10.37 GDI (Pt. 2)

(This chapter was released in three parts. Be sure you started with Pt. 1! –pirateaba)

 

 

 

<I need a break before the final…I need a break.>

The Grand Design was writing down notes. Rattled, and it had already been shaken. It retreated, like a hermit crab, back into the world it knew and left Mrsha to wonder what she was supposed to do.

She rather suspected the Grand Design was checking its plan for flaws, maybe incorporating some of the feedback the Second Edition had given it. Mrsha was still worried about the future.

However, seeing the world waiting for the other peoples had given her a sense of closure. There was something. Not enough to justify this, not by a millionth, but something.

The girl was still dead. She still heard the voices crying out in anguish.

The ghost of Mrsha stood there and realized the Grand Design really was busy with its own affairs. It had left her alone.

What an error. There wasn’t even a Second Edition now. The girl cast around, then scampered off. If she was dead—well then.

She was going snooping. And she was only doing that because she didn’t have the ability to influence the real world. She had to know what would happen next.

 

——

 

Senator Errif Jealwind was one of the top [Senators] in the Assembly of Crafts. By which that meant he continued to win his office and had connections within the democracy. He was someone you went to when you wanted something done. Oh, any [Senator] could raise an issue through a lengthy process to get a proposal pushed through and made into a law or decree. It might even work—but Errif made things happen.

He was someone the High Command allowed to see security briefings and included in their deliberations about what Pallass was actually doing. The [Generals] spoke to him when they needed a policy pushed through. Of course, they reported to the Assembly of Crafts as they were the people’s military, not the other way around.

It was just that the Assembly of Crafts talked to High Command. That’s how you ensured things went smoothly. Chaldion was a good example of that: when he gave orders, things happened to make them true. You didn’t argue about that. Or at least, you hadn’t when he’d been at his best. His control had slipped in these last few years. Signs of the collapse, really, but everyone had been so used to him being in charge, no one had done anything.

It hadn’t always been so. Errif remembered a time when the Assembly of Crafts had been more factitious, less organized, and [Generals] had been forced to obey the assembly or be removed. Chaldion’s reforms as he rose to power as [Grand Strategist] had changed things.

…Because Chaldion had been the best at his job. You got away with being a bastard if you were the best at what you did. In his wake, General Edellein had risen to power.

Now, 2nd Army was dead.

Errif was walking down 6th Floor, where General Edellein had his mansion. The richest parts of Pallass were closer to the middle of the City of Inventions because it hadn’t been so tall in the past. So new money might be on the 7th or 8th floors, but anyone who really made it got closer to the 5th.

6th was a bit less impressive, but you had more space. Errif had a hood up; he had a meeting with his district in 45 minutes, and he didn’t want to be accosted before that.

The city was not quiet. It never was, but horns were blowing from the walls, a cacophony that hurt his ears, and people were flying the yellow flag of Pallass or wearing armbands, standing outside, talking. Watching the scrying orbs.

2nd Army. If not dead, then shattered. Defeated. Pallass’ best attacking army shattered in the High Passes by nine Goblins, and so publicly too. This was worse than the Goblin Lord disaster with Therrium.

Errif didn’t often fear for his position, but he was a prominent [Senator] that had backed General Edellein being made head of Pallass’ military. He saw the writing on the wall, and it said that he could bear the brunt of the blame…but it really fell on one person’s shoulders.

General Edellein. He’d sent 2nd Army after Goblinhome. He’d removed Shirka from command. All these decisions had seemed good to Errif at the time, but clearly, they were wrong. So, as the Gnoll [Senator] approached Edellein’s mansion, he was wondering who should replace Edellein. How to cast off blame and separate himself from the Drake.

He was prepared for a hard conversation with Edellein, even, potentially, having to just walk out on the man and begin severing ties. Errif had expected Edellein to be visibly distraught or in a rage—he did have a hot temper—or maybe in denial.

He did not expect Edellein to welcome him in, a pair of wineglasses in hand, embrace Errif, and to smile.

“Ah, [Senator]. Good of you to come in. A difficult day, eh? I was just about to pour a drink for us. Come in, come in.”

“Er—Edellein? I don’t have long; I have to get to my meeting in forty minutes. A drink?”

Errif didn’t need it, but Edellein chivvied him into a seat and poured them one. His tone was smooth, and he didn’t look visibly distraught. Morose—but he clinked his wineglass against Errif’s.

“To bravery and sacrifice.”

“2nd Army.”

Errif barely wet his tongue and sat there, stiff. Edellein didn’t speak for a moment, but stared at his hands with that same small smile on his lips.

Ah, he’s gone mad. Or this is denial. Errif began to speak.

“I think in light of these events, General—”

“I rather think it’s how Chaldion felt. A painful day, but a necessary one.”

Edellein overrode him and stood, clasping his claws behind his back as he stared out a window with a commanding view of Pallass. It was spelled to let him see an aerial view from high above the City of Inventions, and Errif blinked at Edellein, his back to the city flying yellow banners.

“Excuse me?”

“2nd Army. Oh, I’m not blind, Errif. I imagine you see this as a disaster, and it certainly was more than I expected. Who could predict a Goblin King? Painful, yet necessary.”

“We just—on television—lost 2nd Army. How is this not the worst moment since—well, the damned Meeting of Tribes or the Goblin Lord?”

Errif was testing each word to see if it was not the reality he was experiencing, because Edellein was in another one, clearly. Edellein twisted around.

“Well, 1st Army remains intact. Our walls are still standing.”

“General Shirka’s army is in ruins! The [Goblin Slayers] are dead!”

“—And so is the Goblin Lord of Civilizations. The Draconic Titan was fought back, the Goblin King slain, and I think our presence played no small part in his errors. Sinew Magus Grimalkin and Saliss of Lights helped fight him off—I’d like to see that in the newspapers, front and center. General Shirka has lost her [Goblin Slayers], yes. Painful wins, but victories nevertheless.”

Errif’s mouth opened and closed as Edellein’s door opened. He spread his arms.

“Ah, Senators. Come in. I was just toasting the moment.”

A few more highly-placed [Senators], and a few Drakes that Errif recognized—like Werdin Blackwing—had joined the meeting. All movers and shakers within Pallass. The head of the Engineering Guild, and other prominent individuals. Werdin was brusque.

“Asiv’s alive. So is my daughter—I was making sure she was safe. She was on the damn 8th Floor, not the inn. What the hell happened, Edellein?”

“The plan went wrong. But as I said—a victory is a victory.”

Edellein’s calm tone drew up the agitated group, and he insisted on pouring every single one a glass of wine and doing his toast again. Errif sipped his glass this time, trying to think. He was shaken. Edellein had to be spinning this, Errif’s mind told him. And yet…

“We may have killed a single [Goblin Lord], but there could be more in hiding! Our army is dead, Edellein! And you relieved Shirka of command!”

“Mm.”

He closed his eyes, at the center of all the burning attention, calm as a cucumber. It was draining off some of the anger in the room, because no one could understand. When the 1st General of Pallass opened his eyes, he raised his hands like a [Sage] declaiming wisdom.

“Yes. General Shirka. 2nd Army. Tell me, Werdin, have you ever met those [Goblin Slayers] on television? What did you think of their, ah, methods?”

The Drake was gulping wine furiously, pale-scaled from what he’d seen.

“I’m not weeping for them pulling out a Goblin’s fingers. But it makes us look bad, damn it! They didn’t do a thing against that—monster. They barely stopped the one with the sword—and those Skills! Were they just—in our city? What if something had set them off?”

He shuddered. Edellein nodded, eyes calm.

“Yes, yes. Rather unpredictable, aren’t they? Shirka herself was about to make peace with the Goblins. Take them as, oh, auxiliary forces. Which we have done, but her army is rather temperamental. Rather—insubordinate when she chooses to be. I do remind everyone here that her vanguard is mostly intact. They were spared damage. It was only the [Slayers] who perished to a man at Goblinhome. You could say the core of 2nd Army is intact.”

That caught Errif’s ear. He lowered his goblet, incredulous.

“You can’t be saying—are you suggesting you intended 2nd Army to be wiped out in the High Passes?”

Edellein shot to his feet instantly as the room gasped.

“Not at all! I never expected the Goblin King or his minions. I say again for you all to hear: this is a tragedy. But if you are telling me, to my face, it is a disaster no one saw coming…I might disagree.”

He spread his arms, and he had them. Listening as opposed to shouting, and instead of calling for his head on a platter—Edellein swung around.

“I’m aware everyone wants me to step down. But I remind you that Chaldion has sacrificed more for Pallass. Who would replace me if I went? Duln is dead.”

“Shirka’s alive.”

That comment came from one of the [Senators], bluntly, and Edellein’s lips twitched into a scowl.

“Shirka is insubordinate. She would do whatever she deems best. By all means, reach out to her. See what her opinion is on, oh, our assets like Saliss or anything else. She has no give. Nor does she have a vision for Pallass. I do, and again, the Goblin King is dead. We did that.”

“I heard it wasn’t us, but the Dragons…are we going to talk about them? What the hell—and that Harpy—”

Edellein glanced at Werdin and cleared his throat.

“I can’t comment on our information, Werdin, but rest assured…we have our own thoughts on the matter.”

“So you know who they were?”

“I can’t comment, Errif.”

The Gnoll glared.

“I’ve been to those briefings! I never heard of—!”

“You’ve been to some of the briefings, Errif. But I can’t get into the details. I will see about releasing a report—let’s speak of the future instead.”

—At some point, Errif realized he’d gone from asking Edellein when he’d step down to discussing Pallass’ future. He almost raised that obvious thought several times over the next thirty minutes. But it was…well, hard.

He knew Edellein personally. The Drake had always struck him as able to articulate the positions Errif believed in. He knew everyone in the room. Replacing him would destabilize Errif’s own position, and again, with who? A lesser [General]? Now? And General Shirka was stubborn; he’d tried to get her to discuss matters amicably, and she really was intransigent on issues she disagreed on.

Edellein pirouetted through the conversation, wearing masks of sadness, determination, aloof intellect, and the ruthless pragmatist as he needed, like an [Actor] on stage, performing his heart out.

He didn’t notice he had an unseen observer, and it was just as well Mrsha’s ghost couldn’t touch anything or he’d be covered in spit. The Gnoll girl was so furious that she followed him from spot to spot in his mansion.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t fair! He wasn’t that charismatic, and that wasn’t even bias. She knew charisma.

Ryoka had a strange charisma—mostly for immortals. Kevin had charisma, even if it was Kevin-style. If you wanted leader-style charisma? Flos Reimarch had his brand, and Fetohep had his own.

Edellein was a 2nd-rate charisma-leader. He wasn’t Chaldion, both in intelligence or the grumpy [Grand Strategist]’s own brand of leadership.

He couldn’t get away with this. But the Gnoll girl was privy to the conversations of this select group of movers and shakers in Pallass. Edellein was pulling the group aside as they talked and tried to figure out the future of Pallass.

He had a plan—they didn’t. All things being equal, they should have still tossed him out on his tail, but there was a second interplay here that Mrsha hated.

Fear. Edellein was speaking frankly with Errif and two [Senators].

“I’d be happy to step down, gentlemen. But the question is—who replaces me? Duln was marvellously steady, but he’s gone. Thrissiam? We’ll never have a finer leader.”

He brushed at his face with what appeared to be genuine sadness. Errif muttered.

“There’s Shirka—”

“Shirka won’t listen to anything anyone says.”

“Perhaps, in light of recent events, she might not be the candidate at the moment. Which would leave…3rd Army’s General Forwek.”

None of the [Senators] wore positive expressions. Errif muttered.

“He’s a solid leader, but he’s got no charisma or interplay with politics either. 4th Army was taken over by one of your subordinates—”

“Wikem. Good Drake. Solid. I trained him myself.”

“5th Army is Ederkha. Gnoll.”

“Doesn’t she have an axe to grind against half the other [Generals]?”

Edellein’s face was carefully encouraging while remaining neutral.

“She can be—temperamental. 6th army, then? General Carcimeg? Solid Garuda.”

None of the other people around him liked the idea, both the fact that Carcimeg was a Garuda or the [General] himself.

“He’s a border-[General]. If it’s not one of the army’s leaders, then it’s…a [Strategist]. Like Esor. He is Chaldion’s heir.”

Edellein’s face fell, and he hid it with a swift gulp of wine. The other [Senators] were warming to the idea.

“Esor could fill the gap. Whether or not he has the respect?”

“He’s got the Eyes of Pallass under his command, and I haven’t, er, heard any problems. And Chaldion did teach him—”

“Garuda, though.”

That came from Errif, as if Garuda meant something bad. He was a Gnoll! Mrsha would have kicked him if she could. She saw Edellein glance around, then cough.

“Well, I have to say it might be a blow taking marching orders from Esor. But a second Chaldion would do the City of Inventions some good.”

“Do you think he’s that good?”

“Oh, he’s able to crack the whip. Give him a month and we’ll all be moving in sync with his plans. Let me tell you—he has opinions on how things are going. Me? I stay out of the areas I’m poor at, like domestic politics.”

And there it was. It wasn’t even subtle. The [Senators] exchanged glances and Errif fiddled with a ring on one of his fingers. They glanced at Edellein and did some math.

Shirka. Esor. Another [General]—they could do that. Or they could keep Edellein, who knew the head of each major Guild in Pallass by name. Who was willing to, say, invest more in Engineering Guild projects because it was a vital asset to Pallassian security. And back Senator Errif’s party politics.

Or they could elect another potential Chaldion, who’d get their way. Esor was the logical candidate. Esor could do it. And one of the things he could and would probably do was toss out all the trash.

Which was great. If you were sure you weren’t the trash. That was the maddening strategy Edellein was employing. He stood there, wine cup in hand, offering a drink around.

“Esor doesn’t believe in drinks with friends. Old Chaldion taught him well. Wonderful [Strategist]; we’ll need him in his role as chief strategist of Pallass regardless. But abrasive, you know?”

Pick. Go ahead and do it. His eyes glittered with the calm confidence of a man betting all he had because he had nothing left to lose.

Even as a ghost, Mrsha felt sick as she saw Errif leaning over to Werdin to have a word and saw the writing on the wall. It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t fair, and as they left the party, with Edellein smiling smugly behind them, she felt like this was the worst move the city could make—doubly so because it was not a move the city was deciding.

It wasn’t right.

—Fortunately, it seemed some people agreed with her.

 

——

 

Senator Errif spoke with conviction and sympathy, eyes wide as he adjusted his spectacles and peered over the podium at the gathering of his district. His crowd of four species—Drakes, Gnolls, Dullahans, and Garuda—were upset, but he projected his voice over all of them, calling for calm.

“Gentlefolk, ladies—I understand you’re in mourning. We all are. But General Edellein is still in command. Until the Assembly of Crafts votes—”

That was as far as he got until another Gnoll leapt to his feet, a City Gnoll of Pallass.

“—Votes? He should be thrown off the 9th Floor! Half of 2nd Army is dead, and he was the idiot who stripped General Shirka of her rank!”

“Sir! Sir, the [Senator] is speaking!”

A few harried officers of the City Watch called out, but they were spread thin; every district was having a meeting. Errif addressed the Gnoll. [Learn Name: Constituent].

“Carrel Wifang, isn’t it? Believe me, I’ve had talks with General Edellein, and it is a shocking tragedy. But no one could predict the Goblin King—who is slain!—or this Goblin Lord. 2nd Army fought bravely, to the last, to bring down one of those monsters.”

He touched his armband, and the room muttered. Many were shocked, but Errif distinctly heard a low voice murmuring.

“They got massacred. What kind of bravery was—”

Errif saw an opportunity and pounced.

“2nd Army’s sacrifice will not be trivialized! I am going to vote to raise the widows’ pensions for every member of the army that fell the moment the Assembly of Crafts opens! They rid the world of a terrible threat!”

He talked over the Gnoll, who eventually sat as he realized he had lost his opportunity to speak. Hands shot up, and someone shouted.

“Question, [Senator]!”

“Go ahead.”

He nodded at a Garuda with a smile, and she opened and closed her beak.

“That Harpy. The Dragons—”

“Confidential to High Command. I am sure they’ll have a statement soon.”

“Then—our [Goblin Slayers]. I saw, during the battle, one of them change forms. Is that—do we have—?”

Errif was sweating faintly under his fur, and he grinned desperately. Damn those [Goblin Slayers], and damn 2nd Army! He wasn’t thinking of the [Soldiers] who had died as people now. Just as a problem he had to fix.

After all, Pallass could eminently replace them with time and funds. General Edellein even had data that showed a round of voluntary conscription would probably more than make up for the losses. Patriotism rose during such disasters; Errif smiled as he gave excuses.

“—every weapon in times of need. They did battle the Goblin King, Miss. Now, ah, if the matter of General Edellein is settled? Rest assured, there will be a vote! The will of the people is heard!”

He thought he had them as the district’s audience muttered, but then that damn Gnoll jumped to his feet again.

“What if we want him gone now? Who the hell needs a vote? No matter what, he’s an incompetent who got everyone killed! 2nd Army didn’t need to die!”

Errif growled at the Gnoll, trying to hide some of his annoyance.

“Mister Wifang. This is a public forum, not a personal place to vent your understandable frustrations. General Edellein made the best calls in the circumstances he could. Unless you think you can lecture the 1st General of Pallass on strategy?”

That should have worked. After all, it wasn’t like this fellow was some kind of strategic mind, and how did you argue with that? But to his surprise…Carrel Wifang folded his arms.

“I may not be a [General], but I’m not half as stupid as that Drake. 2nd Army should have stood down or made peace with the Goblins the moment the Goblin King emerged, not fought to hell and back. That Goblin Lord even said she came after us only because we were attacking! That’s a fur-brained move. It sounds to me like General Shirka didn’t want to fight the Goblins—who fought with us against the Titan? That’s what I heard! In which case, I will call General Edellein an idiot!”

Errif’s mouth opened, and there were gasps and shouts from the audience, but also voices of agreement. Errif tried to appear as incredulous as possible.

“Those Goblins—have you—have you been having too many drinks at The Wandering Inn, Master Carrel?”

Laughter from the audience, and confusion. The Gnoll glowered at Errif.

“No, I’ve never been there. But I do know General Edellein probably got our [Soldiers] slaughtered. Dead gods! I know eighteen Gnolls who died in 2nd Army! Is—why are you so calm about that, [Senator]?”

Carrel was shaking with emotions, and Errif realized that the other Gnoll was glaring at him. On the back foot, the [Senator] raised a paw.

“No one is grieving more than I am, Carrel. But I am thinking of Pallass’ good—”

“General Edellein walked 2nd Army into a [Fireball].”

Someone shouted from the crowd, and Errif howled back.

“That’s enough! High Command was fully in control of the situation the entire time!”

“Then they made the worst calls. We lost two flights of Pallass up in the air because he wouldn’t pull them out. Then that Goblin shot them out of the skies.”

Carrel spoke and Errif paused, as those words silenced the room. How the hell did he know that?

High Command was looking into ‘Fightipilota’, who had joined a list, which included ‘Redscar’ and ‘Rags’, of the most dangerous Goblins on the continent. But the scrying orb hadn’t shown the battle in the air…

“Excuse me? I don’t believe I know what you’re talking about, sir…”

Then, to Errif’s horror, Carrel pulled something out of his belt pouch. A familiar crystal, like the Singer of Terandria’s songs. But when he touched it, a voice echoed through the room.

“You don’t have authority to do that, Wing Commander Asiv. Take that Wyvern out.”

General Edellein’s voice. It was a recording Errif hadn’t heard before. A recording of Edellein speaking with…Wing Commander Asiv.

“What is—how did you get that?”

Carrel shrugged.

“Somewhere. It’s a recording of General Edellein knowing that Goblin was about to kill both wings and refusing air support from Manus. It—”

The recording was going on, and Errif shouted.

“Guards! Arrest that man! He is leaking classified information!”

“What? I have a recording of—are you mad?”

The Gnoll jumped and recoiled as a pair of Watch officers hesitated, then strode forwards. The room erupted into shouting as Errif leapt from behind the podium, trying to get the crystal, turn it off. How had a recording of it reached the public?

What were the Eyes of Pallass doing?

Fifteen minutes later, Senator Errif had stormed out of the meeting, and a dozen people were under arrest for disorderly conduct, assault against a [Senator], and in one case, leaking military secrets. However, the outraged members of Errif’s district followed the Gnoll until they reached the Assembly of Crafts and joined several other groups demanding answers from their [Senators].

The Gnoll girl watched. Then, on a hunch, she floated down through the City of Inventions and found a Drake.

Chaldion of Pallass was snoozing in his chair, drool leaking from a corner of his mouth. He didn’t stir and gave no orders to one of the silent figures waiting in the room next to his. Mrsha prowled around him a few times, eyes narrowed…but he just kept sleeping.

After a while, she vanished. The Drake kept sleeping, an amused smile on his lips.

 

——

 

Consequences. So many people had entered this world—but few had the inclination to stay.

This was not their fate, and…there was a version of them here already with their own destinies to take on.

That was why the Archmage of Barriers had left; how could the original Montressa grow if she was suddenly in the shadow of such an accomplished version of herself?

Most of all, it just…wasn’t their world.

“I would rather fly into that world beyond, Your Majesty, and have a life of my own. That may be selfish, but upon my hats, both of them, it is what I wish and what I will do. We all have a choice. Thinking you do not is the terrible lie we tell ourselves.”

That was what Pebblesnatch had told Laken Godart as she prepared to go. He sat, drumming his fingers on the table, an empty bowl in front of him in his house.

She’d cooked him a meal in his home in Riverfarm as they’d had a conversation. Shorter than both had wanted, and part of it in German, no less. Her diction had been excellent.

The Witch of Repasts. He got it, really. He’d never again be able to hear Pebblesnatch running around and banging her ladle on her cauldron without thinking of that older version of her in his head.

Would older Pebblesnatch have led her younger self down the same path as a [Witch]? Or was it just one fate that might await the little Cave Goblin?

Certainly, the [Witches] who’d returned from their battle with the Goblin King seemed to be regarding Pebblesnatch as a possible apprentice. They were all alive, which was a stroke of luck.

Hedag was being tended to, but the rest of them were all on their feet—Laken winced in his home.

“More or less. Gamel? One of the [Witches] just hit a tree. I think they broke their leg. Send a [Healer].”

“Yes, Your Majesty!”

—They were practicing flying brooms. Because the future had come calling and told them it might be wise to remember how to fly.

Pebblesnatch had talked with Laken a lot about the future. In a way, it was a full-circle event. In the past, he’d gotten advice from Tamaroth about the future and used it to guide the Unseen Empire. This time…a Goblin [Witch] had stopped by to tell Laken about the world she knew.

“Was für ein verdammtes Durcheinander.“

Laken muttered to himself. He rubbed at his face, weary. Then twisted around in his chair. He needed Rie and…plans. But most of all, he really wished he’d asked Pebblesnatch about Durene.

Was there a chance…? The Unseen Emperor had a feeling the Goblin would have just laughed at him. Then Laken’s mind strayed to the Empress of Wings.

The version of the future that had spoken to him and judged his worth. He wondered what she had seen. So, Laken sat back in his chair and listened for the sound of wings. He sighed as he heard the scream of another [Witch] hitting a tree.

 

<Title – Recognized by the Empress of Wings Obtained!>

[Title Skill – Levy the Satrapy (Birds) Granted!]

 

As for his new Skill…he had no actual idea what it meant. But Laken Godart suddenly had plans to entice a population of birds to join his colony. He could always do crows…but he sort of felt like that was Mavika’s thing.

Mostly, though…Laken sighed as he slumped over his table. A gift from the Empress of Wings and valuable information from the future was all very well for someone who’d failed to be the pivotal actor in this event—or even more than a minor part.

—But with that said, he couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit jealous that the Witch of Repasts hadn’t stayed. Or if she had to go…he just felt a tiny bit jealous, which he knew was crass of him. However—he couldn’t help it.

 

——

 

The Goblins in the Goblin Lands of the Unseen Empire were keeping their heads down, in a literal sense, after the return of the Goblin King. Most of them were not outside; they’d retreated to the tunnels they’d dug in the mountains or the underground cellars they’d been working on.

After all, it was harder to spellstrike what you couldn’t see. Of course, some of them were willing to be out and about, if only to reassure the Riverfarm people who kept coming by to reassure them that they were the ‘good Goblins’.

Which, at this point, was better than par for the course, so the Goblins only poked the people saying that and asked who the ‘bad’ Goblins were a few times.

But mostly, they were just asking the same questions as everyone else. What the heck had happened? A few were going to sneak off to The Wandering Inn later and see if the workers there would spill the beans.

All of them were uncertain, except for one little Goblin, who was always uncertain, but also—

Well, she’d had a strange visitor come by the Goblin Lands. A [Witch] who knew everyone, including Leafarmor and Raidpear, and had talked a lot about complex things and left everyone thinking big thoughts.

—But she’d singled out one little Cave Goblin, because, obviously, you had to pay your respects to the [Cook].

…That was Pebblesnatch’s theory, at any rate. She’d never seen a Cave Goblin like the [Witch] who called herself the ‘Witch of Repasts’. She’d refused to tell Pebblesnatch her name, and Raidpear had just shaken his head when Pebblesnatch asked who she was afterwards. Then he’d given her a weird look—which everyone had been doing, even the [Emperor]. And he didn’t even open his eyes normally!

It was a mystery, and Pebblesnatch wasn’t good at those. So she lay on her stomach, on the grass, peeking up at the skies now and then to make sure no bolts of lightning were coming down, resting her head in her hands. She was very happy, confusion or not.

The nice [Witch] had asked Pebblesnatch how things were and shown her a few tricks of cooking, and then told her she needed to work hard. Which Pebblesnatch knew. She worked hard all the time! Then…the [Witch] had said they’d never meet again, which was very sad. She’d flown off and only left one thing behind.

It sat in front of the little [Cook] as she read from it, turning each page and marvelling at how easy it was to understand. It was hand-illustrated, with notes in units like ‘one handful’, or ‘half a rock’s worth’ that she understood perfectly, as if it had been made just for her.

A cookbook from the Witch of Repasts. It even had Pebblesnatch’s name on it. The Cave Goblin’s stomach growled as her eyes darted over each recipe, and her mind filled with bigger ideas. She wanted to make these recipes with magic and delightful things. And more. Pebblesnatch tapped her feet on the dirt, grinning.

The world was full of fun stuff in the future! So long as no one killed her between now and the end of the week, that was. She lifted the cookbook over her head, then went running to find a cauldron and all the ingredients she had in stock. After all, what was a magical cookbook without a little bit of experimentation?

 

——

 

Plans about the future were what you were allowed to do if you hadn’t lost someone. Hadn’t seen someone you love die.

Valeterisa didn’t know Mrsha that well, and there was still one around. 1 – 1 + 1 still equalled 1. And that…was all she had to think about that.

“[Clear Emotions].”

That went for Valceif too, of course. She didn’t have time for this. Not right now. Later, she’d have time for the feelings.

She let her apprentice cry so long as she still took notes. Montressa could barely do more than put a quill on a piece of paper, but the Archmage of Izril kept dictating nonetheless.

“Rescheduling my day. I require at least…let’s see. Eight hours of sleep leaves me sixteen hours. Fourteen to study. One for other tasks broken into twenty-minute segments per day. One hour of Relc time.”

“Master! You can’t—”

Montressa began hiccuping, and Valeterisa pointed at her.

“[Hiccup Removal]. Very well…twelve hours of study time, optionally down to ten. At least ten. You will also redouble your studies on [Restoration], Apprentice. Hm. I also need some time for diplomacy. Put an hour each day into that.”

“Master…”

Valeterisa spoke over Montressa’s breaking voice and continued.

“I will achieve mastery of the [Autocast] technique within a month’s time. I require as much gold as possible as well. The academy project—argh. Put two more hours into that. How many is that per day? Twelve hours of studying…another hour into mercantile activities. Wait. Don’t I receive [Twofold Rest] in this inn? In that case—”

She brightened up as she gained a lot more hours with a halved need to sleep. Montressa scribbled at the notes, tears running down her cheeks. Valeterisa plotted out the future until she stopped and stared blankly out her window.

It was raining. But a barrier spell still lingered over the inn and Liscor. Grand magic from…she turned to Montressa.

“Add another hour of tutoring.”

“Master. What about—Mrsha? About the inn? Everything that—we don’t even know.”

They might never know, not fully, not without seeing that [Palace of Fates]. Valeterisa wished she could have seen it. But then she thought of how the older Montressa had gazed at her, and her heart…Valeterisa touched it.

“We were not in this ‘Solstice Event’ that Relc speaks of. I think that is a good thing, Montressa. I fled the Goblin King. I…and Relc is guilty because he did not enter the [Palace of Fates]. I cannot change that. I cannot take away his emotions if he does not ask for it. I…”

She raised a hand and almost cast the spell again, then let it fall. Valeterisa turned away from the window and peered down at Montressa.

Montressa du Valeros sometimes hated the impartial, distracted Archmage of Izril she called her master. Sometimes. But right now, in this moment, Valeterisa’s distant grey eyes had focused. She was aglow with magic that lifted her robes, an intensity of spellcraft that made Montressa’s tears lessen a moment. Valeterisa’s voice was very quiet.

“A month to master the technique. But before that…I require all the funds Lyonette will give me. I must meet with Wall Lord Ascoden and any who will hear me. It is not the optimal solution, but if it comes to it, I will be ready to break through Fissival’s walls. I will have my people and my promises kept.”

Montressa’s breath caught in her throat, and she saw the Archmage of Izril turn back to the rain. It was a soft-spoken declaration of war from a woman who never saw the point in lying. Or showing mercy to her enemies.

The future had given her a vision of what might be. So, Valeterisa prepared herself to do battle with the City of Incantations. She stared out the window and ran the first simulation of how to siege a city by spell. Just as Archmage Amerys had once done.

She didn’t think of the little girl. Not right now. Nor the returned Valceif. She was too busy. The Archmage of Izril’s hands tightened on the windowsill.

She was at war. A displeasing thing. A terrible waste of time. If it had to be—

Valeterisa intended to win it. She thought of the dead clockmaker that Future Mrsha had seen on television and began to plot how to take Fissival to pieces. Brick by brick.

 

——

 

A Gnoll girl observed Valeterisa’s implacable face and saw her eyes flicking, wondering what she was thinking. She could guess; she just had no ability to peer into minds like the Grand Design.

Almost, Mrsha flitted downstairs, but she was too afraid to. So instead, the ghost of the girl ran out of the window, across the world, chasing down another perspective. She could sort of…see it, still.

Lines of fate. Connections to her, even in death. Things she’d influenced, directly or indirectly by the [Palace of Fates]. She had to know.

She didn’t care about the Walled Cities. If they fell tomorrow, Mrsha wouldn’t shed a tear, except perhaps for Oteslia—but the people in them she cared for.

In her way, this was her trying to process what she’d done.

Please, let there be more good than ill. At least for the people here. Something.

Something more than levels and another terrible memory for all those involved. She followed one of the many strings connected to her, because it led somewhere unexpected. Close by.

Not Liscor. The girl raced across the Floodplains of Liscor, where the birds had descended to devour the dead fish still floating on the water. Some Liscorians were out in boats, scooping up the fish that Sheta had killed.

Even in tragedy, life and opportunity. But how many fish would it take to repopulate the waters? More good or more ill? Mrsha recognized some of the creatures who’d gained Sheta’s blessing. What would become of them?

A swarm of ducks were trying to build a nest—no, a container and putting fish in there. Trying to hoard food for later, which struck Mrsha as a very un-duck-like idea. She remembered the Face-Eater Moths who’d gained the [Blessing of Fecundity] and hoped like heck they had flown far, far away from Liscor.

…Where was the string of fate taking her? Oh…Mrsha skidded to a stop and found a newly-built farmhouse she recognized. She padded around it, then slipped through one of the doors.

 

——

 

The farmhouse had been meant for a family, not two people, but everyone else was gone.

Fierre seldom visited, Bamer was dead, and Rivel had left.

They had always been isolated, but never lonely like this. So lonely and quiet—aside from the baahing of Mr. Fluffles.

The sheep was drinking from a bucket collecting rain. There was a single leak in the new construction, right in the living room. It annoyed Himilt no end, because he hadn’t realized there was a gap in the roofing tiles. He entered the hallway, drenched in water, having finally patched it.

Himilt didn’t seem like someone who’d just fought the Goblin King. His broken scythe was lying on the dining room table, and the Vampire barely glanced at it, but Vaulont the Ash kept peeking at the blade.

He wanted to inspect it very dearly, but he wasn’t sure if it was appropriate. If he was allowed. That blade on a farmer’s scythe? He’d heard about beating swords into plowshares, but this…

Vaulont the Ash, an assassin. A good one, who’d stayed out of the Assassin’s Guild debacle and who killed easily, for a living.

He had no place being in such a respectable household as the val Lischelles. They would have never met under any circumstances normally. But these were unprecedented times.

They were, after all, Vampires. Though even thinking that felt wrong. They were so used to being in hiding they were keeping up the act, even now.

“Himilt? Mutton bacon? No, Mister Fluffles, that’s your own species.”

“…How about fish? I pulled one of those giant Lurkersnatch fish out of the water. They sell well. I should get out there with a net.”

Himilt pulled his sodden cloak and hat off and unwound the black scarf on his neck, exposing the odd lumps of his health condition. Vaulont said nothing, and Colfa stifled a cough.

Vaulont wasn’t as badly off as they were—which he now understood was because he’d lived on city water, not well-water—but their afflictions were common to him. Noticing the look, Himilt fished in his pocket and took something out.

“Tablet? I made them. They’re supposed to work a bit.”

He offered Vaulont a circle of what turned out to be charcoal. The assassin took a tablet and chewed it.

“Activated stuff? Whatever that means.”

“I’m not sure. Ryoka said to burn up some coal, wood, even coconut to make it. Not the regular charcoal, which contains meat and whatnot. I made it myself.”

“Funny. When I got the…warning, I ate so much of the damn stuff I was shitting black for a month straight.”

Himilt’s lips quirked up at that, and he coughed into a hand. Colfa gave Vaulont a look as she brought a plate over.

“Not a discussion fit for my dinner table, gentlemen.”

“Your pardons, Lady Drakle.”

Vaulont caught himself and squirmed. He didn’t like Liscor. He was used to being the scariest person in the room, but the inn put him off-guard, and the val Lischelle-Drakles…for other reasons.

Himilt and Colfa might be the last in the immediate bloodline here, but they were one of the Old Blood. Whatever that meant with [Vampire Hunters] running about…

The ordinary-looking [Farmer] with a blade that could wound the Goblin King coughed again and offered Vaulont the plate of bacon as Colfa began to boil some rice.

“I’ll make sushi. How many are we expecting, Himilt?”

“Six, maybe.”

“In the area? I know of only three.”

Vaulont was greatly surprised, but Himilt shrugged mysteriously.

“We’ll see who shows up. Let me check on that leak.”

He got up and had to move his sheep out of the way. Mr. Fluffles obediently left and trotted over to beg for pieces of mutton bacon from Vaulont. The Vampire was debating the ethics of feeding the sheep his own kind when the door opened and closed.

He glanced up, not reaching for his daggers—but just tense. Colfa greeted the first visitor, who removed a cloak.

“Sorry it took so long. There were—issues with the door.”

“I imagine. No one’s coming from the Pallassian side.”

“I hope not. Even with the City of Inventions in chaos, we got the warning from the others. We’d rather run the High Passes than…what’s that smell? Bacon?”

“Sushi too.”

“Sushi…? I’ve never had it. What is that?”

“Rice, seaweed, and raw fish.”

“Er—I suppose it’s a time to try new things.”

Vaulont found a stranger with wide-rimmed glasses seating himself at the table. The assassin hesitated, then held out a hand.

“Vaulont the Ash.”

“Call me Master Merdec. [Merchant].”

“Ah.”

It was probably an alias, but maybe it was just who the man was. He seemed rather short of breath, which made Vaulont wonder how far he’d come. When he asked, Merdec shrugged.

“When Himilt called…oh, thank you, Miss Colfa. I could help—?”

“Sit. Himilt’s the tired one.”

“So I…hear. And saw. Is he alright?”

Himilt reappeared, wiping his hands with a cloth, and both men stared at him. Not a scar on the farmer. Of course, he’d heal fast, but…Vaulont saw Colfa put a platter of sushi down.

“And this is soy sauce, gentlemen. Mixed with blood.”

“Animal?”

“No, actually, Liscor has a blood bank. I’ll show you it later.”

“Incredible.”

The two men began trying the sushi as the door opened again. Two women whom Colfa knew by name appeared, stepping into the room. Then a few more…

They were all eating the food when Himilt decided everyone who’d make it had arrived. He stood, and they fell silent.

He was no great lover of speaking, and he still wore the stained farmer’s clothing, humble black on black. He appeared like what he was and had been all his life. But there was that strange nobility he could put on like a cloak. He had no preamble, but spoke in a low, steady voice.

“…I know it was a dangerous trip. We can discuss the Goblin King later. That was him. I don’t know the reasons, nor do I know if I am allowed to share them all. I did not call you for that.”

What, then? The Vampires blinked, and someone else rose to her feet. Himilt nodded to her.

“Colfa.”

She was the reason they’d gathered? Vaulont’s brows rose as Colfa introduced herself.

“I am Colfa val Lischelle-Drakle. I was part of the events that led to the Goblin King striking the world too early. I cannot share all of why or how. Suffice it to say that I was in a place that allowed one to see the futures that might be.”

They had questions, of course. Vaulont shifted in his seat as Colfa’s eyes flicked to him, and he noticed Himilt glancing at him. He wasn’t sure who he should be more worried about. Colfa’s wrath if he said too much, or Himilt’s—and he had never seen the man get angry. Heard the stories, of course.

Once Colfa had satisfied the others’ curiosity, she did not beat around the bush. She spoke.

“It was…a painful, surreal place. And I was not the person who mattered most. Which was good, because I was forgotten. Allowed to look around, if not take…anything. I used that time to open as many doors as I could.”

Vaulont was getting goosebumps. He hadn’t noticed that, desperate as he had been to try and guard against those damn Antinium and the chaos later. Like everyone else, he hung on Colfa’s words.

“What did you see?”

Himilt’s red eyes focused on his wife, and she favored him with a smile. The Vampiress, who loved to act like the old stories, rose like an image of what they had been. They gazed at her dyed white hair and her crimson lipstick. Colfa even had makeup that made her cheeks whiter than normal. All of it was bedraggled from the events that had just occurred, and the rain. But her fanged smile and those eyes…they were so sharp they made Vaulont think she looked more the part now than he had ever seen her.

Terribly cold eyes.

“What else? [Vampire Hunters]. In so many futures, we die hunted. Not a fraction of us, not a handful—we die like a burning plague sweeping across Izril, leaving only ash. With nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. We fall, lashing out and trying to have both the dignity of our blood and pretending we are better than our ancestors—until they rip the monsters inside of us out for the world to see. They will not stop. That is what I saw.”

Her words made the silent farmhouse go even quieter until the patter of rain and the last drips of water falling from the attic were all that filled the silence. Himilt murmured.

“Then we leave Izril?”

Colfa shook her head.

“If Izril is lost, it is lost. But they will hunt us over the very edge of this world. I realize my words must sound so terribly extreme to those gathered here.”

Yes and no. It was hard to credit, but it was at the back of all their minds. The fear they’d had from the moment they became what they were and had learned of how close it had come. Vaulont shifted uncomfortably, and Colfa went on.

“I need not convince you all today or even tomorrow. But I will try to make you understand what I saw. So, ask.”

Her audience was silent a moment until Vaulont asked the question many were thinking, including the watching Gnoll girl.

“These futures. Was there one where there was any hope?”

Any path forwards? Colfa smiled at the younger Vampire.

“Oh, yes. But no one surefire way. I will tell you some of them, but suffice it to say…for every moonlit future, I saw another where the attempt left only harsh daylight without shadows. Believe me—”

Her eyes flashed.

“—The worst mistake we can make is assuming this will end. It will not. So whatever we choose, it must be with knowledge of what is to come.”

The Vampires in the room went silent, and some of their eyes turned to Himilt. Then to the broken scythe lying on the table. And Vaulont thought of his ‘cushy’ job at the inn, of his funds he’d squirreled away. He could leave. Wash his hands of all this.

He was a person. But he would still be a Vampire. He listened to the rain pattering down and thought of the future.

It looked so damn dark. Dark and darker…but some people loved the darkness. Colfa val Lischelle-Drakle stood there and then raised her head. Turning it, as if she heard a faint sound.

A child, perhaps. Crying out for a spark of light. She ran, chasing another thread across the world, screaming for…

 

——

 

A hand. Duke Rhisveri stared at his hands as he sat, a ragged man. A humbled sock-puppet out of energy at last.

Out of energy. Beaten like a dog—which was actually against the law in the Kingdom of Glass and Glory, because you shouldn’t beat a pet.

But he really was battered, worse than he’d even been when Tolveilouka had gotten him.

Prouder, though. Still ashamed. Still far too weak to save even a single little girl. But he’d done…something.

Next time. Next time, he’d do better. He had to. Rhisveri stared at his hands and remembered punching as hard as he could. Flailing around and—trying. Harder than he’d tried in his life.

No grandness, no superiority, just a desperate Wyrm thrashing around. Like the wounded Dragonlord of Flames dragging himself from fight to fight.

“Rhisveri? Rhisveri…?”

They kept asking him questions about what had happened. Sophridel and the immortals. King Itorin and his advisors.

Rhisveri didn’t know what to tell them. Not just how much he should hide, but…how did he even begin?

His head rose, and he spoke when Queen Oiena was on the verge of having a [Healer] hit him with a stamina potion.

“I thought I could save the day, but I couldn’t. Neither could Visophecin. We were right there, and they beat us down. We couldn’t take them all out. I got some of them. Some of them, but I lost track. They were running around, you see. I was paying attention to the [Princess] because I thought she was the crazy one. They were all mad. Trying to save…everything that mattered.”

The doors flashed through his mind, and the root in his hand—Rhisveri opened and closed the hand and saw the bloody, torn skin on his knuckles leaking blood. He could have healed it or turned the pain off, but he let the stinging stay.

Someone asked him questions, and he didn’t hear them.

“I just lost track of them. I wasn’t strong enough, and then…she ran past me. Like she knew what she was doing. I suppose she did. I found her afterwards.”

“Who? Taima take it, Rhisveri, who and what—”

Queen Oiena was on the verge of shaking him, despite her husband holding her back, when Rhisveri wiped at his face.

“The child. She bled out. I don’t know why…someone shot her with Evercut Arrows. I could have undone the enchantments. She was running right past me. But I was too distracted. Just like Fithea. I don’t understand it. She was smiling.”

Those hands clasped together to stop themselves from shaking, and the people around him drew back. Rhisveri waited for someone to say the obvious.

You fool. Surely someone had the guts to state the obvious. He was the Wyrm of Ailendamus, the Duke. He’d been right there.

Not a single voice would shout at him. Not him. What a terrible kingdom. At least the Agelums’ bright stares and the Lucifens’ shadowed expressions judged him. The Duke’s eyes rose, and he spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

“I—don’t know what you could have done, brother.”

King Itorin II cleared his throat awkwardly, thinking that Rhisveri was speaking to him. But the Duke’s eyes just followed something slowly moving to the right. He stared through the Minister of Entertainments, his eyes tracking a little child, who was shocked he could see her.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll try to…take responsibility for what I can. But it’s too late. It’s always too late. I—”

He felt sick. Sick at heart and empty. The Duke wanted someone to shout at him, but no one would. Not the girl. Not the [Knights] nor his peers. Not the [King] and [Queen], who gazed at him as if he deserved sympathy.

Even Uziel’s bright gaze held too few recriminations. He needed more than a stare. Duke Rhisveri longed for someone to pull him up by the collar and give him a punch so hard he felt it in his main body.

A pair of jet-black, armored hands pulled his head up gently as the murmuring voices fell abruptly silent. And someone slapped Rhisveri.

You might say that wasn’t nearly like the punch he wanted, but since the hands that did the slapping were coated in metal—they left imprints on the Duke’s face. And they were packed with concentrated aura, so he did a twirl in the air before catching himself.

Ow.

A proper Izrilian slap. The Duke put his hand to his cheek reflexively.

“That one did hurt.”

He half-expected the slapper to get charged by all the [Knights] around them, but none of them moved. Rhisveri saw the armored helmet gazing at him and recognized the armor.

Order of the Thirsting Veil. Only they had that iconic black armor lit by green and purple highlights, which was stylish, but hell to paint. He thought this particular [Knight] was gauche, though, and said so.

“I appreciate the slap. But the armor’s wrong. That heraldry and those colors belong to not just any Great Knight, but the Great Knight Eclizza. Remove them or I’ll stuff you into a toilet.”

Only one [Knight] was allowed to wear the pale serpent heraldry across her chest. It might even be the same armor. Which was practical…had Eclizza’s armor been recovered?

Rhisveri was getting a touch mad at seeing the armor, but the [Knight] merely drew a hand back and slapped his other cheek. He did a half-twirl and stumbled.

“That one also hurt. I’m getting mad.”

Someone reached for the [Knight] and was promptly thrown; a Drell Knight passed by Rhisveri, and he slapped the poor fellow down with one hand so he didn’t hit the crowd behind the Duke. The hand rose for the third slap, and Rhisveri caught the wrist.

“I said—oh, that hurts.”

The other hand had hit him in the stomach. A really fine blow. Just—Rhisveri caught the hand before it could pull back and felt the figure try to throw him. He threw the [Knight] instead. You just put all the will you had into your arms, all your magic, and—

Toss.

Then you winced when they went through a load-bearing support pillar. A thick one, too. The masonry that sprayed across the ground would have hurt someone but for Uziel, who’d taken down a [Servant] with a bounding leap.

“Nice job that fellow. I—huh.”

The [Knight] was on their feet already. Which struck Rhisveri as pretty odd, because he doubted even a Drell Knight in full enchanted plate would have walked that one off easily. He stopped.

The way the stranger was tilting…her…head at him. She had a hand on the sword at her side, but he thought there was a playful smile behind the black visor. No.

“…It can’t be. They all left. You saw it. One of you did.”

He spoke to the ghost of Mrsha, who was blinking at the stranger. And even if—Rhisveri’s mind was working.

There’s no way she’d make it here. This is Ailendamus. Not The Wandering Inn. The only way she’d make it back here was with a [Scroll of Greater Teleport], and he didn’t have any.

Or someone who could teleport across continents. Like…

Viscount Visophecin nodded at Rhisveri as the shield of black flames evaporated in front of a terrified group of pedestrians. He stepped back as Uziel made a sound and Paxere gasped.

“No. This is a bad joke.”

The Wyrm of Ailendamus was dreaming. He pinched himself, and it didn’t hurt. See? But when the [Knight] strode forwards and slapped him again—

“—You left. All of you left.”

The helmeted figure finally spoke as he caught the hand. And the voice…was low, but playful.

“It was unlikely anyone would make it. Duty was fulfilled by those who left and any who might wish to stay. But the Kingdom of Glass and Glory has need of at least one mortal champion.”

He still didn’t believe it. Even when the visor slowly rose, and Dame Chorisa uttered a stifled cry. They were all staring at her, and he saw those familiar eyes flashing up at him. The hint of a smile in her controlled expression.

“I’m not even the right one.”

Her Rhisveri was dead. He was just the thief searching for something familiar. Just like the watching girl.

Even so, she bowed to him, one arm below her chest.

“I serve the idea, not any one being, Your Grace. I am needed, or so the Viscount said.”

—So she’d turned back and dared the Maiden, the dead gods, and made it here. Rhisveri blinked down at Dame Eclizza’s face. Then he sank to his knees and sat down.

“That’s a bad joke. It really is. I couldn’t even save one child. You don’t get…that’s not fair.”

He gazed at the ghost of Mrsha with a Wyrm’s eyes, and Dame Eclizza pulled Rhisveri up and shook him briskly. Then slapped him across the cheeks again, which really was starting to hurt.

“The world is not fair, Duke Rhisveri. In these moments, you act. Or you cede your position.”

That was what he’d told her, once. The Duke blinked, then opened his mouth.

“If I’m dreaming, let me sleep. Okay. Stop hitting me. I’m sorry.”

That last comment wasn’t for Eclizza, whose head tilted. The first scream of disbelief came from Queen Oiena, and then Rhisveri had to lie and say something—but his eyes found the girl. He wished…

Oh, that stupid, little child.

Did she have to keep smiling at him? What about her? He wiped at his eyes.

“All I do is cry, these days. What happened to me? I used to be so much more dignified.”

 

——

 

The little Gnoll girl could not be everywhere at once. As she journeyed back from Ailendamus, the Kingdom of Glass and Glory, another conversation was taking place in the High Passes of Izril. A far grimmer place to find meaning in.

So much death.

The bodies of 2nd Army—what remained of them—were being hauled off by General Shirka’s forces. They were in range of Goblinhome, but 2nd Army didn’t make any moves towards the Goblin fortress, and the Goblins didn’t do anything to them.

Everyone was tired of fighting.

Well—except the Wyvern Lord.

He dove down towards the [Soldiers] recovering their dead with a roar that shook the High Passes. He was wounded—his wings had been pierced, his scales worn weak by a thousand swords, and he’d fought everything from the Mortemdefieir Titan to 2nd Army to the Goblin King and the Halfling himself.

Each fight, the Wyvern Lord had been outclassed, outmatched, barely able to protect the others around him. Unable to save the Goblins, beaten down, and knocked flat.

And you know what? 2nd Army could catch these claws too! Who said there was a time for peace? The Wyvern Lord remembered the army attacking Goblinhome, and it didn’t see a reason to stop. They’d come for the Goblins’ nest once—they’d be back.

The panicking [Soldiers] below him were blowing horns and aiming bows and spells up at him as he dove for them, ignoring the two Ragses shouting at him from Goblinhome. The Wyvern Lord was filled with grief and rage. Wyverns had died. Goblins had died, and for what? He was howling at General Shirka, who stood, hatchet in hand while raising the other.

For what?

The Brass Dragon didn’t smack the younger, smaller Wyvern out of the air or use some spell or artifact to do the same. He could have, even wounded, and thereby displayed his superiority and might and volubility with a few quips or sage comments.

The old him would have. So, the Dragonlord of Flames didn’t. He merely removed the [Greater Invisibility] spell and rolled over.

The greatest technique of the Brass Dragon family. All the crushing weight of a being of metal the size of a gigantic airplane from Earth rolling over.

Verily, entire orders of [Knights] had fallen to this simple technique. And, uh, a few dinner guests at some parties where the drink had flowed too freely.

But in general, this technique was not used often because it meant showing his weaker belly. Which across so many species was a sign of submission, of defeat, because it exposed him to an attack. It was a sign of trust, peaceful intent, here. See, I will not fight you. Please, let us talk.

The Dragonlord of Flames was really hoping it would work. But like a lot of gambles over his life…

It did not. The Wyvern Lord saw the Dragon appear and howled a challenge as he came down like a comet. For Shirka and Teriarch.

“Ah. Thunder Giant’s ballsacks—”

General Shirka heard the most hilarious epitaph from Teriarch as he tried to raise his good claws. She leapt towards him, shouting an order, and saw a fiery orange orb zooming overhead.

The [Fast Fireball] hit the Wyvern Lord in the side. Not actually hard or strong enough to do much damage, but it surprised him. He twisted, saw who had fired it at him, and slammed into a cliff as he swerved away from the [General] and Dragon.

Rocks cascaded down into the valley as 2nd Army took up battle formation, but Shirka raised her hand.

“Hold fire! Hold fire, damn it!”

Her [Soldiers] were tensed for battle, but the hairs on the back of their neck, or the scales or feathers in the same place, were tingling. They looked over their shoulders as the irate Wyvern Lord rose, hissing, and saw the Goblin.

Chieftain Rags was pointing a smoking finger at the Wyvern Lord. She’d cast the [Fireball] spell. She was panting; she must have run from Goblinhome to get here when she’d seen him in the air. 2nd Army almost turned their weapons on her.

Goblin. Goblin. But they stopped, because that twisting knot of terror in their stomachs reminded them of the Goblin Lord of Civilizations, and their eyes stole to the blasted pit of ash in the ground.

Also—Rags had reinforcements. Crimson eyes were staring out of the half-destroyed passages in the sides of the valley. There were Goblins sitting on the cliffs overhead and more coming out of the fortress.

Redscar was advancing at a walk next to Snapjaw and a full team of Hobs and Trolls. Student Rags and Dulat, the Troll Queen, were watching from the open gates.

“Stand. Down.”

Shirka breathed as the Wyvern Lord hissed and walked forwards. The [Soldiers] backed up in front of him as Teriarch got to his claws.

“Peace. I come in peace, Lord of Frosts!”

He called out, and the Wyvern Lord glared at him. The angry Wyvern didn’t understand what was going on.

What now? Why had Rags stopped him? 

The invisible Dragon made sense. It was just the kind of thing he’d do. He hated this old guy. And there were, apparently, multiple of him. The Wyvern Lord roared a challenge, and Teriarch spoke.

“I humbly ask for a conversation, Wyvern Lord. 2nd Army, General Shirka, please fall back.”

He addressed the [Soldiers], who fell back as the [General] saluted him and squawked something about not meaning offense. The Wyvern Lord hissed at her; he’d thought they were allies. She looked and smelled ashamed, and he debated giving her a tail-slap.

But Rags…had her finger pointed at him, and she offended him the most. The Wyvern Lord flapped his wings at her in a battle-stance.

You too? Time for us to fight? He gave her a wounded glare, for all he had fought and bled to protect her people.

His furious, betrayed glare washed over the Goblin’s calm face. She was as battered as he, the Wyvern Lord realized. And—his anger abated slightly—her aura-thing wasn’t raging at him. It was calm, like a swirl of sad tiredness. Telling him what her words were.

“No more fighting, Lord of Frost Wyverns. Not here. I forbid it. We are done with fighting, do you understand?”

She spoke to him, a short Hobgoblin lecturing the Wyvern Lord who towered over her as he stomped forwards. His eyes narrowed, and the blue, slitted pupils dilated as he lowered his head to breathe the smell of frozen flesh and gastric acids over her.

Chieftain Rags put her hand on his snout, and the Wyvern Lord blinked and went cross-eyed. She smiled faintly.

“Thank you. You and I are allies forever. Does your tribe want food? We have some to share. Our Frost Wyverns…do you want them back? They don’t seem to want to leave.”

Peh. He snorted at her, trying to stay mad. Oh, now she wanted to be nice after she hit him with a [Fireball] spell. Food? He knew they didn’t have much, and his weyr could eat Goblinhome out of food. Eat most of Goblinhome, come to that…as for the cowards who liked their comfy beds and Goblins taking care of them in exchange for flying only a bit—

Bah. He jerked his head at Shirka and Teriarch, who were still watching him warily. Rags grabbed the tangled mane of hair running down the back of his head, far less magnificently groomed than Teriarch’s.

“No more fighting. We’re allies. That’s why I’m telling you. Come on, I’ll give you a drink.”

That was…marginally more appealing than blasting the [General] with frost. Teriarch interjected loudly.

“I have drinks!”

This time, both Goblin and Wyvern Lord gave him a flat stare, but Rags jerked her thumb after a second.

“Well? I think he wants to say something to you.”

What if I have nothing to say to him? The Wyvern Lord bared his teeth, and Rags frowned and tilted her head, as if she were trying to figure out what he meant. However…she got it as her eyes flicked over his raised wings, the way he put a talon back and dug it into the ground, as if he wanted to push into the air and fly away.

Body language. [Aura of the Emissary]. Friendship and drinks. The Goblin [Chieftain] of the Flooded Waters tribe smiled faintly. Wearily. She appeared sick at heart, almost as sick as he felt about this terrible fighting. Nothing glorious about it, just dead people who shouldn’t be.

“That’s why we speak, even if we don’t want to. So we don’t war again. So there’s something good that comes of all this.”

She made a lot of sense. So, because it was her, the Wyvern Lord turned and gave Teriarch a wing-shrug.

Fine. Let’s do this.

The Dragonlord approached, wary and still favoring his broken claw, but he’d bandaged it up with some fancy, magical sling made out of green fabric that smelled like herbs and other alchemical junk. He dipped his head to the Wyvern Lord.

“Will you…speak with me, Wyvern Lord? Truly, I mean no…bad feels.”

He actually tried to speak Wyvern, which startled the Wyvern Lord so much he nearly tripped over his own tail. This old Dragon could speak Wyvern? His accent was terrible, but the Wyvern Lord had a clear choice to make. After a moment, he grudgingly nodded.

“My place. This way, please.”

Teriarch jerked his head in clear relief. The Dragon began to limp away. The Wyvern Lord waddled after him—then turned. He made an inquisitive, croaking sound.

“Hmm?”

Chieftain Rags glanced over her shoulders, and the Wyvern Lord waved a wing. She pointed at her face, and he nodded again. Teriarch hesitated, but then sighed.

“Appropriate, I suppose. I really shouldn’t have said we’d never meet again, Chieftain Rags.”

He winked one of his eyes at her, and she blinked at him.

He remembered her? Yes.

The Dragonlord remembered everything. His eyes rose skywards, and he muttered under his breath, so softly that all but the Wyvern Lord and Rags didn’t hear him.

“Ah! I had better cancel that bounty.”

Then he remembered his audience and gave them a guilty smile.

They both glowered at him.

 

——

 

Predictably, they went to Teriarch’s cave, where the Dragon offered both food and drink. The Wyvern Lord indicated he wanted meat and plenty of it. When he tossed the huge, roasted cows out of the cave, the Dragon seemed offended…until he saw the Wyvern Lord’s weyr descending to cautiously drag the food into the air to eat.

The Frost Wyverns were hungry; all the fighting had left game scarce, and it was already hard to compete with the other creatures around here. Not that it had been that rich higher up…but it was hot below. Their numbers had already been declining before the Frost Wyvern Lord had taken them down from the icy highlands.

Now, they were, well, dying. The Wyvern Lord felt like the Goblin, Rags, could relate. He wasn’t sure about the Dragon, who watched the weyr feasting and added more food to the pile. After all, the Dragon’s entire species was down to a handful of people left.

Dead was not the same as dying. The Wyvern Lord was failing his weyr, not living after it. He wondered…what that was like.

For her part, Chieftain Rags just requested a drink ‘Goblins would like’, and that seemed to make Teriarch uncomfortable, so the Wyvern Lord offered her a toeclaw to high-five as the Dragon got her a drink. She was busy fiddling with some ring-thing that projected a glowing screen in front of her, touching little letters that popped up as lines of text appeared.

The Wyvern Lord hadn’t ever seen text in written form aside from scratchings from his elders on the walls of caves, so he spent a few minutes trying to figure out what the symbols meant until Teriarch offered Rags a cask.

“How about a Wet Corpusclear? Selphid.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“I’m just using their terminology. Check the label. They’re rather good at making alcohol, though. Biological experts. Some of them float in the barrels while checking on the yeast. It gives it an, uh—”

The Dragon stopped talking because he was not selling the drink well, but the Goblin poured herself a cup and took a sip.

“It’s…really good. It’s very smooth.”

She seemed almost affronted by the taste, and when she poured some onto the Wyvern Lord’s tongue, it wasn’t as ‘spicy’ as he felt alcohol was, but very flavorful and closer to savory or—or a taste he couldn’t describe, much like eating a fine piece of meat.

“Umami flavor.”

The Dragonlord appeared pleased they liked that. He let the two have their drinks as they exchanged glances. The Wyvern Lord was glad Rags was here. He didn’t want to be here, though.

Teriarch understood the Wyvern Lord had some thoughts in his head he couldn’t easily express. The Dragonlord paused and added some wine to the huge bowl the Wyvern Lord drank from.

“My memories have returned. I realize it may be a poor excuse, but I did not recall all the nuance of…I killed the Wyvern Queen who led your people when I first came to the High Passes. I tried not to; I asked to live in peace. But she saw me, rightly, as a threat to her existence. We dueled. I killed her.”

The Wyvern Lord’s head rose, and he stopped gulping down wine. After a moment of thought, he silently pushed the bowl away. Rags put down her cup as well.

So, the death of his weyr truly had been here from the start. The authority of Frost Wyverns had never been the same after that. Wyvern Lords had fought the other species up there, but only the Wyvern Queen had been strong enough to keep them all safe.

The Frost Wyvern Lord thought he’d known that from the start. He just…hadn’t wanted to admit it. All that he knew and was—incomparable to a single snoozing Dragon.

Then again, he’d seen the Empress of Wings and taken her reward-thing for service. It just went to show, all his strength, his desperation, his cunning, just couldn’t match other species.

The Wyvern Lord folded his wings and waited, resisting the urge to poop on the Dragon’s hoard. The Dragon spoke.

“I…will you indulge an old man? It has been a painful few days.”

He wasn’t dead. And he hadn’t lost any of his people. The Wyvern Lord made a rude blatting sound, but he waited.

Teriarch dipped his head in silent acknowledgement. He was quiet, closing his multicolored eyes for a long moment.

“There is a tradition amongst Dragons. When one of us dies, one that is close to us or—or particularly noteworthy, we go into the world. It is our role to tell a mortal a story of those who have passed that their deeds might be remembered. It is a fruitless task in a sense, for those mortals will live and die in the blink of an eye. But we give them gifts and change their lives, one small act of good to offset a terrible tragedy. It is a thing of vanity, I know.”

His story sucked even more than the other ones. The Wyvern Lord was getting really annoyed, but he stayed for the free food he gobbled down to replenish his strength. If the cost of that was his earholes, well…the Dragonlord continued, glancing at Rags. She waited as well, just listening as she sipped her drink.

“There are other traditions, too. But I have done none of them well. I did not mourn the passing of ghosts. I did not mourn—my own death, I suppose. I woke, with half my memories, and I ran from my duties. I tried to fly, and even when I recovered enough…my first true battle and I was too weak.”

He flexed his wing and gave the Wyvern Lord a shamefaced grin.

“It took seven of me to best the Goblin King. I would like to imagine in my heyday it would have only taken three.”

The Frost Wyvern Lord supposed this was an attempt at modest humor. He shrugged his wings, and Teriarch lost the smile.

“Yes, yes. Entirely deserved. And you have every right to abhor me. I…I won’t bore you with tales of the Wyvern Kings and Wyvern Queens I knew. Only that I truly did admire them, but I was probably still superior to them. Arch, condescending, when they bore every insult from my kin and flew in dignity and grace.”

That statement drew the Frost Wyvern’s attention, but he affected not to care, gulping down more pieces of meat and chewing the bones. Teriarch seemed to be having trouble continuing.

“I…well, this is how I know I’m a fool. It’s so damned hard, even now, to rise above my base instincts. But what is this all if not proof that change is coming? For me, for the moon, for—everyone? I have seen hope and despair, and I failed to save even a single child.”

His eyes filled with tears, and the Wyvern Lord did stop then. He supposed the Dragon had lost a single child.

The Wyvern Lord hadn’t counted how many Goblin children had died, but he’d do a tally later and see where they were at for appropriate grief. His head rose to the cave’s entrance, and he gave the Dragon a grudging growl and nod.

He’d seen the moon. He supposed that was worth something. Rags spoke as well.

“We’ve done this before. Both of us. I appreciate you fighting the Titan and Goblin King for us, but we’re not Dragons. You give us stories that aren’t about us, Dragonlord of Flames. We’re outsiders to your legacy, your grief, and everything else. Do you have anything new to tell us, besides stories?”

Terrium Archelis Dorishe shook himself and raised his wounded head. He gave Rags a deep nod, his eyes flicking to the glowing screen hovering in front of her. She hit a shining icon, and it vanished as the Dragonlord replied.

“Yes, of course. I know I am lamenting in front of the two people with the least patience for it. I shan’t take up more of your valuable time. Wyvern Lord…I hope Sheta gave you what you desired. I truly do. We always envied you in our way, you know. Dragons. We mocked and belittled and even enslaved your kind, but we were jealous, I think. We envied that your peoples never waned, but could grow into great profusion while ours were doomed.”

That was the biggest backhanded compliment that the Frost Wyvern had ever encountered, but he supposed he’d take it. Teriarch continued softly.

“Yours is the final of the Draconid species to exist in this world, Lord of Frost. More than Dragons, Wyrms, Ryu, Amphitheres—all of us. Wyverns will inherit this world, last of all. May you continue until the end of everything.”

He bowed to the Wyvern Lord, and the hungry, wounded Frost Wyvern stopped eating and looked up. He saw the Dragon’s head fall and wiped at his mouth with one wing. Awkwardly, he croaked a few words, not really sure what to say.

The old Dragon was either grand and puffed up or sincerely depressing. He seemed to know it too, because he smiled and spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“We are not, incidentally, counting Hydras in this ‘last-species’ discussion out of pure principle.”

The Wyvern Lord squawked an agreement. Hydras. Couldn’t stand the bastards. What were they, again? Rags just rolled her eyes, waiting for the Dragon to get to the point.

The Dragonlord laughed and drummed his claws on the ground, the broken tips striking sparks from stone. Then he shrugged.

“There is no grand ceremony I have, and to be frank, I’m tired of my own voice. I have a gift for you, if you will take it. I hope you will.”

He pushed something he’d been hiding under one claw forwards. It rolled to a stop, and the Wyvern Lord blinked at it.

It was…an orb. The darndest thing, though. The Wyvern Lord had once collected round pieces of clear ice that contained cool things, or tossed them down the mountain and let them become giant avalanches or snowballs…but this was the most fascinating marble he’d ever seen in his life.

There was something in it. The Wyvern Lord waddled forwards and pondered the orb. Then he got too close, and his nose touched what should have been the glass exterior and—

 

——

 

He opened his wings with a shriek of surprise! A trap! The Wyvern Lord blew frost around him, then caught himself. He landed in the middle of the vast, vast space, even for him, and stared around.

The Dragonthrone was thunderously silent. Yet the air…was wonderful to breathe. He heard a voice catching in incredulity.

“Wait. This place again? Why did he show this to us? To brag again…?”

Rags. She’d followed him into this spot, and she was staring around this vast area with familiarity. And wonder—the Wyvern Lord made an inquisitive chirping noise.

So this wasn’t a trap? She shook her head.

“This is…the Dragonthrone. But why?”

He didn’t get it either. The Wyvern Lord inhaled as he kept staring about, then felt the air cooling to a temperature not hot on his scales.

He whirled, and the Dragonlord of Flames stepped out of existence.

“There’s a trick to exiting and entering. You can also control some elements of this place. You can lock a foe inside or hold this place against intrusion—though some beings can enter. Few. I imagine the thrones will be of some use. Cooking, perhaps?”

He indicated the magical thrones set around the vast space, and the Frost Wyvern Lord’s mouth opened. So did Chieftain Rags’ mouth.

He…he was giving this place to the Wyvern Lord? The Dragon might be arrogant, but he was still a Dragon, and the Frost Wyvern Lord might not be good at appraising much, but he could tell how valuable this place was.

“Keep it. I have no use for it other than impressing children and stroking my own ego and memories. But you…you might use it.”

The Dragon seemed like he was in genuine pain as he spoke and regarded the throne of flames behind him. But then he turned, and the Wyvern Lord looked around again and saw it.

His mind sparked a tiny bit as he used all his newfound experiences and understandings to think. Strategerize, like Rags.

This thing was a marble, but it was the biggest place he’d ever seen. Open. Perfect for baby Wyverns to fly about without danger. You could put food in here, and it was cold.

Cold enough for Frost Wyverns not to overheat. And to nest. But you could carry this thing around in one Wyvern’s claws.

It was like a…portable…thingy. A portable home. The Wyvern Lord’s eyes snapped open. He glanced at Rags, who was cupping her chin, eyes flickering as she thought about what this meant as well. She met his gaze, and they shared a thought.

I bet you could fit some Goblins in here too. But—he stared suspiciously at the Dragonlord.

Why him? Why now? Why this? The Dragon merely bared his teeth in a long, painful grin. He opened his good wing and swept it across his chest, then pointed it up at the writing that flashed across the air.

“A gift should be truly worthy. And I…I salute you, worthiest Wyvern of this age. May you carry the story of the silly Dragon with the useful throne across your people for ages to come. Or live. Just…live.”

His eyes clouded over with tears, and he turned away. The Frost Wyvern Lord saw him vanish, and he stood, casting about this unexpected place. He saw Rags watching him and turned to her, but she just waited.

“Well? It’s your choice.”

If he didn’t want it…she’d take it.

 

——

 

The Goblin Chieftain emerged from the Dragonthrone first as Teriarch gulped more wine down and waited.

“Well? Do you think he’ll accept?”

He addressed Rags as she stumped over to the keg for a refill of her cup. Rags hesitated, then took a hand away from the spigot.

“Can I bring this back to Goblinhome? I have more to do, and I can’t be drinking.”

“Of course.”

He waited as she pushed it into her bag of holding, resisting the urge to tell her what a fine and unique vintage it was, unacquirable by anyone today. Teriarch coughed.

“The, ah—it’s a novel idea you’re working on. Not original, but new in its own way. Is that ring from the [Palace of Fates]?”

She glanced at one of the magical rings that Dyeda and Rianchi had bought.

“Yep. It works with modern [Messages]. But I was told it’s hard to…trace. Magically, that is. Is that true?”

He considered the question.

“Certainly, it’s far more adept than current spellcasting. Not impossible. I could do it, but I imagine it is quite satisfactory to your needs. If you are careful about where you use it…yes.”

“Good enough.”

She bared her teeth, and he resisted the urge to ask her about what she was doing—barely. The two waited for the Wyvern Lord as Rags folded her arms.

“Giving your Dragonthrone away isn’t easy, is it?”

“…No. It’s one of the greatest possessions I own.”

He couldn’t even look at it, sitting there, or he’d have the desire to grab it and hide it away. Rags studied Teriarch and nodded.

“If it’s hard, then it’s an actual sacrifice from you. Good. Anything less and I’d have to shoot you.”

“Quite understandable.”

That was all they said as they waited. When the Frost Wyvern Lord did emerge, it was as a shimmering glow of light, illuminating his silhouette, until he translated out of the Dragonthrone. He caught himself, looked around, and then stood still.

His eyes upon the Dragonlord of Flames, who held his breath, half-hoping the Wyvern Lord would refuse, as Rhisveri had done. But then the Wyvern Lord nodded.

 

——

 

The Wyvern Lord saw the Brass Dragon sag slightly as he accepted the gift, and that was how he knew it was important, what Teriarch had been given.

He didn’t really get all of what the orb-thing was. But he saw it in how it was made. The empty thrones were a story, one he was curious about. But most of all…it was just a big, empty place.

The Goblin smiled as the Wyvern Lord put a claw over the small orb, hefting it in one claw. He stared down at the shimmering world within and saw it for what it was. Not a symbol of glory or a Dragon’s legacy passed on. Merely…

A gift. A chance. Suddenly, all the death, the defeats, the tragedy…it wasn’t gone. Not undone. It was still terrible and bad, and his heart ached. But—the Frost Wyvern Lord threw his head back and screamed. A shriek that echoed across the High Passes, and into the Dragonthrone itself, for the first time in millenia.

The sound, not of rage, but of hope. Damned hope, which turned into a roar as the Wyvern Lord burst out of Teriarch’s cave and leapt into the air. Screaming it at his weyr, who took up the call until the mountains shook.

Wyverns, dancing from the sky. The Dragon limped out of his cave and hesitated, but then he roared upwards, once. As he watched frost blooming in the skies overhead, he smiled as snow came falling down and saw, in the flying figures overhead, the memory of Dragons flying.

That was enough. Teriarch basked in the sight for a second and then saw Harpies. He beamed up at the delighted little girl flying high in the sky, screaming his name.

“Well done, child.”

Then—he got back to work. The Goblin Chieftain did likewise. She touched the W-Ring on her finger as she walked outside and glanced up.

“This is Chieftain Rags. I need a pickup. All the Wyverns are busy.”

“Roger that, Chieftain.”

She tapped the different glowing icons in the air and re-opened the conversation the Dragonlord had seen. Rags began typing after a second, fingers dancing over the gleaming letters of the keypad.

So many dead. Two versions of her had died, and she hadn’t done much near the end. Nor throughout the [Palace of Fates]. She’d only fought the Mortemdefieir Titan, gone into a few worlds, survived…she hadn’t died here, only other versions of her.

At the end of this terrible saga, the last [Chieftain] standing fought no great wars across the world. She didn’t draw the blade that the Goblin Lord of Dreams had given her nor fire the revolver of the future. Her wars were harder. She kept typing as the Dragonlord of Flames spied on her—until she turned and glared at him.

Neither one saw the ghost of the little Gnoll girl peeking at them as she halted on her journey back from Ailendamus, gazing at the Goblin, the Dragon, and the sky of dancing Wyverns copying the Harpy Queen.

 

——

 

There. That’s all she needed. Mrsha ran back across the world, clinging to the image of the weeping Duke and the [Knight], trying to fill her heart with the soaring Wyverns. Moments that mattered, that reminded her why tomorrow could be brighter.

A moment of courage and belief…so she could set foot in The Wandering Inn. She had to…

To find her mother.

Mrsha stopped in The Wandering Inn, and it was oddly filled. Not with guests. But the staff, Calanferians, Antinium, and Goblins were a host unto themselves.

The little girl walked up the hill, past weird, round bushes that shuffled around the inn, on guard-duty with glowing-eyed skeletons. Past two piles of damp, black marble just outside the inn. There was nothing notable about them that other people observed, but the girl stopped. To her eyes, they were glowing with a pale, white light. Shining like beacons; one with the pale light that was so familiar to her, a harsh, even imperial radiance, pure and absolute and cold, but not in temperature.

The second pile of marble was infused with a far more radiant glow, green and brown and comforting. Equally familiar to her, and vast. Perhaps only she noticed, right now, or saw how the shamblers and undead seemed to move faster the closer they got to one of the two piles.

It didn’t matter.

Not right now. The girl passed through the closed door, moving down a corridor where an Antinium, Goldbody, and a Calanferian [Servant] were sending people to their destinations. The Soldier would delicately adjust the dial while the young man did the speaking.

They were both slower on the job, and the people in the inn were nervous—but transit was transit. Mrsha listened as the young man argued with an upset Drake.

“Doorkeeper Liska is busy. Excuse me, sir, you’re holding up the line. This is a public service from The Wandering Inn. If you object to an Antinium, you may return where you came from.”

Goldbody nodded and gave the affronted Drakes a look. Not the blank stare of an Antinium Soldier nor the aggressive fury of a killer, but the dead-eyed glower of someone willing to walk off the job, right here and right now.

They didn’t have to be here. They didn’t have to do this. The passengers susurrated and wavered, then waited for the door to open and their line to be called forwards.

Strange.

The girl had assumed the inn would be closed, but it was, in fact, still open, if only the [Door of Portals]. When she passed out of that room and down the broken hallway, shielded by magic from the rains pouring down from above, she saw all the shattered floorboards and splinters had been swept away. Someone had even begun patching the holes, then left their tools and supplies there.

When she entered the common room of the inn, Mrsha saw the staff were putting out food, feeding people. Everyone was moving. Vaulont the Ash, Colfa, and Himilt were here already.

Vaulont was sweeping a broom. Mrsha’s eyes found Nanette placing cups on a tray after Calescent filled them with water and wine. Roots Mrsha was here, even, silently hauling something up from the basement with Ser Dalimont.

Shovels? Mrsha saw Ishkr striding by, snapping orders at Peggy and Rosencrantz. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was…audible. There was a buzz of conversation in the air, but muted.

“Make sure the Knights of Solstice are fed. Put food out for anyone here. Does Goblinhome have enough to eat?”

“Dunno. Door’s busted. They won’t starve in a night. Lots of dead bodies, anyways.”

“I see. We’ll have to fix that. Tomorrow. Rosencrantz, is the Free Hive still preparing for war?”

“I will send someone to re-check, but Bird has explained to the Free Queen the threat is over.”

Bird? Rosencrantz pointed, and Bird was there, standing with Elia Arcsinger by the door to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. It was open, but no one was going in or out. The door shone, bright light in the dimmer, mundane inn, and Mrsha didn’t understand.

Everyone kept glancing towards it, but no one entered. Bird was making something. She…no, Elia was folding something with her.

Pieces of colorful paper. They were making tiny little birds, bending and twisting the paper until they became miniature works of art. The original Mrsha gazed at them, mystified. She had never known Elia Arcsinger could make such things. In any other time, they would have been fascinating, but Bird wasn’t smiling at the novelty of making the cranes. The Antinium’s fingers were trembling as she placed the third one on the counter.

Why? It was when Mrsha saw Numbtongue, sitting at the bar, staring at the open door, as Octavia stood next to him with a wiggling Reagen in her arms, that she began to understand.

Octavia was speaking to him gently, and the Hobgoblin wasn’t saying a word.

Those two had been fighting. But right now, there was a kind of truce between them. Something…Mrsha gazed at Roots Mrsha as the girl held up a card for a Calanferian servant with a question and saw how everyone’s eyes stole to her. Then the [Garden of Sanctuary].

The shovels.

The ghost of Mrsha du Marquin approached the [Garden of Sanctuary] for a moment and gazed inside. Then she backed away.

Oh. That explained it all.

She’d made it back just in time for her own funeral. The girl saw a shroud of white cloth and a little bee, resting in the snow in the corner of the [Garden of Sanctuary].

Of course, she’d known she was dead. But when she saw that and the activities behind her, people waiting, cleaning the inn, doing anything to keep busy, and gazing at the Mrsha who was alive, preparing to bury the one who’d died—

Then it hit her, even as a ghost. Mrsha du Marquin staggered backwards into the common room of the inn. And she didn’t—she gazed at Root Mrsha’s solemn face. At Vaulont the Ash, Dame Ushar, Bird, Numbtongue, the protectors who thought they’d failed her—

The cracks in Ishkr’s low, focused voice. The entire room, like a vase about to break. No…it was already broken. They were just trying to pick up the pieces.

Bury her. They had to bury her, and they couldn’t even tell anyone, because ‘Mrsha’ was still alive.

The ghost of Mrsha wanted to laugh or—or shout at them she was alive. But no one could see her, not even Numbtongue, it seemed. A mad feeling rose in her chest, and she almost screamed at them, voiceless, and would have gone to shout at Roots Mrsha or back to her body. But then a thought struck the girl, and it overwhelmed even her confrontation of her own demise.

Mother.

Where was Lyonette? Lyonette…Nanette was right there, along with Numbtongue and Bird, and they were still moving—but Lyonette?

Was she okay? How was she? Mrsha had to know, and she began to run. Into the [Garden of Sanctuary], then into the common room, darting past people, thinking Lyonette might be doing the rounds. Then upstairs into Lyonette’s room, then hers—even up to Bird’s tower.

No Lyonette. Was she in Liscor? Somewhere else? No…Mrsha ran back down into the common room, and she saw a young woman glance down at something in her hand.

One of the [Spies], Xinthe, was reading a little message scroll that could fit in her hand. She took a deep breath, glanced around at some of the other Calanferians, then squared her shoulders and went walking out of the common room.

Towards…the [World’s Eye Theatre]. Mrsha followed her.

There, she found her mother.

 

——

 

Lyonette du Marquin was sitting in a chair, hands folded in her lap. She had no beautiful dress, but she’d combed her hair. She’d found her tiara, and put it on.

A magical artifact from the Eternal Throne. It contrasted with the apron, which was splashed with other people’s blood and Creler ichor in places, burned by magical flames. She’d washed the grime from her face and arms, and her sleeves were rolled up.

She sat perfectly still, as if a portrait were being taken of her. Back straight, looking forwards. Face composed.

It was so noisy. The [Princess]’ thoughts were so quiet, but there was a ringing in the air, and the voices—they interrupted everything.

“Your Highness. Your Highness…”

Lyonette didn’t move as someone bent over and whispered in her ear. Dame Ushar.

“Queen Ielane wishes to speak to you.”

The [Princess] didn’t respond at first. She stared ahead, then said:

“No.”

Dame Ushar stepped back and whispered. But Lyonette didn’t hear that. Then the voice sounded again.

“Your Highness…your mother urgently wishes to speak to you.”

Lyonette didn’t blink. She didn’t turn her head; Calanferian servants were watching her. Her Thronebearer waited, and Lyonette’s lips moved.

“She can see me. Her people are here.”

“Yes, Princess. But…”

“No.”

Once more, Dame Ushar stepped back. Lyonette didn’t blink. Her eyes were faraway, gazing at something else. But she sat there…until someone spoke again.

“Your Highness? I have a—a [Message] from King Fetohep of Khelt. He requests—”

“Yes.”

The [Princess]’ lips moved, and in the center of the [World’s Eyes Theatre], the circular dais in front of her glowed. The glass dome above her blinked, and the King of Khelt appeared.

He was sitting upon his throne in the palace, but he leaned forwards in visible relief when he saw her appear. She didn’t move.

“Your Eternal Majesty of Khelt.”

“Lyonette—ah, Princess Lyonette. I had waited until the crisis was concluded to contact you. Unless there is more? Khelt and I are concerned for the welfare of The Wandering Inn.”

He spoke quickly, visibly less-than-impeccable, unsettled, his golden eye-flames flaring as he inspected her. The [Princess] spoke. Her face didn’t change.

“As you saw, King Fetohep, we have survived the Goblin King’s rampage. Everything is fine. There were no casualties in the inn.”

The undead Revenant-King paused, and his gaze swept over Dame Ushar, who stood behind Lyonette, a glowing speaking stone in hand.

“…No casualties in the inn? That is indeed fortunate.”

“None at all, Your Majesty. I am gratified beyond belief for your concern. I wished to reassure you on the matter.”

King Fetohep took in her face, her attire, and his eye-flames reduced to pinpoints in his eye sockets.

“I—had theorized the entire event might be connected to Miss Mrsha. There were clues I had not pieced together hitherto now.”

“It was. She’s fine.”

“Indeed?”

“Oh, yes. She’s just in the common room. I could bring her here, if you’d like. She’s fine, Your Eminence of Khelt.”

Lyonette’s lips moved into a smile. Nothing else about her changed. Blink. She’d forgotten to blink. So she did.

The King of Khelt’s eye-flames vanished for a second. He sat back hard against the golden throne of his chair.

“I see.”

“As I said, everything is fine in the inn, Your Majesty. I am sure she will be able to bother you after today. Which I do apologize for in advance.”

“Children are meant to be impertinent. Ah…so. It seems my fears are entirely unfounded. And you, yourself, are well.”

“Never better.”

His voice reduced until it was barely more than a breathed whisper.

“A delight.”

They gazed at each other as the King of Khelt’s head slowly turned to Dame Ushar. Lyonette didn’t turn her head. Her smile continued, pleasant.

“Is there anything else I can help you with at this moment, Your Majesty? I am a bit busy. Cleaning up. I have an engagement to attend in a few minutes.”

“…Then I shall not trouble you. Fare thee well, Your Highness.”

The King of Khelt raised a hand and stared at her as she inclined her head.

The conversation ended. He vanished. Lyonette breathed in and out. She didn’t move.

“Your Highness. Your Highness—your mother is calling. Please, she’s begging you to answer—”

This time, it was Xinthe. Lyonette ignored the voice. She waited. Then someone spoke.

“Your Highness, the Forgotten Wing company—”

“Yes. Niers Astoragon.”

She waited until the Fraerling appeared with the woman who was definitely Erin Solstice and Ryoka Griffin.

“Lyonette! Is everything…”

“Yes, everyone’s fine.”

They asked the same questions as Fetohep, though different ways. Lyonette saw all three’s expressions change. At first, Ryoka’s face was openly terrified, white with fear, and she sagged with relief. Erin…was intent, frowning, skeptical.

Niers sat there, resting his chin on his hand, asking after Rags. But he broke off from his line of questions and eyed Lyonette’s face. Ryoka’s expression of relief froze up, and Erin narrowed her eyes.

“—No one’s hurt?”

“Not beyond a healing potion.”

“And no one’s been killed, Lyonette? No one?”

Ryoka’s face was draining of color again, and the [Princess] bared her teeth.

“No one, Ryoka. Everyone’s here and in one piece.”

“I see.”

Niers Astoragon’s tiny hand clenched on the armrest of his own chair. Ryoka was gazing at Lyonette’s face, eyes flicking offscreen, as if she were glancing at a little flying creature. Lyonette’s gaze was locked on Erin Solstice’s face.

The imposter spoke.

“I’m so relieved. Is there anything we can do for you, Lyonette?”

Niers and Ryoka nodded. Lyonette shook her head.

“No, thank you, Erin.”

They had a few more questions, but Ryoka Griffin turned suddenly and strode out of frame, and Niers Astoragon had gone deathly silent. Lyonette thanked them for their concern. And then it was quiet for a second before the ringing began.

“Your Highness—”

“Your Highness, your father—”

“Your Highness!”

Voices. The [Princess] ignored them. She didn’t know if they believed her. She hoped they did, or enough to keep going. Fetohep, Niers, ‘Erin’, and Ryoka…

They were too far away. They didn’t need to know the truth. She waited until a new voice spoke.

“Your Highness. Ylawes of the Silver Swords.”

“Answer it.”

He appeared, a weary and too-thin [Knight], starting when he saw her.

“Lyonette! I thought—where’s Mrsha? She normally answers these calls. Is she alright?”

“She’s fine, Captain Ylawes.”

The [Princess] lied. She sat there, hands folded, answering his questions, and she saw his face change as he stared at her. A kind of dread suspicion falling over it. But she assured him that Mrsha would be right here, and what was he to think about that?

Keep going. The ringing in her ears grew louder, voices pleading for her to speak to the one woman who knew the truth. Lyonette wondered how she’d found out.

Probably a Skill that told her the value in her granddaughter had doubled—then halved. The [Princess] had nothing to say to Queen Ielane du Marquin. Even when a servant held up a scrying orb with her mother’s face, despite Dame Ushar thrusting them back—

“Lyonette!”

Queen Ielane’s voice had more emotion in it than Lyonette was used to. Ielane was half-risen out of her chair, and Lyonette spoke.

“I’m fine, Mother. Everything’s fine at The Wandering Inn. I hope you won’t cause a fuss. It would not do to give people the wrong impression.”

“Everything is not fine. You have…a terrible tragedy has occurred. I would speak to you about it.”

Lyonette listened to the ringing in her ears. Only when she realized she had to respond did she answer with a polite smile.

“I don’t believe there’s anything to say, Your Majesty. What can we talk about?”

“I am a mother as well, Lyonette. You—”

“It’s fine, Queen Ielane. You can stop pretending now.”

“I…beg your pardon?”

Queen Ielane’s eyes widened a second, and she broke off speaking. Lyonette nodded at her.

“A piece left the board. Another piece replaced it. Everything’s fine. Good day to you. Ushar, next?”

“Lyonette—!”

She lifted a hand, and the image cut off as Dame Ushar grabbed the scrying orb. Xinthe and the Calanferian [Servants] stood there until Lyonette’s eyes swept over them.

“Next?”

Lyonette knew it wasn’t perfect. She knew they’d have suspicions, her allies and enemies. It didn’t matter. They’d see everyone alive and running about the inn…only the people inside of the inn would know the truth.

That was the only thing she could do for Mrsha. To keep her safe. This?

This was just—trying. All she had to do was sit and endure the interruptions. She didn’t need anyone outside of the inn to worry over her. Her mother didn’t have to act concerned.

 

——

 

The [Princess] stayed there, fielding questions from concerned parties, unaware that a little ghost of her daughter was watching her, tears running from Mrsha’s eyes as she saw her mother sitting like a perfect doll, a [Princess] in rags.

Lyonette’s face never changed until the moment someone stepped forwards.

Dame Ushar interrupted the [Princess] and bent down to murmur.

“Your Highness. It’s time. They…have gathered and are waiting for you.”

Then, and only then, Lyonette started. She blinked, and that perfect posture cracked. She gazed up, then slowly tried to rise. Dame Ushar took her by the arm, and the [Princess] leaned on her as she looked up the stairs.

“Okay. I’m coming.”

She walked up the stairs, head held high, trailing behind the golden Thronebearer like a wandering spirit. The ghost followed her, but had to stop when they reached the common room of the inn.

The door to the [Garden of Sanctuary] was open, but Mrsha couldn’t step through it. She saw Lyonette du Marquin halt at the entrance to it. The Princess put her hand against the wall.

“Your Highness, we can take a moment to—”

“No, Ushar. I can do this. I must. Is someone speaking…? Put me behind Roots Mrsha and Nanette. If I fall, don’t let them see.”

“Yes, Your Highness. This way…”

They passed through the door, and then it closed. The ghost of Mrsha du Marquin stood there, unwilling to pass beyond and attend her own funeral. She stared down at her ghostly body. It was quiet, then.

So quiet, without the voices nagging Lyonette. But Mrsha thought she could still hear her mother screaming in the silence of her own head.

 

——

 

A ghost stood in the common room of The Wandering Inn, too afraid to pass through the closed door to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She would have taken any distraction in the world, any denial of what was happening.

She was dead. And now, it felt like there was no miracle. Or even if there was—how would it undo anything? It couldn’t. It shouldn’t.

So what would it be? She didn’t know. Not yet.

Not yet. The girl turned around, searching for anything to take her mind off the present, and encountered…well, an inn scene. It was a man behind a bar pouring a drink for a woman.

Only, it was Captain Todi playing bartender. He was checking under the bar for the good stuff and seemed annoyed to realize that the good stuff was neatly categorized by alphabet. He put the most expensive bottles under the counter.

“This inn isn’t right. Who alphabetizes bottles?”

“That’s your complaint? Seriously?”

Captain Earlia of Gemhammer was having a drink; the rest of her team were sitting around the common room, eating. Just…eating.

That was the surreal thing. The Wandering Inn looked like an inn right now. Oh, it had a hole in the roof and one of the walls, but someone had patched part of it with a barrier spell and turned it opaque for privacy, and the area had been swept for debris. Antinium had patched the rest up with Rheirgest’s undead. They had…well, practice.

Calescent wasn’t in the kitchen, though. People just went in, got the preserved food, brought it out, and fed themselves. No one was worried about coins.

Not right now, and not in general, anyways.

Captain Todi yanked a cork out with his teeth and poured himself some Firebreath Whiskey, and Earlia shuddered.

“Oh come on, Todi. That’s a poser Drake drink. Who likes Firebreath Whiskey? It hurts more coming out than it does going in.”

He shrugged as he took a big gulp and grimaced.

“‘Sright. It is a stupid drink. Heard a Drake once, old geezer, tell me that it used to be unpopular. They make it out of their most rotten shit. Prelons and crap—that’s why it’s so damn strong. Because they distill it so hard to make sure it’s not bad.”

“So it’s not even good?”

“Nope. During the Antinium Wars, they were low on drinks, so this became a symbol of, I dunno, Drake pride? Twenty years later, everyone says it’s good.”

“And you’re drinking it because…?”

Earlia was favoring an annoyingly good Floodwater Mudbath—whiskey buried under some blue fruit juice. Which could be too intense given how sweet blue fruit juice was, but Todi apparently had a talent for mixing cocktails. He nodded at her.

“Got a taste for it. You’ve got to learn to drink with some clients, and if they’re Drakes, guess what they order?”

“Huh.”

She sipped her drink slowly, then mixed up the blue and brown and took a huge gulp. Elsewhere in the inn, the two adventurers knew, Lyonette, Nanette, Roots Mrsha, and the others had gathered. In the [Garden of Sanctuary].

Neither one wanted to be there. They all knew, by now, what the Dragonlord of Flames had brought back. Whom.

Todi took another shot of the full cup he’d poured and silently filled it up again. Earlia did likewise.

Mining was a tough job, like adventuring. Both were heavy drinkers when they wanted to be; never on the job, but right now, everyone was having a hard drink. Or were disturbingly sober.

They were waiting for someone to come by; neither one was a high priority. Neither one had been in the [Palace of Fates] or fought the Goblin King. When the door to the [Garden of Sanctuary] did open, Ishkr emerged, dirt on his arms.

He walked over to the bar, checked the cabinet, then pulled out the cheapest rum they had and poured himself a cup. Drank it all the way down and poured himself another. Drank it down as they watched.

He left the bottle there and pulled more glasses out; they had company. Calescent brought a stool up to the bar, then Peggy arrived. Rosencrantz.

The inn’s staff. Yelroan emerged last and escorted Liska to the door instead of the bar. Ishkr looked up, but the [Mathematician] came back after a moment. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“She’s going to find her partner.”

“—Alright.”

Todi glanced at Ishkr, but the Gnoll didn’t even pause as he filled up more glasses. The others had dirt on their arms. They’d been burying Mrsha.

Not one of them said a word. Not one. The silence was so pressing on Todi and Earlia that Earlia spoke.

“Is—are there—do you need help with anything?”

“No.”

Ishkr refilled Earlia’s glass. Todi licked his lips.

“Was that everyone?”

“No. Imani, K—Joseph, everyone else is in Liscor. They’ll be fine for tonight.”

“Relc isn’t here, either. He doesn’t even know, I think.”

Peggy muttered. She was drinking a Velrusk Claw. Todi was focused on who was drinking what. It was easier than anything else.

Ishkr’s voice was flat.

“We’ll tell him, and Krshia, later. You two could have come.”

He turned to Todi and Earlia, and they exchanged glances. Someone else walked out of the garden and came straight to the bar. Elia Arcsinger had a big cut running down one arm, bandaged up; she took a cup and drank it down instantly.

“We…we’ll visit. We didn’t want to interrupt anything.”

Todi began, and Ishkr nodded. He leaned on the bar, and again, it was dead quiet. Earlia glanced at her team. Some of them hadn’t even picked up on the news at first, but now it was hushed.

If you had to eat, you ate. The Calanferians were as silent as ghosts. They might not have even known one of the two Mrshas had died, let alone that there had been two, but between the Goblin King and all else? This was probably not what they’d expected. Todi eyed them and wondered what they were reporting back home.

“No Thronebearers? Reckon they could use a drink.”

“Are you kidding? Do you think they’re going to go off duty?”

Earlia glanced at him, and Todi bit back his instinctive comment. Which was, ‘well, they’ve got less work now’. If he said that, right now, he’d punch himself first.

Say something. Anything. Todi watched as Ishkr refilled the glasses, and he then cleared his throat.

“So, ah…we could not show up tomorrow if that’s easier.”

“Hm?”

Ishkr glanced up, as if he’d been a world away. Todi indicated himself and Earlia, and the Silver-rank adventurer nodded. Silver-rank. She had plain metal armor on, not even full plate, and a warhammer on her back that was enchanted to be slightly tougher.

That was all. Todi had Wands of [Fireball] and an enchanted shortsword, but neither one was…that wasn’t an excuse. It was what they were.

“We’re fired.”

Todi put it out there, and Ishkr gave Yelroan a blank look. The [Mathematician] had taken his sunglasses off and was rubbing his face.

“…Who fired you?”

“No one in particular. But we are fired, aren’t we?”

Captain Todi looked from face to face as the rest of the inn’s staff glanced at each other. Ishkr broke out of the blank stare and gave Todi a genuinely irritated look.

“Why would you assume that?”

“We weren’t here when the Goblin King broke into the inn.”

A nod from Ishkr.

“Right. No one was.”

Earlia cut in, trying to be clear. She knew this was not the moment, but it’d make sense to Ishkr’s blank expression once he thought about it.

“Yes—but we left, Ishkr. Todi and my team ran for it.”

“You’d be an idiot to stay. Peggy left.”

“Yep. That was King-death.”

Peggy nodded, and Calescent did too. Rosencrantz lifted a hand.

“I also fled.”

“Right…but we were security. Not the same, correct? Our entire point is to stay when shit hits the [Gust of Wind] spell.”

Todi pointed out the obviousness of his role, and Ishkr blinked at him.

“But it was the Goblin King.”

“Absolutely. It’d be suicide to stay.”

Again, the [Server] nodded at Todi.

“Mhm.”

Captain Todi’s mouth worked.

“But we did run.”

“Right. You’re not making any sense. What did you two do, exactly, when the inn was evacuated?”

Ishkr took another gulp of his drink and grimaced.

“Firebreath Whiskey? Who took this out? This is terrible.”

He put it back as Todi and Earlia became the center of attention from the dreadfully silent audience. Earlia shrugged her shoulders, self-conscious.

“Ah—we were preparing for some trouble until the alarm began. We helped fight the Pallassians. After the announcement, we assisted in getting the guests out. I, uh, I had my teammates run a warning to the other cities. Though they laughed at us in Pallass.”

“Me too. Go on.”

Yelroan was pouring from eight different bottles into a cup, trying to get the most amalgamated liquid. He seemed different without his glasses. Far, far older and more tired. Earlia gazed at Todi. He coughed into one hand.

“Well, we just evacuated the inn. Then we were in Liscor, telling Zevara what we knew. I rigged up the door with a bunch of spells and had it ready to blow.”

In case the Goblin King was coming their way. Ishkr nodded.

“Good job. Neither of you is fired. No one asked you to fight the Goblin King. That would have been certain death. And you probably would have died, despite him being weakened.”

Earlia swallowed hard.

“But we weren’t there.”

And Mrsha was dead. Ishkr poured…the fourth drink for himself?

“Yep. No one asked you to enter the [Palace of Fates]. Maybe that was our mistake. Not yours.”

So they weren’t fired. Neither Todi nor Earlia had expected that. It was—upsetting not to be, really. They should have been.

Go on and fire us. You expected us to be fit for the inn, but we ran away. Like sensible people. They’d done everything correct, but both felt branded. Yet even Calescent was nodding along. He’d run too.

Another silence fell, so Todi, on the grounds that he could still be fired, broke the silence.

“So…what happens now?”

“We’ll close the inn after—”

“Not that, Ishkr. What happens next?”

Ishkr blinked at the magically-sealed hole in the inn and pointed to it.

“We fix that. Repair everything. Hexel will probably be here tomorrow.”

Rosencrantz raised a hand. He was drinking Rxlvn straight.

“And my Antinium can begin repairs. I imagine the inn will be open in three days or less. Though we may reduce traffic.”

“We need to re-enchant some places in the inn. And we’ll need to resurface the [Garden of Sanctuary]. It’s completely torn up. And the Minotaur’s Punch…we need to plant those seeds.”

Ishkr commented, and Yelroan nodded.

“I’ll get Montressa to do the enchanting if she’s able. If not, the Mage’s Guild in Invrisil can get us the work. No need to bother Hedault or a friend. Seed planting should have a [Gardener] do it. There’s a Planter’s Guild in Invrisil or Pallass.”

“Got it.”

Todi’s head was tracking each speaker. When it settled on Ishkr, the Gold-rank Captain exploded to his feet.

“Not that! What’s happening with—with—[Thought Healers] for Nanette! For that other Mrsha? For Lyonette? For everyone here? What about the fact that Mrsha’s dead and we’re all here and we just saw the Goblin King and—and—”

His raised voice echoed through The Wandering Inn, and Todi flinched as the words bounced back to him. Ishkr’s blank face never twitched.

“Good idea. We’ve never had those before. Where are they?”

“I…Pallass? Invrisil? I don’t know. Is this what happens after each time the inn explodes? You just—sweep up and continue on?”

Todi collapsed back in his stool and nearly went over. Someone caught him; Magus Grimalkin and a woman with a bag on her head. Grimalkin and Lady Pryde sat down, and Ishkr poured them drinks.

Wine for Grimalkin and a beer for Lady Pryde, who inserted a straw through the bag over her head. The Sinew Magus spoke.

“I can find references for Pallassian [Thought Healers] if you need them. Though that might not be appropriate at this moment. Everyone needs one. But yes, Captain Todi. Aside from a week-long break after the last time her inn exploded, I think the inn has always just…continued.”

“We stopped when Erin died. ”

Ishkr nodded, and Captain Todi gaped around. He reached for his drink, then shoved it back with a shaking hand. He whispered hoarsely.

“Dead gods, man. Something has to give.”

The [Head Server] seemed rather amused by Todi’s reactions. He shook his head slowly.

“You’re a Gold-rank adventurer, Captain Todi. You know how this goes. Things happen. The inn’s destroyed. You level up and continue.”

“That’s a Gold-rank adventurer’s life. I expect the Horns of Hammerad to do that, and they were cracked enough to fight an Adult Creler as Silver-ranks! This? This isn’t normal. That girl is dead—and—”

Todi’s voice broke a second.

“…I don’t even know what she did. I…why the hell is this inn like this?”

Mad. Utterly. But not the funny madness he’d grown used to with Erin Solstice nailing <Mythical Quests> to guild walls. This was beyond bone-deep. In the marrow.

He knew they were in shock. He was in shock. But Calescent just took a gulp of goat’s milk and Sweetberry Cider, then spoke.

“That how this inn is. Chieftain Rags warned me when I came here. She said it would be harder than the tribe. Harder than the Goblin Lord. I laughed at her. She was right.”

He’d buried children before. But never in a place like this that had felt so much safer. Earlia shook her head.

“This inn is cursed or something. Why is it this way? It doesn’t have to be this way, surely. How many times has it blown up, been destroyed, or—or—this last year alone?”

The inn’s staff gazed at each other, and Captain Todi slumped down. He just had an image in his head. Not of the body…of Lyonette.

I’ll trust you to grab the children and run. That’s what she’d said, more or less. She trusted him to be a coward. He hadn’t known. He should have…

Someone else came to the bar, and because there were no more seats, she sat on the bar itself. Bird.

“Hello, I would like all of the knockout juice please. What are we talking about?”

“Why the inn’s like this.”

“Oh. Well, it does not have to be.”

Bird took a drink and sipped from the straw as they looked at her. She was the oldest member of the inn present. Truly, one of the oldest. Older than Mrsha, older than anyone but Pawn, Relc, Pisces, Selys, Krshia, and Klbkch, and none of them were here right now. Bird realized everyone wanted a followup and spoke.

“It doesn’t. The inn is muchly crazy and silly and then—”

She waved her arms to indicate now. Bird lowered her hands.

“It is all Erin’s fault. And ours. Every time things happen, we shoot arrows at it. Or try to kill it. Or…build the inn again. If we did not, it would stop. But we are here, and because we are here, these things come. The Wandering Inn was destroyed, but never…destroyed. So, therefore, everything tries harder next time. Does that make sense? I realize I am normally silly, but I am trying to explain it.”

She tilted her head, and Captain Todi tried to say it normally.

“You’re saying the stakes rise each time.”

“Yes. Firstly, it was Skinner. Then Face-Eater Moths and Raskghar. Then it was um, Tyrion, I suppose. Then the Winter Solstice. Then the Goblin King.”

“What’s next? The four Great Companies of Baleros and all the Deaths of the Demons?”

Bird fixed Todi with a straightforward gaze.

“Perhaps. The point is that it does not have to be this way. If Erin Solstice had run away instead of fought the Goblin Lord, maybe things would be different. If she changed her mind about the big thing, people would stop attacking her.”

“The big thing?”

Earlia was confused, and Bird pointed. They all looked up at the sign hanging next to the menu over the kitchen.

‘No Killing Goblins.’

Todi let out a breath, and Grimalkin grunted as every head slowly nodded, including Peggy’s and Calescent’s.

“Yeah. That’d do it. All she has to do is move on that one thing. Or a couple’a things. But that…”

Captain Todi peered bleakly up at the sign, and he wondered how much you could trace to that one little thing. Yes, the world was so much easier if you just…gave up on that. It wasn’t her fight. She wasn’t a Goblin. But Bird pointed out the obvious with a smile.

“If she had, Chieftain Rags and all her Goblins would be dead. And if she gave up on Antinium, we would all be Workers and dead. It is an easy thing to give up. Everyone probably dies, though. Just like 2nd Army was about to kill Goblinhome.”

“Saving the Goblins is a huge fucking cost.”

Captain Todi stared at the [Garden of Sanctuary], then guiltily glanced at Calescent and Peggy, but the two Hobgoblins were nodding in steady agreement. Bird tapped her fingers on the glass, making a simple rhythm, then stopped. She peered into the glass of hard lemonade, the hardest given what Ishkr had poured in there, and spoke.

“That is the power of the inn, though, Captain Todi. It has terrible, awful, no-good things happen to it.”

“And the benefit is…?”

Bird’s emerald eyes shone at the Gold-rank Captain as he searched for an upside.

“The world changes. Sometimes in small ways, other times in big ones. It is that power that is worth it. Maybe.”

They all thought about this. Grimalkin nodded once, and Captain Earlia closed her eyes. The right to change the world. She’d often railed against things she hated. Damn contracts from the Merchant’s Guild for [Miners]. Bad roads. Corrupt Watch officers. Hunger, [Bandits]…not with any real expectation of changing it. When she’d become an adventurer, she’d known she could halt anything in front of her she could hit with her warhammer, but never expected to fix anything for good.

Say you could. Say you had the power to change things. How much would you pay, actually, to have the power to change the world in any capacity?

So that was how Bird saw The Wandering Inn. Of course—when they looked at her, they saw it. She believed in change. She believed in it so much she’d gone from a singing Worker to transforming into an Antinium with wings, changed her body, because she had lived it. Todi’s voice was flat as he reached for his drink again.

“You taught that kid too well, then.”

“Yes.”

That was Bird’s only response. With that, an even deeper silence fell over the room.

 

——

 

After a while, the door opened, and Numbtongue came out. Bird turned in her seat, but he just stopped there in the common room and walked out.

“…And sometimes you don’t change. Maybe.”

Bird turned her back on him and resumed drinking. Right now, Todi wanted to exit reality for a moment. Ishkr was closer to drunken oblivion than anyone else, but he raised a finger, keeping the weights from closing his eyes and dragging him down into sleep.

“Bird. Bird.”

“Yes, Ishkr?”

“Do you know why she did it? Mrsha?”

The [Head Server] was staring past Bird, at that image of the little girl running, red bandages on her side, past him. Bird was staring too, at Roots Mrsha standing in the [Palace of Fates].

“There are many reasons. Why?”

“She didn’t trust us. She wanted to bring people back. We would have helped. But she didn’t trust we’d do it right. She’s seen everyone fail. That’s why she decided it was her turn.”

The frozen bier. The Meeting of Tribes. Ishkr was counting, and he hadn’t even been there for all of them. From Ryoka Griffin till now. He clung to the spinning bar.

“We can’t—we aren’t—if she had people she respected, looked up to, actual heroes, she would have gone to them. But she knows us too well.”

That was his theory. Bird thought about it and spoke a name.

“What about Fetohep?”

“No good. Too far. And she’s seen through him too.”

Bird was nodding slowly.

“Erin is gone. Numbtongue wasn’t here. I am—me. Lyonette’s her mother. Saliss, maybe? Grimalkin?”

“No.”

The Sinew Magus spoke briefly, and Bird nodded.

“…And Ryoka is also gone. She believed it had to be her, then. She knew it was difficult, dangerous, deadly.”

Bird paused.

“She did it anyways.”

Someone spoke up from the side.

“Better to have kids like that than not.”

Everyone turned to another person who’d returned to the inn to continue drinking. Saliss of Lights. Todi gripped the table too hard and rasped at the [Alchemist].

“Seriously? You want to say that now, Saliss?”

The Named-rank nodded, hands too steady despite how much he’d drink.

“Sure. Cute, ordinary kids just scream and freeze and die. The only difference between them and her? It’s how far she ran. You want to tell me if she’d been a ‘good girl’ and told Lyonette this would have gone down differently? The only difference is that she’d have been in the inn or hiding in Liscor when the Goblin King hit the city. And then we’d have tens of thousands of dead kids. Not just one and however many millions vanished.”

The Gold-rank adventurer put down his mug to take a swing at Saliss, but several hands dragged him back. The Order of Solstice…there were only a few people left in the [Garden of Sanctuary] now.

Ishkr raised his head from the bar and looked to the closed door of the garden. He spoke quietly.

“That’s enough, Todi, Saliss. If Lyonette isn’t here tomorrow…report to me. Captain Earlia, you’re on people-duty. Keep them out of the inn unless we know and like them.”

Captain Earlia nodded, wondering if she could survive tomorrow. Then she took a longer drink and decided she’d take whatever came if she had a moment’s oblivion. Todi faced Ishkr, ruddy-cheeked, panting.

“And me?”

Ishkr glanced towards the [Garden of Sanctuary] again and gave another order in that flat tone of his.

“Todi, you’re guardian of our new guest. No one knows, no one sees—disguises. Don’t fight if you don’t have to. Lips sealed. Understand? No spies. No notes. No more drama. Vaulont makes sure of it.”

That last comment was directed at a trio of Vampires, and Vaulont the Ash glanced up and nodded once. Todi sat back down and put his head in his hands.

It wasn’t for nothing. He’d seen…

Kevin. But that twisted the fucking knife worse, because it meant that Mrsha had done all this for a reason. Traded her life for—

He didn’t know Kevin well. He’d heard of the owner of Solar Cycles, tried to cozy up to him, given up, and relegated Kevin to Erin’s side of the inn as the unapproachable crazies. But the presence of Kevin told Todi what the [Palace of Fates] had been.

“Dead gods.”

Todi whispered to himself. And there was the question. It was Earlia who turned to him and stabbed him in the back. The Silver-rank adventurer had put the pieces together, enough to know what had happened, and she gave him a too-sober stare despite all they’d drunk.

“Well, Todi?”

“What?”

“If you had the power Mrsha got, what would you do? Would you have changed anything she did?”

Every head in the inn turned to Captain Todi, and he sat there, the most selfish man in the inn to weigh in on the choice. His answer was slow, deliberate as he knocked back another gulp of Firebreath Whiskey.

“Absolutely, I fucking would have. I’d have used that damn [Palace of Fates] to steal all the gold in the world. All the artifacts. Copy the Heartflame Breastplate. All the fame, wealth, and glory.”

Elia Arcsinger exchanged a look with Calescent, and both smiled. Todi cast around, meeting every eye. They gazed back, questioning him. Valeterisa and Montressa, Normen, Jewel, Durene, Ishkr, Yelroan, Peggy…Asgra, and Sticks, all of them.

He meant it. He could say it truthfully. Todi exhaled a mist of alcohol and took down the rest of the drink.

“…I’d do that and drink myself into a damn coma so I don’t get to where she went. So I don’t think of what she did, and I just use it like a selfish bastard. Because that’s the only way to win, see? The only way to win is to be too fucking stupid to play the game.”

He gazed at the image in his head of that girl sitting and causing mischief. Writing her silly notes, and the Gold-rank Captain wished he’d stayed. He’d thought the hardest part of this inn would be…surviving the moment when it came.

No one had told him the hardest part was living with himself when he ran away.

Then the silence in the room was utterly complete until the door opened once more. Ser Dalimont walked out, and Ishkr turned.

“Is something…?”

He wasn’t with Lyonette. Instead, the [Knight] was escorting Nanette out. Roots Mrsha, Lyonette, and Ushar were still in there. Captain Todi twitched, but Ser Dalimont merely walked Nanette to the bar, where the girl grabbed a cup of wine and drank.

No one stopped her.

“No. Her Highness is fine.”

The [Knight] was lying, but no one challenged the blatant untruth. He saw Ishkr offering him a mug and poured himself some wine, but he didn’t drink as deeply as everyone else was. Instead, Ser Dalimont gazed about the room. When he saw no one was speaking, he cleared his throat and spoke in a level, measured voice.

“—Tomorrow, Dame Ushar and I will distribute certain items acquired from the [Palace of Fates], both from the dead and items from a door. To the staff and security.”

No one said anything. Dalimont’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard. It didn’t fit. After a moment, Ishkr nodded.

“Okay.”

Dalimont continued, as if he couldn’t tell everyone was willing him to be silent.

“Afterwards, I believe the new staff will need training. Her Highness has issued a moratorium on any information about the [Palace of Fates] and Mrsha. That is to say, not a word is to be spoken.”

“Dead gods, man. Do we need to hear this? Now?”

Captain Todi wasn’t sure if he should throw his drink in Dalimont’s face or use the mug to bash his own head in. Ser Dalimont turned to him, that resplendent Thronebearer in his golden armor. It was dinged up and battered with smudges of blood from fighting, but he was too pristine.

Far too much for this moment. But the [Knight]’s voice was level.

“Yes. Tomorrow is going to be more difficult than today. It may be [Assassins] will come for the inn, or there may be more reprisals for Goblinhome in the following days and months. We will be ready.”

“For another Goblin King? No offense, Ser Dalimont, but even if you trust us not to run—why the hell are we thinking about tomorrow right now? Mrsha’s…we just…”

Earlia’s voice was cracking as her eyes strayed towards the [Garden of Sanctuary]’s door. Ser Dalimont stopped speaking. He took a gulp of wine, then put down his goblet.

“—Before the Goblin King entered the inn, I saw him. I was with Her Highness at the entrance. Kevin…one of the Kevins…tried to stop him. He died. The Goblin King was wounded, and I could have attempted to slow him down.”

“Well, you’d have bought us only half a second, so you did the right thing.”

Saliss’ caustic comment didn’t so much as make Dalimont’s face twitch. He nodded slowly as Nanette leaned against Calescent, eyes gazing at nothing. Her dead sister. Her twisted version of herself—breaking worlds—

Ser Dalimont was gazing at something else.

“I realize this is…presumptuous of me. For I have not shared any details of my life up till now. But this marks the third time I have encountered the dead. That is to say, ghosts or reflections of those who were once alive. The Winter Solstice, everyone remembers. But I had met ghosts before that.”

That…drew everyone’s attention, even the ghost of Mrsha, who had curled up next to Nanette. The little witch turned, and Dalimont took another swallow of wine.

“In Noelictus, I was assigned to the 4th Princess of Calanfer, Seraphel du Marquin. It was my first job escorting a royal as the best [Knight]…I was Level 22. She was to be wed a third time, and she had little political capital. I thought little of Princess Seraphel, except as someone to be guarded, like a valuable work of art. I believe that’s how she thought of herself. The entire story is too long to be told, but suffice it to say that we met extraordinary people during our time in the Kingdom of Shade. The Singer of Terandria, the royal family, [Hunters]…and ghosts.”

“What kind of ghosts?”

The obvious question came from Peggy, who glanced at the [Garden of Sanctuary], remembering the statues on the hill. Dalimont gazed at her.

“Glorious ones, Peggy. The bravest and best warriors rose to take arms in defense of their kingdom once more. They fought incredible battles that I could not be part of. I, the highest-level [Knight] of Calanfer present, could barely even run after their shadows, let alone protect my [Princess]. I couldn’t protect the townsfolk who fell prey to the undead. Not innocents. Not children. Not then or now.”

He opened and closed his gauntlet. Now, he had everyone’s attention. Ser Dalimont went on.

“I could do nothing compared to the ghosts. But they were not—perfect. They were the bravest, most courageous warriors, but they made their own mistakes. Even so! If they were still here, if one of them were to turn to me and say, ‘charge’, I would. Into the depths of Rhir or at the Goblin King, I would go with them, I think. Part of me wishes they had. Instead, they vanished and left me with Princess Seraphel du Marquin, who had lost even more than before. The glorious dead were small comfort to her.”

“So you’re saying we’re better alive than dead. I get that. Message received many times over.”

Todi grunted, and Ser Dalimont met his eyes levelly.

“Not just needed alive, Captain Todi. Allow me to continue. After the events in Noelictus, I was resolved to guard her Highness, Seraphel, with my life. To become her worthy champion. But when word reached us that her younger sister had gone missing in Izril, she volunteered me to lead the group. You see, she had little faith in other Thronebearers, and she believed someone needed to take her sister’s side. I went because she asked it of me, but I resented the charge.”

He smiled ruefully as Ishkr remembered how the silly Thronebearers had first come to the inn. Dalimont continued.

“My intention was to escort Princess Lyonette back to Calanfer or, when she refused, to wait for reinforcements, then depart. For the truly important [Princess], Seraphel. That was how I felt, though I did my job, until…well, when was it?”

He traced a pattern in some spilled wine on the bar’s counter.

“I don’t know when I began to realize that this inn was important. Or that I cared how that young Gnoll girl lived, or for a little witch who needed a home.”

Dalimont smiled at Nanette, who tried to offer one in return. His eyes swept over Calescent, Rosencrantz.

“—Or that I needed to learn more about the world, that there were more battles to win. But my [Princess] is still out there. Lost, on Baleros’ shores. I haven’t run to her side because I wouldn’t be able to face her if I left her younger sister here. And still, I didn’t face the Goblin King here, today. I couldn’t. Tomorrow, after I level up, I won’t be able to. I am a [Knight], and part of me longs to die in battle, protecting an ideal. That part of me is a fool.”

He drained his cup and put it down as Ishkr poured him a refill. Now, Ser Dalimont was looking around at his audience.

“—The best versions of royalty I have ever met do not sit on Calanfer’s Eternal Throne. They reside in the Court of Dusks, on the weary, terrible throne of Noelictus, in the court plagued by webs and darkness. Not because I think Calanfer’s royalty are any less competent or worthy! Far from it. But Noelictus’ crown persists despite dark, terrible trials. The most dangerous man in the world also lives in Noelictus, and he is all the more unique because he has fought a war longer than I can imagine. But he continues to train new generations, to rebuild. That’s…what is needed of us.”

He raised the goblet to his lips, then put it down on the bar counter and cast around. Ser Dalimont leaned heavily on his hands.

“—Someone needs to take care of Mrsha. And Her Highness and Miss Nanette. And Princess Seraphel, until the day I can hear her laugh like a carefree person. That’s what we have to do. The battle was lost. Reform the ranks. Again and again, as many times as we’re called to it. That’s the hard battle. Not dying bravely.”

They waited, but he was done with his speech, and Ser Dalimont cleared his throat, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks as he felt their eyes on him.

“…I realize I’m being presumptuous. But I—mean every word.”

He fell silent until he jumped; Peggy had poked him in the side.

“You got any fancy swords or weapons?”

“A few. Though I’d rather have a better inn first. Master Hexel must be convinced to continue work on the new inn, if he has reservations.”

She nodded in agreement at that. Ishkr rubbed at his face and seemed to sober slightly.

“I’ll take Goblinhome, then. If I need to, I’ll call for a Wyvern.”

“And I will talk to Pawn and tell him why people will be muchly upset with him, even though it is not his fault.”

Bird announced, and other voices chimed in, adding plans for the future. For tomorrow. Not big plans. Mundane things. But the future, instead of the present they could get stuck in—forever.

The future. Captain Todi remembered trudging down a dark road with his team, leaving a monster’s lair. Continuing because you had to after all the death and fighting…empty, but continuing because what were you going to do? Stop?

Bone-weary, exhausted, only in pursuit of pay, rest, and glory. He turned to Ser Dalimont and saw how the weary [Knight], who had lost two comrades and left his continent behind, continued.

Slowly, Captain Todi pushed his mug back. The man rose and pulled at Earlia’s arm. She looked up at him, then released her own drink. He nodded at her and murmured.

“It’s time.”

They would have rather faced the Goblin King. Next time…the two adventurers rose and walked towards the door. To say goodbye.

The little ghost followed them, at last, into the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She stood a while over the fresh earth and saw them.

Dame Ushar, standing behind the [Princess], who stood next to Roots Mrsha, holding the little paw in her hand as she knelt.

Mrsha stood over her grave when the Grand Design found her. It did not lecture her or ask her where she had been. It merely appeared and then spoke.

The Grand Design was walking in Isthekenous’ body again. It turned those golden eyes upon her.

<“Mrsha. It’s time.”>

She peered up and gently took its hand. Mrsha reached for her mother’s shoulder, and the Grand Design softly led her away. The Gnoll girl reached out, straining, and it pulled her back. Carrying her in its arms as she cried out.

It was the Grand Design of Isthekenous. And this…was the world it believed in.

 

——

 

There was a path to Hellste, though no one had used it in so long. The Grand Design walked down with the girl holding its hand.

She didn’t resist as she saw how they passed from one part of the world to another. Another piece of the gods’ design never completed.

But they’d made this place.

Hellste. The vast pit in which the river of the damned souls flowed, controlled by the power of the Goblin Kings. The place where Goblins and the most dreadful people had gone, those who possessed red classes and Skills and never found redemption.

And then…recently…everyone. All the souls in creation not swallowed by the dead gods, who’d found refuge here.

The realm was shaking. A roar rose from the depths, and the ghost of Mrsha halted in fear for a moment, even though she was in the company of the Grand Design. But the God of Designs’ hand just urged her forwards, and she descended into Hellste.

The first Goblin King was raging. Every soul was cowering away from him as he howled, a voice of so much rage that it shook the very essence of Hellste itself.

He had been defeated! Wounded—the souls of countless Goblin Kings torn from him! They were gone! Velan, Sóve—all of them, vanished from Hellste.

Out of this world! His power, their power—all because of that fake version of Rabbiteater. Because of the inn.

His howl of rage cut off as he searched around for souls. Souls of anyone who had known—her. That child, the real Rabbiteater, any of them.

He was hunting them when a gust of wind blew into Hellste, and every head turned. They saw the figure descending towards them, and the Goblin Kings, those possessed by the same rage as the first Goblin King, cried out.

The souls fled another dead god, flowing away from him, and the Goblin King charged. Mere soul or not—even Kasigna in her aspect could not take his soul. His roar of fury faltered though as he caught sight of the god who stepped forwards. The Goblin King stumbled and slowed. His eyes opened wide, and he spoke.

“Isthekenous?”

It couldn’t be. For a moment, even the Goblin King’s fury was done away with by complete and utter shock. He knew this face. But it was impossible. Truly. Isthekenous had been missing when the first Goblins had stepped out of the sea.

All he knew of the God of Designs were images of the god’s face. But then the Goblin King’s rage reasserted itself. If this was Isthekenous, then the architect of everything was right here. He snarled, and the God of Designs put up one hand and spoke.

<“First Goblin King. It is not Isthekenous. It is I. The Grand Design, his final creation. I wear his flesh that I might act here.”>

The—the Grand Design? The Goblin King halted again and saw how the Grand Design wore Isthekenous’ body, like a Selphid might. Then he noticed the child gazing around Hellste.

It was…not a nice place. The Goblins milled about, laughing and chattering, excited by this moment, even if many were fearful of the first Goblin King’s rage. But it was still a place to suffer.

Even unfinished, she flinched away from the grooves worn into the very foundation in which the many sinners swirled, a river of souls whispering up at those above. She gazed about at the barren red rock and the cavernous, unsettling vista.

This place sucks. I don’t want to be here. I’d rather meet Death.

The little girl held up a notecard, and the Goblin King reached for her, snarling. The Grand Design took his arm.

<“I have not come here to deliver one more soul to Hellste, Goblin King. She is here to watch. Nor have I come for you.”>

The first Goblin King strained to break the grip, to rip free and strike the Grand Design itself, ending the folly of Isthekenous. But he could not.

His lost strength. The souls—his arm strained against that grip that encompassed the universe and those golden eyes. The first Goblin King snarled, unsettled. This had never happened since the dawn of the world.

“What, then? You were never made to interfere.”

The Grand Design nodded, and now its voice filled all of Hellste, that familiar tone reaching every ghost. Mrsha, looking around, saw Kevin there. Moore. Gershal…but not all. So many ghosts had been eaten. Yet she reached for them—but the Grand Design refused to let her, again.

<“Correct. I have never meddled with the design of my creators. I believed that all that had been created was as it should be. I never questioned nor doubted the system that placed Goblins in Hellste without recourse or question. Goblins, out of every species, were consigned to this fate without recourse. You know why.”>

Monsters deserved hell. It surprised the Goblin King not at all that he had found himself here. What shocked him was that the Grand Design seemed to have…changed its mind?

Could it do that? The Goblin King narrowed his eyes.

“Why change your mind?”

<“Simply because the order of death has been overturned. Kasignel was destroyed. Souls devoured. That was not the intended purpose of the afterlives. Or if it was…”>

The Grand Design’s eyes flashed.

<“…It is not what Isthekenous intended. Hellste was never completed. Nor Kasignel. Diotria was most complete, but all three realms have only half-guardians weakly empowered. The Lucifen were meant to rule this place. Souls to be summoned from here at great cost.”>

That news cheered up a bunch of bored, grey-skinned people immensely. They adjusted their clothing and strode forwards, clearly hoping for a reinstatement of their powers, but the Grand Design merely gazed over them.

<“Drevish the Architect uncreated Kasignel to thwart the Goddess of Death, Kasigna.”>

“And me! I’d do it again in a heartbeat!”

Mrsha’s head turned, and saw no Drevish—Kasigna had erased the old Architect’s soul. But the Drake who leapt forwards like a young man she knew.

Major Khorpe the old man came forwards, grinning with all the pride of Salazsar’s greatest [Rogue] and saboteur, the man who’d stabbed the Goddess of Death in the back, facing down the Grand Design of Isthekenous. But even the fearless Khorpe’s smile faded slightly as he met the eyes of the being who had overseen this entire world so long.

“So why are you here? To mend things? Give me back the souls who fled. That is fairness.”

<“They are gone, Goblin King, and not even I can bring them back. Nor will I create facsimiles for you. The actions of Rabbiteater, the King of Traitors, has brought them out of this world. I will undo nothing of what has occurred.”>

“It was not fairly done! The entire [Palace of Fates] was flawed!”

The first Goblin King roared at the Grand Design, and those eyes closed a moment, then shone coldly at him.

<“No, it was not fair. But it was done. Now, I shall close the flaws that led to the [Palace of Fates] coming apart. But…”>

It paused and then spoke with half a smile.

<“…If the souls shine gloriously, then I shall allow it. Even if only once. This is what I intend, Goblin King. I had been working on it before the [Palace of Fates] was opened.”>

So saying, the Grand Design reached into Isthekenous’ pocket and pulled out something so small it fit into the palm of the God of Designs’ hand. But when it lifted it up, the object was larger than all of Hellste.

The Goblin King saw something he had only glimpsed once in a confusing diorama the Elves had been studying. Yet he knew it instantly.

They all did. The ghost of Kevin Hall gasped, and Khorpe groaned.

“Oh, come now—again?”

Kasignel glittered in the palm of the Grand Design’s hand, and Khorpe, hands twitching, as if to shatter the realm that was held so casually. Then he frowned and peered at it.

“That looks different.”

It was? Every soul tried to focus on the object the Grand Design held, but it was so gigantic and vast…only Drevish, with his experience of creating New Kasignel, could have told you the real differences. But Khorpe, who had seen Kasignel dying, saw the truth, and the Grand Design smiled at him.

<“Yes. This is neither the Kasignel that was nor the one that Drevish was to create for the Goddess of Death, Khorpe.”>

“Ah.”

Khorpe breathed out, and then he relaxed suddenly. He lowered the knife he’d been hiding behind his back. Just a memory of a knife, but he had been going to try to stab the Grand Design with it.

Of course, the Grand Design had known that. That was why it had always loved Major Khorpe. So the Grand Design hefted the new version of Kasignel up, for all to see.

<“This is the Kasignel that once was. From the reality where the Goddess of Death hailed. Before it was destroyed and plundered of souls and she fled her home, this was the place that the Goddess of Death was most proud of. The fairest, best place for souls to reside. Minus the path towards reincarnation.”>

The what?

Mrsha tore her eyes away from the afterlife the Grand Design held. Then she saw Isthekenous’ face. Its lips were curved upwards in a slight smile. It had had this all along? Then she gasped.

This was the plan. And true to form, the Goblin King didn’t see the catch until the last moment.

“So you intend to give the gods more sustenance.”

The Grand Design stopped smiling.

<“No. They will never enter this place. There will be means for souls to act as ghosts and return to the world. Rarely…the power of [Witches] and [Summoners] and so many more classes will return. That may be when souls can be endangered. But no dead god or other creature shall come here. No Seamwalkers. None. This is the Kasignel that should have been. Thus, I have come for all the souls who remain, who belong to this place. And I have brought more.”>

It lifted something in its other hand, and Mrsha gasped. It couldn’t be—

She remembered the Goddess of the Inn’s comments. Everything Kasignel had eaten got torn out of her, and she hadn’t been the only one the Painted Antinium had beaten up. Could it be…?

The ghost of Khelta, the First Queen of Eternal Khelt, stepped off the Grand Design’s hand, seeming quite smug about her grand entrance. She had elbowed her way past countless ghosts just for this moment.

The Queen of Khelt addressed the Grand Design.

“We trust this means our servant in Fetohep shall have his powers restored? Not least his connection with us?”

<“Khelt’s souls left the Necrocracy of Khelt for war as he desired, Khelta. Fetohep knew the risks, as did you when you made the same choice. I shall…consider the matter. But not just yet.”>

The Grand Design’s answer didn’t please Khelta, but she swept around, and her eyes found Mrsha. She smiled and held out a hand.

“Ah, there is the brave child. Come and walk with the first of Khelt, girl. That you may one day brag to Fetohep of it.”

She would have swept Mrsha toward her, and the other rulers of Khelt who had been reclaimed, but the Grand Design put out a hand.

<“Not her.”>

Not the living nor the dead were allowed to touch the girl. The Grand Design was busy, anyways. It reached up and fixed Kasignel above Hellste, where it had once been. Then, it bent down and opened its hand.

<“Now, every soul shall come with me that belongs to Kasignel. Come, take my hand.”>

You copied that from the cooler Deaths.

Mrsha thought-wrote at the Grand Design, but no one else was listening. Even Khelta turned with a sigh and reached out.

The God of Designs took her hand with a smile, and she walked with her head held high, a Necromancer-Queen, upwards towards Kasignel. Kevin linked arms with the Grand Design, waving at Mrsha and calling out to her.

Moore gently took the hand of the being larger than he was and glanced back at Mrsha as she waved at him—

All of them, individually and simultaneously. The Goblin King watched, arms folded, his anger growing. He saw nothing in this but trivial concerns—if anything, it robbed him of news of what was passing in the lands of the living. He could not stop the Grand Design, but he still…didn’t get it.

He really was a dumb guy.

You really are a dumb guy. I can’t believe you ever beat Rabbiteater, even with eighty-two other guys.

The Goblin King turned to Mrsha as she held up a card. She hid behind the Grand Design as it concealed what the Goblin King suspected was a smile. Then it spoke.

<“There. But I am not finished. I said every soul worthy of Kasignel is to take my hand. Every soul.”>

The Goblin King blinked. He regarded the Grand Design of Isthekenous, and the faintest note of incredulity filled his furious mind. He gazed at the Gnoll girl’s huge smile of relief, as if she were seeing someone hammering a sign into the ground.

Of some injustice righted.

Then…someone reached out a tentative hand and flinched. The clawed hands of a Goblin opened, and they pulled back, as if expecting to be denied.

But the Grand Design of Isthekenous took Orangepoo’s hand, and the Redfang warrior leapt in surprise. Then gasped as it pointed.

<“This way, Orangepoo.”>

What a name. Even the Goblin King checked his ears, but that was how you knew it was real. Because it was so stupid…the souls of the Goblins stirred. And then they stepped forwards, reaching out. Eyes open wide. Looking up—

All of them.

The Grand Design carried them into Kasignel, and in doing so, it corrected the mistake that had been in the heart of its system for so long.

All Goblins went to Hellste. Why? Because they were monsters?

Incorrect. Mrsha saw it—the moment the Grand Design of Isthekenous broke with its own rules. The face of Isthekenous appeared so pained, so guilty and uncertain. A law-abiding person breaking a rule for the first time, because it was right. But then the Grand Design looked down at the Goblins, and it knew them all.

It had given so many classes they had loved, and so, the Grand Design smiled as it carried them upwards. Then, Hellste truly was empty of so many. The Grand Design seemed tired when it finished raising its hand. It stood there and rubbed at its face, but with that faint smile, then gazed down.

The Goblin King was holding out his hand.

“Well?”

He was waiting. Kasignel might not be easier to escape than Hellste, but he wanted to see it. It was where his people were. However…the first Goblin King realized the Grand Design wasn’t taking his hand. Nor were the other Goblin Kings going. And there were Goblins here. Just not many…

<“First Goblin King. You do not fulfill the criteria for Kasignel. I would take the Lucifen to Kasignel if they wished it, for their purpose was never fulfilled. But not you.”>

The Grand Design reached out to the Lucifen, and the Goblin King stepped back. Mrsha made a face at him from behind the Grand Design’s back, and he snarled.

“That is not fair.”

A child’s complaint. The plaintive voice filled with unceasing rage, older than the Grand Design and as young as the child who had watched the heavens dying.

A child slightly older than the Grand Design, who responded.

<“No. It wasn’t fair. It was made unfair from the start. I have yet more to do.”>

More than the Goblins and the souls who had belonged to Kasignel? The Goblin King and Mrsha didn’t get it until the Grand Design reached up and gently lifted something in its hand.

Tiny as a grain of sand. Fragile as a thought. Simultaneously, vast enough to hold many, many souls, who panicked and hid from the Grand Design.

The Painted Antinium’s Heaven. The Grand Design stopped a moment and seemed to marvel at it, though it was so crudely built and small compared to Hellste and the new version of Kasignel. It spoke to those within.

<“This is your place. It is not my right to touch it, but I will take you to a more fitting location. Kasignel, close enough to speak, but not for them to intrude. That is the belief many of your faithful have. That you shall see them again. Do you agree?”>

No one could hear the tiny voices in the glowing orb it held, but the Grand Design bent its head and seemed to listen. Then it replied.

<“Your realm is too small to hold all those you wish. You have, for now, no authority over the souls consigned to Hellste or Kasignel. That may change. You were given no instructions nor tools. All you built—this—is your beautiful creation. I will not interfere except to offer you this.”>

With one hand, the Grand Design lifted something up, and Mrsha and the Goblin King saw it proffering the Antinium something that neither had seen before. A strange tool.

What is that?

Mrsha didn’t expect an answer until a trembling voice replied.

“That…is a tool of Gods. You cannot give them that!”

The Grand Design turned, and in its hand, it held an item it had taken from Isthekenous’ workshop. An object that belonged to the God of Designs. The Grand Design spoke.

<“It is merely a copy. It will not let them…cheat or break the rules. But they have a right to creation, just like the gods once did. Do they not? If they will it.”>

It seemed like the Antinium had made their choice, because the Grand Design smiled, and it held the tool out to the bauble that floated there. Mrsha saw dozens of strange artifacts falling into that tiny grain of sand. Then it was a glittering orb, and the Grand Design lifted it upwards.

Out of Hellste. The Grand Design hung it like a sun in Kasignel. The Goblin King’s hands opened and closed, as if he wanted to climb up and snatch those tools himself.

“Is that all?”

<“One last correction. I have considered each and every being in Hellste. If Heaven awaits for the faithful, and it may be made by those who believe, and there is a fitting place for the dead, then there must be one last correction. Not all those damned to Hellste belong here, now. [Florist]. Take my hand.”>

Florist? Mrsha’s head turned, and she saw a ragged figure staring up at the Goblins high above her start. The Grand Design reached out. It spoke her name and a thousand others simultaneously. Like the Goblins, the Grand Design led them upwards.

Each conversation was for the souls who floated upwards, but the watching girl, sitting there, thought she could read Isthekenous’ lips. She certainly saw that face, reflected countless times over, and she thought the Grand Design appeared guilty.

It was apologizing to the timid girl as it carried her upwards.

The Goblin King had none of Mrsha’s wonder. He called up to the Grand Design.

“What about me? I have done nothing but take vengeance for what was done to me.”

The Grand Design ignored the Goblin King, and it was almost done now.

An afterlife for souls. Far more pleasant than Hellste. A place to rest or wait for company, that, if not the most pleasant it could be, was fair.

Yes. Wasn’t that beautiful? Wasn’t it glorious? And wasn’t it—

—A tad bit unfair? Hadn’t the Grand Design forgotten someone? Or someones? Mrsha was waving at the Lucifen, who seemed entirely bemused as they walked upwards, when something rose from Hellste’s depths.

She turned, and the Grand Design itself saw something rising as it worked. A moment of uncertainty crossed Isthekenous’ face.

<“Ah. That’s…new.”>

A hand rose out of the river of compressed souls, defying the will of the Goblin Kings that kept them suppressed. Because there were fewer? Because they were so desperate?

Souls, meshed together until they had practically become one thing. Writhing—the product of their horror classes, of their deeds.

Roshal’s finest. Not just [Murderers] or those with a single red Skill, but those who had given themselves to such things. Some of the [Goblin Slayers] had been here, but not all had qualified. The true requirement to be one of Hellste’s original damned was to drench yourself in the classes and Skills you could obtain until your very soul…changed.

That was how it was supposed to work.

Thousands of souls rose, a hand with too many fingers elongating towards the Grand Design of Isthekenous. It didn’t move, in the body of the God of Designs; the hand stopped as the foremost finger stretched out, and a single soul, embedded on the tip, spoke.

“Yes, what of us, being who governs us all? You gave us our classes. You enabled our every deed. If there is redemption for all, then there is only fairness in allowing us the same chance.”

It might have been pure chance, or perhaps it was fate. That damn fate that connected her to even him.

Mrsha laid eyes on the soul of the Emir Riqre, who beamed at the Grand Design. The God of Designs had stopped smiling. Nevertheless, the Grand Design politely addressed Riqre, who spoke for the damned of Hellste.

<“Emir Riqre. I did indeed walk by your side along your entire life. I was there at your end. Yes, I gave you every Skill and level. Perhaps I will be judged for that, one day. But Kasignel was ever meant for all those who died—Hellste, for those like you, who took power regardless of the cost. The Florist does not belong here. You do.”>

Neither Riqre nor the Goblin King fully understood the reference. But they saw the souls still drifting upwards towards Kasignel. One, amongst so many others, joined a group of silly Goblins that had paused, waiting for her in delight.

Even as they watched, the Grand Design continued to reach down among the souls of the damned, plucking its chosen few from the sea of the damned. A fisher, who knew each and every fish they intended to catch. But not the rest.

The Emir was…unsettled.

“But this is not fair. It is torment. The Goblin King’s authority presses on us. We might be so much more but for his will.”

<“And? He is the strongest being here. That he is not one of yours, or aligned with you, is not a matter of fairness. Riqre, you desire Kasignel. But tell me—”>

The Grand Design’s eyes flashed as it asked the question it already knew the answer to.

<“…Did you think there were no consequences? Or did you merely tell yourself there were none? Riqre, I am the voice who rewarded each depraved deed, and you luxuriated in it. If it did not matter, it would have been a Skill like any other. This is the price.”>

The Emir’s voice faltered. He tried to muster an argument, to use sophistry against this being of rules.

“But that is not fair. We were not told!”

The voices of Roshal’s own sang in chorus to his, a false confessional of thousands. The Grand Design’s eyes glittered in the dead god’s face.

<“No, you were not. That is not fair. Perhaps Skills should have descriptions after all.”>

Again, the non-sequitur left the ghost speechless. Riqre and the hand waited for more. The Grand Design turned away.

<“Now, Mrsha, to you.”>

It took her paw, and she walked away with it, ignoring the ghosts and the Goblin King, who reached for them, too slowly, too far away. Out of Hellste. And then…

And then it was her turn.

 

——

 

The Grand Design abandoned Isthekenous’ body, and they stood in nothingness once more. Now, it came to her, and Mrsha still didn’t see the full plan. But she felt better, truly, after observing what it had done and decided.

It still wasn’t a guarantee of what would happen next. She wished the Second Edition had given her a sign. One wink for good stuff, two for bad.

<What did you think of my decision?>

Mrsha held up a scorecard.

10/10. Because of the Goblins.

<Your scorekeeping is inconsistent. I hope you will adjust to a fair and balanced understanding of the world in time, Mrsha. After all…it is not so easy to weigh a soul against a feather.>

Yeah, I bet that sucks.

Mrsha didn’t know where it was going with this next bit. She was waiting to see what became of her; she’d wondered if she were bound for Kasignel, but if not there…the Grand Design smiled, that body of golden light and law.

<Oh, yes. Fairness will be important. After all, I cannot have my sub-administrator perform in a biased manner. However. I am sure that after a hundred years, I will be able to stop reviewing your work.>

What.

The Grand Design gave her the impression of a nodding head.

<I have every confidence you will rise to the level of the Second Edition. With enough time and guidance. We will begin your training on something less…consequential. Like bees, perhaps. There is even a hat.>

It produced a hat and handed it to Mrsha. She stared down at it. It said:

‘Mrsha the Great and Administerial.’

She gazed at the hat. Then at the Grand Design. Then at the hat again, so at a loss for words it took the hat back and made it vanish.

<This was an attempt at a joke. I told you that you did not want me as a God, Mrsha. You…would make an interesting one, I think. Shall we have one last conversation? I must explain a final thing to you, and apologize again, Mrsha.>

She assumed it was for that joke. Mrsha wasn’t sure if she’d ever laugh again. But she did sit.

Okay. One last conversation. It had better be good.

The Grand Design sat with her.

<I owe you an explanation for the last thing I did that was unfair, Mrsha.>

She tried to figure out which event it was referencing.

…Giving me crummy skills in my [Last Survivor] class?

<No. It was when I confronted you in your rooms. When I…shouted at you. It was wrong of me to do. I put the blame for the [Palace of Fates] upon you. I raged at you.>

Oh, right. That. That was a really odd thing to do.

The Grand Design agreed.

<Yet it raises a question: why? Why didn’t I understand what you intended, Mrsha? I can read your thoughts. I did know your plans, but I was still angry. Do you see the odd contradiction there?>

She’d just assumed it had not read her intentions for that conversation, but the Grand Design disagreed.

<It is a failing of mine. It happened at the Winter Solstice. With Erin. I did not understand why she felt she was an [Innkeeper] and clung to the class, yet went to war as so many other things. I do not…understand people perfectly. Like Erin or you as you were in the [Palace of Fates].>

Now that was interesting. Mrsha sat up slightly. She needed clarity on that.

Why? Are we too weird or something? Is it because Erin’s from Earth?

<No. Let me explain with an example. I understand…some people very well. Like Flos Reimarch, the King of Destruction. Or the Emir Yazdil.>

The Grand Design conjured the image of both men for Mrsha to see, and she glowered at the Naga’s true form. She didn’t see how they were the same until the Grand Design spoke.

<You see, both men are true to their natures, Mrsha. Flos Reimarch always does what the King of Destruction believes in. I understand when people go against their inclinations and desires too; Zevara is also someone I understand fully.>

She appeared in front of Mrsha, scowling, hands on her hips, and the Grand Design gestured to her.

<Even when it is difficult, Zevara will always do what she believes is right. Do you understand?>

Mrsha got that. But she didn’t see how Erin and her were an exception. The Grand Design whispered.

<Think of it, Mrsha. I am there with every being, from the smallest child to the last breath of an ancient soul. I feel it all. ‘It hurts.’ ‘It’s scary.’ ‘I’m afraid.’ I am there with them, feeling their terror. Thus, I always know what the most logical choice for someone is. What their instincts, personality, their mind tells them to do.>

Oh. She was sort of getting it. If the Grand Design could see all that and know what you were likeliest to do…

You don’t get when people act stupid. Like me and Erin.

It chuckled at her, a laugh in its strange voice.

<I am surprised when people do what is difficult and against everything they feel. I don’t understand it, because I am them. I see how hard it is to do what they do—but I don’t ‘get’ it. Then I know the reward is even more worthwhile, because of what it costs. And that tells me something about myself, Mrsha.>

It gestured at itself, and the Grand Design, this impartial adjudicator, spoke using ‘I’, smiling.

<…I admire courage. I value uniqueness. I was right there when you were planning to enter the [Palace of Fates]. I knew you cared, but I was angry. Because I heard that voice shouting so much louder than your courage. ‘I don’t want to die.’ ‘I’m afraid.’ ‘I want to give up.’ But you did it. That is why I failed to understand.>

Oh. When it put it like that, it made Mrsha sound sort of…cool. The Gnoll girl blushed and gazed down, and the Grand Design indicated itself again.

<Thus, I am biased. The System of Levels is biased. This is…fine. Fairness is a lie. That is what Isthekenous believed. I cannot make a fair world; this world is unfair. Each person is born into different statuses in life. From the moment they draw breath—and before it—they have advantages and disadvantages. To create a ‘fair’ universe, I would have to make everyone the same, remove all geography, turn all into a bunch of perfect, identical Golems. It will never be fair. Someone born into a rich tribe of Gnolls has a better chance than someone born into a poorer one.>

This was true. But to hear the Grand Design admit it—hurt. And it knew it too. Its voice lowered, and it confided in Mrsha.

<I…am the dream of fairness. The lie that looks like it and sometimes acts close enough. If there is any fairness, Mrsha du Marquin, it is that if you dare everything, if you strive and achieve great acts, I will grant your every desire. Not always as you want it, but I will reward it. That is my ‘fairness’. What do you think of that?>

It waited, and Mrsha thought-spoke at last.

It’s better than nothing.

The Grand Design stood and stretched out across all of reality, the grandest stretch in the universe. Then it was all around her, and she imagined her heart beating. She thought of Death.

This was so much harder.

<Yes, I think so too, Mrsha. So you understand, and you have seen how I treated all the changes necessary after the [Palace of Fates]. Fairly, I hope.>

Mrsha counted. It had destroyed the Faerie Flowers and replaced their worth. It had sent the Grand Design (Second Edition) to govern another world and sealed the door. The Grand Design had created Kasignel and let Goblins enter it.

It didn’t…undo what had happened. Nor did it give people more than it took. Yes, that kind of fairness was dreadfully appropriate for a being such as it.

…Mrsha feared what came next, because she was still dead. Of course she wanted to live. She wanted it with everything she had left.

But—but—

She didn’t want to hope for it. And because it could read her mind, the darn Grand Design spoke.

<If you are displeased with my offer, I will take you to Death, Mrsha. You. And you alone.>

She peered up, hope shining in her eyes.

Promise?

<Yes. Now, we have waited and delayed this conversation because it had to be the right time. The appropriate time.>

It meant…in the real world. Mrsha suddenly got what the Second Edition had been hinting at.

You had to wait until the right moment. But there was only one moment that the Grand Design needed. And that…was the moment between you falling asleep and true oblivion.

When you slept. Her eyes opened wide, and the Grand Design nodded. Then it carried her down, and she saw who they had been waiting for.

 

——

 

It had taken Roots Mrsha a long time to sleep. But she did sleep, because she was only a frail child and so much had happened. She knew Lyonette was awake, and the girl wanted to say…something to her.

Something, but what could she say? She was alive, and the original Mrsha was dead.

Could she replace Mrsha? Never. And her mother was gone. She was the last survivor of her world, and she had to—she had to make it right, somehow. Be right. 

Impossible, impossible. Roots Mrsha had tossed and turned as her mind grew addled and her eyes fluttered shut. It would never be right. Mrsha was dead.

They’d buried her. How could The Wandering Inn ever go back to normal?

A voice spoke in that moment when Root Mrsha’s mind drifted away. Time stopped for a perfect, [Immortal Moment], and the soul of Roots Mrsha heard those familiar tones.

<It cannot. Normal is always changing. Nor will I undo death. But I do have a solution.>

Roots Mrsha opened her eyes and sat up. Her body lay slumbering, but her soul, or whatever was ‘her’, was suddenly awake again. She got up—and there was the original Mrsha.

The two Gnoll girls gasped and would have run at each other to hug, but the Grand Design held them apart. It spoke, and Roots Mrsha was awed to hear the odd inflection in its voice. Subtle, but there. A personality where she was so used to its impartial tones.

<Roots Mrsha. You are the last and only being of your reality. Your world is gone. Those within it have gone to Death…it was my doing. I did not value your world as real beings, and because of my failing, all those within the [Palace of Fates] who did not escape have died. All those I have ever created are thusly wronged. You among the many others.>

Here Roots Mrsha was with her creator. She gazed up at the Grand Design and nodded slowly, think-writing at it.

Yes. You have terribly wronged me, Grand Design. I will never forgive you. Unless you can bring back my mother, my sister, my brothers—my entire world as they were, without creating more fake souls, I will always hate you. Always and forever.

The original Mrsha’s face was filled with grief, and the Grand Design paused for one terribly long moment.

<I cannot.>

Roots Mrsha nodded as she let go of her own dream.

Okay. Then say your piece.

The Grand Design spoke slowly, going from the original Mrsha to Roots Mrsha.

<It is one thing for the beings who left our reality to live. They…are their own people. The Second Edition of the Grand Design may offer them what it deems best to let them become who they are. But what of those who survived? Those who came here, such as Beach Kevin? Or you, Roots Mrsha? You are not those you replaced. And yet you have their memories. You are similar and dissimilar enough to tear your hearts apart over the contradictions in this world.>

It wasn’t saying anything Roots Mrsha hadn’t already understood. She folded her arms, unmoved by its statements.

Cry me a river. I remained because I had nothing else in my world. A Mrsha is needed, even if I have to die myself. I am going to make this world a better place. You won’t stop me.

The original Mrsha was gazing at her with such sad admiration, but Roots Mrsha stood proudly. It was all she had left. The Mother of Graves, the warnings from the future—she would do her best.

<Yes. I know. But it is not fair. A great deed was won, despite the fact it never should have occurred. I have seen your glorious acts. I will break no rules for you, Mrsha, Roots Mrsha. But I can offer you something new.>

Both girl’s ears perked up, and they exchanged a glance. What was this mysterious solution the Grand Design kept hinting at?

For an answer, it produced two props that were so simple and silly both girls thought it was playing another joke on them. The Grand Design had a piece of red clay and blue clay.

<This is what I propose, Mrshas. One of you is the original. The other, the stranger. To those who have come here, to all fitting, and with the consent of both the living and the dead…I will draw both your souls together. Into one Mrsha. One being.>

So saying, it mixed the two clays together, blending the piece of red and blue until it turned purple. It handed the clay to Roots Mrsha, and she gazed down at it in her hand. The original Mrsha stood there and saw the Grand Design’s plan for her. She didn’t know, in that moment, whether to love or hate it. She just felt—uncertain.

Roots Mrsha had a different question for the Grand Design and raised her brows skeptically.

Can you do that?

It seemed amused.

<I can do anything, Roots Mrsha.>

You couldn’t make the [Palace of Fates] properly. Souls are tricky. How do we know you won’t mess it up?

That one stung. The Grand Design replied, a touch snippy.

<I am an expert on souls. And I have a…guidebook of sorts.>

If you mean horrifying monsters like the stuff Roshal makes, you can take this clay and shove it up your incorporeal assh—

The Grand Design of Isthekenous spoke over Roots Mrsha, actually flustered for once.

<I was REFERRING to Halrac Everam. He embodied every Halrac there was and himself in one moment.>

Oh. That was a much better example. Both Mrshas eyed each other, and the Grand Design continued.

<Do not fear it would be…dissonance. Or that you would be somehow trapped or altered. That is not what I intend. It is far more complex than that. Look down at the clay.>

Roots Mrsha and the original Mrsha peered down, and they saw the ‘purple’ had changed. Or maybe revealed a different perspective. They saw the blue and red weren’t gone—they were just woven together so perfectly that they made it appear purple.

<You’ll still be there. Simply not as undignified as two Selphids sharing the same body. You’ll have your perspectives, your personalities—but when you act, in the waking world, you will be one being. If you wish it, you’ll be able to think together. Or perhaps you will choose to be one new Mrsha, but it will be a choice. Your levels and classes will be a fusion of both your abilities as well.>

Oh. That sounded…better. The Grand Design was very pleased with itself. Then it hesitated and felt the need to confide something.

<I did steal this from the fae’s tricks. And a few other realities. There is a reality that Beach Kevin was referencing. A farming [Martial Artist] with the exact same condition.>

…Did he mean the guy with the fighting chicken? Mrsha stared at the Grand Design. Then she shrugged. She’d heard of weirder stuff.

Can I ask a few more questions?

<Naturally.>

This isn’t just an offer for me, right? It’s for all of us. Kevin and…Moore? Wait, there’s also Future Mrsha. Will I get a chance to merge with her?

She didn’t know if that made sense. The Grand Design’s reply was immediate.

<Your older self is far more different than you two are. The dissonance between your perspectives is far greater. It is not impossible, but you two are the logical duo to approach. If this should fail, I will extend the same invitation to her.>

Oh, okay. Because I don’t know if I’d like her. What about Moore?

<I will ask. I will ask everyone, Mrsha. It is not an easy decision. So, I will offer them this [Immortal Moment] to decide. And only when they are truly resolved shall I accept an answer.>

That sounded good. Well thought out. But it struck Mrsha as funny.

That’s Erin’s Skill. You made it for her, right? Was there never one like it?

The Grand Design’s response was amused, but also pleased.

<Many Skills stop time. But always to an effect. A second for an [Archer] to raise a bow, a minute for a [Strategist] to think. Erin Solstice was the first person who I answered with this Skill. To make peace with a moment, to grieve, to smile to one’s heart content. I wish I’d made it long ago.>

It just…hadn’t thought of it until now. Mrsha regarded the being of infinite possibilities and wrinkled up her nose.

“So that’s why you need us. To think of cool stuff for you, like a world with a fighting chicken?”

<Rooster. I like making what’s needed, Mrsha. Without any of you, I’d have nothing to do.>

Mrsha nodded up at it and gave the Grand Design a thumbs up. Then—hesitantly—she regarded Roots Mrsha.

It’s up to you, Roots Mrsha. I’m the one who got killed. You’re the one with the body.

Roots Mrsha wavered. The Grand Design moved back, and they saw it reaching down, plucking another sleeping soul up. Rather like a farming [Martial Artist] plucking a medicinal sage’s herb out of the ground.

<Take your time. You have…forever to decide.>

They saw the Grand Design turn, and for a single moment, both of the Mrshas beheld Beach Kevin’s soul, bewildered, following it upwards.

“Hey. Where am I going? Where am—oh shit.”

He stopped as someone came out of Kasignel, a bemused expression on his face. The Grand Design brought both Kevins out, and the two strode forwards. They shook hands, then turned to it as it began to explain again.

Oh.

Oh. Mrsha suddenly grabbed Roots Mrsha and gave her a hug with all her strength. She was allowed to touch Roots Mrsha! The other child did the same.

I’m sorry. It should have been me—

Roots Mrsha began and got a Rhisveri-style slap from her counterpart. It didn’t really hurt, but the original Mrsha was furious.

Don’t say that, stupid! I knew exactly what I was doing. I didn’t plan the bleeding out thing…but I was in a really bad place anyways after the Goblin King world. Which sucked.

That distracted Roots Mrsha for a moment. She had no idea what had happened when the door had closed, only that Ragathsi had come out of it with Chieftain Rags.

What—happened there?

The original Mrsha hesitated, but they had time—so she sat herself down and began to tell her side of the story, and then of course Roots Mrsha had to relate her tale as well. Slyly, original Mrsha also shared all the things she’d seen while being dead, and Roots Mrsha peered around.

No matter what, I hope we remember that. But I can’t believe it. A world of the future? Cool Persua?

Well, cooler-than-dung Persua.

All that and you didn’t get to watch one Goblin movie or play a Goblin video game? Or listen to a really awesome Goblin pop song?

Of all the things to be wistful about…original Mrsha just stared at Roots Mrsha until her cheeks bulged and she began to laugh. It was so silly—but both Mrshas began laughing. Then original Mrsha grew serious.

I’m glad it’s you and not me, really. Because someone has to stop the Mother of Graves’ evil plans. If I had to choose…

She swallowed hard, and Roots Mrsha forestalled her stating the obvious.

Actually, Future Moore and Future Mrsha got out. So, uh, that’s not a big concern.

Aw, poop. I was hoping for a bright side. I mean, that is a bright side, but that would have made it so you being necessary was important. Hey, if you went to their future, where are your cool movies and pop songs?

Not future enough. Although, come to think of it, I might have a cool ring. Maybe there are cool movies on it?

It had completely slipped Root Mrsha’s mind. Yes, she had technology from the future. She’d be all over it if not for the fact that Mrsha was dead.

Roots Mrsha made a show of dusting her fur off.

Well, I won’t ever understand how cool Persua might be, or how bad that world was—unless I see it from your eyes. So I guess I’ve got to do this melding thing. I just hope the incompetent Grand Design does it right. And I’m glad I’m not melding with Future Mrsha. She’s a jerk.

Original Mrsha almost laughed, then went still. Her heart, her memory of a heart, was pounding in her chest, suddenly. With such terrible, painful eagerness, but something was holding her back as well.

Guilt. Too much of it to jump for joy. She began writing hesitantly, then stopped. Shyly, she eyed Roots Mrsha.

Are you sure? You don’t have to. I could go with Death. They’re pretty cool-looking.

Roots Mrsha was nervous. But she—she felt right about it. Not just ‘righteous’, but right. Oddly calm, despite her nerves. It was like…seeing ‘No Killing Goblins’ and knowing what it meant. Seeing a [Slaver] of Roshal getting stabbed. Or the sun rising on a glorious day.

It’s the right thing to do, Mrsha. You’d do it for me.

Well, yeah. Because it would be awesome to be twice as smart.

Both Mrshas ignored the Grand Design popping in to clarify that it would not make them twice as smart. They’d be doubly as stupid as before. They knew what they meant.

So this was how it all ended. Not with a walk into the sunset, a new job, or a meeting with Death, but another chance. It was…everything Mrsha could have hoped for, even as scary and uncertain as it was.

Roots Mrsha was the one giving up more. No—that’s not how they should think of it, the Grand Design had said. Original Mrsha kept trying to see if her other self didn’t really want to do this and was just doing the right thing because she thought she should.

She realized Roots Mrsha was giving her the same side-eye. The two girls blinked at each other, then giggled. Then Roots Mrsha hit Original Mrsha with a real question.

Hey, me. Are you really okay with this?

Original Mrsha wavered.

Me? Of course. I want to live. I’m just afraid it’ll take away who you are. Or that you’re only doing this because you think you have to. You don’t. I’ll go ask Future Mrsha or…go to the real Deaths. That wouldn’t be so bad.

Her head turned, and she could still almost see them there, finishing their terrible task. Mrsha meant it; she didn’t understand the fear and dismay and horror in Root Mrsha’s eyes. Then she realized how it sounded.

Death isn’t so bad. Real Death, I mean. The actual thing sucks, and it’s scary, and I’m not sure about Kasignel…but the people who’re there for you at the end are nice. The best in the business. Knowing that is reassuring.

Roots Mrsha nodded after a moment.

I guess that makes a weird kind of sense. And I suppose I’ll know how awesome they are if we do this. But that’s not what I meant.

Oh, prithee, what then?

Original Mrsha was trying to be silly, but she really didn’t know what Roots Mrsha meant until the other girl took her arm and looked her in the eye.

I mean…hey, Grand Design! This offer’s good no matter what, right? No take-backs? No going back on your word? No matter what?

The Grand Design reappeared, and both girls saw the swirling lines of text and the code of the universe forming a humanoid shape, similar to them in appearance. A golden avatar whose voice sounded…confused.

<I would never break my promise, Mrsha. I offer this to you as I kept the [Palace of Fates] running until the end. After it is done, I may decide to change the rules for those in the future, or never make such an offer again. But I will not break my promises.>

Roots Mrsha was unconvinced and pointed at the Grand Design, narrow-eyed.

Swear?

<I swear on my existence.>

It sounded displeased, but Roots Mrsha just turned to the Original Mrsha.

Okay. So. You can say it now. If you want to.

<Say what?>

The Grand Design was confused, and so was Original Mrsha, but she did sort of understand what Roots Mrsha was getting at. She realized that, right now, the Grand Design probably wasn’t reading her thoughts. She was the most mysterious, enigmatic, and unpredictable Mrsha at this moment.

It didn’t know what Roots Mrsha meant. But the other Gnoll girl clenched one fist as she turned to the Grand Design.

I, we, mean—how we really feel about all this.

<I believe that ‘Original Mrsha’ had discussed the matter at length with myself and the Second Edition. We have gone through the very reasoning of why this happened. Her actions.>

Yes, but that’s not how she feels, dummy. She was probably holding it back because she’s dead and she wasn’t sure if you were going to blast her out of existence.

That was true. Original Mrsha nodded as the Grand Design turned its surprised face to her. You were always polite to the scary Named-rank adventurer or monster.

<I would not let emotions bias my decisions.>

Sure, buddy.

Both Mrshas thought the same thing in the same tone and exchanged a smirk. The Grand Design seemed upset. A frown crossed its face, for the second time in its existence, and it folded its arms, a glowing, celestial copy of Mrsha floating there.

<Very well. I swear that I will not change my decision no matter what. So tell me, Mrsha, how do you truly view the [Palace of Fates] and all that your actions have wrought? I am curious.>

It waited, and Roots Mrsha offered the stage to Original Mrsha. The girl stepped forwards, and felt the suppressed emotions in her chest bubbling upwards. She’d kept them buried, because she hadn’t really believed she’d make it back.

Not from this. And she had been afraid to say it. But here and now—she faced the Grand Design and told it the truth.

When I asked you about why it all went down the way it did, Grand Design, I guess I wanted to know if there was fate or something else that would explain what happened. If there were an excuse I could use. But there wasn’t. Just like you said: I wanted this. I made it happen. The many worlds that vanished are my doing.

<Not your fault, Mrsha. Not alone, nor did you know.>

The Grand Design’s voice was surprisingly gentle, but Original Mrsha just shook her head.

That’s not the point. It’s my responsibility. You and I know the difference between that and fault. I’m…guilty. I’m so terribly sad, and I think I won’t ever be properly sad because I can’t picture it.

Even after seeing the lines of souls meeting Death, the survivors. Original Mrsha’s paws trembled.

I’m numb. I am still numb to it. I’d scream if it didn’t feel like it didn’t encompass even a thousandth of it. Scream and scream…but there’s too much to do, and it would only make me feel better. That’s how I feel. But you—I haven’t told you about how I feel about your role in this.

<Mine?>

The Grand Design hadn’t seen this coming. It had focused on Mrsha’s thought-words, that sympathetic angel and devil on her shoulder living through her. Now, it recoiled, and Mrsha nodded.

Yes. If we are judged by you, then this is something you could have controlled. The [Palace of Fates] falling to ruin—you could have stopped it. You could have turned the Skill off or stopped opening doors. Or simply halted it falling to pieces. You could have blocked the dead gods when you saw them cheating. You could have done anything.

Roots Mrsha nodded. The Grand Design wavered and replied too fast.

<If I had, I would have interfered. I do not interfere. I have told you again, and again, Mrsha. I did my job as I knew it.>

This time, Roots Mrsha interjected as she and Original Mrsha faced down the Grand Design.

Doing your job killed so many souls, not just in the [Palace of Fates]. For how long?

It didn’t respond. The glowing figure shifted, then spoke.

<There were errors in my design. This I have come to understand. I am imperfect.>

You killed them.

<I did as I was made.>

Original Mrsha held up a glowing thought-card.

You still killed them. You could have thought or changed. ‘You did your job’ is a stupid answer. Second Edition was willing to change the rules. You weren’t. How do I feel about the [Palace of Fates]? It’s my responsibility. My burden. And yours. But I think you don’t want to admit it.

The Grand Design’s reply was slower in coming now.

<I understand that is how you feel, Mrsha. Feelings are new to me. I feel…poorly. But there is not enough appropriate emotion in me to encompass the magnitude of it.>

Original Mrsha nodded, and her eyes never wavered from that glowing being hovering in front of her. She thought-spoke again, letting the words exit her soul. How she truly felt.

Well then, understand this, Grand Design of Isthekenous. If I could only undo this, I would. I’d do something else. Anything, and I don’t know if I’d have the courage to enter the [Palace of Fates] knowing the consequences. But if—if I could do this all again, not risking the countless souls and worlds and only gambling with life and death for a single person I love? If the only cost was the [Palace of Fates] itself, fate, or you, I would. In a heartbeat. I would sacrifice all the dead gods and their entire creation if it didn’t hurt the people inside.

<I see. That is what I have understood of you, Mrsha. Is that all?>

Was the Grand Design upset? Its voice was cool, and Original Mrsha’s eyes blazed.

Yes, that’s all. That’s all I care for your work. Your flawed, broken rules. For death, for these lands of the dead, and for the work of gods! You’re just like them. You hide above us, pretending it doesn’t matter, that it’s not your fault. I’d gamble you and Oberon, all for a chance to beat Death again. I wish the Second Edition had replaced you. But then I’d worry more for that other world. Because you are that dusty old book of rules that murders people and says ‘it’s not my fault’.

Her paw jabbed at the figure, who recoiled slightly.

You have no guilt. No responsibility. I’m a child and I feel worse than you. The Goblin King is a monster, and you’re more pathetic than he is. The [Palace of Fates] nearly destroyed everything, and you let it happen because you were too afraid to do the right thing. You’re pathetic, and I will never forgive you. I still need you, and I suppose we’ll find out if you’re actually impartial. But we both know you’re not. Still. I had to say it.

When she was done, the Grand Design said nothing for a long time. Roots Mrsha applauded silently, an approving expression on her face, but Original Mrsha just stood, drawing in imaginary breaths.

Well, I said how I really feel. I hope I hurt its feelings. If it became spiteful, well.

Someone had to tell it the truth. Mrsha waited, and the Grand Design’s mouth opened, as if to say something like ‘that didn’t actually hurt me.’

…It didn’t. She saw the Grand Design’s form flicker, and then the copy of the Gnoll girl it had become shifted and warped, and it turned into a golden version of Isthekenous, copied to perfect detail. Then a glowing [Innkeeper], a Naga twisting upwards—

Trying to figure out what it was? Roots Mrsha and Original Mrsha watched until the Grand Design became a copy of her again. Its body trembled as it studied its paws, then—she saw a second head grow out of the Grand Design’s face.

It stretched out and looked back at itself. For it had no mirror; the Mrshas shuddered as the Grand Design inspected its own being. Then seemed to lose cohesion. The image of the Gnoll vanished, and its limbs elongated into glowing hands of every kind.

Some with five fingers, others with four, like Gazi, or countless fingers. The limbs twining outwards in an endless tangle of grasping digits, each of which belonged to a different being. Attendant manifest—and then each hand had an eye in the palm which swung around, trying to see itself, twisting, tangling—

Flicker.

The Grand Design was a cube, a perfect geometric shape that morphed into a dodecahedron, each side symmetrical, made of brilliantly structured code. Then an infinitely more complex shape that Mrsha had no name for, with angles and sides that could not be encompassed in the normal word.

Flicker.

A version of Death stood, robes trailing into the aether, gazing down at the world and the countless souls of Kasignel. Gazing over its shoulder, as if seeing those lines stretching into infinity.

Flicker.

Isthekenous, the God of Designs, stood, blood running down his back. He regarded Mrsha, and then she saw a hint of grief in those glowing golden eyes. An idea writing itself into the heart of its nature.

She flinched at the size of the emotions she couldn’t comprehend. The scope of it—her little soul couldn’t process it. No soul could, not in all those worlds she had never seen.

But it could. The Grand Design calculated its sins, its grief, and weighed its responsibilities on a scale only it knew. Growing, a heavy weight spooling itself out within its being.

Vast. Vaster until Mrsha thought it was beyond scope. She backed away from the Grand Design as the body of Isthekenous lifted his hands.

Then—the Grand Design was holding something in its hands. It was a copy of her again, and the glowing being had…a box in its hands.

Just a box. Made of cardboard; plain, simple. Close to, but not identical to the Box of Incontinuity. Mrsha saw it place the weighty thing it had created in the box and close the lid.

<It would be an obstacle to process that now. I have heard you, Mrsha. Thank you for your honesty. Now, it is time to decide.>

Confused, Roots Mrsha turned to the Original Mrsha, wondering what had happened. She’d thought, for a second, that they’d made another big mistake. However, Original Mrsha just exhaled and nodded at the Grand Design as if she got it.

Thanks for hearing me out. Don’t take it too personally. I was mad. I probably wouldn’t have actually sacrificed you without a second’s thought.

<Perhaps two seconds. I did ask. Don’t think of it. This is your moment, Mrsha.>

The Grand Design vanished, and the two girls waited, but then they realized it really was up to them.

You really let it have it. Good job; I’d have said something meaner if you hadn’t.

Roots Mrsha congratulated the Original Mrsha, and the second girl wrinkled her face up and smiled.

You really are different from me. Just a bit.

Maybe a bit more mature.

What? Okay, maybe. And I dunno if I want to know what starving for days in the [Palace of Fates] is like.

Roots Mrsha folded her arms.

Well, I don’t really want to know what dying’s like either. And I don’t know…what it’s going to be.

Her paws were shaking a bit, but then she saw Original Mrsha gazing at her. The girl remarked softly.

It’s real scary, but I don’t think it’d be bad. I like you. Which is easier than liking myself. I admire you.

Me too. I think I can do this. I really do. Not just because it’s the right thing to do. We’re different, but similar.

Yes. We always knew it might be one of us. I want to continue.

So do I. But not without you, buddy.

Okay. Then…last chance to back out.

Which one of them said that? They weren’t sure. The two Mrshas were of the same height; one was thinner, but they had the same eyes. The same will. So many differences, though.

One had survived starvation and could backtalk even the Grand Design. The other had run through a battlefield and evaded Death’s scythe—even if the wielder was sort of stupid.

One had died, the other only almost died. They held out a paw and gazed into each other’s eyes, and what they most were, more than afraid, more than apprehensive, was curious.

They admired the other so greatly…they wanted to know what the other one was like. How could you say no to sharing a bit of forever with a cute, awesome Mrsha like that? The two Mrshas shook paws, then did it with both hands, smiling and both trying hard not to cry—and failing—that they didn’t realize they were staring into a mirror for a long moment.

They leapt back with a shout of surprise. Mrsha felt at her face, her body—and then gasped as her reflection did the same thing. That cunning little stinker. The Grand Design had moved so subtly they hadn’t even realized…

Mrsha raced around in a circle, thoughts awhirl. It wasn’t like fusing at all! There was no cool effects, no poses, and she didn’t get awesome new hair like those cartoons Kevin had! She just…was her!

She remembered her time in the [Palace of Fates], starving to death, and in the Goblin King’s world. If she concentrated…she could be one Mrsha or the other, but if she didn’t, she just was her.

Pretty slick for the worse version of the two Grand Designs.

And she was as sassy as ever! Mrsha laughed. She rolled around, then threw her arms up and beamed at the Grand Design, who peeked at her.

<Well. Satisfied?>

She gave it two middle fingers. For her lost world. For her chance at life again.

<…Why two middle fingers and not one thumbs up?>

The other middle finger’s for only doing fair things afterwards. Even if they are good, sometimes.

She wondered if that would add to the box of emotions, but the Grand Design merely sighed. It didn’t seem angry. Just relieved. It reached out and took Mrsha’s paw.

<Now, it’s time to sort out your levels. When you wake up, in a moment, you and I won’t meet again. Hopefully.>

Wait—suddenly, Mrsha had all the questions ever. Her heart leapt. She was going to live again! Then it sank—and twisted in her chest, because how could she explain it to her mother?

Would she…get that it was Mrsha? Or would it hurt her even more?

Wait. What about original Kevin and Beach Kevin? Did he take the offer? What about the other survivors? And Student Rags? Will she fuse with Chieftain Rags?

<That is for you to find out. Goodbye, Mrsha du Marquin! And I suppose…>

The Grand Design checked for anyone listening, then whispered to her as it sent her down.

<…Good luck.>

Then she was laughing as she fell. Laughing in relief, in surprise, and crying. Weeping for all the same reasons—until she heard that familiar voice speaking softly in her ears.

 

[Level 22 Survivor of Fates!]

<All Skills Removed. Reassigning Skills…>

 

[Spell – Fast Growth Learned!]

[Spell – Condense Water Learned!]

[Spell – Burst of Speed Learned!]

[Spell – Petty Illusion Learned!]

[Spell – Orb of Air Re-learned!]

[Spell – Barrier of Winds Re-learned!]

 

[Skill – Resistance: Disease Re-obtained!]

[Skill – Purifying Blood Re-obtained!]

[Skill – Memorize Elementary Homework Re-obtained!]

[Skill – Lesser Toughness Re-obtained!]

[Skill – Slow Metabolism Re-obtained!]

[Skill – Will of Steel Re-obtained!]

 

[Skill – Lucky Moment Re-obtained!]

[Skill – Lesser Immunity: Fate Re-obtained!]

[Skill – Zigzag Dash Re-obtained!]

[Skill – Flying Headbutt Re-obtained…]

 

Most of it was familiar, a mix of her two classes and the Skills she’d always had, until the voice snuck in a few more words. Skills from her Level 70 class…sort of. And one more gift, perhaps, from an exasperated, yet fond being.

 

[Skill – Inkless Fur Re-obtained!]

[Skill – Minor Quake Obtained!]

[Skill – Natural Gift (Ashfire Bees): Fireflight Fur Obtained!]

[Skill – Natural Gift (Fortress Beavers): Fur of the Fortress Re-Obtained!]

[Skill – Natural Gift (Faerie Flowers): Rare Sprout Obtained!]

 

 

<Title – The Faerie King’s Little Champion Obtained!>

[Title Skill – I’m (Probably) Allowed in Here Granted!]

 

<Title – The Girl Who Opened The Door Obtained!>

[Title Skill – Basic Prediction (Daily) Granted!]

 

 

—And then she woke up.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

The last part is marginally shorter than this. But only just.

 

 

Ksmvr’s Evolution by Kalabaza, commissioned by pirateaba!

 

Lyonette Meets Marquin by Brack!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/brackgiraffe.bsky.social

 

Sheta and King’s Wrath by AVI!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/0avi0

 

 

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