(I am taking a two week break until December 13th for rest and editing! Please see the Author’s Note for details. —pirateaba)

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“I am not dictated by my class. I am more than mere levels and Skills. The day I am beholden to such things, kill me. Make sure to use my body well.”

It sounded like a quote of some kind. But the words were not addressed to any one person in particular.

A man stood at the prow of a ship, observing and musing. The closest person in earshot, a [Captain] who was rightly nervous of his passenger, hesitated.

“…Lord? To whom do you speak?”

The man turned, and his age was apparent in how he moved with a slightly hunched back and ponderous, careful movements. But his body was youthful enough. Or it should have been; instead of a forty year-old man’s body, it seemed to have aged decades in months. His hair had fallen out. His eyes sunken inwards slightly, and, most uncanny of all, the pupils had shifted. It seemed to some as though there were numbers floating in the depths of his gaze. His voice sounded ponderous, like a [Scribe]’s—but he was strong. And the swaying ship did not impede his steps at all.

Slave Lord Thatalocian looked at the [Captain of Cargo] once as one of Roshal’s tribute ships sailed across the vast sea, bound for the Blighted Kingdom. His eyes cast over four more, each one broad, practically a warship’s size, but potbellied, meant to hold neither weapons nor traditional objects. Their cargo could not be stuffed into Chests of Holding.

People. They sat in chains, linked together at the oars, though Roshal’s ships did not require rowing when the wind was filling their sails. [Slavemasters] with whips moved with patrols of bored [Guards], and the ship stank of sweat and fear that the sea breeze could not eradicate.

The [Captain of Cargo] was a man named ‘Thin’. Captain Thin, then, a nickname. He didn’t give out his real name, even to his employers. A real name meant you could be scried and was therefore a weakness. Even if he was on the side of Lailight Scintillation and sailed under Roshal’s aegis, Captain Thin knew that there were many dangers a man could get into.

Such as offending one of Roshal’s most important members. Why he had chosen a cargo ship to travel to Rhir, and not a Courier’s vessel or a warship, was beyond Thin. However, many things were unsettling about Roshal at this moment.

Every day, the winds blew, and dust streaked from the harbor city. Less and less now, but still, the city was filled with it. Dust where there had been people and buildings. Reconstruction had begun; it had been ongoing since the Winter Solstice. But one did not simply rebuild a city so fast. Not even with all the [Slaves] in the world.

The sight had shocked Thin to silence, and he and his crew had crept around the harbor like mice that first week they had visited after doing the Rhir run. Even now, fear and horror were etched into all there. Slave and master. They glanced up at the sky, sometimes, as if expecting a second time to see a spell coming from above. From Khelt.

If there were a name or idea it was forbidden to speak in Lailight Scintillation, well, it would be a rainbow or the Death of Chains’ name. Merely invoking the Deaths of Demons earned even freemen a whipping. But if there were two names now held in fear and horror, they would be Czautha, the Death of Chains, and Fetohep of Eternal Khelt. The Goblin Lord did not count, for all she had done; she was a Goblin in the end. Her horror was that of the Goblin King, and more than one had razed Roshal’s holdings in ages past. And she was dead.

No, it was the undead they now feared, who might well strike them again in his wrath. That slumbering Revenant had dealt Roshal a blow the likes of which it could not remember in this age. Not since the Creler Wars had the city been laid so low. Not even the Death of Chains herself had achieved so much abject destruction.

Children and adults. Slaves and masters. They had died in a single moment as a Tier 7 spell hit the city. That was why Thin was almost grateful to be on this mind-numbingly boring run to Rhir with the usual delivery of cargo. Boring because he knew the route by heart, even with the sealanes amuck. Dangerous because there was always the possibility of pirate attacks, monsters, usual seafaring disasters—and Demons.

If you saw a rainbow or a comet streaking across the sky as you sailed one of Roshal’s blacksail ships, you would touch any lucky symbol you had and pray—pray it was just a celestial phenomenon. Or that someone else died.

It was not an easy job Captain Thin had. And it was true Roshal had suffered greatly of late. But for every ill turn, there was a gain. Roshal had now five [Slave Lords] and [Slave Ladies], each of whom was said to be as cunning and dangerous as Emir Yazdil.

Where had they come from? A mystery. Why they seemed to be in accord, if not always agreement? Confounding, for the many rulers of Roshal were known to infight. Yet these were united.

What was clear was that these were no pretenders. No imitators of their levels and Skills. Lesser masters of Roshal had tested the waters. Arranged for a few [Assassins] to make attempts. Placed themselves against these usurpers.

The lucky ones were dead. Captain Thin had personally seen a particularly odious Slave Master Ulthub, too greedy and excessive by far, and not the cleverest sort, being collared on his last visit to port. The man had screamed and screamed until the magical bindings around his neck had locked shut.

No pity from Thin, though he’d wondered how a pampered Slave Master like Ulthub would be of any use, even as a menial servant. The one who’d overseen the collaring, the Slave Lady Andra, had been of the same opinion.

She had raised a trembling hand as she sat in a floating chair, and Thin had been afraid to gaze at her face. Half her head was gone, but where she should be dead, a strange vaporous substance seemed to be oozing from her head. It didn’t seem like it…hurt. Her voice was shaky as she had spoken.

“The collar is a w-waste. Take this one to the [Alchemists]. M-marked for experimental testing.”

Then she collapsed into her chair and was like a corpse until her servants turned the floating dais back to her holdings. A minute later, she’d jerked up and began to write in a scroll by her side.

Terrifying. Thin had heard tell that she’d been wounded in another attack on Roshal. That she’d survived…what level or what kind of Skill must one have to keep existing like that?

And here he was ferrying another of the five to the Blighted Kingdom. Of the five, Thin was wariest of this man. Because he did not know Slave Lord Thatalocian.

The other four had established themselves by reputation.

Emir Yazdil, the foremost master of Roshal…until now. Cunning, intelligent, impossible to trick, in command of powerful servants and possessed of mercurial tastes. A danger if crossed, but content to let Roshal operate as it willed unless their interests should go against his own.

Clothbinder Lady Shaullile. A Drake woman with a strange title, youngest of the six by far. The most charming as well. The one who managed Roshal’s relationships with other nations and whose [Slaves] were almost entirely Stitch-folk. It was said she refused to acknowledge other Stitch-folk even if they were freefolk or other masters of Roshal.

Slave Lord Pazeral. A man of violent and sudden passions, the most classic of the lot. He went through [Slaves] as they caught his fancy, and he was deadly with a blade. It was said he could appear anywhere he pleased, and he had a command of magic and swordsmanship on par with a Named-rank adventurer.

Administrator of Chains Andra. Now wounded, but still occupying her role as some kind of…[Secretary]? She had requested to run Roshal’s harbor and markets, not directly replacing the [Harbormaster], but as a kind of overseer. She dealt in paperwork more than flesh and demanded only [Slaves] who were superior in mathematics and literature.

And last of all…the mysterious Thatalocian, who had not given his title. He was merely ‘Numerologist Thatalocian’ or ‘Slave Lord Thatalocian’; generic titles.

Of the others, he was an unknown to Captain Thin because he hadn’t immediately absorbed other masters’ holdings and created a financial base of power—at least, visibly. He had refrained from wielding his considerable wealth and relationships to do more than tour Roshal. It was said that he had been found in the poorest Slave Markets in Roshal to the very sewers, inspecting and speaking numbers—but what sort of a master of Roshal had no attendants, no servants? Not even a bodyguard.

Then again, perhaps that had won him his own support among the [Slave Masters] grateful he wasn’t taking their property. Thatalocian certainly had needed nothing but his name to book this transport. He was, then, rich in favors, which was a currency of its own in Roshal.

Thatalocian wore white robes with golden embroidery—not numbers as you might expect, but hourglasses, leaves, even flowers. It looked almost childish, but again, he gave off that weight of age.

He hadn’t responded to Captain Thin’s question. His head had turned, but he had stared at the sweating [Captain of Cargo] for nearly six minutes straight before Captain Thin dared ask again.

“Milord? Was…was that question asked of me?”

“Six. Two. Twenty, eight, nine, fourteen.”

And now he was doing the numbers things again. Captain Thin hesitated, and Thatalocian’s eyes flicked past him.

“Your name, Captain ‘Thin’. A nickname will do if it is the name you are known by. Is it?”

“Y-yes, Slave Lord. It is. If I am interrupting you, I beg your pardons. I merely wondered if you required a response.”

He might have knelt on the decks were he not in view of his crew and uncertain if that was what the man desired. Captain Thin was a freeman; he had a house in Roshal and several house-[Slaves], but he wasn’t considered a master of Roshal. He did not need to kneel, but…

Thatalocian stared past Captain Thin as he spoke, his eyes crossing the waves.

“I shall explain. Six. It was six minutes I waited until you dared to ask me a second question. Two. It has been two days since we left Lailight Scintillation.”

“Yes, Lord. It should not be another night at sea; we will reach the Blighted Kingdom, all things willing, by sundown. The Jars of Wind have not stopped blowing, and this route was not touched by the New Lands.”

Roshal’s ships moved fast for fear of being intercepted. They had, after all, very valuable cargo. Tens of thousands of gold pieces’ worth of [Slaves] and more material to tithe to the Blighted Kingdom. Captain Thin could be rightly proud of how much gold he’d brought to the Blighted Kingdom. It was a service to fight the Demons, and if another man dared spit at him for working for Roshal, Captain Thin’s first rejoinder would be the tithe Roshal gave, which could match any ten nations you chose to name. His second rejoinder would be his cutlass, of course.

Thatalocian didn’t respond to the news about the voyage. He merely continued in that level tone. Patiently explaining.

“20-8-9-14. Your name, Captain Thin. These are the factors I have chosen to consider. Should I require more insights, I would need other numbers. Unique numbers are best. Had you, for instance, only eight fingers, or if I were to witness the number of times you chewed your breakfast. These are small numbers to a [Numerologist], but at my level, they serve.”

“I…I see. What does one do with the numbers, Lord?”

The strange eyes of Thatalocian flashed, and his pupils seemed warped. As if the number ‘2’ were written in his irises, just for a moment. Or was it just Thin’s imagination…? His lips curled upwards, bloodlessly, in a smile.

“Whatever I wish. The numbers are meant to serve my means. Truth or weapons. Insight. So, then. Fifty-one. The sum of your name. Twenty-five and a half. Inauspicious; divided by the days of our company, I come to no number I can use.”

He didn’t acknowledge numbers with decimal points? Captain Thin didn’t truck with that sort of mathematics himself, but it was an odd rule. Thatalocian raised a finger.

“Ah, but there is meaning the other way. Fifty-one and two. 102. And six. Seventeen, then.”

It…what did seventeen mean? But to Thatalocian, there was entire meaning in this strange arithmetic. He nodded to himself.

“My numerology informs me of certainty. Seventeen is the number I shall watch for. My trip, then, will not be in vain. I will discover at least one whom I wish to meet.”

“A [Slave], Lord? The Blighted Kingdom uses our [Slaves] and sells them seldom, but there are rules—and my name isn’t—I beg pardons, but I am not such an important man to matter, let alone to make much of.”

Captain Thin was doubly nervous; getting in trouble with the Blighted Kingdom was risky. But Thatalocian just flicked his fingers.

“Seventeen. I have calculated the number. Do not fear, Captain Thin. Should I fail in any regard, I would be foolish to blame you. My numbers are not infallible; I have seen them break and shatter before. It is merely…think of it as a [Sailor]’s charm for good luck. Just as a man kisses a shell from his homeland’s shore, or a lover’s pendant, so too do I create my own fortune. Seventeen. Perhaps it is how many I will find. Or a signal to what I seek. But it is clear: I do not seek you. With your pardons.”

He started walking down the deck. Captain Thin jumped; he hadn’t been aware he’d been in consideration for…to be the man’s [Slave]? No, no, that was ridiculous. He was a freeman! Then…

“To be your aide, sir? Your personal [Captain]?”

That would be no small elevation. Captain Thin hurried after Thatalocian, hoping to earn more points, but the [Numerologist] merely shook his head.

“It took you six minutes to dare to ask me a question, Captain Thin. It is not numerology but the product of my ears and mind that states you are not the man I seek.”

That annoyed the [Captain of Cargo]. He might not be some warship’s captain, but he’d fought off plenty of threats! He replied, a bit of heat in his tone.

“I was merely being respectful, Lord. That is not the sort of thing one uses to judge a man’s worth, surely?”

Thatalocian was walking by the chained [Slaves] in their berth. He was counting.

“…eight…nine…”

Any fool could see what he was counting towards. He swung his head towards Thin once.

“By what do you measure a man’s worth, Captain Thin?”

The question had a surprising amount of force behind it. Captain Thin wavered, and put on the spot, he blurted out the truth.

“The strength of a man’s arm. How loyal he is. How likely he is to run in a fight. Their knowledge of the sea and deck.”

“All fine attributes. I value these things as you do. But they are not first. Not to me. Not loyalty. Not strength. Nor intelligence or cunning or so many factors.”

So was he a man who left such things to chance? Thin frowned.

“What, then, Lord Thatalocian?”

“The will to do what must be done. The strength of spirit is all. Sixteen. Seventeen. Ah. Perhaps here.”

He came to a row of [Slaves], all of whom appeared underfed and worthless to Thin’s eye. They were chained here probably as punishment. Dregs from the [Slave] markets, the expendable sort. The Blighted Kingdom had need of both skillful talent and menials. Thin waved a hand, truly vexed now. He lied to the [Numerologist].

“Had you the need, I’m sure any member of my crew would serve your employ well. And I would be happy to give them to such an important man as yourself, Lord! What could this lot do?”

The berth had two men well past their prime, a child, what might be their mother, and two scrawny children or teens; it was hard to tell, malnourished and dirty as they were, shaved to avoid lice.

Thatalocian stroked his chin.

“It may not be this seventeen. Do not mistake me, Captain Thin. Numerology is no…science. It is close to divination. More shamanism than magecraft. More occultism than sorcery.”

That made no sense at all. What was occultism? Thin resolved to find a dictionary as he folded his arms.

“And if this was the seventeen?”

“Then it might be this child. Or this man. You who are chained. Do you have the will to serve?”

He asked them a question, and their heads swung from him to Thin; they didn’t even know if Thatalocian was a master. Moreover, would the question land them in trouble or…?

“What use could the child be, Lord Thatalocian? Except as entertainment of some kind or the lowest menial?”

Captain Thin had overstepped himself in his frustration. Thatalocian’s eyes flashed in annoyance. He turned slowly.

“If the will endures, nothing else is needed. I would put a child, bladeless and shackled, against you, Captain Thin, if I saw the look in their eyes was right. I have seen children fight monsters and triumph where grown men, strong men died. [Soldiers] are very well and good; I let Pazeral marshal them and march about. [Soldiers] break before horrors. Brave men claw their eyes out rather than face something they cannot comprehend. I seek those who can endure. Why should I not search for [Slaves] who are so ill-treated? They have survived this. Would you survive until this place?”

Captain Thin was getting more and more disconcerted—and angrier at the idea of a freeman such as himself being chained, or even implied to it.

“I’ve committed no crimes, and I am no debtor, Lord. To imply I should be shackled is an offence! And if I was chained for some offence? I would win my freedom within the year!”

It did happen. A [Slave] saved a master or did some valorous deed and they were freed. Or if they found treasure, it was a common reward. Masters even married their [Slaves] and freed them out of love.

But Thatalocian’s lip just curled.

“The numbers were wise indeed not to point me towards you, Captain Thin. You boast of your deeds with a full belly on the deck of your ship. A fool’s tongue. Such an unpleasant novelty of this time. When I lived, few spoke thus who did not know themselves. It seems this is the way of all now.”

Thin turned crimson at the insult. But he held his tongue out of confusion as much as anything else. When I lived…?

“If I may withdraw, Lord? If you wish to free these [Slaves], their price must be paid.”

“I shall weigh their numbers. Your company I did not ask for, Captain Thin.”

The [Captain] spun on his heel. He marched away rather than embarrass or endanger himself further. Only when he’d gone to the prow of the ship to stew in his anger did he wonder—if Thatalocian had not been speaking to him, then who were the words for?

——

“I am not dictated by my class. I am more than mere levels and Skills. The day I am beholden to such things, kill me. Make sure to use my body well.”

—Holder of Numbers, Binderlord Thatalocian, Twilight of Magic. Date Lost.

Dozing under the burning sun. The lashes burned in the salt air, but it was better than the cells that stank of piss and blood. Drifting off as the ship rocked…

Until the voice spoke. Then the girl jolted awake, terrified and thinking she was about to earn another lash—but no one was around her. She did not understand; the rest of the others on her bench were dozing. Holding the painful oars but not called upon to work, skin reddening under the sun.

She turned her head left and right as far as the chains connected to her iron collar would allow. The rusted metal chafed her skin, but it was already coarse, and she barely felt that. Hunger…hunger was always there, and it made the sunburns, the lashes, and everything else recede. It also made it easier to sleep, but for the voice.

When she saw the strange man walking down the decks with the [Captain] in tow, she recognized the voice at once. Even so…she didn’t expect him to stop. Let alone sweep his eyes over her.

The girl listened to the strange conversation he had with the [Captain] until the man stormed away. Then the [Slave Lord] stood there. And his eyes swept over them.

I will weigh their numbers.

The [Numerologist] inspected each [Slave] in turn, then asked the question again.

“You who are chained. Do you have the will to serve?”

This time, he got a response. Not from her, but from one of the older men, who bowed deep.

“To serve you is the highest honor, Lord.”

It was the wrong answer. The moment he spoke, the [Numerologist]’s eyes flickered. He lifted a hand.

“Not you. So once again, I forget. Not me.”

He spoke as enigmatically to them as Captain Thin. The old man flinched, but no blow came, and he seemed confused as he shrank back, spindly arms covering his chest which showed all his ribs. Next to him was a Stitch-man, almost as old, and mother and child.

Had he avoided a terrible fate or…? The girl didn’t know. She was Human, bound for the Blighted Kingdom, they said. She wasn’t sure if this man was better than Rhir’s Hell or not.

He might be far, far worse than being killed by Demons or whatever was in store. It was said that if you were lucky, you might be merely made servants in the Blighted Kingdom. If you were unlucky, they’d put you on a farm fighting the menaces in the soil in the outer regions. If you were very, very lucky, they might make you citizens. It was better than Lailight Scintillation’s Slave Markets.

“Again. You who are chained. Do you have the will to serve? I will punish none of you for answering wrongly. Remain silent and you will continue to wherever this voyage takes you.”

None of them believed that, of course. But the question had to be asked, so the Stitch-man in line asked as the two teenagers and Stitch-mother held their tongues.

“Serve…who, Lord? Whom are we to serve if not you?”

Perhaps he was some buyer looking on behalf of a master? But he had been called ‘Lord’ by the Captain. Thatalocian’s reply was pleased.

“Roshal.”

Again, the [Slaves] were confused, and even some of the guards and crew listening in glanced at each other. Were they to be used as public servants of some kind? Cleaning the docks? That…might be worth it. Thatalocian saw the confusion in their eyes and clarified again, which unclarified things even more.

“Not the city of Lailight Scintillation. Nor any one master. The nation, if we are such, or the idea alone. Roshal, or perhaps, merely the world. If not even the world, then sanity.”

“S-sanity, Lord?”

The Stitch-man asked, as if convinced Thatalocian had lost his. And that answer disqualified him. The [Numerologist] turned away.

“What else could be worth serving and protecting? You, mother.”

He waited, and the mother took a gamble and held her child up, the chains clinking so Thatalocian could see the Stitch-boy.

“I will serve, Master. If you take my child with me, we will serve Roshal and sanity with all we have!”

A calculated risk, but again—failure. Thatalocian glanced down.

“You are this child’s mother?”

She nodded; whether or not that was strictly true, the girl didn’t know. Mothers sometimes took care of children who were abandoned. It was true in every sense that mattered, and the child certainly clung to her, so she wasn’t doing this as a ploy; she was skinnier than the others, and she might have given food up for the child.

Thatalocian peered down at the child and mother. And his eyes seemed to glow.

“Two. No. A pair of numbers intertwined make no sense unless…tell me your names.”

The woman did, and the [Numerologist] effortlessly translated them to numbers. Added them together. Subtracted them. He found nothing that squared with seventeen or whatever he was looking for.

“No.”

She sagged in her chains, though it was still unclear if she were spared or…but it seemed her courage had won some approval. The Slave Lord turned.

“This child, this deck, is underfed. Roshal does not want for food even now, even at sea. Feed them.”

He addressed a [Slavemaster], and the woman with the whip licked her lips.

“The Captain does not reward [Slaves] unless they’ve survived storm or attack, Lord—overfeeding them makes them rowdy. We’re almost to port, and then the Blighted Kingdom will—”

She had taken the wrong cue from Captain Thin. The [Numerologist] was annoyed. He spoke.

“Now.”

The single word jolted the [Slavemaster] and her [Guards] into motion. They were running down the deck towards the ship’s hold before they slowed. They turned, saw Thatalocian staring at them—ran faster.

Captain Thin seemed askance and ready to protest when food meant for the crew came up and was ladled into dishes and thrust into disbelieving [Slaves]’ hands. They ate feverishly, terrified they’d be beaten or it would be taken away. Thatalocian watched for a moment, then addressed the two teens, the girl included.

“We near the harbor. I have not looked upon Rhir’s shores my entire life. Only heard whispers of a land so foul that even the Those-That-Rise who clawed their way into the Long Night died there. They tell me it is a kingdom now. I will not remain there, but return to Roshal. Do you have the will to serve?”

The young man remained silent next to the girl. He was shaking, but he had decided whatever this [Numerologist] was, he was too powerful. She understood; if he could order a [Slavemaster] around, he was a powerful man, and mere [Slaves] would surely be expendable to him.

However…she had heard his voice. She made the mistake of glancing up, just once, wanting to see something of his face even if she said nothing.

That was all it took. She saw he was indeed balding, old, and humbler than most Slave Masters with their fine clothing. He seemed almost like a…a hermit of some kind. Or the old man who lived in the lighthouse that guided ships into port. An old keeper.

But not a weary one. She gazed into his eyes and saw that they were cloud-grey. But his pupils…

They were numbers. Two different ones in the flash of a moment.

0 and 6.

She gasped. Flinched and clapped a hand to her mouth in a rattle of chains, but it was too late. He saw the motion and his eyes lit, no longer numbers but intent.

“You.”

“N-no! I don’t have the will, Master! I don’t—you surely were not speaking to me.”

She protested, voice raw, coughing, and he stooped lower.

“You heard me. Unchain this one. What is your name, girl?”

Now Captain Thin was peering over, incredulous, and the girl was terrified. And—hopeful? Hope was something she had thought damned again and again, but it kept appearing.

Hope she might survive and reach the Blighted Kingdom. Hope when she saw the food she had yet to taste. Hope in small things. Even if it was dashed again and again—she had hoped the Bane of Roshal might liberate her when she had been taken to pay her parents’ debts. Hoped she would see a rainbow and hear the [Slavers] tormenting her die.

Even now…Thatalocian stooped and gazed into her eyes.

“If you heard my voice, that too matters. That is no trick of numbers, merely the work of my other classes. [The Seeking Words] find those I value, just like my numbers do. As I said, I am not one class. Even numerology is but a skill to serve.”

She did not understand. But she babbled that she had heard, and when she repeated what he had said, he nodded.

“What is your name, girl? You are now among my company. Whether you are chained or shed them, you and I will travel together until I return to Roshal.”

Her heart leapt at that. Hope, that treacherous [Rogue], slipped her chains of it, and she answered.

“Faea, Master!”

And then his face shifted. He recoiled—and his excitement became an expression of regret. Thatalocian lowered his hands and exhaled.

“Ah. But I still listen to the numbers. Alas.”

She did not get it, not until he spelled it out for her.

“6-1-5-1. Thirteen. A number that has always had meaning for meetings and gatherings. You and I…we shall see.”

What did that—? Then Faea was afraid again, but the [Slavers] were already unshackling her chains. Just because of her name, he had decided…? She stumbled after him, not sure what to do. The Slave Lord stood on the deck like a mourner for a moment. But after he turned and saw her longingly gazing at the soup pot, he approached. She flinched, but he simply took the ladle, filled the bowl, and handed her a spoon.

So then. She began to eat until she was close to being sick, and he told her to eat slower or she would hurt herself, and she tried. Was he a monster or a ‘good master’?

She did not know, but if Thatalocian could have heard the private thoughts in her head, he would have had a simple answer:

“Whatever I am and become, it is clawing to keep the door of sanity open. To hold onto meaning, however much it frays.”

He had been born before all of the Slave Lords except Pazeral and Loerhin. Thatalocian was third-oldest of them all, and he had lived in a time not even Pazeral had dreamed of. The Long Night, when magic died.

He supposed…what he understood of Roshal was different from what they did.

——

The slave-ships docked and unloaded their cargo. It was an orderly process; [Slavemasters] cracked whips over the heads of [Slaves] filing out onto the docks, where officials of the Blighted Kingdom made lists and processed each [Slave] into the places they would first go.

These were not the main docks where warships and trading vessels docked. Because of the sensibilities of other nations, like the [Knights] who came to crusade from Terandria, the slave-ships of Roshal used private docks. Here, the [Slaves] piled onto the less-beautiful pier, which was still watched by rings of guard-towers and barrier spells, and stood in lines.

The last dregs from the cages sometimes had to be dragged out because they were too weak to move. Those that had expired on the voyage were usually tossed overboard when found, but if they had passed away here, they were not summarily thrown into the harbor. Instead…a hooded figure in black robes passed by the [Slavemasters].

A [Necromancer]. Even corpses had a use in the Blighted Kingdom, and the [Slaves] shuddered and realized they were in Hell. And Hell or Lailight Scintillation, which was worse? This was the kingdom of the unending war against Demons. Death could be anywhere.

—Yet Thatalocian seemed to view the Blighted Kingdom as a surprise. He was peering around like a fascinated owl, tilting his head left and right, blinking at the shining city beyond, which glowed with bright metals and a beauty that Faea longed to see. It was far less bright than Chandrar’s shores here; there was a weird pall to the skies that made her feel it was always more cloudy than light, but the Blighted Kingdom shone, as if the ground were bright enough to make up for the skies.

“I should explain, then. However much time we are in each other’s company. I have grown out of practice, explaining. I did not explain well to the Emir Yazdil, though he attempted understanding. If there are more in my company, I must explain.”

That was what he said to Faea as they stood on the ships being disembarked. She jumped; she didn’t realize she merited being addressed. But Thatalocian was not speaking just to her. His eyes swept the crew, the [Guards], and because she was with him, Faea saw the same thing happen.

One of the [Guards] twitched and glanced around. Then nudged the others around them. They peered around, then went back to standing. Thatalocian winked one eye at Faea.

“Both of you are now in my service.”

Again, the figure below jumped as he spoke. Then Thatalocian was striding down the gangplanks.

“You hear my words.”

“What—? Yes, sir!”

A startled man snapped to attention. He was a Stitch-man, tanned of skin and young, one of the many [Guards] who kept [Slaves] from being unruly. But he had heard Thatalocian. Just like Faea.

“You have heard a strange voice speaking. It was mine. My words sought you out. Follow me.”

“I—yes, Slave Lord, but my captain, my duty—”

The Stitch-man pointed to the Slave Master he was supposed to guard, but the nervous man waved him off. He turned to his [Captain]—not Thin, but another [Captain]—and the woman, a Naga, bowed instantly.

“Wherever he goes, you are to follow. You understand? Lord Thatalocian, do you wish for the entire patrol…?”

“No. Only those who heard my voice. Your name?”

“L-Lintl, Lord Thatalocian.”

“12-9-14-20-12. Hm. A fine enough name. ‘Twere all the letters more than ten, it would be a name to move the numbers about, in order to understand. That is another easy pattern, Faea.”

“Yes, Master.”

She stood there, and the [Guard], Lintl, hesitated as he looked at his fellow [Guards], who were giving him wide-eyed glances. But Thatalocian just beckoned, and they stood to the side of the gangplanks.

“Explanations. I am Thatalocian. You may address me how you please. Slave Lord is the address used today. It was not so when I lived. I was then called ‘Holder of Numbers’ or Binderlord by both those of Roshal and those who knew me.”

Faea exchanged glances with Lintl, for he was as confused as she until he yanked his eyes away and glowered. She kept her gaze low and on the ground; he at least knew how she should be behaving.

Yet Thatalocian was trying to explain, and clearly, he desired a response this time, so, because Lintl was still processing this, Faea dared ask. She was already having a surreal waking dream. Why not push it farther if she was in fact dying of heatstroke on the ship?

“What do you mean, M—Binderlord, when you say ‘when I lived’? When you lived in Roshal? Elsewhere?”

His lips curved upwards.

“No. When I lived my first life. I died and wandered as a ghost on Chandrar’s soils as all did. Until I was given the chance to live once more. I am a long-dead ghost returned to mortality. Andra…is almost a ghost once more. They tell me I am so old I predate written records. I am many times older than this Blighted Kingdom.”

This time, Lintl and Faea exchanged another glance and moved back from Thatalocian in the way people avoided the mad. He said it so matter-of-factly it raised every hair on Faea’s body. She shivered, for he was insane…

“Ah, you do not believe.”

“I—I do, Lord.”

She lied, and he smiled.

“You do not. This is well. I shall prove it to you. Belief is a fine thing to have. It is enough to know that I am old and higher level than any but the other Slave Lords and Yazdil. When I lived, my levels were not so rare. I was one of my peers. But those who pass Level 50, or Level 60, seem to be exceedingly rare. There were a hundred such in Roshal when we gathered to repel one of Those-That-Rise.”

What did she say to that? Prove it? She had a feeling he could. Thatalocian turned to Lintl.

“I have recruited Faea as one who might serve Roshal and this world, or sanity if nothing else. Though I fear her number weighs heavily. Do you understand?”

“No, sir. I know of you, of course. But how does one serve…sanity? I’m just a Level 13 [Guard], sir. This is my 6th voyage. I don’t know more than to crew a ship.”

Lintl was plainly in fear of his life. Thatalocian smiled warmly.

“I chose you because my class, the numbers, and my Skills found you and Faea. Think of me as a [Soothsayer] in part. I just use numbers rather than their methods. As to your other question, it is simple. To serve Roshal, we do what they need. We are soldiers when war comes. Agents of justice when needed—it is the work of any [Lord] in a fiefdom. You may fill this role. But to serve sanity is far, far simpler. All you must do is bring meaning out of irrationality.”

Someone please take me with you. Faea didn’t really mean that—but she cast an eye at the lines of [Slaves] anyways. Thatalocian sighed.

“It is not that difficult. Perhaps it is because you have never seen sanity fray. What is the word for Those-That-Rise now? Ah, yes. Seamwalkers.”

Now, every head turned at the name of that horror, and some of the Blighted Kingdom’s officials glanced at this stranger, but a few of Roshal’s own intercepted them, whispering and explaining him no doubt. Thatalocian touched under one eye.

“The horrors from beyond the edge of the world. I have seen thousands. Slain few with my bare hands, for I am no great warrior. But when I lived, they rose unending to devour a world where magic had died. To look upon them is to find your grasp of the world slipping. Men and women lose their minds to even behold what does not make sense. That is what it is to defend sanity.”

“Kill Seamwalkers?”

Lintl was shaking now, holding his plain steel spear, but Thatalocian’s huge hand was gentle upon his shoulder.

“No, boy. You are not ready for that. Defending sanity comes in far easier ways. Let me explain it now to you as I would a child in Roshal. If you wish to defend sanity, bring meaning to the world. So. Do you have clothing?”

“Yes. In my cabin…?”

“Fetch it before we depart. When you go to sleep this night, Lintl, lay your clothing out. Do you know how to fold it well? Fold each shirt and stack them together. Shirts in a single pile, pants in another. Or by color. If you wish, make a pattern of them. This small action is enough.”

Something about how he said that…made sense to the two. It was stupid, but Thatalocian lifted a hand, forestalling comments.

“This will not stave off the insanity of Those-That-Rise in the flesh. But it is some measure of sanity, of normalcy. It is the power of order, patterns, and what you bring to your room and clothing you shall wear about you. If all in a city do this, then it is some small measure of sanity. That is how one serves sanity. These ships are a greater example.”

He waved at the ships moored at the docks. Thatalocian tapped the hull of one with his knuckles. He had, Faea realized, a lantern at his side. An odd tool—it looked like he’d carved all kinds of things into the metal.

“The sea is vast and dark. If you were floating on your back in the midnight waters, you might well go insane from the vast terror of it. At least, the landfolk do. Even Drowned Folk fear being alone. Loneliness is another gnawing force at sanity for some. But the sea—how does one bring sanity to the sea?”

“A ship.”

Faea’s answer was correct, and though Lintl jerked at her speaking up without permission, Thatalocian’s smile was approving.

“A ship is meaning. Safety. A house is sanity against the dark night. A candle a ward against the darkness. Unless one can see in the dark, like a Goblin. They have different methods of sanity, and I welcome them all.”

“So…so I could fold clothing to serve you, Binderlord?”

That sounded good to Faea. Thatalocian scratched his chin.

“We shall see. I hope my numbers have brought me more than a [Launderer]. But then, any class of sufficient levels exceeds any other. I would trade an army a million strong for a single Level 80 [Beggar] in a heartbeat. Now come: I wish to see this Blighted Kingdom.”

The [Slaves] were leaving, and he began to stride after a group. Still talking. Lintl followed with Faea as the rest of the [Slavers] watched. Faea had to ask the obvious question.

“But why, Binderlord?”

Why come to the Blighted Kingdom? Thatalocian’s reply was simple.

“I wish to know if this great force is worth supporting. I am Roshal. The Emir Yazdil claims it so. I shall weigh their value, for what concerns the world concerns Roshal. If there is an ill to the world, we shall join against it.”

He spoke like he expected Roshal to fight. He spoke like Roshal did more than buy and sell [Slaves]. Then Faea saw his head turn and regard Captain Thin, and she recognized a vague contempt in his eyes.

Then—she began to hope again, that treacherous feeling.

——

New [Slaves] to the Blighted Kingdom were given a shock: after being processed off the ships, they were immediately brought to holding areas and fed.

A generous meal, almost always soup with flatbread and given in doses so their stomachs wouldn’t be damaged from the deprivation, but enough to fill them up over the course of hours.

This was not merely to keep them alive from the privations of sea, however short; it was a calculated act.

Much like how new officers in Rhir were given tests to make sure they could work together, it was policy of the Blighted Kingdoms to awe the [Slaves] with generosity. Washed bedding, first aid for their wounds, if not actual potions these days, and rest.

After all, what inspired [Slaves] to toil and work harder than hope? They surely knew they were in Hell, but the Blighted Kingdom was the bulwark against it. Even a [Slave] had purpose.

It was as the [Slaves] were fed, then, that the [Recruiters] and officials came back and gave the [Slaves] a choice. They would be sorted according to their classes or physiques into suitable occupations.

Mostly as menial-work or hands for farms and so on—not enviable jobs, though if they were loyal and demonstrated their ability to level or be a credit, citizenship was well within reach. The officials would cite how many [Slaves] had been elevated to citizen this year, a number always in the tens of thousands.

Then, to the round-eyed [Slaves], the [Recruiters] would make their pitch: earn your freedom right now. Join the army.

“Any man, woman, or even child who swears to fight the Demons will be freed on the spot and be accorded the rights of any citizen! You will be a [Soldier] for ten years, or if you are a child under the age of fourteen, trained until you can begin service. Afterwards, you may well retire with pay or continue to serve the Blighted Kingdom in any way you please, even journey from Rhir!”

Ten years. Being a [Soldier] for that long…? The [Recruiters] used their Skills. Appealed to the likeliest candidates, and if a few began to volunteer, many, or sometimes all, would choose that.

If they refused, well, the Blighted Kingdom had [Slaves] anyways. This batch, it looked to be a hundred out of nearly eight times that ready to enlist.

The [Head Recruiter] was dressed in polished armor, impressing upon the [Slaves] that even the meanest [Soldier] of the Blighted Kingdom was far, far better trained and equipped than a [Soldier] of Reim or a Walled City. Fed too.

However…there was something off about today. He couldn’t understand why, and one of the officials kept checking her lists.

“Something wrong, Chrine?”

He murmured as one of the other [Recruiters] took over. She was checking the names and numbers of [Slaves]. They had to update the lists with dead [Slaves], but the Blighted Kingdom let no data go to waste. The woman, a Dullahan, shook her head.

“No. I—I keep counting, because I think we’re off…but the numbers add up. We had 17 deaths, 1 freed [Slave] enroute—and there should be 865 people here. My headcount is 850.”

The [Head Recruiter] did the math.

“865 – 17 – 1 is…84750.”

“Yes, exactly. It is…it is that, isn’t it?”

Embarrassed, the woman rubbed at her eyes.

“I must be low on sleep. I’m sorry, Kobl. Don’t mind me.”

He flashed her a smile and wondered if she’d have time to share a drink after work. Relationships between fellow workers was encouraged as long as the power dynamics weren’t imbalanced. More children between capable people was good for the Blighted Kingdom in the long run…but the child-killing curse that the Death of Magic had laid on the Blighted Kingdom still tore at the heartstrings.

Still, he had to admit something felt a bit…weird today. Kobl glanced around and saw a likely candidate for the army.

A huge man—no, damn, he looked sixty or older! He was hunched over and eating some soup next to a Stitch-man in—armor? Kobl frowned.

“Is that one of Roshal’s [Guards] or are they arming [Slaves]?”

He pointed, amazed no one had called this out. They had guards in case a [Slave] was a spy or simply dangerous. A [Soldier] strode over, and the big fellow glanced up. He lifted a hand, spoke, and the [Soldier] came back.

“He says they’re just here to observe, Recruiter Kobl.”

“Oh, very good then.”

Kobl relaxed and saluted the huge figure. A shame too. He seemed like he could have been a strong [Lineholder] or [Shieldman] if he were two decades younger. He went on with the recruitment, just wishing the old fellow would talk a bit quieter. He had a job to do.

——

“They organize well. I have not seen walls so mighty nor so many ships or soldiers arrayed together in such cohesion, again, in my life.”

“Never once, Binderlord?”

Faea was having a dream, but enjoying it. Lintl glowered at her as they followed the [Slaves] who hadn’t volunteered to join the army. Thatalocian handed her his bowl of soup, and she wolfed it as he shook his head.

“Armies…did not endure the Long Night well. In a thousand men, how many break when they see Those-That-Rise? A single swing could obliterate them all. And when one will breaks, more are likely to follow.”

“How did you make war then, Lord?”

Lintl was fascinated, even if he was buying into this a lot less than Faea. Thatalocian appeared confused.

“War? We never warred with Those-That-Rise, merely slew or repelled them as they came. To war is to assume we could win. Hunters fought alone or in groups. I would hear of Those-That-Rise that were a great threat and send what I had to kill it. If they failed, I would send more. Or close our gates, lock every shutter, and endure their assault until they wearied or left. If they breached the walls, we fought until they were dead or we.”

It sounded like a horror to make the Blighted Kingdom’s lives seem easy! Indeed, even some of the Blighted Kingdom’s [Soldiers] glanced back at Thatalocian, and Faea breathed.

“How could anyone survive, Thatalocian?”

That was her mistake. Instantly, Lintl cuffed her with one of his hands, hard enough that her head rang.

“You go too far, slave—!”

He snarled as she sagged against one wall, flinching and holding her hands up. He would have struck her again for daring to address Thatalocian without a title, but Thatalocian’s hand struck him.

The Stitch-man bounced off one wall, and the Blighted Soldiers whirled, blades drawn. But Thatalocian merely lifted a hand.

“I was disciplining one of my followers. Be at ease.”

“Do not do that outside, sir. You will alarm civilians. Violence against others is prohibited.”

One of the [Soldiers] sheathed his sword after a moment, and Thatalocian inclined his head. He stood over Lintl as the young man tried to steady himself.

“I told Faea she had permission to address me. Is it the way of Roshal to beat [Slaves] for the slip of a tongue?”

“She’s a [Slave], Lord—!”

“Is it the way of Roshal to punish for mistakes?”

Thatalocian placed a hand on Lintl’s neck and drew him closer. His sunken eyes bored into Lintl’s, and the young man shouted, afraid.

“Yes! They’re [Slaves]!”

“You say that as if it excuses everything. Is decency not a quality prized amongst masters?”

“Only if they want to be decent, Binderlord.”

Faea watched from behind Thatalocian, both delighted and afraid of Lintl’s revenge. The [Numerologist] sighed.

“Each of my peers comes from a different era of law. When I lived, a [Slave] was no more wasted than a loaf of bread. This I shall keep. Remember this, Lintl. Faea is a [Slave]. Do not diminish her number, for it diminishes your own. There are uses for such corrupted numbers, but I would beware that choice.”

Lintl staggered upright, eyes blazing.

“If I work for you, Lord—! I am a freeman! I can choose!”

“Yes. If you like, turn around and go back to your ship and crew. If you wish to follow a ghost and seek what I have—power, wealth, influence—then follow. Faea has no choice. Pazeral accused me of not understanding [Slaves]. I do; I simply see a different use for them than he.”

Ah, so he was still Roshal. Faea followed, and after a moment, Lintl did too. He pulled something out of his jaw.

“You knocked my teeth out, Lord. How are you so strong…?”

Cloth teeth were in his palm, needing resewing. Thatalocian snorted.

“This is purely my level. That is not strength of any kind I would value. Ah—so you know, my powers as a numerologist are varied. If you hear me speaking these numbers, run. 8-1-1-4-5. Or if you hear me speaking 19-8-9-24-18-5-3—cover your ears and do not look no matter what. Else you will die. I have other numbers, but those two I use most often.”

“Haade, Lord Thatal—”

He had a hand at her mouth so fast that she ran into it. Then his eyes opened wide.

“Some names have power, Faea. Numbers can contain names I would not utter casually. Not that one.”

Had he…grown bigger just now? He was at his regular size, just over six feet, even hunched, or was that…?

Faea’s eyes went round, and Lintl licked his lips. She didn’t say the other word. Just…thought it.

“Wh-why would those names be powerful, Lord Thatalocian?”

Lintl asked, and the [Numerologist] answered again candidly.

“Power has always been difficult to acquire in any era, Lintl. This is a truth. In the Long Night? I fashioned wards against madness. This is one such.”

He held the lantern at his side up.

“This is what you would deem an artifact, though it has no magic…I do not understand magic, for in the time I lived there was none until the night ended. This is just meaning. Few in this world remember this power outside of Drath. There, the numbers are large. Outside of it? A new number has appeared in Izril. One knows the strength of it in Rhir. Yet neither has my mastery, I think. This is far, far more meaning. A lifetime of it. As my robes.”

He gestured at the flower embroidered into the hem of his robes.

“A flower?”

“Bravery. A reminder of beauty in darkness. Everything has meaning, Faea. I found mine in numbers. Hence my title. Holder of Numbers. One who remembers reason in numbers. Roshal was a bastion of sanity against dark tides. The name you spoke was an ally of mine. A terrible, dangerous ally. When he died, I wrote his numbers into my own. I can take on his power.”

They were almost out of the tunnels, but they lingered a moment; the city beyond was bustling with life. People buying and selling items, a city as beautiful and fair as Faea could imagine. The [Slaves] were barely noticeable as they followed their new masters into the city.

Yet they remained in the tunnels, because the darkness seemed to fit Thatalocian for a moment. His shadow was long, and suddenly, Faea wished that lantern he held were lit. For she felt as if sanity were fraying. Lintl’s eyes were flicking from Thatalocian to the light. He was still in denial, but…

“And the other name, Binderlord?”

Thatalocian’s head turned, and his sunken eyes deepened.

“That was no ally. When I was thirty years old, one crawled from the tides and screamed. No hunter could kill it. Not Noelictus’ brave warriors. Not any force from Roshal. So we barricaded ourselves inside the fortress. Closed every window. It screamed. And screamed. And burst into the tunnels. The hallways ran red with gore, and I was not first to find it. I was merely the one who lived. So I named it as I knelt in its dying brain and let it know what it was. Then I ripped its number out and stole its power.”

“Impossible.”

Thatalocian didn’t turn his head to Lintl, but the lantern emitted a pale, eerie light as he lifted it. It flickered out, and he returned it to his side.

“Did I not name myself? I am Binderlord Thatalocian. Impossible? Be very careful with that word, boy. Impossible is a thin barrier of the mind. When it shatters, the waters rush in quickly. Come; I would see the Blighted Kingdom’s sins.”

——

To Faea, used to Lailight Scintillation’s mixed wonders by day and debauched horrors by night—at least for [Slaves]—the Blighted Kingdom was a far ‘cleaner’ city, at least, the portside capital was.

It had so few [Slaves]! Now and then she could see someone attending a stall or sweeping the street or cleaning sewers, but this was the most multicultural city she had ever seen outside of Roshal. Every species came here, though notably, Dullahans were still a minority.

Which was odd, because every species had strong representation. If Humans still predominated, it was strange to see equal numbers of Drakes, Gnolls, and Lizardfolk, all without that usual animosity they shared.

Because they were of the Blighted Kingdom. Outsiders were evident not just because of their dress, accents, or unfamiliarity, but by the way they carried their nations with them. They were from an outside world with politics and wants and desires.

Here, there was just the cause and the Demons. Good and evil.

It was alluring to Faea in a way she couldn’t describe. More than once, she saw a poster that wasn’t telling anyone any important information, just a kind of commendation for a citizen of note. A [Baker] who had fed an entire company in need of provisions when they were short, a [Farmer] who had labored for fifty years, commended by a Lord Hayvon…

She began to think that the promise made to the [Slaves] wasn’t false; if they worked here, they could be free and level! Even Lintl seemed to enjoy the atmosphere, acting as a tour guide, though he wasn’t that experienced with the city.

Thatalocian peered at the fine stone and glass, the modern houses abundant with both style and technology, with great interest; he did not discount the luxury or convenience of Paranfer’s citizens. But he was also curious for another reason.

“The devastation dealt to Lailight Scintillation as well as this city by the King of Khelt and the Goblin Lord is not visible here. Even now, the scars of both’s devastation linger on Roshal’s shores. How have they rebuilt so swiftly?”

Both Faea and Lintl blanched as he invoked the twin calamities. Of the two blows, Fetohep’s may have been the most immediately devastating. But as for the Goblin Lord Ragathsi…Lintl glanced around the seemingly-pristine streets.

“I am told that the Blighted Kingdom, eh, expects such attacks. They can rebuild what was damaged quickly, and their streets do not crack easily, Lord.”

“Better-made than Roshal. A lesson to be learned. They still find those…‘landmines’ in the harbors, do they not?”

Faea nodded.

“Th-they sent [Slaves] to find and dispose of them, Lord. Thousands upon thousands.”

Few who were chosen came back. The thought of being selected had terrified everyone in the markets. Thatalocian was disapproving.

“Flesh over gold. A waste of both. So this Blighted Kingdom is readier for war, but too rich.”

Too rich? Could one be that? He explained as the confused duo stared at him.

“When I lived, Roshal was no less ready for war, but it had no surplus. Nothing to spare. It was crude, serviceable. Were this city made truly for battle, there would be no windows, merely stone bunkers, deep caverns and walls. They say the Blighted Kingdom fights an eternal battle. I say it has been winning if this is its capital.”

That was…true. Faea blinked and gazed around; if the Demons were so deadly, then surely no one could have a beautiful stallfront store like the one they were passing by. But then, this was behind 1st Wall. Was it so wrong to have a beautiful capital as proof they were reclaiming Rhir?

It was beyond her, and Lintl too evidently, because he changed subjects as he pointed ahead.

“If we’re lucky, they’ll have a few entertainments; there are always some, Lord. There’s almost no crime to be had in the city, either. I’m told outside of the First Wall, where we are, you can find some, but the entire kingdom is focused on one thing. Only other foreigners spit on our shoes here. The Blighted Kingdom appreciates Roshal rightly.”

“All to fight these Demons.”

It was Thatalocian who didn’t seem to feel the spirit of Rhir. He glanced left and right, then turned.

“Have you ever seen a Demon or known anyone who’s had a conversation with these folk? When I lived, they did not exist. Rhir lay empty.”

By now, the two had gotten used to how he talked, extraordinary as it was, so they told him of how the Demon King had arisen after the Creler Wars and made war on the world; the Blighted Kingdom had repulsed them time and again, but his Deaths and armies assailed the walls, which were now five-strong.

Thatalocian was not impressed.

“A convenient story that says little and tells much. All the more suspicious. I have witnessed the Death of Magic and Death of Chains firsthand. I understand Yazdil’s reasons. But he is a self-serving individual. I seek the truth.”

“Binderlord? How can you say that? The world knows of the Demons, and the Death of Chains assaulted Roshal itself!”

She’d seen that, though she’d been screaming and begging to be released like the howling Djinni until they were punished. But for the sake of argument, and especially here—!

The [Numerologist] exhaled.

“I question this place just as I question the evidence of my eyes when it is dark, Faea. If the Blighted Kingdom cannot withstand a question, then it is flawed. Ah, but perhaps it is also my level. Here.”

So saying, he unhooked the lantern from his belt and began to wave it. Again, that pale glow filled it, and the [Numerologist] made a curious gesture with his other hand. He held it so his palm almost touched his nose and shook the lantern to the rhythm of his words, which he intoned in a bass voice.

“0. 1. 1. 2. 3. 5. 8. 13. 21. 34. 55. 89…”

What was he…? At first, the words felt…small. And then they began to get bigger. Larger and larger, piling on top of themselves with his voice until they drowned out—Faea clapped her hands to her ears, but they were not larger in the sense of mere volume.

They were drowning out something else. She could see it; a bubble surrounding the swaying lantern. As the [Numerologist] chanted, it felt like the city grew less…vivid. Less beautiful. The nobility of the people around her, the cause that had livened Faea’s heart, reduced. Became mundane and small.

“Wh—what are you—stop it. Stop it, Binderlord. Please—!”

Lintl didn’t seem to mind the chanting as much as Faea. He just jumped and gazed around, but the [Slave] recoiled and tried to hold her hands over her ears. He was making the streets dingier, the people less happy. They even seemed less content as the bubble expanded—

“Stop it!”

She didn’t realize she’d kicked him until he stopped chanting. Then Faea flinched, squatted down, and curled up. This time, he was going to—

“Hm. You are braver than you appeared aboard the ship. But if this displeases you, know that I stripped this pleasant reality away because I must see. You are welcome to bathe in this delusion; this can serve sanity. But it is another kind of bubble that pops.”

Thatalocian’s lantern went back to his side. The bubble of whatever he’d been doing ceased, and Faea felt better again. She looked up, flinching, but he merely extended a hand.

“Lord—Lord, what was that?”

Lintl was so stunned he didn’t even advocate to beat her within an inch of her life, which Faea appreciated.

“[Chant of Logic]. A means to strip away illusions or build a grasp on mundanity. You understand, then. Have you ever seen a Demon with your own eyes?”

Thatalocian was addressing Lintl; it was Faea’s turn to back away, waiting for the world to normalize. People were glancing their way, but whatever Thatalocian was doing, it deflected their attention—mostly. Lintl half-bowed.

“I have, Lord.”

“Really?”

“Prisoners. They don’t speak; they’re gagged and spellbound, but citizens jeer and stone them. To the death at times. Would you see…?”

“Yes.”

Faea got up and followed Thatalocian shakily. Peering at the streets and smiling people. He had shown her the truth, maybe. But it was such a painful one…! Couldn’t one thing be good?

Maybe he was wrong. He could make the streets seem less beautiful, but the Demons were out there. Faea didn’t believe this Thatalocian was perfect. Even so, she still followed, for she was a [Slave].

They were just in time, as it turned out. Not only did they get to see some Demons in cages, but they were also present for a state funeral. The group pushed to the front of the crowd, and Thatalocian tapped the shoulder of a [Knight] watching the solemn procession.

“This is fit for a [Prince]. Who has passed?”

The [Knight] removed his helm as several pallbearers marched forwards. Unlike the solemn, precise [Soldiers] and the Blighted Kingdom’s own [Knights], this was a motley group of weeping people no older than Faea herself. The [Knight] nodded to the young folk.

“Some [Heroes] of Rhir. Slain by the Goblin Lord Ragathsi, I am told. On top of those killed by the King of Khelt.”

Thatalocian focused on the [Heroes] of Rhir. Then at the cages of Demons, who provoked a roar of anger after the weeping and mourning cries. His eyes narrowed as a great beast, which had a Wyvern’s head and a second, grotesque Ogre’s face and the tail of a great, shaggy wolf, clawed at the bars.

A mutated monster of Rhir and a dozen silent Demon [Soldiers], who shielded their faces from stones being hurled at them. His eyes narrowed.

“Is that all? Those are no Seamwalkers.”

“Lord, their faces!”

Lintl stared at one Demon with three eyes and eight arms sprouting from her back. She had red skin, and another resembled Drakes and Lizardfolk in that…he…had scales, but he was a creature unlike either group with a wide salamander’s head and stout, circular torso. Some of the Demons appeared more…normal, but they still had purple skin or horns.

“That is merely the effects of mutation. The result of exposure to Seamwalkers. Any fool who has witnessed their corruption would understand that. This is…these are Demons?”

The [Numerologist]’s eyes began to flash. Alarmed, Faea and Lintl began to shush him because this was too much, even for whatever Skill he had. If someone heard—!

Well, the entire problem was sort of rendered moot because at that moment, a portal in the air opened, and Thatalocian turned to see an entire squad of [Soldiers] aiming crossbows at his chest. He grunted, and without missing a beat, hefted the foreigner [Knight] up by the waist and placed him down between himself and the crossbows.

It was a bastard’s move, but you had to admire that.

——

Head Recruiter Kobl was pulling his best moves on his coworker, Chrine, as they returned to their headquarters in the city, job done for the moment. Ships were always arriving, and it wasn’t their jobs to process the new [Slaves], just do this.

“So, have you bought a new armor polish? I couldn’t help but admire the luster.”

“Kobl, stop. I have to file this.”

She was trying not to smile as she carried her head under one arm, the files with the other. Kobl passed through the archways that detected dangerous items—he could carry his weapons, but just not hidden blades or anything else. Once, he’d brought a shaving razor in his bag of holding and been stopped for ten minutes—he didn’t want to lose Chrine.

“I could help you pick out a new piece tomorrow once we’re paid. Or help you buff it out—”

“Pervert.”

She nudged him hard, turning red, and Kobl faltered. She wasn’t that mad, but she was scandalized. Damn. He wished he had more Dullahan coworkers, but they were rare in the Blighted Kingdom—was that like offering to give her a massage or something?

“I—I only meant—I didn’t mean to be improper. I’d like to buy you a drink—”

They were passing through another section where several figures wearing masks watched them. One spoke as always.

“[Normalize Condition].”

“What if I, um, made you some armor?”

“Made me some armor? And I wear it? All the time? In front of everyone?”

“Okay, not that. How about—”

Then Kobl’s mouth stopped frantically working, and his mind snapped away from being flustered into true horror. The same thing happened to Chrine. Kobl’s mouth kept working for a moment.

“—you—I—he gave me orders! He was right there and gave me orders, and I just took them!”

“Three? Three! Three! I wasn’t doing the math right, and I knew it!”

They began grabbing at their heads, doubling over as, suddenly, the events in the [Slaves]’ holding pens came back to them completely differently. Their sudden screams and flailing made the masked figures jump in alarm; Kobl spun.

“He—he went with the [Slaves]! I have to—”

He began running and nearly slammed into a protective forcefield. Kobl almost drove his fist into it, then his mind began actually working.

“Intruder! Infiltrator at the docks! Three!”

He roared at the masked figures as people around him spun, and they reacted instantly.

“Down onto the ground! Hold still for scanning spells! Report!”

One leapt over the barricade as Kobl knelt, and he blabbered everything he could.

“We didn’t know! We were tricked! Blighted King forgive us, I knew the numbers were wrong, but it was a Skill or—!”

Chrine was crying, but Kobl couldn’t talk to her—one of the masked officials had seized his arm.

“Up. You will help us identify the saboteurs. Do not draw attention to them. Move!”

Kobl ran. They dragged him into a room with nearly a hundred scrying orbs, all flashing different faces, and they flickered frantically through faces and places as he described where the man must have gone, and they combed the area until—

“There! There!”

He would have recognized that hunched man anywhere. That was him with the [Slave] and [Guard]! Thatalocian!

“Should I inform the Watch, sir?”

The [Mage] operating the [Scrying] spell was tense, but the officer lifted a finger.

“Wait for my signal. I am requesting a [Portal] spell to apprehend…Bastion-General? Yes, sir. Yes—we have him—forwarding now. Forward the scrying coordinates to 4th Wall!”

He snapped, and the [Mage] scrambled to obey. Kobl’s eyes were huge in his head. Bastion-General Quiteil had caught wind of this? So fast! But then, this was infiltration into the Blighted Kingdom—!

He watched as the portal opened after several agonizing minutes. Then he clearly heard the masked officer speaking.

“Intruder to the Blighted Kingdom, surrender or be executed. There will be no second warning.”

The man had picked up a [Knight] and was holding him like a shield! People were dashing back around him, and the parade had ground to a halt, but the man, Lord Thatalocian, didn’t even seem that phased.

“I am Slave Lord Thatalocian of Roshal. Ask Emir Yazdil about me.”

Roshal? Yazdil? The officer hesitated, but then fell back on what he knew.

“No one is above the Blighted Kingdom’s laws. Surrender. Now! Release—put the [Knight] down!”

The foreign [Knight] was squirming, trying not to be a literal Human shield in Thatalocian’s grip. The Slave Lord smiled, amused.

“I have seen no great secrets of your kingdom. Is this how you treat your finest allies? I shall remember that. I will not surrender nor be interrogated like a criminal. I am Thatalocian. Binderlord of Roshal. I warn you once.”

“You will comply or die.”

The officer shouted back. He gave an order to the squad of [Soldiers].

“Do not shoot to kill. Keep the Slave Lord alive. Alive. Bastion-General—”

He was managing several calls at once, and the officer hesitated. His mask gave nothing away, but his voice…

“Bastion-General, he used mind-altering—yes, sir. But—yes, sir. I will—”

Whatever he was going to do next sounded like he had actually been given orders to stand down, which was insane to Kobl. But the horrified [Head Recruiter] realized even the famously incisive Bastion-General Quiteil had made a mistake. Thatalocian was losing his temper.

“You try my patience. 21-14-12…”

The officer snapped back to the scrying orb.

“What is he doing?”

“Sir, permission to loose?”

“Denied, do not strike him! You, what are you—?”

“…15-3-11.”

Thatalocian calmly finished the string of numbers. Kobl stared at him and saw nothing happen. Right up until he heard, in the tense silence, a click. Then a clang as a lock fell off the cage holding the mutated monster of Rhir. And the Demons’ shackles. They stared down at their restraints as they fell to the floor. Thatalocian smiled coldly into the scrying orb.

Right up until the mutated Manticore leapt on him.

——

In hindsight, Thatalocian should have seen that one coming. The enraged beast in the too-small cage was cooped up with rocks hurled at it and prey all around, already wounded from being captured and desperate to kill.

In its moments of escape, it went for the biggest target it could see, which was him. He was the highest-level person around, and this was no animal that picked its fights wisely. This was a creature of Rhir, and it had survived by killing anything more dangerous than it.

He had also erred in thinking this was some ordinary monster, like a regular Manticore. It had an Ogre and Wyvern’s head and the tail of a giant wolf.

It was fast, and the two heads bit and howled and breathed magical flames all over him as he roared and tried to fight it off him.

“8-1-1—”

Shouting numbers was all very well, except if you were trying to inhale a lungful of green flames. Disbelieving, Faea watched as the Binderlord’s roaring voice became coughing.

That he didn’t die as the mutated Manticore tried to savage him was due to his levels and reflexes and whatever artifacts he had on him, but he was unable to shake the weight of the massive beast. And the [Soldiers] weren’t exactly leaping to help him; they were fighting the Demons.

Unarmed or not, the Demons knew this was their one chance, and they had seized weapons and were fighting, using Skills and yelling to the heavens.

“Chains! Death of Chains! Witness our stand! Let all who hold chains—”

A Demon woman was screaming as she held one arm to the skies, the other seven lashing out with blades. Faea couldn’t look at her. It—it made her too confused.

“Lord!”

Lintl was stabbing at the Manticore’s side with his spear, but it slid off the scales of the beast. Faea was shouting too. If he could just roll away or—

The Ogre’s head bit Thatalocian in a huge chomp as he forced the Wyvern’s head back. One of Thatalocian’s hands kept the molars from crushing his head. His eyes were wide, and he was coughing. Still mouthing those…

Was he going to die? Right here? The man who’d offered her food and a modicum of kindness? Faea cast around, and she saw, just across from her, a group of the young people who’d been bearing their comrade’s corpse. It had fallen over, though the casket mercifully hadn’t broken; they were using it as cover.

“Ohmigod. Ohmigod. Ohmig—”

“Holy shit, this is it. This is it. C’mon, battle formations. Leni, get up! Get up!”

They were panicking as well. They had on what looked like magical armor, but they were no warriors; one was fumbling for a sword, and he only managed to unsheathe it after three tries. Then he whipped it out of its sheath so hard it slipped out of his hands and clattered onto the street.

“Oh fuck.”

“Hahahaha! You dumbass!”

Another one of the strange Humans pointed and laughed at the sword; he had a glassy expression on his face. Shock. He seemed to be in denial of what was going on.

“Get up! C’mon, we’re dead! Remember what Richard said—”

They didn’t move. Couldn’t move, it seemed. One of them put their hands over their ears.

“I want to go home! I want to go—”

“Heroes, help us!”

A [Soldier] was howling at them. The group stared at the fighting and didn’t move, but one of the Demons had heard and was coming at them.

“Heroes of Rhir? Die! Die! D—”

Glowing chains materialized around the neck of the eight-armed Demoness, yanking her off her feet. At this, the [Heroes] did move, running back, lifting weapons, screaming. One gazed at the huge Manticore in horror. Then at the enchanted sword—

And the young [Slave] girl who’d grabbed it and was leaping up onto the Manticore’s back?

“My sword!”

Faea had the blade in her hand. It was light as a feather and practically hummed as she lifted it high. She had climbed the scales of the Manticore’s back as it threatened to throw her off, digging her fingers between the cracks, breaking fingernails, adrenaline giving her strength. She was at the heads and balanced on its back as it savaged Thatalocian, ignoring her.

She stabbed the blade of the sword down where the two heads met, guessing that it had most of its organs there. The shock of blade meeting flesh was all she felt; she drove the blade down to its hilt and gasped.

So easy—

The Manticore screamed and tried to roll. The heads turned towards her, and it attempted to throw her off as she yanked the blade up. A gout of brown blood struck her, but she stabbed again, nearly hitting her knees. Again! She dragged the blade through the flesh, and now the Manticore knew it was in mortal peril. It tried to roll, to crush her…and could not.

Thatalocian had hold of its paws, and he refused to let it turn. His eyes were glowing, and now the beast was screeching. A third time Faea drove the blade down deep, forcing it into the flesh. Again! Again!

She saw a bloody, burnt face staring up at her as the Manticore reared back. Thatalocian only had one eye open, but he gazed up at her not with shock, but a kind of delight and resignation on his face. That of a man whose expectations had been filled and who had not taken that for granted.

Faea lifted the blade, yelling, and as she brought it down, she remembered what she had seen in his eyes when they had first met.

Six.

Her sixth sword strike cut clean down the gap between both heads, slicing into the Manticore’s chest until it met a heart. The beast shrieked—then choked on its own blood—and fell backwards. It would have crushed her had the [Knight] not thrown himself forwards to catch her as she fell.

Numbers. The Slave Lord stood in the silence as the last of the Demons fell, screaming, as her comrades were cut down. Thatalocian gazed down at Faea as she lay there, panting, covered in poisonous blood.

“So your number has come to pass, Faea. Now, we count the value of it. And it seems I was wrong twice. His number has come again. 20-8-9-14.”

He nodded left, and she didn’t understand until she turned and saw someone holding the only Demon who had been re-chained. A grinning hero of the hour—aside from the real [Heroes] that was.

Captain Thin.

——

In the aftermath, there was cleanup, explanations to be made, interrogations, at least of Roshal’s people and Thatalocian, and recriminations to be had.

Not for him, of course. He refused to be lectured by the officers and [Soldiers], and they had orders not to try and arrest him…twice.

Most seemed willing to try given the chaos he had unleashed, and Thatalocian himself owned that he had erred with the Manticore. There was a time when he could have shouted any number while drowning in the sea.

Death has softened me. His ten lost levels were quite a dear price. Still, he was enough of himself to focus on what mattered.

Which was Faea. Of all the things being done, there were no swords being returned. Even enchanted ones.

Young Lintl was still shaken from the fighting, but he joined Thatalocian as the Blighted Kingdom celebrated the true heroine out of the unexpected deaths and ‘mysterious’ freeing of the Demons. Already, their propagandists were claiming it was the work of the Death of Chains.

However—two of Roshal were heroes. Captain Thin, who had used his Skills to re-bind the Demoness who’d been captured alive, and even more than him, Faea, a daring [Slave] who’d killed a Manticore by herself!

They were removing her collar as Thatalocian pushed one of Rhir’s officers aside to watch. He exhaled.

“Thirteen.”

The numbers didn’t lie. The dazed girl being treated for the venomous blood kept trying to offer the sword to the [Hero] she’d taken it from, but the young man didn’t want it.

“Keep it! I hate swords anyways. I’m getting wands instead. Like hell I’m fighting that.”

He kicked the Manticore’s paws, and one of the young [Heroes] clapped her hands over her mouth.

“Wait, she’s a [Slave]? That’s—! That feels incredibly not-right, am I wrong?”

“Fantasy world, Leni.”

“But—she’s not going to be now, is she? She saved everyone! Can we, like, hire her as a bodyguard? She was super badass!”

“H-hire me?”

Faea was dazed and searching for Thatalocian, but that comment made her head snap around. The female Earther who’d spoken came forwards.

“Oh my god, she’s starving! She looks like she’s an abuse victim. This is so fucked up. We have to keep her and treat her well! Can we keep her?”

She was pleading with the other Earthers, who were also appealing to their handlers. And why not? A talented servant who was brave enough to fight would be a good asset for them.

Ah, that is your number. If, of course, you will it. Thatalocian watched Faea’s face and doubted she would refuse. He had less to offer her. Nor had he missed how she had seen the Blighted Kingdom.

Even so, he found it funny how it was done.

“‘Keep her’. How they learn the language quickly. Do you trade your chains for invisible ones like that which they wear, Faea? This kingdom is kin-sister to Roshal after all.”

He waited for the girl to make her choice, and it did not surprise him when she gazed at him, then bowed. He merely inclined his head and wished her number had meaning. Then he turned.

Ah, a fastidious man who reeked of numbers himself, though orderly ones. Bastion-General Quiteil, Thatalocian presumed, teleported in to deal with him. The Slave Lord nodded.

“Lintl. I shall find you after I am done meeting with this man. Make your choice before the ships set sail to home.”

A pleasant conversation awaited.

——

Bastion-General Quiteil had stared down foreign [Generals], outraged [Knights], and Named-rank adventurers over his desk. The leader of 4th Wall, which was so often under attack by Demons and one of the first lines of defense for the Blighted Kingdom should the new 5th Wall fall, was one of the most respected officers in the entire Blighted Kingdom.

He had seldom felt more uncomfortable than this. It was not just the knowledge that this man was too important to censure, to simply arrest or punish—it wasn’t just the stench of Roshal that clung to him, like his title—Slave Lord—it was their classes.

Quiteil was a [Peerless Logistics General], but his original class had been [Scribe]. He was a being of order. He could simultaneously coordinate an entire wall’s defenses while managing long-range spells in the capital. His mind was organized. And so was Thatalocian’s, in a way.

But the [Numerologist]’s trains of logic and reason were like…parallel tracks to Quiteil’s own. No, parallel tracks would be easier; that would merely be a different orientation. Thatalocian was like a three-dimensional ball of squiggling lines of reason and belief. A different era. A different modality of thought.

They were…equals. And Quiteil feared that the Slave Lord had an abundance of years on him—and a greater perspective. Who was he? Well, to establish that was one of Quiteil’s objectives from the crown. But the conversation…

“You realize your actions have jeopardized the relationship between the Blighted Kingdom and Roshal, Slave Lord?”

“They have not.”

“Fifty-nine people are dead, slain by the Demons you unleashed.”

Thatalocian spoke.

“59, 7, 8. Very well, I shall pay the blood price of three. This is a meaningless conversation between one such as you and I.”

The [General]’s fingers drummed on the armrest of the chair as they sat in an office in the palace reserved for him until he stopped the motion. He couldn’t help it.

“Kindly qualify that reasoning, Slave Lord. I do not follow.”

“59. The number of the dead. Seven children who were called [Heroes], paralyzed to act. Eight so-called Demons.”

The Bastion-General’s face didn’t betray his reaction to Thatalocian mentioning the [Heroes] or the ‘so-called’ line about Demons. Thatalocian went on.

“7 and 8. 56. That leaves three once removed from the count of the dead. 3. That is the true cost of the Blighted Kingdom’s outrage it would not stomach already. So it shall be paid. But even if it were a hundred times that, our relationship would not change.”

Quiteil considered his responses to this amazing leap of logic. He inhaled.

“You will be banned from the Blighted Kingdom and be under strict guard if we are not assured of your conduct. Roshal is—”

“I am Roshal. I know full well the worth of my home. Weigh your words carefully, for it is not Yazdil who speaks alone in Roshal’s name. All that Lailight Scintillation sends you hangs upon my displeasure.”

Escalation. Quiteil heard the buzz of voices in his ears, [Diplomats] and [Strategists] talking at him. Perhaps this had even reached the Burnished Courts; Roshal was not an ally the Blighted Kingdom could afford to lose, even if this was just one of their new rulership. They contributed vastly more than even any one Walled City, any three might.

Quiteil went on a cautious offensive, steepling his fingers.

“Slave Lord Thatalocian. Your bluff does you little credit. Roshal’s interests and that of the Blighted Kingdom align on many fronts. Alienation weakens both nations in a moment of extreme danger. The Deaths of Magic and Chains continue to strike your caravans. Will the other Slave Lords back your words if queried?”

He left gaps in his line of attack, a deliberate flaw by which he invited Thatalocian to expose his hand. And the [Numerologist] did, but again, he attacked in ways that Quiteil did not foresee at all. The [Numerologist] leaned forwards in his chair.

“You attempted to kill Erin Solstice. Know well that I regard her as a potential ally. The Blighted Kingdom also failed to act when Fetohep of Khelt issued his warnings.”

“We ratified the dangers—”

“You spoke when you claim to shield this world. Where the Empire of Drath, the House of Minos, and so many stood to arms and sent forth navies, you spoke and huddled behind your walls as cowards do. You treat the rest of the world as an armory for your war and give nothing back. Why should Roshal bleed its treasuries for you?”

Incomprehensible.

“Are you stating that you object to Roshal’s own bounties on Erin Solstice? That you are declaring her your possession?”

“You play games with words, Bastion-General. I dislike your word-game Skills which have little use aside from confounding other people, who should be your common ally by the fact they are people alone. I have said what I said. If she takes up arms against Roshal, she shall take up arms. A decision was made—a foolish one in hindsight. Just as you sent your [Heroes] against her.”

A mistake. Quiteil had told Nereshal to refuse His Majesty. He did not move his face, well aware this was all recorded and observed. He did not need his opponent to gain information anyways.

“She has publicly stated she will kill any members of Roshal she comes across. The Forgotten Wing Company has taken a hostile approach to your people, though open conflict has not yet begun.”

“Must an ally stand next to me, cheek-by-jowl, and hold the leaf of peace between us?”

“You would allow her to kill your people?”

Thatalocian cast his eyes dismissively past Quiteil’s face as if this conversation bored him.

“We are allies. See how little blood we shed? Or how many true tears are wept over it? I warn you once more. My foe are Seamwalkers. It is the body of A’ctelios Salash which must not wake. It is a common threat, and if one lies buried in Rhir, it will die. Focus on that and you will have my support. Roshal’s aid shall vanish until it is earned. Of my peers, only two support this petty war. And if you cannot see the true war that is coming…even less reason to fight side-by-side with a blind ally.”

Quiteil twitched as the nattering in his earpiece grew louder. That was a very clear statement about what was going to happen to Roshal’s aid in the short-term. He was going to advocate against immediate attempts to unseat or remove Thatalocian, however.

This man is dangerous. Quiteil played chess; he’d rather been disappointed he never got a chance to play more than one game against Erin Solstice before she was declared an enemy of the Blighted Kingdom. He still thought there was a possibility…well, if he was akin to a rook, bishop, or more flatteringly a queen piece, it was because he moved in logical patterns.

Most pieces did, though pawns had surprising rules. Thatalocian reminded Quiteil of a knight. Unpredictable, especially if you lost focus. There, of course, the analogy ended because you could always tell what a knight did…this was far, far more complex than a chess board.

“It seems we are at an impasse, Slave Lord. Will you lay out your reasoning in a civil manner?”

Thatalocian was already rising.

“I have seen what I needed to. This is not the place nor time I look for. Unless…wait. Quiteil. 17.”

He turned, suddenly, and he peered at Quiteil. Then did something that disconcerted the [Bastion General] more than this entire conversation.

“Bastion-General. Is your first name…short? I would presume three to four letters. I wonder…if it starts with ‘a’. Or a letter such as that.”

The voices piped louder, then went silent because no one, not even the wild-magic experts, had any idea what this Slave Lord was talking about. Quiteil brushed at the white patch of skin on his hand, a symbol of the blight he had fought against his entire life.

“…Araz. That is my first name. A remarkable guess.”

Thatalocian’s eyes gleamed. And then he smiled, and his entire demeanor changed.

“No. It is not. 46. Mark your number well, Bastion-General. It is not I who has business with you. So my number guides me on. But 17…it is but the first letter of your name. I pursue it once more. Seventeen…”

He turned and strode from the room. Quiteil half-rose from his seat, then let the [Diplomats] and other experts try their luck on Thatalocian. He just sat, answering in the negatory.

“No. No…I have no idea what that number portends. I do not feel affected by a Skill, though I, of course, request a full evaluation. I will continue to monitor the situation by your leave, Your Majesty?”

He didn’t understand what that number meant for a long, long time thereafter. It would, in fact, haunt Quiteil’s sleep for five nights running after Thatalocian had left—he would keep working on it when the [Cipher Specialists] and [Counterintelligence Agents] had long since given up on figuring out the [Numerologist]’s logic.

Only when, on a hunch, Quiteil had added up a few numbers and seen the number again did he feel a chill on his skin.

But he told no one of that. He just…remembered.

——

What did the number mean? Not even Thatalocian knew, but he still saw patterns.

Lintl found him as he strode from the palace, and the [Guard] was resolved to follow where Faea had not. He was not the material of old, the brave sons and daughters of Roshal who had stood the Long Night.

But he might be. So Thatalocian accepted the first of his followers into his company. There would be more, and many might not be what he needed, but he still needed those who could perform tasks suited to them.

Such as…

“I am looking for 17, Lintl. I shall not leave until I have found it. This is our final mission.”

“Was Faea not what you wanted, Lord…?”

“Her number told me we were likely to part, with death no less, the moment she told me her name, Lintl. Reading into names is risky, even for me. But that was as clear as could be. Help me find my number.”

“Where do we start then, Lord?”

“Anywhere that has meaning to you.”

The young [Guard] was at a loss, so he took Thatalocian down the main streets towards the biggest plaza and squares as if they were on holiday. The Slave Lord spoke a few more things to Lintl, though he was aware now he was watched.

“In time, you will see the limits of my power. Numbers cannot win wars. They can provide small miracles, but my true ability is as a crafter and a leader. I have an eye for comrades.”

“The Naga, beg pardon, Emir Yazdil is said to have an eye for talent as well, Lord. Of the two of you, who is better?”

Thatalocian smiled coldly.

“I have heard Emir Yazdil’s reputation. The way he has described himself to me—he has an eye for buried talent. He nurtures it, lets it grow, shapes it. As one might raise a small mouse into a beast as large as a Grand Elephant. He is…a trainer. As well as a hoarder, one who covets. I do not need to hold what I find. I look for an edge in broken stone. A blade to wield in desperate times. If it breaks after a single blow or becomes a weapon of unsurpassing strength, I cannot say. Only that the potential is there.”

He was searching for it now. He had seen it in Faea, in small parts, and perhaps in Lintl as well; for a [Guard] raised in Roshal, he had shed his preconceptions faster than most might. However…

They were passing through the streets that Thatalocian had damaged when they heard the screaming—and cheering. Thatalocian pointed; they went.

It was not a difficult thing to imagine what they found. What would happen after the Demons broke their cells and the celebrating of good Captain Thin and Faea was done?

Vengeance. Of course.

The last Demon to survive their battle would not live long. That she had been re-collared by Roshal’s Skill only meant that they could now make her death slower.

They’d offered Captain Thin the honor, but for all he transported [Slaves] and disciplined them, he didn’t have the stomach for this. He watched with a kind of queasy fascination as hooded figures presented daggers to an [Executioner].

Those hoods held people who would be regarded as Demons in their own right. Thatalocian knew the flesh of A’ctelios Salash went here. He stared at the figures as they melted backwards, observing, then heard the scream again. Lintl went pale—the scream went on and on, and the agony in it had even him sweating, and he was used to the cargo ships. But not the true face of Lailight Scintillation.

“What are they doing, Lord? Isn’t she a [Slave]?”

“Yes. She is. In this time, it means anything can be done with her. Including this.”

It was a ritual execution, designed for no other reason than to let Rhir’s citizens watch the Demoness die in as much pain as possible. The [Executioner] had a dagger, and he was blinding her, eye by eye. Two were gouged out, and before he took the final one in the center of her head, he had gone to work on her arms.

She had eight; it would be a slow death, and the crowd cheered her every scream and hurled abuse at her.

Thatalocian had seen the horrors of Those-That-Rise many times, but this torture was just a waste. She was no traitor, just an enemy combatant. A Seamwalker…if they even felt pain, he would not mind the torture of those if it held some purpose.

This? Lintl wanted to look away, so the Slave Lord took his head and fixed it on the suffering Demoness.

“Look. There is far worse in Lailight Scintillation, Lintl. I have walked into the Wishing Well.”

“B-but there’s no point, Lord! There’s no point! Don’t make me look!”

Ah, he was young. They must not have jaded all his heart with his work yet. And perhaps there was the edge that Thatalocian saw that would break him or create what the [Numerologist] observed.

“Then change it. But do not dare gaze away from the truth.”

They watched as the knife sawed through flesh and bone. The Demoness might have been a warrior, but no one could endure that pain, that loss, without a true wail of agony. Thatalocian saw the arm drop, and the [Executioner] raised the bloody blade overhead. And the [Numerologist] thought…

This calls to me. This waste. This Demoness. But I do not see—

Seventeen.

SEVENTEEN.

The number plagued his mind, but he was the master of his class. He could ignore it, but he also respected the numbers, the pattern in the world. 17.

17! Where—

Then he saw it. As he ever had in the perfect moments when he screamed his number at the skies and brought a small oasis of order to The Long Night. It was so obvious. It always was.

One of the Demoness’ eyes was still open, the crimson pupil rolled up to the sky in agony. And as the [Executioner] reached down for the next of her restrained arms, bound with rope…

Seven.

17. 1-7. One and seven.

“There.”

The number split in Thatalocian’s mind, then came together in a perfect piece. He was moving before his observers, before Lintl, knew what was happening. The [Numerologist] ran towards the crowd, towards the [Executioner], who halted, as if sensing the sudden danger.

The cloaked figures stirred, recognizing Thatalocian in some way, but it did not matter. He was already speaking the words.

“8-1-1-4-5. 8-1-1-4-5. Haade. HAADE THE OGRE.”

The Demoness was staring at the sky. Trying to see the shadow of her wings or even the hint of a rainbow. One sign it all mattered—she saw no comet of light. No hope from above.

But when she gazed down, she saw the bloated flesh bulging, the robes tearing along a back which expanded. And a hand puffed with skin and lifting one of her captors aside. The eyes that flashed at her with a sanity so deep it had become a madness of its own.

The Holder of Numbers.

——

They were a day of sailing to Roshal when the chase finally ended. Not that the Blighted Kingdom had rained down all the death it could on the ship carrying Thatalocian, Lintl, and the newest [Slave] of Roshal.

They hadn’t quite dared. But they had tried to board three times and shoot the sails out. Yet the Slave Lord had called upon his allies.

He had received Shaullile’s aid in negotiating the ceasefire; Andra had provided defensive spells and Yazdil a ship that had emerged to replace the one he had been forced to flee with Captain Thin and his crew.

Thatalocian had tired of the chase and sent Lord Pazeral at the last ship to board him. Which had complicated the negotiations…or expedited them.

He lowered the speaking stone as Shaullile drew breath and stopped screaming at him. What the Slave Lord said was this:

“I have my answers from a mouth that will not lie. She is no bosom companion of mine, but a [Slave]. I know other Demons have been sold to Roshal.”

“Quietly. They have to deal with all the citizens who saw you, and you’ve offended them time and again—”

“In your time, Roshal was the polite negotiator, Shaullile. Not so in Pazeral’s or mine. Even Andra doubts the value we receive from Rhir is worth our investment. I shall have my truth.”

“A truth. A Demon’s truth.”

“I have had the Blighted Kingdom’s truth. Should we not have both?”

An exasperated sound.

“Do you even know how to train [Slaves] in your era of eating moss and fighting off Seamwalkers for breakfast?”

“Yes.”

She said something else, but he flicked the stone into the waters, heedless of the cost of it. Then he turned.

The Demoness’ two eyes on the sides of her head were glued shut with blood. The stump of one of her arms was bandaged, but clumsily; she had red skin and horns, but aside from that, he found her close to Humans.

She was staring at him now that she was convinced the Blighted Kingdom wasn’t going to snipe her from afar. When she spoke, it was to spit on him. Lintl raised a hand to strike her and desisted at Thatalocian’s gaze.

“You might as well drown me. I will never submit to Roshal’s chains. I’ll kill you, I swear it, Slave Lord. Let all those who hold chains beware! The Death of Chains will come for you all!”

Her defiant cry provoked shudders from the crew. They were ready to lash her, especially as she was of a handful of [Slaves] coming back from the Blighted Kingdom. Only the dregs of criminals or, yes, Demons captured went back to Roshal.

Another reason it was unequal. Thatalocian wiped spit from his cheek. She spat again. He wiped more spit away.

She had run out of spit after about fifteen times and coughed as he handed the handkerchief back to Lintl. Only then did the [Numerologist] speak.

“Since you will not tell me your name yet, I will tell you what I expect. We serve Roshal, this world, and sanity. Not always in that order, and the means of which change. I by willingness and choice. You because you have none until I wish to remove your collar. It is possible that day will come. It is possible it will not. But you will serve.”

The Demon drew herself up warily, proudly, and yes, with fear.

“I…have survived the Blighted Kingdom’s [Interrogators]. You can do little worse. Go on. My mind will break well before my will.”

She bared her teeth. It was no bravado, just a fact. Thatalocian liked her.

“For the first [Slave] I have taken since being reborn, you are the right one. I offered the Truestone Golem first, but she does not know me. Chains befit some.”

She stared at him along with everyone else with that uncomprehending expression of people who did not understand how he thought. Thatalocian continued.

“You will serve. At first, you will speak and tell me your name. That is always the first step. Others of my peers make a game of this; how fast one can break another to their will or twist until fear and terror become loyalty. Pazeral, Yazdil…or they simply command it other ways like Andra with spell and alchemy. I am no Shaullile to win your trust either. We shall see how our relationship develops.”

“And why…would I deign to do that unless you threaten me with pain or worse?”

Even she was curious. Thatalocian replied calmly.

“Because what you desire is what I desire. I am a Slave Lord of Roshal. Speak to me of Demons. Tell me of the truth the Blighted Kingdom hides in its every action. Convince me…it would be preferable to support Demons over the Blighted Kingdom or neither at all. And I will listen.”

Her one remaining eye went round with shock. There was a cry from Captain Thin at this baldfaced treachery, but Thatalocian merely sat on the railings.

“This is a trick.”

That was what the female Demon managed after a moment. He raised his brows.

“Why would I lie when the truth will reveal itself so easily in time?”

“We—I—are you insane? Stupid?”

“I am not the most clever of men.”

She laughed at him.

“You must be insane! You—you’re Roshal. You chain everyone! You—the Death of Chains has sworn to destroy you! She freed herself from your damn harbor! How could there be peace with her?”

A sensible question. Thatalocian nodded to himself.

“I had considered this very question. Does she speak for all Demons? All Djinni? Before you answer—you are enraged. Let me ask another question. Given that I see a greater foe lurking than even you Demons…what is the price of peace for Czautha, the Death of Chains? For a year? Ten? A hundred Djinni’s chains broken? A thousand?”

He was insane. Captain Thin was searching for the ship’s [Mage] to send a [Message] to Roshal to tell someone, anyone, to stop this madman. But Thatalocian was smiling.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I have Those-Who-Rise to kill. More of them than I ever dreamed. I fled them, in shame, to prepare this world for their coming. And the one that led them here…I have never desired anything dead more. Do you think a Demon’s hand is the worst I have taken? I am Roshal.”

Now he was spitting madness. Dribbling from him, though his face was clean. He was smiling, and the Demoness backed up.

“You can get the truth from me, and the Blighted Kingdom will kill you for knowing it, but you’ll never have my loyalty, much less my aid.”

“How fast the line is redrawn. I will have your aid.”

She laughed in his face then, a despairing laugh as if her eyes were not still burning with the agony of being lost. She gestured at her arm.

“You may have freed me once, but so what? My friends are dead. My comrades. Everyone…and the man who stopped me from taking a life of one of those damned [Heroes] is right there. Show me, oh great Slave Lord. Win me over.”

So, the [Numerologist] smiled, and she shuddered and regretted her demand. For he nodded once.

“Your desires coincide with mine, Demon whose name I do not know. I have walked Roshal and seen every inch of my home. Seen its excess, waste, and the disregard it has for its people, both masters and [Slaves]. One did not whip a [Slave] for no reason in my time. In my time, food was no luxury to be used as a tool to humble. You ask for something from me. I oblige you, for that is our relationship. 20-8-9-14.”

No one understood. She did not, but then Lintl, who knew Thatalocian’s ways, paled. And another man started. Someone who had heard that series of numbers before.

His number.

He backed up as Thatalocian slowly turned.

“Lord. What are you—I am a free man. I meant no disresp…you cannot. Crew, to me. To me! Get back! Get—”

——

Thatalocian finished tying the knot of the ship’s ropes as the crew watched. And now they feared him. Feared him in a way even Lord Pazeral did not scare them. Because Pazeral was simply first among them. Old, but of their ilk.

Thatalocian was something else. A different kind of Roshal. No less terrible. But he stood with the Demoness, who stared at the man screaming, or trying to scream for help.

It was hard to scream upside down. Captain Thin was writhing, but he couldn’t sit up to grab the ropes tied around his ankles, and not for lack of fitness or desperation; the wake of the ship they were on was so strong he was blowing almost forty degrees behind the ship. Fighting against the gravity meant he couldn’t do more than a half-situp.

His eyes were huge and wide, and Thatalocian held the bundle of rope in his hands. Thin’s head was striking the spray from the waves below. If he let go…

“And now, Captain Thin, I count. A truer number than the days we spent in each other’s company or the minutes you take to answer. A [Numerologist] must have his number. How many times will your head break the surf? Upon that number, I shall base my next action. Would you like to begin, my [Slave] who has no name I can count?”

He proffered the ropes to the Demoness, and she stared at him.

“You truly are mad. What—what are you?”

“A ghost.”

He spoke only the truth. After a moment, she took the ropes. Gazed down into the eyes of Captain Thin and heard that wail, thin and desperate. The chained woman let go.

Thatalocian saw the flailing body vanish into the waves and line go taught and snap against the railings. Lintl watched, eyes wide. Both abhorrent and drawn to this man who intended to change Roshal in his image, like all the others.

They told stories of him, of course. Like the Emir Yazdil, like all the others. The crew that had sailed with Captain Thin departed into Lailight Scintillation’s harbor and told the story, to the horror of masters, to the awe or delight of [Slaves]. They said the [Numerologist] stood straight, then. That his eyes never left the bobbing figure, and that they would never forget his voice.

He counted.

“One…two….three…..four……five…….six……..”

Waiting for his number to guide him home.

Author’s Note:

Foreshadowing. Well, everything’s foreshadowing, isn’t it? I dunno if that’s more of a reader-thing because for me, the events and narrative are like dominos. One falls after another, and sometimes one knocks over multiple pieces and you just set them up and set them up and wait until the time comes to knock them down.

…Even Thatalocian isn’t pleasant to write, though. Getting in the headspace for a Roshal chapter is hard. Getting in numbers-man’s head? So much a headache. I can figure out how he thinks but it takes me a run up to get in his weird numbers mode, and despite the many scurrilous allegations levied, I’m not that bad at numbers that I’ve gone to numerology.

The chapter aside, I do have a few things to discuss. Firstly, I am on a two-week break, and this chapter was ‘short’. I do not apologize, even though I want to, because, well, I said I should do this. I was really tempted to drop two chapters instead to ‘make up’ for less than 20,000 words, and I caught myself and asked if I wanted to burn my backlog and push more than I should.

So, this is an exercise in restraint in some weird way from me. But why the two week break? Well…I’m pulling the other card I don’t use often: I need it.

I need a two week break for reasons of editing. Editing what? Noneya. Noneya business—okay, fine, I’m not able to share at this moment, but I need it, and I’m going to take the time for it, rather than try to both write and edit.

This is, they say, healthy. I feel guilty, but I hope you’ve enjoyed the chapters this month, even if only one of them was Baleros. Hmm. Who won that poll after all?

That’s the benefit of a backlog, though. All things will become clear in time, and I may have at least one gift for you during my break; look forwards to seeing a something something, but I hope you’ll understand the need for rest and secrecy.

Also, lest I forget, we have the webcomic livestream on December 5th! I do plan on being there for the stream and I hope you tune in to see some great art and the team behind the webcomic!

Thank you for all the support, and look forwards to everything coming together.

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