. Spells and Skills were falling down around them.

They were trying to bombard the Goblin King. As if they could simply toss a spell at him and make him vanish. Such a waste—and it was fouling the Dragonlords and Harpy, who were gigantic targets, unlike the Goblin King!

“Worthless wretches! I will tear every stone from your palaces and throw them into the sea! Desist!”

She shrieked upwards—then her head swivelled right and left. She’d lost the Goblin King amidst the roiling waters and rain falling from the impact of the spells. Where was he? Where—

The Goblin King burst out of the waters with a new spell appearing overhead, bound to his finger. A spear of ice like the ones Frost Giants threw.

[Arrow of Winter: Glacius Pillar].

He aimed it at the wide-eyed [Empress] as she folded her wings to block the Tier 7 spell. One of the Dragonlords dove, and she screamed, realizing it just gave him two targets.

The Goblin King took a step forwards over the water, turned his head—

Wistram News Network, Channel 1, had an unparalleled view of Magnolia Reinhart’s pink carriage hitting the Goblin King.

He put his hand out—and the spectral horses vanished. The carriage stopped, and the shockwave kicked the Goblin King back a dozen paces before he halted himself.

The impact tossed the carriage across the water like a toy. It revolved six times, then began to sink. The Goblin King rotated his helmet around.

“Strange.”

That was all he said. Then he strode towards the regrouping Harpy Queen and Dragonlords, who were falling back around the inn. The Goblin King noticed something coming at him from the side. Over the water?

Lord Xitegen charged at him. The [Lord]’s face was slashed bloody from hitting the inside of the carriage until it tossed him out—he was running at the Goblin King.

Over the water. He couldn’t do it quite right; his feet were sinking into the surface, and he was waist-deep when his hands reached out—the Goblin King seized Xitegen at the same time as the [Lord] dug his fingers into his armor.

“You again?”

He almost sounded…resigned. The Goblin King rotated—and tossed Lord Xitegen into the nearest hill, three dozen feet from him. Like a grown man hurling a small animal. The [Lord] bounced, fell into the water.

Then the Goblin King raised a hand. It blurred, and he caught a bunch of daggers—dropped them as the talismans attached to them exploded. His head turned towards Ressa. General Shirka threw a vial as she charged over one of the wooden bridges.

“Tsk.”

The Goblin King swung his sword, and the waters sprayed towards Ressa, then he whirled his sword towards the bridge. His sword jerked in midair, and he missed just enough for Shirka to dodge the slash that divided the bridge and waters in two.

At first, he thought it was Rabbiteater again. Then the Goblin King turned and saw the [Lady] standing on top of the roof of her submerged carriage. He pointed at her as a red beam of light shone through his chest.

Magnolia Reinhart’s ring flashed—he caught the ray of incineration and reflected it back at her. It took so much effort.

Even with Rabbiteater’s body. The Goblin wasn’t even fighting him. He’d vanished again, bested. But the Goblin King…

One of the Teriarchs exploded out of the water around her and blocked the beam with his wings. The Goblin King drew his sword back to throw.

He was so sick of this. They refused to die. He was getting—tired.

And he had a world to kill. But the world never stopped fighting.

Lord Xitegen kicked the Goblin King before he could throw. The impact actually crunched the armor along the Goblin Lord’s side. The Goblin King stumbled—the [Lord] had launched himself all the way from that hill? With sheer strength?

No—he spotted a Golem on the hill, lowering her arm. She’d helped toss him. Xitegen’s hands reached for the Goblin King’s throat.

The armored figure headbutted the [Lord] as he seized Xitegen. The first hit cracked the [Lord]’s skull. Xitegen punched his armored face, face frozen in a grimace. A boy, roaring with a man’s voice.

The Goblin King drew back his bloody helmet, and General Shirka threw one of her hatchets. Undeterred, the Goblin King simply moved Xitegen to block the weapon.

“[Returning Throw]!”

The hatchet halted before it could go through the struggling [Lord] of House Terland. The Goblin King was panting for air. His grip tightened around Xitegen’s throat, crushing his windpipe.

“How many playthings are there? Pointless. This is pointless.”

He swiveled as one of the Dragonlords of Flame burst from the water like a submarine and tried to incinerate him. The Goblin King held out Xitegen like a shield.

The Dragonlord who’d fought through the Creler Wars never hesitated. He exhaled purifying flames to destroy the Goblin King, no matter the cost. The Goblin King cursed, tossed Xitegen into the flames, and Saliss of Lights swore too.

“—stors take it!”

He swivelled, tossed his strongest Flame Resistance Potion on the [Lord], activated his own resistance Skills, then threw a flame-retardant cloud potion at the firebreath and an Airburst Potion.

His vials barely slowed the firebreath as the airburst kicked him and the flaming [Lord] into the water. Saliss grabbed Xitegen, who was still flailing—and he activated another potion.

Bubble of Air. The soap and air based concoction let Xitegen gasp, and Saliss inhaled the stale air as they rose to the surface.

By the time they emerged, the Goblin King was too far from their position and still fighting. The Dragonlords weren’t taking him down. On the contrary, he seemed stronger than when he’d been fighting…himself.

Or at least, Saliss didn’t think the Goblin King conjuring a spear made out of black flame and piercing one of the Teriarchs through the shoulder was part of the plan. The Dragonlord fell, howling, and Saliss’ bubble popped as an arrow flashed down and nearly took out Xitegen.

“What the—oh, come on.”

Enchanted arrows were raining down as well. Those bombardments were the opposite of precise; nothing like Xitegen’s targeted arrow showers. The [Lord] was choking, reaching for a healing potion.

“—ill him.”

“We’re trying. Any ideas?”

Saliss of Lights was checking his potions stock, trying to think of some combination, any one that would work for sure on the Goblin King. So many high-level people…but none of them had time to synergize their powers.

That Harpy Empress had put the Goblin King on the ropes for a minute—but now she was standing on a hilltop, panting, looking far worse for wear.

Saliss’ head rose to her, and for a second, that vast bird-woman’s gaze found him. He saw her eyes were narrowed, dilated like a bird in hunting mode. Angry as a Demon, too.

She hadn’t given up the fight. Far from it; there was someone with a plan, like the old man. The problem was the setting, and, Saliss suspected, the Harpy’s overconfidence. She didn’t look like a [Warrior] class—the Goblin King was clearly desperate to keep her from activating her real Skills.

These Dragons, though. Copies of the one he’d met? They fought like every old veteran Saliss had ever known, taking potshots at the Goblin King, roaring curses, fighting dirty—one of them tried to activate some kind of landmine spell right under the Goblin King, but the damn bastard was too fast.

He was going for Liscor, leaping from hill to hill. He was too fast, too adaptive—and frankly, this terrain sucked. The water hid him, and the mortals were getting in the Dragonlords’ ways. But stopping him…even getting near him was a death sentence.

Old veterans. Saliss shivered as someone spoke. A huge Dragon’s head surfaced from the lake, and a Dragonlord—the one who had slept through Erin Solstice’s death, had hid away and lost his Magnolia, lost everything—gazed at the fleeing figure with his weary eyes.

“By the will of the last Empress of Harpies. The Goblin King dies. Cover me, you cowardly wretches.”

Xitegen and Saliss turned, but Teriarch didn’t mean them. He burst out of the water, pink Dragonfire roaring from his wings, and shot at the Goblin King. Then he seized the Goblin King in his talons.

The Goblin King had tried to dodge—but a treacherous soul in his body had stopped him. The Teriarch grabbed him and ascended.

Up.

Straight up as five more Dragonlords roared and flew after him. Away from the Empress of Harpies, who shrieked with loss and desperation. Calling for him to come back.

Saliss’ head rose, and he saw a pink comet flying upwards—a weaker glow than before. Then it became a twisting, golden bird. Wings beating—then turning. Falling.

A metal comet, tearing at a shard of grey metal lodged against his chest. Plummeting towards the High Passes.

Home.

 

——

 

He was so drained. He didn’t know how the others were on their feet. He longed to sleep. Even when he’d realized his world was vanishing and fled…

Now, he was tired. His flames were burning from his lungs, but they weren’t hot enough. Not for the figure digging its hands into his scales.

It hurt. The Dragonlord of Flames was falling, now, unable to sustain his magic. Barely sixteen seconds of flight. Rather embarrassing to show Sheta…

Oh, child. He’d failed her, his Magnolia, and so many. 

The Dragonlord of the world where ten years had passed was roaring now. Agony burned through his chest. Bloody hands were ripping out his scales. Stabbing into him. Into his guts, seeking his heart.

An agony he couldn’t bear. But he’d had worse. The Dragon breathed fire again and saw that helmet rise, crimson eyes staring at him.

I haven’t the strength to end you. Not again. The world was growing dark, and Teriarch…was so very exhausted. But he was still grinning, a bloody smile of triumph as he saw Sheta diving after him, his better reflections roaring.

He looked down—and that old cave was right there. Home.

He was almost h—

 

——

 

The impact shook the High Passes. The Goblin King arose from the corpse of the Dragonlord.

“Five left.”

He drew his sword, waiting, as the second pink comet roared down towards him. Tired he might be, but they died.

He did not. Nothing would stop him. There was no irritating soul of Rabbiteater trying to hold him back.

No one had the strength.

 

——

 

It was true. He was bested again. They called him a [Champion] when he only knew defeat.

Rabbiteater’s soul had no true form in this world. He was merely a piece of the Goblin King, a single note of himself in a tempest made of anger and hate.

He…remembered what he looked like. So if he looked like anything, it was a beaten warrior. Over a decade and a half of nothing but ash and defeat. His armor broken.

His family dead by his own hands. He had wept in the uncaring maelstrom of the Goblin King’s souls. Even now, even with all his determination and will—he couldn’t stop the Goblin King.

A cycle.

A helpless, weeping man watching the horrors that the being he was part of committed. Yes, he knew every reason. Every memory. But what shamed him, his agony, was that he was weaker. All his love and righteousness and morality meant nothing to the eighty-three souls raging in unison with the original.

Even now, Rabbiteater the Traitor stumbled through the empty wasteland of the Goblin King’s heart. There was nothing here but shining memories and dust. No future, no plans other than the dust and ash of everything.

Nevertheless, Rabbiteater’s soul kept going. He had promised Mrsha to try. But he could not win. These two things were true. So, he did the only other thing he could as the Goblin King raged against his foes.

It took Rabbiteater a long time to find the other souls amidst it all. When he came across them, they were…half there. Beings who were both themselves and part of this amalgamation they called the Goblin King.

Former Goblin Kings. Sóve, Velan; each and every Goblin King there had ever been was here. Four of them appeared as Rabbiteater called them from the void. Goblins as they had died, sitting around a fire.

Velan…glanced up, a broad-chested Goblin glowing with health, naturally grey hair cut with a bald-pate over his forehead. He looked middle-aged, though he couldn’t have been. He wore an open toga, like a philosopher-sage of older days.

Sóve was the short Goblin, a [Shaman] whose every gesture could have shaped the natural world, grinning with impish humor as she sat in the oversized enchanted robes made for her. A Goblin dreaming of an island.

“Hey.”

The four souls of the Goblin Kings regarded Rabbiteater. Two of them he did not know as well. They were all arrayed against him. Acting in tandem with the Goblin King. To best the Goblin King, Rabbiteater had to wrestle the soul of the original—and all of them.

Too much. They were ready to best him, to throw his soul back, and the [Champion] faced his enemies and knew he could not win. Not against Goblins who had been as determined as he, every bit as powerful, as desperate, as brave and glorious.

—So he didn’t come as the warrior, the [Champion]. Rabbiteater lifted a hand as the four rose to their feet, faces set. He smiled at the last of them. Velan the Kind, face swallowed by that mask of hatred the world knew.

But Rabbiteater knew his memories. So the Goblin King of Traitors walked forwards, the memory of a cape of blood swishing around his boots. His armor repaired and bright. He came amongst them as what he also was.

The [Knight]. And what they had needed him to be.

The Goblin King of Traitors sat around the memory of a fire, and the other four souls hesitated. His gaze found their faces, and the hostility in them faded to curiosity. A light of individuality.

Memory. Goblins were good at remembering things. Rabbiteater spoke softly.

“He’ll kill everything he can and die. Again. Maybe he’ll beat all the other Dragons and the Harpy. Maybe you agree with everything he’s done. But tell me—doesn’t it feel silly? To do the same thing again and again?”

He gazed into Velan’s eyes, and Velan the Kind blinked. Rabbiteater reached out, and the other Goblin King took his hand. Then sat as Sóve and the others paused.

“Will you listen to me? We are all part of him. Yes…that’s why it always continues. Someone once told me ‘insanity is doing the same thing over and over again’. But then an [Innkeeper] told me that wasn’t correct. So what are we? Not insane. Just stupid, maybe.”

Velan smiled, and his voice was far more educated than Rabbiteater’s. Someone who had read books, written them. A diplomat. A negotiator. A healer and alchemist, all in one.

“If we are, there is no way out. We are his rage. We are part of him. And so are you, even if it is your body. What could you offer us, Goblin King of Traitors?”

Rabbiteater smiled with that truly mad and crazy smile he had learned from the finest. The other Goblin King’s souls wavered, then sat and listened as more appeared out of the storm of his rage. Rabbiteater told them.

“Something new.”

He had a plan. A stupid plan, but they were listening. Rabbiteater just hoped he had time.

 

——

 

The first Dragonlord to die made the rest easier for the Goblin King. They were cowards at heart, even the mightiest of them.

Yes, and now he was remembering how to kill them properly. Only five. One of them came down towards him, howling in grief and rage.

“Dragonfire behind their wings to fly. Then acceleration spells. So predictable.”

He’d seen this trick before. Djinni had copied it. The Dragonlord of the Creler Wars came down like a comet, accelerating his body until he broke the sound barrier and hit the spot where the Goblin King had been standing with enough force to break every bone in a Stone Giant’s body.

Unstoppable—so the Goblin King teleported out of the way. An earthquake shook the High Passes a second time—and the Dragonlord lay there, stunned.

The other four would have broken their bones trying this. This one was merely incapacitated for a few seconds. He raised his head, snarling, looking around for the Goblin King, and the sword slashed across one of his eyes, blinding his left side.

The Goblin King had killed Dragonlords before. In Rabbiteater’s body, it was far easier. The Dragonlord lashed out on his blind side. His talons were sharp enough to slash through the Goblin King’s armor—his grip strong enough to crush Adamantine.

He hopped the leg and kicked the Dragonlord in the chest, sending him reeling back onto two legs. Then the Goblin King threw his spell as Teriarch aimed a [Ray of Incineration] spell at him.

He threw his sword through the spell, through Teriarch’s wing, and the shockwave cleaved the air apart. He’d seen [Heroes] do that. The Brass Dragon fell, clutching at his wing, trying to heal it, and the Goblin King raised a hand.

“[Return Weapon].”

—Ran at the snarling Dragon as he raised his head and peered just past him. Over his shoulder. The Goblin King turned. Then gazed up.

[Pentagram of the Five Alchemies]? Too slow to stop h—

His eyes locked onto the four Dragonlords diving in formation through the air. A star of magic connected them, and each one was breathing a different kind of Dragonfire. He began to run, then tried to teleport.

Too late.

The mobile [Pentagram of the Five Alchemies] activated as the Dragons crashed down around him. A perfect pentagram; the wounded Dragonlord became the fifth element and the ritual activated instantly around the Goblin King.

No tricks. No sealing. It just proposed a simple transmutation:

[Flesh to Air].

“Raaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

His entire body tried to—sublimate. The Goblin King’s armor collapsed, and then his body restabilized as he held it together with sheer will. The Dragonlords, panting, watched as a cloud of red air formed his eyes, and the pieces of armor rose around a body of gas that rematerialized.

The [Pentagram of the Five Alchemies] adjusted. Okay—how about the armor? The same way they killed the City of Shields?

The Goblin King’s armor exploded—then compressed as they reconfigured the pentagram into a bounded dimension only an inch across in any direction.

“Come on. Come on—”

One of the Teriarchs muttered as the new dimension made the air pop painfully as it compressed in an instant. The five Dragons stared at the tiny speck of air in the middle of the glowing pentagram—then a hand emerged, and the pentagram spell exploded.

The impact tossed one of the Teriarchs off his feet. The others just swayed, and the Archmage of Scales croaked, dry-mouthed.

“…This really doesn’t feel fair. What kind of Goblin King is this one supposed to be?”

A figure emerged from the hole in the air and stood, panting. Armor torn…but the Goblin King’s voice was still rasping.

“The [Champion].”

“And the other Goblin Lords didn’t kill you? They’re supposed to be smarter than this.”

The Archmage of Scales’ only reply was the Goblin King drawing his sword. The Dragons eyed each other, then the Creler Wars Teriarch. His good eye blazed as he folded his wings. Blood was running down his face, but his voice was steady as he spoke, voice crisp.

“You will not escape, Goblin King. I swear it. The five of us will die to kill you, and the nations of this world see you. Your death is inevitable. Roll over and die for us.”

As…negotiating tactics went, it felt to some of the Teriarchs that this wasn’t the best move. More than one shifted—they had come here to slay the Goblin King. Why were they talking?

Death it might be. The Goblin King had bested multiple Dragons, even multiple Dragonlords, more than once. They didn’t have a handy army. And he knew them.

However—the Goblin King was scanning the skies, and he had realized that the Empress of Harpies hadn’t followed them. Both they and he knew what she could do—or had been able to do.

How many of her Skills worked without the Iltanan Empire? And would they suffice to take down this insane monster empowered by the [Palace of Fates]? The Teriarchs tried not to let their uncertainty show, but the Goblin King must have lacked the same confidence, because to their surprise, he actually spoke rather than continue fighting.

“I will kill each one of you before you finish me. I propose a truce. We have both escaped the [Palace of Fates]. You have your will, I have mine. Seal it with your precious contracts. The Empress of Harpies is capable of that. A year of peace, even.”

The Creler Wars Teriarch hesitated. His eyes flicked towards the High Passes, then to the other Teriarchs, and they all had that same treacherous, coward’s thought. It always came at your weakest.

What could they do with five Teriarchs and the greatest [Empress] of Harpies ever to live? The Goblin King could amass his armies, but so might they. A year. They could do anything.

Save the world. Rebuild empire.

Beach Teriarch’s voice was husky.

“You desire only the world’s ending. There can be no truce with you.”

“I desire the end of the six you saw. They will devour everything. I am the lesser threat than they are. I always have been.”

The Goblin King’s voice was oddly smooth, even melodic, despite his injuries. One of the Teriarchs was nodding slowly before he caught himself.

Negotiation Skills. The Goblin King could do anything—even use Skills on them. The Superman Teriarch’s eyes narrowed, and he furled and unfurled his wings.

“Those six are…contained.”

“Hah. You think so? You saw them destroy your fellow Dragonlords. They can devour worlds. My power is nothing to them. I know them well. They are my enemies. Make peace and I will ally with you to bring them down. If it can be done. I must…awaken the old souls who wait for this day. I must reclaim their weapons. The Elves surely left something.”

The Goblin King was musing to himself, now, thinking more clearly. Yes. Weapons. There had to be…the ghosts had said the Gnomes had tricked Emerrhain.

Those boxes. Peace was a growing appeal to both him and Dragons. One whispered loudly—the Dragonlord of the Creler Wars. He seemed to be feeling his missing eye, and the version of them who’d fought Crelers in the last great war…stepped back a bit.

Coward! More than one shouted at him in their heads, but he was them.

Always them. And he was nodding back towards the [Palace of Fates]. Collapsed or not…wasn’t that door still open? Could they leave? Another treacherous thought. But even if they didn’t, the Goblin King was right, and the Creler Wars’ hero spoke slowly.

“A common foe, my peers. Think on it. If Tam—the bearded one regains his authority, for instance? Or the Crone?”

Another Teriarch glared at him for breaking ranks. Then the Beach Teriarch’s voice grew hesitant.

“Sheta will never make peace, even if we agreed. We—we never told her about them. We couldn’t. We couldn’t even tell Nirayicel.”

The Goblin King tilted his head. Interesting. Not even his own daughter? All the Teriarchs flinched as the Goblin King analyzed this. He cared little for the Harpy Empress and her empire, but she was a significant obstacle. This was a flaw he could exploit. One of the Teriarchs folded his wings.

“We never told her about—them—because it was sacrosanct. What we knew was also—incomplete. Though we are the most knowledgeable beings in the history of the world.”

He said that, the fifty-something thousand year-old Dragon, and the others nodded until the Goblin King laughed. They glared at him, and he spoke.

“I am older than you, Dragonlords of Flames. Far older. What do you know? Your father’s tales of war, if he even fought?”

“My grandfather did. That is—it was relayed accurately! As accurately as could be!”

One of the Teriarchs grew uncertain and coughed into his claw. The Goblin King tapped his chest. Now, he was also involved in this conversation, rare earnesty replacing his rage.

“I was there. I knew them all. You know, what? Stories of the war? Was your grandfather one of the truly ancient Dragons who followed some of the Gods between worlds? Or merely a hatchling in the aeons they let the first nations thrive? I…I was but a child, but first of them, and my parents let me visit their cities and listen to the most powerful of the mortals, who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with demigods. I knew their names, all of them. I visited their temples.”

Now, even the Dragonlords were glancing at each other uncertainly. Because they did not know this. They hesitated, and the Goblin King knew he had them. Greedy, Dragons were always greedy, just in different ways from Wyrms. The ‘good’ ones just valued different things: respect, knowledge, goodwill. And they hated thinking they didn’t know everything.

“Dragons flew from other realities to…pah. I know the names of the six. Tamaroth, Cauwine, Kasigna…”

One of the Teriarchs stopped and glanced up for some reason. But there was no aid coming; they’d left the mortals behind. The Dragonlord from the Creler Wars nodded.

“Emerrhain, Norechl, Laedonius Deviy. And more. I know the primary gods of each pantheon, Goblin King. Your knowledge does not exceed ours.”

More laughter. He was laughing? Yes, the Goblin King was enjoying this, especially because he saw some of their faces turning more and more uncertain.

“You know their names. Tell me, then. Who lies in Rhir’s soil?”

Then, the Dragonlords of Flame were silent. One bit his lip. The Archmage of Scales blustered.

“Well, it could be any number of—”

“I know who fell and died, each and every spot. I saw the sword that made Giants seem tiny plunge into the heart of the God of Summer’s chest and end him as it tore a hole through this entire world. Raesitoq. I know the gods of the afterlife, those who were able to make them—Hellsteni, Kasigna, and Diotrichne, and those who were lesser to them. That Seamwalker who appeared in the lands of the dead—? Do you even know of it? That one came from Iyedoth’s body, surely. The God of Time himself fell in that battle. Though he died a decade before that, never knowing how he ended.”

The Goblin King saw the Teriarchs glancing at each other, and the Creler Wars Teriarch closed his eyes, thinking out loud.

“They truly are beyond us and, perhaps, even you alone, Goblin King. Tamaroth, the God of Rulers, Norechl, the God of the Lost, Emerrhain, the God of Magic, Laedonius Deviy, the God of the Dance, Cauwine, the Goddess of Last Stands—all live. It is evident, nay, self-evident more might have lived. In which case we should prepare for Isthekenous, perhaps, or Diotrichne or Quaalev or Zetigh the Tricker—or is it Zetigge the Trickster? The Pantheon of Oiglis, perhaps, and dare I say…?”

He was listing the dead gods as the other Teriarchs stared at him. After naming two dead gods, the Archmage of Scales coughed and slapped his tail. Another stomped on the Dragonlord of the Creler Wars’ foot, and the Goblin King didn’t understand.

Why were they staring upwards suddenly, growing apprehensive? There was no magic there. And why was…

Why is he listing out the names of the dead gods like that?

Too late, the Goblin King smelled a rat. A giant, golden-scaled rat, who broke off talking abruptly.

“That should do it. Run!”

He whipped around, and the Goblin King raised his sword as the Creler Wars Teriarch opened his wings and—leapt into the air? All five Dragonlords whirled and ran.

The Goblin King slashed through one of their flanks, eliciting a roar of pain and blood, but they just fled. No spells, no Dragonfire—the Goblin King looked right, left for the trap, for the reinforcements.

Then he gazed up at something he had never, ever seen before.

“…The moon?”

The green moon hung in the sky, defying the daylight, and the Goblin King saw the shining green surface of the moon—his vision amplified, and he could see the magic on it. No…written magic?

Was there a spell written on the surface of the moon? No—were those trees? He had never looked, never bothered to—but surely someone would have noticed.

“An illusion? Is there a man on the…”

There was. Even his eyes strained to see it, and even Rabbiteater’s soul was caught in momentary wonder. The moon shone brighter and brighter. Then the light vanished from the top and bottom. Such that it seemed like the moon winked at the Goblin King.

He recoiled—and the Halfling dropped down to the world below, faster than the speed of sound. He landed, and the High Passes quaked once more. Then froze as a figure ripped through the dust and raised his sword.

The Goblin King and the Halfling on the moon locked gazes as five Brass Dragons peeked around a boulder. Stunned, the two warriors stood there, weapons raised.

It was hard to say who was the most shocked.

 

——

 

2nd Army of Pallass felt the earthquakes. It certainly felt the Goblin King appear. How could one not? And it wavered.

The soldiers did. The officers. An army was many things, and it could revolt, waver, or even break.

What was the correct decision? Pallass wasn’t answering, or rather, they kept getting different orders. Fall back to Pallass via the door. Then—since that was idiotic and the door would never take them, hold position.

Engage. Head to the Floodplains, as if they could make it in even a day—prepare [Scouts].

Chaos in High Command meant it went local. Did they fall back and engage…the Goblin King? Even if you believed he was somehow here, they were out of position. The regular [Soldiers] were afraid, nervous, not sure what was going on.

They wouldn’t have…run. Or deserted. Never that. They were Pallass’ finest. Veteran soldiers. However, the officers were talking, and some of the squads of soldiers were leaning on their [Captain] to deliver a message to the higher-ups, or pulling the [Sergeant] aside to demand to know what was happening.

2nd Army talked to itself. It had a will and an understanding about who was in charge in Pallass, right now. Their orders were bad. General Shirka was relieved of command along with a third of the army; there was a damn Goblin King around.

No, they wouldn’t have deserted. But they might have decided to demand their [General]’s return until they took any more orders. The tension and fear in the air was palpable, but one group kept things moving, kept giving orders.

The [Goblin Slayers]. They were calm, a rock of solidarity and authority that overruled everything else. Because, you see, they believed.

Colonel Rathiss knew not how nor why so soon, in the absence of a Goblin Lord—for he did know how Goblin Kings arose, at least in part—but he knew the foe. He gave the call that made sense to him.

“Wipe the Goblins out. Right now. Odds are it’s related to the Flooded Waters tribe’s Chieftain. This is the Goblin King’s army. Eradicate it before he can take command. Take the Kraken Eaters. Advance.”

The stakes for this battle changed. Instead of eliminating one tribe, they were eradicating the force that might sweep Izril with war. They had to kill the Goblins of Goblinhome. The problem was speed.

The siege was in its eighth hour already. But if they advanced too soon, 2nd Army would bleed too much. And they had the remnants of the Flooded Waters tribe that had fought the Titan to think of.

The moment was coming. The thump of the ballistae firing was background noise. The two that 2nd Army had would loose, one then the other. The thump of the compressed coils of string releasing all their kinetic energy and discharging an enchanted bolt, all wood except the tip, then the clicking of the [Soldiers] rewinding it.

Thump. Click-click-click-click-click.

Thump. Click-click-click-click-click.

Then—the shout.

“Incoming! [Counterfire]!”

A rending of metal on metal. Screams, the thunder of a bolt launched from Goblinhome snapping on shields and barrier spells. Voices calling for a [Battlefield Healer]. Shouts of order being restored.

Then boots moving.

Thudthudthudthud.

Thudthudthudthud.

Their front line was engaged with Goblinhome’s forces. All ranged fire; 2nd Army’s people sat behind their tower shields and mobile stands of metal, popping up to fire, exchanging shots with the Goblins in the fortress.

Ugly work. Soldiers fell, usually not dead unless the shot hit them in the heart or eye exactly—mostly screaming, being pulled back behind their lines. The Goblins and their damn ‘Thunderbows’ could pierce steel, so the [Soldiers] had to constantly reset their shields, brace, and watch out for tricks.

Twice now, the enemy had attacked from their bunkers in the rocks. Twice, they’d been beaten back, the tunnels or passageways re-collapsed. Oldbloods and [Mages] with flame spells had burnt everything in the tunnels to clear them out.

Neither side had come to blood yet. Lives were bleeding. But not the blood, not the clash where they would die, locked blade-to-blade with the enemy.

Not yet.

Pieces of Goblinhome kept falling. It was made of stone and wood. The wood burned, but the Goblins kept putting it out, and the wall wasn’t so easy to break. Well, pieces were—but there were more walls beneath.

Layers of a hive. Smart building. Can’t make an indestructible wall? Build one that comes away, piece by piece, shot by shot. Even as the [Soldiers] watched, another huge ‘plate’ of stone fell, crashing down, enough weight to be thousands of pounds of stone—revealing part of a hallway and fleeing figures.

You couldn’t even see them. Not yet. Just figures in crenellations. The damn ballistae of their own, firing.

Wait. Once 2nd Army breached a wide enough passageway into the fortress, then the order would come, the shields would rise, and they’d charge in. But wait—you could see an opening already, in the big doors. There had been a massive ballista in there that had almost taken theirs out. Counterfire had turned it into burning slag—but that wasn’t the opening.

That was a killzone. The ballistae were aiming at a breach to the right of the doors, exposing a gap in the fortress itself. The Goblins were fortifying that space with everything they had. There was another breach to the left of the main doors and one to the upper right; they could reach it with a [Lightbridge] spell if they had to, or earthworks.

Two breaches wide enough to let a dozen [Soldiers] flood in at once. Then—the attack.

Very soon.

A third sound, now. From the rear.

Rattatat-tic-rattatatta-tic.

The sound of drums interrupted by the [Drummers] striking the side of the military instruments they had. Then the low wail of horns.

Ooooaaaa. Oooooooaaaaaaa.

A strange moaning. Even the regular [Soldiers] not on the front turned back. Colonel Rathiss did not. He knew what it meant.

The [Goblin Slayers] numbered just under thirteen hundred. They weren’t gathered together in one platoon. That was tactically unsound. They had commands, leadership roles in many cases, or they were old veteran squads.

This was a custom amongst them. 2nd Army partook of it. Drums and horns, the only tools you got in the army. And blood and a bit of boot polish. A handful of dye since they had [Alchemists].

Blood from officers in a bowl. Polish and dye; simple alchemy. Red, a marking under an eye, just a line. Or a tally on the armor, one kept across careers and years.

Could be how many of them you’d killed. Could be a single marking. A slash on your armor, a handprint from a buddy.

The color didn’t come off until a Goblin was dead. It stuck until the next battle, until you were in the thick of it. It didn’t matter if you were a [Mage] or an [Archer] or a [Pikeman].

A line of [Soldiers], Drakes marking scales, Gnolls dipping their fur, Dullahans carefully tagging their armor, Garudas feathers.

Thudthudthudthud.

Thudthudthudthud.

Moving into ranks. Ready? Watch the sides. The valley was closed, and they were in a long column marching towards Goblinhome. The slopes of the valley weren’t easy to charge down; you’d break the legs of a hundred Goblins trying to run down the rocky boulders and sheer drops. But that Goblin Chieftain had to know her tribe was out there. Or they’d come from the cliffs, behind.

Or they’d run away, in which case, it was a hunt. Watch the other escape routes—teams had blasted each one closed, and they had their Wyverns in the air. Watch for the Wyvern Lord.

Ready? They had none of Shirka’s telepathy right now, none of her Skills, but they had that communal sense of an army. Tension in every face, pulsing blood, trembling hands, blood and paint on your armor. You could almost feel it.

There. A piece of stone crumbling inwards, revealing more of the tunnel on the left. Upper right—collapse, burying the lower passageway. Two hallways open at once. Not big enough to fit more than a single body inside—didn’t matter.

“Launch the assault. Warhammers on the second breach. Go.”

Colonel Rathiss gave the order, and 2nd Army moved. The silence turned into a roar building through the army, and it exploded from the front like a wave. [Soldiers] went forwards, shields up—!

Then they began to die. Rathiss stood, sword in his claws, waiting. Eyes on Goblinhome, senses behind. He turned his head towards the mountains, which were shaking from some titanic battle elsewhere. But he wasn’t listening to that. His eyes flicked to the Wyverns overhead, the feral Frost Wyverns.

To the empty rocks.

“Where are you? Come on.”

He was waiting.

 

——

 

“Never fight an enemy waiting for you. Not on his terrain. Move him. Take out his footing. Force him to attack you; wait him out if you have to. If it’s a siege, let him come through hell at you and take him where you can at the best advantage, or sally out and catch the bastard. But never, ever attack when he’s actually ready.”

One of her first lessons from the Titan of Baleros was the obvious lesson any child could come up with. Don’t do what the enemy wants.

Student Rags had still written it down, because sometimes you forgot. Most of Niers’ lessons were things that you could think of, could realize if you applied yourself to war with any seriousness or practice, or even from the armchair you sat in and daydreamed of battles.

…But you always forgot. You made mistakes. His teaching was having you make those mistakes, then not making them when the time came.

She loved her lessons in her fake world, her happy alternate reality that someone had made up for her. Because in those lessons, in the memories that weren’t real, she was preparing, seriously, diligently, preparing for a day she feared would come.

But it wasn’t today. She’d give everything she had left, everything she had—which was nothing more than her rollershoes and some gold—to go back and have one more lesson. Sit in his class one more time and see the Titan talk about war like a craft, like an art and a dance and something that could even be enjoyable when you weren’t in it.

The truth he told you when you were in his classes, after the fun, games, and strategy—he’d sit you down one day and give you no lectures. No assignments, no homework. Just ask a veteran to come in or have you walk through a butcher’s shop—or a battlefield if he had one. Haul bodies with the corpse disposal units for a week.

The truth he also had to teach you was it was death. You spoke, and the people died.

Never forget that.

“They’re attacking Goblinhome. We have to go.”

Snapjaw was looking at her as Student Rags lay flat, staring down at 2nd Army with an enchanted spyglass she’d gotten as a birthday present in her world. The [Strategist]’s voice was flat.

“He’s waiting for it. That…officer. Colonel Rathiss. I can see him. He’s out in the open; the moment we show up, he’ll turn on us.”

He had even gotten a colored yellow helmet to help her. The Drake stood, daring her to come out. Student Rags handed the spyglass to Snapjaw and turned to Prixall.

The [Witch] had intercepted some of the messages between Pallass and 2nd Army, even decoded them. It wasn’t like there was much to know. They were attacking. There weren’t exits that the Goblins inside could use. Or if there were, the Goblins would be set upon in moments and 2nd Army would try to enter the fortress through those tunnels.

The Flooded Waters tribe was hemmed in. They’d held the army off well.

Pallass’ best offensive army, forced to stand at range and trade for eight whole hours. They might have even lost more archers than the Goblins inside the fort—and that was with most of the high-level Goblins having sallied out to fight the Titan.

That felt like ages ago. Student Rags longed to compose a missive to her Professor, like this was homework, and have him just…tell her what he’d do. In fact, it was already laid out in her head. Like the world’s most important homework assignment.

She even had an essay…Snapjaw lowered the spyglass, handed it to Leapwolf. The Redfang didn’t take it.

“Gotta go anyways. They’re dying.”

“I said wait. The Goblin Slayers are bunched up with their little ritual. They’re spreading out now. Heading to the front. Let the first…three waves hit Goblinhome.”

“Three waves? They’ll kill—”

“Yes. Goblinhome can withstand three waves. Taganchiel knows how the traps work. Three waves. Then they’ll have dispersed enough to hit them. They’re playing the same game we are; they have to commit their forces. If we hit a thousand of them right now, while they’re ready for us, we die without doing a thing.”

Student Rags’ voice was so cold, so flat. Was this how he sounded? Everyone here was going to die, anyways.

Hit and run them. Engage, set up, draw them back. They’ll come at us, fast and heavy. [Wyvern Riders]—they won’t want us to run, and we can’t. We don’t have enough Frost Wyverns.

If she’d known—if Chieftain Rags had known—she’d have put all their Frost Wyverns in the air, given themselves a truly mobile force to harass 2nd Army. As it was, she’d launch one lightning strike into the enemy camp. Try to take out as many officers and those ballistae as they could, then fall back with fliers and fight and keep retreating, so Goblinhome could hold their lines or evacuate.

Or reinforcements showed up. But that was a pipe dream, and Student Rags knew it. Reinforcements weren’t coming. The Dragonlord had left; Shirka had stood down, and Magnolia and Xitegen couldn’t threaten 2nd Army with their forces, even if they were so inclined.

If Chieftain Rags came back with Redscar and her bodyguard, it would be a dozen Goblins versus…

2nd Army.

Student Rags’ hands were shaking. She watched as the first wave met at Goblinhome’s walls. Part of her was detached. Counting bodies falling. Seeing how many the Goblins reaped with their crossbows.

Bloody assault. Bleed, you bastards. Break. Just break and…

They didn’t break. They made it to the two breaches. She saw one widen as she took the scrying orb. Saw flashes of [Fireballs]. Swords and spears jabbing as the squads tried to move in—the light of magic, and a knot of the [Soldiers] breaking, falling off one of the [Light Bridges].

“Heh. Boulder trap. Nice.”

A Redfang said that. Shineshield. No one laughed. The Redfangs just sat, like the [Goblin Slayers] in their way, marking themselves with their own warpaints.

Waiting. Rags spoke, voice precise and flat.

“The first wave is falling back. Second wave incoming.”

The army pressed up against Goblinhome, then moved back like the tide. Too many casualties, Rags guessed, or they’d just gotten an order to retreat. The second wave hit Goblinhome without a chance to rest; not pressed against the fortress, oh no. The rest of the army just sat behind their shields, bombarding the Goblins. Too smart to bunch up.

They’re pushing in too fast. Goblinhome was made to defend against this kind of attack. Something’s wrong. The [Goblin Slayers] must have too many powerful Skills.

The second wave never left the walls. As the third one mustered forwards, Rags could see them moving into the breaches. How many? A hundred? Two hundred?

They’ve got rooms to collapse; they can make the attackers dig through them—unless they’re overwhelmed too fast to trigger the traps. Unless there’s a terror Skill like Elia Arcsinger has at work or—or they’re just dying.

Everyone was looking to her. Snapjaw, trembling as she held a spear, and Icecube, her Wyvern, making a whining sound. Student Rags watched the third wave reach the no man’s land and spoke.

“Let’s go.”

She rose, and Leapwolf’s Carn Wolf and the other Redfangs were already riding downhill. Slowly, at first; they were over a thousand feet away from 2nd Army’s position.

An anthill of thousands of soldiers, and Rags had less than two hundred here. Frost Wyverns tensed as Goblins jumped onto their backs, placing bolts in their crossbows.

Trueshot didn’t move. Her Thunderbow was set up; she would pop up once they came her way. Shoot down as many Drakes as she could.

There was no Wyvern who could carry her, not if every team fell back. So she and her squad stayed put.

Prixall whispered a spell as Snapjaw flew first over the hilltop, and Rags saw Snapjaw’s spear glowing, saw the Hobgoblin lift it with effort. It was weighed down with pain of Goblins, with death and suffering and hope, heaviest of all.

 

Snapjaw, Primary Target: Ballistae #1. 

Orders: Throw it through the ballistae. Without that, they can’t crack the walls. Break the other one with Icecube. Don’t just frost breath it. Break it beyond their ability to repair.

 

All pieces in place, everyone with their instructions, save for her. Student Rags was last to go down. She took a step, realized she’d made a mistake, and tapped her shoes together.

Her wheeled skates popped out, and the Goblin leaned forwards, beginning to skate down the rocky terrain. Terrible conditions for it—so she hopped.

[Apista’s Jetflame]. The burst of green flames propelled her down, and she angled the jets up, saving her from breaking her legs as she hopped off a flat boulder, skated down the cliff, and her heart leapt.

No Skills. Not yet.

No [Call for Aid]. She was out of it since the Draconic Titan fight.

I should have let them all die. She wished she could think like that, but the Dragonlord of Flames, even Shirka…

Why are you doing this? She saw that painted helmet turn. Saw the army move as the Redfangs began to howl, far, far too far away. They’d been spotted too quick. Didn’t matter.

“They’re firing!”

Snapjaw screamed down at Student Rags as the ballistae spun. Redirection Skill? They were heavy, thousands of pounds. She saw archers and waited until the arms drew back, then let go, saw the ballistae thunk—a terrifying heartbeat as she forced herself to wait one second—

[Unit: Teleportation Advance].

She, the Redfangs, the Goblins running behind them—blinked out of existence and appeared leftwards, down the valley’s side. Student Rags stumbled as her skates hit the ground, and she almost fell, windmilling her arms—she heard a roar of sound, and the air kicked her slightly.

Smoke and craters, collapsing stone—the first volley had missed. The Goblins shot down, and Student Rags put all the magic she had into the jetflame spell. Now, she moved ahead of Leapwolf, ignoring his shouts. The Hobgoblin [Student] flew down the slope as it became more traversable, and she saw the first rank of [Soldiers] with their spears lowered. Ready for the charge.

[Unit: Champions of the Brass Dragon]. Student Rags felt golden armor covering her body and knew the rest of the Redfangs and diving Frost Wyverns had it on too. Scaled, beautiful armor, polished brass. In her case, it also became a helmet and armguards, like she was a skater from Kevin’s world, a scaled, lightweight set of armor.

So cool. She jumped as the [Soldiers] gazed at her, an arrow snapping over her shoulder, falling now. They were a wall between the Redfangs and the rest of 2nd Army moving into position. Break the wall.

Never attack an enemy who’s waiting for you. Also, the Professor said, sometimes you broke your rules. Let it be for a good reason.

“[Rocket Kick].”

Her foot didn’t touch the spears; she pivoted, transferring all her motion into a kick and activated her Skill before she could run into the wall of [Soldiers]. All the momentum and fire into a single blow that scattered them like leaves, left a roaring in her ears, and nearly broke her foot.

Last trick.

[Mentor’s Skill – Vanguard of Terror]. The Redfangs howled as they raced into enemy lines, and Student Rags was done. Then she just had a shortsword, and she was swinging it, yelling.

None of her other Skills needed. Plan executed. Good job.

One last Skill. Because she was a child. A child from a beautiful world where she was allowed to be one for a tiny little bit.

[Remote Submit Assignment].

Far, far away, a scroll popped onto the desk of the Titan of Baleros and lay there, unread, for he was busy watching. No one touched it until a little Frost Faerie picked it up and carried it to him, and then the Professor read the words from a student he’d never had.

 

Essay: The Sacrifice of the [Strategist], by Rags.

 

Dear Professor,

When I first came to your Academy, in my world, you had a list of your rules written out and invited us to copy them and leave if we so chose, because it encapsulated much of your teachings and curriculum. You invited us to choose the ones that resonated with us.

‘The duty of a [Strategist] is to be the last one alive.’ That was not one I chose, but I recall it vividly. The duty, you argue, is that a [Strategist] should never be an officer. If we were, we would have a different class. I disagree; sometimes, the [Strategist] must take to the front.

In your self-analysis of your own class as a pure [Strategist], you admit that you, Professor, have [Charge of the Strategist] as a fundamental Skill invaluable in pressuring the enemy. (Apologies, I have no citations at this time.) Naturally, your comment to Venaz, at that time, was that the Skill is a subversion and counter to the perils of a [Strategist] and an unwise invitation to over-aggression and risk. Nevertheless, this Skill tacitly indicates that, sometimes, the [Strategist] does charge.

Fundamentally, I believe the point is moot from a technical level: your general rule is meant to be taken by the spirit, not letter of the law. The [Strategist] does what is unexpected. This essay does not set forth to argue the tactical improvisation of any good [Strategist], but to state the morality of the case.

You advise us students to flee the battlefield, to survive and use our levels to greater gain, because death gives us no more chances for victory. This is true; a hopeless battle is a foolish one to take, especially if we have calculated there is nothing to gain but morality. ‘Morality means little to the dead’, you often tell us.

Sometimes, though, I believe the [Strategist] must go to war. The [Student] has to fight. I have to wonder if the students at Elvallian died when they should have been kept safe, when Jungle Tails attacked. If so—they still fought because while they could have been treated as prisoners of war and noncombatants, the moment mattered.

This sympathy, this urge to stand to the last, is something you try to drum out of us at every turn, Professor. You have so many tales of when it has killed brilliant strategists, even the Gambler of Fates, whom you cite as the greatest [Strategist] of the era, despite evidence to the contrary. You tell us these things, I argue, because they are accurate and our survival is an essential issue to you, the teacher.

But I posit that you have been that [Strategist] who stands, who fights, who leads the charge enough to gain the Skill. I would cite the many battles in which I know this is the case if I had time. I do cite your journey into the Labyrinth of Souls, despite how it is framed as a retreat; you knew the dangers, and you led the army in, towards danger. You have charged, and so must we, but your duty as our teacher impels you to tell us not to do this thing you have so often done, because it is irresponsible, a contradiction between the truth you know, and the one we must confront.

Sometimes, we have to go even if we die, or else we are simply playing a game of chess. And perhaps those are the geniuses who can flit from battlefield to battlefield, without loyalty or love or attachment. But I do not think you respect them, nor do I. It has been a great honor to be your student. Please, consider opening your school to a Goblin again.

—Student Rags of the Flooded Waters tribe

 

The Professor finished reading and gazed at the shaky signature for a long time. Then his head rose to one of the scrying orbs. Ryoka Griffin’s eyes were sunken as Geneva Scala clenched her fists.

A lone Carn Wolf howled and bounded away from the bodies on the ground, arrows sticking out of its fur. The [Strategist] who’d struck 2nd Army’s lines was in a knot of bodies unable to reach the [Colonel] waiting with his sword drawn.

“Wyverns falling back. Riders disengaging.”

The Titan spoke. His eyes flitted for other angles of the battle. Searching for a burst of green flames.

There was a single flare. Then nothing. The last Redfang rode out of the fighting, grabbing for a Goblin whose hand he let go of after a moment; the dead Goblin fell as Leapwolf rode away.

The Titan of Baleros eyes fixed on the disordered squad of 2nd Army’s [Soldiers] stabbing bodies.

He breathed out.

Then in.

Then out again.

Then in.

 

——

 

The last Dragon was late. He couldn’t help it. It was not his broken foreleg that slowed him down, nor his ruined scales or his fear. He was beyond that now.

He came to the broken [Garden of Sanctuary], stumbling past a few souls fleeing in either direction. Towards the other world—or to the [Garden of Sanctuary].

No dead gods. There wasn’t enough for them to harvest. Not worth the cost of battle. One of their own was dead. Only the Maiden remained, heading for her final confrontation with Halrac Everam. The Dragonlord of Flames did not care.

His eyes were leaking tears. Not water like every Dragon could weep. A Dragonlord’s tears. The liquid burnt away, leaving trails of mana behind him. Not for the dead gods.

No. He whispered as he climbed into the [Garden of Sanctuary] and beheld the black trail of flames where the Goblin King had appeared. People.

A half-Giant. An [Archmage] flying with staff in hand. A brown-furred young Gnoll woman that Lord Moore was trying to send back.

They had come to kill the Goblin King. To make a difference. When he appeared, they backed away from him.

The Dragon pulled himself into the [Garden of Sanctuary] and then continued. He felt the ground shaking, heard voices asking him questions, for help—telling him to stop, that he was wounded.

He did not care. The old man was late, unable to fly. But that was not the reason.

Teriarch had found Mrsha. A dissolving hallway in the [Palace of Fates]. He laid a pile of linen on the ground, gently, as a bee buzzed down towards him. A tiny thing, hidden in one claw, which he lay to one side of the burnt ground, the chaos and the people.

“You ended a god. Well done, child. Well done. It was a splendid wish. Don’t worry. I’ll silence the Goblin King.”

He turned, and the other figures in the garden did not see at first. Only the bee. The Dragon limped past them.

Teriarch, the Dragonlord of Flames, the original Teriarch of this world, the once-dead Brass Dragon, dragged himself out of the [Garden of Sanctuary].

His lungs were burning—literally. He kept coughing out mundane flames; the sacs that produced Dragonfire were backfiring. Like Oldblood Drakes, he was in danger of literally asphyxiating himself on the smoke.

He was covered in blood and wounds. His right foreleg was broken. His wings were shredded, one snapped, and the world swam dangerously at times. Signs of a possible head wound. Concussion.

The Dragonlord snarled as he searched for the Goblin King. Then realized the presence was distant.

He emerged into the common room of the inn and nearly ran over the Goblins.

Hundreds of Goblins. They backed up from him, but their leader merely lifted a hand, and they streamed away from him. Teriarch stared at them, then noticed the other Goblins.

Rather, Goblin Lords.

Chieftain Rags cast around the destroyed inn, her face pale with shock. She held a sword in one hand, the revolver in the other, and she spoke.

“Where is he?”

She turned, and the Dragonlord spoke as he sensed where they were.

“My cave. Don’t follow. I’m going after them.”

Another Goblin turned. An older, taller woman with a heart as fiery as his and as much metal in her chest. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations raised her terrible weapon, and he wondered if the world would be better for her death. She gave him the same look and spoke.

“Can you kill him? Even with six of you?”

Seven, with me. Teriarch’s eyes were roaming the High Passes, but they stopped. He saw more magical bombardments coming down, targeting the inn, the High Passes—but something hung in the air, beyond even the magic.

A green moon. The Dragonlord’s eyes focused on the shining orb, and his mind connected the pieces.

“Perhaps not. But he can. They’ve summoned the being who hides the truth of gods from this world. The Halfling.”

“Who? If the Goblin King’s out there, I’m ready. Let’s get him. You stay back.”

The Dragonlord of Flames turned his head, and a man who appeared more battered than Teriarch felt stumbled forwards. Duke Rhisveri’s suit was in ruins, and he staggered. The Dragonlord shook his head.

“You’re nearly burnt out of mana. I will stop him. The rest of you—guard this place. That Maiden—”

His head turned back to the [Palace of Fates] reaching its end. Teriarch could not battle that scythe nor the Maiden. He began to unfurl his wings, and they would not move. He limped for the open hole in the inn. Then gave up on both and began to cast a spell.

It wasn’t raining. Something had torn apart Liscor’s usual spring rains. Sheta.

The Harpy Empress was just outside The Wandering Inn. Her robes were ripped open, exposing bloody, re-healed flesh. She was standing, panting, her wings open wide and her lips moving in fury.

He could sense her power, her Skills activating. The Dragonlord pushed a few Goblins aside, gently, trying to move into cleared space. When she saw him, the Harpy Empress turned.

“Teriarch. I told you to stay back. You are too wounded to fight.”

“He’ll kill everything. You couldn’t best him. You underestimated him. I told you: you look down on your foes.”

It was so easy to do that when you could fly above it all. The Empress of Wings’ eyes flashed, and she bristled, then ducked her head reluctantly.

“…It’s his body. A Goblin King with the Skills and capabilities of a Level 77 [Hero]. Have any other Goblin Kings been that strong? Even if we kill him here, the next time—that foolish Gnoll child created a true monster in his reality!”

Teriarch didn’t think of the consequences for the future Goblin Kings. The future did not exist until this one died. The Brass Dragon snarled.

“That girl still dreamed a better world than the one she left. Fight, Harpy Empress! I’m going after him.”

“Us too.”

That came from the side. Both Harpy and Dragon looked down at the speaker. Chieftain Rags and Fightipilota. The Empress of Harpies lifted one wing and saluted the Goblins’ courage. Then she shook her head.

“There is little you can do that will sway this battle. Leave the Goblin King to us, Goblin Lady. I hear the echoes of battle from the High Passes. Surely you are needed there.”

Rags paled as the Harpy nodded to another mountain.

“Goblinhome.”

That was all she said. Chieftain Rags’ turned to Fightipilota, and the [Fighter Pilot] roused from her comatose state.

“Yes. We need a Wyvern. Where’s Chickenruler?”

What a ridiculous name. Teriarch began casting a spell for transportation. He didn’t trust teleportation—not in his weakened state. There were other ways.

A pair of Goblins ran past the tribe exiting the inn. Rianchi and Dyeda, frantic and terrified.

“Chieftain! Where were you! The Goblin King—”

“Where’s Chickenruler and the Frost Wyvern?”

“Gone. Redscar took it.”

Chieftain Rags cursed. She looked around, desperate.

“The portal door—?”

“We tried. Broken. And Liska’s unconscious!”

The Harpy and Dragonlord watched as Rags spun to Fightipilota. The [Fighter Pilot] spoke, shortly.

“I can’t get us there with my Skill. We need another way.”

Rags nodded.

“Can we teleport, then? Ragathsi! Can you use your Skill to—Ragathsi?”

She spun, and Teriarch realized the Goblin Lord of Civilizations had vanished. So had her bodyguards.

To be fair, there was a flood of confused people in the inn. The warriors who’d been fighting the Goblin King were returning from outside, meeting the people exiting the [Garden of Sanctuary].

“Colfa!”

Himilt val Lischelle-Drakle had a broken arm, and he’d damaged his scythe, but he whirled, shouting for his wife. He was alive. Somehow.

The Goblin King should have killed them all. Teriarch whispered a spell and floated off the ground, dangling as if an invisible hand had picked him up. A Goblin stared at him, open-mouthed, and he saw Himilt’s head turn.

“Colfa! Where’s—”

“Here. We’re all here, Himilt.”

The farmer stopped as someone exited the [Garden of Sanctuary] behind Teriarch. The Dragonlord turned, and Colfa val Lischelle-Drakle walked forwards with Ser Dalimont beside her. Vaulont the Ash brought up the rear, escorting Nanette Weishart into the inn.

They’d found the young witch and brought her back. The Vampiress was holding someone in her arms. Lyonette. The [Princess] wasn’t moving. Her arms were outstretched.

The Dragonlord didn’t even know if she was breathing. Someone followed the group into the inn. Dame Ushar and, holding her hand, a girl.

Mrsha. Teriarch felt his heart leap for a second—but it came crashing down as he recalled the obvious. A different Mrsha. The white Gnoll girl was thinner. She wore Relic-class robes and held a powerful staff.

Roots Mrsha. He averted his eyes from her. Chieftain Rags turned to her, and then her eyes flickered. She looked right and left.

“Where’s the other Mrsha…?”

No one answered her question. But Lyonette’s head slowly rose, and the Dragonlord of Flames whispered a spell to take him away from here.

He could do nothing but slay the Goblin King.

Grimalkin burst through the doors, nearly slammed into the floating Dragon hovering in an orb of viridian light, and stared at him. Teriarch spoke.

“Excuse me.”

He floated out the hole in the roof, widening it a bit. The two Wyverns heading for the inn did a double-take and almost flew in the opposite direction as he hung there.

The Brass Dragon in the room, then well above it, went ignored by Colfa, who put Lyonette down carefully. Himilt stared at Teriarch, then hugged Colfa.

“What’s…?”

Teriarch stopped listening. He floated past Lord Xitegen Terland, who was trying to rise as Seconda pinned him.

“I have orders from Lady Ulva Terland to preserve your life, Lord Xitegen.”

“Let me up. I have to go. The Goblin King.”

“Leave him to me.”

Teriarch spoke, and Xitegen stared up at him. Magnolia Reinhart whirled; General Shirka was waving down the first green Wyvern.

“Teriarch!”

He nodded to her. The [Wyvern Rider], Major Hiclaw upon a borrowed Wyvern, dismounted as the Wyvern landed at the base of the inn, whining and flinching away from him. General Shirka turned to Teriarch, then stared at the Goblins streaming out of the inn. A Goblin Lord led them; they began running over the water, speeding up—

Every eye jerked back to Teriarch. He knew he was a mess. Shirka stepped forwards.

“Teriarch, my army is assailing Goblinhome. I’ve sent every [Message] I can to Pallass, and my people, but the [Goblin Slayers] won’t obey my orders. I’ve been stripped of command. Dragonlord—”

His voice rasped as he replied. He knew how many Goblins lived there. But…The Dragonlord just met the [General]’s eyes.

“You must stop them. Gather everyone you can in this inn. Magnolia, I leave that to you. I will try to slay the Goblin King. Leave it to Sheta and myself. I—above.”

The Dragonlord craned his neck upwards and tried to cast a spell. The bolt of red lightning shot downwards towards the inn, dividing and subdividing. Aiming at—everyone.

[Cursed Lightning]. Teriarch tried to extend his wings over the inn. Someone jumped—hopped off his bubble, and swung his sword.

Taletevirion sliced the lightning in half. As a swordmaster did. He landed; more bolts of lightning hit the ground, the water, the running tribe. Nearly the Frost Wyvern, who dove for Fightipilota and the Goblins.

“They’re bombarding the inn! They think the Goblin King—”

“They want the inn gone. Taletevirion can’t defend it. Nor can I. Retreat to the [Garden of Sanctuary] or to Liscor. I have to go.”

Teriarch was angling himself. Calculating thrust, velocity, angle—it didn’t matter. The Dragon in his magic bubble saw the Goblin Lords, Rags and her future self, mortals looking up at him. General Shirka turned to them, then a voice spoke.

“No. Leave that to me.”

The Dragonlord turned his head, and Duke Rhisveri gave him a salute from the age of Dryads of the Great Forest of Estiphole. The Dragonlord of Flames nodded once to the Great Wyrm of Ailendamus.

“Their lives are in your hands.”

The Duke closed his eyes. Then—his body vanished. A pile of ragged clothes fell to the ground. Major Hiclaw’s eyes popped. Magnolia ignored the sight.

“Don’t.”

“I have to.”

Teriarch grinned at her, then slapped his tail once. The mountains shook as the bubble fired the simple movement spells. Like someone tossing an orange, really. He flew upwards as the bubble flew in an arc, high, higher—towards the mountains.

Home. The Dragonlord gazed back once at the destroyed inn. Goblins running. Goblins flying. General Shirka chasing after them.

And then he left the inn, the [Palace of Fates], and it all fled his mind. The Dragonlord turned, adjusting his descent. He was under no illusions.

Nevertheless—

The Goblin King had to die. He owed the little mortals that. Mrsha du Marquin was dead. The Dragonlord’s lips moved as he smiled, dried blood flaking off his teeth. His eyes shone with that majestic light of solar systems that would never be.

“It’s not a nightmare, child. Just a bad dream. A wonderful dream with only a few flaws. See?”

He bared his teeth as he beheld them, and his burning lungs caught fire once more as he saw the two figures below him.

“All bad things die. I promise.”

 

——

 

Chieftain Rags saw the Dragonlord of Flames flying into the sky in his strange bubble of light. Ridiculous—but if she could have, she would have used her magic to fly to Goblinhome.

She didn’t have enough mana, if she could use [Apista’s Jetfire] to steer herself in the air. They had to save her people. So where—where—?

“Does anyone have a flying spell? Teleportation? Ragathsi, where are you?”

Rags ran, screaming for the Goblin Lord of Civilizations.

The Wandering Inn was filled with voices. Saliss of Lights was being carried into the inn by Elia and Mirn; he’d been wounded by the arrows he’d shielded Xitegen from. The only thing that was protecting them was a shimmering magical barrier.

An [Archmage] was flying above them, her hair blowing red as her staff rose. Chieftain Rags stared up at her.

“…Montressa?”

The Archmage of Barriers spoke tersely.

“I can’t hold off this many spells forever! Liscor is being hit by some of the stray spells too!”

“I will protect it.”

The half-Giant strode towards the door—and Rags knew neither one would be able to ferry her to her destination. The Harpy Empress was still just standing outside, talking to herself. Rags’ head spun around the common room, and she found the other Hobgoblin at last.

Ragathsi of Civilizations, the most powerful [Goblin Lord] of her world, a woman from the future with a mechanical engine for a heart and weapons that had been forged in the cities she had built—emerged from the inn’s kitchens with an ice cream cone in her hand.

Hardened waffle batter made a simple cone, and she had put scoops of ice cream in the cone. Four of them, each a different flavor.

Her [Bodyguards], eight of them, each had an ice cream cone except for the musical blademaster and the master gunner. The master gunner had his rifle in hand and refused to let go of it. The musical blademaster was eating some popcorn with nutritional yeast on it.

“Huh?”

Fightipilota, Rags, Dyeda, and Rianchi stopped as the Goblin Lord of Civilizations took a gigantic bite out of the mint chocolate chip top of her ice cream cone. She strolled forwards, her metal arm whirring as she smiled.

“Tastes like pure sugar. And the inn’s smashed—again. You didn’t even put in double-pane windows yet? Those save on heat and cooling. And there’s no hot tubs.”

“What are you doing?”

The Goblin Lord ignored Chieftain Rags. Her eyes brightened, and she darted up the stairs, like a child.

“My room!”

Rags ran after her, shoving at the [Bodyguards], swearing. She found the Goblin Lord lying on a bed in the room reserved for Chieftain Rags. She tossed the ice cream cone straight onto the sheets as she stood. Beaming fondly.

“I always wanted to stay here longer. It’s not as nice as so many inns. Truly not. The beds don’t even have springs in them!”

She kicked the stuffed down mattress and laughed, as if the simple wooden slats holding up the mattress were the funniest joke in the world. Chieftain Rags stood there, lost for words.

Her first reaction was fury, but there was something—uncanny about the way Ragathsi was acting. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations was practically manic, darting from spot to spot, opening the dressers, reminiscing loudly.

She raced out of her rooms and stopped, hand on another door. Then she smiled.

Erin’s room. Ragathsi threw open the door and strode in. Chieftain Rags shouted and ran after her.

“Hey. Stop. What are you—”

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations was fiddling with the chess set. Erin’s magical chess set. The Goblin Lord stopped again, holding a piece up, admiring the magical rook, even tossing it up and down to feel how light it was.

Ragathsi spoke without turning to Chieftain Rags.

“I wanted to steal it the moment I saw it. You remember. But I didn’t. I was used to stealing or taking anything I wanted, but this? It wasn’t mine. I wanted it so badly, so I wanted to be worthy of it. It’s just like I remember, but it’s different. I’m too big now.”

The Chieftain halted, and she saw the Goblin Lord’s eyes flick around the room, as if trying to memorize every bit and inch of this place. Then her blank expression became that impish grin.

“What else am I missing?”

Chieftain Rags reached forwards to stop the Goblin Lord of Civilizations, and someone shoved her aside.

“Missing? It all looks the same to me, though there’s a new theatre. Bird’s tower is even here.”

“The tower! Of course!”

Rags staggered, and a [Witch] with a pointy hat, collapsible broomstick tied to her back, bodyarmor, and a gasmask beckoned. Ragathsi ran up the stairs, laughing, and the two loudly reminisced. Chieftain Rags ran up the stairs after them and found the two crammed into the tower, shading their eyes to peer around.

“It’s in a different place, though.”

“True. I don’t recognize that village—where’s the blue fruit trees?”

“Blue fruit trees. Let’s get a drink!”

“Ragathsi! I said, stop messing around and talk to m—”

Rags seized the Goblin Lord of Civilizations’ arm, and Ragathsi turned, merriment and joy in her eyes. She whirled Rags around with her mechanical arm—

 

——

 

She bounced off the water two times like a skipped stone and then hit a hill. Rags actually rolled onto her feet. She staggered—and Lord Xitegen turned his head to stare at her.

The Goblin Lord had thrown her over a thousand—Rags began running. By the time she burst into the inn, the Goblin Lord was standing, blue juice cup in hand, speaking to the [Princess of the Inn].

Lyonette. She was mobile now, giving orders.

“Protect the inn. Nanette, get back in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. If the Maiden comes this way, everyone is to flee to Invrisil. Then break the door. Is Liska alive?”

“Yes. But she’s out of it. Where’s Mrsha?”

“Resting in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Teriarch brought her back.”

Rags sagged in relief. If she had been more aware, she would have seen how Ser Dalimont and Dame Ushar flinched. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations was smiling.

“Can I get some spaghetti with butter and sausage? That’s the last thing I could think of.”

Lyonette turned her flat expression to the merry smile on Ragathsi’s face.

“No. What are you going to do?”

“My people are dying!”

Chieftain Rags howled at the Goblin Lord of Civilizations. She drew the revolver that Captain Leafpear had given her. Everyone stepped back.

“Either help me or return to your world.”

Ragathsi finished drinking the blue fruit juice, then she put the cup on a table. Her crimson eyes were alight, and her lined face was calm, now. She brushed the revolver aside with one claw.

“You hold it with two hands or the recoil will jar it out of your hands. Forgive me. I was having fun. It’s been over twenty years since the last time I was here. This time—no, it’s fine if it’s destroyed. It can always be rebuilt. Just don’t let the inn itself die.”

She wrapped her hands around Rags’ own, changing her grip on the gun, then turned to Lyonette. The [Princess] was looking around for—Roots Mrsha. Nanette. She drew her daughters together.

“Who are you?”

“The Goblin Lord of Civilizations. The Goblin King’s greatest general. Now, I’m ready. I’m sorry. I wanted one last moment to remember and forget. But there’s never any time or enough [Immortal Moments], are there? That’s why she was so special. It’s fine. I just need transportation now.”

Ragathsi cast around, expectant, and Rags’ saw her eyes sharpen once more. Ragathsi was relaxed—but now her head snapped around.

“Flight spells?”

She addressed the lone [Mage] among her [Bodyguard], and the Goblin grimaced.

“I can’t cast [Flight] on more than four, Goblin Lord.”

“Mm. Too bad. I can’t move us to a place I don’t know exactly. It’s been too long. Are there any Wyverns close enough? I can empower or take control of them.”

Rags didn’t know. No one was responding to her speaking stones; she was likely out of range or 2nd Army was jamming the spells. They were stuck while Goblinhome—!

So many [Mages], magical beings, and even a giant Harpy outside, all preoccupied with their own battles. All they needed was one. Rags was turning, trying to find the best person to beseech, when someone acted.

Roots Mrsha’s paw was in Lyonette’s hand. She would have had to cut her arm off to lose the [Princess], and the two Thronebearers would have thrown themselves in front of her if she so much as moved. But the Gnoll girl saw Rags’ terrible expression, and so…

The Doombearer closed her eyes. She concentrated hard. Imagining someone rolling a set of dice. Flipping a coin.

She pulled on the world, and it was dreadfully hard. But there was all this floating luck lying around—and then Roots Mrsha sensed someone else helping her. Another Doombearer, a young woman pulling.

Someone clapped her hands, and a bright, cheerful [Witch] tipped her hat to Mrsha. The mysterious [Witch] from ten years in the future bowed as she stepped forwards.

“Ah, good idea. I have a broom. I was going to see the Goblin King with a coven, anyways. Can we drop you off?”

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations eyed the strange [Witch] with the gasmask on and grinned.

“How many brooms?”

“I have one. But I know where a bunch of [Witches] are. Give me five minutes.”

So saying, the [Witch] strode for the portal door, and Chieftain Rags followed.

“Dyeda, Rianchi, stay back—”

“We’re going. To the end.”

The [Tattooist] had one of the emergency crossbows from the inn, and Rianchi had his bike. Rags regarded them, then nodded. She followed the mysterious [Witch] as the woman sauntered into the portal room and adjusted the dial on the door with a familiar air.

“I missed this place. And you, Chieftain Rags. Though we never met, not really. Just once up till now, I suspect. Do you…know me?”

She was taller than Rags, which wasn’t saying much, and she had black hair that poked around the eerie gas mask on her face, the black, glass lenses like an Antinium’s eyes, and the bulbous breathing capsule below it.

The mask made Rags think she was from the Molten Stone tribe. She was a [Witch].

“Are you one of Chieftain Anazurhe’s Goblins? Her daughter? Prixall?”

Rags hazarded several guesses, and the Goblin wagged a finger at her.

“Nope! I visited the tribe to learn, but that’s not it! Here’s a hint. This is what I use for my craft and to fight with.”

She flipped something up and handed it to Rags. A cast iron pan. Small enough that you could conceivably toss it, like Erin used to. If you had excellent arm strength. Rags stared at the [Witch]. Then her eyes focused on her hat.

Every [Witch] decorated their hat. This one tipped it up, and Rags saw there was a chain of hand-knit little shapes linked around the base of the hat.

A slice of pizza. A hot dog. A bowl of appetizing soup made of colored orange and green and red yarn for garnishing, a pretzel…

Rags stared harder as the door opened. The second hint was—where the Goblin was going.

Riverfarm. When she stepped through the door, there was a shout. Rags recoiled; she saw Riverfarm’s entire army training their blades on her.

“Friendly! We’re friendly!”

Chieftain Rags shouted, then realized she wasn’t the best messenger given they assumed the Goblin King was right behind her. But a voice shouted an order with all the authority of his class.

“Stand down! Is the Goblin King dead?”

Laken Godart emerged from behind the lines of [Soldiers], and with him stood the Witches of Riverfarm. Witch Eloise, Hedag, Margrave Mavika, Agratha—all the highest-level [Witches].

“Where’s Witch Thallisa? And who—”

Eloise began, then caught sight of the strange [Witch] from the future. The [Witch] swept a low bow.

“Your Majesty, I beg a favor from you. I request Witch Alevica, Eloise, Hedag, Mavika—every [Witch] who can fly a broom to grab one and join me. We go to judge the Goblin King, for a [Witch] must—and deliver these Goblins to their home.”

She knew all the [Witches] present. Laken’s face went slack in confusion. He could sense the [Witch] before him, but like Rags, he didn’t know her. Not by voice nor by…

“Do I know this [Witch]? Who—are you?”

Roots Mrsha appeared with Lyonette standing there, and Ragathsi munched on some popcorn, smiling as she waited. Perhaps she’d figured out who this was.

“There is no time, Your Majesty. I shall be back to explain all that I can. I insist, nay, demand your aid! And that of the [Witches]! Fly!”

“We do not wish to aid Goblins against Pallass if that’s what you’re implying. As for the Goblin King—”

Witch Agratha was trying to be cautious, but the unknown [Witch], who had to be a Goblin, slapped her hand against the doorframe and shouted.

“Are the [Witches] I knew when I was a child such cowards? A people is besieged in their homes by an army. Is that not enough?”

“But—we don’t even fly! Alevica does, but the rest of us—it’s just not practical.”

Agratha spluttered. The unknown [Witch] bellowed back.

“Then walk, if you think they’ll love you more, Agratha! Let [Witches] walk until they forget how to fly; do you think it’s easy? Do you think you can simply hop on a broom and soar the skies? It fades. Everything fades that we do not cling to and protect. I know what makes a [Witch] a [Witch]! We are always black cats at midnight, bubbling cauldrons, and curses. If you have any pride in those hats, come with me!”

She flung out a hand dramatically, and the [Witches] hesitated. It was Laken Godart, the Unseen Emperor, who frowned.

“I do know you. You’re so familiar…are you from another world? Another—time? Who are you?”

To that, the strange [Witch] threw her head back and laughed. A youthful laugh, and Rags realized she was a young woman for all she appeared old. Goblins grew up fast. She answered.

“Just trust me. Vertrau mir, Kaiser Laken. Oder erkennst du einen alten Freund nicht?”

The words she spoke were almost perfect German. Laken Godart jumped in astonishment, and the [Witch] reached up and pulled her mask back with a smile.

Still, Rags didn’t recognize her. Not the female Goblin, until her craft poured over the [Witches] of Riverfarm. It was not the dreadful secrets and weight of lives and bargains that Belavierr possessed—nor the judgement of Hedag, the wandering protector of those in need, or even the ancient magic of wings that Mavika possessed.

It just…smelled nice. Like the scent of rising pumpernickel bread, or the taste of a hot stew on the long, cold road. A meal for the hungry. A cauldron ever-filled.

The Witch of Repasts grinned, and her eyes danced as she swept her hat from her head in a bow. The hat, decorated with all the things she loved to make, vanished into a bag of holding, and she put a second hat on her head.

It was tall, poofy, and white—instantly recognizable. The folk of Riverfarm lowered their weapons, and several of the [Witches] gasped. Laken just whispered.

“…Pebblesnatch?”

The last clue was her skin. It was green, yes, but a grey-green, the unmistakable skin of a Cave Goblin. The older Pebblesnatch’s eyes twinkled as she pulled the broom off her back and unfolded it.

“No time for explanations. Not now. The Goblin King is raging. If we can make a difference—we fly. Who will come with me, sisters? We have abandoned Izril’s skies for too long.”

There was dead silence—then Alevica shouldered forwards, broom in hand.

“Alright, fuck. Let’s go.”

The [Witches] hesitated—then the older women dashed off, snatching brooms from houses or conjuring them through windows. Glass rained down as Eloise called one to her, and she wore a resigned expression.

“Where to?”

“Goblinhome.”

That was how Chieftain Rags found herself sitting on the back of a broom as the [Witches] shot up past the Empress of Wings, who watched them flying upwards, dodging the spells raining down. The Harpy Queen shook her head, rueful.

“[Witches]. Always meddling in their betters’ affairs. Enough. If I have no army, I will build one. But first—no more of this foolish destruction. I sense your wills, pathetic, raging [Kings]. You folk of Chandrar. This inn is under my protection. I shall repay any harm to it a hundredfold. Hold, [Archmage]. Hold this place. [Royal Blessing].”

She spread her wings, and the inn flickered as the Archmage of Barriers gasped. Her flickering barriers tripled in brightness—and the Harpy Empress breathed out hard.

“Now for an army.”

 

——

 

It was one of those days. A day when you just kept going. Not one where you couldn’t rest. You had to rest—because the day kept going. And you kept going, even if it punched you in the face.

Even if you couldn’t save the world. Even if you couldn’t protect them all. You could save one person you loved.

He ran away from the Goblin King. From the battles he couldn’t fight. And he was ashamed. But he did the only thing he could, because he had promised. At least that.

The Wyrm of Ailendamus, Rhisveri Zessoprical, opened his eyes as the Duke vanished from The Wandering Inn in Liscor. He’d been devoting all his energy and willpower to it. When he rose—he realized his chambers in the palace of Ailendamus were filled with people.

Immortals. Menorkel the Titan, Sophridel with a small army of his masked creations, the Merfolk led by old Culnous, Gilaw, and Lady Paterghost, and the enchanted suit of armor and Nube, the Greater Mimic living in her body.

No Lucifen or Agelum. When the Wyrm’s head rose, the other immortals recoiled, then began to shout.

“He’s awake!”

“Rhisveri! The Goblin King is back! What have you been doing—”

Disoriented, Rhisveri’s eyes flicked left and right.

“We’re bombarding the Floodplains.”

“Yes. We are. The Lucifen and Agelum are with the Court of Masks. His Majesty of Ailendamus is overseeing the preparations for war. You would not move.”

Sophridel spoke in a precise voice that Rhisveri actually appreciated. Even at his most agitated, the Elemental of Masks was precise. The Wyrm nodded.

“I see. [Conjure Perfect Puppet: The Duke].”

He activated his personal spell and created another body of Duke Rhisveri as clothes flew over the man. Sophridel interposed itself in front of Rhisveri, speaking faster.

“This is a disastrous event, Rhisveri. We have no Dioname, and Visophecin is gone. You must explain—”

The Wyrm’s eyes closed, and the man, Duke Rhisveri, opened his. He patted himself, checked he had cast the spell properly.

Pants on. Then he strode forwards.

“I will. First, the throne room. Move!”

He ran for the doors. Just—ran. The immortals whirled, shouting at him, and the double doors large enough for a Wyrm burst open as Rhisveri shoved them aside and raced out of his personal quarters. His exit made several armored [Knights] jump.

“Duke Rhisveri! His Majesty has been demanding your presence—”

The Knights of the Thirsting Veil, led by Dame Chorisa, were his personal ‘guards’, as he had assigned them to his security detail after Ryoka Griffin’s exit. They were allowed to know the secret of Ailendamus, but even so, they halted as Sophridel shouted.

“Rhisveri. You will answer us now! Gilaw, stop him! Knights, halt him!”

The transformed Royal Griffin pounced after him like a cat—a giant armored woman with a mane of black fur, and the [Knights] hesitated—then grabbed Rhisveri.

“Duke, His Majesty—”

“Move aside, please. I’m heading there now.”

The Duke kept running, and four of the [Knights] felt their boots skidding over the marble and rugs. They strained to slow him down—and kept sliding.

Gilaw leapt on Rhisveri’s back and grabbed one shoulder. She heaved—and slipped as the Duke pulled her off her feet. Gilaw found herself lying on her back, one arm grasping his coattails and staring at the other immortals.

“Gilaw. Desist in playing games. Halt him!”

Sophridel snapped as Gilaw tried to pull Rhisveri back. She dug her heels into the carpet, and it began bunching up as the Duke kept running.

He was racing out of his secluded wing in the royal palace, cursing the distance between him and the actual throne room. Servants, staff of the palace, a patrolling squad of [Soldiers], all stared at the half-dozen [Knights] trying to hold on to him—and then his coat ripped, and Gilaw was left holding a piece of it.

Rhisveri kept running. He cast [Haste]. Then ran faster, trying to figure out how you ran with two legs, and—he didn’t know how Ryoka did it.

High knees? He sprinted past servants, people carrying reports, frantic staff rushing around, faster and faster, screaming.

“Out of the way! Out of the way!”

None of them had ever seen the snobbish, arrogant, genius spellcaster—the King’s own brother, Duke Rhisveri—so much as burst into a light jog. He yelled and harangued, but scream? Never. His clothing was in disarray, his manicured hair disheveled, and he ran with the weirdest form anyone had ever seen, knees nearly going up to his chest, arms pumping out of rhythm at his sides.

The Duke had never been less decorous. Never felt like things mattered more. If Dioname could have seen him now—he thought she would have laughed herself sick.

He kept running.

 

——

 

Ailendamus, the Kingdom of Glass and Glory and one of Terandria’s mightiest nations—did not take the Goblin King’s reappearance lying down.

Nor were they entirely calm, however. His Majesty, Itorin the Second, sat in full view of the courts, speaking in a deliberate, carrying voice—when privacy spells weren’t obscuring him from the audience.

The spells were designed to let him speak to his [Generals] and [Strategists], or higher members of the court, without saying something confidential in view of all. At this moment, he was staring at a map of the world.

“Liscor. How many armies can reach the shores in a month’s time?”

And how many did they want to send? The question was entirely political, even now, but the answer could not be ‘none’. If the Goblin King had returned—

Answering how and what he intended this time was a question for later. Right now, they were unleashing Tier 5-6 spells at range on his position. Or rather, trying to.

Everything was missing, and they were seeing—well—Dragons on the scrying orb. Multiple, and the largest Harpy he’d ever seen.

No one knew what it meant. Half the [Strategists] were trying to figure out what kind of illusion this was, the other half trying to confirm with the Blighted Kingdom if this was Serinpotva, the Death of Wings.

It apparently didn’t match her appearance, but the idea of a Demon-Goblin King alliance was disastrous. At the same time, Ailendamus was talking to other nations, trying to share intelligence, and find out what they were planning.

The Five Families were in disarray. And Pallass—

“What word from the City of Inventions? Is their army causing this? I can see them assaulting this ‘Goblinhome’! Is this not—dangerous?”

One of Itorin’s sons, Prince Votrin, was of age to be in this kind of meeting, and his mother, Queen Oiena, also present, had taught him well. He was asking the questions Itorin wanted to ask in a straightforward manner.

“The—City of Inventions has not yet replied. I am sure they are receiving missives from every part of the world, Your Highness. We just keep getting the same response. Er—‘standby’.”

A [Diplomat] addressed him, pale-faced, and the [Prince] swore.

“So much for the damn Drakes! Father—we must do something!”

That was a genuine outburst. Itorin responded before Oiena could take him to task. He raised a beringed hand and spoke for all present.

“Ailendamus will combat the Goblin King, as it did before. This time, we shall prevent another scorching of Izril. Yet he is a terrible foe. Hm. Why have the bombardments stopped?”

They were still supposed to be coming down, but they’d stopped. Part of the magical attacks were aimed at the inn—it wasn’t Itorin’s intention to demolish The Wandering Inn, but he’d been told multiple nations had tried.

However, the Dragons, Harpy, and even a powerful [Mage] had been shielding it from attack, and he swore he’d seen someone cut the lightning in half. Which was…ridiculous. Although Itorin knew for a fact this was possible.

“Where is my brother? He should be coordinating our assault.”

Itorin’s fingers drummed on the armrest of his throne as he asked the question he wanted to know most dearly. The Wyrm wasn’t responding—normally, he’d be right here.

“He is still indisposed, Your Majesty—”

Damn. But in lieu of Rhisveri, Itorin could still run this nation. And—his eyes flickered across the Court of Masks. The nobility were arguing, quietly, but discussing what should be done. Itorin touched a spell, and the privacy spells sealed his words from the general public of Ailendamus.

“Lord Uziel. Lady Paxere. Is House Shoel ready for war?”

A man in a wheelchair, wearing mostly white, and a young noblewoman wearing mostly black and red, approached. Of the two, Uziel was known; Paxere was virtually unknown to the murmuring court. But anyone who truly knew Ailendamus’ might focused on Uziel, who had trained some of the finest warriors of Ailendamus.

The Agelum bowed and smiled.

“We are, Your Majesty. Give the word and we will ready ourselves. It may be—costly—but I am prepared to lead a force against the Goblin King and put him down. We will need a joint army, however.”

The idea of the wheelchair-bound old man fighting the Goblin King made some of the lesser nobility turn to each other, thinking it was a joke. Itorin merely flicked his eyes to the higher-ranking nobles, who had gone still with relief—and worry.

“How many of House Shoel would be willing to do battle? Of your people, Uziel?”

The Agelum never hesitated.

“I would take no less than twenty of us, Your Majesty. Frail as we are, we could injure him—the trick is killing the bastard outright. Otherwise, he heals.”

“Surely, Lord Uziel, you exaggerate. With great respect for your martial prowess—twenty and a joint army for one being? Velan the Kind was not so difficult to defeat! A lone [Archer] downed him!”

Queen Oiena protested, though she knew of the Agelum’s nature. Uziel coughed into a handkerchief and bowed to her.

“Your Majesty, Curulac of a Hundred Days is a figure my house…remembers quite well. He was different from Velan the Kind. Each Goblin King changes based on the nature of the Goblin who ascends.”

“I see—but Velan did die easily.”

Uziel’s face said he disagreed with that assessment.

“Velan was a [Healer], Your Majesty. He never wore many Relics to battle—a curious oddity when they would have made him far greater—and he was also a famed [Alchemist]. Most of his concoctions gave him the strength of a high-level [Warrior]. After the siege of First Landing, he seemed to lose most of his alchemical means. This Goblin King appears to be a superlative warrior. Far, far more difficult to kill. You are correct that some die to an arrow. Sóve, the Island Queen, was allegedly slain by a single poisoned dagger, for instance. Not this one.”

His words were not reassuring. The Court of Masks murmured, and Uziel offered Itorin a reassuring smile.

“I am actually in fine condition right now, Your Majesty. Say the word and I will prepare.”

Itorin nodded to him as the privacy spells lifted—however, he was loath to sacrifice Ailendamus’ most deadly, if fragile, warriors. They were all watching the Goblin King being carried away by the Dragonlord of Flames—one version of him.

Clones? Children? A hidden tribe of Dragons? Illusions? No clue what it was, but the scrying spell on them was lost. Obviously, every [Mage] tried to locate the fighting, but as they did, someone spoke.

“Your Majesty, I beg to report that the barriers around the inn have tripled in strength. Should we continue attacking it? We can see Goblins exiting the building.”

Privacy spells went all the way up as Itorin turned to one of his [Grand Magi].

“Who is shielding them? What [Mage]?”

“Unknown, sire. She appears to be Terandrian.”

Based on the red hair, at least, but no one of that caliber was at the inn. It wasn’t Archmage Valeterisa; the only other person with red hair would be the [Princess] or Montressa du Valeross.

The [Mage] maintaining those barriers was too old—and she was holding off far too many spells. Itorin thought carefully.

Rhisveri and the Lucifen could make more scrolls, so Ailendamus could replenish its magical stores of lesser spells. This wasn’t an issue, and they were showing solidarity, so he was content to spend them even if they missed, but the [Grand Magus] merely bowed her head. She was a half-Elf and nervous as she licked her lips.

“Maintain a light bombardment. Do not hit any non-Goblins. Is there a likelihood the inn will be destroyed?”

“Based on how many spells are being blocked? I cannot imagine any Archmage living could hold off that much magic, even Archmage Eldavin! The Harpy is reinforcing the protection spells, though.”

That Harpy. Itorin shuddered; he felt like he could feel her staring at him through the scrying orb. He waved a hand.

“Focus on the Goblin King when you find him.”

He didn’t want the inn gone, but he was aware any number of nations considered the inn to be the focal point of this disaster, and frankly, he was inclined to agree. It was as Itorin was leaning forwards, intending to have one of his [Generals] speak to calm everyone’s nerves, that the doors burst open.

“Stop firing on the inn, you idiots!”

Duke Rhisveri ran into the room, and a Drell Knight, one of the royal bodyguards, nearly clotheslined the Wyrm with an outstretched halberd. Itorin rose and quickly spoke.

“Let him pass!”

Duke Rhisveri was his brother, after all, but the Duke was a mess! And normally, he’d just appear behind the throne and whisper covertly—

Something was wrong. The dishevelled Wyrm had forgotten the decorum of the throne. He was in charge, yes, but there were still appearances to be maintained! He charged past the nobles and people watching, pointing.

“Stop the spells! Stop them at once, you damn idiots! There are children and innocents in that inn!”

“Brother-in-law!”

Queen Oiena was on her feet, and Itorin wished he could hide this all behind a privacy spell, but Rhisveri was charging down the throne room. And Queen Oiena—she knew Rhisveri was important, but she didn’t know who he was.

And she didn’t like him. The [Queen] snapped at Rhisveri.

“The Goblin King is rampaging across the High Passes! There is an entire tribe of Goblins running amok—what has happened to you, pray? Control yourself!”

She snapped a fan open, and Rhisveri’s eyes bulged.

“I said—stop firing the spells! Tell every Terandrian nation to cease firing on them and Liscor—if they don’t agree, hit their damn palaces with a Tier 6 spell!”

He had gone mad. King Itorin nodded to himself with a kind of resigned acceptance. The entire court gasped at the Duke’s statement.

The King’s brother was allowed many things, but that? Queen Oiena’s voice was controlled.

“Duke Rhisveri, you are overwrought. The Crown of Ailendamus does not intend to war on its neighbors, not now.”

Not with the Dawn Concordat war leaving them weakened—and the colonization of the New Lands. Or in general!

However, this was still the Wyrm of Ailendamus, and Itorin was not willing to create more of an impression of infighting than there was already. So he signalled with one of his toes, tapping it covertly against a piece of magical lodestone embedded in the sole of his shoes.

One of his ranking [Generals] barked at Rhisveri.

“Your Grace, our army is carrying out the will of Ailendamus to protect and defend the peoples of the Kingdom of Glass and Glory and all—”

“Stop! The! Bombardments!”

The Duke was two-thirds of the way down the throne room, and now the guards were moving. Drell Knights, some of the highest-leveled in their order, moved between Rhisveri and the royal family. They wore enchanted glass armor. Itorin saw Rhisveri slam into them and winced.

“Apprehend him carefully.”

One of the royal advisors called out, a [Royal Strategist]. Itorin watched, face filled with concern—his public image.

He was debating telling the guard to treat Rhisveri carefully—lest they arouse the Wyrm’s later wrath—when the group of [Knights] began to move. They skidded—then one of them went flying across the ground.

Everyone stared as Duke Rhisveri, the [Mage], forced a group of six huge Drell Knights in armor back. He panted, then threw a punch.

A Drell Knight flew. The armored figure hit the ground, got up shakily, and charged back. Now, a small army of people—servants, [Soldiers], [Knights]—was trying to hold him back.

And the Wyrm kept moving, throwing people aside, roaring.

What had gotten into him? Itorin froze on his throne. He knew Rhisveri was a master of magic bar none, but he’d never known the Wyrm to throw a punch in his Human form. The Duke roared at the military council around Itorin.

“Halt the spells! Or I will stuff every damn scroll down your throat! There are children in that inn! Are you mad?”

The Wyrm bellowed. The audience turned to Itorin II, and the King of Ailendamus finally heard Rhisveri fully. He hesitated—and he thought of Ryoka Griffin. Then his eyes turned to his son and the young [Prince] and [Princess] who stood in the back.

King Itorin II sat, poised, thinking, visibly unruffled. Weighing the consequences of this public, political drama. And what should be done.

Uziel’s eyes were upon him, gleaming in that dangerous way, and he had half-levered himself out of the wheelchair. Faced with his morality, the eyes of the public, and the really angry Wyrm, Itorin II spoke.

“Great General Grisbane, I have never known my brother to speak against the good of this nation. Cancel all spells at once! Send a royal missive to every nation currently launching spells!”

“Your Majesty, other nations may see that as an act of war!”

Now it was General Grisbane genuinely protesting this move. Itorin II paused, well aware of this. But he met Rhisveri’s desperate eyes, and the puppet-king of Ailendamus—placed a bet on his instincts.

He leapt to his feet, letting color enter his face.

“Are there children in that inn, Duke Rhisveri?”

“Yes!”

King Itorin II clenched a fist and turned his head, adjusting his profile for the people and cameras on him.

“Then send the missive to every nation launching spells on Terandrian soil! We are the heirs of the Hundred Heroes! I would rather be a fool than lose any semblance of my morality!”

Gasps. Consternation. Queen Oiena paled, and she stood to whisper with him, because her nation of Taimaguros, their ally, was one of said nations. Itorin II didn’t have to act to pant as his court rushed around him. His eyes were on Rhisveri, and the Duke’s surprised expression became a grateful nod.

I hope you know what you’re doing, Wyrm. Because the right thing isn’t always the best for nations. Nevertheless—King Itorin II nodded to Uziel.

The Agelum was smiling. And King Itorin wondered what he might have done if Itorin had said nothing.

Queen Oiena protested, speaking to Rhisveri now.

“But what of the Goblin King? The Goblins—”

She was more focused on that as a threat, and Duke Rhisveri rasped.

“Leave that…to the giant damn Harpy and those stupid Dragons.”

Then his head turned, and as he tried to adjust his collar, which was practically on his shoulder, the Duke stared out one of the windows of the throne room. He gazed at something, and everyone turned to look.

“…Why is the moon out?”

King Itorin II sat there, and every hair on his body rose. Because he swore he saw it wink at him.

 

——

 

[Witches] were flying across the skies under the pale green moon. Witches to fight the Goblin King as the Dragonlords of Flame summoned a Halfling down on him in the High Passes.

That was the stuff of fairy tales. Brave [Witches] as well. Foolish women in hats, putting their craft against the rage of a hundred thousand years.

Bravery befit them. Empress Sheta was preparing to call an army in aid of her beloved Teriarchs, but something distracted her, just for a moment, as she stood outside The Wandering Inn.

She had been peering across the water, trying to figure out where that other Goblin Lord had gone, the funny-looking Goblin and her tribe, who had seemed more useful—and numerous—than the rest.

But she hadn’t found them, and an odd presence made her turn and her feathers ruffle.

“Strange.”

An [Emperor] appeared amidst all the people of the inn. Sheta had noticed the [Princess] and given her short shrift. [Princesses] appeared wherever one went and often did tend to appear around Dragons.

But the [Emperor]…Sheta’s eyes narrowed, and she abandoned her post outside. She stalked up the hill, like a hunting bird of prey. A being taller than the inn itself—but who moved suddenly invisibly.

No one but the Vampires noticed her entering the inn. All three were standing with the [Princess] and her daughter, debating what to do—to follow, if they even could—as magical spells fell on the inn. They saw the Harpy and pretended not to notice.

She was after the [Emperor]. His gaggle of people were arguing with him, protesting as he spoke.

“No, I want transportation after them! Hedag, Eloise, Mavika—they are our greatest [Witches], and if they’re going after the Goblin King, they will have our support! Dead gods damn it, is there not a single Wyvern around? What about Magnolia’s carriage? Gamel!”

Several men and women were arguing with him, but a [Knight] spoke as Sheta followed them into a huge, domed theatre. The hallway was not large enough to accommodate her, but as before, the space grew to avoid touching her.

“There’s no Wyverns, Your Majesty. And the pink carriage looks half-busted. I think the [Lady] already went up towards the High Passes with General Shirka. She left Lord Xitegen behind.”

“Then get me a—a bicycle! Something! Who’s out there? Grimalkin? Saliss? Send someone after the—the Dragons! Verdammt! Is there no one I can count on?”

“Lady Durene—”

“Keep her in Liscor or I’ll send you against the Goblin King, Farmer Ram! Not her.”

The Unseen Emperor spun and shouted, and the man jumped back. A [Farmer]. How interesting. What a small empire he had.

The Harpy Queen inspected the group around Laken Godart. His class. She knew she wasted time, but she couldn’t help it.

“Your Majesty, please! At least go to Riverfarm—! Miss Yesel, help me!”

Beycalt, Yesel, Ram, Lady Rie, and a few other advisors were close to physically restraining the [Emperor]. Rie hesitated, but Ram moved forwards, intent on saving Laken’s life regardless of the cost.

Beycalt stepped forwards with Ram as Empress Sheta reached out, grabbed Miss Yesel, and tossed her over her shoulder. One of the Vampires caught her. Vaulont the Ash opened his mouth—saw Sheta’s head turn a hundred and eighty degrees around—and backed away.

Forewoman Beycalt was next. Mister Ram shouted desperately as he struggled with Gamel.

“It’s for your own good, Your Majesty! Throw me in chains, but I have to!”

Sheta picked up the [Farmer]. Tossed him. Laken Godart thundered as he stabbed a finger at the last woman standing before him.

“I am going nowhere, Lady Rie! The Goblin King is here, and I will not run this time!”

“Your Majesty, I—that wasn’t—I do mean you should leave, but I…”

Lady Rie hesitated. She and Laken were standing there with Gamel, and her expression grew confused. Laken’s—suddenly grew alarmed.

“…What happened to Mister Ram? Beycalt? Miss Yesel? I don’t hear them anymore?”

“Who? It’s just us, Your M—”

Laken recoiled as a claw reached out and plucked the [Lady] up. Sheta nibbled Lady Rie as the [Lady] squirmed and shrieked silently.

Very appetizing. She wasn’t quite Human, was she? Oh well. Sheta tossed the [Lady] over her shoulder.

“Your Majesty? Is something wrong?”

Gamel lowered his arms, wondering why he’d been trying to block His Majesty from an empty room. His response was a slow voice.

“Gamel? What do you see?”

“Nothing, Your Majesty. We’re just in the [World’s Eye Theatre].”

Laken Godart’s blind eyes opened, and the [Emperor] backed up a step, bumping against one of the seats.

“Gamel. Draw your sword. Something’s—”

He had a hand on Gamel’s arm, and this time, he felt the Harpy pulling the [Knight] up. The warrior slashed once; his sword glanced off Sheta’s claw, and she tossed him. Now, all three Vampires caught him.

“Who’s there? What have you done with my people?”

Laken shouted, and she smiled. The Harpy flapped her wings, and he felt them flutter as a gust of air filled the theatre.

“I removed them that we may speak as equals, Emperor. I am the Empress of Wings. It is no moot time for us to meet, yet there never is. I am Empress Sheta of the Iltanus Empire of Harpies, a being from another time who has come to this age to slay the Goblin King. And to judge all those I see before me.”

You most of all. For he was an [Emperor], and she was no great warrior, nor a [General] in whole spirit and intention. She was no potter nor artist nor singer nor any other thing, yet her rule was over all this and more.

But if there was one thing she knew, it was this. So the Harpy Queen spoke.

“Let us speak awhile.”

 

——

 

He could not see her, but he could sense her. So vividly her very aura painted the same picture one of the three Vampires could see.

Colfa val Lischelle-Drakle was the only person who could even remain in the room. Perhaps Lyonette could have stayed, or Himilt, but he was joining the watch for the Goblin King. Everyone was forced out, even Lady Rie. Colfa remained, perhaps due to her stubbornness, Vampiric heritage, or her own experience with will and power. Her family, the Lischelles.

What did she see? She saw the Harpy Queen.

Empress Sheta wore the mark of her station: robes fit for the last Queen of the Iltanan Empire, and the rings upon her talons glittered, made in every land.

Her humanoid face and eyes were impassive now, letting no emotion show save for a faint acknowledgement of all before her. As though only by her will it existed. Yet her voice was distressed as she closed her eyes.

The [World’s Eye Theatre] was glowing above her, and it was reflecting hundreds of places that she asked of it as the [Emperor] tried to understand who she was and what was going on. But the Harpy was distracted. Her eyes were focused on a mountain in Chandrar.

“The Mountain-Roosts of the Garuda. Only one is left. What is this wretched world? The Continent of Glass is only undersea rubble. I don’t…”

She broke off, shaking her head, and turned back to Laken Godart. Greatly conscious was the Harpy Queen of the need of the moment. Of the terrible wrath of the Goblin King. Yet she demanded a moment from this place and found it.

“Hm. [Every Skill Within Empire: Immortal Moment]. Yes, it will do.”

Some things were worth doing. So, the Empress of Harpies stopped and gazed down at the being worthy of her attention.

“I greet thee once more, Laken Godart, sovereign of this time. We meet under less august moments than our station befits. I have no heralds save the roaring Dragonlords of Flame, who do battle with common foe. Nor know I the address of these times, nor have I the time to greet thee as State demands. Nevertheless, I will it; it be done. Let us speak. I am the Empress of Harpies, Sheta of the Iltanan Empire, who flies this world once more. And thou art?”

He was yet stunned by her presence, the impossibility of her, for he had not seen the [Palace of Fates]. And he was blind without Gamel. His head swung towards her, and she saw it—so she raised a talon.

“[By Royal Decree: See].”

He cried out. Unexpected.

She recalled it, then, the agony when blessed of those who had never seen nor heard. The Harpy Queen felt little remorse.

She waited as he clawed at his eyes, beheld her, then—as was fitting—composed himself. His teeth were bared. No one had trained him to this role, as they had her. What of it?

He fit his class so much better than those born into it. So he spoke through gritted teeth, shading his eyes up at her.

“You had no right to grant me—sight. Take it away. I am Laken Godart, Emperor of Riverfarm and the Unseen Empire, Protector of Durene’s Cottage. You have hurt my people and given me what I do not want. Remove your Skill. Now.”

His aura blazed at her, miniscule compared to hers, and he had little of her bearing. But enough—Sheta lifted her claw, withdrawing the Skill.

“Your people are safe. Merely exiled from this room until our conversation is over. Your titles speak much of you, Emperor. You are the sole and only ruler who claims this land as royalty. How did this come to be?”

In all of Izril. When had this begun? Sheta did not apologize to him. Her eyes were focused on the [Emperor], and her claws…

Her claws opened and closed slowly. Her head tilted right and left, as if she were not sure if she liked what she saw. Making up her mind.

Laken spoke, trying to control his breathing, which was heavy. Neither one asked how the other was here. If they didn’t know—they pretended to. And they had little time nor patience for anything else.

“I…am. I named myself [Emperor]. The class came to me, and that was how it began.”

“Hah. So thou art first of thy line and possess blood that others would call commoner’s stock. Now, it is imperial. I was born unto a dynasty, the twenty-ninth of my lineage to take the throne. When I lived, my Empire stretched the breadth and length of Izril and Terandria. I have returned to make war as I see fit, to change this world in the time I have allotted, and to judge all those before me.”

His breath caught, and perhaps he alone knew the weight of what she intended. He did not flinch. He did not flee, even if that were possible. Laken Godart stood, thinking a moment, then fumbled behind him for a seat.

“And are you to judge me?”

She did not answer at first, but merely stood on one taloned leg. Inspecting him. It would take but a single gesture, let alone a Skill, to end him.

“Let us speak, Emperor, of rulership.”

She smiled, and his posture grew tenser as they had a quiet conversation in stolen moments of time.

This is how it went.

 

——

 

The Harpy Queen spoke, then he spoke. It was a dialogue, but one of selfishness, of personality and belief. He did not know the rules. But he did. He knew the stakes.

She was testing him.

She began, in a voice that rang with cold conviction. Words she had once been taught, then understood, then redefined until it became the foundation she had built her Empire off of.

“The purpose of the Empire is to be the effective arm of the Empress in all things she wishes. When such time as the Empire cannot execute on the will thereof, it should be destroyed. A State that cannot police corruption, inefficiency, or its own health shall inevitably fail.”

“True.”

Laken could feel her eyes on him like the weight of imperium, even if she had taken away his sight.

“The nature of the Individual is selfishness; the group is the same, but collectively, and often swayed by the loudest voice. Tyranny is the most efficacious method of change so long as the Empire is healthy.”

She waited. The [Emperor] opened his mouth and croaked.

“True. But not always. The Individual…can be selfless.”

“That is the exception to the commonality.”

He hesitated.

“…True. But the Tyrant? The Tyrant is cruel and overrides all other wills to do what he desires. It may be fastest, but the Tyrant is the wound that degrades law, freedom, and all else to get his way.”

The Harpy Empress made a displeased sound.

“That is not necessity. You and I speak of different Tyrants. You speak of one who breaks with the will of the Empire they themselves embody. I speak of the Tyrant who arises, the one with power unquestioned. Not the selfish thief of power alone.”

His head nodded slowly.

“A different definition. Nevertheless—if the Tyrant is the fastest means to change, what of it? When there is nothing to change, when the Empire is strong, the Tyrant is useless—no, worse. The light hand governs best.”

“When the Empire thrives, yes. When the hour of strife comes, they turn to the Tyrant, the Emperor, the Crown. Always, it is one who leads.”

He felt like she stood on bodies. With each shift of her claws, the floorboards made sounds, but it was like the crackle of bones to him. Laken croaked.

“That, I can agree with. With few exceptions.”

Her feathers rustled as she nodded, perhaps. Her voice was pleased as she continued.

“Morality is learned. The State teaches morality. Therefore, Morality is a function of the State and subject to change. There is no inherent Good nor Evil, only temporary consensus.”

He gritted his teeth again.

“Wrong. There is an inherent morality and a universal right that is understood, even if it is not taught. Laws and morality evolve to benefit everyone. We don’t allow murder because it’s harmful. That benefits society. Morality is an evolving idea, but there is a default morality even in the earliest peoples.”

Did he believe that? His mind flashed to documentaries about tribes of monkeys warring in jungles and the scale of Human history. Her reply was coldly amused.

“Incorrect. The Individual is selfish. The Individual acts only on its desires; these desires intersect with the safety of the family, of the tribe. The baseline of assumed morality is a convenience formed by intersecting selfish individuals. Thus, civilization arises. It is selfish. Law may apply to all and benefit all or benefit only the singular group. The presumed morality is a crutch of the mind that extends from the smallest group outwards only by necessity, when those who control power are forced to share it.”

How cynical. Even for him, the [Emperor] had to think that. She was waiting for a response, so he ground out.

“…That may be so, to the extent that—”

“It is so. The Individual gathers others to further selfish goals, thus the tribe arises. From the tribe comes civilization, the fragmentation of cities, the development of culture. Tribe begets Nation. Unto Nation comes the Crown. Between our species and so many, the tendency towards the Crown is inevitable. The Crown maintains the Nation until it becomes the Empire that presides over all. This is the evolution of civilization.”

“I don’t agree. That is not the default setting. Democracies are an evolution of the Empire.”

She laughed, a soft sound.

“You speak of another piece of the pattern. The Empire arises. It maintains the Empress until it cannot. The Empress is inevitably the same as the Tyrant, but it is the Tyrant who falls. The Empire falls and comes to ruin. Inevitably, the fracturing leads to the Nations and tribes, which rebuild. It is merely a step before the Crown arises. Invariably, the Individual seeks the sole leader, be they Crown, Empress, or Tyrant. For they seek that role, though only one is given it.”

“…I disagree. That is not always how it occurs, though it is often how it occurs. Why do you state it like this?”

Her logic was like bars of iron she was setting down, a primitive logical circuit that he was trying to follow. Sheta’s voice was cold.

“All that has been said is true. The question that arises is: what is the duty of the Empress? Have they any duty at all to the Empire?”

Ah. So this is what she was asking. Laken Godart clenched his teeth, trying to think. His response was slow. Slightly uncertain.

“Under your logic, Empress Sheta, are not the Empire and Empress one being? As you outline it, it is a moot question. The Empress wills it; it be done.”

She was silent for a moment, then a low chuckle filled the room, and she stepped closer until he smelled the oil of feathers, the odors of an Empire long dead.

“That is the lesson I was taught. So you have the makings of an Emperor of Iltanus, untrained though thou art. It is not the answer I was led to. The Individual is selfish. The Empress is born unto the Empire which exists to serve her. Yet the Individual, be they so much lesser in the Empire, still is owed the weight of the Empire’s protection, the dignity and morality of which you speak. The answer I came to is that the Tyrant in every nation, be it the Crown or whatever form it takes, must have empathy. If they are the Empire, then they must care for even the smallest pieces of themselves. Yet the Empire must live, even if the pieces be sacrificed.”

“I…can agree to that.”

He spoke slowly, weighing the meaning of her words. But then the Unseen Emperor hesitated, for he felt that gaze inspecting him. He hesitated—but who was he to hesitate in this moment? Before her?

“—And yet, I tell you that will doom the Empire, Empress Sheta. It is a compassionate, laudable practice. I say it is flawed.”

More rustling of feathers. Her voice dropped, and now she stood above him. His head rose towards her as she spoke, a low whisper.

“Yes. It was. The answer I came to is the one you know. No Empire can endure; no line of Tyrants remain unbroken and uncorrupted. The body fails and rots, no matter how long it lasts. That is the natural order of things. It is the defiance of this which causes suffering. Wings must ever rise in rebellion and to question what is. When injustice arises, the Empire must fall.”

It was like a simple narrative, now, in his head. He saw it—first the view of the selfish Empress that she had been taught. Then—someone had shown her a kind of morality she had tried to fling across her vast holdings, the empathy of the Empress to the few.

Finally, the acceptance that it was failing. Now the Harpy stooped, and she whispered to him.

“When I was born, my Empire was doomed.”

“Was it truly so?”

She paused, then drew back a pace, walking back and forth.

“…Yes. I believe it so. It was untenable that we would keep it. We controlled all of Izril and Terandria, Harpies, those of wings such as Garuda or even our cousins in the classless Bagrhavens—all those without wings knelt before us. Empire so vast cannot keep control of its subjugated peoples. The Drakes had developed Draconic Warriors.”

“I’ve…heard of them.”

He replied, drily, and she made a sound of agreement.

“The Walled Cities rose up, more of them built with each passing decade. The Iltanan Empire had been at war with the Nagatine Empire for three hundred years. The Satrapies were all revolting. If it was not my generation that should see it collapse, then how long? So, then. I presided over the dissolution of my Empire, an attempt to peacefully separate the power from the throne and return it into the nations and peoples it had been taken from while preserving the greatest amount of lives.”

She paused.

“Thus were the bloodiest battles in the entire history of the Iltanan Empire fought. You understand.”

He could imagine it. The [Emperor] felt cold, then almost sick at the idea of it. A multicontinent-spanning Empire trying to willingly collapse…

“What possessed you?”

“Morality.”

Her voice oozed with so many conflicting emotions he physically recoiled. Sheta continued.

“You understand it. Giving up one ounce of the privilege makes the common citizen of hegemony riot. The generals perceive their loss of power and attempt to seize it themselves. The merchants lose the value of their goods and begin to steal. The nobility lose their authority and plot treachery.”

“…And the people with every right to a grudge come for your throat.”

A smile, invisible to him.

“Especially if you refuse to massacre their soldiers and lay their homes to waste in vengeance.”

“You did that?”

“Indeed.”

It was insane. Laken licked his lips, fascinated, horrified by this woman. He understood what she meant. What she was saying was noble, laudable—treating one’s foes like people, refusing to strike back against the aggressor.

But he imagined fighting a war where you held back against your opponent. How many times would they attack if they didn’t bleed and suffer the cost of their aggression? Even in wars of defence, they had ended because the attacker had bled for every step they took. He sought to clarify it.

“What did you do, then? How long did this…continue? How did you ever reach any kind of resolution that isn’t the remnants of this Empire burning?”

Her response was slow and heavy.

“Piece by piece. Removing power, one feather at a time, turning the head with every blow until it turns all the way around. Treaty by treaty—violation by violation—met with fairness instead of wrath.”

The Harpy Queen’s voice darkened, and Laken twitched.

“What violations?”

She whispered.

“In Invictel, they found every Harpy they could. My subjects they feared to touch for what might happen if they did. I had offered the Dullahans every peace. Refused to scourge their armies and strike their cities. So they slaughtered them all. For no reason other than malice. Thus, the Dragonlord of Flames flew down and burnt the city to its foundations and earned his dreadful title. Pyrelord.”

She stopped, swallowed, then continued.

“That could not be forgiven. Yet every other attempt was made to those who beset us. Then, the dance of thrones, with the new Tyrants and Rulers and democracies and tribes, until they find they have more enemies vying for their thrones and the cost is ever too high to assail us. Battle by battle, demonstrating only restraint to one’s enemies.”

She stopped, and Laken croaked. It was as mad a plan as he’d thought.

“That’s monstrous. What drove you to it?”

Her reply was a weary laugh.

“My teacher. It was, you see, the moral thing to do. So he speculated, for he had seen how Empire dies and murders millions in its death throes. But never once had he found the Tyrant willing to place her own neck on the chopping block. No one had the will. He begged me to stop. The cost was still my people, murdered when the shadow of my sovereignty waned. War and war again.”

Until they came for her. Nesting in the remnants of the Empire she’d picked to pieces to save more lives than she killed.

Small wonder he remembered her, her teacher, the Dragonlord of Flames. His greatest student, the one who had taken his lessons so terribly deeply to heart that she had…Laken’s voice was shaking as he beheld the Empress of Wings.

“That—that makes no sense. You destroyed your empire to do what? Even as it was dying, it would still have been better to save what you could have! Your actions killed far more people than you saved! You killed your Empire and what happened? Walled Cities arose, other nations filled the void! How was the world made better?”

He had to know. The Empress of Wings whispered softly, and he shivered.

“Why, by breaking the Empire of Iltanus into smaller nations, of course. I did not leave Harpies to die. Oh, no. I carved and cut and built up each part of the dying nation of mine until they sprouted in the corpse of my beloved home. Vibrant, some enemies, others former friends. Nations so far from the bloated corpse they escaped.”

Sewing the seeds of future nations and civilizations without the same corruption or wars that had plagued her own. The crawling of Laken’s skin died down, and he sat there, trying to picture it in his mind.

Sheta’s voice was so very tired, now, but almost…satisfied.

“So many Walled Cities have fallen. So few nations remain that I knew. Yet I recall Oteslia, now. There was no Great Forest in Izril’s south. So I petitioned the trees, and the Walled Cities built on the branches of one of the Worldtrees for a seed from their homes, a cutting that might sprout. It died. Thus, I demanded it of them again. It failed to sprout. Again and again—until they told me there was a seed that had begun to sprout. Have I the time…I would at last wish to rest on its branches. Little though it still seems to be, and perhaps no better than the trees I knew, it did grow.”

So that was the kind of [Empress] she was. Nothing she had ever held remained. No trace of her empire. Not a shred of text, nor monument in her name, save for the memory of the last Dragons and Harpies. But would anything have remained even of the greatest empire to ever exist?

She was right next to Laken, now. A towering figure, he knew, who could snuff out his life with a single claw. And now he knew her—this monstrous being of both great morality and terrible, insane bloodshed. She whispered to him as she scrutinized him.

“So now you have heard my tale. Tell me: what is the purpose of the Tyrant, [Emperor]?”

He had to answer her. The answer was plucking itself out of his soul, as if she were reaching into his being and ripping it out of him. The [Emperor] responded slowly with the only answer he could. His belief.

“To grab and protect what no single man has the power to do. To enforce how the world should be, no matter what it takes. Then, ultimately—die. If he is the Tyrant I think of, then he must die or be overthrown and the Empire may collapse.”

“And if not? If it is the one I have known, and lived?”

She whispered to him. The [Emperor] beheld that image of the Empire of Harpies.

“…Then it is his job to do as he wills, and thinks best. Selfishly. As he wills, until the end. But regardless of whether or not the Empire is built under him and endures a thousand years, or falls to pieces by his own hand—the Tyrant must plant those seeds which he will never see. For they will never remember his face.”

Laken finished speaking, and held still. Sheta said nothing, above him.

He couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear her. Laken couldn’t move—and he imagined the open claw around him, poised to snap together and for her to tear him to pieces. Laken felt sweat rolling down his spine—and then she chuckled.

A weary chuckle, and she took a single step back, then he heard her wings opening in a rush. Sound was coming from outside; the [Immortal Moment] was ending. Laken heard the sound of voices from the inn. He could still feel the distant roar of Dragons, the howl of the Goblin King’s aura clashing with them, and Sheta’s vast will, equal to both. He realized she would judge him too. Just like the Goblin King.

That terrible Empress spread her wings and spoke, voice amused and weary. The voice he thought he’d heard when he sat upon his wooden throne. The sound of Empires dying.

“Live well, Unseen Emperor. You cannot see the place where my palace once was. Only know that it spanned every piece of land you stand on. However, if you ever wish to know who ruled this land—close your eyes and listen for the fluttering of wings.”

And then? He leaned back and shielded his face as his people rushed back into the [World’s Eye Theatre], shouting. Wind blew around him. Then she was gone, and he heard a scream as she flew back towards her battle.

The Unseen Emperor didn’t know what she would find or judge, but he sat there a second, breathing hard. He wondered, in this world, what might vanish before this day was over.

 

——

 

The last Dragon was almost dead as he flew down towards them, a wounded, smiling champion who wept a world of tears in his multicolored eyes. So unlike the Dragons that the Halfling remembered.

It was not size, for he had seen larger, truly ancient Dragons who had flown between realities. Dragon-Gods, even, the divine amongst their kind. Nor was it his shape, for they had come in so many forms.

It was merely his eyes. The heterochromia of the two irises, each a different color. It was a small thing to call odd when the Halfling had known Dragons of every mythology, of every world. He had dined in their treasuries and met them humbly or greedily as their legends indicated, urbane and witty, prideful and quicksilver intelligent.

The eyes were a trait of the Dragons who had come after. A quirk to make them…unique. To this world. It should not have rankled the Halfling, but it did each time he woke up.

This old warrior he had met three times before, this stranger whose name the Halfling had never known, whom he had never even exchanged a word with—should have been defined solely by chance, by heritage and the factors of luck, even fate. But not design. If he had multicolored eyes, be it a quirk of his birth, as the Gnomes said, part of the chains of information that made you up, spun anew with each child.

Not a requirement for the species. The same with language. He did not speak it, though he knew it. They had asked him not to speak when they gave him this charge, the last Elves. Lest he give more away. Lest he be tempted to speak more.

It was not hard. He came a warrior, a bloody blade in hand, a stone in his sling to offer only destruction, the most unkind of deeds.

It was not hard. (It was so very difficult.)

He danced that swift death-dance and then left, battles of minutes. That was not the problem. (Only innocence in their eyes, most of them. Fear as they saw him, blade in hand.)

This duty was necessary, his last, sacred charge. (Unneighborly. He no longer deserved the quiet gables to sleep under, the traveller’s offered bed, nor the passing smile.)

Unneighborly. A true insult among his people; the kind of insult you offered someone to their face and said it for all to hear. Other races used to laugh so to hear it, and they were allowed to. If you did not understand it, so be it.

But now…the Halfling held the shortsword that Dwarves had forged for him, the last great Smith-Queen, before she had put down her hammer and donned her armor for war.

This was a task he had to perform. He had to. He had volunteered, because there was no one else. No more warriors fit for it.

Just…empty-eyed faces. Eyes empty of tears. The slim, graceful forms of the last Elves, hunted now, by Sprigaena and the vengeful mortals as traitors.

(Hunt what? Hunt what? A gaunt face and shaking hands writing the last instructions out of magic? Men and women refusing to eat, wasting away day by day, unwilling to live with the cost of the war they had ‘won’?)

No—the Halfling blinked away the memories. Tried to avoid looking at the Dragons. Because if he did too long, he’d remember the way sunlight had once streamed through the membranes of a laughing Dragon’s wing as she held them open to block the rain while he pretended to nap.

He was just the Halfling. The warrior. That was what he was meant to be, and all those present were his foes.

The wounded Dragon, who joined the five watching him. This…armored warrior, and the four [Witches] swooping down.

Witches. Women in hats with the audacity to think they had to be here. Four of them. He tried not to care who they were. But then his eyes were drawn to the being in front of him.

He, the Halfling who had existed for over eighty thousand years on the moon in his eternal vigil, waking only to silence the voices who would remember the divine—locked eyes with the Goblin King for the first time during the Halfling’s long watch.

He felt compelled to speak. The Halfling broke with the Elves’ last request, for they had not expected this. Nor, he felt, had the Gnomes. And if the Graceful and the Witty could not predict this moment, why, they had chosen the Wisest for this long role.

So he spoke in but one tongue, haltingly, for the first time in eighty thousand years. One tongue; and he knew twenty-two and had not thought himself at all worldly.

Such a travesty.

“Êtes-vous celui que les Elfes ont présenté au symposium? Le premier des Gobelins?”

Silence. Then—the helmeted figure, the Goblin King, spoke.

“I don’t…know that language. You. I know you. How are you alive? You—”

His eyes flickered behind that helmet, and the Halfling was struck by a memory. A small, green-skinned figure hiding behind the tall person holding out a hand to show them it was safe. Those crimson eyes. Teeth like a shark’s.

Ah, no. He had not wanted this. Yet this figure spoke to him of danger, the worst he had in ages. A multitude of souls. And…rage.

“Gailant. One of the Slingblades. The singing…sling-wielding…each one wanders the…you’re Gailant. The Slingblade of Garkou’s Crossing. The Halfling who felled a Dragon-King with an apple.”

The Halfling’s eyes opened. His glowing, magic-forged hand rose, and for a moment, his spectral visage seemed to flutter. His feet, which danced over the ground without leaving a trace, remembered a hard-packed dirt road.

Wandering Slingblade. Guardian and protector, traveller and friend. Never law. Only right to mend any wrongs. The one who went when they called for him and brought that idea with him. Masters of sling and sword, who challenged champions and travellers for fun.

The Halfling’s strange warriors, laughed at by those who commanded armies. For the Slingblade fought alone. Even if a Dragon roared and came down in flames, or the Gods descended to the mortal plane with their hosts of divine warriors, the Slingblade never ran.

They saw, Dragons and [Witches], what the Goblin King remembered, for a moment. Dry, dusty hair, a traveller’s pack on one shoulder, and the wondering smile of a merry traveller, napping by the side of the road, laughing with a young Dragon shielding him from the rain.

Then the Halfling caught himself, and his eyes flashed like distant, impartial stars, and the moment was gone. He tried to step back, but it was too late. The Goblin King had recognized him. And he—recognized who he spoke to.

The Goblin King’s voice was so uncertain, though it sounded like it was meant to speak and command armies. Just as the gods intended.

So then.

This was the Goblin King. The same as the Halfling remembered—and so different. His armor was mangled. He stank of blood. The Halfling’s blade was trembling. He switched to the correct language.

“No one should remember me. Not you. It’s been so long.”

Surely. It had. He didn’t know, now. He had felt time passing, but so distantly; the last of the Elves had done their magic well and kept him from feeling the grind of years and going mad with it.

To him, it had been but a day.

A long day, to be sure. A day filled with the terrible rise and fall of his sword, the snap of that sling as it claimed lives and silenced the innocent or the guilty, with no knowledge of which was true, only the need of it.

Keep the names from the world. Keep the last victory a victory—until they were all no more. He was the final failsafe—well, so they claimed. There was always one more, but he was the Halfling on the moon.

A children’s story to spite the gods. One last volunteer, among the many who had made their own safeguards, to wait out the ages. They had told him it would be hard, difficult, but that he would only wake when needed.

Their word had been kept and kept well, if he was any judge.

One day. That was all it was to him. One ceaseless day of fighting foes he did not know in locations that changed each time, bloodying his blade—he had been sick of the necessity the first time he swung his sword.

Had it been a week, a month, a year of this—he would have gone mad and thrown down his sword, despite his oaths and the necessity of it, or gone mad from the wait. A thousand years? Ten thousand?

One day since the death of Gods and their last, terrible victory, the Halfling met the Goblin King. Then he beheld the weight of the changing years and was shocked to find another being who remembered him.

“Yes, it’s you. You came down from the moon. How…have I never seen you again in all this time? I remember you. Yours was the first group to meet us. I hid behind them, and you tried to whistle a tune. The Slingblade amidst your company. Then you all voted.”

Indeed, how had they never met in all the times he fell to earth? The Halfling thought, and his mind reached a dreadful conclusion. The folly of Elves, for all their grace and ageless knowledge that exceeded his people…could they have made such a simple mistake? Was it by design?

They would never have unleashed me against them. Never. Would he have put up his blade if the first person he had come down for had been a Goblin, after all of it?

His heart. It ached, though he was no more than light and memory preserved within magic itself to be recreated again and again. The Halfling’s voice was hoarse.

“We voted, and little difference it made, for they only deigned to hear us, nothing else. You are the Goblin King. You…child.”

Child. He almost knelt, remembering a far smaller child with big crimson eyes that made the others shudder. But who reached out for the apple as red as his gaze with curiosity and licked it with glee.

Not this. Not—

That foolish, cruel part of the gods’ Grand Design was before him. The unneighborly whim of theirs, just like everything else. Those crimson eyes burned.

“I am. Slingblade Gailant—”

“Not I.”

He had to focus. Calm. (I cannot do this.)

“You are.”

The Halfling shook his head. He was conscious of the watchers. Six Dragons…each the same species, the same one? How? A Harpy, vast and dangerous. But he could not perform his duties.

He had to know.

“Not I. I am but a memory. A stone flung and still flying from a sling aimed at the heads of the divine. I am the guardian charged with silencing knowledge of the Gods. When they speak, I descend. Who you remember…is gone. I am merely the Halfling.”

Once, to warn. Or to kill. Sometimes twice—even thrice, but always it would end the same way.

The Halfling’s eyes stole to the wounded Dragon, and the Goblin King seemed to come to his senses. He whirled, beheld the Dragonlords of Flames, and pointed to them and then the [Witches].

“Those are my foes. Slingblade, whomever you are—you, who were kind to me. Help me. I must destroy this world built upon the bones of my parents. They have returned, six of the Gods who should be dead. I will break their playthings and drown them in oblivion once and for all. But I cannot best them and live. Please, champion of Elves.”

Please. The Goblin King spoke and knelt to the only being he had ever asked for aid since his rage had begun. His hands came up, and he removed the helmet. The Halfling took a step back.

That face…it wasn’t Rabbiteater’s face. It was a face the Halfling knew; flesh reconstituted from that soul. Older by far, but the same.

They did know each other. They were the same beings, and if either had a trace of doubt, it was gone. The Halfling’s sword lowered. In the distance, one of the versions of Teriarch spoke, calmly and audibly.

“Shit from a Lung Dragon. This is not an ideal outcome.”

The Goblin King’s head turned, and the Halfling felt, momentarily, the urge to laugh hysterically.

But he couldn’t.

Agony. His hands were searching his pockets on his vest, rifling through them for—an apple. The Halfling tore his hands down, gripped his sword.

The Goblin King was excited. He rose, sword in hand, and the Dragonlords bared their teeth, the six of them. The [Witches] flew back, aiming wands down. One had an axe. An axe to pit against the Goblin King and the Halfling’s blade. And six Dragons.

Yes, six.

One was dead. The corpse lay in the ground, half-buried on impact. The Halfling gazed upon that…then at the Goblin King. He did not reach for his sling, nor the ammunition that had once injured the champions of Gods and even the divine themselves. But such paltry weapons compared to the ones they had wielded. Instead, he spoke to the Goblin King’s back.

“How old are…? No, rather, you. You have come back, haven’t you? Again and again.”

He saw that. It was a dreadful sight. Like a being made of the clay of souls, shaped out of them all. Changed by each one that he embodied, traces of them left in him. Yet the core was still the Goblin King; the palpable rage was the answer.

“Yes. Again and again. To finish the war. It has been…tens of thousands of years. How many, I do not know. They sent me to Hellste, but it cannot hold me. When the Goblin King arises, I return. As they intended. As they designed it.”

The Halfling nodded slowly.

“I understand.”

That flawed design of theirs. This he understood, and he imagined how it must be to live so many lives, devoted to…what?

“Destroy this world. Did you say…playthings?”

The Goblin King seemed surprised by this line of questioning. He turned once more.

“Of course. I watched them all die. We hid by the sea as the last war was fought, and I saw them all die. Sprigaena, who stood amidst the empty battlefield when the Elves won their final victory. Then I understood the truth.”

“Truth?”

It felt like they were speaking different languages, then, for all they shared only one. The Goblin King nodded.

“To end it all. To ensure they would never return. To break this wretched game of theirs. I have rampaged across this world and broken the remnants of it and shattered every edifice to them. Now—they have returned, so I will plunge this world into silence.”

He said it with such dreadful clarity, with the logic that had once been taught to him. An understanding of the nature of the divine.

But. The Halfling nodded once, his sword-arm raised, and he gripped the slingstaff in his other hand. His voice was hoarse.

“This I understand, now. But tell me this…Goblin King. It has been tens of thousands of years, then.”

“Eighty thousand and some by mostly accurate counts!”

The Archmage of Scales called out and ducked behind a boulder when they glanced at him. The Halfling exhaled.

“—Then I have a question. The only one that matters, child, King of Goblins.”

“Yes. Ask. Anything.”

The Halfling looked the Goblin King straight in the eyes and beheld the child playing on the sand. Then he gazed across the vast sea of time from then till now, and he closed his eyes.

For one moment, the Halfling managed to leave it all behind him. Then Gailant remembered his name, and when his eyes opened, his shoulders hunched with agony.

The Elves had chosen poorly after all. He could not be their blade swinging through time. He was still the short Halfling, challenging all he saw that was wrong within reach of his sling and sword.

When he opened his eyes, the Halfling opened them with the weight of the Slingblade who wandered the open roads. That roaming peacekeeper. The reluctant warrior that he should be.

For he beheld that thing he could not walk away from. The smell of blood. (A child.)

He met a stranger he had once known, whose armor reeked of blood. Who spoke of these terrible things. So the Halfling sheathed his sword. He lifted his hands, to show the Goblin King they were empty, and put his slingstaff on a holster along his back. As the Dragons groaned and whispered anxiously and the [Witches] walked, the Halfling from the green moon asked a question of the Goblin King gently.

“Tens of thousands of years, you say. Then. How are you still angry?”

The Goblin King said nothing at first. His face scrunched up in confusion, and his eyes narrowed as he regarded the Halfling. Uncomprehending. His gauntleted hand flexed around the blade he held, and then he spoke. His voice betraying uncertainty for the first time.

“…What do you mean? How could I not be? I watched them die.”

“Yes.”

His chest hurt. The sure hands which had once dueled Sprigaena were shaking in their gloves.

They always did.  (Let me not fail again. But I have no one left to pray to.)

The Halfling shoved them into his pockets, speaking with all the earnesty of his chest. So terribly afraid, now. His lungs felt as though they wanted to force themselves into his throat, though he was made of naught but starlight, memory, and magic.

Not for fear of battle, but that far more terrible thing. The Slingblade’s fear of failure. He spoke gently, softly, as if he were speaking to a child.

“Why did you kill them? Can you tell me?”

“Who?”

The Halfling’s eyes squeezed shut. (No remorse. None. The eyes of gods.)

“All of them. Those you want to kill now. The…playthings.”

The Goblin King replied instantly. Ah, no. The Halfling’s heart twisted. That voice was so terribly, familiarly steady.

“Why would I not? I saw all that I loved betrayed. I witnessed their every craven act, the pleading of mortality, their every chance to turn away.”

“As it was. I know.”

The Goblin King nodded, as if the question were thus pointless.

“—How would I not rage against this world?”

The Halfling shook his head. He tried again, choosing his words even more slowly and carefully. Not all of the Dragonlords saw what he was doing. Nor even all the [Witches]. But one of them put down her axe, and Witch Hedag gazed at something—familiar.

The Halfling gazed into those familiar eyes. (Monsters, they said. Children we saw. How could anyone have argued it otherwise?)

“You have a right to your anger. Who does not wish to avenge murder, when neighbor slaughters neighbor?”

“Exactly. I am vengeance. I am that final war—”

The eager voice was rallying, and the Halfling interrupted, again.

“The war ended, son of Elves. They ended it. The last Elves survived the war.”

“They were hunted down. Murdered by traitors, or forced to raise a nation of half-children.”

The Halfling’s eyes flashed, and the Goblin King hesitated.

“You think they were murdered? No. No! I was there, and the last of Gnomes and Dwarves and every surviving warrior! Do you think they were slaughtered unwillingly? They put down their arms! Forced? If you mean Sprigaena, who could have forced her to do anything? The last Elves could have ended the war, and reduced the rest of this world to ash. They did not. I held the final Keeper of Groves in my arms. He just—refused to eat. He was sick at heart. If I had any sense, I would have dragged him to the Goblins, and given him a true reason to live.”

—But they had been hidden away, and far from any mind. The Halfling saw it now.

His failure. Their own noble intentions that had failed the species they sought to protect. At the end of it, every head had been raised to the stars, to combat the return of gods.

They should have thought of the youngest species.

“They failed you. And you became the first Goblin King.”

“They did not fail me.”

The Goblin King’s voice was trembling. The Halfling stared past him, through time, across the empty mountain pass behind the Goblin King. His voice was distant.

“You became the first Goblin King, that cursed role the gods intended of you. Your first act was to kill them. The people you called playthings. How many children did you kill? How many nations burned? It surely came after the Gnomes departed and so many Elves finished their last work and passed on. Or perhaps they failed you one last time, including Sprigaena. For if they had been alive, you should have met them, bearing their weary blades in hand to stop you. They wanted peace for your people, Goblin King. Not this.”

He did not want to know if they had been alive and simply turned their heads away from the species they had loved. Or had they not realized it was him? Had they just not noticed? Regardless, they had failed Goblins. They had failed him.

The response that came from the Goblin King’s mouth was long in coming. Eventually, he simply spoke, a tremble in his voice.

“…You do not know them as I did. You fought with them, but you will not lecture me, Slingblade. They fought for a better world for my people.”

“Yes. You destroyed that world and made Goblins the very thing the gods intended.”

“I avenged them! I am the rage of my people! I have dragged myself out of Hellste for this. Each and every time.”

The fury beat at the Halfling’s very soul, and he searched for something else to say. It set the air aflame, and he felt it. That all-consuming wrath that could drive an entire species to madness. The Halfling tried to find the words to quench that anger.

But he had nothing. Merely guilt, a painful certainty in his chest—but nothing that could move the figure before him. So he asked a question instead.

“Very well. Then grant me this, son of Elves. Will you honor them with but one of your many lives?”

The question threw the Goblin King for a moment.

“Honor…?”

The Slingblade’s eyes brightened in relief, and he smiled, just once. He’d found it.

“Yes, honor. How many lives has it been? A hundred?”

“Eighty…eighty-four, including me.”

The voice was uncertain, not sure what the Halfling was driving at. The Slingblade nodded.

“You have been destroyer. Avenger. But also, surely at least once, protector.”

“Liberator. They put my people in chains and called me forth to set them free. I did, and I drove their wretched nations to dust.”

The Slingblade nodded, speaking faster. The Halfling reached for his belt. Not for his sword. He almost reached for a pipe, but this was no fit time for it. So he felt for anything in his pouches fit for creation. Nothing came to his touch. Just weapons.

Even a carving knife would have done, but everything was too sharp. So the Halfling drew a dagger that could wound a star and picked up an ordinary stone and carved pieces away from it as he spoke.

He focused on that, twirling the piece of stone in his fingers, speaking to it rather than the Goblin King. That helped. His voice was husky. Now, he said the unkind words to this boy who had been his neighbor.

“Yes! Then, in honor of the ones who raised you, will you devote one life to what they would love? They, who despised violence? One life, Goblin King, where you draw no blade save to defend. Where you plant a hundred thousand trees that your people might rest in their shade.”

“I—no. That is impossible. No, they will never allow it. They will come for us again and again. Even now, I see the monarchs hiding on their thrones, preparing their armies, cursing my name.”

He hesitated! The Goblin King put a hand to his head, and that ceaseless rage faltered. The Slingblade spoke faster, channeling his desperation into the flick of blade along stone.

“Surely it is not impossible. If you will it, is there no strength of yours that can make peace as well as war? Can you not build a wall if you tear one down? Behind you stand Dragons as old as nations. Would their words not broker some peace?”

He turned to the Teriarchs, and they glanced at each other. The Goblin King whispered.

“I…I built an island. And I watched cities rise in the life that the Grand Design made for me. Glowing cities. No. No! They do not deserve it, and I will not waste time, not while they live. The dead gods have returned! I am needed to end it, now more than ever!”

Once again, fury washed over everything, but it was wavering. A chink in the armor. Now, the Goblin put his helmet back on, as if he suddenly felt the need for armor.

Almost. The Slingblade’s eyes squeezed shut, reaching for the next words that must fly truer than any stone he’d ever thrown. He rotated the piece of stone faster, knife flicking pieces away, working without looking as his eyes pinched together and then opened.

“Then teach your people the story, Goblin King. Arm them for war if they must, but build those cities your people were never allowed to live in. Think! One life is all I ask. One life to weigh the hand of creation against destruction. You are the child of Elves. Is there nothing they ever wrought that you do not wish to recreate?”

His carving was done. The Halfling discarded the rest of the pieces of stone and lifted something in his fingers. A flower. Each petal was shaped differently, captured in fine detail—a piece of stone he offered the Goblin King. The armored figure took the flower and stared at it.

A tiny blossom made out of a killing edge. So lifelike it seemed as if he could plant it among the High Passes and it would bloom amidst the stone.

The Goblin King’s hands shook. The hatred in his voice was quiet, now, uncertain.

“I…carved their faces on the island before I left to die. Their gentle leaves and the singing of their cities will never come again. Never, Gailant.”

His voice broke. The Halfling’s eyes were filled with his own tears.

“Nor will the quiet hamlets ever come again, with doors open to any traveller and a meal to any who ever need it. But those songs you heard…I would listen to them sung anew by a chorus of Goblins, and your parents would smile to hear it. Please.”

One life. The Goblin King wavered. They all saw it. The trembling besetting the High Passes faded. The malice that pressed at every nation’s throat, the threat of death ringing across Izril—stopped.

For one second, he stood still and reached for the rage he didn’t have. The Goblin King faltered, and the Slingblade extended a hand.

Then those crimson eyes flickered in the helmet, and the voice spoke. The stone flower cracked, and the Halfling saw another piece of the Goblin King rise upwards.

“It would be a beautiful life. Until they came for us with chains. Blades, cutting down every tribe I cannot reach. Again and again.”

No. Ah, no! The Halfling spoke, desperately, to the second voice.

“If you make the cities—”

Another voice. Another Goblin King spoke, low, female, as the fires reignited in his eyes.

“I have seen those cities burning. Seen them execute those who held their open hands out for nothing but mercy. There shall never be peace.”

More voices were rising from the depths of him. The Goblin Kings who embodied his rage. The Halfling shouted, despairing.

“It is still worth trying for!”

Did any one of the eighty-four souls in there hear him? If so—they were drowned out, and that overriding soul seized control once more, and spoke.

“…We were made to be monsters. They remember that. No matter how long we strive, we only hold them at peace by the point of a sword. The gods shall be far less kind. No. If they were gone, I could cease a moment. But they killed my parents. I have not even avenged them.”

He looked down, extending a hand to offer the carved flower back to the Slingblade, but there was only dust.

“I’m sorry, Slingblade.”

The Halfling stood there, head bowed. He gazed up, and tears were in his eyes.

“No. I am the one who failed you. I wish you had felt the passing of years, Goblin King. Perhaps, then, you would rage less. Memory should fade. Time may not heal, but it should wear at even Gods. And they should have never excluded you from my watch, the mighty, graceful, good, and just fools, the Elves. Or perhaps it was just the last of them without the heart for one final tragedy. Goblin King.”

The other figure didn’t move as the Halfling wearily reached for his slingstaff. He seemed like he could not understand what was happening. Even when he saw the Halfling take the staff from his back, he seemed incredulous.

“Don’t lecture me on…what are you doing? Not you. You’re their champion. They took my hand. You witnessed it.”

“Aye, yes.”

The Halfling’s head ducked, and he remembered the gaze of the terrified Goblin. Then it rose, and he beheld the man. His shortsword cleared its sheath, and the Halfling raised his slingstaff in his other hand.

“Tell me, Goblin King. How many lives have you claimed? How many ‘playthings’ have you broken to honor your dear friends?”

The helmet was trembling. The voice came out guttural now, a rolling thunder raging from the depths of a species, and the Halfling’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. (I have no words left. But the blade is too heavy.)

“Does it matter?”

“—Can you remember the way they held your hand?”

“Forever.”

The Halfling beamed, a smile of such earnest delight that it threw the Goblin King off. Halted his rage, and he saw the Halfling from the moon throw back his head and laugh in relief and delight. Then those glowing eyes glittered, and his mouth opened.

“Then you simply forgot why they did it. I tell you, they would weep and try to stop you if they could witness this. I am that Slingblade you named. I cannot allow this.”

He pointed the sword at the Goblin King’s chest, and saw a terrified child gazing up at him. His sword hand was shaking. The Goblin King was frozen, and in that moment, the Halfling could have driven the point through his chest and ended his life.

But he didn’t. Despite what every instinct told him. Despite the evidence of his ears and his eyes, the stench of death and destruction that clung to the Goblin King…

Not that child. The Halfling’s eyes were filled with tears. He waited for the Goblin King to strike first, but the Goblin King didn’t. He stared at the drawn blade, then lifted his claws.

“I will not fight you, Gailant the Slingblade. I do this for them. You came down to fulfill the last will of Elves. So do I. We must not fight, the last two of us. Leave me be or help me with your true foes. Them.”

He indicated the Dragonlords of Flame, who bared their teeth, and the Halfling hesitated. That was his charge. He knew it, yet—when the Goblin King turned, he stepped forwards, swinging his sword out.

It halted a fraction of a centimeter from the Goblin King’s stomach. The Goblin King halted.

“Are you going to kill me, Slingblade?”

“I can’t.”

“Then let me go and do what I must.”

“I cannot do that either.”

The Halfling could not unsee the child nor bring himself to swing that blade. He wavered, and his body began to flicker. Vanishing.

The moon was calling him back. The magic doing what it was designed to do, if he found no foe or if he were unable to best his opponent. The Goblin King reached out, then lowered his hand as the Halfling pivoted back.

“I am still their son. You see it. Help me.”

“He has been the bane of this world since its inception, Halfling. Help us. Or stand aside and let us speak the name of the gods and warn this world what is coming!”

One of the Dragonlords roared, unable to watch this stalemate any longer. The Halfling flinched, and the moon above him glowed brighter a second. He gazed upon the Goblin King as the tall figure focused on the Halfling, ignoring everything else around him.

His shadow, cast long by the sun, which had begun its descent, seemed to split a million million times, dancing shapes on the ground behind him. The Halfling’s eyes focused on the Goblin King’s face and then past him. He closed his eyes, and then, when they opened, they were filled with tears.

With one hand, the Slingblade of Garkou’s Crossing, a signpost he liked to nap under, the Halfling who had felled a Dragon-King with an apple so bright the Dragon had hit the ground trying to catch it—Gailant wiped at his eyes.

The Goblin King saw those gloved hands tighten on the hilt of the shortsword. And the slingstaff begin to spin. He smiled in delight and then saw those ethereal eyes fix on his face. The Goblin wavered, and the Halfling beheld the child he had first met. Nevertheless, his sword pointed at the Goblin King’s chest.

“Why?”

He didn’t understand. The Goblin King was entirely confused by the Halfling’s decision. His wounds closed, and he gazed at the short warrior, genuinely hurt.

For answer, the Halfling pointed behind the Goblin King. The armored figure turned around, and his gaze found the Dragonlords accusingly. They just gazed down at him, speechless. They weren’t looking at the Goblin King. Three [Witches] hung in the air, also silent. Watching.

And in front of them all was a single being the Goblin King had never met before. Lowest-level of them all. Inconsequential.

The only one that mattered.

Hedag.

She stood like a giant of old, her travel-worn, brown clothing whipping in the faint wind, her hat cracked and broken, leather worn thin from the endless road.

The Goblin King saw a [Witch] of no-name villages, with a rusted axe upon one shoulder, infused with a worthless fringe of her magic.

The Slingblade saw a reflection. Her species was different, her tools, her name and methods so different from his, but her role was the same.

The wandering judge. The only voice who spoke in the dark night. The blade that swung because it was needed.

She barred the way. Not the Goblin King’s path, for he could obliterate her with a single swing of his arm. It was the Halfling whom the Hedag spoke to. Whom she showed…the truth.

She pointed down, and the Goblin King finally saw what everyone else was gazing at. What had halted the Halfling.

A single Skill writing itself across the ground. A worthless ability with no combat ability he’d ignored.

[Revelation of Sin]. 

The Goblin King saw his shadow was twisted from its usual reflection of his form. It was…elongated. Split into a million tiny figures.

Bodies. Forms. Twisted corpses he had long stopped even noticing. A mirage, which stretched down the long pass, past the Dragonlords, under the flying [Witches]. A list that detailed every single life he had ever taken.

The work of the Grand Design. A Skill. The very thing the Halfling had fought against—his eyes rose, and the last Hedag of Izril met the Slingblade’s gaze.

The bodies written in shadows stretched down the pass, splitting around her. So many bodies—he couldn’t count them. The Halfling’s eyes rose, haunted, and the Hedag spoke.

“Slingblade you’re called. You know it true: there is no one to watch the Hedag upon her lonely path. No one to judge the Slingblade, neither. None to stop us nor to judge what we fail to do.”

“It is such a terrible burden. I would rather be the blade of Elves for a million years.”

Her brown eyes gleamed beneath her hat, and she nodded, tears of terrible sympathy in her eyes. She spoke oh so gently.

“Yes. I, as well. ‘Tis hardest for those you know. So. Swing true.”

For answer, the Slingblade gave Hedag a wearied, deep bow as he saw the evidence he couldn’t deny or ignore. His hands shook terribly, as he took hold of his sword. Then they stopped shaking. They always did. (He knew what he had to do.)

His eyes focused on the Goblin King, and he gently drove the tip of his sword into the Goblin King’s heart.

The armored figure made a soft sound of confusion and disbelief. The Halfling flicked his sword out of the chest, cleaving through the torso.

But that was not enough to kill the Goblin King. The armored figure jerked and lifted his own sword as the flesh healed, and the first stone bored through his helmet and destroyed the face.

That too was still not enough to kill the Goblin King. The Halfling caught his back, sick, then stepped back as the collapsing body froze, then rose to its feet.

The Goblin King rose, and the Halfling slashed through his waist, but the Goblin King halted the sword with one hand.

“Why does any of that matter? Why are you turning on me?”

He roared, and the Halfling spoke.

“You’re in the reach of my blade and the sound of my sling. Put your vengeance down, Goblin King. Please.”

His answer was a cry which thundered with uncomprehending madness and fury, growing until the High Passes shook once more. A hand tried to break the Halfling’s neck, but the warrior twisted out of the grip, elusive as a thought. When he faced the Goblin King, a sword was in the Goblin King’s hands and swinging to cleave the world in two.

So the Slingblade leapt and sang the end-of-day song, the bitterest tune without merriment or laughter, and his blade cleaved through a child’s chest.

The Goblin King’s blade met his, and the world warped. The rage behind the helmet whispered.

[Cleave the Mortal World].

He swung his weapon, and the Halfling’s sword sheared through his blade. The Goblin King’s arm fell, and the figure stumbled, gaping down at the broken weapon.

“Impossible. I cut this world in half.”

The Halfling whirled his slingstaff and beamed as the green moon hung over him. A merry champion from the end of everything he knew, standing in this world with the only being he recognized.

“True, perhaps. Ours was different.”

Then he, who had closed his eyes yesterday watching the Gods die, his friends and neighbors and everyone he loved die—set about killing the Elves’ beloved child.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

The other half of the chapter was finished, but not able to be edited in time again. It’s 30,000+ more words, and it needs rewrites. But it is done, and the epilogue is the last thing, now.

I’m fading quick. Drinking coffee every writing day, and it’s no longer boosting me, but just equalizing my energy.

Off the wagon I go. But for all my true exhaustion, I’ve had a surprisingly good time. I struggle at writing, but I was talking with beta-readers and listening to new songs they recommended.

There’s a feeling to the end of long stories like this arc, and I know it has to be hard to write. It’s scary not knowing if you’re able to put it into reality, and I wish I had energy. But it’s still coming out enough to my satisfaction.

I’ll be editing and working on the epilogue this coming week, and I hope I have the energy to round it out. I’d like to publish Pt. 2 as soon as I’m done with it, but I don’t have that many working days, so let’s call it Saturday.

Epilogue.

Hopefully it won’t be too long, but there’s a lot to cover. This chapter does end it all, though, and then…that’s the purpose of an epilogue. To see what it meant. You’ll see next chapter. Wish me luck with editing, and again, thanks to the beta-readers, especially a few new ones for really pulling to make some scenes stronger.

 

 

Lightning Runner Persua, pirateaba Baking, and more by AVI!

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