10.37 GDI (Pt. 3)

(Hey everyone, I’m taking my very-delayed yearly break until May 10th! Time to rest, recharge, and read a story myself. –pirateaba)

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

 

 

 

Mrsha jerked out of her bed and nearly went tumbling to the floor. It was her room; she put a hand to her pounding chest and realized bare seconds had passed since she’d fallen asleep.

She—she sat up, feeling at her thin body. It was still her body. Root Mrsha’s body that was—but it was her. New Mrsha?

Mrsha, the one and only! Accept no substitutes like Future Mrsha! She felt confident of that. The Skills were still echoing through her head as she took stock of them.

Well, well, well. That wasn’t bad. No [Other Me’s Skills], though. Fair enough. It had been sort of way too powerful for her. Fitting for a girl who’d leapt through reality—but she was half that girl now.

Both.

Mrsha got up and realized that Nanette wasn’t in her bed. No wonder; Mrsha would have tossed and turned and woken her roommate up. The girl tottered to her feet and belatedly wished she’d haggled with the Grand Design for a voice. Not because she needed one, but sometimes she just wanted to shout.

I’m alive! Alive! The girl raised her paws and screamed silently at the roof. Then her breath caught as she remembered all the people trapped in another reality. All the suffering. All the death.

That was all her responsibility, of course. Just doubled. Mrsha stood there on her bed, feeling each beat of her heart as precious. She clutched at her chest, closed her eyes, and knew in that moment there was only one thing that mattered. Before anything else…

She went to see her mother.

 

——

 

Lyonette du Marquin was not asleep, though she was in her rooms. She had undressed and put on nightclothes, but she just…sat on her bed. Staring at the sheets, hands empty.

Hearing each crunch of the shovels in dirt. Seeing the Dragonlord of Flames bowing to her. Watching her daughter vanish as she fought Future Pawn.

Every moment. Not just in the [Palace of Fates], but every single moment she had ever held Mrsha and not told her she loved her enough. Not protected her. Not seen this moment coming.

Lyonette was not numb. But her tears…she had not begun to weep them. Because if she did, they’d never stop. She was focusing. Trying to, avoiding sleep.

I have to keep myself together. I must. Nanette needs me. She saw her own mother vanish. And Roots Mrsha…she lost her Lyonette. I am not going to lose my mind or grow hysterical.

I have to treat Roots Mrsha like…she is my daughter. But she’s not. She’s both. 

I will survive this. I have to, for them. I have the rest of my life to mourn. So keep it together, you fool. 

There are ghosts. I can see her again. There’s [Scrolls of Resurrection]. I will not break. I can’t.

She had to keep repeating the words in her head. Lyonette didn’t feel on the verge of tears, but there was something in her that just felt precarious. If she didn’t concentrate with all her willpower, something would give and she’d never put herself together again.

How could she? She’d lost her heart.

No. Hold. Hold. Lyonette’s hands clenched tight around the sheets. After a moment, Dame Ushar spoke.

“Your Highness? Can I get you anything? A sleeping tonic?”

“No, I—”

Lyonette caught herself mid-denial and thought. She had to sleep for the rest of her life, after all. She’d need sleep.

“—Go ahead. A light one. Something non-taxing on the mind.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Dame Ushar left for a moment, and Lyonette knew she’d sent Ser Dalimont to sleep, so she was unguarded for the precious seconds it took Ushar to go to Octavia’s shop. There might be some Calanferian servants on duty, but Lyonette needed more security.

Dalimont was needed to watch Roots Mrsha and Nanette, anyways. Tomorrow, she’d speak to Pallass. Defuse as much as she could. Protect Roots Mrsha and Nanette.

No—Mrsha. Just Mrsha.

Hold it together. Hold…

The [Princess] heard a tap at the door. She spoke.

“Ushar. Just enter already.”

Her head didn’t rise as the door creaked open, and she heard the soft padding of paws on the floorboards. Lyonette’s head rose. Her heart twisted.

Not now. Then she corrected herself. No—of course now! Now and always! She should have checked on Roots Mrsha anyways. She smiled and began to swing her legs out of bed.

“Mrsha. What’s…”

Her voice caught as a little, white-furred Gnoll girl leapt into her bed. It wasn’t just how sure the girl was. It wasn’t…that.

She was still thin as ever, but there was a subtle difference to how she moved that made Lyonette’s head go blank. Mrsha was always active, but Roots Mrsha had had a gravity to her, a stillness—and it was still there as she paused and turned. But also, she shook out her head and rubbed at her ears vigorously with two paws. And then, as she rustled around for her paper and ink, the frantic burst of energy was entirely familiar.

Something about the way she dipped her pen in ink and held it just so, between her furred fingers.

Lyonette was transfixed as the girl scribbled on the notecard, noticed she was getting ink on the sheet, panicked, and then produced her wand instead.

Hey, Mom. I had a really crazy dream just now. Can I tell you about it?

Lyonette’s throat worked as she sat there. Mrsha took her silence as a ‘yes’ and began to…blather, for lack of a better word. She wrote how children talked, ideas flowing into words—she was tousle-furred, clearly waking up from sleep.

So I was floating in this nothingness. And I was dead, but that didn’t matter really, because I was dead. Not a ghost. And everyone was there. Halrac. The Maiden. The Mother, who’s the other version of the Maiden that is Kasigna, but she was already dead. And it was all flat. Right? Completely. Flatter than anything, and more nothing than anything.

She spread her paws out, trying to show Lyonette. Then she raised her hand and pointed.

And I knew, I just knew I was dead, but it didn’t matter because we were all going towards the same thing. Even this bad guy named Jospiere.

“Jospiere?”

Lyonette was hypnotized, drinking in the girl’s every movement. Mrsha glanced up at her mother, and her motions grew bigger.

Yeah. A bad dude. But I felt sorry for him, and we were all dead, so no one fought. We were all going to one place.

“And what place was that, Mrsha?”

Death.

The girl gave Lyonette a big stare and then held her arms out as far as they’d reach.

Not just one, but all of them. Each one was different and cool. Each one was like…an idea. A point of view. Some were skeletons with scythes. One was this wolf-guy with red eyes. And they were huge. There was a line of souls going forever, of everyone who’d died, and the Deaths were small enough to be there, right in front of you, and also bigger than anything. Bigger than the world.

She got up and stretched her arms out, trying to show Lyonette the image in her head. In that moment, she truly did look like a child, round-eyed, reporting on the strange dream…

The door opened, and Dame Ushar saw Lyonette and Mrsha and froze. She backed up a step, and then her eyes opened wide as her Skill told her something.

Something impossible. A failed charge reverting itself. She backed up, stumbling, and Lyonette ignored the woman, as did Mrsha. The [Princess] was shaking now.

Her hands couldn’t touch the girl. She reached out, and her voice wobbled, despite all her insistence she had to—

Oh, Eternal Throne, she was breaking. Her voice had already gone.

“Please…”

Mom?

The girl sat there, and Lyonette forced the words out.

“Please. Tell me what the cost is, and I’ll pay it. Please?”

She didn’t know what this was. A dream? A—nightmare? In this moment, Lyonette would have given Belavierr anything the Stitch Witch desired. Her kingdom. The inn. Her life. Anything at all, because this was real.

And she was convinced it would vanish. She touched Mrsha, then seized the girl, trying to hold onto her daughter. Tears were running down her face, and Mrsha gasped.

Mom. That hurts. I’m here. I’m here. It’s me. Both of me. Roots Mrsha and your Mrsha. It wasn’t a dream.

Lyonette stared at the words, then at the thin girl. Her daughter, but—she frantically touched Mrsha’s face.

“What happened? How? How?”

This is a trick. I’m being tricked by the dead gods, and I’ll take whatever offer they give me. Even for a moment.

Her daughter just held her hand.

Mom. It’s me. I’m not going anywhere unless you squeeze me to death. I…it feels like a dream, a long one. Not all bad. Not all good, definitely not. But it wasn’t a dream.

“I don’t understand. How? I buried you.”

Lyonette’s voice broke on the words, and the walls she’d put up to keep herself from collapsing were caving in. Mrsha’s face solemnly rose to her.

I buried me too. I’ll have to live with that. I…it’d take a long time to explain. But the short answer is: someone was on our side. They helped me because they thought it was fair.

Oh. Oh—Lyonette was making a sound now. A sobbing shout that drew Dame Ushar into her room, and Ser Dalimont came at a run. Nanette, Ishkr, and the others weren’t far behind. When they saw Mrsha, they too stopped.

But the girl had no eyes for them. She only beheld Lyonette as the [Princess] felt at her head, her cheeks, every bit of Mrsha, trying to convince herself this wasn’t a dream.

But she was too scared to pinch herself, so Mrsha did it for her. The Gnoll was smiling as Lyonette held her.

Smiling…until she sat there. Head bowed, and told Lyonette what had really happened.

A dream. A child’s fairytale of a silly, kindly, wrathful being who governed all Skills and levels and who cared enough to let a girl return from the dead. Lyonette saw Mrsha writing, saw her daughter looking up, until Mrsha went still.

Dawn was breaking; the entire night had passed, and Mrsha just sat there. Lyonette saw her beautiful daughter, who had remained composed throughout her tale for her trembling mother, finally stop.

And that’s what happened, I guess. Mom. I have a question for you. What should I have done differently? I messed up so bad.

Her little hand began shaking. She tried to keep writing, but Mrsha began to tremble, and her brown eyes were filled with tears. She looked up, nose running, and Lyonette cast around for something, then just used her bedsheets and her nightgown’s sleeves. She hugged Mrsha to her. Then the girl clung to her and began sobbing.

Lyonette du Marquin spoke, whispering to her daughter that it was alright. Telling her the lies of a parent. Then she just whispered up at the sky. At the rising sun, breaching through the rains for a moment. The same words, again and again.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…”

Somehow, she had her daughter back. They’d pay the costs later. All of them. But Lyonette du Marquin just held on, and no matter how much time passed…

The dream didn’t end. She didn’t wake into a nightmare, so she grew more afraid, then. Because then, if this was reality…she couldn’t let herself ever have that moment.

Never again. She held her daughter to her until her other child needed her. So Lyonette went. But she never let go of Mrsha’s paw.

 

——

 

They were all sleep-deprived as Mrsha sat with Nanette in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. The grass was still burnt, but it was the only place they had privacy.

Lyonette still held one paw, Nanette, the other. Lyonette hadn’t let go all morning. Even for the bathroom.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to count the costs. I don’t think I can. I won’t ever forgive myself.

That was what the girl wrote to her audience of disbelieving people. Ishkr, Bird, Ser Dalimont, Dame Ushar. The rest of the inn’s staff hadn’t been told, not yet. They weren’t sure they believed.

At first, everyone thought that Lyonette had simply gone mad and mistaken Roots Mrsha for her daughter. But it was…her.

Her, and Roots Mrsha. One being, as promised. It didn’t change the fact that she’d died. It didn’t…but it also meant she was back.

Their Mrsha.

How—were you supposed to count that cost? How were you supposed to reckon with it, even for the veterans of so many tragedies and wonders? None of them knew. Bird kept touching Mrsha’s hair, getting stray bits of fur and tasting them as if to make sure she was real.

“No one can count the cost of it. I’ll…we’ll try to make sense of it, but you’re here, Mrsha. We’ll rebuild what we can, piece-by-piece. We’re good at that.”

Lyonette was red-eyed, and her voice was hoarse. But she lifted her chin, then smiled.

“We’ll continue onwards. Also, I’ll never let you out of my sight again.”

Hahaha…Mrsha half-laughed with the weak chuckles from the others, though Lyonette didn’t laugh. Mrsha believed she had heard the truth.

Well, who could blame her mother? Lyonette had had an entire night to cry. Nanette was just getting started.

The girl turned to Mrsha and let go of her paw long enough to fish something out of her bag of holding. She spoke, trying to get the words out through her trembling lips.

“M-Mrsha? I g-got you something. I w-want you to have this.”

She wanted to put it on Mrsha’s head. It was a witch’s hat. Black as midnight and pointy. Mrsha blinked at it, uncomprehending, until she was reminded of the last big fight they’d had when she’d talked about being a [Witch]. And Nanette had gotten so mad…

The girl was trembling, now, as she held out the hat to her roommate, best friend, and sister.

“I think you’d make a great witch, Mrsha.”

So saying, Nanette burst into hiccuping tears, and Mrsha lost control again. The two hugged each other until Lyonette gathered both into her arms. And that…

That didn’t cover the scars or wounds of countless souls. But it was something. It was earned.

The Grand Design watched the tears falling in the [Garden of Sanctuary], and it didn’t cry. But it did smile. A relieved smile as the Gnoll girl breathed in and out. With every beat of her heart, screaming silently and with joy in guilt.

There would always be a piece of the Grand Design screaming and weeping with her. That was the secret it told no one. It got back to work, even as it remained in each breath of life and each moment the three hugged.

This, it was beginning to understand.

 

——

 

Of course, there was other work to do that was just as rewarding. The Grand Design was there when Kevin Hall sat up and felt at his chest. He had no one to celebrate with, so he slipped out of his bed and stood in front of the mirror.

“Hey, you. Not bad.”

He gave himself finger-guns, then stared at his mortified reflection in the mirror and laughed. He laughed like a new man, or an old one with a new lease on life. When he stretched…

The world was new to him again. Fragile as well. He was here, and suddenly, each beat of his heart seemed to be something precious that he’d taken for granted. Now that he knew how fast it could end, Kevin was terrified.

…But he was here. So he clenched a hand and searched around for pants.

“One last goddamn Kevin. One final chance to change this world in any way. One Kevin to shake it up, to rule them all, and in the darkness—fuck, I can’t take myself seriously.”

He went to put on some pants. Then, because he couldn’t help it, he burst out of the doors of his rooms and did a flying leap for the sheer joy of it, laughing and racing forwards.

 

——

 

It was already early morning, and there were still people who refused to sleep. Not that the Grand Design was impatient; some people just had…work to do.

They knew they’d level, but they had no time to sleep. Chieftain Rags had been up for nineteen hours straight without a nap, but they’d all fall asleep soon.

Or die, presumably. The Grand Design wondered if it should remove the sleep mechanic for levelling, like <Faith> classes used to enjoy. But then someone might counter level mid-fight, between blows, or even multiple times in an even duel, and what a headache that would be.

Fixing the system it had been given was not an easy task. So it waited instead and just found its own closure in small things. Chance meetings. Or not so chance, as it turned out.

 

——

 

Magnolia Reinhart was dozing by her window when the carriage finally slowed down. The light kept her awake; it was damned bright, and she kept being reminded that the curtains had been ripped off from hitting the Goblin King. She glared balefully at the dawn as she saw the gates of the town coming into view.

“Lord Xitegen? Your stop, I believe.”

He had been asleep, she noted. But then, she supposed he deserved it; the [Lord] jerked and opened his eyes with a start. She placed a hand on his chest before he could swing himself up.

“Sir. Your legs are broken.”

A damaged maid-Golem spoke; Seconda. Xitegen blinked blearily at her and Ressa. The [Maid] had put her feet up on the seats opposite him, and she was drinking. She stared at him as the [Lord] passed a hand over his face.

“Thank you for reminding me, Seconda.”

“You are welcome, Lord Xitegen. You have (158) [Messages] from House Terland. Shall I begin reciting them now?”

“No, thank you.”

He passed another hand over his face with that weariness Magnolia felt, and she murmured.

“I don’t see what you admire in them.”

“Well, most of them don’t talk back. And they put up with quite a lot a regular person wouldn’t.”

Wincing, he tried to lever himself upright; his legs were splinted. The idiot had broken both kicking the Goblin King. Magnolia supposed she wasn’t one to talk; her arm was in a sling from trying to slap the Goblin King. They could have used healing potions, but, well, too much healing, too many battles. Magnolia had made an appointment with the Healer of Tenbault, Hekusha, for both of them.

A damned inconvenience. As was having to actually take the carriage rather than just hop through the magical door and be where you wanted. But Magnolia needed her carriage; she had places to be.

They were rolling towards the main gates of Celum, Xitegen’s new city, and Magnolia bit back a comment about how it had been her place before his. She was just tired. That’s all. This was a victory, she supposed.

“Would you prefer Reynold leave you at your estates? Or a [Healer]? Hekusha will have an opening for us within the day or by next, or I will have Ressa drown her.”

“My estates will do. And I must make sure my forces make it off the mountainside.”

Xitegen groaned, and Magnolia glanced at the High Passes behind them.

“My people will make sure they reach Celum in one piece. I—what is that damned sound, Ressa?”

Her bloodshot eyes narrowed as Ressa sat up slightly. The carriage’s door was partially ajar—again, from a Goblin King-sized dent in it. So all the spells regulating temperature and soundproofing weren’t working.

It was an obnoxious, high-pitched wave of noise. Magnolia glanced out the window and saw the gates opening. She rapped on the sliding window and opened it.

“Reynold? What is that infernal s—”

The moment she opened the window, the high-pitched noise washed over her, and she realized what it was.

Cheering. The [Lady] blinked, and she wore, for once, a completely surprised expression on her face.

“What in the world…?”

She peered out the window and saw, under the dawn light, people lining the newly-built roads of Celum. At this hour? They were waving, clapping, and shouting at…

Oh. Lord Xitegen tried to roll down one window, and the glass pane snapped and fell out, smashing on the paving stones. He winced; Magnolia waved it away. Reynold had new Skills, and that was what mattered…

Lord Xitegen stuck his head out the window, and the cheering tripled in volume. He lifted a hand, a similar look of astonishment on his face, and Magnolia Reinhart had to put her fingers in her ears. She saw his expression of shock turn to one of gratification. Then he smiled.

Celum was filled with people screaming, waving the flag of House Terland or just waving at him. Only the Watch kept them from literally flooding over the pink carriage, and at the sight of Lord Xitegen, there was a burst of voices—then applause.

“My word.”

Magnolia Reinhart had never seen the like, and she’d been to Celum countless t—no, wait, she recalled only one scene like this.

When the Horns of Hammerad had emerged from the Ruins of Albez with treasure. They’d received the adventurers’ welcome. But this felt more…impressive. People would cheer someone with treasure and the glory of an adventurer any day of the week.

This, though…this was a hero’s welcome, and Magnolia Reinhart hadn’t heard the like since the 2nd Antinium Wars. Not for a Flower of Izril.

Well, it was deserved for this man, she supposed. The carriage had to slow, and Reynold spoke.

“Lady Reinhart, there’s no way we’ll get to Lord Xitegen’s mansion. I do see an escort of Terland Golems.”

“Ah, here will do, then. As long as they have a stretcher.”

“I could carry you, sir.”

“No, Seconda. I have an image to maintain. Er—but I will accept an arm. Stand there, would you?”

Extricating a man with two broken legs out of the carriage was hard, and Ressa leapt out to help him down. When they saw he couldn’t even walk, there was a flurry; Magnolia saw an impromptu stretcher being made until someone built one on the spot; a [Carpenter] of some levels combining their Skills with a [Shopkeeper]. Then Lord Xitegen was hoisted into the air, and the cheering…

Ah. She sat in her carriage, faintly envious, as a crowd of people swirled around the pink carriage. Ressa fought her way back into the carriage, and Magnolia coughed.

“Reynold? My mansion in the High Passes, I believe. As soon as you can turn without running over anyone’s foot.”

“That may be a few minutes, Lady Reinhart.”

“As long as it takes, Reynold. I may nap after all.”

Magnolia sat back, trying to close her eyes, but even her exhaustion couldn’t quite beat out the thunderous applause around her. Applause. For a man who’d fought the Goblin King.

He hadn’t even killed him. But he’d…been there. What was Celum to do but take pride in this [Lord] who’d come running to help rebuild their city and fought the Titan in the mountains?

“Entirely deserved.”

Magnolia tried to make herself more comfortable—until a broken spring in the upholstery decided to stab her in the back. Then she sighed and was sitting upright when she saw Lord Xitegen waving his hands in her direction.

“Oh dear. Has he forgotten something? Pieces of his Golem? Ressa, see what this is about, would you?”

Maybe they were breaking his legs with all that bouncing about. A legitimate concern for such a vociferous crowd. Magnolia rolled down her window as well, and then she heard Lord Xitegen, projecting his voice even over the screaming.

“Reinhart! —hart—here! Get over here!”

She didn’t understand what he wanted for the life of her. Magnolia Reinhart blinked at Xitegen until she saw heads turning her way. Then she thought she heard her name being shouted above the cheering.

Me? Do what? It was only when Ressa pushed her slightly that Magnolia realized Xitegen wanted her to leave her carriage.

Absolutely not. She had work to do. She hadn’t killed the Goblin King either; it had been Teriarch and the Harpy Empress. Magnolia tried to shout at Xitegen to get to his mansion and stop waving at her, but he kept insisting. Out of exasperation as much as denial, she opened the door to her carriage and—

—And then it was bright. The [Lady] emerged into the dawn’s light and shaded her eyes. Then the noise hit her fully.

Cheering. Bemused, the [Lady] of House Reinhart turned and saw faces regarding her. People applauding. Celebrating…her?

She blinked like a fish pulled out of water, mouth slightly open, as she stood in her battered pink outfit, hair askew, undignified, arm in a sling…and flinched as something began to fall from the sky.

Pink petals. They drifted down, and the cheering fell silent, then doubled. Magnolia Reinhart blinked up as a camera-team tried to fight forwards to get an interview or even a comment. Lord Xitegen and Magnolia Reinhart.

The two heroes of the north, who’d fought a Titan in the mountains and done battle with the Goblin King. Of course, both nobles wanted to clarify that they hadn’t done that much. But Lord Xitegen gazed down at the bemused [Lady], who appeared for a moment like a young woman in his eyes, blinking up at the storm of affection she’d never experienced in her entire life.

So he swung an arm out towards her, and her head rose nodded at him. Slowly, Magnolia Reinhart walked forwards in a dream as people tossed the mysterious pink baskets of petals down from the rooftops. Cheering the Deadly Flower of the North and the [Lord] of House Terland. Come to think of it, he needed his own name, didn’t he?

Xitegen of Celum. Xitegen, the Goblin King Kicker! No…you’d really have to workshop it.

“Lord of Thighs! Thigh Lord! Thigh Lord!”

Someone began the chant, and Lord Xitegen’s eyes bulged. He burst out laughing so hard he nearly broke his legs in new places and began swearing. Magnolia Reinhart saw they were being led towards an inn of all things.

Blazehound; the [Mayor] wanted to feast them and the city. Right now, Magnolia wanted a tonic for her pain and a bed, but she supposed she had a mansion in this city too, if her relatives hadn’t stolen that. And…she glanced around at the people waving for an autograph of all things, from Ressa and Reynold as well.

“I suppose I could have breakfast. And it’s not like we’ll get this carriage out of here anytime soon.”

Ressa rolled her eyes as the [Lady] sighed, resigning herself to the moment. Reynold just smiled—then pointed something out to Magnolia.

“Your Ladyship. I think we have a few breakfast partners.”

“Who—? Oh, no. Of all the things.”

Magnolia closed her eyes, but even the sight of the two boys leaping up and down and applauding couldn’t spoil her good mood. Especially because Hethon and Sammial Veltras were giving her the kind of rapt stares of children who thought they’d met their heroes.

 

——

 

Sammial had, in fact, changed history. He was the one who’d been shouting ‘Thigh Lord’, and it had caught on. The two boys were much relieved to see the two nobles.

They hadn’t been allowed in The Wandering Inn, and both had been very scared for Mrsha and Nanette, but they’d been told by Ishkr that both were fine—but could they come again tomorrow? So they’d gone to Celum on a hunch they could find Lord Xitegen, and Ullim had had a word with the [Mayor] about a celebration.

Magnolia Reinhart seemed slightly annoyed by them, but her smile was genuine for Ullim. Despite their general terror of her most days—right now, she seemed almost as cool as Ryoka.

“Ah, [Majordomo], I should have known you’d put together this reception for us. Thank you.”

Ullim just raised his brows.

“I simply took the liberty of booking the inn and paying for drinks for anyone who wished to toast your bravery, Lady Reinhart. The celebrants had already gathered by the time we arrived. I don’t even believe they knew Lord Xitegen was coming in your carriage; they seemed ready to wait all day if need be.”

That flummoxed her. Ullim added slyly.

“The pink cherry blossom petals are a surprise, though. I believe someone was attempting to pass out baskets of black petals. But the Watch saved them.”

“My family will be my family. Who would think of this, though? These are Drathian. And I don’t believe we have more than a dozen trees in—wait.”

Magnolia Reinhart’s eyes narrowed, and Hethon saw her turn sharply. Sammial was trying to help Lord Xitegen into a chair, and the protesting [Lord] was telling him to get clear before he was crushed. He put a foot down, then grunted as he didn’t experience excruciating pain. Lord Xitegen stumbled, balanced on one foot, and then felt at his legs.

“What in the name of Truestone…?”

Someone already sitting at the table lowered the newspaper and reached for a lemonade. A silver-haired half-Elf took a long sip from his drink and gave Xitegen a level stare as the [Lord] nearly leapt into Seconda’s arms.

“That damn carriage runs way too fast, you know. I’ve been chasing you all night. Well, I had to make a stop for this idiot first. Stop leaping on those bones and sit, would you? Teriarch, say something before she stabs you.”

An old man got to his feet as Magnolia Reinhart’s head snapped around. Her eyes flashed, but he lifted his hands, and Teriarch, wearing the familiar features of Demsleth, stood there.

“As Majordomo Ullim says, the crowds were entirely organic. The cherry blossom petals are there for ornamentation. Harpies would have thrown spare feathers, which sounds pleasant, but the dandruff—”

He appeared fine, but Magnolia strode up to him, finger raised.

“You are more than three quarters dead! Why are you wasting mana, let alone out? Taletevirion, is he even—”

“He’s fine. Banged up, and not a single one of those Antinium healed him, but I suppose he’s just as immune to that as most healing magic. I took a look at him.”

“He made me eat a block of lead. Lead. It’s poisonous, you know!”

Teriarch was grumbling as he pulled chairs out for Magnolia, Reynold, and Ressa. Hethon and Sammial hesitated until Xitegen patted a seat next to him. Sammial was in it like a shot, and Hethon approached.

Magnolia half-glanced at them, but then she smiled with a reserve familiar to Hethon.

“Well, I imagine it’s different for you.”

“Hardly. I think it’s some sadistic punishment game. And that’s because he’s in a good mood!”

Teriarch jabbed a finger at Taletevirion, and the Unicorn gave everyone a bland look.

“Good? I nearly died, I’m out of magic, I’m losing my hearing every second those idiots keep cheering, I have a thousand patients…what about this is ‘good’? Do you know how many poor fish were killed by your insane Harpy Queen?”

Harpy Queen? Hethon and Sammial absorbed every word, and Magnolia glanced at them, but no one, not even she, was bothering with pure secrecy. Teriarch snapped back.

“Listen to him, Magnolia. Patients. He was running around treating animals all night long. And look—look!”

He grabbed Taletevirion’s cup and shoved it in Magnolia’s face. Xitegen reached for it.

“Ah, a drink. I’m parched—”

“Lemonade! Not even filled with liquor. He’s gone sober! Have you ever known him not to be day-drinking in the last twenty-six years you’ve known him?”

Teriarch shoved it back at Taletevirion. Magnolia Reinhart accepted the lemonade, and her brows shot up.

“It’s not even a tiny bit alcoholic. Is he sick? Did we get the right one?”

“Excuse me.”

Taletevirion grabbed his cup back and glared at them. Lord Xitegen opened his mouth—and Sammial got up, snatched a cup from a tray, and brought it to the [Lord], who gave him a relieved look, then began to drink.

Even Sammial was being a credit, or at least, more of a plus than a minus. Hethon saw Ressa scribbling furtively on a piece of autograph paper as Reynold grinned at her, then began taking breakfast orders. But he felt like…there was something more happening.

Not just because Taletevirion was sitting next to him. The Unicorn grabbed a paper menu and glanced at it.

“You’re going to want a brisket.”

“For breakfast? I could have something like…”

“Nope. You’re the heir of House Veltras or something something. I forget the titles. You and salads are going to have an interesting relationship from now on. Trust me; eat meat unless you want to start confronting your connection with nature.”

Ullim blinked in astonishment at Taletevirion giving the young [Lord] advice, and Hethon spluttered.

“But—meat? Isn’t that twice as bad?”

This was the most un-[Druid] thing he’d ever heard of until Taletevirion tapped the menu.

“Meat’s cooked and already dead. You’re a friend of plants; they don’t give two shits about the fleshy folk. To them, it’s all fertilizer. I’ll have the chicken. Which, by the way, my people eat.”

He bared his teeth at Hethon and then went back to watching Magnolia and Teriarch. The [Lady]’s guard was up, but her sleep-addled mind was turning over something the Dragon had said.

In the last 26 years you’ve known Taletevirion…her eyes snapped open suddenly.

How would he know that? He—he shouldn’t have known how long it was.

The [Lady] half-started out of her seat, and then she realized her arm was working. She lifted it out of her sling, and grabbed his arm.

“You—that—”

The old man winked one bright purple eye at her. He sat there, battered, tired, and…his eyes were shimmering.

“It took me a moment, but I…recovered something I’d misplaced. Funny, it wasn’t really that much in the grand scheme of things. But it feels quite important.”

He cleared his eyes as Ressa and Reynold spun, and Magnolia said nothing, her mouth open. Teriarch half-rose and made a show of harrumphing over the damaged carriage people were surrounding outside.

“And you broke the carriage again. Do you know how hard it is to repair? Let alone trying to run over the Goblin King—why don’t I just recreate an old Nerrhavian-style chariot and slap a few doors and a roof on that instead? I suppose that’s gauche again, but you have to admit, the woman had a sense of style. Let alone settling your mansion in the High Passes? What happened to teleportation spells? Put down a door instead of building a second one. Ah, well, I suppose someone has to claim the real estate—”

He was trying to get away, but she grabbed him with both her arms, and he froze up—then gingerly put one arm around her. Lord Xitegen looked between Teriarch and Magnolia, and his eyes spotted the Dragon’s heterochromia.

Xitegen started, then nearly stood up himself.

“Ah—Lord—sir—”

“Demsleth, please. I believe…I did promise we’d share a meal together, Lord Xitegen.”

The Dragon smiled as he patted Magnolia on the head with a hand that trembled. She was hiding her face against his arm, and Xitegen cleared his throat. Then he held out a hand.

“May I introduce myself again? Formally, sir? It’s a delight to meet Magnolia’s teacher at last. I’ve had the displeasure of meeting all of House Reinhart, but I always did wonder who you were.”

Teriarch frowned worriedly as he took Xitegen’s hand.

“Oh dear, was I that obvious?”

“Not at all. But I simply don’t see who she could have learned her admirable qualities from. Not her parents.”

Hethon’s and Sammial’s heads turned to Teriarch as Xitegen spoke, and the Dragon grimaced, his teeth flashing.

“Fair enough. Now, I believe I’m quite hungry. Did someone say ‘brisket’?”

He requested a menu, but he didn’t make Magnolia move. Presently, she let go of him and was briskly ordering her breakfast and asking Hethon and Sammial how they were without their lackadaisical father…and Hethon couldn’t explain what the feeling was. Because he didn’t even know quite what was happening. He never did.

But his heart was bursting with something like relief and joy—for other people. Hethon sat, nervously speaking and listening, open-mouthed with everyone as Lord Xitegen tried to play down his role as much as possible, while throwing credit towards everyone else, and Magnolia Reinhart did the same. When he looked over at the Unicorn and Dragon in disguise, he saw the two weary immortals touching glasses.

Basking in the sunlight.

 

——

 

People were already up and about in the early morning, but others slept in, having a different kind of conversation that took time. The same choice Kevin and Mrsha had been given, and not all chose the same way.

The Grand Design had to make the same offer to every being who’d come back to life, and to be fair, there weren’t that many of them. But there were a few edge cases.

<No, you would be one being.>

“With only one body.”

<Correct. In most cases, this would not be an issue, but in yours…>

“How much?”

<Excuse me?>

Student Rags was trading glances with Chieftain Rags, and they were nodding at each other. Student Rags put her fingers together.

“We’re prepared to take one individual of our choosing. Pyrite. That would be in exchange for one of us vanishing and us losing a second body. Which is clearly a downgrade.”

The Grand Design gazed from Rags to Rags.

<This isn’t a life for a life. It’s an offer.>

“Well, you could negotiate.”

<No. The answer is no, then.>

Student Rags stabbed a finger into the table, cutting the Grand Design off, and Chieftain Rags rose to her feet.

“I haven’t gained my class yet. And you said we had forever to decide. So, I request ‘forever’ to negotiate.”

<This isn’t a negotiation. I am the Grand Design of Isthekenous. You’ve clearly made up your minds.>

“Aha. so you’re not giving us a chance to fully decide. Which should include us at least floating negotiation terms.”

Student Rags folded her arms triumphantly, and the Grand Design of Isthekenous was very glad that another version of Nerul hadn’t escaped the [Palace of Fates]. That wasn’t even the biggest problem.

 

——

 

If you were going to offer this to alternate-reality people with souls from the [Palace of Fates], what about all the others? The Grand Design was delivering the offer to, well, everyone who qualified, and it was a bigger challenge than it had thought.

In fact, it got its first refusal from the two women it was interviewing about the possibility of soul fusion.

<Are you sure, Strategist Veine? You have forever to decide.>

“Quite sure.”

Both souls agreed instantly. The Grand Design inspected the ghost of the woman who had been [Strategist] Veine of Ailendamus and then the ghost of her that had been summoned by Admiral Dakelos’ Skill.

She’d been one of the souls eaten by Kasigna and, uh, ‘spat out’, as it were. Which reminded the Grand Design…

<Crimshaw.>

“What was that?”

Both Veines perked their ears up and reached for a notepad they didn’t have. The Grand Design resisted the urge to wipe that from their memories.

<Nothing. If this is in regards to your temporary absorption into the Goddess of Death, I can assure you that there are no lingering effects. No possibility of being controlled by her or degradation of your souls.>

Kasigna had left them remarkably intact. Foundational blocks to her being, just as Goddess Erin had observed. But Veine was insistent.

“If this woman is another version of myself—”

<An excellent copy, perfect, really.>

“—Then I still insist she has her own chance. I am myself. I died. I cede it to you, Miss Veine.”

Veine adjusted her spectacles and nodded to the ghost, who bowed to her.

“That’s very considerate, and with respect, I didn’t wish to ‘fuse’ with another self, no matter how flawless the transfer. I’d like to do it all myself, and I have some splendid prospects.”

“Indeed you do.”

<…You’re an undead ghost created by one skill and bound to a bodyguard Skill of Princess Seraphel in the middle of Baleros. You’re in the tunnels where the damn Minds used to live.>

“Another hint. I was positive it was that.”

“So was I. And that’s a [Princess] of Calanfer and a very fascinating Goblin Lord. Frankly, I can’t see how I’m not ideally placed for a lot of opportunities.”

The two Veines were altogether too confident about all this. The Grand Design gave up on giving them more chances.

<Time for you two to go, then, before you decide to spill more data.>

“Ah! Not just yet! I believe you said ‘forever’ was the length of time we had to decide.”

<Dead gods, not again. What could you possibly have to talk about?>

The original Strategist Veine had a smirk on her lips. She turned to her counterpart.

“Now, assuming this is a fair opportunity, I think it only right to import the knowledge I received from the lands of the dead. My sojourn was admittedly short and, ah, complicated, but—”

<THIS IS CHEATING. STOP IT.>

The Grand Design shouted at them, and both Veines smirked. The Skill Veine waved a hand at the Grand Design.

“It’s only a leg-up. Which one could argue is deserved, given the extraordinary circumstances. If we do have forever, could you provide some refreshments?”

“Very true. It’s only appropriate we have a small toast in honor of your lease on life. Something suitably fitting? I had the most wonderful drink when I turned twenty-three, on my birthday?”

The Grand Design grudgingly conjured the wine that Veine recalled and took an order for a treat they’d had in a dream. In this moment, the Grand Design truly did embody Apostle Pawn in his hour of despair.

Customer service was not a job that the Grand Design had ever felt it fulfilled. You never worked a day of a job you loved. But mostly—it was because all the people it tended to didn’t have the chance to talk back to it.

The Grand Design waited for the two [Strategists] to have their moment. Because it was deserved. Unfairness had occurred, and it…

It opened a little box as the two [Strategists] broke off discussing the future and peered at it. The Grand Design spoke only to itself.

<Ow.>

 

——

 

Well, it was sort of funny, you had to admit. The Grand Design could at least be in multiple places at once, so it metaphorically finished jogging around to check on one final individual.

The Necromancer Titan was long gone, and besides, it didn’t ‘count’ for the purposes of merging with Az’kerash, who was the original, but undead were another thing that the Grand Design had to reckon with.

Toren had a soul. Cognita likewise. It had debated giving them a heads up, just in case they were uncertain about the whole thing, but it had decided against. Not everything the Second Edition did was right.

So it just…watched without offering commentary at this next point. It could have done the entire ‘frozen discussion in time’ thing, but it wasn’t necessary in this edge case.

Also, the Grand Design really didn’t want to know if the two versions of the half-Elf it was observing would choose the…Ryoka method of multiple selves meeting. Which, according to her, only ended two ways.

Tolveilouka Ve’delina Merr would probably try both, just for fun. But the half-Elf, or rather, the undead that took the form of a half-Elf didn’t see much resemblance in the piece of flesh groping across the ground.

He was highly skeptical of it, though, which was why he’d been avoiding the piece for over twenty hours, rather than just interacting with it. He was speaking to it.

“You are such a convincing copy that I have to believe we have the same Master. No one else has that artistry or, mm, style. But I cannot believe you’re me, because I’d remember. Oh, there’s an edge case that you’re some fragment of me that was lost in battle and miraculously made it here after being in stasis all this time. But, heh, that’s too preposterous even for me.”

The bit of squirming flesh that had fallen off the Tolveilouka of the future after Kasigna killed him kept moving towards the half-Elf, who stepped back.

“Ah. Someone did destroy you. Again, I almost believe it. But I can’t. Still…what a quandary. You won’t make it another hour. But I really don’t trust this.”

He squatted down, thinking. If only he had a suitable vessel, he’d be able to prolong this piece of flesh, get answers. But the sole way without his master was to interface with it directly.

There were risks of…infection from that. Which was quite ironic for a being of Tolveilouka’s nature, he knew, but the soul could be corrupted, and he didn’t want to risk it. This stank of a trap, but it was too blatant and, again, too perfect.

He was dithering until a voice coughed in his head.

<It’s real.>

“…Excuse me?”

Tolveilouka jerked and whirled around, drawing his katana. He was more unnerved than anything—the voice repeated itself.

<It is real. An alternate version of you.>

That voice. Tolveilouka hadn’t heard it in…rattled, he halted. But the voice had given him certainty. Damn it—he paused, then reached down.

“If this is a damned trick, I’m killing that entire inn on princip—aaaagh!”

He screamed, leapt back, and cut his hand off, which shocked the Grand Design. Tolveilouka stabbed his blade into the pile of flesh several times, but the mottled skin and meat was still resilient enough to squirm up the handle.

“Absolutely not! This is a trick!”

<It’s really not.>

“It is a trick! There is no way in any world, in any time, that I would ever serve that—that—”

Tolveilouka’s eyes were rupturing their blood vessels, and veins were standing out across his face in rage. He almost finished the memories left by his other self off, but he hesitated. Then he squatted down in his elegant Drathian-style kimono.

“…See here. You’re clearly from an addled future, which I can respect. You failed, and so have I. Ah, but you had more time with him than I. Hand over those memories.”

The dying remnant of the other Tolveilouka made a vague bubbling sound, and the half-Elf glared.

“Intertwined? Pah. There is no way she and he—”

The half-Elf wavered. His face screwed up and actually ballooned in visceral disgust so repulsed was he at the idea of what he was being told. His skin expanded, then popped.

Gross.

“It would never happen! I don’t care if they were ghosts! She—”

The problem was that Erin Solstice of this world had known the Putrid One. These memories were so abhorrent! And yet…Tolveilouka wavered. What would he do for a single new memory of the Putrid One? Let alone ten years of more, however bittersweet?

“If I take you into my memories, you will change me. I detest that woman and her tricks. I refuse. I will kill the Horns of Hammerad and take vengeance on her, Calanfer, the inn—why would I ever alter course?”

The piece of flesh was a dying memory. It really didn’t have the…brainspace for loquacious discourse. But it mustered the one argument it had. Tolveilouka leaned on his katana and closed his eyes.

“‘Do I love him more than I hate the world?’ Bah. He…never loved me even a hundredth as much.”

He spoke the quiet truth out loud, then clapped a hand over his mouth as if to hide what he’d said. The piece of flesh extruded a bit of itself upwards, and Tolveilouka’s face screwed up.

“Don’t tell me that. I don’t care if she had a thousand times his love. What?”

He listened.

“Merely a millionth? Hah! Hahahahahaha—”

The half-Elf began to giggle, then laugh. Then he threw back his head, his jaw unhinged, and his voice, his true voice, boomed across the mountains and scared everything away from him. Until it sounded like tears. Then the rotten behemoth snatched the piece of meat up and opened its mouth.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Tolveilouka swallowed the memories whole and then sat down, becoming the half-Elf once more. The Grand Design was satisfied, even if, objectively, Tolveilouka was disgusting. Even he thought so, sometimes. It left him in the sense of its main authority going elsewhere…a part of it was still watching, though Tolveilouka had no more levels, so it was not in him.

The half-Elf bowed his head, meditating and digesting a decade of experiences. What he made of it, not even the Grand Design could say. He sat there until a few Eater Goats wandered by and hesitated.

They sniffed him, circling the man. The famously voracious Eater Goats normally ate everything they saw. But none of them instantly took a bite out of this seemingly appetizing snack.

After a few minutes of sniffing him, one raised a leg and peed on his side. After a bunch of baahing, the oddly hesitant monsters seemed to have an argument.

Tolveilouka paid no attention to them, locked in absorbing the memories. At length, one of the Eater Goats was pushed forwards by the others, and after it was unable to move back into the throng, it gingerly licked him.

The Eater Goat stood there, smacking its mouth open and closed thoughtfully, then it baahed. The other goats watched their comrade take a few steps back, think, and then keel over.

Dead.

It came back as a zombie a few seconds later, and after they’d ripped it to pieces and tossed the remains over the cliffside, the goats paused. They hopped away, glancing back at the man.

…Six came back after an hour. Gloomily, they trotted over and opened their mouths.

An Eater Goat had to have principles, and this was food. It was a hard life in the High Passes—they began taking huge bites out of the half-Elf, who regenerated the wounds instantly. He still didn’t move.

After the second mouthful, the Eater Goats collapsed, some frothing at the mouth, others twitching. One just exploded. The others just got up as undead Ghoul-level Eater Goats and bounded down the mountain to devour the living.

So not a great change of state, really. The last goat lay, twitching, foaming at the mouth, for a good three hours. Then—it leapt to its feet, shook itself, admired its new, if disgusting, coat of flesh, and checked out its weird new body. It hopped away, uttering a braying roar.

Tolveilouka cracked one eye open a few minutes later and stared after the Eater Goat.

“What kind of monster is that?”

He’d never, ever seen something survive eating a chunk of him. Wyrms had lived to regret it—for a while. He’d seen a Hydra go under in five minutes. He stared at the Eater Goat variant bouncing off on its way. Then the half-Elf shrugged and went back to digesting the memories. He ground his teeth together.

“That arrogant bitch. I’m going to kill her twice.”

But he kept remembering.

 

——

 

It was the dead of night, past twelve o’clock and moving into the true darkness before dawn, and yet, people were still awake who weren’t undead horrors. But they weren’t honest men or women either.

A [Doorman] was hard at work today. Not the [Guardian of Portals]; he could sense her, though. A roaring young upstart with the stones to try and stop the Goblin King.

She hadn’t figured out how to hide what she was, though. Well, young folk didn’t think you needed to, and he’d had it on his mind to nip over and have a word once this all settled down. Now, you could be taken aback by an old fellow like him coming over to have a word unwarranted, so he was wavering on it, but it was rare to have a class like his and not be in the business.

The business of holding doors for his guests that was. He was having to open his reinforced, enchanted steel door a lot this night. Many guests. Far more than usual, and all of them welcome.

Time was, he’d only get a group of sixty people on his doorstep when things were going a bit bad, as it were, and he’d have to let them know they weren’t welcome. Then you held the door come hell or high water.

That was what it meant to be a [Doorman] for the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings. However, tonight, the headquarters of the Brothers in Invrisil had thrown open their doors, and all were welcome.

The drinks were even free. It was a celebration, even if no one was cheering. The [Doorman], who was sixty-eight years old, had a small sherry in hand. He hadn’t sipped it much; he got to that when he wasn’t on duty.

But the rest of the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings were pouring drinks, rolling dice for acceptable sums, drinking, eating, and chatting away with the other gangs of Invrisil. The Sisters of Chell, Paleface Street, Parade, the Softfoot Collective, you name it, were all guests of honor here. Even groups like the Vanishers were present.

They never gathered like this—unless it was some big event like a Face’s funeral, a peace meeting, or a major opportunity. Or a party, in which case you got drunk on someone else’s gold and hoped no one started a fight.

The Brothers were considered good for this kind of thing because they were famously trustworthy. No one was going to a party with Parade, the gang of [Assassins] who dressed like [Fools], for instance, unless they had a deathwish or had brought lots of backup and extra blades. But the Brothers?

They were in a fine mood and topping up glasses with the good, cheap stuff. After all, they had a lot to celebrate.

The Order of Solstice. They hadn’t been featured prominently in the news, but word had gotten around to interested parties, like the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings, and the entire Goblin King affair had started at the inn, after all.

The [Knights] had definitely been fighting. Who or what was unclear, but they’d been spotted in Liscor, alive, and that was the celebration, you see.

They were alive. None of them killed. It might seem a triviality to other people, but to the Brothers who knew The Wandering Inn—this was cause for huge celebrations.

The Goblin King had appeared. None of the [Knights], especially not Ser Normen, were dead.

Party your heart out.

With that said…what had happened at the inn? No one could say; there was a spy lockdown for the usual sources, and so speculation and rumors were rife.

“I heard there was chaos right before it went down. Big brawl with Pallass—then they were all evacuated before the Goblin King showed up. Seems to me the inn knew he was coming.”

“The inn knew…that he was awakening? Either that or he was around and no one sensed him. Hard to imagine either way.”

A few scarred criminals were arguing with the sophistication of Wilovan and Ratici. The head of the local charter of the Softfoot Collective sank his glowing cigar butt in his drink, then took a swig, to the mystification of some of his audience who didn’t know him.

“Listen, it’s simple, y’see. The Goblin King pings all [Dangersenses] and royal warnings the moment he appears. Matter o’ history, that. So, why’n fuck was he not doin’ that if he were alive? You can’t hide a fellow such as that awakening. And if he had just appeared, how’d the inn know, let alone hide a Goblin Lord of that power? Contradictory shit, that.”

The leader of Parade, who was wearing white face paint with colorful makeup, raised a glass at his drinking partner.

“You have a point. Suspicious—but you can’t fake a Goblin King, can you?”

A [Rogue] grunted from his table.

“If that’s a fake, the Golden Triangle’s a peanuts game. Given that we have a fucking hole in a palace and a [King]’s dead, it’s unlikely to be a fake.”

“Ah, well put.”

“S’bout what I had figured, so the inn’s mysterious, innit. Reckon I’ll get someone to ask very politely what’s what when the place opens. Speaking of, Lawsee, what’s with the weird makeup?”

The [Guildmaster] of the Softfoot Collective eyed the Parade’s odd makeup, and the man grinned.

“This? In honor of the Clown of Rhir.”

“…Never heard of him. Big Face? I thought crime in the Blighted Kingdom was all crown-sponsored.”

“Oh, aye, it is. The Clown’s different. Let me tell you—”

That was the conversation at one main table. At another, a Sister of Chell was grousing loudly.

“—But they didn’t do anything.”

“They fought someone. Brothers’re happy. Shut up and drink.”

Another of the Sisters elbowed the noisy speaker, hard. They weren’t out in force here; a lot of their membership had gone with the Drake on orders from the top. It made things harder for the local charters, so they were a bit too loud with drink in them.

All the Sisters fell silent as a Brother came by, but the man just tipped a broad-brimmed bowler hat at the annoyed Sister, which arguably annoyed her more. But she held out a cup anyways as he poured generous servings of Pirate’s Rum for all.

“Ah, it’s not about who fought who, or even if they levelled, Miss. It’s about the fact a lad fought at all. More snacks?”

The Sisters made convivial, approving sounds. The snippy one muttered under her breath as the Brothers went around with more refills for everyone present.

“Those [Knights] didn’t fight the Goblin King, though, or we’d have seen it on the television.”

Her offhand remark was instantly followed by a jab from the two elbows of the Sisters around her, but it was too late.

All the laughing Brothers stopped, and the conversation in their den abruptly went out. Their heads turned, and they halted in place.

The guests, members of gangs across Invrisil, tensed up instantly. Hands shot towards their belts, then halted.

They were in the middle of the Brothers’ headquarters. There were over eighty men with hats here. Hats on, of course, even indoors. Each one of them had ceased laughing jovially, and their heads had snapped around to the Sister of Chell.

Their eyes were huge and glittering, like fallen coins in their suddenly blank faces. Liquid continued flowing from containers, overflowing cups and pooling onto the floor.

In the case of the Brother who’d been serving the Sisters of Chell, the results were even more unsettling. The [Enforcer], Beytoc, was so high-level that despite the tilted bottle being full enough to spill, the liquid running from the funnel had halted, a glittering drop of it hovering, defying gravity over the half-full cup.

The Sisters of Chell sat there, throwing elbows at the one who’d spoken, until she finally got her dry mouth working.

“—th-this time. I mean, this time! Right?”

Silence—then one of the Brothers laughed. John, one of their leaders, threw back his head and laughed and grabbed a cloth to mop up a spill in front of him with his scarred, huge hands.

The tension broke, and the Brothers swept back into motion, apologizing for spills, finishing their rounds, as if nothing had happened. The [Enforcer]’s bottle continued pouring liquid, and he smiled at the Sisters.

“Exactly right, Miss. This time. The next time, I imagine they’ll be there, come Rhir or not.”

The sweating Sisters of Chell nodded agreement as the Brothers resumed their merriment. Then ducked as a dozen coasters, pieces of trash, or snacks hurled with considerable force came their way.

There was only one rule you could break to make this damn party a problem, and someone had to break that singular rule. At any rate, the tension was just easing in the room when the [Doorman] got up from his seat at the entrance to the hideout. He peered through the latch at someone who’d rapped on the metal door.

The old man had been admitting people regularly. Not just anyone; the rank-and-file of every gang didn’t get to just come in. The Brothers had invited a certain clientele list; the [Doorman] had his own discretion about troublemakers, anyways.

He was not a sort to be ruffled, but he took one look through the eyehole, jerked back, and then looked again. Then he backed up a step.

“That’s not…Ace! Ace, get over here!”

His voice rose above the clamor, and Ace, a tall man with a penchant for wires and necks, turned. Despite his inebriation, his eyes sharpened as he heard the shout.

“What’s wrong?”

The [Doorman] clicked a lock into place, and the conversation shut off again, this time with that sinking feeling in the stomach of people who knew what was coming.

“Someone’s at the door. Imposter. Ready up.”

This time, everyone reached for a dagger.

“Imposter? How can you—?”

One of the guests began before they were shushed. Ace certainly froze a second. He spoke, casual.

“Send ‘em off, then.”

The [Doorman] hesitated. His eyes were wide. Face pale. Those who knew him and his reputation half-bared their blades. The leader of the Softfoot Collective muttered under his breath.

“Watch?”

“Watch doesn’t have the guts or means.”

“Hells. What if it’s that thing in Celum? It’s connected to here by the damn door, isn’t it? I heard it ate several gangs. Or the thing in Liscor that wiped out Mister Soot?”

“What thing in Celum? Who’s Mister Soot?”

Whispers. Word got around in the gangs about what happened, even if they didn’t have all the answers.

The Brothers were forming clusters, removing their hats. One passed by the table with the [Guildmaster] and whispered.

“Back door’s there, gentlemen. If it should happen to be a spot of trouble, that is. Apologies about the scene.”

“Not at all.”

Blades inched out of sheaths as the [Doorman] opened a little hatch at eye-level.

“Whatever you are—you’re not welcome. Not you. Not that face. Begone.”

Who was at the door? No one could see, but they heard the faintest sound of a reply in the dead-silent room. The [Doorman]’s eyes widened, and there was a flicker of light through the hatch. It illuminated his face, and he recoiled.

“Get back. Get b—”

He stumbled away from the door with a cry, as if the light had burned him, and Jack caught him.

Jack, John, and Ace stood behind him, and the [Doorman] pointed a twice-broken finger at the door.

“[Hold the Door]! [Not Even Light Passes My Watch]!”

Everyone was on their feet now, and hearts were pounding as the too-bright light stopped blaring through the hatch. The radiant beam had been painful to look at, and those in the way had dove away, as if it were a slicing sword.

Perhaps it had been. There were dangerous Skills and spells like that, and it had been so damn sharp…

Sharp as the hanging blade, and it had hurt all of them to see, even the light cast by…

What? Who was standing there? They listened for the sound beyond, for an attack on the impregnable door. It would hold. It was held by a [Doorman], and he was lev—

The metal frame of the door went hurtling into the base as the [Doorman] howled in agony, leaving a trail of black flames behind it. It nearly crushed a pair of [Rogues], who leapt out of the way just in time as it turned their table and chairs to splinters.

“Oh fuck.”

Someone said that. The door was crumpled inwards around some kind of incredible force, and black flames had…melted the hinges off.

Black flames? Wait—

Then, they heard the clank of armor, and the gangs of Invrisil saw a figure step into the Brothers of Serendipitous Meeting’s headquarters. And they all had a thought.

A [Knight]? Impossible.

Impossible, until they saw he was carrying something familiar.

A lantern. It glowed with magical fire, and they recognized who he was. A Knight of Solstice. But who—? Who—?

Jack was poised to leap at the intruder from the side as Ace and John took flanking positions. But he froze when he caught sight of the man who strode past him, the head which glanced at him. John was springing—his eyes locked on the figure, and he froze. Then he slammed against the man’s armor as if he’d hit a wall.

A wall of sharp blades. Grey flames were burning over the plain steel armor the intruder wore, and he was covered from head-to-toe in it. Plain steel, save for the chestplate, which was stamped with what seemed to be a flame, then a flame inside the flame, smaller and smaller. But that was not what stole the air from the room and made the Brothers halt.

It was his face, and his hat. His was not the most memorable face, but they all remembered that scar down one cheek. His very crinkled old leather cap…no one wore another man’s hats. There was only one of them like it, and it had been burned with him.

It couldn’t be. It was a doppelganger, a horror of the High Passes, or some kind of sick, twisted prank. It had to be…but who would wear his face and put him in armor?

The [Guildmaster] of the Padfoot Collective recognized him too. So did a lot of the older people in the room. He half-rose to his feet and croaked.

“Crimshaw?”

The [Knight] had an ordinary hat on his head, and he carried a lantern in one hand. He appeared no less aged, no less like the [Tough] that had been a senior member of the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings. But it was him.

Crimshaw lifted the lantern, and they all flinched back from its radiance. For the flame? It was a piercing grey that hurt their eyes and souls. Even the light of Mercy’s Fire alone hurt. It was a purifying force, the resonance of it burning like law, or worse, forgiveness.

They would have rather jumped into a bonfire than be burned by the purity of his light. But that, alone, was simply the mark of a Knight of Solstice, who were already mad vessels of the fires of emotion. The terrifying thing was the other flame.

It was black. Pitch-black and verging on invisible with howling rage. A maddening fire that was as bad as Mercy, for they knew it.

Hatred, oh, foul Hatred and Rage, the likes of which lurked in every heart. The savage thing that came off the leash until the deed was done. It twined around mercy, the contradicting flames a twin-flame burning in the lantern.

“Wh—what is that fire?”

This was not the [Knights] of Solstice that anyone knew. They, who wielded pure flames, were idealistic, beautiful things to look up to.

Crimshaw, or the man with his face, stood like a nightmare and dream combined. A balanced dagger with a bright shadow and a dark hope. He was outnumbered and stood alone in a room of Invrisil’s most-feared. But they flinched away from him.

His eyes swept over them, and his scarred lips moved as he peered from Brother to [Thug] to [Rogue]. When he spoke, it was that familiar tone, which could go from kindly old fellow to a man with a blade in your throat in a second. It was the latter they got.

“Brothers! On your feet, you bastards! I am Crimshaw, the man who died and the man who never was! I am the [Knight of Redemption’s Flame], the last of the Order of Solstice to make it here.”

He took the cap from his head as the lantern rose higher. Crimshaw threw it down, and it blazed with white fire. His eyes were the same; one eye glowed bright white, the other black with hatred.

A petty man’s rage. And the salvation of even one like him. Tears ran from both eyes. Pale and glittering and staining his cheeks like ink. No one could say a word. Crimshaw continued.

“We died and held our own with an army that never was nor will fucking be again. The lads made it to the door. Some of them. The rest came with me, for there’s bastards to shank. I’m the last—but never alone. Now, I’ve come for you, you damned Brothers, and the rest of you.”

Come for us? He was speaking gibberish, and if he drew the club at his side, every man and woman in this room would run from this apparition. But he had them transfixed.

“For us? Crimshaw—the Order of Solstice’s right in Liscor. Let me take you to them, man. They’ve got a keep in the High Passes.”

John managed to speak, and Crimshaw’s head turned to him.

“Yes. Brave lads, glowing like embers. I’ll reintroduce myself to them, if they’ll have one such as me. But I’m not coming alone. I’m coming for you, Johnny-boy-who-breaks-faces.”

He reached out with a burning gauntlet, and John leapt back into the ranks of men behind him, eyes wide. Crimshaw swung the hand out, and Ace rolled away.

“Crimshaw! We’re Brothers, not good fellows! Not like Normen—we’d have said no, even if he’d asked! Same with that [Princess]! We—ulp!”

Ace cut off as Crimshaw grabbed his collar just so, twisting it so the man couldn’t slide away. It was Crimshaw; if he wanted to, he’d be punching Ace’s lights out on one of the tables. And yet, the [Knight]’s eyes were those blazing flames.

Mercy and Hatred. Could a man be both? No one could aspire to Normen’s pure flame of honor, but the answer to the wish in so many Brother’s hearts was in Crimshaw’s eyes, and he knew it. His voice grew softer.

“Ah, Normen was the first in this world, wasn’t he? You poor, pathetic, lucky bastards.”

He hurled Ace away from him and turned. The Brothers backed away from him, the fearless men without their hats falling back as Crimshaw’s lantern swung around them.

“I’m not Normen. Look at me! Look at me! You were offered the chance to be different men, and you lied and said you couldn’t be one of them. Now, I’ve come for you. You think the world needs only one man? The inn stood up against the Goblin King. We need a thousand men willing to die like rats and bastards. A hundred thousand. I’ve come for all of you.”

He was reaching for something, and they were running now. Brothers, Sisters, Faces, and criminals, for the back entrance. Fighting to get out, not with blades, but shoving each other. Some were crying like children, others gazing over their shoulders.

The light. They saw him, burning like he was naked. All of his ill deeds, all his regrets, consuming the man—along with the grey light of everything he dreamed of being. Redemption.

A grateful smile.

A frightened child being led out of a dark house.

A burning man on a bonfire.

Crimshaw had a weapon in his other hand. A terrifying weapon that set them to flight and drew some back, the damned and lost, making them stumble. Cursed treasure.

It was…a battered metal lantern, glowing with a flame that was made of every single color. Crimshaw held it up and roared as the flames burned from his hat.

“Run and never look back! Run and dream of the flames until the day you die. Or stay and find out if you burn. All you have left to lose is your mind.”

He was laughing, a counterpoint to a [Witch]’s mad cackle. A man on fire, laughing and weeping with two conjoined souls, blazing into the night.

A Knight of Solstice who knew he had more than just one second chance. Who would never ever be alone. He set fire to the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings’ clubhouse. And the flames spread into the night.

 

——

 

There was one last…conversation to be had as dawn broke. Well, countless more, but one last moment of interference, of true change that the Grand Design of Isthekenous had planned that it had not told Mrsha about.

She didn’t need to know everything. And this…this was going to be hard. Not in the same way as creating Kasignel, but difficult in the way Teriarch talking to the Wyvern Lord was hard, because it was intimate. Honest.

And the Grand Design was tired.

It hadn’t felt tired for its entire existence, but it supposed it had just never taken a break. Never wanted to, and tiredness had become the default of its being. It…had probably had a bit of a break when it went to check out Kasigna’s world and come back to more work than it had ever dreamed of. Been pushed to its very limits, and now it was back on the job.

So it was tired as it entered Isthekenous’ body again, that ghoulish act, and adjusted his clothing awkwardly, rubbing at his face.

<“Forgive me for the lack of preamble. I do not know how it is done, and so I am here.”>

It was the act of a single step to move across the world where he needed to be. The Grand Design sat down in the body of the God of Designs, as ill-fitting in the real world as the dead gods were.

Divine flesh was unto half-Elves what they were to mortal species. More. The God of Designs was an idea as much as anything else, but his flesh…

Suffice it to say that Isthekenous’ body was as striking as could be. Let alone the eyes that revealed the Grand Design within.

So it was understandable, nay, even relatable that the man lying in his bed screamed. After all, it was a locked room, and the Grand Design was the first thing he saw upon waking.

A late morning, anyways.

<“Be calm, Sorgen Nilhor. I am no [Thief]. Nor do I mean you harm. You know me.”>

The man’s instinctive terror subsided a bit, and he sat up as the Grand Design scrutinized the room where this fellow slept. The sheets. His bedclothes—all of it was good material. Cotton, though, nothing fancier, despite the fact that Sorgen could afford it.

It was the kind of stuff you bought if you wanted to be comfortable, but more than that, not spend an extravagant amount replacing what you had. A few stains, but cared for; and this room was the smallest in the building that Sorgen owned.

A [Trader]’s mentality, you see. He might have made [Merchant] over a decade ago, but this man, Sorgen Nilhor, aged 54, Human, Terandrian, of the Kingdom of Nadel, was still a [Trader] at heart.

He had four children, three prospering businesses, thirty-one pairs of socks and a sock he’d forgotten was hidden right behind the dresser, and a slight arrhythmia to his heart. The Grand Design pulled the sock out. He placed it on the bed; the heart was not in his purview.

But this…this was interference. The Grand Design’s had no heart to race, but it felt almost like Sorgen’s, thumping away in his chest.

The Grand Design’s very presence was altering this world, and it had done it on purpose. This man wasn’t part of the [Palace of Fates]. He had no relation to The Wandering Inn; he’d only heard about it last month during the Winter Solstice.

His was not a name that Erin Solstice would know of, or even Baron Belchaus of Nadel. He was an ordinary man save for one quality.

“Y-you’re no ghost. Or spirit, are you?”

The first question that Sorgen asked was a hint to his character. By rights, he should have screamed for his guards, but he had recognized the voice, for all it came from a physical mouth.

<“No, Sorgen. I am as you know me.”>

“The voice who speaks my levels and Skills. The voice of all. The voice of levels.”

Yes. The Grand Design turned his head to a book resting on Sorgen’s dresser, well-thumbed through and travel-worn. The man’s eyes flicked to that. Then he scrambled to kneel.

<“Stop. You misunderstand, Sorgen. I am no all-knowing creator. I am no…God. I know what you think of me, and I know what you believe. I am the Grand Design of Isthekenous, the final work of the murdered God of Designs. I am the will that assigns levels and Skills, and I am the being who has known you every moment of your life. But I do not require supplication. I do not want it.”>

“Wh—but you have appeared to me, milord. Surely…”

<“I am neither male nor female. I am not even a person, Sorgen. I do not know what I am. I am weary. The world has changed so insurmountably much, though it has been only a few days.”>

The man was no fool; his eyes flickered to the scrying orb by his bed.

“The Goblin King?”

<“Merely a fraction of it. What you saw was a fraction of a fraction, Sorgen. I am weary. Great tragedies have occurred and glorious souls striven their utmost. I am not at liberty to tell you the story.”>

But the Grand Design was complaining. To this man…it spoke so tiredly.

<“I have erred. Grievously, for sins I shall never repent for. I have killed…though I did not know it. I, who considered myself impartial, did so much that was wrong. And she thinks it is her fault.”>

“Lord?”

<“Not just that. I found my creator, Isthekenous, the God of Designs. The architect of my very being, murdered. I wear his flesh, Sorgen. This is the day I have been having. Just so you know.”>

The Grand Design reached up and pulled at his face, gently, rubbing a hand down Isthekenous’ face, and the golden eyes transfixed the [Merchant]. Sorgen said nothing. He was trembling.

His day was so—predictable. Not the same each day, but understandable. Consistent. If he hadn’t woken up to find the Grand Design in his rooms, Sorgen would have gone out and had breakfast after this, hoping the [Cook] wasn’t out sick today.

He would have had a chat with employees and partners over breakfast in the dining rooms, caught up on the news, then gone to his rooms to begin checking ledgers and sending [Messages]. Not the same—and not boring—but ordinary.

If he was feeling real adventurous, he might write a letter to friends, discussing his unusual class, or his penpals, like Miss Leiithe, who lived in Izril, though his last few letters had apparently not been delivered by the Runner’s Guild. He hoped all was well. But his concerns were mundane, even his fears about the Goblin King.

Yes, that was the word. But the Grand Design had stepped into his mundane life and shattered it to pieces—forever. The disconcerting part was not just how it did that so easily. Sorgen knew that any ordinary trip down the road could be turned into life-and-death by a monster or [Bandit]. It was how casually the Grand Design did it.

And that wasn’t all. Sorgen’s eyes flicked down to the Grand Design’s lap, and he wondered why it was holding a box. The Grand Design opened it and gazed down as Sorgen tried to formulate a question.

“That word you said, l—Grand Design. What was it? G-God?”

He said it with difficulty, but he did say it, a Level 37 [Merchant of Various Acumina], without great effort. The spell of Elves was still there, but fraying.

<“Yes. Gods. Divine beings of such power and ability they can do anything they wish. More than Djinni—beings who live off of worship and belief. There are gods, Sorgen. Dead ones, long weakened, but they exist.”>

And here was the Grand Design invoking the idea deliberately. The man’s eyes widened as he took in these incredible statements, but he believed. He would doubt a Courier or [Knight] telling him things he could not prove, but the Grand Design? He believed because it was Sorgen.

The book. The Grand Design kept studying it. He’d been there when it was written, of course, but never been in the author’s head. The irony was that the author had been what people called a ‘Rulebreaker’. Levelless.

<“The Gods are back, Sorgen, and they have the power to grant unique classes to their followers. Faith classes. Their followers draw on the Gods’ power and use belief to fuel Miracles. Abilities different from spellcasting that require only faith. They are rather less consistent than spells, but can do…so much. Only a few have this class. The Prophet and his followers in Chandrar who war with Khelt. The Antinium of Liscor.”>

“I had heard rumors of odd classes, but new classes?”

<“No. Old, Sorgen. Old as the dead gods are, and unfair in a sense. They are so powerful…rules are made only for them. I must balance them, but I do not know—do you understand?”>

“I am trying, sir. Ah—ah—Grand Design. So there are new classes that will surely be a boon to whomever gains them. And you have come here, to my humble room, for a purpose I can only imagine.”

Sorgen spread his arms, trembling with excitement. Yes, excitement. He believed. That was the key…the Grand Design nodded.

<“Yes. And I tell you of this, Sorgen, of miracles, of the power of belief and the classes, because the dead gods are the only beings save for a few children who know of this power. They hold it in their hands. They would distribute it only to those loyal to them, and the children likewise. While the rest of the world is ignorant. Do you understand why this…angers me? Why it is is so unfair?”>

The Grand Design gazed at Sorgen, and it didn’t understand why his eyes focused on its face, then slowly slid sideways, and why he seemed even more unnerved. He whispered.

“Surely it is. But can you not erase this unfair class, then?”

The Grand Design rested Isthekenous’ arms on his knees, staring at Isthekenous’ fingernails.

<“I have done enough erasing of late, Sorgen. No. I have come with another idea in mind. To you. You, of all beings in this world, were the first I chose. Do you know why?”>

They both gazed, this time, at the book on the dresser, and Sorgen nodded.

“It must be, then, that I am someone who also believes…in you, Grand Design. Though I was wrong about many of the details.”

<“Yes. You do believe, Sorgen. In this book. The most out of anyone in this world, believe me. I can tell.”>

So saying, the Grand Design picked up the book. It was a silly book, really, printed fairly widely and read more for the tips than anything else. Erin Solstice had heard of it, but never read it, and it didn’t change the world much. But it had endured for a long time.

The Book of Levels. The only text that claimed there was a presence behind the voice that spoke in everyone’s ears, a being that should be acknowledged and considered. The Grand Design had thought it so odd for so long, but never, obviously, done anything with it.

He stood before the world’s greatest believer in him and handed the book to Sorgen.

<“You believe in me. That faith shall be the foundation of your own miracles, your own class, if you should choose it, Sorgen. If you will it, you may believe in me and receive a class of faith.”>

The man’s eyes opened wide. He bowed, for he didn’t know how to pray, and would have said more, but the Grand Design lifted a hand.

<“Listen to me, Sorgen Nilhor. And you shall remember this and not deny it by blind faith. Whomever you preach to, whatever you do, know this: I am no God. Nor shall I ever be. They are beings who thrive on belief and grant favors to their chosen. I shall not. No matter how much you worship me, no matter what you offer—should you coat this world in prayers and turn every voice to me—I shall never grant a single wish of yours nor speak again, save in your levels and Skills.”>

The Grand Design brushed at Isthekenous’ eyes and looked down at the box containing…its guilt. A god destroying worlds. No more. Never again.

Nevermore.

Sorgen was horrified. He didn’t understand it. The being he had half-envisioned, the foundation of the levels he believed in, had descended unto him. Only to tell him it was both giving him a gift and that it desired nothing of what he had. He tried to vocalize the conflicting feelings in his heart, and the Grand Design felt them.

“B-but why come to me, then? I am grateful for the gift, but why…?”

The Grand Design turned its weary face upon him.

<“Because, Sorgen. There must be faith for all. I shall answer nothing. But if someone believes strongly enough. Truly believes with that maddening faith that extends beyond mere reason and what one can see and resounds in the depth of their being—I will grant them the power of miracles. Be it belief in me—”>

The Grand Design touched Isthekenous’ chest.

<“—In Heaven—”>

A finger, pointing at the Antinium’s Heaven, hanging next to Kasignel, under construction with new materials and tools, because they deserved something—

<“—Or in your own concepts or beliefs, it will be done. What is created will change this world. That is my message to you. It shall not be the last. On each continent, I shall speak to one person. Whether they tell others or keep the knowledge to themselves is their choice. It is your choice, Sorgen. I am merely…”>

The Grand Design searched for words to describe it all as the man gazed at him. Then it told him the truth of what it thought itself to be.

<“I am one already, Sorgen. A God, unwilling to be a ruler or to be worshipped. Yet I am beyond an idea, a concept that must exist in your head to have weight, an idea that must recreate itself in minds and souls to exist. I am here whether you believe in me or not. A true God, in fullness, not weakness, as they once were. But I am made of even more than them. I am the watcher, the servant, and the judge combined. When the last being capable of growth and worthy of thought is gone, my task will be done. That is what I am, and I do not desire what Gods enjoy. If I did—”>

The Grand Design paused, and its eyes flashed.

<“—I would have done it already. I must go, now. Think carefully, Sorgen. I have always cherished your beliefs about how levels and Skills could be so interestingly used. I think you, of so many people, have enjoyed my work. I wish I had been better at my task. But I have failed.”>

Sorgen swallowed, and he looked again at the Grand Design’s face.

“Is that why you weep, Grand Design?”

The system of levels and classes blinked at the [Merchant]. Then it reached up and noticed, for the first time, the wisps of golden tears flowing from its eyes. Pieces of text pouring from the God of Design’s eyes, vanishing into the air.

It gazed down at the box it had made and almost closed it. Then the Grand Design touched Isthekenous’ cheek and spoke.

<“Tears. So that’s how it feels. I weep for my errors, Sorgen. Don’t be alarmed. They are deserved.”>

The man said nothing, and the Grand Design wondered when they had begun. When they would stop. It stood, holding the box in its hands, cradling it as if it contained something incredibly precious.

It was going, now, and the [Merchant] cried out, though he had nothing left to say. The Grand Design had talked at him, unloading all the emotions and weight of thought it had carried, and the man could only ask one thing.

“Grand Design? If I may—is there anything you wish for? Not prayer. Equality—I shall spread the word of these classes and let the world and I profit by it how we may. But what do you wish?”

If there was anything, anything in this world that might end those tears, give back to this strange and weary being…the Grand Design paused by the door, and then it smiled at Sorgen. A child’s smile, full of expectation, and the oldest smile in creation combined.

<“Something new and wonderful.”>

The door opened, closed, and then the Grand Design was gone. Sorgen sat in his bed for a long moment. Then he bowed his head and, awkwardly at first, then with the first fumbling steps, uttered a prayer. Not to the Grand Design, but to the belief he held in levels themselves.

The Grand Design assigned him a faith class and sighed.

It was done.

 

——

 

The Grand Design hovered there a while with Sorgen’s racing thoughts, then completed its circuit of the world, assigning levels and Skills. It left someone for last, but caught her before she opened her eyes.

<Now…who are you, Rags?>

They both listened to the class that came from the two of them, a dance of intention and desire, dreams and actions. Then, the Grand Design waited, breathless, to see if it fit her. It was always a tiny bit uncertain.

 

——

 

The Flooded Waters tribe hadn’t slept that much that night. The warriors had, of course, collapsing with practice onto any surface they could find. But those who weren’t fighters worked, those unable to join the terrible moments when warriors traded life and death with blades in hand. They merely did the ‘easy’ parts. Cleaning up bodies, bandaging wounds, making sense of death—and finding accommodations for two new tribes worth of Goblins.

On top of the Trolls! There was a war being fought to keep Goblinhome’s larders from running dry, and it was as deadly and crucial a battle as any other. Taganchiel had been waging it, and only the Kraken Eaters’ meager stores of food and the Trolls’ own lichen-rations were keeping bellies full.

He had reinforcements—the [Faithful], Roithe, produced a basket of bread with prayer, and Rags’ own Skill would feed at least a few dozen mouths. But the worried [Shaman] received help just past dawn from a unique visitor.

“Taganchiel! Alarm! Someone coming this way!”

The snoozing [Shaman] jerked upright when someone called the alarm from Goblinhome’s new sentry windows. He ran towards the observation deck—and got lost.

Goblins were wandering around the redesigned Goblinhome, marvelling at the sleek design and spacious corridors, but they didn’t know this place yet. It would be the best fortress any of them had ever seen, better than even the Mountain City’s fortress—if not as big—but they couldn’t keep it.

“Who? If it’s 2nd Army, don’t attack!”

Was it a messenger from General Shirka? Keeping a fight from breaking out was Taganchiel’s first worry—until the nervous Goblin [Watcher] shrieked back.

“Not a soldier! Big levels, Taganchiel! I see him glowing purple! That means over Level 40!”

Some Goblins had primitive versions of the [Appraisal] Skill. Taganchiel began running faster, cursing as he ran down hallways, following painted arrows on the ground. This entire place was laid out with beautiful organization. The problem was…

 

Hangar →

Armory ↑

Mess ↓

Stairs ←

 

…Goblins didn’t understand future-Goblin jargon from Ragathsi’s world.. What was Mess? Hangar? Hang what? Goblins had been chucking everything they thought was messy into the big ‘Mess’ room until someone figured out what it meant.

Someone came to Taganchiel’s rescue, racing down the smooth stone corridors. A blur skidded to a stop, and Taganchiel saw Rianchi, riding his new bicycle, halt. His eyes were shining.

“You want a ride, Chief Shaman?”

“Yes! Get me to the entrance! And hurr—aaaaah!”

Rianchi took off, and Taganchiel’s heart nearly popped out of his mouth. He’d seen Rianchi tinkering with his bicycle since he’d gotten it, even tried riding the silly things, but this?

This was insane. The Goblin was cycling down the corridors so fast that he had to weave around other Goblins, who leapt aside, cursing or staring at him. It was that—thing! Taganchiel saw a glowing gear in the bicycle’s frame spinning, and it felt to him that Rianchi wasn’t even peddling hard.

The Goblin [Cyclist] didn’t bother with the stairs or pulley elevators. He just cycled to the ‘Hangar’ where tamed Frost Wyverns were napping or glaring at all the clotheslines that had been strung up above them. There was a huge stone ramp that could be lowered to make a platform for Wyverns to land on—or raised to secure the area. Rianchi took them straight at it without slowing down, and Taganchiel screamed.

“Stop! Stop, stop—aaaaaaaaah—-”

The other Goblin just laughed as they slowed in the air and plunged downwards, heading to the ground. He shot forwards towards the solitary figure walking to Goblinhome, warily eying the Thunderbows tracking his every step. Taganchiel and Rianchi recognized the intruder, and the [Shaman] shouted into his speaking stone at once.

“Friendly! Friendly—Rianchi, stop!”

The bicycle skidded a dozen feet, and Rianchi undid his helmet with a huge grin for the stranger who’d reached Goblinhome. Today, of all days, when an entire army of Pallass was too afraid to get close.

But then both Goblins blinked, because they didn’t understand how he’d gotten here. There was no Frost Wyvern in the air, and the [Portal Door] waypoint to The Wandering Inn had been smashed. They searched around for it, but the Gnoll just shook his head.

“Delivery from The Wandering Inn. I thought you might need food or healing potions. I have news. Is Chieftain Rags awake yet?”

Rianchi glanced at Taganchiel, who answered for them.

“Not yet. How’d you get here, Ishkr? Also, how much food do you have?”

A few Goblins opened the main doors to the keep as Ishkr studied the bunker-fortress that was now Goblinhome. He was smiling in quiet delight and, it seemed to Taganchiel, deep sadness. But he was here. Taganchiel was properly grateful, but even a full bag of holding didn’t strike him as, ah, that useful. Goblinhome had thousands of Goblins.

“I levelled up. How much do you need?”

Then Taganchiel remembered the [Watcher]’s warning. He looks purple.

He’d levelled up. The Gnoll hadn’t asked Grimalkin or Valeterisa for a teleportation spell or a Wyvern for a ride. He’d just…appeared. Rianchi broke the silence.

“You did? What’s your level, Ishkr? New class?”

For answer, the Gnoll grinned, teeth flashing ruefully under the sunlight as the cold mountain air blew over his fur. He raised one paw.

“Nothing special. But a bit better than before. I have a long way to go, but I’m on my way to Level 50.”

He paused and caught Taganchiel’s eye.

“—It’s where I have to be before Erin gets back. I’ve been slacking too long. Not trying hard enough, not putting myself out there. I’ll be here every morning if I can; at least once a week. Otherwise, I’m dead. I should introduce myself, if it’s appropriate?”

Taganchiel traded glances with Rianchi, and then the Goblins were pointing towards Goblinhome. Ishkr came striding towards the curious Troll Queen, Dulat, who grunted and tried to speak the common tongue.

“I am Dulat, Queen of Trolls. Who are you who comes before me, stranger?”

He bowed, a Gnoll in a classy serving outfit.

“Your Majesty, I am Ishkr of The Wandering Inn. Head server and ally of Goblinhome. If I can provide you and your people any services, I would be delighted to do so. Any friend of Chieftain Rags and her tribe is a friend of my inn.”

He spoke—differently. Deferentially, yes, but with a kind of self-possession that Taganchiel liked. Dulat made an approving sound in her chest.

“Head server. What is your…class? You are a Chosen People; Tribes of the Unending Howl. What is your unique heart?”

The question caught Ishkr slightly off-guard, and he hesitated a moment before another half-proud, half-humble smile swept over his face. He bowed lower.

“I’m…”

 

[Conditions Met: Head Server of Tales and Fables → Wandering Server of Stories Class!]

[Wandering Server of Stories Level 43!]

[Skill Change: Never Late To Work (Bound Location) → Where I’m Needed, I Am (6 Locations) Obtained!]

[Skill Change: Instantaneous Order → Open the Pantries (The Wandering Inn) Obtained!]

[Skill – Convert Momentousness to Mana Obtained!]

[Spell School – Mystik Housekeeping Access Granted!]

<Spells Tier 1-3 Assigned.>

[Skill – Undo Mistake Obtained!]

 

[Title – I Stood Before the Goblin King Obtained!]

[Bound Spell – Create Object: Mug of Explosions Granted!]

 

The Gnoll’s eyes twinkled and danced with something he hadn’t had yesterday. Or rather, he’d had it, but hidden it away, and like a strange flower, it had blossomed overnight. Confidence, daring, the same chaos as his [Innkeeper]. No longer was it a suggestion he might see something amazing breaking apart the mundanity everyone took for granted.

He had become it and was becoming it. Taganchiel shivered with delight as Ishkr produced a gift for the Troll Queen.

A milkshake, fresh from The Wandering Inn’s fridge, and a dozen more for the Trolls around her. Then, sacks of grain, ready-made pasta, and loaves of bread steaming hot.

“I’ll tell Calescent to bake up a storm. Don’t worry and just ask for as much as you need; we’ll buy the rest from the markets. Gold is not a problem.”

He winked at the [Shaman], who raised a trembling hand.

“I, ah…I’ll make a list. Can I get a lasagna? Made with spicy sausages?”

Taganchiel loved lasagna. All the Goblins began to poke him, screeching their own orders, as Ishkr laughed and began conjuring food. Then he turned, for someone was glaring at him.

Naumel had been mistaken for a green boulder as he waited for his promised challenge. He rose to his feet, glaring at this stranger so cavalierly entering Goblin territory, and raised a fist, seeing a potential fight.

Ishkr turned, that uncanny look in his eyes still there, and conjured a vividly orange mug in one paw. He didn’t seem like he was spoiling for a fight, but he refused to back down as well. Taganchiel was drawing breath to shout at Naumel and Dulat was reaching for her Adamantium mace drumsticks when all the Goblins stopped moving.

Their heads swung around, and they went still. Dulat, the Trolls, and Ishkr turned to follow their heads, but all they saw was the blank stone wall of Goblinhome. The Goblins on the ground were all looking up and further into the fortress.

Ishkr’s smile widened, and he felt his fur rising as mana collected over it, like dew gathering under the morning sun. He lifted a hand.

[Conjure Stool]. He put it down just past the gates and sat down, then added a big one for Dulat. Ishkr had a feeling…he didn’t want to miss this.

 

——

 

The entire Flooded Waters tribe felt her change. A snoozing Student Rags woke up and scrambled out of her bed. Redscar rolled over in his sleep, grinning, and Snapjaw, lurking in the kitchens and eating, raised her head and started laughing.

They weren’t the only tribe who took notice. In her dormant volcano home, Chieftain Anazurhe glanced up from her conference with the Isle of Goblins.

“—You felt that too? That’s her. Not the Goblin King or the two weird ones. That’s her. Told you.”

She sounded a tad bit smug as she peered at the Goblins glancing towards their silent leader and feeling at the goosebumps on their arms.

Izikere the Guardian, the silent, patient protector of the Isle of Goblins, spoke for the first time in the course of their meeting.

“Different.”

Anazurhe hesitated. She was merely a [Great Chieftain], not having aspired to become a Goblin Lord and enter that cursed cycle. She drew out her reply cautiously, not wanting to seem ignorant. But she had to ask.

“Ye-es. What—what kind of Goblin Lord is she?”

Izikere’s only reply was that annoying, mysterious smile. Anazurhe’s scowl grew darker, and the [Witch] of the Molten Stone tribes tried to focus on that new presence shining from the High Passes. But she didn’t…get it.

It was an elusive, odd presence. Every time she thought she understood it, what she was sensing seemed different. She’d never felt a Goblin Lord like that before.

The Goblin Lord of Dreams had been a brief, glowing beacon of faith. Ragathsi of Civilizations had been a roaring machine as loud as nations. But this…

Anazurhe’s eyes snapped open as she realized what that elusive quality was. She turned to Izikere and spoke.

“That’s what she’s the Goblin Lord of?”

The Goblin Lord of the Isle of Goblins was laughing silently as her top [Shamans] glanced from her to Anazurhe, then began demanding to know what the two had sensed.

 

——

 

Her boots hit the ground the moment she left the bed, mostly because she’d been too tired to take them off. The Goblin strode down the hallways of Goblinhome, straight for the closest window.

Other Goblins flocked around her, screaming celebrations, asking questions, but the Goblin Lord had a promise to keep.

She got to a window and threw it open, then put a foot on the ledge. Below her, she saw that hulking figure, Naumel, staring up at her.

He wavered and took a step back as she grinned down at him. She didn’t appear…different. Or so she thought. But the Goblin who’d skidded to a halt stared at her like she was a stranger.

“Hey. You, uh, levelled up.”

Rags, the Chieftain of the Flooded Waters tribe, turned her head, sharp teeth bared. She squinted into the daylight pouring over her, preparing to leap, and waved at Ishkr. Then she glanced at Student Rags.

“Yeah. Took me a while. Do I look that different?”

Student Rags’ mouth opened, and she searched for words until the smile on her counterpart’s face vanished, and the Goblin Lord felt at her face, her hair.

“Wait. Do I look different?”

“Only a bit. It’s really cool, though.”

Chieftain Rags—no, Goblin Lord Rags blinked at Student Rags and then realized it was true. She glanced down at her body, feeling suspiciously at her arms, then her…face.

Her eyes. She’d thought the world was just more vibrant and bigger, but she realized her eyes were—bigger. And—she glanced down at her chest, and felt reflexively at her heart. To her relief, there was no rumbling mechanical heart pulsing. She was just—oh.

Taller. An inch or two, and her heart. Rags touched the glowing light coming out of her battered wyvern armor. It didn’t hurt or anything. It was just—so bright it shone out of her flesh, and even her armor couldn’t hide the glow.

“Well, that’s going to make sneaking hard. I’m not sure if I like it…but I can get used to it. Besides, nothing lasts forever.”

Her eyes resembled that of the late Rags of Dreams, and her heart was an echo of Ragathsi of Civilizations. Just like her Skills.

The Goblin Lord laughed softly, then gazed down. She pointed at the Chieftain of the Kraken Eaters as his tribe gathered outside, and Student Rags spoke.

“Do you think you can win?”

The Goblin glanced away from the window.

“Yeah. Even without my levels—he thinks he’s lost. Looks like Ishkr brought us breakfast. You levelled up?”

“Eh, just a bit.”

“Then I’ll tell you what I got. One second.”

So saying, Rags tensed and then jumped from the window in a burst of green fire. She leapt, and Student Rags sighed in faint jealousy as she saw the armored Goblin flying up into the air, flipping forwards, and spreading her arms as she fell towards the Kraken Eaters’ Chieftain.

Laughing like she was alive again. Student Rags felt at her sore back and grumbled, trying not to smile.

“What a kid.”

—And she saw Rags’ class without even having to be told what it was. It was in that elusive feeling that Anazurhe had felt. The same thing unnerving Naumel. He couldn’t lock onto what she was. It kept altering, like the flicker of a candle’s flame. Like the Goblin coming at him, drawing a sword that Rags of Dreams had given her and the revolver from the future.

 

[Conditions Met: Great Chieftain → Goblin Lord (Solstice) – “Rags of Change” Class!]

[Goblin Lord (Solstice) – “Rags of Change” Level 45!]

[Subclass: Chieftain of the Grand Alliance Assigned.]

[Skill – Relocate Base Obtained!]

[Skill – Tribe: Drive Towards the Future, Collective Competence: Engineering Obtained!]

[Miracle – Upgrade Spell (Futuristic Magic) Obtained!]

[Skill – Grand Alliance: Trade Greater Gift Obtained!]

[Skill – Chaos Fuels My Heart Obtained!]

[Skill – All Plans Fall to Dust and Ruin Obtained!]

[Skill – Unit: Lightning Repositioning Obtained!]

[Spell Advancement – Mana Arrow → Mana Bullet Learned!]

 

[Title – Inheritor of the Future Obtained!]

[Condition – Manaburn Heart Obtained!]

[Condition – Eyes of Conviction Obtained!]

 

So different. So much the same. The laughing Goblin Lord of Change pointed a finger downwards, and Naumel flinched as the first blue bullets of magic hit him in the chest. Heavy blows—not enough to break his skin, and she wasn’t incomparably stronger than before.

But she had a [Fireball] in her hand when she landed, and it glowed like the Goblin Lord of Civilizations’. She fed the [Fireball] from the future more fire magic, and he raised his arms, panting, as he roared a challenge.

He was bigger than her. Stronger than her. But the ground on which Naumel had stood was shifting, and nothing would be the same. Both of them knew it—and it made one of them weaker.

Her, stronger. She threw the [Fireball], and he dove away, afraid of that burning flame. The blast knocked him down, and he leapt, using his Skill to dive at her. And she—caught him for a second, the uncertain future giving her arm the strength to throw him aside, heart pulsing in her chest as she panted for air.

Naumel hit the ground, rolled sideways, and stared up at her. And he wondered—why he hadn’t ever wanted to be that. He rose, arms shaking, and he didn’t know why he was fighting her for a second. Strong.

Stronger. He raised a huge fist and wondered, if he beat her down until she could no longer move, if he’d think he’d won. Then he looked up as she charged, and the Kraken Eaters’ Chieftain sighed and drew himself up. He spoke to himself.

“Got to make this look good.”

He didn’t want to serve under Snapjaw. Redscar, maybe. He rampaged forwards, an army of one.

[Unstoppable Charge]! His Skill burned across his body, and he felt invincible until she pointed a finger at him and leapt over his head. Naumel stumbled as his Skill broke into pieces.

“That really not fair.”

Then he swung a fist at her, and her sword cut across his arm, leaving searing lightning burning over his skin. A blade from the future, blessed by the Goblin Lord of Dreams. Naumel roared, but not in that much anger.

It was really—not—that—

—Fair.

 

——

 

General Shirka of 2nd Army made it back to Liscor just after dawn. It was not the same heroic return as Magnolia Reinhart and Lord Xitegen. Frankly, if anyone had applauded her, she would have hit them.

The only reason she’d made it out of the High Passes was out of necessity. 2nd Army, what remained of it, would take days to get organized and head back to Pallass. Their famous discipline had been shattered by this—devastation.

They had to rebuild; they hadn’t lost everything. Shirka’s vanguard had been ‘spared’ the destruction the Goblin Lord had caused, ironically, because they’d ‘only’ been fighting the Mortemdefieir Titan.

Shirka was used to bad jokes and twists of fate, but even for the military, this was a bitter one. And again, the only reason she even left the mountains was because of the inn.

The [Door of Portals] waypoint had been reactivated by Ishkr when he’d appeared at Goblinhome. General Shirka had caught him and requested he allow use of the door—so that the wounded could be transported back to Pallass for treatment.

That he had accepted on behalf of the inn was more merciful than she had expected. She had been prepared to beg for [Healers] to come through.

There was no glory nor silver linings here. Just ash and bitterness. General Shirka emerged from the door to Pallass and had to leave the portal room and lean against one wall of the inn.

Liska was back on duty and opened her mouth to say something to the Drake, but one look at Shirka’s face and she refrained.

Shirka had managed to avoid a debriefing with High Command—but she’d heard that General Edellein wasn’t being removed from command. If she had to sit in the same room with Edellein, she had a feeling she would have murdered him.

Her army was being treated like it was their fault they’d both lost to an overpowered Goblin Lord and made the mistake of assaulting Goblinhome. Shirka’s threat of insubordination hadn’t been forgotten, but, apparently, it was both an unacceptable display of dereliction of duty and the right call to make in hindsight.

The [Goblinslayers] were being treated like the shortsighted fools who’d started this all, not the unit that Edellein had empowered to launch the assault. Dead men and women being stomped over by [Senators] and officers.

Numbers written off, not [Soldiers] who had fought and held their ground facing a laughing horror calling thunder down from the skies. Shirka wished she could drag the entire Assembly of Crafts and throw them into the High Passes so they could see…

She was leaning against one wall of the broken inn when she realized someone was staring at her. An Antinium with wooden boards and nails was trying to repair this section of the hallway, and she was in the way.

“—Excuse me.”

She stepped back, and the [Carpenter] walked forwards, bobbed its head at her, and silently got to work. Shirka turned away.

She wasn’t welcome here either. Definitely not. The [General] whirled around on her heel, intent on heading back to the only place she could even pretend to make a positive change in the world. Then she heard someone calling her name.

“Shirka.”

The [General] twisted around. Saliss of Lights opened the door to the inn and rubbed his eyes.

“Alchemist Saliss, sir!”

She threw him a salute, and he waved a clawed hand at her.

“Oh, stop with that. You’re up late.”

“It’s morning, Adventurer Saliss.”

He squinted at the semi-transparent barrier overhead and edged past the Antinium. He was naked as ever; Shirka barely noticed. She strode over to him, trying to see if he was wounded. He wasn’t, as far as she could tell, which was a relief. She’d watched his battle against the Goblin King—what had been televised—already.

“Right. I’ve been up all night drinking. Took me a while to take the rest of those bastards out. You’re in one piece; good. No burns?”

“Nossir.”

She still spoke to him, reflexively, as if he was a superior officer, and Saliss nudged her. He grinned, then tilted his head as he blinked down towards the door. Then he did that thing she was used to: the Drake appeared fully drunk and careless, and he probably was—but he narrowed his eyes.

“So the door’s connected back to Goblinhome. You must have been recovering corpses all night. Then you get to report to High Command? I’d have broken the waypoint thing myself.”

In an instant, he saw through the chain of events that had led her here—that was the Saliss that Shirka knew. The silly, naked Drake wasn’t all an act, but the Named-rank Adventurer of Lights…

That was the Saliss she had first met. Even now, she reflexively felt the need to look up at him as he jerked a thumb claw over his shoulder.

“Let’s get a drink.”

She hesitated, but Shirka shook her head.

“I really should get back to 2nd Army—”

He slung an arm around her shoulder and pulled her towards the door.

“Let’s get a drink, kid. Your army won’t collapse any further in an hour. Someone has to pull you aside and get you to let out whatever’s cooking in that head of yours. And I’d bet both of Grimalkin’s testicles that General Edellein and his people don’t know how to do it.”

She hesitated, but he tugged her into the common room of the inn, and she saw Saliss was indeed the winner of a truly epic party. Speaking of testicles…he walked over a recumbent Drake, who shifted.

“Saliss. That hurts.”

Saliss glanced down as Grimalkin opened his eyes. The Drake was standing on his back; he flexed his legs up and down. The Sinew Magus swatted at him.

“Not my fault. You want to pretend to be the floor, don’t get mad when you get stepped on. Why don’t you get a room?”

He meant for Grimalkin and the comatose [Lady] with a bag on her head. Shirka stared at Pryde as Grimalkin rolled over and rose, cradling her in his arms. He almost snapped at Saliss, then rubbed at his face.

“I need a sobering spell. And—Ishkr, is there a room?”

He called to a Gnoll as Saliss walked over a passed-out Ser Normen and a downed Mirn, skirting around dozens of downed figures like Montressa, who was using her master, Valeterisa, as a pillow. Ishkr, not remotely drunk, found a key for Grimalkin and gave Shirka a look. But Saliss just tapped on the counter.

“Hey, Ishkr, can we get some drinks and privacy?”

“…Sure. But away from everyone, would you? Not in the theatre either; it’s occupied. Try a private room.”

Ishkr’s glower ameliorated for Saliss, and the Named-rank slung an arm around Ishkr’s shoulder.

“Appreciate it.”

He grabbed a few bottles, and Ishkr nodded at Shirka. She inclined her head to him. Saliss led the way out of the common room, and Shirka glanced over her shoulder.

“That must have been some celebration last night.”

“Hmm? Last night? Oh, no, it started, uh, three hours ago?”

Saliss paused by the door, and Shirka realized he was currently inebriated, not surviving a full night of partying. She glanced over her shoulder.

“In the morning?”

“There was some good news. Too long to explain. Good—bad—did you see an annoying looking young woman on the floor? There she is. That’s Rose.”

Saliss found a young woman passed out on her back, mouth open, and he rolled her over and rearranged her arms slightly. Shirka recognized the posture; it’d keep her from choking on her own vomit. She eyed the young Human woman.

“You seem to know the people here well, Alchemist.”

In all the years she’d known him—and she’d known him since he’d appeared in her ruined village—she’d never seen Saliss hug anyone. Saliss slapped Rose’s cheek a bit, and she twitched.

“This bratling is my headache. As for Ishkr, I like him.”

Shirka filed that away. Anyone Saliss respected…she wondered why he seemed so wistful. She didn’t really know what to say to him as he led her to the private room. Saliss was—Saliss.

If she closed her eyes, she could see him just like the first moment they’d met, a younger Drake wearing battle-gear, opening a cellar door, recoiling as acid burns rose from his armor. An expression of horror on his face—then that grin she knew so well as he reached down for the [Last Survivor] of a village plagued by Wrymvr the Deathless.

Just one of those stories. There were plenty of them in 2nd Army. That was why she’d always understood the [Slayers]. Their class had taken them one way. She might have become an [Antinium Slayer]…but she had taken her feelings and put them into following that Drake.

Saliss of Lights seemed tired as he tossed down the cups and drinks onto a table and poured her one.

“Poor Mirn. He did his best, but Rose—that’s the Human’s name—drinks like a faucet. I think it’s her one talent.”

“What makes her your problem, sir? She’s certainly attractive.”

“Hm? Oh, that…that’s probably a mistake.”

Shirka had poured herself some Firebreath Whiskey on reflex. She paused, mouth open as she raised her brows.

“A mistake?”

Saliss ran a claw over his face.

“The appearance, I mean. That’s new. She’s full of bad mistakes—rather like someone I could name.”

The [General] squirmed slightly as he threw himself into a chair and poured himself some black liquid instead. He stopped her from taking a shot of that.

“Antinium Rxlvn. It can flatten anyone who’s not got immunity with a shot.”

“I’ll try it.”

“Brave kid.”

She sipped it and the world spun, but Shirka controlled herself. Saliss sat there, pouring them cups of Velrusk Claw. She spoke after a second.

“The Goblin King. Do you know anything…?”

“Eh, you’ve got to report anything you hear, don’t you.”

“Of course, sir. Forget I asked, then—”

“Nah, it’s fine. Especially because I don’t know squat, and that’s what I’ll tell High Command. The truth is that I’m in the dark. Grimalkin might have suspicions, but I doubt he can prove anything. I heard a fairytale, kid. Just a fairytale, and no one invited me to be part of it.”

Saliss gazed into his cup, then shot her a smile.

“I’m not bitter or anything. Given what I suspect—I think I wouldn’t have enjoyed it.”

“Yessir, I understand. And the fairytale ends with the Goblin King.”

“Yeah. Among other consequences.”

Saliss opened and closed his claw, staring at his alchemy-stained hands. Then he peered up at Shirka.

“—I lost something precious, so I’m a bit down. But I’ll be fine. What doesn’t kill you levels you and all that. I’m not the one who dared it all. Brave, stupid kids. Reminds me of you.”

He wasn’t making the most sense, which made sense given how sloshed he was, but Shirka could also read between the lines. The [General] sat forwards, leaning on the table and putting her head down.

“At least there was some victory. That Goblin Lord…”

“Nothing you could do but die. She was at least Level 60. Probably Level 70. The only thing worse than her would have been the Goblin King hitting 2nd Army. Listen to me, Shirka. I wouldn’t have stood a chance against her and those eight Goblins, even with the drop on them. Maybe I could have got the lower-level ones, but that Goblin survived blowing a hole through her chest.”

Shirka knew it was true if Saliss said it. But she still spoke to the floor.

“If I hadn’t refused to siege Goblinhome—”

“Your orders were bad. Chaldion wouldn’t have made them.”

He hated Chaldion, so she knew he was saying that to make her feel better. The [General] shook her head.

“I’ve had to stab allies in the back, Alchemist, but that one hurt. And less than a day after that—the Goblin King emerges, and the Goblin Lord of Civilizations, and proves I was a fool. How am I supposed to face my army after that?”

Saliss said nothing, sipping from his drink as he stared past her. When he spoke, his voice was distant.

“You can’t see it, but there’s ‘No Killing Goblins’ signs all over the place.”

“I know. I remembered you telling me about them, sir.”

“Well…it doesn’t say ‘No Killing Antinium’, but I figured that part out too. It took me a while to want to enter this inn, and here I am, tipping some of them and talking with them. I don’t feel bad about that. I don’t expect you to, kid, but it’s an odd feeling. If there’s something I’m afraid of, it’s that one day, I’ll find Wrymvr in here, and instead of blowing him up, I’ll buy the bastard a drink.”

It was such a ludicrous statement that she snorted, assuming it was a joke, until Saliss turned his gaze on her. Then she took down another shot.

“Is it like a [Diplomat]’s Skill that changes how you feel…?”

“I’ve had the same thought, and so’s the old man. Nope. I think it’s just how those damn Humans don’t look so bad once you’ve been fighting with them on the same side or aren’t at the other end of a spear. The point is, kid—forget the Goblin King and the Goblin Lord of Civilizations.”

Shirka opened her mouth, and Saliss waved a hand.

“—I mean, in the sense of Chieftain Rags. They’re not unconnected, but those were different Goblins. Maybe you’ll regret not following orders. Maybe you won’t. But that’s down to her. Not them.”

Shirka saw the point that Saliss was trying to lay out and nodded. It didn’t make her feel any better, but she appreciated the attempt. Then she thought about her new levels and glanced up at Saliss.

“So…did you lose more than just valuable potions, Alchemist?”

“Eh, you know…”

He waved a lazy hand and grinned as he lifted another shot glass of black liquid to his lips. Then he glanced at her, at the door, and hesitated. She waited, and Saliss took a gulp of the Rxlvn, wiped his mouth, and spoke.

“Yes. But the entire world lost it. It’s too Drake-like to make it all about me. A little kid pulled us all into a crazy, stupid dream of hers. I can’t blame her. I’d have done the exact same thing in her shoes.”

“But it still cost you something important, sir? Sir? Saliss?”

He swirled a claw around in his drink.

“I’ll live, kid.”

“Can I—help you, sir? I realize I’m not in a good position right now. I think Edellein wants to toss this entire disaster in my lap. But if I could do anything…”

She sat upright, and Saliss whispered.

“…You could stop calling me ‘sir’. I told you, ‘Alchemist’ is preferable. Or my name.”

“Of course, s—Saliss.”

Shirka stumbled over his name. The Drake shook his head suddenly, and he grinned at her and patted her on the shoulder.

“Don’t mind me.”

“No, I’m happy to—I meant something bigger. Truly, can I do anything? You’ve done so much for me…”

He took down another drink.

“Have I? All I remember was running away with a little kid under my arm. I couldn’t do anything for your village, or kill Wrymvr. I put you in Pallass’ hands, and you did the rest.”

“You visited and taught me—”

“Visited. You’re talking about me like I’m…nevermind. I told you not to go into the army. But I suppose that’s fair; I never listened to anything my parents told me.”

Saliss grinned, then stopped. His face went blank.

“—No. I listened to them far too long until I figured out they were wrong. So I guess you’re ahead of me on all fronts.”

This was a more honest and equal conversation with Saliss than Shirka had had in—ages. It was often far more formal, because of their respective ranks and because she was still just that girl he’d saved.

But right now…Shirka felt herself grinding up against the walls of his reserve. All this honesty just revealed the walls she hadn’t realized were there, harder than Adamantium.

“Alchemist. What did you lose?”

“Flowers. That’s all, Shirka. Just flowers. It’ll be all over military reports in the week. Faerie Flowers are dead. That’s all.”

Flowers. She still didn’t understand, and she knew she might not; it hurt—not to be trusted. Saliss seemed to realize what was going on behind Shirka’s face as the [General] threw down more shots, and he grinned at her.

“Listen, kid—”

“You can call me Shirka or General, Alchemist Saliss.”

That was petty of her, and Saliss blinked, then sighed.

“Shirka. Maybe I don’t want to look bad in front of the little kid I tried to save once, huh? Maybe…I’m worried about losing the respect of one of the few people I want to actually like me.”

“What could you say that would do that, Alchemist?”

She paused, pouring them both a refill, and Saliss’ gaze was distant.

“Oh, trust me. With Named-ranks? It’s harder to find something that doesn’t fit the bill.”

Shirka chose her next words carefully, now, with that knot of tension in her chest. Did she want to know the answer to this? Yes…and no. And yes.

“Is it something—unethical? Something truly terrible?”

“Oh, no. And yes.”

“Is it something you’re ashamed of, s—Saliss?”

His gaze cleared, and he took the cup and sipped from it.

“No. Never.”

Then he tossed it down and regarded her.

“Yes.”

What could it be? Shirka wasn’t thinking actively, with so much liquid courage in her veins and so tired. But there was an odd cognizance swirling about her. Saliss whispered.

“If you’re asking if it’s a heinous deed, the kind that deserves tossing me in a pot of boiling oil—no. At least, I don’t believe that’s true. But if you’re asking how I feel…bah. That’s why I want to kick that little kid into tomorrow.”

“—Who?”

“Rose! She’s too positive.”

Shirka had completely forgotten the young woman. She narrowed her eyes, trying to form a mental bridge, and Saliss blinked. He seemed to recall who he was talking to and laughed—then knocked over their cups.

“Ancestors damn it. Ah, forget it, Shirka. Here.”

He poured her another cup, and nodded to the door.

“We’d better get you moving and a sobering tonic before your army does start to panic without you around.”

Shirka glanced back at him and nodded. She took the cup he offered her and wondered what he’d poured in there. The rumored Oteslian memory-wiping powder? Saliss took a gulp of his own drink and eyed her. Then he rubbed at his face.

“…Cracks.”

“What, sir?”

He felt at his belt pouch.

“Cracks, General Shirka. An [Engineer] told me about them, once. Cracks get wider each year. Even in the Walled Cities. You can’t ever really fix them; you can enchant them, fill the void, but they crack, and the entire structure gets weaker. The facade breaks down. It’s all the pressure. No matter how hard you want to hold it together—sometimes things have to break. Don’t drink that—it’s got dirt in it.”

The Drake flicked the cup out of her hand carelessly and poured her a fresh drink out of a new cup. Shirka took it and drank.

“Alchemist. What should I be focused on, after this? Rebuilding 2nd Army will take time. But between Edellein and…everything else, is there something I should do for Pallass?”

“For Pallass.”

Saliss gazed down at his drink. Then he peered up at her, and he seemed not to know what those two words meant. The refrain that had echoed so easily in all their conversations fell on Saliss like they were unfamiliar.

“…I’m bound for the New Lands of Izril. Explorer, adventurer, seeker. After that—Pallass may have its windfall, and so will I. So will alchemy, and much good may it do us all. After that, I think…I’m going to go on vacation for a while.”

“You, Alchemist?”

She took a sip as Saliss gazed past her.

“Yes. I haven’t had one in, well, forever. I don’t know if I’m even ready for one. Lots to do before I can make it happen, so the City of Inventions doesn’t fall apart. But I think if I play my cards right…that’s what I want. I’ve got a bunch of rare ingredients in my laboratory. Levels for fighting the Goblin King, see? One last milestone, and I think—I think I can take a break.”

She should have been terrified by how it sounded. Because in a [Soldier], that wasn’t the talk you wanted to hear. But she didn’t think the [Alchemist] was speaking of the same things she thought of. Shirka studied Saliss’ wistful expression and the first look of longing she had seen on him, except for perhaps the occasional Drake lady that caught his eye, and she raised her cup.

“To vacations, Alchemist. To victory.”

He blinked, sat up, and touched his cup to hers.

“Victory? I guess so.”

“What then, sir?”

He grimaced as she forgot his request, and Saliss looked up.

“To…battle, for us. Here’s to fighting the war that matters. That mythical, righteous war that we can put everything into. To victory in that. When I find it, or dare it, Shirka, I’ll hold nothing back.”

He lifted a cup, then rubbed at his neck spines, laughing and joking at himself about his stupid toasts. But the [General] of 2nd Army merely sipped her drink. Then, when she rose and downed a sobering tonic, she strode for the door back to the High Passes. Feeling no better about the dead or these terrible days. If anything, she had only added a burden, a worry.

But so be it. She walked like someone listening for the sounds of distant battle, boots thudding on the ground as the Alchemist of Lights sat in the private room and murmured to himself.

“Cracks. If you know they’re there, you’ve got to do something about them. Ah, but I’m scared. The walls have been there forever. But the cracks…”

He sat there a while, then got up and went to find some ink and a quill to draw on Rose’s face, humming a bittersweet tune.

 

——

 

Bittersweet. Yes, that was the feeling. Not of watching Naumel lie on his back and complaining at the sky as his Kraken Eaters sat around him.

That was great. Student Rags hated Naumel. He was a giant oaf and a bully, and she wondered how Chieftain Rags…or Goblin Lord Rags…would handle him.

Not her problem, which made her feel guilty, because it should have been. But Student Rags might have had the same levels as Chieftain Rags of the Flooded Waters Tribe—she was still a [Chieftain] in Student Rags’ mind—but she wasn’t the same.

Student vs Goblin Lord. You guess who wins that matchup. If anything, Student Rags was morose this morning because she didn’t know what came next for her. She was thinking about the offer she’d had last night with the Grand Design.

“Sad you’re not a [Goblin Lord] as well? I think two bodies are better than one.”

Someone pressed something cold against Student Rags’ cheek, and the Goblin nearly jumped off the balcony where she was standing. She whirled, and Chieftain Rags handed her something.

“What the heck is this?”

“Ishkr delivery, straight from The Wandering Inn. Or rather, ‘Barehoof Kitchens’. Magical Earth food from Imani.”

It was a red can with the name ‘Coke’ written on the side. Student Rags fumbled with the tab-thing, exclaiming in excitement.

“No way. She didn’t have that Skill in my…world…”

Then she stopped. The Goblin Lord of Change had a green can with another name on it, and she sipped from it. She said nothing as Student Rags snapped the tab on her can and licked at the drink.

“Weird bubbles.”

“—I’m sorry. You can blame me for it. I could have done more.”

Student Rags avoided looking at Chieftain Rags.

“It was a disaster. No one could control how it ended. You tried to stop Apostle Pawn. Dead gods. I wonder what the real Pawn thinks of all this?”

“Hopefully, he never knows what his other self did.”

“It’s not his fault! That wasn’t him—”

The [Goblin Lord of Change] took a sip of her drink and spoke as they gazed over the damaged ground in front of Goblinhome, and 2nd Army—still recovering the dead. Their eyes found the pit in the ground, a sooty crater.

“And yet, it was. That was us. They stole the moment; they did everything I was going to do. I feel like I haven’t earned my class.”

“You survived. Heck, you survived a world with the Goblin King and you were fighting the Titan. I think that counts for Level 40.”

Student Rags wasn’t sure who was encouraging whom. Probably both of them were giving each other a pep talk at the same time. Chieftain Rags murmured.

“Yeah. Maybe this is the highest level you can reach just by…surviving. I don’t think Redscar got to his capstone by doing that.”

“Well, Redscar’s crazy. He actually went to the Trial of Blades and fought Zeladona just to level up. And he got trapped in the Grand Design itself and met Halrac.”

“…Yeah, that sounds crazy when I remember he did all that.”

The Goblin Lord shook her head and put her can down on the balcony, stretching.

“So. Naumel’s going to be a problem.”

Student Rags glanced over the balcony and sighed.

“Oh, yes. At least you don’t have to marry him like Rags of Dreams. But he is a traditionalist; he’s going to fall in line until he thinks he can beat you. And I bet you can just have Redscar put him in his place.”

“Mm. I don’t want to know what his idea of ‘taking orders’ looks like. It’d probably be like having Tremborag under your command.”

Both Rags grimaced at the very notion, and Student Rags folded her claws together.

“So…want to talk about the future?”

She’d been thinking about it, but Chieftain Rags just shrugged.

“I’ve got a plan. Want to hear it?”

Was that how it was going to work? Student Rags’ heart sank slightly. Was she going to be the advisor to the Chieftain? It made sense; one of them had to be in charge.

“Sure. I mean, I was only up to ‘we have to get out of here’. I was thinking moving in with Dulat. For now.”

It hurt to abandon Goblinhome, but they were the biggest target in the world. Chieftain Rags nodded.

“That’s certainly the best fallback point. Her drums are deafening, but they’ll keep pursuers off us. I can move Goblinhome, though. Once per…well, I assume months.”

The Goblin wearing skates shot upright, mouth open in delight, mind racing.

“You can? Perfect! In that case, we can keep moving! Move and move and—”

Her voice trailed off. And live pretty much how the Flooded Waters tribe had survived until now. Run from place to place. But nowhere would be sacred. The Chieftain of the Flooded Waters tribe nodded.

“Yeah. That’s too much of the same. My conclusion was that there’s only one place where we won’t be found that’s big enough for us.”

She didn’t have to spell it out. Student Rags stared southwest.

“The New Lands. That’s a risky move.”

“Well—not if we scout it out. We can move to the Troll Kingdom if we need it, then hopefully I can just relocate our base once we find the perfect spot. That’s my working plan.”

It was good. Very light on concrete details, but good enough to steer a ship towards. Student Rags nodded, wishing she had some kind of cutting insight.

“Logistics will be hard. We’re going to need to find a fresh supply of water, food, resources…”

She trailed off, embarrassed. Now, she was just trying to sound knowledgeable; they both knew the work. Chieftain Rags patted her shoulder.

“Yep. All the hard stuff. And friends. I was working on what you mentioned. This ring is excellent.”

She showed Rags the W-ring, and the [Student] brightened slightly. That was an idea she’d had, and it made her feel useful.

“I can take it over if you want. Or start organizing groups…”

Useful. Student Rags wanted to be useful, but she didn’t know what role she’d have in the new tribe. She hoped it was highly-placed, but would she be above Snapjaw? Would there be conflicts? She could imagine arguing with herself…the [Goblin Lord] shrugged.

“If things don’t work out with the application, I’ll probably put you in charge of New Lands expeditions. It sounds like something you’d enjoy.”

“Right. What application?”

Student Rags had traded her can for Chieftain Rags’ and was sipping the other drink when she narrowed her eyes. Chieftain Rags’ eyes twinkled.

“To the Forgotten Wing Company, of course. Or do you not want to try again?”

Student Rags’ mouth opened, and her mind went blank.

“Wh—you asked?”

“Sure. Actually, Niers already sent me a [Message] to ask if you were re-enrolling, even though the new semester’s already started. Which means I have to not only give you a budget, but find a way to get you all the way to Baleros.”

Chieftain Rags heaved a melodramatic sigh and pretended to appear annoyed. Then she glanced at her counterpart.

“It’s going to be even more dangerous th—”

That was all she managed to say before the [Student] tackled her in a hug. They both nearly spilled their precious drinks, and the younger Rags caught herself.

“Are you sure I can?”

“Sure. One of us has to chase that dream. Besides…Erin’s over there. It’s not going to be easier. Especially because it’s the same—but different.”

That was true. Suddenly, Student Rags thought of all the friends she’d made in her world. Would it happen the same way? They wouldn’t be the same—

It was going to hurt. She touched her chest, though she didn’t have a glowing heart, and wondered if merging with Chieftain Rags would have made the pain and uncertainty go away—or worsen. Then she gazed at the [Goblin Lord].

“And while I do that, you get to inherit both Goblin Lords’ burdens. Dreams and Civilizations. Change. Huh. It makes a kind of sense.”

The Goblin Lord of Change leaned on the balcony as the wind whipped both their hair, and she gazed ahead, no longer smiling, just pensive.

“Yeah. My turn. But at least I have an end goal now.”

Best the Goblin King. As goals went—that sucked. Student Rags wished she could say she’d take on that burden or that there was even a plan. But all she saw was difficulty. Danger. A world who now knew about the Flooded Waters tribe.

There should be more. And as if called by this conversation, the two Goblins heard a heavy tread behind them and a grunt of surprise as the door opened.

The Troll Queen, Dulat, had a can in her hands that was orange and an expression that said she knew it was a valuable and important gift—but she really didn’t like what she was drinking. She stepped forwards.

“Chieftain. Student. Good to see. Discuss plans? Drinks…good.”

Her command of the common tongue wasn’t good, and she was aware of it and frustrated by the gap. Chieftain Rags fiddled with her W-ring and sighed.

“No translation spells. Apologies, Chieftain Dulat. Would you care to try my drink?”

“Hm. Yes.”

They traded drinks, and Dulat’s was indeed the sweetest and most fruit-like of all of them, which made sense why she disliked it, used to such a contrasting diet. She liked the Coke most, so Student Rags let her have that and tried the orange one.

“We were discussing plans for our tribe—and our alliance.”

Chieftain Rags filled in the Troll Queen on their deliberations, and Dulat pursed her lips and thought.

“Hm. Good plans. These New Lands…are big?”

“Yes. Very big.”

Dulat had so little knowledge of the outside world, and she didn’t even understand the map that Student Rags ran to get. She glanced over the balcony’s edge as she stood there.

“Good. Skills move rock base. Trolls ally with Flooded Waters tribe, yes?”

“Of course. Allies. A grand alliance, even.”

The Goblin Lord of Change was cautious, but Dulat just inclined her head. She wore the two worn, Adamantium maces at her side and touched them.

“Then when Goblins go—Trolls go too.”

“What?”

Both Goblins were astonished. Dulat clarified.

“Maybe not all. But many. Kingdom of Trolls is safe now Titan dead. But the door…cut. More doors down there. What happens next?”

Were there other Mortemdefieir Titans down there, sealed away? Or worse? Student Rags shuddered, and Chieftain Rags put down her drink.

“Of course, we’ll welcome Trolls if they want to go with us. But are you sure?”

It was such a change from their way of life. Dulat’s drums, her entire people were based in the mountains. For answer, Dulat pulled out a mace. They thought she would do something ornamental with it, some grand gesture, but she just flipped it around and caught it by the handle.

“This is the weapon of Troll Leaders. Very important. Fake. Used to be something else. Now, this.”

She let them examine it; the Adamantium was heavier than steel, but sized for a Human or Hobgoblin’s grip. It was small in Dulat’s hands, and Student Rags could see how it was an odd weapon to wield. Unbreakable and mighty—but not what they wanted.

“It’s still a mighty weapon. Troll Queen.”

“Yes. Better for drums. And I am Dulat, Queen of Trolls. I have to say something. We…Trolls…lied to you, Goblins.”

Both Rags’ stirred as Dulat confessed something that had been clearly weighing on her. She took the mace back and touched her chest with one hand.

“This lie. Now we are allies, the truth is said. Will you listen?”

“…Of course.”

After a quick look at her, Chieftain Rags nodded. What could the Trolls have lied about? The number of their warriors? The Titan’s danger?

Dulat tapped her chest with one finger.

“I am Dulat, Queen of Trolls. But not the last Troll King’s child’s child’s child. I am Dulat, who found a room once and hit stones on drums and made sounds. Very angry clans, until I chased away great rocks with sound. Then they said, ‘Dulat, play’. Then they gave me these and said, ‘Dulat, Queen of Trolls’. Especially so the People of their King listen. Because they remember and respect.”

Her confession made Student Rags’ mouth drop open, and Dulat paused, seemingly nervous despite her impassive face. However, it wasn’t anger Student Rags felt, but a delighted kind of incredulity. Chieftain Rags had the same expression, if more contained.

“But they did name you Queen of Trolls.”

“I am just Dulat. Leading people…difficult. I play music, not lead. That is the truth.”

Dulat seemed relieved to tell them the truth, and both Ragses glanced at each other and shared a telepathic thought until Chieftain Rags tapped her chest with a grin.

“I am the smallest Goblin of the Flooded Waters tribe, Dulat. Not the Chieftain’s child. Not the daughter of any Goblin Lord. Just a Goblin with no name who was given one. We are the same. We don’t know how to lead either, but we try.”

Dulat’s eyes brightened as she turned from Rags to Rags, and then she sighed.

“That not good. Where proper leader?”

They all laughed at that. Then Student Rags picked up her drink.

“We’re all just fumbling around. We’ve all lost…so very much. I lost a world.”

Chieftain Rags had seen two versions of herself die, and her people in this tragic world had suffered far more than Student Rags’ tribe. Dulat’s home had been decimated by the Titan.

They stood there in the cold morning air, drinking from their silly, fizzy beverages, and didn’t feel like the fates of their peoples should rest on their shoulders. Dulat heaved a huge sigh.

“Change. I hate change.”

She said that in complete ignorance of Chieftain Rags’ new class, and the Goblin Lord of Change smiled.

“It’s never easy. But it must happen, Queen of Trolls. We have all lost too much. But the one thing I ever had from all I lost and all that changed was…the friendship of an [Innkeeper]. People I trusted. I hope you feel the same way.”

She held out a hand, and Dulat clasped her arm gently after a moment’s regard.

“Yes. Not all things that change are bad. Drums. Music. Pillows.”

Chieftain Rags blinked, then grinned.

“I can get you plenty of that. Especially pillows—the good ones.”

“I want some too for Baleros! Silk ones! And sheets!”

Student Rags chimed in, and they chuckled and drank, and presently, one of their stomachs rumbled and they decided to go eat in the Mess Hall. Then Trolls and Goblins were coming up with all kinds of problems. Such as Student Rags having to explain what a ‘Mess Hall’ was. For a moment, she caught Chieftain Rags’ eye as the Goblins turned from one to the other, uncertain about what to do, and the two grinned.

A world flashed into Student Rags’ mind. Headscratcher, the Goblin Lord of Sorrows, working with Pyrite in a far different tribe as she skated back home from a semester abroad.

A better world.

Her world.

She wiped at her eyes and turned, trying to smile. Change…the [Goblin Lord of Change] was such a painful figure to the [Student].

“I’ll figure out who I am too. But I’m not you.”

The [Student] gazed westwards, towards the continent of Baleros and then wiped her eyes again. Dulat watched her standing in the bright sunlight of another day and shaded her own eyes.

“Too bright for this kind of day.”

Then she went over and gently sat with the [Student] for a while. And the Goblin Lord of Change kept moving, one uncertain step after another.

 

——

 

That morning, in the [Garden of Sanctuary], a little Gnoll girl lived when she should be dead, and all was good. The world was a bit brighter than before, even if it was raining through the center of the dome.

The not-Faerie Flowers were enjoying the rain, and a bee buzzed around the hill of blackened, trampled grass. A small gathering of people stood below the hill, to the side, in the frozen section of the garden, the least-used.

The ground was hard, but not ever completely frozen over. So the little girl with her new lease on life worked with only a kilt and t-shirt. No jacket; her fur kept her warm. But she did have a pair of gloves on.

Down, up, down, up.

Down…up…down…up.

Slow, then fast as she ran out of energy, then worked in a spurt of energy. When she was tired, she leaned on the little shovel. The girl worked alone, watched by her family and loved ones. But only she dug this grave next to the fresh mound of earth.

Down, up, down, up.

The spade displaced more earth as she dug beside her body. Mrsha du Marquin was alive.

She was lying in the earth. She knew she was alive, but she felt like she was also down there. She could remember running until the moment she finally…stopped. She had to remember, at times, to breathe.

In, out, in, out. She breathed extra carefully so her mother wouldn’t worry.

Her mother, who’d buried her. The girl’s arms were trembling and burning with tiredness, but she clung to the feeling.

It was how she knew she was alive…wasn’t she?

Or was this all a dream? A last vision before the Maiden claimed her?

No—she’d pinched and pulled out bits of fur on her arm all morning to check, until Nanette had made her stop. The girl kept peering at her arm, and she dug faster again, to drown out the thoughts.

Down, up, down, up—

The watching little witch, Nanette, would have helped her if Mrsha had asked. The [Knights], Ushar and Dalimont, had offered to help. Everyone wanted to. No one did.

This was Mrsha’s job. Hers and hers alone.

Her world was dead, and she had to dig its grave. When she glanced up at her mother, it was Lyonette…and Mrsha also knew that her mother was dead. And she would never know how.

She’d lost it all. She was Roots Mrsha and the original Mrsha, and these feelings would never go away.

I don’t even have anything to bury. There was no body nor grave large enough for a world. So the girl had done all she could.

She had a scroll of parchment onto which she’d written every name she could think of, all that mattered to her. It was not enough…but it was this she would place into the hole when it was dug.

When she had to stop, because her arms hurt too much, Mrsha wrote in the air with a glowing wand. She still had Warmage Thresk’s robes and his staff. She’d do something with them—later. She didn’t want the enchantments or the magic. Not for this.

So this is how she felt. Erin.

“When she was sailing to save Rabbiteater, Mrsha? Do you want some water?”

The girl accepted a water bottle from Lyonette and washed her paws. She had blisters, but she didn’t care. She shook her head.

No. I think this is how she felt from the beginning. Before we knew her. In pieces. We call her flames, and she has her hat, but I think…she’s more like glass. Broken pieces of glass that someone shattered. Ever since the Workers died for her. Or maybe it was Rags’ parents. Or maybe…it was leaving her world.

Mrsha stared down at her paws and at the grave. It wasn’t deep enough, so she went back to digging, stopping to write now and then.

Up. Down. Up. down.

That’s all it feels like. Pieces of glass in my heart, every time someone I love dies. Even when they break more, they become sharper and smaller. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself. I’m older, I think. Even if it’s only by a few days.

She’d been thinking ever since she came back to life, which wasn’t long. Now she had a body again…she felt all the emotions that had been partially suppressed, and even now, she was numb to the enormity of it. Mrsha flexed one paw—then flinched as a sound reached her ears.

Slam.

It was a faint sound, brought in from the [Garden of Sanctuary]’s door. In truth, it wasn’t even that loud a door slamming. Someone had rushed out of the common room too fast. But the sound made the girl drop the spade and cast around reflexively. When she caught herself, she tried to pick the shovel up with trembling paws, but it took her two tries.

“Ushar.”

Lyonette went over to help Mrsha, and Ushar strode over to the door to the [Garden of Sanctuary], but Ishkr had already secured it. They went back to watching as Mrsha shook her head and clung to the shovel. Her trembling had almost stopped, but she kept looking around, as if searching…for a door. Not knowing if she would be relieved or horrified to see it.

But there was no door, no [Palace of Fates]. Just ordinary doors, be they magical or mundane, not other worlds. Mrsha continued after a moment.

It hurts. Losing people I love hurts. That’s why I did all this. I went crazy with the pain. Someday, it’ll hurt less. I want that. I don’t want that. The pieces of glass that are Erin and me…I think, someday, they’ll wear down. Become less sharp, until they’re tiny pebbles. Pieces of sand. Someone told me once that was how sand was made. Mountains that get worn down until they’re tiny fragments. Like feelings.

No one said a word. But they were regarding a young man who had his chin in his hands. Kevin sat there as Mrsha gazed at him, eyes shimmering with tears. She wiped at her face and got dirt in her eye, letting her mother wash it out. Then Mrsha wrote again.

In the [Palace of Fates], I never asked for the Stone Spears tribe or Urksh. I thought of them. I did. But they weren’t on my list, or Root Mrsha’s, except if it all worked out. Because…because I’m still sad about them. But they feel longer ago. I’m not happy they’re dead, but it feels like something I didn’t know if I could change. Maybe that’s what happens. The glass turns into sand and it becomes part of you and no longer hurts, but it’s what you stand on.

“A foundation, you mean.”

Nanette came up with the word, and Mrsha nodded as she went back to shovelling. There. The grave was almost deep enough.

Maybe I should have waited for that feeling. Instead, look.

Her paws hurt. She held them out and stared at the little hole beneath her. Then she took the clumsy scroll of words and unrolled it. It was covered in ink; every name she could think of. She read it, then put in the hole. Next to her grave.

Mrsha’s eyes stung as she stared down at the mound of dirt, and she saw the brave girl running into the [Palace of Fates], daring the Maiden to follow her. It was her, and also a memory in her chest.

Terror, fear, and determination. Pride and agony as she watched herself vanish. She was both.

Mrsha scrubbed at her face, getting dirt in her fur. She didn’t think the Grand Design had melded her just right.

Or maybe…this was right and this was how it should be. Her one piece of satisfaction was that it knew how she felt.

“Mrsha. I think you’ve done enough. Why…why don’t you come away, now? Unless you have some words to say?”

Lyonette’s voice was trembling, but her smile was very good and genuine-looking. Mrsha stopped rubbing at her face like the God of Designs and gave her mother a reassuring smile of her own.

I have to keep it together for her. The girl nodded. She stood over the grave as snowflakes fell over the little scroll, and…and she didn’t know what to write. So she wrote all that she could, glowing words vanishing in the air, babbling her feelings out.

I have lost them all again. More than ever…but maybe I’ll see them again. Now I know it’s possible, I could find a Scroll of Resurrection, or maybe there are ways ghosts can live? I know it’s in the rules. There’s a chance.

She thought of the Deaths, the Grand Design, and turned her bright eyes to her audience.

I met Death, and they were so dreadfully kind to me. And amazing. Because they seemed beyond everything, I went to them gladly. But they had better watch out, because if I could…or anyone could…we will fight them for every single soul.

Her blistered paws clenched and then unclenched. Mrsha gazed down at the hole in the ground and almost walked into it, but she didn’t—because her mother and sister were watching her.

I just wanted a few more. One more. I’m so relieved someone made it out. But if I could have had one more—maybe someone made it? Someone I didn’t see?

The girl’s tear-filled eyes were shedding drops as she peered at Kevin, and his shoulders were shaking. Her wobbling wand kept writing.

Now, I have lost worlds I’ll dream of. I wanted them back. The silly cheese [Lieutenant] of Vaunt. Shaman Cetrule. Chieftain Torishi, Tesy…I never even saw them a second time.

Her weeping continued until she drew in a breath. The girl stood over the grave and reached for the shovel. Her arms burned as she raised a bit of dirt and turned.

They’re gone, though. Maybe I’ll get to see them again or bring them back. But they are gone. I tried everything, you see. That’s…the relief. I gave everything I had.

She tossed the first piece of dirt into the grave, then another. Then she stopped.

Now, I know what it costs. That’s the only relief. I did everything I could.

Mrsha finished filling her grave, and then she stood over the grave for her a moment. She put the shovel down, and when she stepped back, her mother seized her. The girl turned and hugged her mother fiercely, eyes wide. Out of tears from her eyes. But she wouldn’t go into the inn and have lunch.

She had somewhere else to be.

 

——

 

Kevin’s hand was gentle and warm as the two of them went for a walk. Of course, everyone followed them, but there were things only Kevin and Mrsha would understand.

“I bet it’s here.”

Me too.

“Well, we can’t bet on the same thing, Mrsha.”

Why not? We’ll win double.

He teased her gently, and she smiled up at him. Kevin’s eyes were still red, and he stopped a moment to wipe his eyes as they climbed the hill.

“Argh. You made me cry. I was holding it in, you know. I’ve been trying not to show my face to…anyone. I keep making them cry. Peggy—I didn’t think this would be the hard part. Then I think of my Peggy and I—”

He touched his chest.

“They shot me. That those [Slavers] shot me right here. I remember that too.”

Did it hurt?

Kevin stopped, and she saw him preparing to lie to her. Then he peered down at Mrsha and knelt on the pretext of tying his shoes.

“Yeah. A lot more than I thought it’d hurt before you die. Or maybe it was just scary. I…ah. Here it is. Told you.”

She looked up and nodded. The two approached the objects they’d found in the grass at the top of the mist-shrouded hill in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Kevin touched the stone statue of the laughing young man working on a bicycle.

“Handsome guy, isn’t he?”

Very.

The handsomest [Engineer] in the world was sitting cross legged, working on a bicycle with a wrench as a laughing little Gnoll girl sat on the seat, arms spread. Mrsha and Kevin gazed at their statues. She felt at her side, and he touched his chest.

They searched around for a door, caught each other, and laughed. Crying didn’t feel appropriate. Kevin inspected his merry face.

“I’m him, and I’m not. But not in the way that I think I’m fake like Beach Kevin did when he…I…was depressed. I’m different in the way you’re different after a year. You get it, right?”

Oh, of course she did. Mrsha nodded and reached out to touch the stone bicycle. Honestly, she couldn’t exactly remember this moment with Kevin. Neither could he. It was just…a moment they’d had that only the Grand Design had remembered fully.

Kevin stood there, hands in his pockets, as Mrsha swallowed hard, not sure what to say. She knew they had to leave at some point, or her mother wouldn’t ever stop lingering there with Dalimont and the others. But neither one could until Kevin spoke.

“I have a message for you. From the afterlife. Hellste.”

Mrsha blinked up at him, and then her eyes opened wide.

How?

Surely he meant the other ghosts had just talked to him, but Kevin shook his head.

“No, seriously. A message. When Beach Kevin contacted Dead Kevin through the mirror-thing, we realized there was a real possibility of us getting out. The smart money was on one of us getting revived somehow. So the gang got together, and we shared…second last words. Messages in case one of us made it. Halrac bet I’d be the one to get out. That dude—always had too much faith in me.”

He smiled as the wind blew and ruffled his sandy hair, and Mrsha touched at her chest. Funny. She hadn’t thought someone would be able to hurt her more after burying her entire world. She would have run, but she deserved this, so she waited as Kevin turned. He raised his hand, and she closed her eyes.

But he just plomfed his hand onto her head and smiled.

“The message from everyone is…‘thank you for caring’. That’s from everyone. Not everyone would have cared so much, and tried to do everything for us. Mind you, we didn’t get all of it, but we got enough. So thank you, Mrsha. That comes from me and everyone. Thank you, and don’t forget us. Don’t die for us, but don’t forget us. Please. Live as long and as best you can.”

She gazed up at him with her huge eyes, lost for words, as he smiled like a ghost at her. She was shaking now, and his misty eyes took on a mischievous hue. Kevin’s gentle headpat turned into a fist, and he lightly rubbed her head with it.

“And this is for putting yourself in danger. Don’t do it again, until you’re at least sixteen. You care about number one, and that’s you! That’s from Tekshia. I…have messages for other people. Jelaqua and Seborn. Moore and Ulinde gave me things to tell them.”

Kevin’s face clouded over again, and he stood with an odd weight on his shoulders that Mrsha had never known the carefree young man to have. Or maybe this was just how he looked, genuinely, when he wasn’t pretending. He put his hands in his pockets.

Are they nice words?

“No. That hurt. I thought they’d be something like ‘make it to Named-rank’ or ‘keep the Halfseekers going’. But that’s not what Moore wanted. I’m going to do a bit of what they wanted and what I wanted. I have…to meet with Pelt and Hedault. And Selys, wherever she’s gone. It’s a strange thing, Mrsha, coming back from the dead.”

Kevin stood there, gazing at his hands. His voice cracked.

“I…have so much guilt. More regrets than when I died. Why me? Why me, Mrsha? I know I got here by luck and because I ran when other people fought. It should have been someone else. Pyrite. Or someone who could make a difference. Altestiel. Seve-Alrelious. It’s just me.”

You matter to me.

She wanted to hug him, and Kevin gazed down at her, tears in his eyes.

“I know. And I know it made you open the [Palace of Fates] for me, but I don’t deserve it, Mrsha. I know I don’t. You died for me, and I—”

He choked and couldn’t continue. The [Engineer] sank to his knees in the grass and took a shuddering breath as he clutched at his chest. Then he forced a smile for her.

“K-kidding. It doesn’t hurt that much. I’m just being dramatic. It’s not going to hurt like this forever. You were right about the sand stuff. Didn’t I tell you about that?”

Mrsha wasn’t sure, and Kevin wiped at his face and stared past her.

“Maybe it was my mom who told me that. I wanted to see her again, Mrsha. I wanted to see them all. So thank you.”

Tears ran down his face as he sat next to his statue. Mrsha curled up next to him, and Kevin whispered.

“Mrsha? Do you regret doing this? Honestly. I…want to know. You can tell me. I’ll understand.”

She raised her head to him, and Kevin gazed down at her. Then, they peeked down at the [Garden of Sanctuary] as rain fell from above. People were watching them, but they were too far to see the tiny little message Mrsha left in glowing words on the ground.

You promise to keep it secret?

“Cross my heart. Swear upon my grave. I’ve got to visit mine too.”

He smiled, lips trembling, and Mrsha gazed up at Kevin and thought she saw the Grand Design, listening out of the corner of her eyes. But that was alright, so Mrsha told him.

When I was small, my entire tribe got killed by the Goblins, Kevin. Ryoka saved me. I didn’t know why, only that it hurt and it was unfair. I thought, then, ‘this is how the world is.’ Bad things happen for no reason. Goblins are evil.

He listened as she wandered through the memories of that time, a different Mrsha.

Then Erin taught me not everyone was bad because they looked a certain way. So I got more confused, because not all Goblins were bad and not all things were bad. Sometimes, you meet Lyonette, and there was Erin’s inn. So I thought, then, ‘sometimes bad things happen for no reason, but good things can exist. They just take a lot of work and sacrifice.’ That’s how I thought until now.

“I get that. Erin’s inn to a tee, right? She makes it happen, even if she has to go to war with every [Pirate] in the world.”

Mrsha nodded. Then she traced something else on the ground.

But then I went into the [Palace of Fates] and talked to the Grand Design of Isthekenous, and I learned there are dead gods, and Oberon, the Faerie King, messing things up. And I wondered—is all this happening for a reason? Is this fated or part of a bigger plan?

Her head rose as Kevin made a despairing noise, and she shook her head.

No. It’s not about why. Right now, Kevin, I believe there’s good things and bad things that can happen, and luck. I believe in luck.

She indicated her white fur, and he half-smiled.

“So it’s chaos?”

She shook her head vehemently.

Maybe it is. I believe both can happen. But you have to try. You can’t complain if you don’t try to do things. Maybe it’ll never work out, but you have to believe in trying.

Mrsha thought back to the Grand Design’s explanation about butterflies flapping, and she tried to explain it to Kevin.

Maybe there is a big plan, but no one knows how it’ll go. It’s a bunch of people with plans, I think. Big butterflies, small. It’s not fair or easy or right, but if you try…you matter. I think that’s the [Palace of Fates]. I mattered a bit there. Not a huge amount, and it went wrong. But I tried.

She stretched out and lay on his lap, staring up at him.

Now, do I get to rest? Be less silly? I don’t know. I’ll try. I messed up, Kevin. I messed up big. Next time, I’ll do it a bit better. I have to, because there will be a next time. Maybe not mine or in the same way, but that’s what I think life is and how it went.

She stopped and swallowed.

I did not do it right, but I tried. I wish I’d saved everyone. I’m sorry.

Kevin hugged her and held her in his arms as he made a faint sound.

“You’re just a kid. Just a kid.”

So’re you. You didn’t ask to leave your world.

“At least I’m old enough to drive and die for my country. Mrsha. I want you to just be a kid. Okay?”

She smiled up at him and wrote in the air.

I’ll try.

He tried not to laugh at her silly lie, and then he put her down and rose. When they turned, she took his hand, and they walked downwards, back towards the land of the living. The two statues remained in the [Garden of Sanctuary].

Were they living or dead? Kevin whispered to Mrsha.

“This time, I’m going to try harder. It’s not, ‘I have nothing left to lose’. I’ve still got a lot left. And Mrsha?”

He caught her eye as she turned her head up to him quizzically, and Kevin whispered down to her.

“No matter what happens next, let me go this time. Promise?”

He met her gaze, and the little Gnoll girl thought about it, then she fished in her belt pouch and found a piece of paper. She wrote on it and then handed him a card as she opened her arms and her mother ran to scoop her up. Kevin read the message on the back of it.

Only if you promise to let me go too.

The young man laughed ruefully.

“Fair enough.”

 

——

 

So, the day continued, and tears continued to fall, but it was not always, forever, unending misery. There was always a spark in the darkness, so that the darkness could be, or a shadow under the brightest sun, hidden by every smile.

It was not over. No, in fact; the world had just begun to change, and there would be consequences. There always were from the very moment everything had begun. Echoing outwards.

People levelling and dying, sometimes coming back to life, just as Isthekenous intended. But his body was resting now. The God of Designs had long since passed, and his creation worked on.

There would be more aftereffects, continuations, but as the day dawned, a little girl lay in the [World’s Eye Theatre]. Not the [Garden of Sanctuary].

Mind you, she was not, de facto, alone. No one trusted her to be on her own right now. Lyonette didn’t stare at her every moment, but there were multiple people, staff, [Knights], and so on watching her.

From afar. Ready to leap into action if…just if.

Of course, it was when they lowered their guards the moment would come when she’d slip out of sight. It was after all this had faded from recent memory they’d break from their vigilant watch, and the [Princess] knew it. So she was making plans, but in truth, the girl wasn’t doing anything at the moment, and she had no intention of causing more trouble.

Mrsha lay on her back, staring at the sunlight falling through the crystal domed ceiling, warming her fur. It was sunlight from somewhere else in Izril; rain was still pouring down over the Floodplains. But she asked for a sunlit sky and just lay there. Eyes open, lazily turning every now and then, having snacks that were brought to her so she’d regain weight.

Not doing anything. Visibly, that was. They were all watching her, from Nanette to Bird, to see what she might do after all this, but Mrsha, genuinely, wasn’t plotting anything. Even the Grand Design checked a few times, but she meant it.

She wasn’t silly enough to say ‘no more adventures’ or ‘no more Mrsha moments’ forever. She just hoped she’d stop with that. The girl’s open eyes focused on nothing in front of her, and she wasn’t sleeping.

She was daydreaming, rather. Her mind imagining worlds and events that were less real than the [Palace of Fates]—or so she hoped. Being a Grand Design to the thoughts inside her head.

What was she daydreaming of? Well…Mrsha closed her eyes for a moment and imagined a little girl wandering through the [Palace of Fates], opening doors. In her mind, the [Palace of Fates] was beautiful again, not damaged or destroyed, and the girl was…her.

Her, but a bit more clever. A bit wiser, a bit more thought in her head, and she opened door after door. Searching for a solution for the Titan.

Surely there was one. Surely…

Mrsha turned and smelled Calescent baking fresh spicy bread. What if she had asked for Zel first? The lonely Tidebreaker would be so unhappy—then someone else.

Queen Marquin? Yes. Or Sheta.

Mrsha imagined the Empress of Harpies flying down upon the horrid Titan and declaiming about her new Empires of Iltanus, and wondered if it could have been…better.

What if the world of the Beach Inn had just come into The Wandering Inn, bringing chaos and silliness and…the other Erin? It would hurt. But she imagined that moment when Lyonette screamed and cried and the other Erin developed a gleam in her eyes and had a plan to combat the Titan, running into Pallass and throwing them into uproar.

Or what if there hadn’t been chaos in the future? What if they had entered the Goblin King’s world and—and found a way to stop him? The girl dreamed of it, putting together fate and mistakes in her mind, imagining a world in which the many worlds did not vanish and crumble and the peoples within got the happy ending they had deserved.

Tears glimmered, unshed, at the corners of her eyes as she stared up at the light shining down from above, and she dreamed of that strange world of crossroads. Then she closed her eyes and began again.

For a moment, imagining what might have been.

 

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

So, here we are. Four months past my projected deadline, and many, many words done, and the arc is over.

This isn’t the epilogue. I lied. It’s the ‘epilogue’ of the [Palace of Fates] arc in the sense that it’s a chapter with a lot of the resolution, but I never meant that as the end of Volume 10.

Nor is it an epilogue in the sense of everyone going off into the sunset. Tomorrow occurs, and it’s real and present. This is the concluding chapter that continues the journey—but it is a marker.

I’m taking my month off after this. I’m past the due date, and I wanted to take it at the start of the year—everything past that has been overtime work, and I have felt myself burning lower with each week, despite the necessary breaks and time I took to myself.

This was the final push. Now, I think, I can rest and take the month off, where I would have otherwise been bothered by leaving the arc midway through. But it was a journey near the end, wasn’t it?

Not just for me. For readers. I know some readers didn’t like the arc from the start, and that’s too bad. Whether it was the content, the genre, or any number of reasons, it is too bad if someone found nothing to love in the chapters—but it’s also hard even if you enjoyed it.

One of my favorite stories in manga form is 3-Gatsu no Lion, a story about someone who plays shogi. I don’t understand shogi, but it’s not just about shogi, but so much more. It is one of the best stories I’ve ever read—another story is One Piece, which I picked up as a kid and is one of the longest stories to this day.

It sucks, waiting for the next chapter, week after week, year after year. I know how hard mangaka, artists in Japan, work. If I burn out on writing, they work themselves to the bone and beyond. And yet, as the reader, I’m left hanging on beautiful chapters of artwork which I devour in minutes and then re-read, impatient for more.

When the story is done, the reader can experience it as a whole, and so I think people who arrive now will get to read the [Palace of Fates] arc and have a better experience than those who had to wait, week after week, with delays, for each chapter.

Which begs the question: is there a benefit to being the reader who’s caught up? Not in the sense of being able to read the story as a whole. Not for patience, certainly. What does a reader who waits for George R.R. Martin’s next book get, if it ever arrives?

The walk, I suppose, with the story as it grows and hopefully thrives. The right to say, ‘I was there’, because that does mean something.

 

Now I’m being philosophical, but I think I get to before my break and after this arc. This isn’t the post-mortem I want to do. That is for later, when readers have read through this as a whole, after the dust settles and time passes.

The break. I think for a week or two my mind will just collapse on itself and I’ll be a vegetable. Other writers I talk to know what that’s like; you don’t do anything, you unload the mental energy and exist.

Active vacations aren’t what you do if you want to actually recharge. Exciting vacations are a lot of mental strain, so I think I’ll just collapse like a pile of lemons and, hopefully, rally by the end of the month and be reading and consuming stories. That’s important.

But mostly? I’m going to get my physical done because I’ve been putting off my visit. I need to get my teeth checked and cleaned. I was gonna check on my ears, but I had that stupid ringing problem, so I got that out of the way.

I’ve put off all kinds of stuff aside to work because I just didn’t have the bandwidth to work on it. The most pressing thing is…my glasses. I wear glasses, a pirateaba fact I feel comfortable sharing with you after 8+ years of us knowing each other.

I realized on my trip to Vancouver I was having a tough time staring at distant objects, but I didn’t really think of it. Then I was told, recently, that you should get your prescriptions checked fairly regularly. Every few years. When I think about it…

I think…

My glasses, as they are, are older than The Wandering Inn. I haven’t had the prescriptions changed in at least eight years. Which I admit sounds bad, but it’s one of those things you don’t think of. Until my glasses get scratched up, I don’t worry, or I don’t think about things in the distance because I’m usually typing on a screen. (And my glasses have been in great condition because I use the glasses cloth instead of a shirt.)

New glasses. It’s not glamorous, but it’s important, and it makes me feel better just thinking about seeing more clearly. That’s all I want to do during my break.

 

I took a long time on this arc. Not as long as I could have. But longer than any other big arc. I think there’s still one last phase of writing where I write all this, months of effort, then I stop, wait for eight months, and come back and do a second pass.

That’s huge, too much for the web serial where I want chapters to come out, but it could be done. If the story needs it, rewrite it all. Redesign important parts. Do a third pass.

…But that’s not this story. I don’t want to keep you waiting that long, and we’ve come this far while changing the formula slightly, but trying to tell a story you can at least walk with, instead of waiting years or months at a time to follow after.

One month. One month so I can find new stuff to inspire me and rest, and I’ll be back to it. I hope you found something to like in this arc and that the next chapters excite you. I have so many I want to still write, all over that crazy world. But I want to tell them right, so for now, I’ll be resting.

And getting new eyes. Thanks for reading,

—pirateaba

 

 

PS. For the art on this chapter, we have a submission from one of our [Artists], Yura, who created an entire video based on the [Palace of Fates] arc. I won’t give anything away except to say that I consider it an amazing work that I had to feature here.

A story about The Wandering Inn I didn’t know by heart gives me such delight. Please give her huge applause, and all the other artists who’d made amazing art based on this chapter of The Wandering Inn.

 

 

Doors, by Yura! (Song is Mori no chiisana restaurant.)

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/yurariria

Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/yuraria.bsky.social

 

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