10.41 T

(I am on my monthly break until June 14th!)

 

 

 

Year 24, Month 1, Day 3 

 

Hard work meant something to Barnethei. He’d been a boy, fourteen years old and tiny as could be, when he’d first reached The Adventurer’s Haven—run by a retired [Wizard] and Named-rank adventurer—and begged for the free piece of bread and a job.

A raggedy kid with no prospects sitting in a magical inn as the [Innkeeper] looked him up and down, a short, black-skinned woman who didn’t seem like a former Named-rank, asking him where he’d come from and why he wanted to work for her.

She’d given him a day’s work, clearly expecting to send him on his way with a bit of money as charity. And he’d known it—you couldn’t just get a job at an inn like this, especially if she had magical familiars who could clean almost as good as a person. So he’d obsessively cleaned each table, under them, watched the places the familiars were missing; she’d found him after closing, still scrubbing away.

Hard work had gotten him the job and his first real class. From that day, for the next twenty years, Barnethei had worked hard, and it had paid off.

Not fast, not all the time. Twenty years was an age, but at 34 years old, Barnethei was now a Level 42 [Vice Innkeeper of Spells]. Level 42—forty levels in twenty years. From nothing but a runaway kid to the face of Izril’s most famous and prosperous inn. He talked to nobility daily, he’d met more Named-ranks than most Adventurer’s Guild [Guildmasters] had, he’d entertained monarchs in the inn, and he was about to start his own inn with Larra’s blessing.

That’s why Barnethei valued hard work, you see. Hard work made things happen. It was also, incidentally, why he hated The Wandering Inn. Oh, he was sure they worked hard, but you had to compare his life, twenty years of backbreaking effort to reach his level, to…her.

Erin Solstice, who, if the rumors were true, had passed his level in two years flat. Which was impossible, it had to be. Or if it was true…it wasn’t fair, and he hated it. He didn’t hate her or even her inn, really, though it wasn’t up to his standards.

He hated the idea of her inn. The entire way it operated with that off-the-cuff chaos, the lack of organization, the spirited amateurishness of it all. Barnethei liked having the plan, executing the plan, and watching it all go according to said plan. His inn would have everything set. Staff, supplies, location, entertainment—the works.

He’d been prepping for this day for the last four years, and now it was coming true. Not as he’d thought, an inn around Invrisil or in one of the Walled Cities; somewhere even better.

The New Lands. Truly new lands, and he was poised to open an inn that would make both his and Larracel’s fortunes skyrocket. After all, if you could place an inn in an area that would become a major crossroads and establish yourself as the premier spot for adventurers and the important to mingle, then you’d monopolize the region.

That was the dream. He’d hit Level 50 before the age of 40, and Larra would have enough to retire on and bring all her friends into retirement with her, the Named-ranks she cared about. Then he might be managing two inns or a network of Havens, and from there? Four, five top-level inns across Izril? You’d pull so much gold and influence in you could do anything. Start a full guild for [Innkeepers], hire or buy out all the inns across Izril, upscale even more.

Barnethei was honestly hazy about the future past his own inn being a success. He liked the concrete goal there; he’d worry about the future after a decade of making this the best place he could be. He was going to work hard, and that paid off. Hard work = success. His equation for life.

The problem was…at some point, he had realized that his boss, his beloved prickly, magical Larra, known as Larracel the Haven, the Level 50 [Innkeeper]/[Wizard] hybrid—she didn’t believe in hard work.

 

——

 

Or rather, Larracel believed hard work was something that mattered and other people should do. She was willing to do it, but she didn’t see it as the key to success. What did she believe in?

Well—

“I wish we’d taken that child with us from Liscor. The less-cute one.”

Several months had passed since they’d left Liscor, and The Adventurer’s Haven was still floating south. Floating…the inn floated, every section of it on huge, enchanted platforms, the bases pulled by oxen.

It was a sight; the inn would lower or throw down ladders or [Light Bridge] spells to let people climb up, and they’d see glowing imp-creatures flitting about, carrying food, inhale the scent of fresh bread, and feel the [Dome of Warmth] spells drying them out from the snow and cold outside, and they’d realize they were here. The Adventurer’s Haven.

Beautiful, grand, with a staff of very attractive people dressed in bright, professional clothing—shinecloth dyed blue—who could do any job to the highest level. The Haven had multiple bars, a farm, dedicated rooms that even nobility called luxurious, massive kitchens—and every visitor got a free basket of bread. Everything you could want.

The real magic was deeper inside the inn, like the Seat of Best Angles or Larracel’s enchanted workshops where you could design your own spells—a great delight to amateur magic-users. The inn was a wonder, and right now—the only fun thing for miles around.

It was raining. Raining and turning the snow to slush. Which wasn’t a problem in the inn; it was shielded, but the oxen weren’t the most happy with it. Also—it just got you down, seeing all the mud and rain.

Six days of rain straight had Larra bring up that odd comment. Barnethei stopped writing up an entertainment list for today and glanced over. Work was a bit light right now; almost all the nobility had left after Pallass. All their usual highbrow clients didn’t want to stay in Drake lands, and this was it.

Which wasn’t to say the inn was empty, far from it. Moving down the trade roads, they still got a lot of business. People would slow, stare up at the inn, then abandon their plans and visit, but they weren’t high spenders.

High spenders were how the Haven made lots of money. Drake nobility or their equivalents were Barnethei’s targets, but they didn’t know the Haven, and he didn’t have time to advertise, so he wasn’t putting on exclusive events for them. They’d open the inner bar up, let everyone have a taste of the real magic, and just rake in quantity over quality.

…The rain didn’t help, though. Everyone was indoors and didn’t want to trek out to the Haven, magical spells or not. Barnethei was smiling, keeping the mood high, but Larracel was glowering at the rain.

“One more day of this and I’m casting [Clear Skies], consequences be damned.”

“Ah—Larracel. The Drakes have laws about that kind of thing, remember? We might run into trouble if they catch you doing it.”

That didn’t improve her mood. The south had all kinds of tedious regulations and laws that the Haven kept running into. Permit for a magical building? Permit for a caravan convoy weighing over 20,000 pounds on a trade road? Permit for oxen?

It was annoying, and Barnethei got why Larra had never really made the Haven go from north to south, Bloodfields aside. There was a certain…delight in being pedantic that Drakes could develop. But he greased the wheels with charm and explanations—no gold; bribes might make things worse—and called on favors to get them going.

Larracel hated it, of course. She was obsessed with gold and profits, because her dream was to retire so rich she could convince her adventuring friends to go with her and stop risking dying on the job, which was how 96% of Named-rankers died. That was a fact, actually. Almost none of them did what Larracel had done and stepped away. They kept going until they died on a job.

Colthei, Deniusth, Eldertuin, Mihaela, Viecel, Valeterisa—she sort of counted—they were Larracel’s family, and each one was mad as a loon. You loved them, but they were all self-destructive narcissists as far as Barnethei was concerned. To get them to retire and stop risking their lives, you’d have to have a fortune. Hence all this…

Larracel kept glowering at the rain, and he feared she’d cast [Clear Skies] anyways—but instead, the [Wizard] just pulled out a wand. It was alabaster white, made with some kind of very pale stone, and heavier than it appeared. It had Unicorn hair inside.

Named-rank gear.

“Larra—boss—”

She ignored him and fired a single arrow of magic straight up. People on the roads flinched as a crystal clear arrow, only visible as a thin outline like translucent glass, flashed upwards. It looked like it was made of glass; it cut a clear path through the air above, and the rain parted down the road. Then she fired two more such arrows, one behind them and one straight up.

Barnethei gazed upwards, and he was too used to her magic to have his mouth drop open—but the sight of the rains peeling away from the veil of air, like someone had pulled the rainy skies apart like a curtain—well, it still took his breath away.

“I haven’t seen you use that one before.”

The [Vice Innkeeper of Spells] pulled out a spellbook and rifled through it. She shot him a sardonic glare.

“Copy it if you want. It’s not very useful. [Glassveil Arrows]. It leaves a trail behind it or just clears the air in an arc. In this case, it’s [Glassveil Arrows] mixed with a simple [Canopy of Air] spell.”

Ah, so she shot the arrows out and they spread her spell like a net and anchored the spell up there. It saved her from having to remotely tether the spell, which was a huge mana cost, or fly up to get into position.

Clever. Top-tier [Wizard] magic, that. Barnethei fussed with his spellbook, then bit a lip.

“It’s a nice trick. I’ll drop, eh, [Fireball] and put those arrows in. I have a few canopy spells.”

She snorted at that.

“[Fireball]? You’re dropping [Fireball]?”

“It burns too much and explodes. I’m not in the combat game, and it’s not suitable for entertainment.”

She shook her head, appalled.

“How many spells can you copy from me with your class?”

It always affronted her that he’d learned magic just from being her best employee. The [Vice Innkeeper of Spells] snapped his spellbook closed.

“Twenty-one. Half my level. Well, I say ‘twenty-one’, but it’s twenty-one slots. Tier 4 spells take two slots these days, Tier 5 takes four…”

“Yes, yes, spare me. Slots. You have such ridiculous magical rules. You could just study it, you know. No slots. Just this.”

She tapped the side of her head, and Barnethei grinned.

“I’ve done that until my eyes crossed, Larracel. This is good enough.”

He still had to memorize each spell and commit them to memory, but his Skill, [Spellbook of Wizardly Acumen], let him learn and use spells despite being an [Innkeeper]. Larracel rolled her eyes as she inspected her handiwork.

The umbrella of clear skies certainly made everyone perk up, and more people started coming their way, if only to ask about what had happened. Free advertisement; Larracel knew the job.

Larracel was still mad.

“The less-cute girl would have done fine here. Especially if we could have gotten her mother.”

“Er…which one? You mean from The Wandering Inn?”

“Yes! She had luck powers, didn’t she? We could use some of that. I hope this is just a bad patch and we get some luck for the New Lands. A bad hand and we’ll have wasted all this coin and opportunity.”

Oh, there she went again. Barnethei sighed. Luck.

“Not everything’s an adventure, Larracel.”

She put her boot on the ledge of the 2nd floor of the main inn, peering across the landscape like a [Captain] of a very odd ship. She was wearing a maid’s outfit; she liked to pretend Barnethei was the [Innkeeper] and she was just an old woman, hired help. It let her sneak around and make judgement calls. He wondered how she’d do when he left and she had to become the face of the inn again.

“If you talk about hard work, Barnethei, I’ll leave. It’s all luck. Either you walk into Liscor’s dungeon of shit or you find out this is Chalence like Orchestra did. No hard work did that.”

“Except the hard work that got them into the position where they could clear it.”

Everyone knew Deniusth the Violinist and his team’s famous conquering of Chalence, where they’d pulled so much loot out they’d become minor nobility and been set for life. Well, they’d spent the money like water, but they were still extraordinarily rich. Larracel snorted.

“And luck gave them the shot! It’s all luck. Not a single Named-rank will ever tell you they got to where they were because of ‘hard work’.”

He bit his tongue on a reply. Instead, Barnethei changed tacks and checked a notebook with names and notes in it. He organized and wrote down everything; she’d taught him how to write and how to keep ledgers. She was much like a mother as well as a boss—and that meant he loved her and quarrelled with her twice as much.

“Mrsha or Nanette? Mrsha’s the Gnoll girl, the Doombringer. No, wait, Doombearer. Nanette’s the little witch. Mrsha’s the less-cute one?”

“Ah, yes. Her. I’m thinking we should have taken her and the [Princess] instead of that Ishkr one. [Princesses] would be trouble, but they often bring interesting events around. And luck’s very useful. She’s the less cute one, though. I hate food thieves. That little witch? Adorable.”

Of course Larracel had a soft spot for girls with pointy hats. Barnethei closed the notebook as he saw the first group of Drakes waving up at the inn. He strode smartly over, waving his own wand and conjuring a [Light Bridge].

“Well, luck can wait until the New Lands. Any word from Deniusth? Colth?”

Then he saw Larracel’s shoulders hunch and wished he hadn’t asked. She glanced at the sky, and so did he.

That image of the Horns of Hammerad riding across Izril’s horizon was still burned into his eyes. That—that was real adventuring, the first he’d seen in a decade. Colth, the youngest lad of Larracel’s group, truly cementing his name as a Named-rank.

Glorious…until they’d seen the battle at sea and heard the Horns had gone down fighting. Erin Solstice killing a [Prince] of Erribathe. Madness.

Larracel whispered.

“Nothing. Not from Deni—but they said the New Lands make [Scrying] hard. He could have [Messaged] me—but he must be hunting the Gold and Silver-rankers with Albez’s relics. Colth…nothing.”

“I’m sure he’s fine. If anyone—”

“Yes.”

She didn’t want to talk about it and turned away. Her face closed off, and he knew she wouldn’t be fit to help with entertainment. Larracel the Haven had seen too many friends die, adventurers, to play the game of ‘I’m sure’. She stood there as he strode off to work, hoping something would arrive to distract her.

At least Mihaela was still about. He saw her jump out a window of her room, land in a chair on the floor, and put her legs up in one motion. She coughed, her damaged lungs wheezing, then raised her voice.

“Barnethei. Food. I have to run to another Runner’s Guild today.”

The Guildmistress of First Landing was one of those permanent guests who always came by. Larracel’s friends, but Barnethei was glad she was here. He jerked his head at Larracel, and Mihaela glanced up. She stood, vanished—she was so fast he couldn’t track her, just a blur—and promptly ran away.

She came back, dragging Eldertuin the Fortress and Viecel the Mad Gambler and shoved them at Larracel. Which was really classic Mihaela. Barnethei got to work, a smile on his face, as the first Drakes staggered onto the Haven’s floor.

“Welcome to The Adventurer’s Haven!”

He was dressed like a maestro of a theatre or a ringmaster of a menagerie. The [Vice Innkeeper] couldn’t wait for his own inn. He was tired of being second-best, even to Larracel. His own inn.

He couldn’t wait.

 

——

 

Year 24, Month 1, Day 15 — The Haven Reaches the New Lands. Mihaela hops off. Larracel smells a magicless rat.

 

The New Lands were amazing to see. The moment he saw the ridgeline where the new part of the continent had risen, sloping upwards, Barnethei’s heart leapt. Everyone was there to witness it.

All the Named-ranks. Eldertuin, Viecel, even those who weren’t Larracel’s family like Rasen and Teithde, the Champions of the Coast, or Caleis Berkesson, the Favor of the North. They stood along the railings, gazing out and talking. Just—talking in that way that made Barnethei think they were trying to say something memorable, as if they were defining history.

Well, they might. Gold-ranks and Named-ranks had come with the Haven, and this group might define exploration into the New Lands. In fact, one of them was transmitting the moment to Wistram, hoping perhaps to get this on the news.

Barnethei doubted they would; the inn had been watching coverage of ‘explorers setting out into the New Lands’ all month. But even so, this group thought it was important, and they did have expertise.

“Not as mountainous as I feared. Lot of flatlands by the looks of it. Horses will be the thing to cover ground. You’ll have trouble catching us, eh, Eld?”

Teithde, the flashy woman who claimed to be a Wellfar (without proof), was needling Eldertuin lightly. He was a huge man, an actual Terland by virtue of marrying into the family, and covered in armor. He adjusted his huge tower shield as he spoke.

“I think it’ll be better to know where we’re going. I’d love a mountain to climb; we’d be able to mark any spot that seems good. Shame there’s no [Scrying] spells. Then again, we’d all be racing to the first ruins.”

He was so polite, so congenial and friendly even despite his level and rank, that it was hard for anyone to hate him. A rare case of a good-natured Named-rank, so Teithde dropped her elbowing, abashed. She flung her arm around her husband, Rasen. He was a far plainer man; Teithde had blue hair, gold eyes, and looked like a real heroine; Rasen was brown-haired, stocky, and yet the duo were inseparable.

And weird. Larracel didn’t know them as well, and she’d once told Barnethei that Teithde ‘gave her the creeps’. Larracel had good instincts about adventurers, so Barnethei had wondered if Teithde was secretly more dangerous or depraved than she let on. Named-ranks could be, ah…interesting.

“Bet you five fingers we find an artifact worth selling within the month.”

Viecel the Mad Gambler was a Selphid, bouncing up and down in his new Human body. Instantly, Eldertuin slapped his arm.

“Viecel, knock it off. We don’t have more bodies for you!”

“It’s a sure bet, Eld. Doesn’t this make your blood boil? I’m ready to leap down and ride!”

They were raring to go. Teithde nodded as she waved her one good arm; she’d lost the other one to Zeter during the Trial of Blades, but Barnethei hadn’t even noticed her complaining about it. Losing an arm for a Named-rank was disastrous, but she was entirely cheerful.

“I can’t wait for some alone time with Rasen. No offense!”

She blew a kiss at the others, and Rasen sighed.

“We’ll set off after we get a bit closer. Larracel, how far in are we going…?”

“We’ll see. I don’t want to put the Haven at risk. I’ll be warding it well; assume we’ll be along these outskirts if you want to find us. I’ll [Message] everyone with our spot and wherever Barnethei lays his stake. Probably near the edge—unless he finds a good spot closer inland.”

Everyone turned to him, somewhat respectfully. He might not be Named-rank, but he knew them all, and Barnethei wiped suddenly sweaty hands on his coat.

“That’s right. It’s all down to location. I’ll try to find a water source that puts us at the center of traffic, or even a settlement if it’s obvious it’ll be booming in the future.”

Not too far in unless I know there’s a settlement that’s going to work. Somewhere visible, defensible—I have to watch out for monsters—with good arable land for farming.

He had a plan. In fact, Larracel glanced at a warehouse, floating with the Haven, filled to the brim with supplies to set up his stake. Including magical buildings she’d worked on. She nodded at him.

“It’ll take the oxen a moment to climb the ridge. I heard there’s a path past Goisedall, but we don’t need one. [Earthen Ramparts]!”

She cast a spell, and the ground rose to cheers, forming a path up the ridgeline. With magic like that, no wonder the Haven was secure enough to move into the New Lands. Mind you—Larracel was cautious.

“Have everyone arm up, Barnethei. Just in case. Roreen? Break out a cask and give everyone a complimentary shot. Don’t double up; I want clear heads.”

Their [Bartender] got out glasses for the adventurers and people excited to see the New Lands, but many were already planning their exit. In fact, Mihaela turned down the drink as she strolled over, hands in her pockets.

“This is where we’ll part, Larra. I’d like to stay, but I’m not actually an adventurer. I might run to Goisedall, keep kicking the Runner’s Guilds into shape. Head down to Zeres, back up and—if you’re about, I’ll see you before I head north.”

That was her excuse for coming south. Larra turned, and her face fell.

“You don’t want to wait a week?”

Mihaela glanced at the New Lands and coughed.

“No. Otherwise, I’ll go tearing into it, and I can’t. Not in my condition.”

Wrymvr the Deathless had poisoned her during the 2nd Antinium Wars. It meant that one of Izril’s best Couriers couldn’t run long without her lungs betraying her. Mihaela offered Larracel a crooked smile.

“If I get an interesting Courier’s job, maybe. [The Courier’s Last Road] works here, you know.”

“Really. Fascinating. Well, you’ll stay for a final dinner. No arguments!”

Mihaela sighed, but nodded, and Barnethei saw Larracel gazing ahead.

“If you hear where Deniusth is, tell me. He’s too old to be headhunting fellow adventurers. They will fight back.”

“He’s lost it. Cutting up rookies for stealing some artifacts…talk him out of it, would you?”

Mihaela shook her head, and Larracel scowled.

“I intend to if I find him. Eldertuin, Viecel! All of you, tell me if you find Deniusth, understand? Keep in contact! Don’t go haring off and come running to the Haven without so much as a warning if you find trouble!”

“Yes, Larra!”

She got a chorus of amused, fond voices. Some of the younger adventurers seemed annoyed to have a former adventurer lecture them, but even the ones she didn’t know well were respectful.

“I can’t believe she’s bossing us around like she’s still active.”

One Gold-ranking group was grumbling, but Caleis Berkesson, whose entire face was made up of handkerchiefs, a man of cloth, turned and whispered back.

“Be more respectful. You might have forgotten, but she’s not ‘the Haven’ for nothing. If you’ve got a monster pack on your back, her inn’s a true miracle to see. The odds are she’ll be bailing out more than one group in need. She can rain down magic from her inn, so if I were you, I’d treat this like the base you want to have.”

That contextualized the reason the Haven was so valuable to the others, and the adventurers decided to cosy up to Larracel and thank her for her hospitality. Barnethei, though, wondered how much Larracel wanted to risk.

He was the one who’d have a static inn…they were rolling up the ridgeline into the New Lands when Larracel stopped toasting everyone and turned.

“Hm?”

She was truly a master [Wizard], despite her current profession. Moreover, Larracel was highly, highly attuned to how much mana was around her. Because of how hard it was to lift the Haven, she had to regulate the mana she expended; she couldn’t cast nearly as many spells because of all the mana that went to floating the enchanted buildings.

So the moment the Haven began to roll into the New Lands, Larracel noticed something was off.

“The ambient mana levels are decreasing. That’s odd. Or perhaps not; the New Lands might not have any mana. Though I’ve met Drowned Folk, and they always tell me there’s plenty of mana in the water too.”

Every adventurer turned to her, and a few of the [Mages] confirmed Larracel was right. A Gold-ranker in Eldertuin’s team nodded as they cast a spell.

“Good nose, or whatever it is, Larracel. How bad is it?”

“Not bad…but it’d make casting spells a bit harder. Fewer higher-tier spells per day. Barnethei? I’m lowering us and pulling back the [Dome of Heat] spells. It’s warmed enough, anyways.”

Larracel lowered the elevation of the domes and pulled a spell off, and Barnethei nodded. He didn’t think much more of it; he was helping adventurers check out and settle their tabs—no telling when they’d be back. And of course, glancing around to see what the best spot was.

No clue yet—he hoped Larracel could raise a building and let him stare around with a spyglass a few days into the New Lands. However, no less than an hour later, he saw all the [Light] spells flick out.

“Larracel?”

“No mana. It’s dead air, Barnethei! Put on the lanterns!”

He had the staff do just that; there were dozens of the mostly-female staff that Larracel hired. She insisted on giving them a chance to succeed and often favored those with darker skin tones like herself, who got the foreigner treatment even if they were Izrilian.

“Found us a spot, Barnethei?”

Navien teased him—the Head of Cleaning was one of the old guard, and she was someone who’d signed up to join his new inn. She was a [Staff Manager of Cleaning], Level 33. She could have been at the top of her own establishment or worked for nobility, but she was as excited as he was.

“Not yet. Got your wand ready? Larracel’s a bit jumpy, but there’s no sense in being unprepared.”

She turned serious and patted a wand at her side. Larracel issued all employees with weapons—Navien had a Wand of Starry Shot, which fired, well, [Star Arrows]. The Haven had fought off [Bandits], even the Bloodfeast Raiders one time, and if they weren’t all [Marksmen], several dozen employees firing Tier 3 spells from behind Larracel’s barriers could kill almost any foe.

“We’re all ready, Barnethei. The new girls are too trigger-happy with the wands; Larracel pulled all the wild ones to us. Enchanted bows, even—Maxine knocked over all her trays since she’s swaggering around with it on!”

“Well, she was a [Hunter]—we need some survivalists, Navien. I’ll tell her to put it somewhere while she works, though. Close to hand but not in the way.”

A good mix of classes would keep the inn thriving. Barnethei had gotten new employees who had backgrounds as [Farmers], [Hunters], even craftspeople. The inn-related classes tended to absorb the old classes, but the knowledge would be vital. He himself had been brushing up on some alchemy and other survival skills. Larracel’s magic covered so many angles.

Barnethei expected that to be the worst of it and was realizing they’d be so light on customers they wouldn’t have much to do tonight. He was organizing the farewell dinner when the Haven suddenly…stopped.

It was almost always moving. So when he felt it jolt to a halt, he stumbled. Several of the staff did too, and he leapt forward and caught a tray before the drinks could topple off it.

“Larracel, what’s wrong? Monsters?”

She’d halted dead in place, hence the jolt. The [Wizard] was standing, staring around, holding her wand up and a vial of what seemed like…glowing water? A translucent, blue, levitating liquid. It took Barnethei a second to realize what it was.

Mana. Her mana. It was pulling away as Larracel gazed about. Her face, which had been excited, was suddenly troubled.

“Something’s wrong. Barnethei? I’m lowering the Haven onto the oxen carts.”

“You’re—is it trouble?”

If there was, the Haven went up. Larracel half shook her head. She pointed.

“I want us to steer…northwards. Straight north, then west.”

It took a moment to get the oxen to do that; they were used to plodding forwards, and Barnethei jogged up into the Haven as Larracel frowned.

Thirty minutes of heading north and she called a halt.

“North’s no good. South. I’ll speed us up. [Mass Speed]!”

They went back down south now, and the guests realized something was wrong as the Haven bumped and jolted on the enchanted carts, not flying. They came out, and Barnethei had to lie and tell them they were just adjusting their course. Larracel was silent, but after nearly forty minutes of heading south, she lowered her wand.

“We’ve entered a mana-negative zone.”

“Oh, is that all?”

He relaxed, and she scowled at him.

“It’s not good! The Haven is far too heavy to lift without ambient mana! And in this area—adventurers, muster up! Who’s left? Navien, give me a list! I’m [Messaging] all of them!”

She herded them into place and spoke.

“This area’s mana-negative.”

“Oh really? Shit!”

Only a few adventurers even knew what that meant. Eldertuin groaned.

“Argh, that’s no good. Are you trying to go around?”

“Excuse me, what does that mean?”

Teithde raised a hand, and Larracel spoke.

“It means your gear and enchanted objects are losing mana. Stay in a place like this too long and you’ll lose a poorly-made artifact. At best, they just go dormant. I ran into spots like this in my career; they’re hell on [Mages]. You might think you can rely on your Skills and mana reserves, but you won’t regenerate nearly as fast—if you even can! Watch out. Frankly, I think the best move is to avoid even lingering here. The Haven will head…south. We’ll skirt this region and go mana-low until we’re clear. You should do the same. I’m not telling you to, but you won’t find any good loot in a mana-negative zone anyways. Plus, any lower-grade healing potions, scrolls, low-level artifacts…”

All would run out of magic. The adventurers muttered, exceptionally relieved Larracel had warned them. Viecel whistled.

“Trust the Haven to know that. Hey, you think that’s what happened to Deni? It’d be just like him to walk in here and lose his [Message] scrolls.”

Eldertuin groaned as Mihaela slapped her face.

“I bet that’s what happened. Hey, Larra, you heard that?”

If anything, the realization that might be why Deni was out of contact made Larracel smile. But she stood there that night as they headed south, bumping along, and Barnethei could barely sleep. He saw her measuring with that odd vial.

“Trying to see where the mana drain is coming from? Is it atmospheric?”

“Sometimes. The mana’s going down…somewhere in the earth. Might be a huge magicore seam. Or monsters. It’s a strong drain. I won’t keep going if it’s this strong, Barnethei. The Haven won’t have its enchantments break; the magic’s too good for that. But most of what we have is magic.”

A true problem for a [Wizard]. Barnethei wasn’t worried—until he saw Larracel’s face.

“What? You spotted it and we’re not even in it, are we?”

“No…but all these new explorers might be walking into it. They’ll lose bags of holding, everything. We should put the word out. I’m just trying to figure out how far it goes. Barnethei—we’ve gone twelve miles and it’s still draining mana.”

That was a big region. The [Vice Innkeeper] frowned as he stared across the New Lands, dark and slightly ominous now.

“Get some rest, Larra. Tomorrow’s a new day, and we’ll enter properly after we find a good spot.”

She nodded, but stayed up, and he knew better than to talk her out of it. She stood there, measuring the mana, and when Barnethei woke the next day…

They didn’t find a spot where the mana drain stopped.

If anything—it got worse. And after six days of moving back and forth along the New Lands, Larracel reached the conclusion that most other groups would take another week to realize.

The entire New Lands was a trap for [Mages]. The Haven halted in the north, having headed back that way to find a gap, anything—

Then it rolled deeper into the New Lands. From that moment on, Barnethei was suddenly on a time limit.

 

Year 24, Month 1, Day 22 — The opening of the Explorer’s Haven. An ominous start.

 

Almost all the adventurers were gone by the time Larracel decided to take the Haven further into the New Lands from the outskirts where she’d been searching for a safe passage. Despite her warnings, they went. Viecel summed it up for the others, uncharismatically, bouncing on the heels of his feet, head turning, eyes locked on the horizon. An addict—but they all had that look.

“Look, Larra. Even if it’s draining mana, we have to go. We’ll leave all the shit you said won’t last here, but we’ve gotta explore it. I’ll see you in a bit, alright?”

She didn’t like it. She argued with them, especially Eldertuin and Viecel, to stay put, but they had the itch. They had to go.

The one saving grace for the Haven was that they’d caught the problem before they were days into the magic drain zone and out of options. And Larracel, as a [Wizard], had solutions.

“It’s called [Zone of…uh…Enriched Mana]. Dead gods, I know I have it in my spellbooks somewhere.”

She spent an entire day in her library finding the text she wanted before studying it and sighing.

“I always wondered why you needed it. I thought it would be to make my familiars more powerful. If I project it around the Haven, everything within should stay magical.”

“But…?”

She glanced at Barnethei.

“—But I’ll be out of mana. Keeping the spell up means no floating Haven, no Tier 5 spells from me. It’ll keep our gear safe, but the moment we pass fully into this magic drain, we’re on a time limit. I won’t recharge my mana fast enough to hold the spell up. Six days from this spot. Six days, and we’ll retreat.”

“Six days?”

She’d planned on keeping the Haven here for a year! More! And his inn—Larracel snapped at him.

“If the mana drain lessens further in, we can find out! Otherwise…I think your new inn either has to go right along the border, or it’s not going to be a magical one.”

Barnethei, the [Vice Innkeeper of Spells], stood there, and all his plans began to develop cracks. All his Skills, all of his preparation—

“Impossible. We can’t put it down here! Drake cities are nose-to-nose with the New Lands. And without mana—! What about Runes of Preservation? Bags of holding?”

She was scratching at her chin.

“…There are ways to store mana. A few spells might be maintainable. With your own mana supply? You’ll have to ration what you want active. We have to check it out. It’s a business opportunity, Barnethei.”

He didn’t see it at first. He was so frazzled he went striding around the inn, telling the staff the news and trying to reassure them—mostly to reassure himself. But then he had a sit with some goat’s milk and rum, a Kaliv Darkhoof, and thought.

This was an opportunity. Think about it. If this mana drain thing was the New Land’s feature, okay, that was nasty. However—if you had a bit of mana, and he was a Level 42 [Innkeeper] with a not-insubstantial amount, then suddenly you had all the magic around.

“[Message] scrolls, dead. Healing potions? Dead gods, dead unless a Level 20 [Alchemist] made them. Which means if you need it, you come to the Explorer’s Haven! Preserved food, magic—a place to replenish mana—”

He pitched the new concept to Larra as they rolled into the New Lands, and she sat there, thinking.

“You don’t have the mana for that, Barnethei. I think you could maintain three enchantments if I laid them on your inn, a single [Room of Preservation], a temperature control spell, and…probably a bug spell or something. No familiars, no magic of your own. Nothing like a mana-dense zone.”

“Well, can you give me an option? You’re the Named-rank [Wizard], Larra. There’s got to be something.”

That made her smile sardonically, and she walked around, thinking and running experiments as they rumbled into the New Lands.

It was pretty. The first thing Barnethei saw was an entire ground of pink…he had to run down and see it.

“What is this?”

It was actually hard, not soft, and it was slightly spongy, breaking apart when he stabbed a knife into it. Tiny little holes and plenty of life—mostly buggy. The oxen tried to nibble on it but found it wasn’t edible, and Larracel called down.

“Looks like coral. Must have changed with the wild magic. At least you’ll have something to grow, Barnethei. Drowned Folk always told me coral was a sign of a thriving location.”

He cast the bit of coral aside, nodding. She pointed down.

“I have a solution. It’s not pretty, and it’ll mean I’m tethered to the area, but I think we need a mana well.”

“As in…the Skill? I can’t just level up on command.”

“No, a literal well.”

 

——

 

The theory was simple. You had a finite amount of a resource that would vanish? Evaporate? Well, you did what people in deserts, or anyone with a valuable resource, did.

You made a container, filled it up, and drew from it. The key would be making it isolated so the mana didn’t drain away. Larracel drew up a plan.

“It needn’t be underground. It will be a room, isolated with thick stone, enchanted, and the mana inside. Monsters will want at it, but I can hide the mana, hopefully. Then I link the zone spell to it, and the area around the inn—or maybe just the inn—has mana. But the well will run out; you or I will have to recharge it. Hopefully I can put in enough to give you a week’s supply and, in time, maybe upgrade to a month’s. To do it properly I’d…I don’t know, fill the walls with magicore? Something like that.”

“If you enchant the walls, won’t the mana leech it out?”

She gave him an arch look.

“I can enchant the wards to prevent that from happening! Well, not perfectly. Damn. This is one of those times I’d want a master [Enchanter] with me. Or an [Architect]…I’ll prototype the room. Your job is to find that spot.”

They were still going forwards with this expedition, so for four days, Larracel holed herself up in her workshop while Barnethei and the staff…explored the New Lands. They had almost no guests; a few people had stayed to tour the New Lands, even from as far as First Landing, but aside from that, the staff became almost a crew of [Sailors] aboard a ship marching overland.

 

——

 

“Monster attack! Monster attack! Everyone, wands up! Larra!”

She came storming out of her workshop when she heard the shout. Larracel gazed up and saw bats.

Dropbats. Hundreds of them, swarming in a huge circle, then coming down for the inn, trying to tear and bite at the people within. The oxen were mooing in terror, and she spoke.

“[Barrier of the—] no. [Threefold Extended Barrier of Air]! Take them down before they hit us! Everyone, seal the windows and fire from them!”

She didn’t put down the barrier she wanted. The tri-levelled barriers held back the first waves of bats crashing into them just long enough for everyone to scramble inside and shut windows. Then the staff were firing out of them.

It was hard to wing the flying monsters as they slammed onto the deck of the inn, but the bats had no chance of getting indoors. When they realized that, they circled as spells flashed out of windows. Barnethei nailed eight with his wand that shot a [Ray of Acid] spell—until he heard a shout.

“They’re going after the oxen!”

He cursed and shoulder-charged out the door. Navien shouted at him.

“Barnethei! Be careful—”

He could use a sword, not nearly as well as a Gold-ranker, but the adventurers had taught him, and Colth had said he’d match a Silver-rank [Warrior]. His sword was enchanted, anyways, and Barnethei ran down to see the bats trying to kill the oxen. He slashed at them, cursing as they bit at his enchanted clothing—until someone spoke.

“[Seeker Fire Arrows].”

Larracel lifted her hand, and a mass of red arrows swirled up—then fired from under the Haven. It blasted the bats down, and, screaming, they died or fled.

The air stank afterwards, and Barnethei called for help soothing the terrified oxen. He would have healed them, but they had no way to get more healing potions. So he dashed upstairs to mix a poultice, then saw how many bats were littering the ground.

 

——

 

The Haven took little damage in any physical sense, even the oxen. But in another sense…

“We lost a lot of mana doing that.”

“All wands. We can recharge them.”

Barnethei was grimacing as they hucked Dropbats into a storehouse where the preservation spells would keep them. They were worth a bit to an Adventurer’s Guild, so Larracel had said to keep them. Another reason he wasn’t cut out to be one; half the staff had gloves on and still refused to pick up a bat except with a pitchfork or shovel.

Larracel was unhappy.

“I’m not wasting mana on them right now. We just lost another day before we have to turn! That gives us one more before I’m taking the Haven out.”

She refused to be caught without mana and, indeed, announced every magical function in the Haven was turning off aside from the essentials. No light, no heated water, nothing.

Barnethei was exasperated.

“Surely we could do two days? Larra—”

She glared at him.

“I’m the adventurer here, Barnethei. You don’t run out of mana. Ever! That’s how you die.”

But you have mana potions. Hers were still good since she was juicing up the air to keep them fresh. Barnethei bit his lip on a retort. Larracel had her reasons for her paranoia. In the end, time forced his hand.

 

——

 

The last day they were scouting out a spot for the New Lands, Larracel was in an uncharacteristically good mood, despite the mana problems and the bat attack.

No guesses why. Barnethei himself had gotten some cakes out of storage that morning, and one of the serving boys had eyes almost as big as the massive slice that Barnethei was cutting—there was no coin-pinching right now.

Larracel, who’d be the first to upbraid Barnethei about wasting money, just grabbed a slice with a telekinesis spell as Roreen offered her some champagne. The [Bartender] had poured a small amount for everyone, and she waved a hand over the glass.

“[Transmutation: Favorite Beverage]. Congratulations, Larra!”

“I don’t know what you mean, Roreen. And isn’t it a waste of champagne if you’re just going to transmute it to whatever everyone likes?”

That was a bit of classic Larra, but Roreen just smiled.

“The quality of the drink makes the output different.”

“Hmph. Well, I haven’t heard from him yet, and he’d better have a good reason for not [Messaging] me. Probably avoiding trouble at sea, that paranoid idiot. Or maybe he and Pisces were using all their mana to stay afloat. What is that idiot doing now? First the King of Destruction, now they’re attacking another nation?”

“It’s Roshal, Larra.”

No one else was upset; if anything, the staff were cheering the images being replayed on the scrying orb almost as much as Drassi. But Larracel just folded her arms.

“He should know better than to make enemies.”

With that said, her eyes wouldn’t move from the image of Colth diving off a flying carpet after Pisces. Barnethei was near-breathless himself.

This was Named-rank adventuring. He watched as Elena swung the scrying orb around again—and he’d seen the scene six times so far.

This was the day that the Horns of Hammerad attacked the caravan of Roshal’s [Slavers] and found themselves on television again. Prior to that moment, there had been rumors aplenty, sightings in improbable locations from the Claiven Earth to Medain—and rumors, but nothing concrete.

Barnethei wasn’t going to trust that Yvlon and Ceria had spent the night in King Perric’s bed, then made off with his crown after humiliating him in public and riding off with Mars the Illusionist, nor did he trust the man himself. And Colthei…Larra hadn’t seen him alive and well, up till now.

He’d been warded by a superior spellcaster, she claimed, possibly even the Death of Magic herself, but that made no sense to Barnethei either. However, the result had been Larra’s inability to see that Colth was actually in one piece until this moment. And seeing was believing.

She’d had a [Scrying] spell aimed at Colth all month long, and been telling Barnethei quite often that it wasn’t locking on, but the fact it was activating meant he wasn’t dead.

She glowered at the image on the television of the Horns diving towards the [Slavers], as if resenting the fact that regular [Mages] could see him when, apparently, anti-scrying spells were still working on the duo. She rolled her eyes as Ceria dropped off the carpet, throwing ice magic as she fell.

“Typical. He just had to join the one team without sense or experience. Chandrar. They’re not going to be easy on the Horns, and Colth hates Chandrar. I can’t say I enjoyed it much myself. The sunburn.”

She shuddered, having apparently once been so badly sunburned that even a healing potion hadn’t saved her entirely. She glared again at the image.

“Making enemies of a nation like that. At least his team has his back. They’re decently crazy.”

Decently crazy. That was the kind of compliment Larra almost never gave. Then the woman swung around pretended she wasn’t relieved and began harassing Navien about whether she was prepped for the new job.

No one bought it. In fact, Barnethei had a clever idea. [Vice Innkeeper] he might be, but he still had all the powers of an [Innkeeper]. He knew for a fact that Larracel had been busy, even while on the move, using one of their new powers.

“Larra, do we have a list of active <Quests>?”

“On the board over there, Barnethei. No one’s done more than the gathering one.”

She scowled at him. So the [Vice Innkeeper] strode over to a new board, much like that of an Adventurer’s Guild, and read. Unlike Erin Solstice’s <Quests>, Larra was far less public about hers; she’d post them in the middle of the night with a Mana Familiar. And they were formatted differently, which Barnethei hadn’t known you could do.

Style, he supposed.

 

<Basic Quest — Flora Samples #1>

Time: 10 days on acceptance.

Type: Gathering.

Client: The Adventurer’s Haven.

Reward: 8 gold pieces with bonuses for exceptional results.

Difficulty: Level 20+. Remain vigilant in this area.

Region: New Lands outskirts.

Objective: Collect up to 15 samples of different flora unique to the New Lands. Plants indigenous to the rest of Izril unwanted. Each sample must consist of (5) mostly intact plant samples, roots included.

Conditions: Adventures, beware of poison or hazardous seeds or spores, monsters during the course of gathering, infectious disease, or pernicious insects. Consult an almanac to ensure the plant is indeed unique. Failure to collect an exceptionally rare or unique plant sample in the required amounts may be compensated for by a [Mage Picture]. Also, transcribe locations of where each species is found.

Failure: Delivery of ordinary plants native to Izril, delivery of toxic, infected, or otherwise dangerous plant samples. Excessive damage to samples.

Additional Notes: This is a gathering request open to all adventurers, not a Silver-rank dedicated <Quest>. The Adventurer’s Haven or an Adventurer’s Guild will accept the delivery of items, though a fee will be deducted for the cost of a City Runner delivering samples to the Adventurer’s Haven. Wear gloves when touching all samples, and wash them thoroughly.

 

<Basic Quest — Map Cartography #3>

Time: 60 days as of 24/1/20.

Type: Cartography, exploration.

Client: The Adventurer’s Haven. Adventurer’s guild.

Reward: 40 gold pieces upon confirmation and truth spell delivery, escalating rewards up to 600 gold pieces for detail of map. Each new location is eligible for a bounty. First come, first paid.

Difficulty: Level 20+. Remain vigilant in this area.

Region…

 

She’d been posting a lot of <Quests>, essentially doing the job of an Adventurer’s Guild, but Barnethei could skip past the numerous low-level <Quests> to the ones only Larracel could post.

Namely—<Rare Quests> and he suspected <Heroic Quests>, but he hadn’t seen her do them yet. Certainly nothing like <Mythical Quest> or higher…whether or not Larra was even capable of issuing one, it wasn’t something she did lightly. That was a sore point given the fact they all knew Erin could do better.

 

<Rare Quest — Locate Orchestra>

<Rare Quest — Confirm ‘Landshark’ Threat>

<Rare Quest — Maird’s Massacre needs a [Ranger]>

 

Quests like that. Barnethei didn’t miss that the first quest on the board was to find Deniusth and his team. However, Larra cared about all adventurers—she just wasn’t honest about her feelings.

On the pretext of checking the quests to see if any adventurer had accepted them or completed any, Barnethei slipped a bit of paper up onto the board. He winked at Roreen, who came over to see what he’d written, then gave him a smile.

 

<Rare Quest — Colthei, Call Larra!>

 

He supposed it had to be ‘rare’ given how busy Colth was, and Barnethei hid it under another <Quest>. He didn’t actually expect it to work, but less than half-an-hour later, Larra broke off from talking about how the Horns of Hammerad were too well-connected to be assassinated, and that Roshal had troubles of its own, too many to go after them, and raised a finger to her temple.

“Colth’s [Messaged] me. One moment—”

She floated away, and Barnethei high-fived the other senior members of staff and poured himself another drink. He tried to look innocent a minute later when she poked her head back into the room. Pointedly, Larra strode over to the bulletin board and found the quest involving Colth and yanked it off the list.

“He’s a busy adventurer, and he’s fine. It’s not his fault if it slips his mind to check in.”

“Of course, Larra. I was just trying out my <Quests>. I’m amazed it reached him, to be honest.”

She glared at him, but then her lips quirked.

“Apparently, he and Pisces were sailing a reanimated ghost ship for a month. He was worried about pursuers after all, and in Medain, he was fleeing before he got involved in a war.”

“What’s his excuse in Jecrass?”

Barnethei was smiling hugely. Everyone liked Colthei. His nickname of Colth the Virgin and all the jokes that got told at his expense by the older adventurers and Mihaela were just the group’s dynamic. In truth, he was probably the Haven’s most popular adventurer with the staff, the young star who had yet to fully shine. He was helpful, positive, and not a pain like the others—only Larra still saw a Bronze-rank rookie to be mothered.

She rolled her eyes, but again, couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking her head.

“Keeping Pisces from jumping into bed with the Arbiter Queen, apparently.”

“What?”

Navien was delighted, and they pestered Larra for details, which she shared. Barnethei was highly skeptical that Pisces had gotten that far, but she was fairly convinced Colth was telling the truth.

“He doesn’t exaggerate that kind of thing. Plus, I had to do the same thing with Deniusth back in the day. Pulling him out of an El [Lady]’s bed before her brother had us all strung up—dead gods. Though Eld was actually worse of the two. No one suspects him, and he was all broad-shouldered [Farmer] charm—”

It was a convivial way, an appropriate way to spend their final day, celebrating Colth’s survival and then seeing a huge river come into view. Barnethei’s spirits were high, despite some of the tribulations getting this far. If Colth could go on a continent-spanning adventure, then it was his turn. And setting up the new inn? Well, it wasn’t hard once you found a spot.

 

——

 

The Explorer’s Haven was an actual building, already made and ready to go. It had a bunch of lovely magical enchantments; they’d been storing it in one of the warehouses.

Like a magical building spell, the idea had been to plop it down. An inn, already made! Well…Barnethei gazed up at the sign as Navien and a few of his staff began hammering the letters into place.

The Explorer’s Haven. But all the magic of the glowing building would soon vanish. It wasn’t nearly as amazing as the Haven; it was about half as big as The Wandering Inn from the outside. Plenty of room to expand; there were doors that would let him put down a new area to customize it as he needed, in theory.

Larracel stood, surveying the spot he’d picked. The only option he had, really.

Barnethei had picked his spot along the big river that came down from the hills in the north. He’d elected to put it against a hill rather than on top; it was a very small hill that wouldn’t have even fit the entire inn if he wanted to put it there, and it gave them shelter from the wind. It also made the inn harder to spot, which he didn’t like, but she’d convinced him to do it.

“One less approach means monsters can’t flank you. I want you to put up walls first, Barnethei. Big ones, and a watchtower. You’ll need security.”

“We’ve got bows, wands, and thick walls already, Larra.”

He protested mildly, watching as Navien began setting up what would be the staff’s quarters, hauling out what seemed like a miniature doll’s house and stepping back as it expanded and grew. Larracel pursed her lips.

“You don’t have to do this. This doesn’t feel like the lucky break I wanted.”

“On the contrary, this is perfect. It might not be much, but we’ll get it going within a week. You just direct everyone you meet to us—and don’t forget to come back after that week!”

That was the plan. The Haven would act as a mobile base. It would move along the New Lands’ outskirts, just outside of the mana drain zone, warning people, acting as a magical attraction and gathering news. Then it would roll towards the Explorer’s Haven, refilling the mana wells or dropping off supplies and collecting coin and their own news.

“It won’t be every week. If we head further south, it might be two; someone said they thought Deni was south. Your well lasts two without you charging it up. I’ll be back in one week for now, but then I’ll range further afield.”

“Deal. I guess…this is it. Thank you, Larra.”

He held out a hand as he stood back, heart pounding, and regarded his new inn. Larra eyed him, then hugged him hard. The short [Wizard] glared up at him.

“[Message] me if there’s trouble, Barnethei. Don’t be stubborn. The Haven can be rebuilt. I’ve done it more times than I can count. Lives can’t.”

He smiled down at her as he made shooing motions.

“Just try to be personable without me, Larra. We’ll be fine.”

He stood with two dozen employees, waving, as the Haven turned, and he felt that flutter of trepidation in his stomach. But then Barnethei rolled up his sleeves.

“Alright, let’s get to work! Are those outhouses ready, Navien? We need to dig the latrines first. Then some scouting things out, walls, and I want our farmlands planted and ready to go! If, by chance, we run into customers, we’ll play it from there, but let’s assume we’ve got time.”

They cheered, and he broke out a bottle of wine that night in high spirits as he took one of their horses to ride around, staring at the local sites. This was better than he’d thought; not only was there a forest across the river, but potential guests would have a good, flat area to spot the inn from. There was some quite promising-looking canyons he could see in the southwest and, if his eyes didn’t deceive him, a veritable field of something-or-other to the north.

The first day of the Explorer’s Haven’s grand opening was excellent. At that time, Barnethei didn’t realize the ground was salted, or that the ‘forest’ was filled with the bats that had attacked his inn. And giant raccoons.

At first, it went very well. He ran into eighteen different groups by the time Larracel came back, and he’d hit Level 43. And she’d made contact with Goisedall.

 

——

 

There were three [Innkeepers] in Izril that mattered. Three whose actions were worth monitoring, who might influence events to come, who had made themselves pieces on the board of the world’s stage.

Erin Solstice, Larracel Delais, and not-Barnethei.

Barnethei Levout. Oh, how he amused Nerrhavia. She kept tabs on his little enterprise purely for amusement’s sake and because he would influence Larracel. She had a month’s worth of his antics she was reading from, starting with the Adventurer Haven’s entry into the New Lands. This was unto a novella for the Immortal Tyrant, far more entertaining than mere fiction.

Nerrhavia sipped from a cup of grape juice as she sat in The Unmarked Carriage, reading several reports on paper—such a nuisance, having to read paper—a smile on her face as she occasionally plucked a date and ate it.

Even for her, the novelty of taste hadn’t worn off. After being a ghost for so long, she savored her new body, a Stitch-woman’s vessel. Not nearly as good as her old body, despite Perril Chandler’s work, and not worth losing ten of her levels for.

However, a delight in many ways. The reports were from her network of people, who in turn had hired [Informants] and set up the beginnings of a spy network. Rudimentary, really, but she had hijacked other, pre-existing groups, added the security and methodology she knew to be superior, and set them to work.

It was quite enjoyable, you see, to be destitute, without empire or armies, and have only a handful of her old followers, rebuilding her strength while no one knew she was here. Rather like…playing a game the second time, only you had almost all your levels and knowledge of the past, and few people even knew you were alive.

The grape juice looked like wine, but Nerrhavia never drank wine while actually working. When she had been a lowly [Clerk] moving her way up in that kingdom she had usurped, she’d observed how it addled the brain, even if the imbibers felt more confident. She preferred sharpness, so she had kept the habit. Unless she had tonics to grant immunity to alcohol, she would go without.

The [Vice Innkeeper]’s entire life was easy to read. A runaway who had been from a poor couple of [Tailors] in a town when the Haven passed by. An [Innkeeper] in time, who had set his parents up with his wealth and become enmeshed in Larracel’s life. Now trying to break free, make his mark—but as perhaps he and she were unconsciously aware, not quite there.

He had levels, but he was a [Vice Innkeeper]. Larracel was the magic; he was the cupholder with dregs of who she was. He was attempting to capitalize on the New Lands, which meant he had basic instincts. No…vision.

Certainly, his little adventures explained the Haven’s absence for the last few months. Nerrhavia turned the page and snorted lightly as she read what had happened to him next. Entirely amusing for her; she enjoyed suffering.

She wondered if he was still alive and placed a little bet, but she couldn’t spend all her time having fun, sadly. Nerrhavia bookmarked that report for reading later.

At this point in time, it was far more pleasant to read of a man like Barnethei than current events, which included the fallout from what Nerrhavia had termed the ‘Palace of Fates incident’.

When she picked up the numerous reports from various [Spies] and [Informants], her smile faded. Because of the things in life Nerrhavia hated, a lack of information or uncertain intelligence was close to the top.

Liscor. The Wandering Inn. Mrsha?

She couldn’t even confirm that third piece, only that she suspected the girl, and Chieftain Rags, had been far more central to the events therein than most people guessed. And Nerrhavia was establishing that based almost entirely on instinct.

She had a bunch of folders of documents she’d organized, because the [Spymasters] she had paid were incompetent, and little crystal chits attached to some documents. She tapped one now, and a recording of the inn played. Someone at a table—the Drowned Man spy? He had a very good view of Mrsha and her little stunt where she intimidated the spies and revealed one of the Calanferian agents in front of the entire inn.

Nerrhavia paused the recording, picked up another image of Mrsha the day before, and glanced at it. Then she overlaid the two girls—before activating two more images, of Chieftain Rags and the odd Goblin [Strategist] who’d appeared on a broadcast of the news.

I require a spymaster capable of filling this role. The fact that Nerrhavia was one nearly unsurpassed didn’t change the fact that she needed one. Nevertheless, Nerrhavia made a single observation that she doubted many others in this world had caught.

“These two children are not the same.”

She touched the thin Mrsha as she compared the first against her. One could not lose that much weight in a day, and their demeanors were subtly different. She wished she had more recordings, or more comprehensive ones that could have delivered smell or their auras for her to see. Alas, magic of this era…she tsked.

“Whereas…this is the same Goblin. Again, different people, but the same Goblin.”

She flicked a finger at the two Ragses. Just like the two Mrshas were different but were the same person, the mannerisms, the way their faces were composed, even how they shifted and moved all read the same to the Immortal Tyrant, who had studied people inside and out for thousands of years.

But how and what? She spoke, irritable.

“Astival, find me every instance of all four. Subtly. Put the Drowned Man on the job.”

“What about the [Informant], ah, Bloody Secrets? You had some praise for her, Great One—”

Astival, her somewhat useful servant, inquired, and if he were not needed now, Nerrhavia would have had him lashed she was in such a bad temper. Her tone was biting.

“That is Fierre val Lischelle Drakle. My praise was for her discretion in selling what information she could without compromising her alliances. The Vampiress will not give away anything useful.”

“Of course, Immortal Tyrant.”

Nerrhavia sat back, putting her cup aside and pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingers. She didn’t like this.

The Palace of Fates. That was a single phrase, snatched from a passing comment from one of the staff in the inn—the Goblin Asgra to Inkpaper the Hobgoblin. She doubted anyone would put the significance she did on a Goblin’s words or read into it on the level Nerrhavia was doing.

It chilled her blood. An experience she did not like. Because it suggested a Skill of a magnitude she herself would acknowledge.

“The Goblin King.”

At this, even Astival looked up from his work, and the rest of the carriage shifted. In the case of the purple-eyed skeleton, with interest. Others, with nerves or simply—confusion.

His appearance is out-of-place. The Goblin Lord and her Skills—that of Earth I glimpsed in the Gnoll’s Skill. Time, then. Time and fate, which is natural, but how can any Skill appear of that magnitude?

Erin Solstice’s inn. The connection…

She’d never run into that particular Legacy Skill—the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Nerrhavia had never needed it, and she suspected little sanctuary could be had in her kingdom that she did not will. However…she employed a number of lines of reason.

Erin Solstice was possessed of knowledge of ghosts, even Gnomes. Her ability to break this system of classes and levels could not be discounted. Mrsha, a Doombearer, doubly so with luck. Yes…she was piecing together an image of the Skill.

“Erin’s Skill. The mnemonic is obvious. [Garden of Sanctuary]. [Palace of Fates]. That is the link. By which means was it enabled? Unclear. Almost worth taking this coach up north, but I have not the time nor inclination at this moment.”

Also—it was dangerous. And she did not enjoy danger or unpredictability, which the inn was at this moment.

If it was not abundantly clear, Nerrhavia hated not knowing what was going on. So her eyes flashed as she lowered her fingers and exhaled.

“The inn continues to exceed even my expectations. First it crashes the world gold economy, now this.”

She had, of course, identified Lyonette du Marquin as the culprit behind that particular incident already. Another fascinating ability—the confidence in the value of gold coins had decreased before the value itself fell.

It would almost be worthwhile to take the inn and those within and make them my loyal servants. There is a wealth of potential in each, despite the time it might take to shape them.

However—she didn’t like the unpredictability, nor the defenders of the inn, like the Dragon, and it would make Erin Solstice an enemy of hers. Later, perhaps. Today, it was merely a headache that Nerrhavia was sorting through as she rode south on her own tasks.

She actually picked up the report on Barnethei’s inn and read it for a few more pages to relax. Then put the report down.

This huge agitation in the Immortal Tyrant did not go unnoticed in her servants. Rarely had they seen her this restless, even when at war with great foes. She would betray nothing, posing and giving the impression she pleased to her courts and enemies. Even if this was a carriage where she was surrounded by her people—

High-level Skills were one thing. Goblin Kings were one thing. Mortemdefieir Titans crawling out of mountains and Dragonlords? All of them were actually events that would make Nerrhavia smile, because they represented opportunities for her.

She’d never tried to make a Goblin King a servant, but Dragonlords and Draconic Warriors would make for excellent champions, even if it took work to ensure they were sufficiently motivated to obedience.

No, what Nerrhavia really didn’t like, what was actually unsettling her and tied into this event, was a feeling she was being…pranked.

Made fun of.

She couldn’t tell if she would be more disturbed if this was genuine or mockery. But either way…Nerrhavia’s lips moved.

“Contract fulfilled.”

Falamizural shivered, and Astival glanced up from his work as Nerrhavia uttered words that had spelled the doom of nations. Yet she hadn’t issued any contract of late. There was only one extant one that would qualify, and it had slipped her mind.

It could not be. And yet…

Was she being told this as a warning? Or was it indeed a kind of mockery from the system of levels and classes, which she believed had a personality, capricious and careful as it was?

She was so suspicious that she’d been thinking it over for the last week in great paranoia, but she had to conclude it was genuine.

Thusly…Nerrhavia spoke.

“So she is dead twice then. Or three times? Twice—always better to suspect an enemy yet lives. It is passingly obvious that one has three lives; four I would have said, as a hidden aspect unveiled herself, until I realized her lack of subterfuge. How? Why?”

Her fingers drummed harder on the armrest of the carriage until those within shifted uncomfortably. A rumbling had begun that felt like they were jolting over stones or uneven terrain repeatedly.

But this was The Unmarked Coach, and it never experienced rough terrain—ever. After a minute, a breathless voice begged.

“I-Immortal Tyrant. Please. Your fingers.”

“Hm? Ah.”

Nerrhavia stopped drumming her fingers, and the rumbling halted. The skeleton stared at her, and her eyes narrowed. She forced her body to cease displaying emotions, then decided to take it at face value.

“So it is done. Let us then operate…hm. Yes. Such a rare chance it may be, as one like unto catching a meteor as it falls into one’s hand. But if this is such a moment, I should be remiss not to take it.”

Then she smiled, and her head rose. Nerrhavia rested her chin against four fingers pressed together and thought. Everyone watched, uncomprehending.

This was the weirdest first day on the job for the skeleton it had ever had, but it was game to listen. Nerrhavia spoke, eyes closed.

“How death has waned my creativity. Nay, I was already lacking it at my end. Suffering. It is so much more difficult without the tools of my old empire.”

The way she said that one word made the Garuda, Falamizural, flinch and begin shaking so badly that the [Lady] put an uncertain hand on her shoulder. Maviola patted the Garuda’s wing-arms; Nerrhavia glanced at the Garuda almost indulgently.

“Fear not, Falamizural. I would not be so crass as to copy your punishment. Nor would it be appropriately severe…”

She sat back, folding her arms, seeming genuinely concerned, as if she couldn’t rise to the occasion. Nerrhavia frowned.

“But how would one…? For a being such as that—yes, this is quite entertaining as a puzzle. One must sew while the thread kisses needle, though.”

She sighed dismally, glancing around as if searching for inspiration. So few tools, such lackluster results…she turned her head as if embarrassed to even ask.

“Astival. Do you have any particular sexual fetishes of a depraved nature?”

Almost hopefully, the Immortal Tyrant turned to him, and everyone’s head snaked around to the man. The Puppetmaster General of the Immortal Tyrant’s legions, Astival, one of her most loyal servants to ever live—hesitated one second.

Which went to show how much he didn’t want to answer the question. Then he replied with a deep bow.

“None so depraved as to merit note, Great One.”

“Any at all?”

“…Exceptionally large bosoms, Your Immortal Majesty.”

Falamizural’s beak opened, but Nerrhavia waved it off.

“I feared as much. It would be passingly clichéd of me, anyways.”

Then she stopped and glanced back at Astival. Much like someone who knew this didn’t matter, but had to indulge her curiosity, she gestured with her hands.

“As so?”

His face was straight, and he stared out the window. Nerrhavia spread her hands.

“No?”

Her hands kept moving apart until the skeleton’s jaw dropped and Astival spoke.

“Around there, Great One. Naturally produced, not sewn or enhanced.”

“I see. I believe I recalled seeing that once.”

Nerrhavia’s face didn’t move. Everyone else in the carriage—including Karsaeu—was staring at Astival, who wore a faint smile on his face. The Immortal Tyrant thought about it.

“That could work. But no, no—we must elevate this. Alas.”

She snapped her fingers, and a bright red quill tipped with black ink appeared in her hands. The black stain of ink flitted across the air, which writhed as if it were being stained by original sin itself. Everyone, including Astival, leaned back. Nerrhavia murmured as she dictated.

“To the wretched foe…besmirched of her nature, last of the three…who has taken her own life upon my will and command in full recognition of her worthless life…”

She glanced up and spoke almost defensively.

“This is, of course, written to her level of understanding and that I am too pressed to compose a proper missive.”

No one spoke. Nerrhavia went back to writing.

“…my list of titles here, [Fill Pertinent Information]…shall throw themselves into my service and be protected, though thou are unworthy. Thy service shall be one of complete obedience with neither malice nor treachery, Djinni clause of loyalty, [Again, Again, and Ever Again], [Fill Pertinent Information]…the first of three penances.”

Three was very appropriate. That gave her plenty of breathing room. After some thought, Nerrhavia tasted the tip of her quill, and smiled at its flavor, before writing.

“—such as the marriage to my servant, Astival, and the proper adherence to his personal standard of bodily beauty. Thou shalt kneel and beg when this is the last scrap of hope before the end, last of the Three-in-One.”

Then she decided to sign the document as Astival, her ever-loyal general of horrors, gave Nerrhavia a very uneasy look as he finally realized to whom she was sending this contract.

Nerrhavia wrote her name with a flourish, flicked her fingers, and sent the contract out. She sat back and chuckled to herself.

“Great One, you have forced even Dragonlords to kneel at your feet, and bound [Archmages] to your will like dolls dancing upon a child’s string. But is that likely to succeed? Even for your might…that one?”

Astival breathed. Nerrhavia smiled indulgently at him.

“It is unlikely, but it appears one such offer was fulfilled in some spirit. I give it no more odds than if I were to put out my hand and a cat fall into it from the sky.”

She put her hand out to demonstrate, and everyone stared at it—even Karsaeu gazed up. Nerrhavia murmured.

“Not inconceivable. If that hour should come, Astival, I have laid a plan, as ever. I did this not because I wish it or even deem it likely; I owe that one, of all, a true grudge. However—”

Her lips curved upwards.

“It shall be endlessly amusing if it is accepted. You may get your wish.”

The Puppetmaster Sadivictus stared at the Immortal Tyrant with a look of mingled respect, adoration, and horror, which, if you really got down to it, was typical of all her time ruling. He bowed slightly. Nerrhavia decided that was enough of current events.

Back to business.

 

——

 

“The New Lands. Puppetmaster Sadivictus Astival, amuse me. What are the New Lands, in your mind?”

Three servants sat with her at any given moment. There were others whom Nerrhavia would acknowledge when they had value, other ghosts saved from the Lands of the Dead. But only three were principal pieces.

Corregrione, the [Traveller] who had once visited her lands.

Astival, her ever-loyal [Puppetmaster Sadivictus].

Falamizural, [She Who Summons Victory], an old foe humbled.

Each one useful. Each one substandard to what she required, and they knew it. Astival had served her to the end, but he hadn’t ever been more than a Level 55 [Sadivictus]. A term from her time, that. Language she had invented and the system of levels had accepted—‘[General]’ was a good equivalent, but his role encompassed more positions such as steward of lands, royal attendant, and so on. Loyalty was Astival’s one asset, and now he’d lost ten levels.

Corregrione was far better, as was Falamizural—but neither one had loyalty. Falamizural was in theory a powerful Garuda who had been a good foe, but she was broken now. She flinched even when Nerrhavia’s eyes passed over her, and Corregrione’s dedication was purely out of convenience.

Still, they were her tools, so Astival sat up and bowed. They were dancing attendance to her in the coach, and each one was waiting for her next command. Though now and then, they did stare at Astival and the skeleton was still trying to measure out something with his hands, clearly wondering if a body could support that much mass. Astival ignored the looks as he pondered.

“The New Lands…a trap, Great One?”

“Banal. Oh, you amuse me, Astival. I can just hear my courts echoing the sentiment now. A trap. From the Archmage Kishkeria to the world of non-Gnolls?”

“That is all my fragile insight can elucidate, Tyrant.”

A deeper bow until he almost put his head on the table. The skeleton, lady, and slime sitting across from him stared at the [General], then Nerrhavia. She didn’t acknowledge them, but knew they were listening. Nerrhavia balanced all things around her in her calculus.

“That implies the last act of some of the greatest Gnolls—a trio—was to spitefully make these New Lands as miserable as possible for the living. The living, whom they wished to warn and arm against the dead gods. No. But then, you have no knowledge of minerals. No understanding of the sea. Nor magic. You are such a limited man, Astival.”

The Stitch-man knelt before her, beaming at all the insults.

“I am merely the blade to cut as you direct, Tyrant. I regret I have no greater function, but a tool knows what it is.”

She pursed her lips and turned her head to the skeleton then, Toren.

“So you see. He reached Level 55 with that mindset. Ambition may have let him rise to 60, for you were ambitious, Astival. But he never had the sheer desire that set him apart in ways that would make him invaluable to me. Wise, for many such I have had to slay when they desired my throne. Pitiful, for I expect more. It is my role, though, to use him well. Because he knows I shall, he serves unto death and past it.”

Toren’s head tilted, and his jaw opened and closed, but the skeleton made no sound. She was not surprised; he had not deigned to speak to her the entire time he was in the Necromancer’s castle. She had seen him often, and the skeleton was as familiar to her as few others by sheer proximity.

He was, of course, worth the trip and wait to find him, though she truly had not anticipated the shop coming into play again. A delightful error. The game was not fun without such randomness.

“Falamizural. Do you know why I took the skeleton into my service?”

The Garuda flinched. She spoke huskily, hating Nerrhavia as she stared at her feet and shook like a fly trapped in a web.

“Because he—and that other one, the lady—can level. They are masterful creations of [Necromancers]. Few would serve you, and if I guess, you think he has this character you value in so many.”

Nerrhavia sighed and put down her papers. She pinched at the bridge of her nose.

“Betimes my head aches. You could have saved your breath, then, to speak what need not even be mentioned.”

Banal. Obvious. She sighed louder, then explained.

“An anecdote so you understand. This skeleton has a voice.”

Everyone turned to look at Toren, and he fidgeted. The Healing Slime was in his chest, and he cared for the little thing. Which was also amusing. Nerrhavia’s eyes flickered over the slime, and it trembled; Toren held his hands protectively over his ribs. He seemed to be questioning his decision to serve her, which was also predicted. Loyalty in a valuable piece. She whispered.

“He was given a voice by the Necromancer of Terandria. Not once in the months I was in his company, not before Belavierr nor myself, did the skeleton deign to speak. To him, we are, all of us, unworthy. He only spoke once, in a moment that was worthy of his voice. That is character, Astival.”

“Would you wish him to speak, Great One?”

Astival eyed Toren, and Nerrhavia lifted a finger.

“If I wish it, he shall sing. If I wish it, it be done. To work.”

She broke off her musings and picked up a second report, reading it while speaking. Her eyes flicked up, and Toren’s purple gaze was confused.

The last important [Innkeeper] was a dead man. His bones sat there, but no one had ever asked who he was.

Until Nerrhavia, of course.

 

——

 

It was not arduous to find someone who knew the answers he sought. Corregrione the Traveller walked into Liscor and spoke. First to a Gnoll he bought a hamburger from, then to the Silverfang’s camps in the third district—yurt huts rather than buildings—then to a Drake who directed him to the Adventurer’s Guild only for the [Guildmaster] to inform him that Tekshia Shivertail was dead, and onto a street of pubs where some old Drakes and Gnolls sat, an empty seat among them.

They were old and sad—but they had seen friends and family go and not broken with it, and he was old too. And good at listening. Walking and talking was not hard for him. Corregrione had an easy way about him and drew people into conversation as his ears flicked up and he sipped a cup of tea.

“Hmm. This is fine tea, traveller. What’s that you wanted to ask?”

“The [Innkeeper].”

A Drake with scars who’d served in Liscor’s original army before retiring blinked a few times, and one of the female Drakes snapped trembling fingers.

“Oh, him. Not the new one. Anyone remember the name?”

“B…B…no. When did he die?”

“Must have been over ten years back. Poor man. The Necromancer—”

“Ah.”

Everyone fell silent, and Corregrione peered over his cup. The rain was falling on an awning overhead, and he loved the patter of sound, the heat from the liquid running down his throat.

“A tragedy. I heard of the siege, of course.”

He had studied the history of this world’s present era. It was a delight to him, learning all that had passed. A delight, a heartache…so different. This is what he was good at, of course, travelling, understanding. He was relieved Nerrhavia gave him tasks so in line with what he did.

He was her greatest spy because he was no spy. Just someone who asked questions. The Drakes and Gnolls conferred, then painted the picture he wrote down for her. Why it mattered, Corregrione didn’t know, but Nerrhavia did. Who you had been—mattered.

“I knew him. A big man. He came striding into Liscor one day, asking for some Shield Spider glue because he wanted to see if it was better than nails. Then announced he was building an inn in a village—that’s where it was, you know. Not all the way in the corner of the Floodplains. They were rebuilding after the First Antinium Wars, weren’t they?”

“Yes, it was smashed—but back then, people were more willing to live outside the walls. Wasn’t he a Gold-rank adventurer?”

Corregrione’s ears perked up, but the female Drake shook her head vigorously.

“No, no! Don’t tell lies—he was just—good at things.”

“Good at things?”

The [Traveller] blinked, and she clarified.

“Building, fighting, dancing—just talented. You know, someone who can pick up a task in a few minutes and do it better than most? A big man with a big personality. I think he even knew magic; he did some rune writing, you know.”

“Fascinating. Much like the [Magical Innkeeper] now, then?”

The Drake veteran chuckled.

“Far less obnoxious. He ran his inn, paid his taxes, and that was all there was to it. A Human before the Crazy Human. How did you know of him, perchance?”

Corregrione lifted his wet travelling hat.

“I had heard it from a relative who came here way back, but he thought The Wandering Inn was run by the man’s daughter. Not the same?”

“Oh, no. He died, poor man. The Necromancer’s plagues ran through the area, and…well, the entire village was condemned. Until the Human—the Crazy Human, excuse me, the new girl—came along, no one went there.”

The group quieted down and grew somber. Corregrione asked, but it wasn’t a very interesting story. Plague had come before the Necromancer’s armies advanced.

“He refused to leave the inn. I think he was taking care of some people too sick to move; they wouldn’t have been let through the gates. Poor fellow.”

“So I see, yes. Did he have any relatives?”

The Gnoll was jotting down notes, and he paused, quill raised, as they gazed at each other.

“None I knew of. But as I say, few people still around would have known him too well.”

Corregrione nodded. He closed the book, thanked them for their time, and exchanged some gossip. He didn’t know what to make of it. A man who’d been good with his hands, a minor spellcaster…why did it matter? Well, the man had become a skeleton. And it seemed that warranted Nerrhavia investigating his background.

The Gnoll was watching some Antinium march past him when he received orders. He read from the enchanted notebook and grunted. He had to catch up to her, far south. At least she would be making several stops, but he had a long way to travel.

So he went—after one small detour. It was harder to get to the hill a roughly forty-minute walk outside of Liscor, especially because it was raining and there were no bridges there. The walk wasn’t hard—he could take it at a stroll, even over water. Getting there unnoticed…

It was all rubble and debris. He had to dig down to find what she wanted, tossing stones aside, sighing as the water covered the pit, but then he found what it was and brought it with him.

A piece of the inn’s foundation, a stone brick that had been part of the inn. As large a piece of wood as he could find. She’d asked him for that cupboard piece if it were around, but there was no chance of finding that in this decayed spot.

He wondered what it was for.

 

——

 

Toren, Job-Hunter.

Toren the Vengeful One.

Toren, Employee #1 of Cormeng’s Grand Emporium of Antiques and Pawnshop.

In Service to the Immortal Tyrant: Toren.

 

Look, he wasn’t stupid. He knew that working for Nerrhavia was risky. She was Bad News. She was BAD NEWS. She was, in fact, BAD NEWS, and that might be underselling it a bit.

—However, after Doren, he was all broken up inside. He didn’t know what to do, and there were perks to working for an Immortal Tyrant. For one thing, she was smart.

Unlike Doren, she knew exactly what she wanted, and she was actually very reasonable and adaptable. She didn’t say, ‘Toren, go shovel snow’ with vague instructions. Nor did she give him overly-wordy diatribes he had to laboriously carry out. Short, sweet, efficient.

And very practical! Nerrhavia was building up forces. Materials, both in persons and resources, so her first job to Toren, ironically, was to become a recruiter and do a sort of inverse loop of his original trip with Maviola.

Hey, hey! My friend! How are you doing?

He actually smiled when he caught up to the enterprising band of seventy-some undead, and the Skeleton Lich’s jaw dropped when he saw Toren hop out of a carriage. They stopped moving forwards on the attack, and the two nodded at each other.

The Lich had gotten busy after Toren had met him. He’d absorbed a bunch of Eater Goats into the pack—at cost since they’d taken down some of his undead—and had been making a push into Gargoyle territory for some prime undead Ghouls. Toren sidled over, indicating the carriage.

He had a job opportunity here. It didn’t pay well, but heh, you know, what did in this economy? But the boss was quite good at what they all valued—y’know, killing things. You’d get as many corpses as you could kill, no unpaid leave, and fascinating vistas.

The Skeleton Lich considered the offer, floating off the ground, eyes glowing bright blue, and lifted the remains of a staff. It made a curious gesture at the carriage.

Toren vouching for the job meant a lot, really. The employer, though…living things. It wasn’t discrimination! Just—you know—they had a mandate, and not killing everything living was a hard sell to the team.

Toren convinced the Lich to approach the carriage alone, and the door swung open a second. A very amused Immortal Tyrant flicked a date at the Lich, who recoiled, as Astival got out. Toren expected that to go bad—but then the wave of death magic made his eye flames turn into a miniature inferno.

He and the Lich recoiled, and then the undead behind them knelt instantly. The [Puppetmaster Sadivictus]’s face seemed to become skeletal, suddenly, and far more handsome—Toren gazed at the Immortal Tyrant, who spoke in a voice in their heads.

<SERVE ME AND I SHALL LET YOU WITNESS DEATH OF WHICH EVEN THE UNDEAD DO NOT DREAM OF.>

She…was no [Necromancer], but she had authority over death. The Lich floated backwards, then looked at Toren. It knelt, and Toren let out a metaphorical breath.

Sometimes, it was nice working for a cool boss.

 

——

 

For the first few days, Nerrhavia had the Unmarked Coach stop at undead spots where he’d been trying to find work, gathering up some of the undead she wanted. She was actually very picky.

“No Crypt Lords. Mark down where this Crypt King drew its den. That it has advanced into a full Command is paltry significance.”

No Crypt Lords? Those were common leadership-type undead. Toren tilted his head, and she seemed to know what he was saying. Perhaps it was her time as a ghost, perhaps it was just—her. Falamizural and Astival couldn’t understand him. Nerrhavia smiled, amused.

“They are insubordinate, not half as intelligent as I desire, and their greater forms even more so. Primarily, however…I simply detest their appearance and behavior.”

The lumbering Crypt Lords were pretty ungainly, come to think of it, and they liked that hodgepodge look you got from stuffing a bunch of eyeballs into one spot. Toren thought this was a great point; they were always trying to push other undead around. Even back in the dungeon, they’d been always trying to usurp his authority Skills.

“The Lich—hah!—the Skeleton Magus and its ilk will do. Find me more of that sort.”

Toren could do that. He’d interviewed with almost every major undead band in the area, and by the time a day had passed, the Unmarked Coach had taken him to most of them. It wasn’t a huge haul for Nerrhavia; barely three hundred undead, but she had a few decent ‘sub-lieutenants’.

“One Skeleton Magus, a Draugr, and a pair of Bone Horrors.”

“Trash, Great One.”

Astival was resigned as Toren glared at him. He hadn’t done more than just step out and show off! Nerrhavia’s lips quirked upwards.

“Trash is all one can hope for in a world built on the ruins of great empire such as this, Astival. Undead are delightfully simple to upgrade. Have them follow the prescribed route to my rendezvous, Toren. There they shall wait. Doubtless, we shall lose them upon the first engagement, but those that absorb enough death magic shall become potent weapons. Better we did not find a Skeleton Giant; transporting it would be too difficult.”

Toren was nodding eagerly; he was using his [Command Lesser Undead] Skill to coordinate with the others. The stronger undead wouldn’t be under his authority normally, but because they’d agreed to work for Nerrhavia, he could reach out, which was a fascinating thing he hadn’t thought of.

But he…stopped when he heard that comment.

The first engagement? Well, obviously he knew the undead were going to fight. You didn’t have much use for them outside of that. But did that mean the Skeleton Lich was going to die?

He liked that guy—well, he wasn’t sure the Lich was a guy, but he had great vibes. He’d been first to sign up, and Toren had vouched for him because he’d thought this was a good gig.

Be destroyed? Did that mean he and Maviola were going to be fighting too?

Nerrhavia read the skeleton’s uncertainty and seemed amused.

“Not you, nor the girl. Lesser undead are disposable, and every army needs footsoldiers. How amusing. The Skeleton Magus you care for?”

Toren shut his jaw. He didn’t know if it was a bad thing that she knew that. He was worried. It wasn’t like he knew the Lich. The Lich didn’t even have the power to level or a personality like the Revenant undead. Just…it felt bad.

He was afraid of Nerrhavia, though, and what she might do with the information. But to his astonishment, her smile widened.

As she had been in life, so again. Her skin was dusky bronze, faint stitching on pristine cloth. Her eyes were red, deepening to black, like holes cut in the world, and even sitting in the carriage, it felt like she were upon a throne, peering down at him. Yet she was so…

The Immortal Tyrant spoke.

“You do not understand what it is to serve me, skeleton. Witness. Karsaeu, return to the Lich.”

“What? We just—”

Nerrhavia lifted a finger, and the Djinni’s voice, audible throughout the carriage that was her body, cut off. The coach swerved, and Toren sat there, sweating dead mana as he waited.

 

——

 

The Lich was marching its undead by cover of nightfall to avoid detection, a long, long route that would take them towards the New Lands of Izril, mostly because the ‘rendezvous’ point was there. It stopped, confused, when the coach pulled back up.

New orders? The window rolled down, and it saw Toren staring at it, nervous, and the Lich felt a moment of…uncertainty.

Why was Toren afraid? It saw the Immortal Tyrant glance at him. She sipped from a cup and spoke.

“Astival.”

A hand pointed out the window, and the [Puppetmaster Sadivictus] spoke.

“Her Majesty’s Will: [Promote the Pawn].”

The Lich jerked, stumbled backwards, and Toren’s jaw dropped as black shadows billowed up around it. Nerrhavia watched, highly amused, then murmured.

“A scepter, if we have one. One of the more powerful staves, if not.”

Falamizural fumbled around, then tossed a staff out—a bony hand caught it in the swirling shadows, and Toren’s jaw dropped off his face. Maviola was clapping her hands as a pair of blue, burning flames shone brighter.

The Demius Warlock Bonelord was twice as big as the spindly Lich it had been, and it raised the new magic staff as its face—which was so much cooler than before, no longer a skull but a kind of face unto itself, made of bone, craggly like wrinkles down to a handsome chin—burst into a huge, beaming grin. Spell-circles appeared around it as it raised a hand, conjuring miniature Death Familiars, which swooped around it.

Whoa. The rest of the undead horde was as stunned as Toren. Nerrhavia spoke.

“Onwards. Back to Manus.”

The carriage began moving, and the Warlock Bonelord stood there, hesitating. It gazed after the coach and then around.

…What just happened?

 

——

 

“So you see. That which you value, I shall take note of. Whatever image you have of the Tyrant, know this: I am no fool. That which my servants value is part of my calculation.”

She’d done it for him, he realized. Like a—a perk. He’d been worried about his buddy, Lich, and so she’d had Astival upgrade the undead.

…He had no idea you could even do that. But as Toren quickly realized, any trick and technique you could dream of, like knowing you could toss an enchanted staff at an undead upgrading itself to give it more power—Nerrhavia knew them all..

And she wanted an army, oh yes. He had gotten her foot soldiers and saw the next part of the plan. She even told him to his face.

“To make war, I require an army. The army I have, dead and living. More shall come. There are three qualities by which any force shall be victorious. None of which I prefer to fill; I am no warrior, nor do I wish to lead armies.”

Healing Slime was nibbling on some dry flowers as Toren listened. Okay. He could count to three. Nerrhavia indicated Astival at her side.

“One I have. The General. Next, The Champion. Lastly—”

She smiled.

“The Strategist. You need only help me secure one of them.”

He felt like this was a good point to laugh ominously. She stared at him as his jaw opened and closed silently, until he stopped.

“Such laughter is not forced.”

Oh. Right. Sorry about that. Toren sat back and patted Healing Slime as it burped. Nerrhavia didn’t seem to mind. Very accommodating for an Immortal Tyrant, really. Maviola was delighted by all this and listened raptly as Nerrhavia turned back to her.

“I shall test your ability to perform as a living, breathing woman when we reach the city, girl. If you detest the living, then you are a fool. Your mother yet lives.”

“But she’s special, Nerrhavia! Why do I have to be nice to them?”

Nerrhavia gave Maviola a look of impatience, and Maviola squeaked.

“Your Majesty.”

In reply, the Immortal Tyrant turned to Falamizural. The Garuda spoke, pale.

“I will not be that champion you wish, Nerrhavia. I—I yet resist you there.”

Nerrhavia chuckled.

“Your resistance does amuse me. Mostly that you call it that. I have no need of a failed champion such as you.”

Falamizural bristled, and Nerrhavia indicated Maviola.

“This child is a monster in the making. You see her contempt for the living?”

“I do. She is nothing like the honored dead and has only that hatred which they must rise above. A perfect weapon for your armies.”

The Garuda seemed troubled by Maviola. Nerrhavia flicked a finger as Maviola glowered at Falamizural.

“Agreed. So I render her unto your care. You are to raise, train, and educate her. Create out of her that weapon to oppose my ideals. I swear by the bones of my palace that they might break and cast the entire structure asunder into the chasm of the earth that I shall not interfere in any way.”

“What?”

“What?”

Maviola and Falamizural both sat up and screeched, and Nerrhavia snorted.

“She needs an instructor better than Belavierr or the Necromancer. Friends though we art…she is a terrible mother. I say this without having even met her first daughter. Go, raise this child in however you scheme, Falamizural. It serves. Oh—”

She lifted a hand, and the two fell silent, unable to speak. Nerrhavia’s eyes swung to Maviola.

“—And you, child, think of a new name. Maviola befits you not. You merely wear a woman’s flesh.”

“It’s my name! You can’t—”

Nerrhavia’s finger flicked, and Maviola fell silent.

“One does not rise upon a name so storied. Regardless of the body you took. It would be one thing if you had her soul and were comixed and mingled. I have researched it; the [Innkeeper] told me she was a woman of stories that would have thrown herself at my Immortal Empire like a flame to burn away the darkness. In my time, every great foe, every ally and servant of note, was inscribed upon a book. No one in my empire was permitted to bear the name in any form thereafter. You shall be your own story. Now, enough. Sleep is a wearisome companion in life.”

She sat back and closed her eyes, and Toren turned to Maviola, who looked horrified. But also…she glanced at Nerrhavia, then sulked, but seemed to be thinking.

Nerrhavia seemed like someone Maviola actually admired. Which was a first for employers. Toren sat back, as the carriage moved on, and then wondered…

Why Manus?

 

——

 

He had a dream of dying in his inn.

Then waking up in a dark cave without lungs, without body nor flesh, and screaming. One endless scream of rage as a piece of him tore away and lines of magic meshed with that voice.

That dreadful voice echoing up from his very being, telling him to slay the living. To destroy—

He forgot, even as his bones reassembled, and the young [Necromancer] danced in place, uttering commands, not knowing fully what he’d done.

Then—the dreaming Toren realized he was not that man.

Just an echo.

When he woke from the vision with a jerk, he saw one of Nerrhavia’s eyes had opened, and she was gazing at him.

“Yes. That is what you are.”

The skeleton sat there. Not the [Innkeeper]. Not his ghost.

Just death and fragments of dust.

 

——

 

You had to understand: Toren had no context for any of this. So he was sure this meant a lot to other people, but he had no clue what was going on. Nerrhavia did.

When they reached Manus, they did not go inside the City of War through the gates. Mostly because they were a bunch of ghosts—one of whom was the Immortal Tyrant—a skeleton, a dead [Lady], and a slime.

Manus had sharp gatekeepers, too, but Nerrhavia had a plan. Toren was realizing that she was Miss Plans. Sometimes, though, she didn’t even have it all figured out; she just knew there were levers to pull, and if they didn’t work quite right, she made them function.

Case in point: Corregrione had returned by now, having caught up to the Unmarked Coach. Nerrhavia sat in it, hidden down the road from Manus, breakfasting with Maviola as she gave orders.

“Karsaeu, you and Corregrione shall locate a way into the city. Approach smugglers or rogues and inform them I require entry.”

They were bordering the Hivelands, and Toren could see the desolate wastelands begin to the northwest. The Djinni protested.

“No fucking way. I’ve had enough! My contract specifically says I don’t have to do this kind of thing.”

“And I should care…?”

Toren learned that it didn’t matter if you didn’t word a Djinni’s wishes just right. Not if the Djinni was so scared she’d do whatever you wanted. Corregrione just grinned.

“Your Majesty, such groups always require signs of one’s status…”

“The Unmarked Coach shall do. Karsaeu doubtless has such items. Find the most successful group and bring them here.”

And that was that. They stepped out of the coach, admiring the fortifications of towers and stone, walls meant to hold off the Black Tide the third time a war should break out. Layers and layers of defenses, like cliffs trying to hold back a sea of bodies they knew would soon come.

That’d be cool to see. I hope they get on with it before I die.

Manus was the northernmost Drake city here where the Black Tide had stopped. Every city they’d passed had reinforced walls, even the villages having a fortress-like design.

It didn’t look super-rich, but he saw trainees practicing fighting in huge, cleared fields outside the walls and thought this place was neat. Old Toren would have loved all the fighting and whatnot.

New Toren was buffing his Relics. Nerrhavia had said to get them ready. He put them on as Maviola bounced in her seat.

“You shall remain in here, child. You have no decorum—but I shall see how you fare in the city. Watch and observe.”

“Don’t listen to her. I mean, aside from her orders. Watch those who appear and judge their actions along with their words.”

Falamizural instantly tried to correct Maviola, who glared at the Garuda.

“You’re not my real mother! What are we going to do, Queen Nerrhavia?”

The Garuda was doing her best. Toren nudged Maviola, and she turned.

“I’m sorry for saying that. Nyeh!”

She stuck out her tongue at Falamizural, who gave Toren a surprised look as he poked Maviola hard. He sort of liked the sad Garuda. She had an awesome class. He was almost done buffing his boots as Healing Slime helped by acting as a towel when the group appeared.

Three Gnolls, eight Drakes, all of them high-level. They didn’t dress like, well, [Rogues] or [Smugglers], but that was who they were.

In fact, two of them had that military back-stiffness that Toren equated to [Soldiers], even former ones. Their leader was a Drake with knife-scars on his cheeks, and a fur coat, who folded his arms. He was backed up by underlings, all armed.

Single side-arms—swords, mostly. A few had daggers, and Astival murmured.

“Level 30 for three, Great One. That one is approaching Level 40…they must not be allowed more weapons than a side-arm. Shall I guard you from harm?”

“Merely stand, Astival. Toren.”

He emerged with his illusion spell on, and they saw what seemed like three Drakes, one with purple eyes and impressive Relic-class gear on, the next gaunt and perfectly erect, standing and bowing. The last was Nerrhavia, illusions or not.

Corregrione fell in with them, a smiling old Gnoll, and Karsaeu hid behind her coach as one of the Drakes in charge coughed.

“We’re able to get you access to the City of War. I’m Shadowmajor Vrilt of the Dark Veteran’s Alliance, and this is Undercaptain Goisa, who heads her Crime Company.”

Oh, so it was two major groups. Toren saw one of the two military-type Drakes throw a salute. Nerrhavia was entirely amused.

“This was entirely worth the jaunt for amusement’s sake alone. So this is how Manus ‘allows’ its criminality? Doubtless, you two are loyal to the City of War. Do you report to an officer privately or is it public knowledge?”

Every eye swung to the two gang leaders, and they froze up. Vrilt snapped back, eyes flashing.

“You might have the vouching of the north’s top gangs, but entering Manus isn’t cheap or easy! Nor do we report to High Command.”

He injected such scorn into the words that Nerrhavia tilted her head.

“Ah, not you, then. Merely pained loss of the discarded. She is a [Soldier] still, though.”

She indicated the Undercaptain as Vrilt’s eyes swung towards the other leader.

“She’s bluffing. Who is this Drake?”

Goisa tried to laugh it off, but the air went deathly silent. Toren didn’t reach for his sword; he’d been told to stand here and look good.

The criminals stepped away. When they came back…there were more of them, and Goisa was missing. Toren didn’t sense death on anyone, but he felt like something significant had occurred.

Vrilt was certainly unnerved. He licked his lips with a long tongue, like a snake, as he spoke. He began introducing more of Manus’ gang leaders, who all stood there like lambs before the Landshark.

They knew what she was, but not who. Nerrhavia cut him off.

“I require entry and exit from Manus. You shall escort myself and those of my choosing through the gates.”

She had that way of speaking that said this was how it would happen, and Toren saw one of the other gang leaders try to say, ‘that’ll cost you’ or something to that effect. But he couldn’t actually make the words come out.

There was a pressure behind Nerrhavia’s eyes. Her amusement had grown into impatience. She swept her eyes over the Drakes and Gnolls, and some of them reached for their blades. Or wanted to.

They glanced at Astival, then Toren. The Unmarked Coach, where Falamizural sat. Then even Corregrione…and all of them were radiating danger. Toren was the lowest-level of them, and he was carrying over ten Relics.

Reach for your sword. Try. The thought of cutting Nerrhavia made your mind spasm. One of the [Bodyguards] dropped, biting their tongue and blood oozing from between their teeth.

“Well?”

The Immortal Tyrant’s words forced a response from Vrilt. He breathed hard.

“Wh-why would we help you? We don’t know who you are. Anything you do falls on us. There’s no reward for this…”

Her chin tilted up. Nerrhavia smiled like a dangling noose, inviting someone to come forwards and drop.

“I am the monster who lurks outside your walls, Drake. When I appear, you do what is desired, then cower and pretend the walls stand. Pray that I require only little of you.”

“—And if you come back? Do we—how many times do we just cower in front of you?”

Another Drake murmured. She was an older woman trying to meet Nerrhavia’s eyes. Her head kept jerking away, flinching.

“You continue to oblige me. What else can one do?”

The question seemed to annoy Nerrhavia. All the patience she had for Toren was not for this group. When they continued to glance at each other, clearly unsure if they wanted to help this dangerous woman…her eyes flashed.

“A reminder.”

They stepped back, reaching for their blades, and halted. Astival had torn his sword free from his scabbard with his left hand. His other hand had come up—and they had frozen. Hands copying him.

He wore his sword on his right, slightly behind where most swords were placed—thus, the majority of the criminals had plucked empty air when they copied him, even if they were left-handed. Each one was copying the [Puppetmaster Sadivictus]—then they tore back and realized he was now armed and they were not.

“Astival. I informed you I required none of your aid. Kneel.”

He knelt at once, thrusting his blade into the ground, head bowed. Nerrhavia seemed annoyed by the interruption, and Toren stood there, arms folded. He still had no clue what was going on, but he was pretty sure something horrible was about to happen.

So were they. The Drakes and Gnolls, Manus’ top underworld criminals, moved back as she walked through them, peering from face to face. The Immortal Tyrant was searching for something, inspecting both the leaders and bodyguards alike.

A reminder…she settled on one of the original Drakes, whom Toren had picked out for his military stance. He had a hand on a sword hilt, despite having been outplayed by Astival. Was he the one close to Level 40? He seemed less affected by Nerrhavia’s overwhelming authority, but more aware he was outmatched despite that.

He had a weird scar across each cheek that seemed too symmetrical to have been done in battle, unless someone had a very weird and ineffectual blade. Nerrhavia peered at him, pursing her lips.

“Hm. You. Yes, Astival, you are a blunt tool from my empire, not subtle enough by far. You are much more useful in war and waste my time in such moments as these.”

“As you say, Tyrant.”

He spoke to the earth, shivering, and Nerrhavia tapped the Drake on the chest. He recoiled.

“I—”

“This one will be my new bodyguard. You shall serve me until such time as I release you; abandon your city. I leave you one hour to pack all that belongs to you and to say your goodbyes. Rejoice, for you enter the service of the legends. Weep, for you shall never again know normalcy.”

His mouth opened, and the others stared at Nerrhavia. This wasn’t the same job pitch she’d given Toren, and he tilted his head.

He was waiting for the Drake to say, ‘up yours’, though he’d never actually figured out what was going up or where—it was an Erin saying. However, Nerrhavia’s authority was like a hand plucking the Drake up. A vast giant of shadows picking up a piece that interested her.

“I—I don’t w—we’re just criminals here. If we do as you say…”

He was pleading with her, no, Vrilt was. They were drawing around the Drake protectively, like hens trying to guard a chick marked for culling. The man himself trembled as Nerrhavia smiled cruelly now.

“You have offended me. Be silent or I shall choose another, and the rest of you hold less value than him. Your name?”

They backed away from the Drake, and he replied, voice raspy.

“Kalnis Felscale. [Disgraced Veteran]. I—don’t wish to serve you, whomever you are, Miss. You might be able to compel me, but I don’t wish it.”

She didn’t need his class. Nor did she push her authority onto the Drake. Oh. Toren realized why he felt so…strange. So uneasy.

She wasn’t forcing Kalnis with sheer power to kneel, like a [King] might. There was something else that was scaring these people spitless. It was like…

…Erin…

The skeleton’s eyes blazed as he watched Nerrhavia smiling. In actual pleasure. She didn’t know Kalnis. They had just met. But he was terrified she could make him do exactly what she wanted.

She knew she could. She lifted a hand, and he stepped back, turning away to run.

Run, run and never look back! Toren almost shouted at him, and Nerrhavia’s eyes flicked to the skeleton.

“He will, though. They always look back. Drake. [Your Desperate Wish, Granted].”

Her hand glowed, and she plucked something out of the air. With the power of the [Immortal Tyrant]. One of the highest-level beings to ever walk this world.

She had bested the Blighted King in his own Skills. She had made pacts with Belavierr. Her corpse of an empire had endured until now…Toren saw the running Drake slow as he heard her.

Don’t.

He looked back.

 

——

 

What did she pull out of the air? Toren craned his head, but he couldn’t see it. Astival was peeking, too, with a look of true, rapt wonder on his face. Glorying in her. Nerrhavia was speaking.

“One hour. The way it is done is thusly: thou shalt crawl, and with each hand of ground you crawl across, kiss my shadow. Not my feet, for thou are unworthy. Then rise. No more oaths need be said. We are past words.”

It sounded pretty egregious to Toren, but the Drake, Kalnis, didn’t hesitate. He just took the object she handed to him, got to his hands and knees, and kissed the ground, crawling towards her.

The gangs of Manus were standing like terrified children as they watched him break ranks with his city, his home, and his gang. Nerrhavia clicked her tongue at them.

“I shall enter the city now. Toren, Maviola, Astival, Falamizural, with me. Kalnis in an hour’s time. Seek us out.”

“Yes, uh—how should I address…?”

“My name shall be rendered unto you later. Astival shall train you a moment. Go.”

He got up, stood there, and then marched towards Manus, not even glancing at his companions. They fled towards the gates, and Nerrhavia turned.

“Such a waste of time.”

“Yet another servant has been gained, Tyrant. Does he not meet expectations?”

“Not one, Astival. Come.”

They began strolling towards the gates as Corregrione walked back to have a drink. Karsaeu had pulled out a bottle of brandy and was chugging it, and she silently shared it with the [Traveller], which sort of proved how Corregrione could charm even Karsaeu a bit. Everyone wanted to know…but it was Astival who brought it up.

“Your Dark Majesty…”

“I don’t know. I didn’t pay attention.”

They all peered at her, and Nerrhavia grew amused.

“How it fascinates you. What do you think it was?”

“A great and wondrous cure would be traditional. Or…poison. He might fail to use the latter.”

Astival speculated, and Falamizural shivered.

“You didn’t have that Skill when I was alive.”

“I associated with Djinni long enough to gain it, Falamizural. It was more fun to guess. As I suppose it is to parse what it was. It was neither, Astival. I held a piece of paper in hand.”

“A scroll of magic? Contract?”

“Neither. It was not magic.”

“Fascinating, Your Majesty. A will?”

Nerrhavia tapped her fingers together as Toren tried to puzzle out what the hell they were talking about. She glanced at him and Maviola, then explained.

“Ah. You see, it was what he desired. The price of his service. It does not work on all, of course. But in his case…the evidence is simple. You observed the scars on his cheeks? Two diagonal slashes? His class.”

Astival’s head snapped up, and he let out a delighted laugh of rich amusement.

“Of course. A dishonorably discharged Drake. It must be the custom to mark him thusly. So that was…”

“Evidence to clear his name, perhaps. A military man fallen into criminality and mocked for his deeds, possibly to further an enemy’s career. Would you trade your service for that?”

“I would fight my way out of the gladiatorial pits for vengeance, Majesty. But to sell myself to anyone but you…that it is you means there is no question.”

“Indeed.”

 

——

 

They got through the gates no problem. A bunch of Drakes were there with passports that admitted them as [Merchants], and while the [Guards] gave them the side-eye, the paperwork was excellent, and their contacts smoothed over the entry.

“Inner city passes as well as outer. Mind the laws, civilians. Any military personnel have right of way and may use their authority when needed. Keep your documents on you. Welcome to the City of War. Are you here to inspect the academy? To visit an officer?”

“Recruitment.”

Nerrhavia informed the [Guard] lazily, and he nodded.

“Very good, Miss. The academy would be the place to do that—”

He gave instructions she ignored, and they strode into the city. There, as promised, Nerrhavia had Maviola act as a normal person for an hour, as Falamizural tried to give her lessons about not being an undead, murderous psychopath.

 

——

 

Kalnis caught up with them after an hour. He bowed to Nerrhavia, but she bade him stop.

“A curiosity, Drake. My [General], Astival, will be trifling upset otherwise. To whom did you present that paper?”

The [Disgraced Veteran]’s voice was husky, and his eyes were red.

“I gave it to a member of High Command. Spearmaster Lulv. He read it and heard me out. And believed me. There will be an inquiry. May I ask, how did—?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t read it, but the Skill is the Skill. Whom did you tell next?”

He paused.

“No one. I would have told my son. But he’s on rotation. He’ll know, though. He’ll…know. But I won’t be here when they finish, will I?”

Nerrhavia gave Astival a look as the man smiled.

“No. My interest has concluded. Guide us now to my destination, and we shall waste no more time.”

She spoke, informing the Drake who she wanted; the name made no sense to Toren, who stood there, wondering why all that was worth throwing away everything. Then again…this fellow didn’t seem like he’d had that much to begin with.

A son. His voice had trembled so hard when he’d said the son would ‘know’. Toren shook his head. Living people were so…

If it had meant Erin would listen to me? Understand what I wanted to tell her? If I could go back again and—

The thought burned Toren so hard he nearly ripped his head off and threw it into a trash bin. He slapped at the sides of his face and hurried after Nerrhavia. Then he saw why she was terrifying. Maviola was agog with delight as she listened to Kalnis talking.

“I know who you’re searching for. It won’t be easy. She’s always around High Command or in the keep—getting her alone? Might be tricky.”

“Direct me towards her. I shall do the rest.”

“Of course.”

They marched past the first layer of walls and into the second. All the streets were winding, weirdly cramped, and Toren realized it was so you’d have an advantage defending this place if someone was attacking. Astival appreciated it.

“I always wanted to see the City of War in person. To assault it…”

Falamizural sighed.

“Drakes. Always with their cities. Where are all the Dragons?”

They were attracting attention since they weren’t warding their comments. Kalnis half-turned, and Nerrhavia spoke.

“Watch your comments. We are approaching higher-level members of Manus. Kalnis.”

“Yes?”

“Inform me of all your new Skills once you hear your new class. One should be congratulated on reaching Level 40.”

His mouth opened, and she swept on. Toren patted Kalnis on the shoulder enviously. Nerrhavia seemed pretty good at empowering her minions. All Erin gave you were jars of acid, which was a good benefit, but this was the major leagues.

Why did he keep thinking of Erin?

His head rose as he saw a furiously shouting young woman, her azure scales reddening until she was almost purple. She was pointing a shaking finger, red-faced, howling at a woman with two wings on her back, who was uncertain, even afraid. Both had wings, actually. The young woman just had one.

“That’s the Dragonspeaker—”

Kalnis hissed as Dragonspeaker Luciva raised a hand.

“Rafaema, wait—”

The young woman turned and ran, a Gnoll dashing after her along with a number of others. Nerrhavia smiled and whispered.

“Falamizural, divert them. The rest of you, with me.”

She strode after the fleeing Drake.

Toren had no idea what was going on or who that was.

 

——

 

He stood there as Nerrhavia caught up to the Drake named ‘Rafaema’. The Drake ran into an alleyway, and somehow, all her pursuers vanished. Falamizural, probably. A [Summoner].

Toren didn’t do anything. The skeleton folded his arms and looked good. Nerrhavia, again, totally understood what was going on.

“Who are you? How’d you lose Ferris?”

“I am Nerrhavia, Rafaema of Manus. The Immortal Tyrant reborn. I have come to make an offer to the last Dragon of Manus, lightning’s child.”

Toren was glancing around for an [Alchemist]’s store to buy snacks for Healing Slime, wondering if he could run into Doren’s shop here. His head cracked around at ‘Dragon’.

What, really? He’d thought they’d look cooler. But Rafaema freaked out. She drew a sword, and Astival and Kalnis parried her blade. She opened her mouth, and Nerrhavia made a motion; it clicked shut.

“I don’t know how you found out, but one shout from me and Luciva and the entire city will—h-how did you even get in here?”

To that, the Immortal Tyrant smiled and brandished something. A scroll—a contract. Toren hadn’t gotten one when he started working; he supposed she was behind on paperwork. But she had a lot of very old paperwork…

“Your city once warred for me, girl. I hold it, like Zeres, within my hand. Pallass…amusingly, one of the newest cities becomes a stronger obstacle than the famous City of War. City of War. Manus? I was a student of history, and that student knew that in my time, they had pivoted from being the ever-fickle mercenaries in service to the true city of warfare, Lesegoth. They didn’t dare claim that title, then. I could crack this half-made Walled City if I chose.”

Rafaema wasn’t exactly oozing confidence so far, but the contract made her grow pale.

“That’s a lie. That’s just—no contract could endure that long.”

At this, Nerrhavia seemed even more amused, if ruefully.

“I never made plans in case of my death. Truly—that the contract is still quite useful in evading Manus’ detection and wrath is merely because I anticipated losing power or needing to walk here undetected, and they were poor at reading. However, my great enemies took it in their heads to preserve all the contracts I once made. Power is power—but they were useless without my authority. It is so very funny to think they were hoping to one day suborn the clauses to their own ends…and left me with all my weapons.”

Astival laughed in that ominous way that Toren felt was cheesy, but it was apparently genuine, so Nerrhavia only waved him to silence after a moment. Then…Rafaema was holding the hilt of her sword.

“Whatever you think you can get from me—”

“Girl, you do not even know what I am offering.”

“I know better than to take it! Do you think I’ve never heard of the Spider?”

“Belavierr? She was a friend, confidant—but ever-capricious and greedy. Between the two of us, girl. Who do you think was the more powerful? Whose favor do you think was truly worth more? She offered legendary magic at great price. I gave it away as I willed. That is what it means to be Tyrant. Gloriously hated, terribly loved.”

Oh, Toren got it now! Rafaema was like a fly in a web, even if that was apparently more of a Belavierr thing.

A Dragon in a web? Oooh. No, wait, a dragonfly in a web. Heh.

Nerrhavia’s head twitched left slightly, and her nose wrinkled up as she suppressed what might have been a laugh? Toren was so busy laughing at his own joke he missed the half-glower she shot him. Astival’s head cricked back and forth, amazed and envious.

Anyways, the point was Rafaema was in trouble. She knew this was a trap, knew Nerrhavia wanted something, but once you started talking, you were losing, because Nerrhavia won in anything that involved words. He wondered how you dealt with that. Probably by punching first.

Threats, assurances from Nerrhavia—Toren sort of got why she got bored. He was adjusting his head as he saw her eyes flicking amusement his way.

Yes, indeed. It is trivial, isn’t it?

He jumped and stood straighter, then heard Nerrhavia speaking to Rafaema again.

“I can restore your wing, child. That is what I offer.”

Ooh. Toren peered at the stump of a wing on Rafaema’s back. She stuttered.

“I—I was told that it wasn’t possible. Even—”

“The Dragonlord of Flames knows how it may be done. He just does not wish to pay the cost. Whereas I? I have troves of knowledge even he lacks. Come, let us talk. The price of service shall not be onerous.”

“Hah! Luciva will tear up the continent to find me. Even if I agreed—which I wouldn’t, because that’s insane—I could never do it!”

The Dragon’s voice was wobbly, but she clung to what Toren suspected was going to be bad logic. Nerrhavia’s eyes twinkled at him again.

“And if I told you that you would never leave Manus? That I would not take you from your duties nor endanger you in any way?”

“I won’t betray—”

“I have no interest in Manus, this failing City of War. I merely require your service.”

Rafaema didn’t get what Nerrhavia meant, and neither did Toren, but he bet something horrific was going to happen. He eyed Rafaema as she tossed her head back.

“Why me? Get him if you’re so interested, or a Named-rank.”

“I wish for a Dragon. Despite your many weaknesses, there is something about a Dragon, one that I can control, that is effective. If I wished for a capable servant, I would have my pick. This is in your favor, girl. I shall make you far stronger. As it stands—you would be one of the weakest of my servants. Even Toren here far surpasses you.”

Oh? Toren’s head rose, and Rafaema glared at him, taking in Toren at last.

“Him? What’s so sp—”

Nerrhavia told Toren to deactivate his illusions, and the Lightning Dragon jerked back in horror. Then Nerrhavia informed Toren why he was here, and he brightened up.

“Toren. Humble the Dragon-child for me.”

Well now. He decided working for Nerrhavia really did mean you weren’t bored a day in your life.

 

——

 

Psychologically, Toren supposed there was something really upsetting about losing to a skeleton that appeared mundane. Nerrhavia told him to take off his relics before the fight and do something annoying, so he did some stretches before putting his gear back on.

They threw down outside of Manus, in the woods. How they got out without the [Guards] recognizing Rafaema or her absence raising all the alarms, he didn’t know. Not his job.

His job?

Punch the Dragon in the face. Which was actually—pretty tough!

She was quick and fought first in her Drake form, then in her Dragon one. She wasn’t a big Dragon; he was sort of disappointed by that. But wow—

Her tail slapped him into some trees, and the skeleton tumbled down as she opened her mouth and exhaled lightning at him. He reappeared on a tree branch behind her, but she was already swinging around, her mismatched eyes wide.

—She was good.

Not as good as he was, though. The [Relic Guardian] lifted a shield.

[Empower Artifact]—gotcha. His shield tore the air apart with a shriek as the lightning hit it, diffusing the energy. The bang blinded Rafaema, and before she could recover, he activated his sword.

The anti-light sword projected a long beam of a blade, and he sliced down with it as he leapt at her.

Nerrhavia slapped him out of the air, and Toren hit the ground as Rafeama dodged.

“Unharmed, Toren.”

“He can’t cut—”

Rafaema backed away from the glowing blade as Toren got up, sighing. He sheathed the sword, which made her madder; she drew breath, and he belched flames from his Wyvern helmet. She was so enraged she came through the flames, snarling.

He punched her in the jaw.

Gauntlets of Giant’s Strength said it all, really. The skeleton got a shot from her claw to his armor, but she cracked a claw on his enchanted breastplate, and then he activated his greaves. Heavy as stone—he stopped her charge, saw her snarling, panting at him—

He flipped her. Then, while she was rolling, he blinked to her side and kicked her in the stomach as hard as he could. She threw up.

 

——

 

Healing Slime rolled over to Rafaema as Toren put a boot on her back. She was lying on the ground, bruised and beaten up, and he’d cracked a lot of bones, but he felt like he’d been beating up a kid.

Entertaining, but sort of embarrassing, in short. Nerrhavia had already thrown her off mentally, and seeing his skeletal body had meant he’d gotten a lot of good shots in before she started fighting tactically. Without the ability to fly, he was way faster than she was with his boots.

Toren was inspecting his right hand and his pinkie. He felt like he’d damaged them punching her in the nose. No…it had been like that ever since Scotty. Actually…he pulled off his gauntlet as Nerrhavia laughed.

“A skeleton who slays Dragons! ‘Twould be better to let him finish the job and become a [Dragonslayer] than to seek her aid, if I truly wished for strength alone.”

He could do that? Toren glanced down at the Dragon, but any thoughts of getting a snazzy new class faded.

She was crying. Big tears were rolling from her face, and she covered her eyes with a claw as he hopped off her. Toren backed away.

Great, now he felt like a bad guy. Just because he was serving the Immortal Tyrant, didn’t, uh…

Kalnis was just staring at Rafaema, stunned by the revelation of her nature. He seemed like he was realizing just what he’d gotten into, but here they were. Stuck.

Toren gathered up Healing Slime in his arms as Nerrhavia went in for the metaphorical kill. She had a contract and assurances in hand. Toren didn’t pay attention to the conversation; he was understanding something.

The Healing Slime was poking at his right hand, and Toren flexed it. They were just his bones; Az’kerash had left him as he was, without major alterations, though he’d taken Nekhret’s bones. Toren could mend cracks or even fuse broken bones together with [Limited Regeneration], but he’d always been fragile without armor. Still…

Was he getting sick? Healing Slime poked at the bright, pale bones on his right hand. It had just been his pinkie, and now it was his entire arm! They felt…magical.

He was worried he was coming down with something. He had no idea what was changing his bones like this! Erin was his former master, but they were quits. And Pisces…

Was that scruffy [Necromancer] up to something? Toren only glanced up when Rafaema began screaming. She was in an ominous-looking circle, and it seemed like black sludge was rising upwards…no, draining out of her? Nerrhavia was getting in the Unmarked Coach, and Toren realized they were done.

He hurried after her, then turned. Rafaema lay there, panting, as the light show finished, and she didn’t have a new wing…nor was she coming with them? Toren pointed at her, then at the coach, and Nerrhavia appeared genuinely amused.

“You truly weren’t paying attention, were you? Come, we’re bound for the New Lands. The closer we get to the southern coast, the easier it will be.”

He scratched at his head. Could…someone get him up to speed? Anyone?

No one said a word as Toren sat back. He heard the Dragon sobbing behind him as they left.

That hurt, and it was hard to forget.

 

[Relic Guardian Level 34!]

[Skill – Lightning Punch obtained!]

 

——

 

It took them a day to get to the New Lands, or rather, a camp where several former ghosts had set up. They were preparing a gigantic spell circle, and when Nerrhavia’s party arrived, Toren got two surprises.

One: they weren’t actually staying in the New Lands. Nerrhavia was done with it. Or rather…

“We have what we need for now. I would rather claim the bounty of it than expend the effort. I trust you gathered enough for our purposes?”

“With great ease, Your Majesty. The amount of seith—! Would it not be better to remain here?”

“Seith is a tool. I crave an empire. Fuel the teleportation spell. Astival, you shall prepare for the last of my champions. Toren, with me. You shall keep me company until the final piece is in place, whereupon we shall all depart.”

She was sending a lot of them, including all the undead he’d gathered, somewhere else. Chandrar. Toren watched everyone getting ready with the big summoning circle and heard Astival talking.

“Sixty thousand more [Slaves]—ah, freed ones—shall be awaiting us. While I am away, you shall attend to Her Majesty’s every will.”

He was lecturing Kalnis, who wore that shell-shocked expression of someone who was in deep and saw no way out. But Kalnis was loyal; whatever Nerrhavia had done, he’d gotten a new class and seemed at peace with his decision. Selling your soul for your honor, your reputation.

…Rafaema was the second surprise. She was there, sitting with her knees hunched up, looking fully traumatized. Well, he thought it was her.

Her scales were black, and she was in her Drake form at the moment. She was shivering, and after he poked her a few times, she bit his hand and spat out his bones.

“I can taste. I can—”

“Of course you can. Did you think I wanted merely your likeness? You shall grow used to it.”

Nerrhavia laughed as Rafaema sat there. The Dragon’s voice was plaintive.

“What have I done? What—”

“You desired power. To embrace the heritage that Manus pushes you towards and keeps you from. I have known Dragons. I shall use you as I will. And you shall have your wish.”

Nerrhavia lifted Rafaema’s chin up, and the Dragon flinched away from her. That…really was Nerrhavia, Toren realized.

He, Deimos (the Warlock Bonelord whom Toren had named), Astival, Rafaema, all of them were pawns upon Nerrhavia’s board. She knew them. She’d use them. Perhaps, if they were unlucky, they would be pieces she didn’t need, and she’d sacrifice them, but waste nothing.

If he stuck with her, she’d upgrade him. Make him truly powerful. In fact, she’d told him that was why Corregrione had investigated his past.

She was having a ritual circle made to ‘bind his past life into him’, via the objects the Gnoll had picked up. Nerrhavia turned away from Rafaema, who was crying again, to explain.

“When an undead is created, the life they had is ripped asunder, a ghost. If the ghost can seize the body, it remains, a Revenant or merely a haunted spirit. Otherwise, it passes beyond. Something…changed, and undead have been all that remain. Imprints of the self. Belavierr was ever a master of using both the undeath and ghost. Now, it seems the order of the afterlife has been restored. I have heard tell of ghosts in the New Lands. Perhaps more shall rise, though it makes sense why they linger there. The undead fare poorly there.”

He glanced at the circle. So…what was that for?

“You are not the dead [Innkeeper]. A copied fragment broke off when he died. That echo became you, Toren. But binding the past soul into your bones will grant you some of his powers. Assuming the soul exists. The odds…mm. I shall take them.”

Bind the soul into his bones? Toren wavered. Nerrhavia assured him he’d stay in control.

“The soul would merely be fuel for you in this particular binding. Other methods exist, but I prize you far more than an [Innkeeper].”

Oh. Great. Toren sort of pictured a screaming soul chained to him and hoped he wouldn’t hear it. It sounded…

It sounded a bit…

Cruel.

Where had that thought come from? Toren didn’t know. He’d killed countless people, but he had an image of Venitra tearing his head off as he pleaded for mercy. Or Healing Slime being used as an expendable potion.

He didn’t want to say, ‘no thanks, please no soul binding’ to Nerrhavia. But then he saw her inspecting him and remembered she could read his thoughts.

“Hm. If not that, then perhaps an amulet. To draw upon the strength of what once was. It matters, you see. That fragment of who you were—you could delve into your past life and choose again. That Which Counts, the force that assigns levels to all things and people, weighs one’s past life.”

She spread her arms, and then gazed up, as if staring at something.

“I understand it more than any other being save for they who wrote the Book of Levels, you see. Though it seems it yet does not desire to acknowledge me.”

His boss really did have it all figured out. Toren sat there as Nerrhavia informed a [Mage] to stop making the circle and switch to another one. She retired to her tents, beckoning Rafaema to instruct the Dragon further, and the hunched Rafaema did nothing before Astival hauled her up and marched her there.

Toren watched as Rafaema vanished inside, and heard nothing more—the tent was obviously spelled, so he stood in the camp, kicking at a stone, and realized more of Nerrhavia’s servants were here. Ones he’d never met.

Lesser than Corregrione, Falamizural, and Astival, then, but that was a matter of perspective. He kept glancing at Nerrhavia’s tent, but she was busy with Rafaema, so Toren got to actually meet some of the other former ghosts. Or rather, they came up to him and Maviola.

 

——

 

“Dark sands warm your step! More servants in Her Majesty’s employ! Welcome, welcome! Do you want drinks?”

The first ghost that Toren met was…weird. She just strode on over, an almost round woman wearing robes and holding glasses up.

Toren thought she was as dumb as one of the rocks she was kicking—until the [Mage] handed him a drink which wafted mana upwards, and Maviola gasped.

“Death drinks! I haven’t seen one since Az’kerash’s castle!”

She greedily sipped, and Toren felt the vapors of the drink enhancing his magical essence even just by inhaling it. Incredulously, he lifted the cup and ‘drank’ it, then nearly dropped the cup.

Mint! The idea exploded into his head, and he had never had tastebuds, but the image of it, the flavor, almost overwhelmed him. The [Mage] rubbed her hands together with delight; she wore, he realized, a very colorful costume, long stripes of color running down huge pantaloons and a vest adorned with various artifacts like feathers, corked bottles, and gems all festooning her front.

“I made it when I heard you two approaching. Greetings! I am Majori, a [Magus de Divertissement] of the old world. I had the honor, the honor, of once performing before one of the Immortal Tyrant’s Sadivicti when I toured the Empire of Black Sands, as it was known at one point. Now, I serve Her Immortal Majesty directly! The honor!”

She was…a performer? The [Mage] beamed when Toren guessed it correctly—Maviola said it for him.

“Correct! My magic is to entertain, to impress—and to create substances that even Djinni might enjoy! I am somewhat useless, as the Tyrant has said, but my paltry cantrips can cast some magic in this day and age until she finds a more suitable tool. At this moment, I cast some of the magic in camp, and if you need anything within my poor means, ask away!”

Toren had the vague idea of asking for…bug repellant spells or for someone to repair a broken chair until he saw Majori point a finger.

“We’re setting up a grand spell beyond my knowing to transport us. So, a thousand pardons if I don’t have the time to speak long.”

She flicked a finger, and the ground tore up, yellow grass billowing into the air, and a line of magic flashed into a complete circle. Then Majori caught sight of the undead coming.

“Ach! More? We’ll need to pen them up somewhere. I’ve heard they might bite—[Walls of the Elemental Palace]!”

She threw up her arms, and walls of magic blazed upwards, forming pens for the undead to move into. Toren’s jaw dropped. Maviola breathed.

“That’s paltry magic?”

“To one who knows neither great spells of war nor grand workings? I merely passed a school of magic to receive my title of ‘Magus’. But it seems the world has waned.”

Majori laughed, embarrassed by the praise, then swung Maviola around.

“And you are a delight, death’s child! Such a beautiful girl. Would you like another treat? I used to make them for all manner of servants—a toffee?”

“A what? You can make snacks?”

There went Maviola like a shot. Falamizural trailed after her as someone else approached.

“This be the warrior I heard of? A proper adventurer indeed!”

Toren saw a bloom of silvery hair, like a bush standing on end, before the young Stitch-man bowed. He seemed nervous and repeated the bow three times.

“I am the unworthy warrior who has also pledged my loyalty to She Who Rules, sir. I beg your indulgence, for I am merely a ghost saved by Her Will, and we are all alive at Her Convenience. I hope to regain my levels and to become worthy of—continuation.”

If Majori was worshipful but somewhat content to merely be helpful—and Toren got why she might annoy Nerrhavia if she was one of the best spellcasters here—then he saw why Nerrhavia didn’t care for this ghost either.

He was terrified, even more than Falamizural. The Stitch-boy was only twenty-six years old, which he claimed was the same age of his death. But his class and identity surprised Toren; he had a turban around his head and light, long clothing for braving the desert, with enchanted chainmail underneath and sandals instead of shoes.

“I am no hero worthy of Her Service, great warrior. Merely, I am Silver-rank [Adventurer], Wetar, who was once known as Wetar the Sandscrosser, for I worked in the Zeikhal. As you see me, I have no weapons a tenth as wondrous as yours.”

His only weapon was, in fact, a long staff capped with some metal at both ends. It was an unenchanted stick. The Silver-ranker bowed again, and Toren wondered why he felt like Wetar…was more dangerous than he appeared.

No ordinary ghosts had reached Az’kerash and escaped the Seamwalkers. The Necromancer had remarked they were all powerful by this age’s standards. But Silver-rank was Silver-rank. Toren shook Wetar’s hands, and the young man practically bowed himself away.

Wetar, Majori…and he saw a number of [Mages] clustered around the spell circle they were drawing up. It looked like there were two dozen ghosts, tops—which explained why Nerrhavia wanted all the undead.

Deimos waved a hand as Toren turned to him and then tried to look professional as the Draugr stomped over, visibly trembling, raring for a fight. Both quailed as Astival walked forward, inspecting them.

“Present the finest undead under your command. We shall see if they can keep up with basic movement.”

What that meant, Toren had no idea—until he saw the [Sadivictus] raise his sword and demonstrate. He had the new Drake, Kalnis, spar against him—or rather, a trio of Ghouls armed with a sword.

Kalnis was high-level and should have taken the Ghouls to pieces in seconds; his sword swings were insanely sharp, and Toren decided he could learn from this Drake. But Astival just raised his hand—and the Ghouls attacked in tandem, swinging their blades as fast as Kalnis!

“[Puppet Army]. These are still substandard to my full range of movement. Very well, Her Majesty has indicated I must be light on the troops.”

What he meant was that when he took command of their actions, the Ghouls moved and attacked so fast they were tearing apart their own muscles. Toren saw one of their arms rip and winced as the muscles tore as it struck at Kalnis.

Lots of high-levels here. Whomever they were up against was going to have a bad time, but it made Toren wonder—what were they doing? He had some reservations about this morning. The Rafaema thing hadn’t been cool.

However, Maviola had the exact opposite impression. She had two toffees in her hand, glowing a pale green, and offered one to him, one to Healing Slime. When neither one wanted it, she stuffed both into her mouth and gazed adoringly at Nerrhavia’s tent.

“She’s so cool, Toren.”

Maviola loved all of it. Toren? He felt something beating against his chest, a painful thudding of his heart.

…No, wait, that was just Healing Slime. He pulled the slime out, and it cuddled him. Toren thought to himself.

Nerrhavia was a considerate boss, you know. She’d checked his reaction to the entire ‘binding a soul’ thing, and when she saw he didn’t like it, she adjusted. She wasn’t like Erin, who made you do things her way or she got mad.

She was like a better Erin. An Erin who had all the foresight, poise, levels, and none of the silliness or morality, but who kept the ability Erin had to make things happen. Why, the only thing Erin did better was sing…and Toren was pretty sure Nerrhavia could sing better if she wanted to.

Erin. Toren’s eye flames dimmed as he thought of her. He shook his head. She’d been a bad employer. A worse mother…if he or she had ever thought of her like that. Nerrhavia was so much better.

She just—

Made people cry. Not always visibly like Rafaema, but Toren thought that was part of who the Immortal Tyrant was. If Erin made you weep with heartfelt emotion sometimes, knives of feeling stabbing, Nerrhavia was different. She sat upon a throne that leaked tears of blood. Of gratitude, despair; they were a byproduct of her will, tears of the soul squeezed out onto dry, midnight sands.

He’d never get a better employer. Toren walked over to the tent where Nerrhavia was deigning to reside and heard Rafaema’s trembling voice from within. He pushed open the tent flaps, standing there as Nerrhavia spoke.

Again, not really listening to her. Thinking as he held Healing Slime in his hands.

He wasn’t going to get a better boss than Nerrhavia. Seriously, where did you go from here? The Demon King? For a down-on-his-luck skeleton, there wasn’t a better employer.

In this economy? He turned his head, and he could see Deimos giving him a wink with one eye in his new body, leading the undead around. Toren, we’ve made it! Look at this gig!

Toren waved weakly, then squared his shoulders and tried to appear professional. He wished he’d polished his armor better. A tie. Erin always said ties were professional, and suits.

He had no idea what they were, but he could get one. Yes, everything was splendid. His boss cared about him, got him levels, respected his will…

But his heart hurt. No, wait, not him.

Healing Slime again.

 

——

 

When Toren knocked on Nerrhavia’s tent, she bade him enter. Healing Slime was afraid, and squirmed, wanting to flee his grip.

Rafaema stood before Nerrhavia, who sat at a desk she was using to organize paperwork, which she had already accumulated a lot of. The Dragon, her scales jet black with whatever effect was on her, was crying.

So was the Healing Slime.

It was a gentle creature, and it saw Nerrhavia and didn’t just fear her…

It was crying too. Little droplets of rainbows as it saw Rafaema standing in front of Nerrhavia, who was reclining in a chair. Healing Slime missed their old boss.

Doren.

Doren wasn’t like Nerrhavia. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t pay well. He had no confidence, no vision, and he would work at Cormeng’s until he retired or died.

If Toren could have chosen, he’d have worked for Doren instead of Nerrhavia.

The Immortal Tyrant’s head turned slightly, and she broke off from whatever she was saying with a frown. Toren tried to keep his thoughts quieter. Don’t be stupid! Don’t mess this up or he’d get fired again!

Fired. Like that time he’d fought Erin to the death. Or run away from Az’kerash. Or beaten up Doren’s aunt. At least one of those times he’d thought he was doing the right thing, but the skeleton was a failure. A nobody. He wasn’t a former [Innkeeper], he was just some undead with levels made by a silly, low-level [Necromancer] as an experiment.

The only good thing he had in this life was Healing Slime, his Relics, and his levels. He couldn’t lose a job like this. Not with his prospects.

Certainly not—quit.

Quit? Hah, he knew that was the one thing he could never do. Not to Nerrhavia. You couldn’t—just like Erin—and Az’kerash, really.

He couldn’t quit his job…right? Even if she sucked.

 

——

 

“—last member to join my army. I expected the moment to occur before now, but—”

Nerrhavia broke off speaking again, and her head turned back to Toren. She narrowed her eyes, as if trying to hear something really quiet she didn’t like. The skeleton was playing with Healing Slime before he put the creature down, and it zipped away from Nerrhavia. She wasn’t sure what to do with the slime other than empower it. Creatures without brains were less interesting to her; she had entertained menageries of horrors, but more like pets. People were far better pets.

The Dragon child especially. She paused a second, though, as Toren walked forward and began to play with objects on her desk. It truly was an arrogant skeleton.

A puzzle, in some sense. She had formulated its personality, put it into her plans, and it had served just as she intended. Few beings ever surprised Nerrhavia; that was why she was so successful and often bored. She played on a board against few opponents with pieces that almost always moved as she wanted.

“Skeleton, attend. Stand here.”

He snapped to attention and stood back, next to her. Nerrhavia eyed him as he came closer. Now it was easier for her to hear his thoughts; it was a difficult trick, even for her to pull off, to hear the voice of things. Sometimes, he seemed like an entertaining pawn, like a better Astival. Others, a bit of chaos, an unpredictable wild card. But right now, she had a flicker of uncertainty.

There were only a few people who had ever slipped out of her predictions so much they surprised her. Erin Solstice? Yes, she’d been entertaining, but Nerrhavia would always remember and honor one name. For her deeds, for her nature as ally and enemy.

Merindue, the 2nd ruler of Nerrhavia’s Fallen and one of the rebels who had been part of Nerrhavia’s downfall. She had been a servant of Nerrhavia’s, a capable woman that Nerrhavia had acknowledged as such. Predicted and put into her plans.

I never did understand her. She was one of the first to rebel. 

Nerrhavia shook the thought away; none here were of Merindue’s stature. She fixed her attention on Rafaema as Toren’s purple flames grew brighter.

“I don’t want to do this. I wanted my wing back, but this? You didn’t say I was going to another continent!”

Rafaema was having regrets. Children often did. She’d been manipulated into the contract by pride and her many flaws, but she tested Nerrhavia’s impatience. The Immortal Tyrant spoke; she had a sense Toren had come here for the same reason.

Neither one saw her full plan for the future. Well and fair; Astival and all her other servants did not either, but she decided to illuminate their path for a fair span. She spoke to Toren, ignoring Rafaema; one of them was more important to educate in this moment. The other would learn.

“I require a nation from which to work. My Skills require a nation to function in the fullness of strength. Moreover, there are deeds that can only be done by a great volume of people. Educating and training a force to my liking also requires a population base of size. Hence, it shall be acquired.”

As for why Chandrar? Well, the answer was simple: she had an advantage on her home terrain in more sense than one. She knew the continent, even if it had changed. Most of her old pacts were still there, and most importantly, it wasn’t the center of attention like Izril was at this moment.

So we’re going back to start a new empire just as evil as the old empire?

Toren’s thought displeased Nerrhavia, and her eyes narrowed so much that the Healing Slime oozed and hid behind him, shaking. It slid towards the entrance of the tent and peeked around the corner, but that was an unguarded response, actually.

She wasn’t angry at Toren, who often amused her. Rather, the comment had sparked…Nerrhavia’s voice was a touch defensive.

“It is not a retreading of old ways, for I have sworn to change. Merely that the foundation of any base of power requires the same. If it were the same path I had followed, I would have left the Meeting of Tribes bare of any great enemies, leashing every Chieftain and Gnoll of note that did not bow to me. I have left potential enemies alive and left allies I wish for to their own purposes. I could have made them kneel.”

Her eyes glowed, and Toren nodded slowly. Rafaema whispered.

“Another continent? If Luciva or Teriarch finds out—!”

“You will never be missed. This benefits you, child. Or do you think I came purely for a champion such as you? The last two Dragonchildren of Izril and both are weak. You, at least, I shall begin with. Strength is needed of all species, and I will have yours if I must shave your marrow away to build it myself.”

Nerrhavia was annoyed with Rafaema and reached out and dragged her head back by the neck-spines. The Dragon wanted to tear free; her eyes blazed with fury, but the Immortal Tyrant was overwhelming, so she made a soft sobbing sound.

“I didn’t want this!”

Now she saw an obstacle like morality, an ‘unjust’ war, she balked, as Nerrhavia had known she would. Mercilessly, the Tyrant pressed Rafaema’s face against her desk, like someone disciplining a dog.

“I have no patience for the lies you tell yourself, girl. You did want this. Hence, you agreed. You are no noble warrior, Rafaema of Manus. You pretend to be; I shall strip your illusions of pride away. Do you think a Dragon has some inherent nobility? I shall show you the Dragons I knew. Whether you will it or not, we shall see who you are. Unlike the kindly Pyrelord, I shall hold your eyes open and make you drink deep of the truth.”

Tears again. Manus truly had raised a fragile heroine. The Oteslian Dragon might have been better, but…Nerrhavia saw potential in Rafaema, a young woman. The [Tyrant] listened, wishing to confirm the skeleton’s treasonous thoughts, but Nerrhavia didn’t hear anything.

She frowned, then tapped her foot on the ground rhythmically. She glanced up suspiciously at the tent flaps, then realized—no. It wasn’t coming from outside. Who would play music in the camp?

It was coming from the skeleton. Toren was thinking of a song. It played in his head, a perfect recreation of the music he’d heard once—for you see, he was undead. He never forgets.

“How intriguing. You do amuse me, Toren. I hope some of your personality will rub off on Rafaema. Or else I fear our new Dragon will be a dull champion.”

Unshed tears stood out in Rafaema Manusara Coloseuvia’s eyes, one topaz, the other amethyst. Nerrhavia smiled and heard a distinct thought from her left.

See? Now that—that just sounded evil, nasty, and sort of generic. Do you just say stupid stuff if you became a [Tyrant], or was it an old person thing? Because she was older than a grandmother, whatever they were.

Her eyes narrowed. She turned her head and opened her mouth to upbraid the skeleton.

He slapped her. Nerrhavia’s head snapped left, and she, Rafaema, and Toren were so surprised, they all stared at his Stellar Ivory hand for a moment.

“Skelet—”

He punched her. Nerrhavia was quick, and she had a host of protective spells on her—though nothing like from her old empire—but he was wearing his gauntlets.

The punch caught Nerrhavia and tossed her and her chair out of the tent, tumbling her two dozen times past Falamizural and Maviola, practicing bows, over a zombie that Deimos was trying to put armor onto and—Nerrhavia caught herself on her feet, stumbling.

Rafaema gaped at Toren. He stared at his fist.

Oooh. The skeleton stood there in the silence as he cast around, then glanced at Rafaema. Nerrhavia, the Immortal Tyrant, glared at him as Toren had a sudden thought.

I’ve never quit my job before. Not once. Never quit—even when I had every right to. When I should. 

Nerrhavia had predicted him, his loneliness, his inferiority, his mixed morality—but she hadn’t anticipated a skeleton’s desire to really, really throw in his name card, punch the boss, and walk out that door.

Even in this economy.

Toren grinned, and his eyes blazed like what they were: magical flames.

 

——

 

He came out of the tent in his armor as Astival howled.

“Traitor! Kill the undead who dared to—”

The [Puppetmaster Sadivictus] lunged, thrusting his sword at Toren, and the blade skated off the Skeleton’s armor, which refused to let the magic ignite. Astival gazed into the helmet, and two triumphant eyes blazed purple. Toren grabbed his arm.

Falamizural’s head rose, and Karsaeu, drinking, gazed up as a flying man passed hundreds of feet up, like a bird.

Maviola whispered.

“Toren? What are you—?”

“Skeleton, kneel and I may spare your life.”

Nerrhavia spoke, and Toren paused. The other resurrected ghosts were gazing at him in horror, and Corregrione had retreated into his tents, fur pale. Falamizural—the Garuda wore a mixed expression of awe, delight, and total, pants-wetting terror. She might have soiled herself already, actually.

They were all terrified of Nerrhavia. And he’d—punched—

How many people in any era had ever laid a hand on the Immortal Tyrant, let alone in violence? Toren was shaking in fear and excitement. He knew he was dead—but he raised one fist. The [Relic Guardian] gazed at Nerrhavia and offered the Immortal Tyrant a finger.

Then two. She gazed at his middle fingers and exhaled. And Maviola, the undead girl of flames, saw the skeleton grin.

“Traitor! Slaughter the unloyal!”

The first person to leap at Toren was Wetar, the Silver-rank adventurer. The Stitch-man struck the ground with his staff as he vaulted at Toren, leaping up, and brought the quarterstaff down.

“[Giant’s Mallet]!”

Rafaema and Kalnis were hesitating as they saw Toren facing down a camp of Nerrhavia’s servants. They were waiting to jump in, but they saw the adventurer, the Silver-ranker, drop at Toren, his weapon growing until it cast a shadow on the ground. Then he combined the Skill.

“[Flurry of Blows]—[Combination Skill: Dance of the Titan].”

He started hitting the ground, a flurry of blows that tore dirt up and pounded huge, ten-foot wide depressions in the earth, shaking everything like a minor earthquake. Rafaema’s mouth opened wide as she choked on her Dragonbreath.

Is that what Silver-ranks were like back in the day?

Wetar the Sandcrosser’s combination Skill had allowed him to survive even Jaws of Zeikhal in the Great Desert. The rain of impacts thundered down, but a single figure didn’t move. The skeleton—Wetar’s eyes went round—

Toren caught the quarterstaff as the Skill ended, and his golden armor was gleaming. Adamantium-Truegold, enchanted with indomitability. The ground was pounded flat except a circle where he stood. He hadn’t even moved.

He tossed Wetar, quarterstaff and all, and the air exploded around him. Majori and the other spellcasters turned the air to fire, and the skeleton adjusted his helmet.

Greater Flame Resistance. His head turned, and he caught a blow from Falamizural that did knock him back a step. Her sword—she swung it, and Toren’s [Dangersense] screamed.

Death. He pulled off a glass puzzle hanging from his belt, and the glass warped and activated, layers of intricate, magical glass coming to life. The Garuda’s sword hit what looked like a cube made out of magic—there was a flash, and Toren’s gauntlets absorbed whatever she’d slashed at him into a pocket dimension. She flapped back, sword raised, and he pointed a finger at her.

Unleash. 

Half the camp turned bright as dawn, and the only thing that saved the ghosts and tents was Astival and Falamizural cutting whatever Toren had sent back at them. The [Puppetmaster Sadivictus] whirled his sword up, eyes blazing.

“[Puppet Army: Simultaneous Strike!]”

The undead. They were charging. Toren saw Ghouls holding swords sweeping at him like [Soldiers], the Draugr swinging an arm—his armor rang as arrows pinged off him, and the skeleton grinned.

He leapt into the middle of the undead, ghosts, and warriors, drawing his sword, punching—and they were all coming for him.

Deimos, shouting at his friend, the Draugr, Kalnis—Toren blocked a whirling staff Wetar swung at his head. He slashed the Draugr’s head off, pulled his sword before he could cut Deimos down—

“Skeleton!”

Astival’s stab went through one of Toren’s armpits; the skeleton twisted and headbutted him, then breathed flames all over Astival. Undeterred, the [Sadivictus] slashed across his neck. Toren’s sword glowed bright. He planted it in the ground, and the light went down—and came back up.

A pillar of anti-light burned up everything around him. Deimos flew backwards, ward spells flickering, the Warlock Bonelord falling back. He was a greater undead, but Toren—

My friend? His new co-worker? He saw Toren wink one purple eye at him as he rose, the ghosts falling back despite themselves.

Hey, buddy. Do me a favor?

Deimos listened as Toren put in a request, then realized the Immortal Tyrant was glaring at him. Astival was shouting.

“Surround the skeleton! Take his relics off!”

Deimos lifted a staff, and it glowed with magic. I’m sorry.

He fired one of his best new spells.

[Blackflame Siege Fireball]. Toren’s armor might be weathering all attacks, but the magic was reducing fast. The skeleton grinned at Deimos. He drew a shield and bounced the spell back in Deimos’ face.

The Warlock Bonelord hit a tent and lay there as a pair of giants descended to humble the skeleton.

Whoa—

Then Toren saw a Dragon and a gigantic Djinni—Karsaeu in a giant’s form, like a thundercloud of a woman, a driver holding a cudgel—striding towards him.

Still, Deimos thought Toren was having the time of his life. The skeleton lifted a hand, and Rafaema exhaled as Karsy swung the cudgel at his face. His shield flashed—then overloaded in front of the spell, and the skeleton stumbled. The cudgel swung into his armor, and the Djinni blinked.

“Those gauntlets.”

Toren’s hand caught her cudgel, stopping it effortlessly. She tried to twist back, dropped the cudgel, and stepped behind Rafaema. Too late.

The skeleton’s fist rose, and then he threw a punch.

A giant’s fist punched the Dragon and Djinni head-over heels. Astival and his forces advancing on Toren halted, and the skeleton swung around. The ghosts fled. Astival and the undead did not.

The Gauntlets of Giant’s Hands clapped together, and the only person who survived the shockwave was Astival; undead were smashed to pieces in an instant. Wetar backed up, face pale, and Toren swung around.

His third punch went straight for the fleeing magi—and the woman standing there, narrow-eyed. A fist crossed across three dozen feet, coated in glowing Adamantium writ with Dwarven rune magic, threatening to destroy everything in its way.

Nerrhavia stopped the first with one hand. Toren’s gleeful smile turned to one of concern.

Uh oh. He saw her raise a hand—

 

——

 

The skeleton crashed through two tents, rolling and leaving a trough in the earth. He slammed across the ground, rolled up—

—parried an arrow—he’d lost his helmet—

He blocked a spell that Deimos fired point blank, catching the orb of black magic and a kick from Falamizural. The Garuda wore an expression of delight as he tossed her back. Despite it all, he was still fighting, even as Nerrhavia’s voice rose in true annoyance.

He was laughing. 

The skeleton turned away. He slapped his butt at the Immortal Tyrant. Then he blinked towards her.

Kalnis blocked the sword before it could slash Nerrhavia across the chest. She didn’t move as the skeleton strained, then leapt away. Her face was utterly blank. She saw undead piling onto Toren, go flying—the skeleton swung a Ghoul around like a living shield, laying about him with his sword.

“Stay clear of his sword! It will cut anyone—Dragon, fight! [Formation:—]”

Astival was taking command. He tried to usher Nerrhavia back to safety, but she just watched Toren. He executed a jump-kick and hit a ghost in the nuts for the first time since they’d been resurrected. Then he pointed his sword at her—

Rafaema’s charge knocked him off his feet, and he tried to hold onto his sword, but she bit his arm off. Then he was retreating, activating another artifact at his belt. Rafaema tried to rip the rest of him apart, and walked into the trap-rune.

She turned to stone, and Majori began screaming.

“Petrification spell! Help me dispel—”

Rebellion. A servant defying her will. Nerrhavia felt something foreign building in her chest. It emerged as she sat down in her chair.

Laughter.

Even Astival stopped in complete surprise as the Immortal Tyrant erupted into gales of laughter. She sat, cheek bruised, laughing her head off. Uncontrollably, authentic, spontaneous—evil laughter.

The greatest villainess of Chandrar laughed like she had only done once before. Louder than the first time she had used her mass-execution Skill. The delighted, nigh-hysterical guffaws she had once uttered when she’d sat upon her throne and seen that final army coming for her head.

Merindue.

She stopped laughing and wiped at her eyes.

“Kill the skeleton. Grind its bones to dust.”

 

——

 

He thought some of them held back, like Falamizural, Deimos, or even Rafaema, trying to let him get away.

But there were too many. Too high-level.

Too quick.

Once his first piece of armor went, the rest followed faster and faster. His shield was spent, blown away by Rafaema’s breath attack, and the helmet meant fire spells were now burning his armor, whose enchantment no longer shielded him from the countless impacts.

They got one of his boots, severing his kneecap where the armor failed to cover him properly, and his leg came off. Then it was over. He kept fighting, hopping, cursing his kneecaps—he’d always known they’d do him in—

Falling. Astival sliced his other arm off, and Toren bit at the man’s leg, then was kicked up by the Garuda, who knocked him into the ground like a meteor. They ripped the Relics off him, and he heard Nerrhavia speak.

“A bounty in items, regardless. I had feared I would only retrieve that, but I did value him. Maviola, come.”

Maviola? Why wasn’t she running away? He’d expected someone to, but the Garuda, Rafaema, they were staying.

Oh, right, contracts. Falamizural was too afraid. Rafaema couldn’t run. And Maviola.

“Don’t hurt him, Your Majesty! Please!”

She liked it here. Well, poop. Maybe Nerrhavia would be good for her. Toren hoped so. He lay in a pile of bones on the ground, trying to reanimate the pieces. His cracked skull couldn’t reassemble; they were smashing his bones to pieces.

“Your Majesty. His hands…”

Astival showed Nerrhavia the odd bones, and she spoke.

“Stellar Ivory. No, I do not need a potion. I shall savor this unique feeling. Save those bones. No, wait. Put them with the skull. Smash the rest and separate the powder, or he may well regenerate. If he can transmute the rest…a servant he shall be. But not a favored one.”

Oh. So much for quitting in style. Toren tried to roll his skull away, but he couldn’t. She was smiling at him as Astival tossed his hands down and picked the rest of his bones up. Toren was growing…fuzzy.

At least Healing Slime had escaped. Yeah. He felt guilty about what he’d done, now. Stupid. But he’d finally done it. Showed it to the man. The woman.

She was receding from him as the world grew foggy. Rubbing at her cheek, as if it was so novel, still amused, glancing his way with those eyes that were so terrible. Even Erin had kinder eyes. They opened wide in surprise, then alarm, then she was pointing at him.

Hey. She seemed really far away. The skeleton realized it wasn’t just his mind doing that ‘fade into the distance’ thing. She was literally distant. And growing more so each moment.

Then he realized he was, in fact, moving. Toren’s eye flames shifted downwards, and he saw, to his astonishment, he was being carried by a rolling ball of frantic, purple-colored jelly.

Healing Slime. Or rather, Speed Slime. It had grabbed his skull and half-buried it in its body, and it was dragging along his hands and a lot of the bone dust. It zoomed across the ground as they tried to pursue it.

A slime with a permanent [Speed] spell baked into it. It rolled frantically as Toren tried to tell it to let him go. They’d both be caught—but the little Slime bore its friend and protector away. It wouldn’t leave Toren. Not him.

A purple tear rolled down the skeleton’s eye socket, blazing bright. Then he saw a Garuda taking wing. She soared after him as figures spread out, darting after the Speed Slime; it must have been hard to see as the grass rose around it. She flew higher, and he stared at Falamizural’s turning head.

Eyes of a hawk. And the Djinni was also in the air, Karsaeu, craning left and right. The eyes to see magic, especially a skeleton and slime. He saw them point, dive, and thought—

Wow. Either they were as dumb as he thought they were or they’d done that on purpose. Healing Slime raced away until, two hours later, it rolled to a stop and spat Toren onto the grass. He lay there, amidst the yellow tufts, and realized they’d done it.

 

——

 

Nerrhavia knew they’d let Toren get away. A Djinni and Falamizural, who’d spent aeons as a mounted head on a wall, seeing a servant making his escape?

She punished them, of course. Both with the fear of it, then the knowledge she could be infinitely worse. And then with the knowledge she was letting them have their little victory.

After all…the skeleton surviving didn’t strike her as an ill consequence. It was related to Erin Solstice, and if it wouldn’t serve her as she wished, better to let it stir the pot of the New Lands.

Assuming it survived. It had gone in a poor direction. At any rate, she had its Relics and her amusement. The Immortal Tyrant went back to her work and put Toren mostly out of her mind.

The Dragon was a better puppet, and besides—she had a feeling its loud thoughts would have gotten on her nerves sooner or later.

She did wonder what would happen to its class, though.

 

——

 

He was trying to piece together his body and failing, Healing Slime rolling around him anxiously, when the words struck him like a final cherry lightning-bolt on top of this entire disaster.

 

[Class Conditions: Relic Guardian failed.]

[Class – Relic Guardian → Skeleton Knight Class.]

[Skeleton Knight Level 35!]

[Condition – Thickbone Body Obtained!]

[Skill Change: Sword Fighting – Basic → Sword Fighting – Expert Obtained!]

[Skill – Empower Artifact Removed.]

[Skill – Greater Artifact Analysis Removed.]

[Skill – Curse Mitigation (Equipment) Removed…]

 

Oh no. His Skills! It was removing all of them and giving him—

Toren’s heart sank—well, it would if he had one. The voice took all his new [Relic Guardian] Skills, but left him [Artifact: Doubled Charging]. Even so—

His gear gone. All the things that had made him so powerful—stolen!

However, he was alive—well, undead—and his body was smashed, but Healing Slime had gotten his hands. If he had a body—Toren almost felt a sense of relief. He hadn’t earned the Relics, just stolen them from Az’kerash.

But Maviola! And their cushy jobs and—Healing Slime was trembling with fright. It hugged his skull, and Toren apologized to it. He had really messed this entire thing up, hadn’t he? Like always.

His eye-flames dimmed, but Healing Slime just picked his skull up and put it on top of the Slime. It rolled around, and to Toren’s surprise, it felt…proud?

Proud of him. As if him making an enemy of the scariest woman in the world and getting nearly destroyed or converted to a mindless undead was a good thing. Because it was the right thing.

The Healing Slime had opinions! It thought about Nerrhavia and had decided she was a Bad Person. Toren realized that, and his jaw fell off his head. Healing Slime picked it up and collected his bones, rolling forwards, determined to take care of its friend now.

Into the New Lands. Toren lay there, staring at the dark horizons, and then, as he left everything he’d gained behind again, he heard that voice.

It filled him up, no longer that dispassionate voice removing what had made him powerful. This time, it was with impartial delight, as if pride were warring with professionalism, and the skeleton’s eyes blazed bright as it heard the words no other had ever heard.

A title for the skeleton that changed pieces of the world.

 

[Title – The Hero of Nerrhavia’s Fallen obtained!]

[Title Skill – Throw It Back: Counterattack, Twofold Vengeance obtained!]

 

[Title – He Who Struck the Immortal Tyrant obtained!]

[Title Skill – Parry the Tyrant obtained!]

 

[Reputation – Nerrhavia’s Fallen (Heroic) granted!]

[Reputation – Stitchfolk (Favored) granted!]

 

 

The next day, Queen Yisame sent for her [Grand Sage] to analyze why everyone in Nerrhavia’s Fallen was going around beaming.

Not that it was a bad thing, you understand, but given the war with the King of Destruction, all these problems—maybe they could do it again? No one could say why, but she rose to greet the Horns of Hammerad with a huge grin on her face and actually kissed Pisces on the cheek.

Again, no clue. Sometimes things were just like that.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

There shall be three skeleton chapters. I say this because the third part needs editing, but I have a good feeling about it.

My backlog has appeared again—mostly through the power of drinking coffee and writing hard! I hope you’ve been enjoying this arc that you voted for! Imagine, we could have had, uh…Drathian stuff!

In all seriousness, you may actually see elements of other side-stories in this one, and that’s because sometimes a story comes together in a way that ties every other plotline into it. It’s not always what I think is needed, but when it happens, it’s like a bunch of dominos falling and knocking over other dominos.

A world is connected, and I hope you like where we’ve been going with this one. This silly skeleton has one last chapter, and it’ll be good—I’ll be resting and playing Elden Ring: Nightreign with some friends. I don’t know what the game developers were smoking when they made it, but it’s fun?

In other news, I listened to Huntsong and Ghostsong on audiobook, and one day I walked four hours, just because listening to Andrea’s performances were such a treat! It may be weird for me to enjoy a story I wrote, but it feels so long ago that I really did love hearing it all again.

Well, I’ll take that week off so I can recharge, but I’m feeling stronger, as if I’ve levelled up in writing again. This month had a rockier start, but I’m even doing ‘experimental’ writes while streaming. I even have a few mini-chapters I could release during my break? They are very mini, though…we’ll see!

Changing things up is good, it’s nice. Go check out the webcomic if you’re bored! That’s my call to action, though I cannot wait for us to get to some scenes like Erin schooling a certain somebody at chess. Pisces the Nose has appeared, and he looks exactly like I think he would. Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and see you in two weeks!

 

 

Slime Savior by Artsynada!

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/illudanajohns/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/illudanajohns

 

Pekona, Pekona, and more Pekona by Sehad!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/F1F096BR

 

Turnscale, Erin’s Appproval, and Fashion by chalyon!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/chalyon

 

Horns on a Tuesday by Olento!

 

Student Rags and Ragathsi by Phosu!

 

Rags of Civilizations by Kazah!

 

Nerrhavia by aloof1056!

 

Nerrhavia by Gridcube!

 

Nerrhavia by Lanrae!

 

Nerrhavia by LeiTencie!

 

 

---

Previous Chapter Next Chapter