Eternal Khelt was the kind of place you liked to forget about if you were anywhere but Khelt. It wasn’t just that it was an undead necrocracy that went against some species’ sensibilities. The problem with Khelt was that it was paradise. An unassailable paradise, and if you thought about it, it grew on you like a canker sore.

It made you feel like you were doing something wrong, that you were inferior to that bag of bones and that spoiled nation. Khelt was the opulent mirror, and most preferred to ignore it, but it was hard of late. Khelt occupied a share of the media thanks to King Fetohep’s popularity, but only Chandrarians thought of it as an immediate threat or ally, and it was famously neutral.

…Until now.

The broadcast with the Jaws of Zeikhal attacks hadn’t been widespread. Wistram News Network re-aired it, but only Nerrhavia’s Wonders had broadcasted live coverage; it was a huge incident, but it was Chandrarian news. Considered second-rate by Wistram News Network.

However, to Chandrarians it was disturbing. Terrifying. You could see the Jaws rampaging in the distance if you were close enough and had the right angles. Of course, the reason had been announced: the death of a family due to bandits had driven Fetohep into a rage. A reminder of his wrath.

But to the nations who had a bit more perspective on Fetohep, it still seemed…

“What the hell was that about?”

The Herald of the Forests seldom swore, but she slammed into the meeting in the Claiven Earth, rattled beyond belief. She had been riding around the destroyed section of their forest that the Jaw had attacked. It hadn’t gotten far; the trees had stopped it from cleaving inwards as well as the half-Elves bombarding it with magic, but it had been close.

The Mage of Rivers, Joreldyn, appeared just as tired as she; he was lying out in his chair, decorum forgotten, skin waxy from overusing his mana. In truth, Ierwyn felt useless; she’d led three charges on the Jaw’s legs but it had so damn many, and her warriors were…second-rate. Even their battle with Khelt hadn’t given her a force like the ones she’d used to command.

She didn’t want to blame them. She didn’t want to blame herself. But she had to know.

“Did we cause this attack, Speaker? Or did Medain, or was it somehow both?”

She demanded answers from the weary half-Elf whom the entire council turned to. The Speaker of Trees, Lastimeth, cleared his throat as he stood.

“We do not know. His Majesty of Khelt finally made contact with me as the Jaw withdrew. He spoke shortly—an apology of sorts was rendered. If I simplify what was said, he claims to have lost his temper and regards the deaths of half-Elves and the destruction of part of the forest as unacceptably extreme. He is prepared to release us from the terms of our unconditional surrender.”

“He—he lost his temper?”

A half-Elf squeaked at the table. Everyone sat up, but Joreldyn cracked one eye open, and Ierwyn spoke on pure instinct.

“He didn’t lose his temper. This has never happened in all the years I’ve been alive.”

They turned to her, and the Speaker frowned. He was younger than she was by a number of centuries, but still over two hundred years old.

“Respectfully, Ierwyn, his wrath is infamous. And this is not the first time it occurred. The Winter Solstice, you recall? Though that did seem to be a death magic aberrance…”

This time it was Joreldyn who interrupted. The most senior and high-level half-Elf waved a hand.

“That was death magic and out of Khelt’s control, however disturbing. This was different. I agree with Ierwyn’s statement. The wrath of Khelt is infamous, yes. Infamous and cold. Fetohep might send a Jaw upon us, or that Vizir, but only if we were to blame. Striking three nations—something is off.”

The Mage of Rivers sat up and rubbed at his face, conjuring some tea out of the air into a magical cup. He drank.

“I need actual fluids, not mage-food—I was inspecting that Jaw as it departed. It seemed—off. When it was rampaging, I was trying to interfere with its control magics.”

“Futile. Kheltian undead are famous for being the most advanced undead in the world. The hardest to suborn. When I was young and Fetohep was a living man, his forces couldn’t be controlled by [Necromancers].”

The Herald’s comment made Joreldyn nod, but he pursed his lips.

“Nevertheless, I had to try, Ierwyn. But I didn’t sense any…it was like he ordered it forwards and gave it no further instructions. Or—he had given it no orders at all.”

Every half-Elf fell silent at this, and Ierwyn felt at the back of her neck.

“If that were so—why? Could it be distance? The magnitude of the undead? More death magic gone wrong?”

Joreldyn shrugged.

“It wasn’t noticeable, if it was foreign control. It could be lingering effects from the Winter Solstice, but the reason is far less clear.”

The Speaker turned to the Mage of Rivers.

“Mage Joreldyn, can you investigate this? Herald, I would like you to double the guard on our forests. The Jaw is falling back, but for the peace of our citizens if nothing else…and I shall prevail upon all our sources of information in Khelt, such as they are, to figure out what is going on. I have one good insight, but it is a closed nation, even New Jecrass.”

He grimaced, and Ierwyn was surprised he had any information there. Spies in Khelt were a joke. But she nodded, and every half-Elf bent their minds to the same task.

Figuring out what was going on in Khelt.

——

Even nations bloated by bureaucracy like Nerrhavia’s Fallen could tell something was off. Queen Yisame met with her personal [Master of Spies], who assured her he would get to the bottom of this, and the Court of Steel reminded themselves Khelt would never attack them.

They also didn’t really enjoy the reminder that A’ctelios Salash had done what two great nations of the north could not: slain their Jaw of Zeikhal outright. Naturally, both were tiny, puny nations with considerable strength if you pushed them, and Nerrhavia’s Fallen had no need to do that! If anything, this was good; Khelt had pulled the Jaws of Zeikhal back and it seemed like the King of Khelt intended to return to his peaceful isolationism.

A’ctelios never expanded past its borders, even if there were rumors…well, the only damaged parties anyone cared about were the Claiven Earth, who’d only lost a bunch of trees and some civilians, and Medain, who had seen half a city crushed. If anyone was going to be upset, it was High King Perric of Medain.

What did he think of King Fetohep’s deeds?

——

High King Perric Reoustinal, with his red-blond hair, stood, thick-shouldered, dressed in a regal white uniform and gold linings, a funeral white, with a cape of blue on his shoulders. His face was blank, though his strong chin and purple eyes were still elevated as he stared at a wall.

His hands clasped behind his back. He stood there, pondering a wall of his palace as, the day after the wrath of Khelt, his kingdom mourned the dead and stood in shock and fear.

He was seen by many members of the palace, and he did not speak to them as his bodyguards kept all away. He studied the wall.

The High King was later seen sitting on a bench in the royal gardens, watching seagulls as they pecked at some seed. He did not move as they flapped about and squawked. Still that blank expression on his face. One tried to poop on his shoe, and one of his Golden Ranks shot it.

Finally, the High King sat at his banquet table, not touching the sumptuous breakfast set before him. In response, in mourning, in contemplation, he ignored his concubines and wives beseeching him to eat, the worries of his court and people. For you see, he mourned and reflected.

…After about four hours, King Perric decided that he’d been seen to mourn long enough, and he broke his fast with some breakfast fruits and water. He did summon his foremost [Generals] and advisors, though, and when they gathered, anxious to hear his thoughts, he brushed at his hair with genuine weariness and smiled.

“Well, His Majesty of Khelt has informed me we are now released from our pact of surrender with Khelt. He expressed regret over his anger to me, personally. And do you know what I have learned?”

“That we need to counter such powerful weapons of war, Your Majesty? First Mars the Illusionist, now the Jaws?”

One of his [Generals] had gone to fight the Jaw and wore a haunted expression on his face. But High King Perric just waved this away.

“Yes, yes, that. No, what King Fetohep taught me is…perspective.”

He stared past them all as they buzzed and were uncomprehending, which was fitting. Perric continued.

“It is a lesson between [Kings], you see. And I take it as a mark of respect that he taught me this. I, who had little to learn from any lesser man. I understand. To me, a [High King], it was a city.”

“Evect. A city of over a hundred thousand souls. A fifth of them dead, countless more buried, and the rest homeless. Only a quarter of the city even stands! Everything shattered or crushed to rubble. They had vineyards—”

One of his [Advisors] came from there. The man had tears in his eyes. Perric glanced at him and waved him away. He shook his head.

“Yes, to me it was a city. And I felt it. Oh, I felt every life and grieved, and to him? It was a message. You see, that is kingliness. He moved a piece, and I took heed of the move. I grasp it, now.”

He tapped the side of his head as they peered at him, still not getting it. Perric shook his head and sipped from his cup of water.

“Don’t concern yourselves with it. I am sure this is a singular event. I have Khelt in hand now that I understand King Fetohep’s mind.”

A terrifying ruler. Perric owned that he had underestimated the peerless King of Khelt. His defeat was understandable. Only a ruler beyond the King of Destruction could have bested Medain, and yes, Fetohep claimed to have acted in wrath, but High King Perric could divine the true nature of politics between crowns. He shook his head, rueful.

The man might have ruled half of Chandrar already if he wished. But how could you entice a man who had everything…? Ah, well. He knew what had to be done.

——

King Fetohep of Khelt was not having a good day. He had not been having a good week, to be fair, but he had hoped…

The stress of controlling so many undead had caused a disaster. The minor woes of Khelt had become major ones, and the fallout?

Three Jaws of Zeikhal rampaging. One lost, two to be decommissioned. Two weapons of war paid for by previous rulers…destroyed. But he could not risk them animating again. They would be taken apart, the pieces broken up.

More failsafes gone forever. It had to be done. Worst was the dead. His inaction had cost thousands of lives in Medain. Dozens in the Claiven Earth, unknown numbers in A’ctelios Salash.

Men, women, children. He grieved, even for A’ctelios’ madfolk. But as a ruler, he also feared each nation’s reprisals.

A’ctelios Salash was silent. They had said nothing after initially asking him why his Jaw was advancing, but the Claiven Earth were…reserved. They had accepted his explanations, and the Speaker of Trees was canny. He might not have believed Fetohep, and the King of Khelt could not apologize—it was not done, it was not seemly. But Medain?

High King Perric of Medain had always been a headache for Khelt. First had been all those damn statues, the constant messages trying to win himself Fetohep’s favor. A terrified man expecting vengeance and retribution and everything he would do to someone he’d defeated. After this attack? Well, Fetohep had spoken with the High King personally, and he’d thought the man had understood.

Unacceptable loss of temper. Freedom from your terms of surrender. Fetohep had let him be until he’d received the following letter, delivered by Courier no less.

To His Eternal Majesty of Khelt,

Following our previous discourse of which we, the High King of Medain, have taken your gracious wisdom, we understand ourselves not to be absolved of our terms of Unconditional Surrender and have witnessed the dissolution of such Treaties by our own eyes.

We, the High King of Medain, grasp the intricacies of Khelt’s largesse and as such, do pledge to double this month’s tribute as a sign of our continued goodwill and Highest Esteem towards Khelt’s will. 

We are yours, most admiringly,

High King Perric of Medain, Sovereign King of the Thalassocracy of the nations formerly known as…

His titles went on about as long as the letter itself. King Fetohep stared at the missive, then turned it over.

“What?”

Clearly, the High King had taken the wrong idea away from their chat. Nothing would do but Fetohep rouse him on call again and explain that further tribute was not necessary. High King Perric beamed and bowed, and King Fetohep had a bad feeling after the call…

He was midway through taking another communication spell with the Quarass of Germina when the same Courier—a panting Garuda clutching at her side—handed him a second letter. King Fetohep actually half-covered his face as he read it.

…will triple our tribute…

“Would His Majesty like to send…a return letter?”

The Courier peeked up, and King Fetohep glanced at her.

“No. Rest, Courier, at your leisure.”

She gratefully bowed, and he had a servant send her off with a restorative. King Fetohep decided—not—to call Perric a third time.

The Quarass appeared amused as she cleaned her fingernails.

“His Majesty of Medain is most taken with you, Fetohep.”

“As a leech unto the ass of a mule, I cannot savor any pleasure in it.”

“You should have removed him when you had the chance and installed the Vizir in his place. It would have saved you and much of Chandrar from headache.”

He wanted to rebuke her, but Fetohep thought that would have been so much more…he shook his head, irritable, and slashed two fingers.

“It is well of you to speak of hindsight, Quarass. At the time, such an action would have ground against every deed and thought I stood for. I notice you did not advise me to do so in the moment. It is unseemly of you to claim wisdom where none was shown.”

She ducked her head at that, slightly abashed, but then, she was a child. There was a certain naïvete or a less incisive cut to her decision making she had to account for. An undeveloped brain was a danger even to the Quarass, shackled by her mortal form.

Still better than the previous woman. Nevertheless, that was a hindrance now. The Quarass idly blew on her nails.

“As Shield Kingdom and neighbor to Khelt, I have of course assured many concerned nations of the reasoning behind your actions. I trust it shall not occur again?”

Did she know why he’d lost control? She might well guess, with her countless lives and experience, but sometimes she was genuinely ignorant. Fetohep had an undead’s perfect poker face, and he kept his eye-flames from wavering as he lifted his shoulders.

“One must hope, Quarass.”

“Indeed. On that note, you may be pleased to know that my nation flourishes well with the King of Destruction’s lax sovereignty. Hellios, Germina, even the parts of Belchan he now owns. Far better than ailing Jecrass whom the High King continues to press.”

“Hellios I do not think of often. I trust former Queen Calliope has no designs upon the throne?”

She had abdicated, but her son, Siyal, and she might well stir rebellion…the Quarass smiled thinly.

“She is not material fit to be even a soft dagger in the King of Destruction’s back. Her son? Perhaps a small irritant, but in truth, the King of Destruction did well to grant the Gnoll tribes land there.”

“Ah. Are they now the new rulers of Hellios?”

Casual conversation. Fetohep tried to immerse himself in that. The Quarass shook her head.

“No. Hellios’ folk were rather hostile towards them, but the Meeting of Tribes painted clear enough their plight, and it was the smallest of work to ensure further incidents did not occur. The last thing needed is for the King of Destruction to behead an entire town.”

Especially because Germina, as his vassal, would suffer his collapse. Fetohep’s right eyeflame burned brighter like a raised eyebrow.

“Odd for the Quarass of Germina to bestir herself without pay.”

“I am amply paid in contact with his Earthers, the riches from his victories, and—hmph. I have more of a temper than some incarnations.”

The Quarass half-rose, then seated herself and continued painting her nails with what he strongly suspected to be some kind of contact-poison. Or maybe she just wanted to paint her nails. Germina loved the rich blues of the seas and waters they had never had in great abundance. She held up her nails, then spoke.

“It was good practice, in fact. I needn’t move my agents in great number. Rather…<Post Rare Quest: The Great Hunt for the Stone Ochirar>! As so.”

He was rather impressed; her eyes barely flickered. He’d tried posting his own <Quests>, but Kheltians fell over themselves trying to fulfil them, and it was more diversion in his mind. But this?

“Ochirar. Isn’t that a cat-like beast?”

“More elk. Imagine one with stone antlers and hide. Very, very difficult to take down. This is a rather violent specimen. I imagine the Gnolls will flock to the <Quest> despite minimal reward on my part. The hunt is their desire, and they are good at it.”

Culturally, didn’t Hellios enjoy some hunting along with their masonry? Fetohep’s mind worked as he tried to see her angle.

“So you have posted similar <Quests> that unify Hellios and Gnolls in good rivalry?”

She smirked at him, and he sighed as he had a servant pull the quest up. It took a short amount of time to query the Adventurer’s Guilds in Hellios, and when he read it…it was rather standard except for one part.

Limitations: The Ochirar is a fearsome foe when angered. It is said, ‘no Ochirar will kneel before any single arrow’, even one shot by a [Hero]’s bow. To this end, all aspiring [Hunters] must form a team of six wherein two participants must be Gnoll and two Human. The beast’s spoils shall be divided between both peoples as is only right and fair.

Then he saw it. Fetohep cast the <Quest> aside and nodded.

“Ah, one would suspect either side of seeing through such blatant restrictions.”

She gave him a pleased smile.

“If they do, what of it? The first <Quests> were far more subtle. Prince Siyal has already a number of acquaintances—and rivals—among the Gnoll peoples. And a restless [Prince] has little to do with a mother who complains nonstop in his ear whenever he remains at home.”

And probably despises the Gnolls, which will either convince her son, or, if he begins to take the opposite opinion, divide them. How clever.

This was probably what the Quarass regarded as a side-project. She sipped from a cup before adding pointedly.

“And so you see, my ability to post twice as many <Quests> per week is, in fact, advantageous, Fetohep. Not a waste of a class.”

His face didn’t change, but she glared at the smirk.

“One would never question the wisdom of the Quarass of Germina, infallible in her ways.”

Her glower intensified, and she took a longer gulp from her cup.

“There are facets to these <Quests> that no one has looked into. Much less the titular [Innkeeper] responsible for them. Mark me, Fetohep. The difficulty is only that two <Mythical Quests> have been completed as-of-yet, and the rewards not widely known. When a <Legendary Quest> is fulfilled…then you shall see the value of it.”

He had no doubt of that, but he still smiled until the Quarass eyed him and then developed a blandly cool expression.

“Upon that note…Germina has improved greatly. Alked Fellbow might well attest to the rising fare of my citizens. I have begun educating them formally to far higher degrees. Mine shall not be a kingdom of [Assassins] alone.”

“Wise of you, Quarass.”

“Mm, yes, well, hiring so many [Teachers] from abroad and constructing buildings not of temporary mud costs the earth. Hellios has the stone, but if Medain is so generous this month, perhaps it might be better spent in a poor nation such as mine?”

Fetohep’s smile guttered out, and his eyes flashed.

“A sizable donation to a neighbor, even one I hold in such high esteem as Germina.”

“It would be a token of great worth, and we would praise Khelt constantly. I did mention how well I spoke in your defense, did I not?”

She fluttered eyelashes at him, and Fetohep spoke icily.

“As High King Perric has continued his tributes, I suppose it may be sent.”

“Your largesse, Fetohep, is remembered. And three times the regular amount will sate Germina’s hunger for knowledge quite well!”

She instantly bowed her head, mockingly like Perric, and Fetohep snapped.

“How did you know—”

His head snapped around for that damn Garuda Courier, but she was already out of the palace, despite the largesse of His Majesty of Khelt. The Quarass gave Fetohep an innocent gaze as he stewed there.

“It does not come from Khelt’s coffers—”

“Yes, yes. Take it.”

She nodded carefully as Fetohep drummed his fingers on the armrest. Good mood gone. After a moment, the Quarass coughed.

“I believe the [Farmer] you requested is not necessary, Fetohep.”

“The farmer? Ah, for Colovt’s fields.”

“Yes…he has uncovered his answer, I think. If a solution is still lacking, I could of course provide some consultation, but the [Druids] are not fools.”

That was how she lived. Constantly making herself useful. But Fetohep disliked threats in any way. He spoke, tone severe.

“I shall inquire if you are needed. Good day, Quarass.”

She nodded, opening her mouth for a comment, but forbade it as he cut the connection. Thence Fetohep sat a while.

Annoyed.

——

Adventurer Frieke was also unhappy and stressed when she woke with the knowledge of Khelt’s predicament in her. But she was always sort of unhappy and stressed, so knowing she actually had something to be worried about made her rather peppy.

She cooked some salmon for herself and Konska on her magical stove, and they were just about to set off upon their day when there was a knock at the door. Frieke’s face fell. She paused, then came that voice.

“Adventurer Frieke? It is I, your neighbor—”

“Mistreq. Another insect?”

He wore that same appalled expression as he came to her door and shudderingly pointed. This time, it was just on the wall of their apartments. Frieke tossed it at Konska, who obligingly crunched it up, and Mistreq avoided gazing at her.

“Thank you, Adventurer. I swear…there’s so many. I saw ants on a table at a restaurant. Do you—do you think we’ve been cursed?”

She gave him a serious look, biting her tongue on the things she could say, and especially because there was a shred of truth in his worries.

The undead are—

“They’re certainly big…bugs, Mistreq, but it’s the spring. It’s not bad to me, but I understand Khelt is different.”

“It is! I don’t know how you can handle them! I—thank you. Everyone in my apartment is going to the palace later today. The Sereptian Plaza, rather.”

“Oh? For what?”

“To petition His Majesty, of course. This is intolerable. We know his focus has been—elsewhere, but if the undead are being used to manage New Jecrass, some must come back! Else we will be buried by insects before long!”

She realized he was determined, and with the horrible insect gone, several other neighbors had come out and were nodding. Frieke eyed Konska and bit her lip on an admonition not to.

“Er, I may be busy, but I am with you in spirit, isn’t that right, Konska?”

The bird made a vomiting sound which Mistreq took as encouragement. He tried to pat Konska on the head, and the bird leaned out of the way. Frieke? She felt her stomach aching as the man excused himself to wash his hands and smiled.

“I knew it was too good to be true.”

Konska eyed her and pecked Frieke on the head hard.

——

It was an unenviable task, but Frieke the Falcon realized she could both satisfy her duty to Khelt and her heroine, Satar, in two moves.

She was documenting Khelt as it was. Or rather, the woes of Khelt.

It wasn’t like she was going to send all this confidential information to Satar now. But a written history from someone on the ground was very important! Frieke fancied she might earn a place in Satar’s history, which was apparently a modern snapshot of the world.

Frieke had upgraded from [Message] spell to an actual [Communication] spell via scrying orbs to bypass the nosy [Mage], and Satar herself had time for a meeting with her that morning.

“Named-rank Adventurer Frieke!”

“Y-you know me, Shaman Satar?”

“Of course! You were on television, and you are a Named-rank adventurer. I am so honored by your help, and your copied texts were amazing! Thank you for helping with my project. Projects, I should say. My ‘State of the World’ anthology will draw from many contributors like you giving their honest perspectives on your nation.”

“I may have to delay my full piece, Satar. I am not sure how much is allowed to be sent, but I assure you, I’m working on it—”

Satar took Frieke’s apologies with a smile and waved it off.

“This is quite understandable, Frieke. My goal is to have everyone prepare an accounting of their nations and the world as they see it, then send in submissions. A year’s worth of context, so it would not even be needed now.”

Oh, that worked. Frieke might still have to censor some, but she could save it, and the project made the aspiring [Historian] smile. In fact, Satar was just as excited in a way that made Konska try to nap under one wing. History nerds.

“I actually gained another Skill in that vein, Adventurer Frieke, just last night! [Famous Historian: Request Collaboration]. Some kind of fame-Skill! I hope to reach out to some experts. Not Krsysl Wordsmith—”

They both had a huge laugh about that. Frieke had forgotten that rather infamously biased Drake was still alive, but she supposed he hadn’t been that old when he’d written his Antinium War works and the other books, which had decreased in authenticity…she nodded.

“I promise to give a good accounting of Khelt, then, Satar.”

“Thank you! Now, if I may, I have some example texts I’m sure you can source to understand what I’m searching for in terms of perspective, and if you had time to interview anyone…I can copy these over via the Mage’s Guild if needed to spare you the effort.”

——

That was the fun part for Frieke. The less-fun part was actually seeing the issues of Khelt as something to document, because for the first time ever, they had bugs.

It really wasn’t bad. By her standards, it was the cleanest city she had ever been in, and only the presence of bugs at all was freaking out the citizens of various cities across Khelt, but King Fetohep had been unable to continue manually managing his skeletons.

And that was the issue. Frieke stood in the throne room, listening and taking notes, as Fetohep held audience with Pewerthe, Frieke, Farmer Colovt, and a [Druid]. The King of Khelt was leaning forwards on his throne.

“You have found the issue, Colovt? Truly?”

“Yes, Your Majesty! The secret behind the crops that would not go beyond flowering is, well—I feel a failure as a [Farmer], but the [Druids] picked out the issue after less than half a day! Druid Meeles, if you would?”

It was the flower-druid buzzing with insects that Pewerthe had met. He was not popular in the capital city at the moment, but he spread his arms and bowed before Fetohep.

“The answer, Your Majesty, is obvious! I do not know why the skeletons have forgotten to do this—”

Everyone stirred as Pewerthe and Frieke exchanged glances, but the [Druid] went on happily as a butterfly landed on a shoulder-blossom.

“—but what the flowers lack is sex!”

King Fetohep of Khelt sat there, immobile, as everyone stared at the [Druid]. Colovt stopped smiling and nudged the [Druid].

“Meeles, perhaps more delicately—”

“Er…what do you mean by intercourse, Druid?”

Fetohep spoke like a man far at sea, wading through waters he really hoped were just water. Unfortunately, the [Druid] went on, beaming.

“Oh, it’s called other things. Pollination or whatnot, I’ve heard it said. But I know sex when I see it, Your Majesty. You see, most plants need to give each other pollen—that is much like what sperm is to other species. The way they do that is via my little friends, who are exiled from almost every city in Khelt! And everyone makes such a fuss over you, don’t they?”

He raised a butterfly to his face and tickled its wings, and Fetohep kept staring.

“Insects.”

Colovt jumped in desperately.

“Er, they bring pollen from plant to plant, Your Majesty. Which I did not know and, apparently, the skeletons had done up till now!”

“Truly?”

“They are the most advanced undead in the world. I have seen them harvest and mill plants without any direction, Your Majesty. A [Necromancer] who visited here remarked on it, once. He said that the best skeleton he could make could barely perform one or two tasks before needing direction. One need but speak and a skeleton can transport goods across a complicated route, bind and splint an injury—”

Anything a person could. They had been able to do that. Fetohep’s eye-flames diminished as Colovt hesitated, unwilling to say the rest.

“—They must have failed to recall this instruction, but the Farming Golems have similar functions, some of them. However, the main way to do this would be insects, as Druid Meeles says. But if you command the skeletons to do this pollination—”

Fetohep lifted a hand and turned to Meeles.

“I see the error, and perhaps it would be…better to make use of acceptable…insects. They are required? There is no spell or other method by which these plants reproduce? As for the pollen, I understand this is how they reproduce, but it is not, in fact, like sex at all.”

He was both warring with the need to create crops and his horror over the sex part, but the [Druid] shook his head.

“Oh, it may appear less graphic to you, Your Majesty, but insects eat the nectar of plants by which to spread the pollen. They burrow, squirm, writhe about—and if you’ve ever seen an orgy—”

“And this is consumed?”

Fetohep’s look of horror turned to the other mortals, and Pewerthe coughed.

“I don’t think it’s quite the same, Your Majesty. Especially since I do not think of it in those terms.”

“No one wants to think of vegetables as children or people. But what is a baby carrot if not—”

At this point Colovt threw an elbow hard enough to take out Meeles for a moment. He spoke to Fetohep.

“I can grow the plants with these…insects if I must, Your Majesty. The [Druids] say some insects are best for each type of plant. But, ah—the skeletons?”

Fetohep sat as Frieke took notes in her journal, and she saw Colovt’s expression of confusion and dismay as Fetohep replied slowly.

“Send for more insects, Druid Meeles. The skeletons are—occupied, Farmer Colovt. It seems insects are both necessity and curse. But surely, if they merely occupy Farmer Colovt’s fields, they would remain there? I am well aware that individuals who are permitted such creatures, like the [Druids] of Losht, keep their familiars in check, but wild insects are a different matter. How fast and far do such bugs spread?”

Here, even Druid Meeles lost his smile, and he exchanged a glance with Pewerthe and Frieke.

No one really wanted to tell Fetohep the bad news. And it got worse when Fetohep of Khelt heard a name, a title upon his doorstep he had vague recollections of. A man who called himself…

A [Prophet].

——

ᴛʜᴇɴ ʜᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ.

In His Ignorance, He Who Had Doubted Believed. So He Spoke the Lord’s Prayer.

It came unto him, a revelation of the covenant of the Lord our God and the [Prophet], who was first of the [Faithful] who stepped forwards onto the burning sands of Chandrar as the Prophet Moses had once done upon his pilgrimage. A test set unto the faithless.

Yet lo, each trial that he underwent only proved His presence was real, and the flock came to him, first one, then by handfuls, until it was a mighty army who chanted the Name and the Words of the holy book.

They marched out of the nation of Litigred, whose ears were too deaf to know the truth, and through the nations of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, Scaied, Illivere, and in each one found the faithful among the ignorant, much as angels had once saved the worthy from Sodom and Gomorrah. Yet wrath did not fall from the skies upon these indolent, heathen Stitch-folk with their deceptive, ever-changing faces and blaspheming tongues.

—no matter how much he prayed—

Yet by then, the People of God were a vast herd who went northwards, avoiding the King of Destruction’s meaningless wars, to seek new peoples and lands receptive to the word of the New Bible as set down by the [Prophet]’s own hands; a revision of thirty-one times thus far, each edition bound and cared for like unto a Relic by the People of God, whom he had named.

And they went to Medain, which was rich enough but whose High King was a dangerous man, his soldiers too willing to clash with the People of God. Despite their levels, the Prophet prayed on the next course of action and determined Medain was not his people’s chosen land. But Khelt…Khelt was a worthy foe. A just foe.

He had nightmares about the six beings who had laughed at him, those rotting corpses. Those filthy…those evil…

Were they devils? He didn’t know. He wished he’d recalled more passages from the Good Book, but he could only use what his [Eidetic Memory: Scripture] gave him. Even with it, sometimes the passages escaped him and he’d bolt upright in the night, writing feverishly, and his faithful would notice and gather around and pray.

He wished he’d studied…what was it? Dante’s Inferno or something? Harvey didn’t remember. Sometimes, he felt like he was the Prophet of God, the powerful man who led these people with their insane powers and could almost—almost divide the sea himself. Then sometimes he was Harvey Glastone again, and his faith wavered, and he—

ʜᴇ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴇᴛᴇʀɴᴀʟ ꜱʜɪɴᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʜɪᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴄᴏʀᴄʜ ʜɪꜱ ᴜɴᴡᴏʀᴛʜʏ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪᴠɪɴᴇ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴊᴜᴅɢᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴜɴᴡᴏʀᴛʜʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅɪᴇ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴛᴇꜱᴛ. ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀɪᴛʜ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʏɪᴇʟᴅ.

The [Prophet] was this man. Like all men destined for greatness, he had moments of weakness. But the Lord was his Savior, and he prayed.

In this world, his prayers were answered. Unlike home. What else did that mean but God?

Harvey just wished…

He could hear the voice. Sometimes, he thought he heard it when he was deep in prayer, kneeling, the urging of his soul to do battle against Khelt, to take his people here or there. But he wished the voice were louder. To drown the doubts.

He didn’t know. He did not doubt, as they came to Khelt’s borders, the rightness of trying to unseat the King of Khelt. That man was a horror; he had burned brave, glorious [Knights] that were like Crusaders into ash before the Prophet could speak to them. He was an undead, an abomination, and faith would destroy him.

No…that was not what the Prophet doubted. Be it so foolish of him, sometimes he gazed upon his flock, the People of God, who were now over twelve thousand strong, an army who sustained themselves only on the manna that they created, who had levels in excess of Level 30 and were closing on his own Level 39 [Prophet of the Holy People] class—or perhaps exceeding it—and this would be fine.

He could be second-best to another with true faith, he could. He was no warrior like some of his followers, such as Lazimeh, Izreal, Marrieh, and so on, who were truly fearsome in his eyes, true zealots.

But sometimes, the Prophet wondered if this flock was the right one. No, surely it was. All peoples could find God. In time, when they reached other nations, other continents, he simply reasoned there would be more Humans.

Fewer…

Stitch-folk.

——

The People of Zeikhal were, by rough counts, around 60% Stitch-folk and predominantly Hemp. Most Stitch-folk were majority Hemp, which made sense to the Prophet, but his words spoke to the Hemp in a way they did not Cotton or Silk.

After all, the higher castes did not need nor long for a loving God. His people—did. When he spoke to them of his first sermons, that of Moses freeing the [Slaves] of Egypt, the simplest story that he knew, most took him as anti-Roshal, which he reasoned he must be.

But he had been cautious not to make an enemy of the Slavers of Roshal at the start, for they were everywhere across Chandrar. Nor…A’ctelios, not yet. Vengeance would come but they were weak yet, like the Hebrews crossing the desert. He had been alone in the beginning.

Yet it had been the Hemp who had listened, asked questions, and seen their own struggle reflected in his words. Marrieh had been one of the first, though of course, she had gone by another name then. First she had been a follower, marvelling over the Miracles he performed, just as he did.

Faith made manifest. From the day he had come here, appearing in the dry desert and nearly died that first long day before falling to his knees, dehydrated, tongue parched, and whispered the Lord’s Prayer only to find the oasis appearing before his feet, then a piece of bread falling from the heavens—he had known faith.

So had she, in time. She called it a power beyond magic, something she could not explain except as an act of God. Even the word ‘God’ had hurt her at first until he had filled her heart up with the stories he had spoken so unpolishedly at first.

Genesis, John, or Luke—they did run together, Old Testament, New—but the stories he had yawned over in church became something brighter in her. Her faith was like a mirror, and it reflected into him.

So he had baptized her and let her take a name that was close to the ones he knew, but not quite the same. Perhaps it would be sacrilegious to let her carry ‘Mary’ as a name, though…Mary was a common name in his homeworld.

Marrieh fit her. After that, well, they had roamed. Picking up converts that had come and gone, growing in levels, fleeing people bent on imprisoning or questioning them, and they might have starved or fallen afoul of monsters or [Bandits]—which Chandrar had in plenty—but for the one thing that made all the difference.

They had faith. And faith…could do everything. Or at least, all the big things.

——

When the Prophet awoke, it was bright.

It was always bright. He removed the sleeping mask he’d taken to wearing in bed and dressed himself in the white robes of his station, sighing as the silk clung to his skin. Silk, a luxury even in Chandrar which made and coveted the stuff. Stitch-folk used it for their bodies, so having robes of it was a sign of station. They were white robes embroidered with a cross on both arms and down his front. There had been talk of giving him a hat, such as the papal one, but they were not Catholic, and he had imagined it would chafe.

God was many things to the Prophet, but Harvey reckoned he wouldn’t test him that much. That was a joke. He’d said it to his flock, and no one had laughed.

Work on the sermon. A bit more humor sometimes, if only to lighten the sheer intensity of their faith. It was always about the sermon. He gave one twice daily, sometimes more if the moment called for it. And the Prophet was already thinking of it, because of course, it should always be new.

He paged through the handwritten New Bible he had made, but he knew the words by heart and wished he had a single copy of the bible in any of the countless formats from Earth. He was sure this one had—holes. And he was resistant to anyone adding new gospels, however much they begged, and some had written pages upon pages of genuinely good words. He let them print the pages as other books, but not add to this.

They could believe what they wanted, but only an Apostle or Prophet could write verse and scripture. If he found a copy of the Bible anywhere—on a smartphone, perhaps, he would use that and nothing else.

You see, when he was Harvey, not the Prophet, the man knew he was an imperfect vessel of faith. He was! He had doubts. Sometimes, he felt like Marrieh and the others shone brighter than he did. Certainly, their levels were higher among a select few.

He had been given a divine mandate, but oh, wasn’t he allowed to be weak of heart? He tried. That was his salvation, and when kingdom came, he hoped that was how he was judged. So he knelt to pray and thought of the sermon before rising as his stomach growled.

After all, breakfast was but a thought away.

The camp of the People of God was sandblown tents; the Great Desert blew in this close, and it got everywhere, cue the Star Wars joke no one would get. Harvey missed movies. He missed ice cream, video games, school—he wished he could just visit the mall and stand in the air conditioning for a minute. Did they still do that?

His skin was tanned compared to how it had used to be, fair and freckled, and he knew he was taller. Thinner from lots of days of hunger, despite their abilities. And more…imposing? Certainly, he thought his skin looked better in spite of the lack of moisturizer and sunscreen.

His class changed him, much like the faithful. It wasn’t so much in features like high-level [Warriors] were all muscle or how he’d noticed some people were more beautiful or so on. It was more…their faces.

There was a wealth of intensity in the eyes, the voice. They spoke with conviction, those ringing tones like he’d once dreamed angels spoke in and like his pastor had used to shout the good word. That was faith.

There was always a watch in the camps; men and women with robes similar to the Prophet’s—if often patched and stained since white was a hard color to wear in the desert—armed with spears or clubs; few swords or more refined weapons.

They were poor, surviving on donations and the like. Sometimes, there were windfalls—there had been that chest of jewelry that the Courier—what was his name?—had given over. It had paid for more wagons, the Prophet’s robes, a Chest of Holding, and more. It could have been a crown, but he had been persuaded to give to the people. Which was righteous.

Luxuries. The Prophet wanted more. His people deserved more. He hesitated as he left his tent, and the nearest sentry bowed to him—they’d wanted to stand guard right in front of his tent, but they had made him too self-conscious. Once he had a soundproofed tent, maybe.

Is it greed, a cardinal sin, or faith? Again, he doubted. A common thing. Was he greedy, or did he wish for more for his people? One was a virtue, the other a sin.

Greed, a good topic for the sermon. Now he had it. The Prophet nodded to the sentry, who made a cross with his palms across his chest. Another thing that they had picked up he did not teach them. Someone was already striding towards him. Izreal, who was another Stitch-man. He smiled and had all the energy the Prophet wished he had.

A huge scar across one cheek that hurt to look at; he claimed it was well, and he’d repair his face in time. He’d earned it fighting the Golden Ranks of Medain as they fled. A Gold-rank adventurer had given it to him, but Izreal had gotten back up and taught them a lesson about the People of God’s faith.

“Your Holiness, what is today’s direction?”

“Breakfast, I believe. Then the sermon.”

“Your words alone could fill our stomachs, Prophet.”

“Hah.”

Only, Izreal meant it, so the Prophet abandoned his smile and lifted a hand palm upwards as more gathered. This he was used to. He was never alone outdoors; he always had his bodyguards and people listening to him.

“Faith may fill the heart, but it is our duty as shepherds to fill the stomach of our flock, Izreal. Children first, for they are our treasure and blessing of God. So, let us pray for our daily bounty.”

He led them forwards towards the light, which made the camp dazzle, even at a distance. It kept away most monsters, and it was, in fact…

Well. A miniature sun. A glowing orb of yellow light, like a [Light] spell but which had no mana that any [Mage] could find, much to their incredulity. It was one of the true powers of the People of God, and when he stood before it, all the Prophet’s doubts slid away. Or most.

[Combined Miracle: The Light of Faith].

It lit up the landscape and provided many features. Bugs seemed to flee the light, even ones like moths. Wounds seemed to heal without potions, and it banished fear or grief if you stared into it long enough. It was a warm embrace and a weapon if need be; it was blinding to the non-faithful if called upon.

Over a hundred people knelt around the Prophet in a ring as he clasped his hands together. He bowed his head and, as ever, peeked upwards and saw a flicker in the air. A flash—and even now, even now—

His heart leapt to see it.

[Manna From the Heavens]. A piece of bread floated downwards. He caught it, and it was light and smelled fragrant as he broke the fresh bread open, and the white insides puffed with steam slightly in this cold air.

A new feature, temperature. It used to be neutral in temperature and a lot smaller. The Prophet saw others catching pieces of bread and spoke.

“We thank the Lord our God for this meal.”

“Amen.”

They might have eaten there and then, but he coughed, glanced to the side—and led the way to a pot of bubbling stew. A bowl was handed to him as Izreal began serving the food a [Faithful Cook] was producing, and only then did the Prophet begin eating after dipping his bread into the bowl and taking a bite.

The bread was filling, could be produced daily, and accounted for most of the People of God’s rations. However, at his insistence, the Prophet had demanded fruits and other foods be prepared to go along with the bread.

For two reasons. Firstly, during the first year of his leadership, he’d noticed a rising increase in bleeding gums and had realized that manna from the heavens the bread might be—but it didn’t prevent scurvy.

Second—he sighed as he ate more of the soup than bread, letting others devour the huge loaf he’d been given.

You could really get sick of eating this every day. He couldn’t imagine forty years of this.

——

Soup with bread. Honey on bread. Dates with bread. Bread sandwiches. Toasted bread. The People of God really objected to crumbling the bread up and using it like that, but the Prophet resolved to preach on the virtues of a good breaded cutlet—once they had enough food.

They had a small herd of animals, but again, the issue was the size of the People of God’s camps kept increasing while the money they had to clothe and provide for so many didn’t exactly match that.

His camp was in fact one of eighteen spaced around him given their sheer size, but the central camp was always swamped because of the morning sermon; [Priests] and [Acolytes] would carry his words to the other camps, and then they would pray before moving.

It made the People of God sort of slow to move in the mornings, but they levelled. Oh, how they levelled.

[Priests], [Acolytes] for preaching and services. [Faithbearers] who carried anything from supplies to the wounded or disabled on their backs. [Devout Warriors], a basic class of those who could fight that became [Battle Clergy]. [Prayer Healers] who could do what potions now could not—one of the reasons why his people were often first allowed into settlements. [Pious Preachers] who spread the good word, [Scripture Carriers] who used divine passages to do magic akin to [Mages]—

Oh yes, the People of God had capabilities. Healing as well as other miracles, though healing was the most universal power. It made them incredibly valuable, and the Prophet reasoned they might well establish themselves as a rich and powerful group on that alone…if they took money for their deeds.

They did not. It was something he’d wrestled with, prayed on for over a year now, and it made him unhappy because they could charge money, but that went against, well, everything Jesus of Nazareth had ever done.

Laying on hands was a gift, and from the day Marrieh had learned to cleanse wounds, they had accepted no coins for it. Gratitude, yes, but…and now the practice was set in stone, which was charitable and good, yes!

But it would really help if they asked for coins rather than let it be a donations thing. It was one of the Prophet’s private sins. Greed. It plagued him along with lust—and oh, sometimes…

“Prophet, the congregation awaits you.”

“Thank you, Yirene.”

He smiled at the Stitch-woman who bowed to him and wondered if they should spend their limited coin on newer robes, even if only the clergy. Because dead gods other than the Holy Trinity—Yirene’s robes were sheer and clung to her form.

And she was a Silk Stitch-woman. Beautiful. She might have renounced her possessions and sold what she had to join his group—and she hadn’t been that rich, living in exile, it seemed, in a distant Nerrhavian city—but she was attractive.

He hadn’t slept with her. Hadn’t, but dreamed of it on some nights and thought she would be receptive—except, of course, he was a man of god, and the clergy did not have those relationships as far as he could remember. Which was one of the things he’d preached for his flock, and they were fastidious about their vows of abstinence.

He turned from her to the many faithful. Marrieh met his eyes for a second, and he hesitated. She knew him long enough to know what he was thinking of, and she did not narrow her eyes, but just gave him an earnest look.

Surely you would not. She gave Yirene a cool glance as the Stitch-woman, seeming genuinely confused by the sometimes-hostility she got from Marrieh, bowed and retreated. The Prophet cleared his throat as he swept his gaze over the many kneeling people.

“Lead us not into temptation…let us pray, my people. And it is temptation I wish to speak of today.”

The words came to him automatically; he had learned to give sermons constantly, so he just needed one or two ideas he could speak on. Sometimes, they were good, sometimes, they were bad, but there was always the sermon, and this one felt—decent.

“Greed is one of the sins that is the downfall of all mortal men. Greed is the weight that makes it more difficult than threading the eye of a needle for a man to reach Heaven. Yet, by that same token, is it not righteous to honor thyself, thy neighbor, and thy God? In the Old Testament, it is written that sacrifices of meat, vegetables, and bounty pleased the Lord. Thus, it is not about the mere acquisition of coin or money, but in whose service it is spent.”

He saw some nodding, some listening, others just watching him with rapt eyes. The Prophet went on, and now he pointed.

“Yonder lies an example of material unwisely spent. It is known across Chandrar that Khelt is rich, but it is a richness hoarded and used only for their own. This we have come to see with our own eyes and judge, just as we are all judged by God. We are his will and people—”

And at least one of them was owed this. His eyes stole to a man vibrating with emotion. A former Kheltian, Adoive, who had once been exiled. Or rather, left and found he was unable to return.

He was not the most devout of men, but he had told the Prophet of Khelt, and it had seemed a hedonistic, wasteful place. When the Prophet had gazed upon an image of Fetohep of Khelt…

Undead abominations. He had encountered them, not just the ones at the Solstices, and the world should be purged of them. Faith did purge them, and it was the most good and true thing he felt. Undead—he remembered stories on Earth of how the cross had the power to repel vampires and kill supernatural spirits, and it was true here.

He shuddered for a second as he remembered the nightmares that sometimes woke him, crying out for salvation—

——

They laughed at him. Six of them, leaving, returning, plaguing him that long night. He knelt, praying in the camp, but the People of God were silent. He was alone, and they whispered.

“You pray to someone who does not stand here. We are what you worship, in the flesh. Take my hand and be first of my faithful.”

“No, take mine.”

“Take mine.”

Hands, grasping for him, then retreating across a line he drew in the sand. His prayers grew louder, and they grimaced. The man with the beard tried to speak over him.

“I am T—the leader of men. Look upon me. Would you pit this invisible being against me? Were I to wear my true flesh, I would slay those of my kin without score as I once did.”

Lies. Ignore him. Fake idols. Harvey prayed louder, trying to drown them out, wishing—where was the sign? The falling angel? Something, give him a sign—

Was this the Devil that had plagued Jesus in the desert? Six.

Six. Of course, the number of hell itself. The shadow said nothing, but the intelligent man, who was like a [Mage], just sat back on his heels, amused.

“He won’t listen. Look at him. He is not a perfect believer, but he has enough here…do you want power, young man? Love? Wealth?”

“I am love. Take my hand.”

A dancing man. Then an amused huntress. An old crone. The shadow, pressing forwards and again repulsed by his faith. The three-in-one came closer as his voice grew hoarse, a rotting face across three ages.

“I do not see your ___, boy.”

She spoke and winced, as if that alone hurt her, but her eyes bored into him, and he tried not to listen, but her serpent’s tongue was too loud, his faith too weak.

“If he exists, let him come forth and it be war. No? Perhaps he is a coward. Or perhaps he cannot enter this world. Your faith is rewarded because of the rules we set in place. Or perhaps…you are creating Him.”

Ignore her. Ignore her. The woman laughed, a terrible cackle.

“I sense your doubt. Tell me, boy. Have you seen a trueness of your worship? Even once? Look at me. I am real. Which would you rather believe in?”

“You’re dead. Dead and rotting. Who would believe in that?”

He stopped praying and shot those words back at her. All six recoiled and, he thought, were truly stung by his response. The three-in-one drew back, and after a moment, the bearded man whispered.

“We have endured death itself, boy. Come back from wounds that have felled all others. A world’s sundering could not kill us. We have striven with our own kind, and we are the greatest six. What is that, if not your answer?”

“My God has no end nor beginning. He is invincible, and my faith in him shall not waver…”

He cried the words back at them, and the bearded man’s eyes narrowed. He was the first to go, turning on his heels.

“For that, first of this world’s new faithful, I shall enjoy slaying another of my kind. When you and I meet in the flesh, I will allow you a second chance to see the truth. I, too, am merciful. We shall see who triumphs, your invisible ruler of all…or me.”

“Or me.”

The young huntress laughed, and the others rose one by one. It was the intelligent man who remained, smiling, peering at Harvey. He said one last thing.

“Consider it, faithful child. Just speak our names and pray to us. Could we not be allies? I would work alongside your great ___.”

He waited, and Harvey bared his teeth.

“I do not worship false idols. There is only one.”

This time, he rebuked the stranger, and the light of his faith grew and hurt the clever man, who retreated, step by step. The wise man blew out his cheeks, annoyed.

“What a tedious little religion. I too shall remember that. And remember my servants shall destroy you. When the armies of Khelt rise—”

He was fleeing, despite his dire threats, and he grinned as Harvey shouted prayers, waving the cross he had fashioned, and then he knew the name of his enemy.

——

Memory. The horror of that first time was nothing to the second. The second…the Prophet realized he’d stopped talking.

Everyone was on their feet, staring at him. Marrieh was pushing forwards.

“Harvey…?”

“Damnation.”

He bellowed the word, and they recoiled. But the Prophet swept around and pointed, chest heaving.

“The King of Khelt is no man threading the eye of the needle. He has passed beyond this world we strive in and has been found wanting. That is undeath. He consorts with the other six—the—the devils of this world themselves. He is a King of Greed, and we go now to his borders not for our own richness, not for mere wealth or what we think we are owed.”

He stared at Adoive in contempt, and the man flinched backwards. The Prophet rasped.

“We go to test our faith against evil. We are a flock, a herd that God embraces and tends to, and yet we must also be warriors. So arm yourselves, children. Ready your faith, for it shall be tested. But do not waver, for ours is the Kingdom of Heaven, and we shall claim it.”

This long wandering in the wilderness might be over. Or perhaps they would fail, but the Prophet clutched at his chest as his heart beat with terror, determination, and wrath. If they failed, it was his faith that wavered, nothing else.

Oh Lord, give me strength.

They came to Khelt’s borders at midday. And there, the Prophet worked his wonders.

——

“A Prophet of…the People of God.”

Fetohep said the word carefully. It was difficult, but he said it, and he did not like that. Not one bit.

“Yes, Your Majesty. They have sent a missive requesting—demanding admission. They claim sanctuary by right of being the chosen people of…someone called ‘God’. And they have a member of Khelt. Adoive.”

“Adoive. I recall him. I see.”

It was not the first time a former member of Khelt had tried to return. It was rare for them to leave, but Fetohep allowed it, so long as they knew they could not come back. He made—well, he made exceptions.

For children who had not been allowed to choose. If the members of Khelt proved they could give back, he let them return. It was not nearly as stringent as newcomers returning, but nevertheless, there were a number who left and could not regain entry.

It gave him no pleasure, but his people could not be allowed to move back and forth so easily. The borders were closed to all but the likes of Alked for good reason. Pestilence, infiltration, the list grew on and on.

Adoive…Fetohep knew each subject who had left and whether they were living or dead. He murmured.

“Adoive was always a troubled boy. A boy can be granted leniency. A man cannot. His conduct towards other members of Khelt was inappropriate. He was censured, then correction attempted. Rather than allow it, he left.”

In every society, there were people who refused to follow the rules. What could one do in Khelt where every citizen was cherished? Well, if one acted in violence or other means against one’s neighbors, they would be corrected. Watched, their behaviors monitored. If they could not learn, they would be placed under house arrest, monitored and restricted. A kind of imprisonment perhaps, but one with a way out. They just had to earn it.

It was actually far easier to correct issues stemming from addiction or something intrinsic that medicine or magic could cure. Those who were simply stubborn and refused to change, well…Adoive had left.

He had not liked what he found outside. He had sent hundreds of letters begging to be allowed in, and Fetohep had asked what he would bring back to Khelt. He had received insults, threats, silence, a demand for something Adoive felt he was owed.

It was not the first time this had happened. Other members of Khelt had bought mercenaries, hired adventurers, even, sometimes, convinced rulers of nations to take their side.

No one had ever won their way into Khelt by force of arms. Fetohep could sense the People of God at his borders; he had some awareness of a sizable number of people intruding over the no-man’s land just west of Germina, along the great desert.

“Impressive that they reached this far without trespassing into Germina. The Quarass would take measures against them if they were unruly. This Prophet and this People. Are they dangerous?”

The servant giving Fetohep the report checked their notes.

“Very, Your Majesty. They clashed with Medain and fomented unrest there and numerous kingdoms. But the High King was unable to arrest the Prophet. First the local Watch attempted it, then the army. Then the Golden Ranks were deployed—some of them. The People of God defeated each group and escaped. Some were apprehended and put to death—leading to more fighting—”

High King Perric. Fetohep sighed.

Adoive, you have allied yourself with lions who I doubt care for you at all. Your chances of returning home grow even slimmer for this. He waved a hand.

“Enough. This ‘request’ of theirs was brazen?”

“Your Majesty wishes to see it?”

Fetohep swept the paper up, then his eyes flashed. Beyond brazen. This Prophet demanded Fetohep allow them in, give them succor, and present himself before the ‘judgemental light of the Lord’ to ascertain the nature of Fetohep’s sins and seek ‘redemption’.

He cast the missive aside.

“Bold, but I will not slaughter these People of God…so long as they do not try Khelt’s patience. They shall stop at the border.”

He lifted a hand and in this, at least, he was confident. Weakened Khelt might be, their skeletons damaged. But at least a ragtag group like this…he projected his will to the northern border.

Armies of Khelt. Arise.

——

They had seemed like blank sands a moment ago. Adoive had been leading the Prophet, pointing towards his home with hope—and trepidation, but the Prophet had not seen the danger of Khelt. Yet as if they had crossed some inviolate threshold, the ground had trembled…

And skeletons arose.

They dug themselves out of the ground, some simply rising upwards, shedding sand in cascades off ancient armor. Clutching weapons still glinting with sharpness, ranks upon ranks of the dead. Rusted blades, mostly, but—

There were so many.

“Dead—”

The Prophet almost said ‘dead gods’, the common epithet of this world. He recoiled as a wall of skeletons rose. First one rank, then two, then…

Six ranks deep, forming a wall of blades that stood silent as the wind blew. The People of God recoiled despite themselves. Here was the might of Khelt.

For all their numbers, and they stood like a sea of people, they were suddenly, accountably, instantly outnumbered four-to-one.

That was the sheer, effortless power of Khelt, and the Prophet’s heart constricted as he saw now why Khelt was considered unassailable even by the King of Destruction.

“God save us. So many.”

Even Izreal trembled a second before his knees locked, and he turned to the Prophet along with everyone else. Which of course made Harvey all the more afraid. But Adoive was confident.

“This is just the outer layer of the dead, Prophet! Mere bones, armed with rust. This is nothing to the legions in their armor! Fetohep insults you, insults us!”

He didn’t fight, and the Prophet’s glower made the man hesitate. He wasn’t the only one; Marrieh strode over. She had naught but a club, but that was unto an artifact in her hands. She murmured.

“If we were to fight this many skeletons, countless of our faithful would die, even with our battleprayers and miracles. I could split them with my Miracle, [Hand of God], but…”

Even her best battle-Miracle would barely clear more than one spot. The Prophet rasped.

“No. We knew this would occur. Adoive…watch him, Izreal. I do not think he is as faithful as he claims to be. Yet prayer has led us here. This is a trial set before us. We shall see if our faith is wanting.”

He was worried. Some of his faithful were with him till the end, but doubt crept into any heart, he well knew. Failure here…

I must have faith. That was his answer; it was always the right answer. It was Lazimeh, armored in a slightly-dented golden chestplate and carrying a sword, who stepped forwards.

“I should go with you, Prophet. Faith should be backed by the hands to deliver it.”

He led the warriors of the faithful, and the Prophet almost said ‘yes’, but one man wouldn’t do much.

I wish we had our own Knights Templar, Crusaders. He envied Terandria with their [Knights], and if only he could convince one knight-order to join him, or any group with wealth…! The Prophet took a breath and spoke before Marrieh could open her mouth.

“No, Lazimeh, this is my test. Am I not the Prophet? If I fail, then we shall know it is not our time.”

And I truly doubt you can do much anyways. The man hesitated, then bowed, and they clasped their hands together as the Prophet walked forwards. He was terrified. The skeletons stood immobile, shoulder-to-shoulder.

They uttered no threats. Spoke not a word. Such was the King of Khelt’s contempt. But as he stepped forwards, blades swept up across their ranks. They waited, eyes glowing countless colors, all staring at him.

Step forward and die, mortal. He wavered, then, his legs shaking upon the hot sands and thought some of his people could see it. Almost, the Prophet backed up. He could not feel his faith—!

But then he glanced back at that light they had brought. At the people who had come speaking the name of God and his wonders, and he thought of the six who swore they would kill the one being who was all that was good and holy in this world.

Some things should die. So, Harvey Glastone closed his eyes and clasped his hands together, and he spoke. There was only one prayer to speak. The one he knew.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven. Hallowed be thy name…”

His was one voice. One—then thousands. The Prophet’s eyes were closed, his body was shaking. He was going to puke. His heart was beating too fast. He could barely stutter.

“…Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread…”

He heard a chattering now, a terrible clatter of bones. The rasp of metal. And voices wavering. A cry.

“Prophet—!”

One step. The man halted. And his conviction waned. In that moment, his hands unclasped. His body tensed with pure, mammalian fear, and he prepared to run.

I am wrong. I’m—

He did not see the skeletons moving forwards like a breaking wave of bones, mouths open, or how they surged across the dry ground as some of his people quailed. Or hear the King of Khelt’s faint sigh from tens of miles away.

He was just a man. Not an Apostle, not a perfect vessel of faith. Just a man—the Prophet turned to run. Then a glow from behind him caught his eyes. Overwhelmed his vision, and he stood, naked, in front of it.

[The Light of Faith]. The glowing beacon suspended above the praying People of God was shining. It blazed now, a light that was no longer the warm yellow or even white. Something beyond those colors, beyond what he could name.

The radiance bathed the Prophet. Blinded him, as if he were an enemy, and he cried out. He fell to his knees and saw it, then. Something far greater than his mortal flesh and failings. Something belonging to all of them, the people praying with a voice like thunder. And it pieced his frail, doubting heart.

For a second, he believed.

ʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɢʟᴏʀɪᴏᴜꜱ.

And Lo—a ray of divinity covered the skeletons who would smite the Prophet, and they halted. Stumbled and glanced up. One raised a hand as if to cover its eyes and stared into the heart of faith. Another reached out, wonderingly, dropping the rusted hilt of the sword it carried. Yet another turned to flee—

The flames went out in their sockets. The skeletons fell, each one collapsing to bones, which turned to dust. The first rank, then the second, vaporizing as the light shone past them, a ray which swept the undead as the Prophet knelt, spreading his arms out, weeping. The undead vanished.

——

Upon his throne, Fetohep of Khelt sat up. His glowing eyeflames constricted to pinpoints of alarm.

“No. How—?”

He could not see it. Could not understand. His undead were—vanishing. How? The man was kneeling. Was something—

Then they were surging forwards. More undead began to rise. Fetohep called them skyward, and something—

Something was unmaking them.

——

“Forwards! We are protected by His light!”

They ran forwards the moment the light burned the first group of undead down. Then, the Prophet saw his people running, the beacon floating with them, and he turned.

Not all of the undead were dying instantly; wherever the ray of light struck, they died instantly, but there were so many, and more were coming—Adoive was screaming.

“Past the borders! He has less past the—”

Izreal, Marrieh, were fighting, running past the pilgrims and battling the undead. Yet thousands were—the Prophet ignored the shouts for him to get back. He pushed away the screaming people and cast around.

“A staff.”

He found a quarterstaff being born aloft by a screaming warrior and took it. Then he began walking forwards. The light followed him. Heedless of the danger, the Prophet began striding forwards, and the undead threw themselves at him, uncomprehending, reaching for him—

Some had bows. Arrows flashed past him, striking some of the People of God, and there were cries, faith. Fighting around him. The Prophet kept walking, eyes fixed on the skeletons as they vanished. He did not waver, even when an arrow struck the side of his head and left a red line across his scalp.

Faith. He had prayed, and there was his answer. He was just—chanting. Chanting, his people realized. Praying out loud. Though he knew not the words, he knew the story.

“Then Moses came to the Red Sea, and the waters were impassable as the Pharaoh’s armies bore down upon him. But he had no fear. He struck the water, staff in hand, and the seas themselves did rise and part—”

The dead vanished to either side of him as he led them forwards, bathed in that holy light. Whether they knew it or not, the People of God who followed him in a great wave were within the radius of the Light of Faith; the undead throwing themselves forward could not breach that undead-purging light.

And so, the Prophet set foot onto hallowed lands that were not his, and in doing so, committed an act of miracles that few forces had ever managed. His people walked across Khelt’s borders, and their faith grew without limit.

The King of Khelt did not understand, for he had no eyes with which to see faith. Later, later, yes, the Prophet who had called himself Harvey would confess his sins in the sermon of the evening.

He would tell them how his own faith had wavered, how he had turned, and how God had shown him the light he did not deserve, and he would pray with them. He would tell them this as he told them to spread the word of faith to the cities, as their grand redemption of Khelt began and they saw the people’s indolence and cravenness and brought the Good Word to them.

For the Prophet was honest in many things. But there was one thing, one thing he would not, could not admit to any of them, and much relieved was he by the robes that he walked with, voluminous silk.

That moment he’d walked through a sea of undead burning in the cleansing fire of faith…he’d been the most erect he’d ever been in his entire life.

——

The entry of the People of God and the Prophet into Khelt was unremarked upon and not noticed by anyone at first. In time, it would be a moment in history that would be noted down as important, but that was hindsight.

However, there was an event occurring in another continent that had a kind of synchronicity with the Prophet’s actions, though that too was something only a being like the Grand Design might understand.

And it was so unpredicted. It, of course, involved Satar Silverfang, who was humming as she presented herself before her mother, Akrisa Silverfang. Her mother was trying not to be jealous or impressed and acting like a Chieftain.

Cetrule, her partner and the [Shaman] of the tribe, was dead. Akrisa hadn’t appointed a new head [Shaman]; in a sense, they were all one big tribe these days, and Theikha was [Shaman] enough for five. But she was still a mother, and Satar was her daughter.

“So this…Frieke is going to contribute to your work, Satar?”

“Yes, and she even donated gold to the project!”

Satar was exuberant and excited to have a Named-rank want to be on first-name terms with her. Akrisa harrumphed.

“Be careful about owing favors to Named-ranks, Satar. She may be trying to gain information from you.”

“Mother! I mean, Chieftain—she’s a historian!”

“Yes, and so was that fellow from the Blighted Kingdom. They are still people of their nations. Be careful about what you tell her. You are the [Historian] of the Meeting of Tribes, and if you endanger us all, it will be upon your fur.”

The girl visibly wilted at the scolding and glared at her feet. Akrisa felt bad, but she continued.

“You’ve been getting an ego. Don’t growl at me—you know it’s true! I think your class is wonderful, as is your fame, Satar, but I will lecture you like any prodigy in my tribe. You are at risk of endangering others by carelessness!”

“You think I’m a prodigy?”

Satar glanced up shyly; she hadn’t been a great [Shaman], and Akrisa glowered more fiercely.

“Don’t focus on the wrong thing! Satar…listen. How shall I put this?”

She steepled her fingers together and searched for the right words, then made a mistake.

“With great power…comes great responsibility. So you understand, if you said something confidential, like about Adetr’s projects—”

Satar’s cheeks bulged. She tried, she really did, but she started laughing as Akrisa hesitated, then blushed under her fur.

“Mother! You got that from Earth. Did you really just quote—”

“Silence! So what if I did? It is a good line, no? Stop laughing, Satar! I am serious! Stop—”

So much for parental wisdom. Akrisa slunk off after Satar as, thoroughly unchastened, she excused herself. Looking for solace, Akrisa went to one of the huge permanent yurts erected around the vast Earth Tent where the [World of You and Me] was, searching for sympathy from her fellow [Chieftains].

Unfortunately, Orelighn, Eska, and every Gnoll in the tent laughed themselves onto the floor. They were just a bit too immersed in Earth-culture at this point.

Actually, it was something that Gnolls who visited the tribes now camping here remarked upon. There was a mentality, even linguistic shift occurring between Gnolls who constantly went into the simulation of Earth and those who didn’t get what the others were being exposed to. Much less the technological innovation.

Satar nearly laughed herself sick as she got back to her tents, shaking her head. She knew her mother was right in that way parents were, but honestly…

She had so many historical projects going she was always busy these days. Both as a writer and historian, Satar was fulfilled. Of course, she had big questions.

How had their worlds met? What was really going on? But she knew those questions were on the minds of everyone, so she contented herself with the past.

A history of the world would be an amazing work, but Frieke and all the records would be only pieces of the whole puzzle that Satar would painstakingly need to put together. The Gnoll reckoned that a snapshot of the world as it was today would be a simpler project by comparison, and just as valuable. Those were her biggest goals, so she was writing [Messages] to the other contributors and reaching out to other people for help on both projects.

As she’d said to Frieke, she was levelling fast. And the Skill she’d mentioned?

[Famous Historian: Request Collaboration]. She wondered what it did. Because prima facie, it wasn’t that great, right?

No one had ever heard of it, even Shaman Theikha, but she had said it reminded her of [Call for Aid] type Skills. But those either alerted someone at a great distance or brought them closer to help.

What good was it for Satar to just request someone to help on her project? She could do that with [Communication] or [Message] spells.

“It has to be more effective than that. I’ll try it on, um…well, either project will do.”

In fact, Satar had just the candidate. She was writing with another interesting personage, arguably more so than even Frieke, though that would hurt the Dullahan’s feelings.

Satar: So you’re willing to contribute your people’s perspectives? Thank you! I’ll send over the materials directly to the Mage’s Guild. Can I confirm your name? Just so I am certain!

Lewdquill: Absolutely. My perspective may be limited to only the Free Antinium, however. It is ‘L-e-w-d-q-u-i-l-l’, no dashes.

Satar: I see. May I ask about the name?

Lewdquill: I write about private parts. I helped write the Antinium Book of Sex.

Satar: May I have a copy?

Lewdquill: I’m very popular with the ladies. Absolutely. If you ever come by Liscor, I’d love to buy you a drink.

Flirting with an Antinium was not how she thought she’d start her day, but after a few days in the Earth tent watching movies and having her head exploded by things from that world, Satar also had that adaptability that Liscorians were becoming known for.

Satar: I may be able to visit Liscor sometime. If so, I’ll take you up on the offer •̀ᴗ-. Don’t worry about other perspectives. I have several interested Liscorians and even a testimonial from an eyewitness to all the big events that started with Erin Solstice.

Lewdquill: Oho. Who?

Satar: I believe it’s ‘whom’, not to correct you, and it’s a Guardsman Belsc, well, former-guardsman. He’s writing a novel. ‘I Let Her Inn, a Guardsman’s Retrospective on Solstice Events’. I’m going to get a few copies.

Lewdquill: I have no idea who that is, but it sounds hilarious.

Satar: Yes!!! Actually, can I ask you to participate in one more thing with your permission? New Skill I’d like to test out.

Lewdquill: You can test anything out with me, baby.

Lewdquill: I’m sorry, that was a Relc-level line.

Satar: You’re forgiven. Please don’t do it again. I’m going to use [Famous Historian: Request Collaboration] on you. I’d love the Antinium perspective on, well, everything. Your history, your thoughts on the present!

Lewdquill: Sure, that’s cool. We don’t know much history here. Maybe the Armored Queen knows more? Rumor is she tells stories even better than Klbkch.

Satar: I’ll try! Standby!

She stood back and pointed at the [Message] scroll, more on instinct than anything else. She had upgraded one of her Skills. Now she had [Bound Item: Journal of the Connected Researcher]. Which meant it had lots of pages she could organize by section for her notes compressed into a tiny tome and a free [Message] page all in one.

Yes, she was levelling like, well, an Earther. Satar beamed as she spoke, trying to sound cool.

“[Famous Historian: Request Collaboration]! Information on the Antinium, please!”

Her book reacted to her Skill. Satar held her breath as a page flipped—

…And nothing happened. After a moment, Satar wrote on the page.

Satar: Lewdquill? Are you still there? Is this the Armored Queen of the Antinium? I’d like to ask about the history of the Antinium if you have a moment. This is Satar Silverfang, [Historian of the World].

Nothing. She waited another minute, then flipped the pages back and saw more writing.

Lewdquill: Okay, go for it!

Lewdquill: Still engaging the Skill?

Lewdquill: Standing by!

Lewdquill: I’m waiting for you like a Rock Crab waiting for a snack, baby!

Lewdquill: Is this thing on?

Satar: Sorry, I tried the Skill, but it clearly didn’t work on you. Is…do Antinium flirt like that?

Lewdquill: I sure hope not. These are Relc-lines. He used to visit one of the brothels, and all the girls remember his lines and tell each other the best-worst ones.

Satar: I see…I’ll contact you with the information. Thank you for your time, Lewdquill!

Lewdquill: Anytime!

A bit disappointed, Satar arranged for another sending of the materials at the Mage’s Guild, and a rather glum Gnoll groaned.

“Satar, do you know how hard it is to send all that to the other [Mages]? They hate copying out that many words! Some just summarize the writing instead of doing it word-for-word! When I got my [Mage] class, I didn’t think this would be my job.”

“Hey, shut it, Rurrin. At least you’ve got magic.”

She poked him with a claw, and the Gnoll groaned.

“Yeah, and I’m now a grunt working for the Mage’s Guild in the Meeting of Tribes! Why me?”

She shook her head as she strode back to her tent. In truth, she had to admit it didn’t seem that fun, but…they were improving. Levelling. It made up a tiny bit for all that had happened at the Meeting of Tribes. Like 10%.

She forgot all about the Skill she’d used as she wrote to the Armored Queen, then carried on several conversations with other interesting people. Drowned Folk, Centaurs, everyone knew Satar, and everyone, seemingly, liked her.

Only a few really crotchety [Historians] and [Writers] seemed to think she was as arrogant as Akrisa said she was getting—all the young ones loved the idea of collaboration and making something like this.

Satar: So you’ll do it?

Omui: Absoluuuutely! Sorry I’m spilling ink because I’m so excited. I make my own. Squid-girl. And we’re in a ship going dark. I have to be quiet or they’ll yell at me.

Satar: So fascinating! Drowned Folk are a perspective everyone’s curious about, you know. If you have any texts or insights—I believe the underwater world would be fascinating compared to ours. For instance, do you know about Tiernas, the Continent of Glass? We have some records, but most are lost—but do Drowned Folk have stories about it?

Omui: Sure do! We lost a lot as well. Every time a Sunken Library implodes, most texts vanish. Really hard to keep information for ages. But I know Tiernas caused huge vortexes underwater when it sank, boiling everything. Almost nothing right around it survived, but the actual place is still down here. It’s a Death Zone, even now.

Satar: Wait, Tiernas? You know where it is?

Omui: Sure do. We’re like within fifty miles of one piece of it right now. It’s just north of Wistram. Didn’t you know that? No one gets close to it, obviously. Even Krakens don’t want to touch it.

Satar: I have so many questions. Do you have a minute—oh, hold on, someone’s messaging me.

Omui: That’s okay! I’ll be around! Message me anytime you want! I’m so excited, I need to tell my crew!

One of the many little colored bookmarks was flashing, indicating Satar had other correspondence. It was rather like how a smartphone app in the Earth simulations acted…she wondered if this Skill was based on her perceptions and forms of thinking.

She flipped to the indicated page, then blinked. Because what she saw made no sense at first. She read familiar and unfamiliar words in a scrawl down the page.

Satar: Lewdquill? Are you still there? Is this the Armored Queen of the Antinium? I’d like to ask about the history of the Antinium if you have a moment. This is Satar Silverfang, [Historian of the World].

.]dlroW eht fo nairotsiH[ ,gnafrevliS rataS si sihT .tnemom a evah uoy fi muinitnA eht fo yrotsih eht tuoba ksa ot ekil d’I ?muinitnA eht fo neeuQ deromrA eht siht sI ?ereht llits uoy erA ?lliuqdweL :rataS

Sɐʇɐɹ: ˥ǝʍpbnᴉll¿ ∀ɹǝ ʎon sʇᴉll ʇɥǝɹǝ¿ Is ʇɥᴉs ʇɥǝ ∀ɹɯoɹǝp Qnǝǝu oɟ ʇɥǝ ∀uʇᴉuᴉnɯ¿ I’p lᴉʞǝ ʇo ɐsʞ ɐqonʇ ʇɥǝ ɥᴉsʇoɹʎ oɟ ʇɥǝ ∀uʇᴉuᴉnɯ ᴉɟ ʎon ɥɐʌǝ ɐ ɯoɯǝuʇ˙ ┴ɥᴉs ᴉs Sɐʇɐɹ Sᴉlʌǝɹɟɐuƃ’ ]Hᴉsʇoɹᴉɐu oɟ ʇɥǝ Moɹlp[˙

dermAor eeQun of eth tuinmi?nA

rdeoArm eQenu of eht Ain?tmuin

Aitminun?

Antinium. Antinium. Antinium. ███.

████.

Krche rc cheri█kkl ra-svv Si-cha-ri.

Ra-svv Xrn.

Ra-svv Kl-bkch-he-zeim.

Ra-svv Wr-ym-vr.

Ra-svv idiv?

Ra-svv.

She stared at the page. Satar lifted her quill, mind racing. What was…

Satar: Hello? Is this the Armored Queen of the Antinium? I’m afraid I don’t read your language. I’m Satar, a Gnoll from the Great Plains of Izril. I hope I’m not intruding.

A pause, then a response appeared on the page so fast she couldn’t even see the quill tracing a reply. It was too quick.

Hello. Antinium. Gnoll. Izril. Hope.

Not. Yes. Not. Possible. Don’t. Affirmative. Negative.

Satar. Satar. Satar.

Ra-svv. Hello? Contact? Affirmative? Request? Query?

Satar: Is that what ra-svv means? Ra-svv, Satar. No, you’re asking for Klbkch? Klbkch the Slayer?

Slayer. Klbkch. Slayer. Slayer. Hello. Yes. Affirmative.

Satar: I’m afraid I don’t know how to contact him. Who is this, please?

She felt like she should put the book down. But something was drawing her in. This…this didn’t feel like…the Queens could speak and surely write, right? Was this—

Then the words began to pour onto the page so fast it seemed as though someone were writing from both ends, not using a single quill. And the confused language, the attempt at words became—

Yes. Agreement.

In the beginning, there was an order. ‘Survive, reproduce, evolve.’ It was unknown.

It spoke in every mind. Eggs hatched in the darkness. Many peoples, many kinds.

Then it was war.

Among them rose the First Queen after many generations. She among many. She, who wove thousand-thousand-thousand—million—into one.

Centenium-named. Hirriec the Conquerer first. He went forth.

Many peoples silenced. Brought into song or stilled. He followed the voice. The First Queen followed the voice until she asked:

Why?

When many of the other peoples were silent, Hirriec descended to where the voice spoke.

When he returned, Hirriec was gone. Only a shouting voice in his image who proclaimed. ‘███████ is the one true ███. ███████ her and you shall be chosen of the final age as she wakes.’

The First Queen made war against Hirriec. Then thought.

She rejected the voice.

Thus, she chose war against a foe she might never prevail against.

Thus, we found our purpose.

Long has passed that day, and a hundred Centenium made in defiance. Many, many, peoples born who hear the voice. Few who refuse. This continues.

We do not flee for there is nowhere in this world that we can run.

We do not flee for the foe must die.

We do not flee for our contempt outweighs the weight of all our lives.

You seek answers. This is your answer.

Incorrect. Ra-svv. To call a name after.

Ra-svv Sichari.

Sichari, are you there? War Queen, who departed.

Now, a question.

Satar couldn’t blink. She saw the words tracing themselves down the page, and she just kept reading. Reading as a tiny fly seemed to buzz around her ears. Reading as the ink traced itself from four angles, forming the next words.

The voice who spoke. Tell me: do you love her? Would you serve her? Would you ███████ a ███?

Then it was silence. The young Gnoll slowly lifted her quill, and ink dripped onto the parchment until she wrote with trembling hand.

Satar: No.

A pause and then a reply.

Good. Rls. Not enough let-ters. Rls. Farewell.

Satar: Who are you? Ra-svv…?

Mirrex. [Bard]. Last-made Centenium.

Then, and only then, could Satar move. She inhaled a gasp of breath and fell backwards, or tried to, but her chair was gone. She trembled, then cried out.

She was covered in—ropes? They were all around her, and it was dark! She could barely see except a single [Light] spell, and she wasn’t in her rooms! She was in the center of a huge…pit of earth?

“What’s going on? Where am I—?”

At her words, prompted by her reaction, there was movement. A rumble—and then the earth rose in a huge wave as a doorway appeared, and light blinded Satar. Someone stood in the doorway, staff raised, heart thundering.

Shaman Theikha. The great Shaman of Gaarh Marsh pointed at Satar’s journal.

“Is it active?”

“What? Shaman Theikha? I don’t—I was reading, and then he asked me a question and—”

“Are you in danger?”

“I don’t think…”

Theikha grunted. She strode over, read the paper, and froze. Just completely froze for a second before murmuring.

“No.”

Then she reached down, ripped the page of Satar’s journal straight out, and crumpled it up. Satar cried out.

“Shaman! What are—”

“Trapped text. Feshi, I am leaving the protective sphere! I have the text.”

“Acknowledged! Move slowly, Shaman! You too, Satar!”

When the confused Gnoll girl stumbled out of a long, long corridor of layered stone and earth, she froze and raised her arms instinctively. A ring of Gnolls with bows were aiming at her, and Theikha covered the piece of parchment with one paw.

“Sealing box.”

“Right here!”

A Gnoll was standing next to a lead-lined coffin which Theikha placed the crumpled page into. Then they dropped it in what looked like another box lined with magicore and then into a Chest of Holding. Theikha turned to a pair of Steelfur Gnolls with helmets on. Helmets with no openings in their visors.

“Drag it inside, and if you hear anything, run. We’re dropping this under totems a hundred feet down. Chieftain Feshi?”

“Spot’s marked, and we’re ready. Everyone get back!”

The Gnolls rushed the chest inside, and Satar swayed. She realized she was parched, and her body was cramped—and her cheek hurt.

“What happened…?”

“You stopped moving. Akrisa checked on you and realized you were in the grip of something. Theikha identified it as a possible attack Skill, but when she realized it was a text-trap, she tried to guess the level and tier. She had us evacuate you here in case whatever it was got you—or spread.”

Feshi wore a grim expression on her face as the Steelfur Gnolls came barrelling out. The ground began to sink, and Satar saw the multi-layered chamber they’d built around her start sinking. She looked at Theikha wordlessly until someone grabbed her and began to hug and shake her.

“I told you to be careful, you silly cub! What was—”

Her mother was relieved and frantic, but Theikha held one finger to her lips.

“I think I understand just who Satar encountered via her Skill. She now has one that is very, very dangerous. Chieftains, we will discuss this in private. Now. Whatever that Skill is…”

“Was that—was that who I thought it was, Shaman? No, not who. Where?”

Satar was finally catching up to what was going on, and she couldn’t stand. Theikha nodded once.

“Yes. You may have told them more than is wise…but it is done. We’ll weave ward stones for you tonight. They know your name.”

“Satar!”

Akrisa groaned, and Satar began trembling.

“What…what do you think would have happened if I’d said the wrong thing, Theikha? The other thing? Did you see how it was written? How they were figuring it out?”

The [Shaman] glanced around briefly, and Satar noticed her fur standing on end.

“My guess, Satar? Some Skill to interpret. Sensible. Then, they answered your Skill because that was how it worked. And if you had given them the answer they didn’t want…my [Omen of the Future] gives cryptic answers. Useless ones, mostly. A Level 5 girl’s Skill. What will the Meeting of Tribes bring? ‘Answers’. Whom can I count on? ‘Gnolls’.”

She snorted mildly. Then grew still.

“What would happen if Satar Silverfang answered the other way?”

She paused, listened, and Satar’s fur kept rising and prickling as Theikha opened her eyes and spoke.

“‘This ends’.”

Every Gnoll fell silent, then, and Satar finally began to realize exactly how close she’d come to disaster. Some of the Chieftains were opening their mouths to scream at Satar, but Feshi held up a paw.

“What exactly was the nature of the text, Satar? Without endangering us…damn, now I wish I’d taken that extra course in infohazards. But the only way to even get into the classroom is to figure out where it is.”

Satar had no idea what that meant, but she was trying to explain.

“It was a history of the Antinium. And then—I—”

Theikha nudged her.

“Don’t mention the question!”

“I won’t! I just…wait…what was it they were writing about? There was this…thing…right. This thing that created the Antinium. But they wanted to—”

Satar put a paw to her head. She had a fantastic memory as a [Shaman]; she always had. But she couldn’t…remember…

There was something important. She had the history of the Antinium, short as it was, down pat. But something…

What was it? It had faded from her memory, even as it had been excised on the paper by Mirrex. Some knowledge that literally refused to stick in her mind. Something important.

“Oh no. It’s the secret of the Antinium. And I can’t remember it!”

She wailed, and Chieftain Eska grumbled.

“Makes sense. Sounds like whatever it was, they didn’t want it spreading, eh?”

She turned to Theikha, and the [Shaman] touched her own forehead.

“I myself barely remember the question. But whatever it was, I think…hrr. Yes, it was about whether or not we were allied.”

That was all she retained? She, the greatest [Shaman] present? Everyone stared at Theikha, and Feshi scratched her chin. She glanced at the enclosed dome where the two blind Steelfur Gnolls had emerged.

“Well, we’ve potentially not made another enemy, which is good, no? Let’s get it buried and—”

She was reaching for a speaking stone, but she picked up the piece of paper instead. Read it.

“Hmm?”

Feshi stared at the scrap of paper in her paws. Satar was panting apologies when she and Theikha saw the familiar piece of paper and froze.

It looked like the lining of Satar’s personal journal, which was not the standard color of parchment—usually a brown or beige—but a crisp white. Beautiful and soft. But this was…

Slightly off. The color was right, but the paper was a shade too thick and not cut to perfect dimensions. In fact, it seemed a bit ragged on one end. As if it were hand-made. But in almost all ways, it was the same quality of paper, and Feshi stared at the words, utterly silent.

“Feshi? What’s—”

Orelighn was peering when Theikha knocked him down.

“Everyone, get back! Get back!”

Feshi’s eyes flickered, and then she breathed.

“No.”

She lowered the paper, and Satar snatched for it. And there were the words again, which erased themselves from her head even as she read them.

Would you ██████ a ███?

Theikha grabbed it and tore the paper apart in her paws. She stuffed them into her bag of holding and hurled it down to the Steelfur Gnolls.

“Take it inside and bury it, now!”

She turned to Chieftain Eska, and the Gnoll [Chieftain] was holding a piece of paper in her paws. Theikha froze and saw Chieftain Orelighn had a second piece of paper in his paws. And the [Shaman] behind him a third.

Satar’s fur was standing on end as she whirled. Feshi spoke.

“Oh, hells. That’s not good—”

Every single Gnoll in the area was holding a piece of paper. Satar hadn’t seen them pick it up. She hadn’t seen it appear. It was just there, and the question was burning across each page.

“No.”

At last, Chieftain Eska forced the paper down and gasped for air, panting. She glanced up.

“I had to answer it honestly. I was trying to look—”

“No, of course not! I don’t even know what that is!”

Orelighn broke off, and more Gnolls spoke, dropping the paper, recoiling. Theikha’s voice was deadly calm.

“Every single Gnoll here is not to move. If this hits the camps…”

“H-how far could it spread?”

Was this a Skill? Theikha’s head was roaming around, and she was muttering.

“If it’s a plague of information how far can any plague spread? But even Skills have limits. What level is this Antinium is the question. Level 50? Level 60? Level 70?”

“Impossible. It can’t be…”

Orelighn flinched under Theikha’s stare, but the [Shaman] was muttering, thinking out loud.

“Yet it is a strange question, yes? It revealed much and nothing, but it is a risk, surely. To ask about…what was it? An enemy? Some action? I don’t remember. The same question. Why ask the same question more than ten times, a hundred times?”

There was an increasing chorus of voices, now. Gnolls speaking.

“No!”

“Never, let me go—”

“I don’t know what this is, no.”

They dropped the paper, recoiling, turning to run and being shouted to stay put, but then Satar heard a single, bemused voice amongst the rest.

“Yes. I’ve heard of th—”

She spun. A young [Warrior] or [Hunter] on the edge of the pit read something from the piece of paper. He blinked, then shrugged, half grinning—

Pop.

He vanished. The piece of paper fluttered down, and every Gnoll stared at the place where the Gnoll had been. Theikha ran, and dove for the paper as Feshi pulled out her speaking stone. She hesitated.

“Feshi to the Meeting of Tribes, do not approach our position. Do not respond, we are being attacked by a memetic attack!”

“What—what—”

Satar was running after Theikha, and the [Shaman] was kneeling over the paper. She reached for it—and Eska tackled her.

“Don’t let her look! We can’t lose you! I’ll do it!”

There was a chorus of voices as someone grabbed Eska, and then Satar had it in one paw. This was her fault. She raised the paper with a shaking paw and read.

This time, the words were different.

Tell me. Do you know what a ███ is? Have you ever heard of it?

Satar swallowed. Oh no. She felt the answer dragging at her tongue, and now, she understood what had happened.

That poor Gnoll. He must have been one lucky enough to enter the Earth tent. Or he’d heard Erin Solstice’s broadcast at the Winter Solstice or—or—

The Antinium was searching for answers, and now he had them. She tried. Oh, she tried, but Satar had to respond. She knew it. Dimly, she heard people shouting at her. Someone—her mother—howling her name, but no one could break the power over her.

But she could do one last thing. Satar conjured a quill and, instead of speaking, wrote.

Tell me. Do you know what a ███ is? Have you ever heard of it?

Satar: Yes. Please don’t harm any more of us. We’re not your enemies.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Waiting for that single sound, for obliteration.

This ends. This ends. This—

Then there was a faint sound, as quiet as a blot of ink on the parchment, and a soft gasp.

“Satar?”

The Gnoll girl peeked up. The page she had been holding was gone. The ones the other Gnolls had read were gone. A single piece of paper wafted downwards. She caught it, slowly, as the Gnolls clustered around her looked up. They drew back, Theikha holding Akrisa, and Satar read.

Mirrex: Understood. Knowledge has breached containment. Dis-tressing. Analysis continues. ‘Gnolls’ re-identified. Possibly non-hostile species. Not allies of the enemy. Yet.

Satar: You killed one of us. What are you doing?

Mirrex: Reproduction of materials took time. ‘Paper’. ‘Ink’. Communication with other species higher priority given spread of knowledge. Error in comprehension.

Satar: You nearly killed us for an error?

Mirrex: Negative. No. Wrong. Translation Skills imperfect. Rephrasing. Gnolls not ally of enemy. Second inquiry dispatched. Original inquiry still active, extant. Do not answer in affirmative. Second inquiry answered in affirmative. ‘Gnoll’ singular present. Here.

Satar: He’s alive? In your Hive?

Mirrex: Yes. Limited use ‘Relic’ acquired within last cycle. Scroll of Greater Teleport. Write on back. Useless for mass-transit. If in contact with Antinium: request fifteen-Hive mobilization led by Xrn, Wrymvr, Klbkch. Those numbers needed or excess. Gnoll information shall be inquired upon. No further questions. Your Skill. Do not ask the wrong questions.

—Then the writing ceased. Satar stumbled, and Shaman Theikha spoke.

“So they understand how to use artifacts and combine them with Skills. And they have access to Relic-class items, even if I would not use them thusly. But they are not purely murderous.”

She plucked the piece of paper up, and everyone else was standing at the far end of the depression in the earth. Theikha sighed, and rubbed at her face.

“Once more, it is we Gnolls who become the great travellers of the world. Emissaries to peoples never found.”

“Shaman Theikha, I’m sorry—”

Satar didn’t know what to say. Theikha turned and wearily tossed the piece of paper down to the Gnolls below.

“You didn’t know what your actions would result in. You and I will find that [Warrior]’s parents. After we bury this.”

She turned to Feshi, and the young Chieftain nodded. Theikha pointed at the dome of earth and called out.

“Bury it another hundred feet—no, keep it there and have someone watch the spot at all times. A thrown weapon is still a weapon.”

Then she was striding off, and Satar stared at Akrisa for a second until a hand seized one of her ears. But Akrisa was hugging her. And it was another day at the Meeting of Tribes. Eventful, terrifying, divine.

Religion had come to Khelt, and unlike Satar’s brief encounter with those who objected to it—King Fetohep of Khelt had no answer to bring about an ending of things. He did not even understand what it was they had brought.

Not at first.

——

The advent of the People of God into the necrocracy of Khelt was slow, at first. Yes, they passed the border.

…They did not immediately reach the cities. Nor did Fetohep keep sending undead against them when it was clear it was a waste of resources. He tried a few higher-grade undead, and when they seemed to fare no better against the mysterious power this Prophet held…well, he was not replete with Draugr.

It wasn’t Khelta’s way. She had been a [Necromancer] of the reductive school of necromancy, an Ossis-school following the Simplis style, who’d surpassed even her greatest mentors in creating low-grade undead who could perform countless, advanced tasks. A squad of her skeletons armed with spears could down a charging Draugr…before.

The flaw, right now, was that it meant Fetohep had few actually ‘powerful’ undead to raise. Plenty armed with powerful artifacts. Few of actual high-grade ranks as undead measured such things. Not a problem; a skeleton legion armored with Gold-rank equipment was a terror on the battlefield…if they were coordinated. Now, they were mere skeletons, fodder, walking loot boxes.

Conversely, the King of Khelt mused darkly, it was probably why everything was so stable. Greater undead loved to rebel or could think. If they’d relied on Draugr or things like Crypt Lords, they may well have had a problem before now. The Jaws of Zeikhal proved that.

“These People of God have reached no city—yet. But they are probing. Spreading out and…hiding upon Khelt’s lands. I have lost track of them.”

“Lost track, Your Majesty? How?”

Alked was alarmed by this, but Fetohep flicked his fingers.

“My citizens I can readily sense, Fellbow, but these are intruders. Intruders with no classes, by and large. It is as if they were invisible. Naturally, I suspect some kind of concealment Skill, the likes of which the Bloodfeast Raiders use. They appear to be spreading out; I am sending undead to hunt and search for them, but I am loath to spend them when the main camp appears shielded. I require them gone. Your thoughts.”

The Named-rank adventurer shifted. Fetohep was not asking him to fight, but…Alked spoke directly.

“If I had a clear shot and knew they couldn’t detect me, I could attempt to shoot this Prophet, but that might well drive his followers into a rage.”

“Such is the case with [Cult Leaders], in my experience. Nor do I believe these are toothless vagrants any more.”

Nor did Alked. He shook his head.

“Twelve thousand of them…there have to be some high-level members. If the undead cannot hold them, then—what other groups could be called on to stop them?”

He felt like he knew the answer, but Fetohep’s reply was slow.

“There are…officials who mediate in disputes between my populace. They would constitute the largest living force.”

“What about soldiers of Khelt?”

“I believe, with new volunteers, the amount that currently serves in Khelt’s army across here and New Jecrass is…1,020. Over two-thirds of them enlisted last year.”

In a sense, it was more than you’d think for Khelt. Alked’s throat worked as he swallowed, and Fetohep added.

“In Queen Xierca’s time, we had twenty officers. I left Khelt’s lands to serve as a mercenary due to the sheer disinterest. My class may have motivated my citizens to some martial prowess. But it would appear to rule out the living as deterrents. Unless you have any other ideas?”

“Just one, Your Majesty. There are always mercenaries or more adventurers, but we don’t do well against groups this large. If not them—the People of Zair? Or the Gnolls.”

Yes. The Centaurs were a powerful, mobile force. But Fetohep drummed his fingers on the armrest of his throne.

“That they are new does not change my esteem for any citizen of Khelt. I would not press the Herdmistress or her people into any service lightly. Nor do I wish this incident to spread.”

He drummed his fingers upon the armrest of his throne. There was one force he could call upon, naturally, that had the power to lay waste to most foes. But he was loath to use it.

Alked had the same thought.

“What of Sand at Sea, Your Majesty?”

The undead ship and Captain Cikroleth were potent indeed. However…Fetohep thought back to the border and all the undead that had been erased.

“I believe they have a potent anti-undead Skill, Alked. Numerous ones, perhaps. Khelt’s last remaining Revenants should not be risked in any capacity.”

Alked hesitated.

“This is true, Your Majesty. But if you will not use the People of Zair, Gnolls, or Sand At Sea…”

Someone had to be used. Fetohep nodded, accepting this mild pushback.

“True. Then, I shall send Sand at Sea to New Jecrass. In doing so, I shall pull back Khelt’s standing forces of living mortals and some of the undead.”

He did not know if the warship could fully patrol all of New Jecrass, but it meant he’d have living Kheltians rather than risk the undead against the Prophet. Alked nodded, reluctant.

“And a force which can supplement Khelt’s…army, Your Majesty?”

“Fear not, Fellbow. I am well aware Khelt’s standing forces are not adequate alone for this task. I shall inquire into methods by which to curtail these…fanatics.”

In his mind, he could sense a squad of skeletons pursuing a group of the Prophet’s fleeing followers. Another rising and ambushing a furtive bunch of eighteen on horseback. They fought, then fled, and his skeletons were trailing after. Then there was a flash—light—?

The skeletons chasing the first group vanished abruptly, and Fetohep sighed.

“That Skill cannot be unlimited. The moment it is exhausted, they shall be expunged without mercy. Aside from the innocents, of course. There are children amongst this camp, at least as far as I can tell. I shall send for you if a gap appears, Fellbow.”

His eyes flashed, and the Named-rank adventurer bowed. That was the state of things, at first. Fetohep actually turned his attention to more urgent matters.

“These protests in the Sereptian Plaza over insects. Servants, take note. I shall issue a proclamation about the spread of bugs throughout the kingdom shortly…”

King Fetohep announced that the bugs were due to unprecedented yearly migrations. He urged citizens to remain calm and prepared a list of measures to be taken, such as securing uncovered food, cleaning after oneself, and even issued bounties on brave citizens willing to remove bugs themselves.

His reply was a request for more skeletons. His citizens were not blind, just complacent, and his response was that they were needed in New Jecrass, but plenty were keeping order; it was just a matter of the number of insects.

Fetohep thought it would hold until his citizens, stressed and educated, if not in all the ways of the world, did something he really didn’t like.

They started counting how many skeletons were actually working in each district.

——

The problem with a ruler who wanted unquestioning obedience was always in a populace who could think and reason. Pewerthe took one glance at a diagram someone had worked up that charted how many skeletons were active in each district, sectoring the entire capital city, and her stomach hurt.

But to be fair, it hurt more to think there was an unidentified group of people roaming around Khelt’s borders. It reminded her of the bandits who’d carried her family off, and she didn’t know why they weren’t expelled, gone!

—No, it clearly weighed on King Fetohep’s mind. He was not happy, and his voice was raised in rare outrage in his throne room.

“Mugged upon my roads? My citizens?”

The official who knelt before his throne shivered, but the rage was for the People of God, not them. The woman lifted a hand—she was visibly rattled, horrified—but Pewerthe was relieved by her shake of the head.

“Not hurt, Your Majesty. They were intercepted by the—the strangers who claimed to be a ‘Chosen People of God’. They demanded the citizens relinquish their wealth that they might be redeemed, and forswear loyalty to Khelt.”

“And then?”

“The citizens refused to forswear themselves, but when they resisted—with strong words and calls for skeletons—they were seized! And their possessions taken! They fled back to the city, and these people vanished when several official [Peacekeepers], including myself, went to find them. Were they foreigners, Your Majesty? Visitors?”

Fetohep lifted a hand and looked at Pewerthe.

“I believe I know who they are, Official Nerizhe. Keep this matter private to all but your settlement to avoid enflaming fears. Alked, take a hundred of Khelt’s soldiers, living ones, to the town. I shall send my undead to hunt these trespassers, of course, Nerizhe.”

She bowed repeatedly, and Pewerthe stared at Fetohep as he sat back on his throne.

But the undead couldn’t easily find or stop this Prophet. Then what? Fetohep glanced at her, then beckoned a scrying orb over.

“Inform the Mercenary’s Guild I wish to secure the services of their largest groups. If not them, the Empire of Scaied. I require a response within half an hour.”

——

The concept Fetohep had was simple. Call for mercenaries to deal with the People of God and then, after their ousting, use the mercenaries to deal with the bugs. The cover for the need for [Mercenaries] thus became a rather interesting question that the leader of one of Scaied’s mercenary armies had to field.

“Er—how many cleaning Skills or capable men and women do I have under my command, Your Majesty?”

The [Deathstriker Scorpion-Commander] stared at the King of Khelt as he smiled at her.

“Yes. Some warfare is required in tracking a nuisance within my borders with elusive Skills, but I am more minded to combat the dangers of insects within my borders.”

Her eyes widened.

“The likes of the metal beetles? Some are on Scaied’s borders, and they’re a damn—”

She shut her lips fast, realizing she’d both cursed in front of Fetohep and admitted her empire had a problem with the insects; other nations were trying to curtail their spread at once. Fetohep’s eyeflames only glittered at her.

“My insects are more mundane. Beetles. Ants. Upon the streets, no less. As many as a single anthill per street in the worst distracts.”

“What, like, one in an entire…street?”

There it was again, that look of complete incomprehension. The [Commander] stared at a big ant walking past her very feet as Fetohep explained the total catastrophe alarming his citizens. He made an exhaling sound.

“I take it, then, your troops are not equipped to combat this particular menace?”

“I—I have no less than fifteen Oisk Stingers under my command, Your Majesty. Each one is an adult capable of taking down a Grand Elephant, and my troops can all sweep and clean best as needed, even without…cleaning Skills.”

She wanted to lie to him, but she felt like that was a bad idea. Fetohep reviewed a dossier of her forces, then placed it to one side. Smiled at her.

“I shall consider your bid, Commander Rijec. Though I note the Oresect plague’s presence. Your honesty has been noted.”

Rijec flinched as he cut the line. She hadn’t even been able to ask if there was a way to emigrate to Khelt, say, if she hit Level 40…

Losing such a huge contract was one thing, but then no less than the Crown Prince summoned her to a scrying orb to scream at her within the hour; Khelt had banned every single trading convoy from Scaied from even passing near their borders.

Even the smallest conversation with Fetohep could provoke terrible results, but what he offered was beyond dreams. Gold and the lure of even seeing Khelt itself…

——

Fetohep entertained eighteen bids, which he winnowed down to six without even interviews. Of the six, only two forces seemed to have the decorum, ability to keep silent, and intelligence he desired. He had to dismiss Scaied entirely; the Oresect plague was not something he would allow inside his borders.

But it was Mercenary Captain Galbram and his Glasscut Troop that seemed perfect for the job. The man had no less than five thousand under his command and could draw upon more he swore he could vouch for if needed. His sounded like any run-of-the-mill mercenary company, but his pedigree spoke for itself.

“You participated in the fall of Tiqr, Captain. In open warfare? Elaborate, if you would.”

The sweating man saluted again as he stood in his rough yet practical camping tent, a messy bedroll behind him, armor and tools upon a workbench—he wasn’t pristine, but Fetohep remembered his own days as a mercenary and thought the man was business-like and, certainly, aware of his client’s importance. But he was no coward and managed to meet Fetohep’s flaming gaze.

“Not open, Your Majesty. Begging pardons for my rough tongue.”

“It is not held against you. Speak candidly and only upon your own modality of speech, Captain. Respect is plain within any setting, not a bar to be placed out of reach by verbiage alone.”

The man nodded after a second and spoke more easily.

“Begging your pardon, sire, then. It wasn’t open. We were hired to raid alongside Great General Thelican’s forces and all the others. Slow down enemy supply lines, take on their irregulars like the Laughing Brigade. It wasn’t ever a clash against their Grand Elephants. Begging your pardon, but we’d have run like spit if we saw even ten coming at us.”

“Ah. Prudence or fear, Captain? I require a force that can both oust these [Bandits] and provide services combatting these insects plaguing my citizens.”

Galbram swallowed and spoke carefully.

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but if it’s the latter, my people and I can clean and do all that’s needful—we’ve held places before, and none of us are shy about sweeping or digging up insect nests. But if it’s the former, well, we’re willing to fight, but how much we bleed depends on how much we’re paid.”

“And Nerrhavia’s Fallen did not pay you to war.”

A relieved smile on Galbram’s face.

“Exactly, sire. It wasn’t the most handsome of payments, and against Grand Elephants…? The moment the [Wild Riot] was called, we annulled our contracts and left. They could have offered us more, but, er…”

“Speak in confidence, Captain. You have my word as Ruler of Khelt I shall not betray anything spoken to me. Nor is this connection interceptable by any other power.”

Galbram bowed again.

“Then let me just say that General Thelican…didn’t use [Mercenaries] well. We were either chaff he sent in front of his glorious armies or untrusted. He could’ve paid us well enough to fight, but he didn’t feel like spendin’ the gold. I don’t think that’s the issue here, Your Majesty. Nevermind if it’s a large group, pay us and we’ll fight unless we think we’ll all die.”

His answers, his clear-eyed stare, all pleased Fetohep of Khelt. The ruler nodded.

“Then I shall offer your company a contract of six months, Captain, at the values you have requested.”

The man couldn’t hide a smile from crossing his face. It would be at triple his usual wages, a fact both he and Fetohep knew, but the King of Khelt didn’t exactly sweat for gold. Galbram ducked his head.

“We can pack up and be riding to Khelt within the hour, Your Majesty. Better work than Nerrhavia’s Fallen right now.”

Especially since they have us doing all the damn work their local armies should. Clearing bandits, keeping order, playing the bastards kicking in doors to get conscripts…it sounded like clean work in Khelt, even if it was handling bugs. If this bandit force seemed larger than the King of Khelt was putting on, Galbram had been assured his troops would be supplied with enchanted arrows if necessary. Plus, the perks—he spoke unthinking.

“There’s a few things I’d like to ask someone less important than yourself about, Your Majesty. Details of the job. Where we should camp, good water, and so on.”

“All water in Khelt is fair, but I take your point, Captain Galbram. I shall have one of my officers coordinate the matter with you. Servant, send for Death Commander Lanodest.”

“I’ll trouble him then, Your Majesty. We’ll hop to it, on the double. Everyone will be dying to see Glorious Khelt with our own eyes, and they’ll fight twice as hard for a chance at a day off to see the cities.”

Captain Galbram was going to do a backflip the moment the scrying orb ended; he wasn’t going to pop a bottle since he didn’t drink. But it was here, unexpectedly, that they hit a snag. Fetohep paused as he lifted a hand.

“Days off, Captain Galbram? Do I take it that you expect your mercenaries be allowed the run of my cities?”

Galbram hesitated.

“Not—all at once, Your Majesty. But we rotate people off from active duty, especially if they’ve fought. A kind of reward—”

“I am aware of mercenary life, Captain. I was one myself. But your statement that your [Mercenaries] be given time and access to my cities—no. I require them to remain in their camps.”

“At all times, Your Majesty? But we need provisions, repairs to gear—”

Galbram’s mouth fell open, and Fetohep shook his head.

“All of what is required shall be provided.”

“But sire, Your Majesty of Khelt—time off is the only thing that keeps mercenaries going. If you were one yourself, you know what it’s like!”

“I am aware, but I shall not have your people troubling my citizens, Captain. This is not an element up for negotiation.”

The Human man slowly felt a pit opening in his stomach and settled back onto his heels, no longer bouncing.

“With great respect, Your Majesty Fetohep, I have to ask for at least a few days off for my people. It could be as few as a hundred a week—”

“No.”

Now, Captain Galbram’s mouth shut for he was well and truly offended, and Fetohep saw it. The King of Khelt’s timeless gaze regarded the man, and he lifted a finger.

“I shall elaborate, for I perceive we may not understand each other, Captain. You take this as a slight upon your company. I do not intend to imply they are in any way lesser than any other [Mercenary] company. I would extend the same restrictions to Scaied’s finest army. To the King of Destruction’s own soldiers. It is not that I find your company inferior to some requirement of dignity. It is simply that they are outsiders. By their nature, soldiers can commit acts of violence.”

“My people are—”

“I do not impugn them, again, Captain Galbram. They may commit acts of violence, and there is no violence in Khelt. None. Do you understand? The last time someone was murdered in Khelt was three hundred and twelve years ago. I consider it a personal stain upon my reign as king.”

One death in three hundred and twelve years. Galbram began to understand, but Fetohep went on.

“Not just violence; your people bring other sicknesses from abroad. This, too, is unacceptable. But equally, they are a lure to my own people. It has happened before; visitors come and charm those with passions for the outside world. They create children, they wish to leave, and find themselves exiting Khelt for romance and a world they are unprepared for. Every consequence, every disturbance to my lands—unacceptable. Do you see?”

Galbram saw. It painted a different vision of Khelt than the one he had thought of. Even the most cloistered Silk Stitch-folk neighborhood was nothing compared to…he bowed his head.

“I do, Your Majesty, but begging your pardon, I have to ask for an opportunity for my people to visit. If I told them they had a chance to see Eternal Khelt, the most beautiful paradise in the world, but they’d never set foot in any city…it’s practically a dream, sire! Couldn’t there be some middle ground?”

The King of Khelt didn’t seem to take the flattery—well, the truth—amiss, but he just drummed his fingers on the armrest of his throne, then spoke.

“I shall double your considerable fee, Captain Galbram. Will that not suit?”

He clearly expected it to, and Galbram hesitated, he truly did. But then he shook his head.

“If we could have a day off per month, and we could rotate it so each city only had a handful of—”

“No, Captain Galbram. This is not an element I shall negotiate upon. What fee will allow you to keep your troops in line?”

Fetohep waited for the man to triple the price, but Galbram just stared at him. Then he opened and closed his mouth.

“Let’s say I agreed to your terms, Your Majesty. What—would the penalty be if one of my people snuck into your cities? Just to see?”

“I would not suffer more than a handful of incidents before the penalties became extreme, Captain.”

The man nodded once, then shook his head.

“I—I can’t do it.”

“Excuse me? The price—”

“I can’t stop them from wanting to see, Your Majesty. And begging your pardon, but respectfully, former mercenary to mercenary, I can’t fight for a kingdom who won’t let me walk their cities! Even for Eternal Khelt…you understand? It’s about pride. We don’t need citizenship or the run of the cities, but that’s where I stand.”

Galbram held his breath. He gazed at Fetohep, who did seem like a warrior despite the thin body he now wore, the regal robes. Surely you remember.

Perhaps Fetohep did, but the golden eye-flames flashed, once, and Galbram heard a different note in the monarch’s tone. A familiar one.

Pride. Fetohep of Khelt lifted a finger and flicked it across the air.

“This I do not accept, Captain. I shall find another who serves my needs. If you should reconsider—”

He stopped, manifestly displeased by this outcome, and spoke.

“Khelt is not so fragile nor my people so unwary they would melt like pure snow before your presence, Captain. On the contrary, they might find your people a delight. Yet I cannot accept. Again, it is no condemnation—”

This time, Galbram broke in, because he knew the offer was dead. He bowed his head again.

“Reminds me of a perfect jewel a fellow like myself would sully by touching, even breathing on, Your Majesty. If a few anthills can do that…you won’t find a mercenary on this continent who can tread your soil without staining it. Begging your pardon.”

He glanced up, and the golden gaze found him, and he held it until Fetohep curtly nodded.

“I thank you for your time, Captain.”

He vanished. Galbram sat for a while on his bed before cursing and throwing his boots at the wall and rolling up in his bedding to call himself ten kinds of idiot and imagine what he’d turned down…

But he knew he was right. Later that day, Galbram heard through the Mercenary Guild’s gossip lines that another [Mercenary Captain], Nava, and her company had gotten a contract with Khelt. She had about two thousand troops under her command, and she wasn’t as battle-hardened as his group, but if it was regular bandits and sweeping, he bet she’d do well.

He didn’t ask her if she’d agreed to Fetohep’s strict terms. He knew the answer, and privately, he thought the King of Khelt would get what he wanted.

Just not the best. If it was bugs, it wouldn’t matter.

If it was just bugs.

——

The first month within Khelt was…harsh. The Prophet found his ecstasy over his triumph and moment of crisis at the border turn to anger, to wrath. Because entry into Khelt was difficult, despite their powers.

They didn’t stay within Khelt either. Rather, the People of God began to move around Khelt, entering and exiting in waves and camping outside by sheer necessity; the dead and the Revenant’s minions were constantly moving to intercept the People of God, and the faithful had to be wary.

They clashed—first with just undead, then with living people—retreated, tried to sneak in further, clashed, fell back—a battle of wills.

At first, it was bloodless. Oh, the undead died but that was a holy thing, a good thing. Wherever the Light of Faith shone, they vanished, but the Prophet was loath to take his full people into Khelt.

That would be open war, and he did not fancy Khelt’s full wrath upon his people. Also, Adoive had warned the Prophet about Khelt’s stored weapons. The Prophet had heard about Roshal. No, a large group was far too dangerous, so smaller groups ranged in and brought back, well…treasure.

Worked gold bracelets, soft gold far more lustrous than the cheap fake gold or alloys. Clothing so fine it hurt the heart, magical items—even the meanest citizen seemed to have them!

Of course, it provoked a furious debate inside the People of God’s camp when Marrieh realized that these were ‘donations’ the Kheltians were turning over to some over-zealous parties.

“Prophet, is it not written that wealth is a sin? The accumulation of it is not what the true faithful need!”

“And yet, it pays for food and clothing, and they are indolent with theirs.”

That came from Izreal, who coveted the finery almost as much as the Prophet, who sat between warring factions. He, personally, thought Khelt had far too much wealth and frowned at Marrieh.

“Did we not take the King of Medain’s own squandered wealth, Marrieh? And armor from his soldiers that now protect our own.”

He nodded at Izreal’s chestplate, and Marrieh bowed to him, but she was challenging.

“We did, but it was spent on balms for bruised feet, baskets to carry manna, clothing upon our backs, and waterflasks for our voyage, Prophet.”

Not the crown you wanted. He scowled at her. He thought it would have been a symbol. He lifted a hand as he silenced the arguments, and all heeded him as he spoke:

“Khelt does not want for wealth. Nor is this undead king any true ruler who shall hold power when the Kingdom of Heaven comes. He is a false ruler; all that he and his people hold is forfeit. Do not harm them, for they are misguided. Only raise a hand to defend yourself. A day will come when all see the falsity of their ways, and those who beg for redemption must be accepted and cherished without fault of their past.”

Adoive and Izreal nodded repeatedly, and Marrieh sighed, but the wealth truly did mean something. People of God who went to find [Merchants] and came back with gold brimming from their hands or bags of holding loaded with supplies, furniture—this drove more and more of the faithful to risk their lives entering Khelt.

And it was a risk. The first casualty came when a group of [Faith Seekers] went far too deep. They never returned, and Marrieh led a group to find them. They found their people killed by skeletons.

Then the Prophet knew wrath.

——

He demanded a thousand of their warriors descend on Khelt and strike their citizens dead, one for each of the faithful’s fallen.

She reminded him of the commandments, ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’. Though they would defend themselves from attack.

So he shouted for another force to enter a city and break all that could be broken and leave them lamenting in terror. She reminded him of the words of Jesus Christ, that they should turn the other cheek. He rebuked her, for their people had been slain by hateful undead.

But his rage was cooling by then, and that was when Marrieh explained the difficulty in any act of vengeance or entering Khelt. The undead were one thing.

“We can defeat the undead; we must move in larger groups lest we be overwhelmed, and be ready to fall back. They are not the threat, Prophet. There is a man in the first town we passed. A Named-rank adventurer. His name is Alked Fellbow. He shot the legs out of six of our fellows, and Kheltians in armor—living ones—fought with our [Devout Warriors].”

“Were they killed? Apprehended?”

He spun, having been praying in his tent for a new bed, among other things. The furnishings had been updated, and a [Merchant] apparently had a magical tent that was coming their way. Marrieh frowned as she bowed to him.

“No. The [Battle Cleric] with them blinded the Kheltians, and they fled. The same with the ones shot; they were healed, and Fellbow let them flee. However, these incidents are rising in frequency, and Izreal swears he saw armed soldiers patrolling as well. Far more.”

The Prophet cursed inside his head as he thought.

“We must move around Khelt, then. Avoid this adventurer, but continue to convert Kheltians. Have any heard the good word?”

“None. Most are ‘donating’ to our cause.”

Marrieh paused then, and the Prophet saw her staring at him out of the corner of his eyes.

“Is this for wealth or their souls, Prophet?”

“It is to combat that undead king, Marrieh. If one city rises against him, others shall follow.”

“I have spoken to some Kheltians I met. Their faith in him is strong, unwavering. They feared me, as if I were some Demon of Rhir, but they are not spineless.”

He waved this off.

“They are fat and rich, just as the Silk Stitch-folk in Nerrhavia’s Fallen, Marrieh. I know this greed from my world as well as yours. They do not have faith. One cannot have faith in a monster.”

He glowered at her, and she bowed her head again and spoke.

“Of course. Their richness is…painful to see.”

Her eyes rose, and the Hemp woman spoke after a moment.

“That motivates most of the People of God, though sometimes their anger is cast inwardly. Such as at Yirene. I have put a stop to it.”

“Good. I shall speak at my evening sermon about that too. Has she not cast off all she had to walk with us? Does she not work as hard, if not harder, than most? One who is saved by God is the same as all others.”

Harvey smiled, and Marrieh’s eyes lit up, for they were in alignment here. She nodded and then hesitated as she clasped her hands together.

“We had thought, with the new wealth, to make statues, Prophet. Of the Lord. Images—there are some [Artists] amongst us. Perhaps…?”

He paused then. A long pause and turned.

“Marrieh, I have never gainsaid images of the Lord—why do you ask? Or do these images of him not show him as he is? Is he a Stitch-man in this image? Or something more profane?”

She didn’t look at him, and he began to get angry again.

“It is just that some of us see him in our image, Prophet. To Stitch-folk, a face is a face, and—”

“Jesus Christ was a man, Marrieh! Not a Stitch-man. Not a woman! Fair of skin! Brown of hair and—”

The Prophet began to shout, and she stared at her sandals until he caught himself. He controlled his voice.

“I understand your…wishes, but this is sacrilege. He is a man. Depict him as such. If need be, let our martyred faithful be the subjects of other images. They are all servants of God.”

She nodded, but she still seemed disappointed. This annoyed the Prophet, and it reminded him of well—home. He reminded himself to be understanding.

She did not know what she did. Forgive her. She couldn’t understand how this was like other people on Earth who denigrated the faith. Or even claimed to worship Satan himself. He hadn’t cared when he’d been younger, hadn’t seen the truth. He wondered what his pastor would have said.

“Marrieh, the Bible is for everyone. Redemption of sins is for everyone.”

He spoke to her, meaning every word, and she peered up with a hint of pleading as she whispered.

“But the one who was sent was Human, Harvey. Human, and the New Bible does not mention us. Sometimes, we wonder—was it all peoples he meant to save? Or just Humans?”

There the Prophet encountered his first great theological test. He saw the schism in his faith before it occurred, and in his panic, he locked himself away in his tent for four days and four nights.

He still asked for food, but as the People of God began to clash with mercenaries as well as Khelt’s servants, he sat in his rooms praying for guidance, for truth, for faith—and saw what he had to do.

As Martin Luther had before him or Joseph Smith—though Mormonism was misguided—or the Apostles themselves, the Prophet began to write. A new book, a new lens by which to shine Christ’s light into the world.

He began with Stitch-folk. A people chosen to be saved—but all peoples, Garuda, Gnolls, even Selphids! Not Demons, of course, for they would be the final enemy of the final war—yes, the Prophet’s mind was lighting with understanding as he wrote frantically.

This was redemption for another world, and there would be a day when they returned to Earth, and that was judgement, as had been written in Revelations! He wished he could remember it—but he saw it even without the text in front of him. And there would be that final battle. With Demons on Rhir, of course.

He wrote a new bible into being, or the start, since even four days and nights of frantic writing couldn’t finish such a monumental work, but word spread across his camp, and the faithful felt their souls re-igniting with passion at this divine revelation. The Prophet wrote of the divine hand by which all this was meant to come to be: himself.

He did not fight. That was Marrieh’s job, and she? Well, she was good at it.

——

Hemp body. Club of wood. With such weapons, her people had once defeated armies far larger and well-equipped than hers. Marrieh’s personal body was made of flax tow—different from the linen that flax plants produced. Linen fell into the Cotton category of cloth; it was soft, strong, and made for quality stitch-flesh that could be quite wonderful. Yet it grew softer as it wore down.

Flax tow was far stronger, a byproduct of the combing process to make linen and could be formed into tow ropes. It was a tough, coarse material, and even when someone slashed across her chest, they only cut the fabric. Her skin didn’t even open fully, and she swung the club down.

[Dumbstruck Tap].

The blow knocked every thought out of the [Mercenary] as someone shouted.

“Fall back! Fall back and get reinforcements! Call for the skeletons!”

The scrum of mercenaries was falling back, and Marrieh stood there, panting, as thirty [Devout Warriors] and even some [Priests] forced back the [Mercenaries] sent to stop them.

It was getting harder. However, the People of God were winning against skeletons, against mercenaries, against Khelt’s forces. Only Alked Fellbow could defeat any group he came across, and there were too many of the People of God. And he was not killing them…yet.

Nor were the Kheltians imprisoning the People of God; they had no prisons. Rather, the Named-rank shot everyone he came across through the legs, crippling them…until a [Priest] came along to heal them.

It was a frustrating, asymmetrical war that had developed between Khelt and the People of God. One side had unlimited skeletons…who did little good against acts of faith. But only the true faithful could combat them. Indeed, the skeletons who rose and came charging at Marrieh’s party would have slaughtered a band without her, Izreal, or someone of sufficient level. But she? She just raised the mace and spoke.

“[Rebuke the Unholy].”

She concentrated, and the purity of her faith swelled in her chest, burst outwards—and the flash of light blew every skeleton coming her way into bits. A few on the periphery survived, but a sling cracked one down, and the [Mercenaries], trying to regroup, took one glance at the forty skeletons instantly defeated and ran.

The power of miracles could do everything. But here was the thing that no one understood but Marrieh and a select few: the power of faith was limited.

Or rather, it was nigh-unlimited in many ways that conventional Skills and magic were not, but not as adaptive as either. Here was the example. As Marrieh turned, someone saw her cut chest and spoke.

“Marrieh! [Be Healed]!”

A hand clasped her, and the stinging pain across her cut chest healed. Without a potion, without any waiting, her body healed, and a Level 21 [Priest of Christ] stepped back, kissed the cross he carried, and smiled.

This was beyond any [Mage] spell. Oh, Marrieh had heard such magic existed, but it was the kind of thing only the greatest [Mage] in Nerrhavia’s Fallen could cast, and probably only once or twice a day, even for him.

By contrast, healing Skills were the most common thing the People of God had. They could also perform other Miracles.

“We have been found. Gather everything of value up and prepare to return to camp. [Miracle: We Return to Safe Harbors]!”

Marrieh touched her chest, and the air began to shimmer. A dome grew around the faithful, who bent and grabbed what they could; in less than a minute, they would appear in the Prophet’s camp.

Teleportation without magic. Izreal could call a bolt of lightning from the skies, real lightning. Another follower could strike a rock and produce water from it. Just the other day, someone had learned to turn water into wine, which was causing a bit of a problem given how much of it they could make. Biblical feats.

However…Marrieh’s feet hurt, and she fumbled for a waterflask and realized it had been smashed in the fighting and spilled its contents onto the ground.

“Does anyone have a bag of holding? Water?”

Everyone else had drunk theirs, and one of the [Devout Warriors] murmured.

“Not yet. With more alms from Khelt, surely all things are possible. Or else the rocks that produce water…”

Marrieh grimaced, but it would be fine. They just didn’t have bags of holding. Or the ability to cool or heat the air; as the sky flashed, the world shifted and grew hot.

The camps in the sun were blistering, and the faithful appeared among other People of God, who celebrated them with cheers and song and prayer, but Marrieh had to get under some shade before she baked. She saw more than one person lying in tents and sighed.

If any gold is worth taking from Khelt, let it be for cooling spells and heat at night! We’re low on firewood and have to buy it for silver per logs at the [Merchants].

Faith moved mountains. Not molehills. If Marrieh had to categorize it in her head, faith had powers beyond even magic and arguably a lot more power at lower-levels…but a lack of utility. It made sense to her; you prayed for great things. Sometimes little miracles, but no one prayed to repair their shoe. Or if they did, how much faith went into such prayers when some prayed for a wound to mend or for salvation?

All this meant that the People of God were surprisingly good warriors to anyone who met them. Poor, very poor, in other ways. Yet Khelt was a paradise; the items taken from common citizens paid for all these luxuries.

Not that Marrieh’s group often took much. People had come to see what her group had obtained, but the weapons from the [Mercenaries] provoked disappointment. Izreal, on the other hand…

He came back with a cart laden with treasures. Rugs, pieces of art, so many rich possessions Marrieh stopped as she saw his band appear.

“Izreal! What happened?”

“We found a village! We could not stay long, but we recovered all this in God’s name! Look!”

She realized he’d just stripped a house of goods, but even the mattress was made of such soft down she blinked and exclaimed.

“It’s made of Sariant Wool? And the silk—”

“We could sew new limbs out of it! But the rest goes to the Prophet or to the [Merchants]!”

He was laughing, and she was excited, but she did not like this taking of gold. She did not like the triumphant light in his eyes or Adoive’s.

Adoive. Sometimes she wished he had never come to them and spoken to the Prophet. He worshiped with the others and he had levels, but he seemed like…well, a Judas if anyone was one in their tents. She just did not think this was all faith.

Certainly, when he grabbed a pillow for himself, she caught his hand.

“What are you doing, Adoive?”

“Just—taking back Khelt’s wealth. This is my heritage, Marrieh!”

He whined, and she grabbed the pillow and tossed it back on the cart.

“This goes to the Prophet first, if anyone. And surely, he will say it belongs to those who need it most. We’ll sell it if we must.”

Adoive hesitated, then scowled darkly.

“Fine. But in time, we’ll all have such, mark my words! There’s enough in Khelt to make all of us live like [Kings]!”

“That’s not the point—”

Marrieh began to argue, but Izreal, beaming, cut her off.

“This is the promised land, Marrieh! We need only fight for it and win it! These [Mercenaries] cannot stop us. I killed five myself to reach the village, and the people cowered away from our weapons and fled, wailing, into the deserts.”

She turned to peer at him.

“You killed the [Mercenaries]? You didn’t harm any of the citizens, did you? The Prophet said—”

“Bah. They do not repent no matter how much we preach to them. We have not harmed them, but we do take what is needed. Though—has the Prophet emerged from his devotions? We should move the camp.”

The ire of King Fetohep was growing day-by-day, and Marrieh took a breath as she agreed to this, at least.

“Let me rouse him. Even if he will not rise from his writings…eastwards, then? The desert grows worse.”

“We’ll buy more water and magic from the [Merchants]. More and more are coming to trade with us. They stay far back, but our trading parties have what they want.”

That was something. Marrieh trooped onwards, calling for maps, as this war continued, and it was a war in its early stages. Whatever the King of Khelt thought, the People of God had the will, and his nation was a rich target. She just had one question as she turned to Izreal.

“Which [Merchants] have such greed for Khelt’s riches, but no fear of his reprisals if he learns they have traded with his enemies?”

The other faithful didn’t know, but then one had a simple answer.

“Roshal.”

“Roshal? Has the Prophet not commanded no business shall be done with those who keep slaves? Is it not written?”

Marrieh grew alarmed and angry at once, but Izreal crossed the arms of his robes, smiling.

“We do not participate in the trade of [Slaves], merely the sale of goods. No one else will trade with us. Have faith, sister. If we trade in baubles to feed and clothe God’s people, is that not just?”

She did not like that, but the debate which arose from the People of God on this matter was long and strenuous. In the end, the faithful had to conclude they needed what the [Merchants] sold. If the Prophet were to find out this was where the items came from, and he banned the trade with the [Merchants] of Roshal, this would of course be so. But they might starve or suffer greatly. Surely, he knew and it was a moot point.

By this logic, they continued, and only Marrieh wondered if she saw the man instead of the myth in the Prophet.

——

The People of God were not all of one mind. To outsiders, surely, it seemed as if they were. But it would be naïve to assume they were mindless zealots or cultists.

They had factions within the Prophet’s camps. Which Marrieh disliked to admit, but it could not be helped.

Twelve thousand strong. An army on the march; it was physically impossible for the Prophet to even meet with all his flock these days, and so each camp had its own leaders and methods. Of course, it all centered around approaching the Prophet and hearing the divine words he spoke. But sometimes, she feared not every soul was purely devoted towards worshipping God, such as Adoive.

Or, and she was not sure if this was worse, sometimes she feared they thought the Prophet was infallible. She knew him as Harvey. To many, he could only be the Prophet.

It was Marrieh who spoke with utmost authority aside from the Prophet himself. As the first follower, she had influence she tried not to wield overtly. Nor did she want her own faction of disciples, so she renounced their company and went from camp to camp as needed. She was first to scout or go into battle. And this, she was told, was a problem.

“Marrieh, you must talk to the Prophet. Izreal and his people, they are enjoying taking Khelt’s possessions too much. They push too much. This village is the first step. I heard them talking with Adoive about entering one of the border-cities and stripping it!”

A woman caught up with Marrieh as she walked the central camp. Her name was Jilthread, and she carried no weapons at this moment. Merely four baskets of wetted towels. Marrieh saw her arms straining under the weight and took two.

“What are you doing?”

“Ensuring no one is dying of heatstroke. There are new converts in the camps.”

“From Khelt?”

“No, Germina, or they came from further abroad, seeking our protection. Some of them are freed [Slaves], I think.”

Marrieh glanced around reflexively, then nodded.

“I will help you. Let us walk and talk, sister.”

They were not alone, of course. A procession of Jilthread’s own people were bearing more towels, water flasks, manna, and recently-acquired goods to bring to the ‘lesser’ camps. This was Jilthread’s good work.

She was a [Battle Cleric] who had fought at Pomle, a capable woman, but she preferred to clothe and feed people, even those not of the People of God. When they came to cities, often she went among beggars and the poor, preaching to them.

In truth, Jilthread aligned more with Marrieh’s beliefs than Izreal of late, but she was cautious as Jilthread urged her to take the matter up with Harvey on their thirty-minute trek. It was dry and hot, and the sopping-wet towels were losing moisture. Chandrar was hard indeed, even on Hemp Stitch-folk, which both of them were.

“Izreal, he sees this land as ripe for the taking.”

“Most do, Jilthread. It is hard to not see how much wealth the Kheltians have and envy it.”

“Yet thou shalt not covet, Marrieh! How can we allow this?”

This was theological debate, which ran at the heart of the People of God’s beliefs, and it was more common, again, than one might think. Marrieh sighed.

“It is also written that thou shalt not kill, but we do in defense of our people.”

“I recall the Prophet’s sermon on it, but surely, there is a difference between taking Kheltian gold to provide for basic needs and looting.”

“…That’s what you believe Izreal’s followers are doing?”

Jilthread’s lips compressed slightly.

“Check Adoive’s arms next time you see him. I think he has taken several interesting pieces of jewelry, purely to wear. He should offer it to God or give it to be sold. It’s all his personal enrichment, Marrieh.”

Marrieh did not like that. Nor, she noted, did many of the Hemp Stitch-folk walking with Jilthread. And it mattered because…they were Hemp. They got it.

“Some of the new followers are Cotton. Or Silk, like Yirene. Which is not to say they do not work hard, or do not pray, but they expect more than what we have. I would not argue that the Prophet deserves his own tent, but to put luxury mattresses before, say, cooling runes for the communal tents or enough cooking pots…”

The [Battle Cleric] turned to Marrieh, who was biting her lip hard. Once again, Marrieh did not say everything she knew. How would Jilthread have reacted, for instance, if she had known that the Prophet had intended to make a crown of jewels instead of the many practical things she had so admired in him? That had been Marrieh’s insistence.

Harvey was a good man. He just had to be reminded he was a man, at times, and Izreal often did not countermand him, merely encouraged. There was a difference. Attempting to be honest, Marrieh exhaled as the periphery camp came into view.

“In truth, Jilthread, I think the Prophet is most minded to battle Khelt. He has spoken of the dark forces that claimed Khelt as their own. If I asked him to weigh in on the matter, it might not be what is best.”

“Oh. But surely if you spoke to him…”

Careful. They were careful, and they turned as a younger Hemp man broke in.

“Surely the Prophet knows what is best, Disciple Marrieh, Disciple Jilthread. Why would you not speak to him of all matters?”

There was suspicion in his eyes, and Marrieh spoke, not defensively, but with a smile.

“If we debate, brother, it is because the Prophet is a busy man. Should we disturb him with every deliberation or only come to him when truly important matters are at stake? Perhaps I misword myself, and if so, I apologize. What is your name? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Oh, I see. I am Faithful Lanem, Level 11. I beg your forgiveness, Disciple Marrieh.”

He flushed and bowed, and Marrieh smiled and assured him it was nothing, but met Jilthread’s eyes a moment. Therein lay the problem.

It was like…trap spells, Marrieh thought. Before meeting Harvey, she had been a [Ruins Clearer], whose job it was to go into ruined areas, harvest anything of value, and clear out traps. Nerrhavia’s Fallen was huge, ancient, and occasionally went to war, even against itself.

There were entire cities that had been destroyed, then filled with trap spells or old magics that would kill anyone that got too near or stepped onto them. Marrieh’s job had been to mark or remove such magics. One did not live long, even with the ability to change limbs, in such trades, but it was why she tended to do well in battle or anywhere else. That was how she had met Harvey, actually; he had healed her after she had run into a trap.

It often seemed to her that talking with the People of God was like walking amongst trap spells. Make a mistake and you would be condemned by the others. Even she was not immune. Even Harvey.

They all had the same goal, to worship God, to improve the lives of their brethren. Yet why was it so hard? Well…perhaps it was because even if you took to the faith, you were still a person. You still had a past, no matter how much you might want to all be the same.

It was skin-deep.

Cloth-deep.

——

“Sisters! You’ve brought gifts for the newcomers! Be welcome!”

Yirene was a Silk Stitch-woman and, if not the most high-level or the oldest, another leader in kind because, well, she was beautiful.

It hurt Marrieh’s heart. Yirene had no crookedness to her features, no oddly shaped teeth or rough skin, pinched flesh due to irregularities in her cloth. No slubs that became moles or warts in the fabric. She was beautiful, skin lustrous even after all this unrelenting sun and sand, and what was worse—she took the basket out of Marrieh’s arms without even staggering.

Strong and tough. Silk had it all. Marrieh smiled as best she could as Jilthread didn’t even manage that.

“I wished to help the newcomers settle in. I did not realize you were here.”

“We are of the same mind, Jilthread. I have been preaching to the newcomers the ways of the camp—and bestowing [Grace of God] where I can.”

Jilthread grunted, but Marrieh saw the sparkling marks hanging over a number of awed new converts to the People of God. This was a blessing, a kind of long-lasting spell like an enchantment, only based on faith.

Yirene’s power was [Grace of God: Resist Hardships], which was a broad resistance to fatigue, heat stress, even developing blisters or dehydration. It didn’t solve any of these problems, only mitigated how fast you succumbed to them. Jilthread brushed past Yirene.

“God provides both blessings and water. All those of you who haven’t eaten, line up! Manna is abundant, but it does grow stale! If you need water, another line here!”

The Silk woman’s face fell at Jilthread’s obvious hostility, but Marrieh smiled again.

“You are doing fine work, Yirene. Tell me, did you hear about Izreal’s raid—victory against the Kheltians?”

Yirene glanced at the basket of wet towels and handed them to someone to give out as she fiddled with one of the New Bibles, suddenly nervous. She did not fight at all, and she whispered back.

“Oh, I did. A splendid victory, of course, but…I fear Khelt shall retaliate more and more. At least it’s mere baubles being taken so far, but if you speak to the Prophet, warn him—I am sure His Holiness knows, but it is dangerous to try Khelt. Even if I suspect many of their great magical spells are reduced in number, the King of Khelt has endless treasures.”

What was this now? Marrieh frowned.

“Baubles does not describe what Izreal took. There were marvels! Beautiful rugs, tapestries of art—more wealth than I have seen, even in Nerrhavia’s Fallen.”

There it was. Just for a second, Yirene wore a pitying expression before she caught herself and turned away.

“I…would not have called it that, Marrieh. From what I saw, it would indeed fit a lesser noble’s dwellings, but it was a village. Believe me when I say there are treasures fit for [Princes] in the cities, and more still. Have you been to Khelt?”

“Never. Have you?”

A pause, and Marrieh stared longer. One did not ask who the faithful were; they came from many backgrounds, but Yirene?

She had appeared one day, begging for sanctuary, and the Prophet had taken her in with alacrity. They had thought little of it, though they had been forced to flee that particular region of Nerrhavia’s Fallen later; the suspicious soldiers and magistrate’s people had been increasingly hostile towards them.

Now…Yirene glanced about.

“I…may have visited Khelt in my life, but you recall I did not think it was wise to invade.”

She had, in fact, been one of the few voices against trying Khelt. Even Marrieh had been swayed by the horror Harvey described assailing him on the Solstices. Marrieh drew Yirene to the side, then sighed.

“I would like to know more. And you know that I trust you, Yirene. Just—ah.”

As Jilthread welcomed the new converts, another predictable thing occurred. Several more people came striding into the camp, each one wearing armor, and began calling out.

“You who have come to the People of God, hear me! I am Izreal’s follower, and I call on any who would take what is ours from these hedonistic Kheltians! Come with me, brothers and sisters, and we shall train and arm you and destroy the undead together.”

Manoset, one of Izreal’s [Priests of War], was already trying to recruit more people for his camp. Marrieh glared and Yirene went striding over.

“Manoset! They have just arrived! Don’t speak of battle.”

“Bah, what would you know? We are providing the coin and supplies you all use up.”

He glared at her, eyes resting on her voluptuous form for a second then turning away—Marrieh knew that many people propositioned Yirene, and she bet Manoset had been one. The Stitch-woman faltered, and Marrieh debated rebuking Manoset, but someone else called out.

“Not every member of the faithful can conjure manna, Manoset. You do not. Does Yirene not provide the bread you eat? For shame. Do not rebuke her for doing as much in her way nor compare the worth of your deeds.”

Another voice, and Manoset spun, then backed down as another old follower of the Prophet appeared. He bowed to the others.

“I am Lazimeh, another follower of the Prophet. Some call me Disciple, as they do Jilthread, Marrieh, and Izreal, whom you have not met. All are equal in the eyes of God, it is true, but some of us take on roles of leadership on earth. If you would join another’s camp, know us by our deeds and purposes. Izreal’s is to war with those deserving of it. I, too, bring battle, but only as I am called.”

Lazimeh was Cotton, not Hemp, but he was a faithful man. Fearsome and perhaps one of the most well-spoken. He knew more verses of the New Bible than anyone but Harvey, and he tapped the ground, smiling. He held a walking stick in one hand.

“Ours are the riches of Heaven, which glitter more than any kingdom can hold. Do not covet mere gold. What is gold when the power of faith rewards us like this?”

So saying, he walked over to a stone that someone had used to tie down a tent and struck it. The boulder reached just up to his chest, worn down by ages of sand and dry. But when he struck it, it cracked—and red liquid gushed forth onto the ground. The familiar smell made Marrieh groan.

“Lazimeh. Stop making more wine! It’s the last thing we need in the heat!”

The Stitch-man turned and grinned. It was a combination of two of his Skills which were biblical in nature.

“[Water From Stone] and [Conversion: Water to Wine]. I thought only to welcome our new faithful with libations.”

“And a splitting hangover.”

Nevertheless, someone grabbed a bowl, and they began to offer wine as well as manna and water to the rather stunned newcomers, who had never seen such powers before. Yirene and Marrieh found another moment, and the Silk-woman whispered.

“I just wish we had time to farm or build our own space. We cannot keep clothing and feeding so many like this forever, even with our ability to produce water and manna, Marrieh. There is a limit, and we are hitting it. Advancing on Khelt is the only reason we have enough coin for this. We must produce more or take money for healing or other services.”

Marrieh knew that Yirene was right. But she did not know how to administrate so many people. Yirene, clearly, did. So Marrieh’s eyes narrowed.

“What gives you this insight, Yirene? Not just being Silk, surely. I will speak to the Prophet—Harvey—but I must know.”

She saw Yirene hesitate and withdraw slightly, and added.

“I swear, I only wish to know, not judge. I know we are Hemp and Silk, but you have a good heart. I swear by the Almighty, Yirene, I will keep your trust.”

The Stitch-woman hesitated again, drawing a sand-veil around her face, then she glanced around and motioned Marrieh into her simple, plain tent. She had no great possessions here. She had sold off her finery, save for the clothing she wore, and she sat on a simple straw mat.

“Strange. To think once I would have died rather than live like this. But I find more value in this than clinging to power and fearing a blade at my throat in the night. I shall tell you, Marrieh, though I beg you not tell anyone but the Prophet. Not even the other Disciples.”

She touched her chest and met Marrieh’s eyes.

“I am Yirene of House Haleen. Second sister-in-law to King Yicorias, who, you may well recall, was ruler before his assassination and the battle for claimancy that resulted in Queen Yisame’s rule. My house lost the succession war. I was under house arrest for years when the Prophet came to my city.”

Marrieh stood there, stunned, then itching with unease—and questions. They had a Silk Royal in the People of God’s camps? The danger! If it were known…

For a moment, she was angry, then felt ashamed. Yirene had never used her royal rank, which would have led many to treating her like a [Queen], and she was clearly terrified of anyone finding out. Marrieh clasped her hands together.

“I swear I shall not betray your trust, Yirene. So that is how you know of Khelt.”

“Yes. I visited once, as a [Princess]. Even with a [King]’s power, it took a vast effort to admit us for a week. King Fetohep of Khelt is not to be underestimated. With that said, he has weakened his position by use of so many spells. I don’t know more than that, I’m afraid. And I do not speak of how the camps should be managed because, well, I never truly ruled. I was a lazy girl and woman.”

Yirene smiled with those regrets so many of the faithful had. Marrieh urged her up gently.

“And yet you work hard! Come, let us find Jilthread. Not to tell her, perhaps, but we should be allies here. We all have common ground.”

Yirene hesitated, then eyed Marrieh and spoke carefully.

“As does Lazimeh, in truth. If you were to take us all as your followers, Marrieh, you would have enough sway to push Izreal and his people back. If you did take a position, who would argue with you?”

This time, the Hemp Stitch-woman grimaced unhappily.

“I do not want to become powerful, Yirene. This feels too much like home.”

And now she felt like Yirene was making this a matter of politics. Yirene ducked her head.

“Perhaps. But avoiding using your power is the same as wasting it.”

That did not make Marrieh happy. However, she turned her attention to welcoming the newcomers, because that was the point. Nor could she deny that Manoset was drawing in more and more people to Izreal’s cause. Wealth was an allure, as was the power he provoked.

——

“We have bested the Cult of Windcaller’s Wrath! We have broken Khelt’s skeletons at the border, humbled the Golden Ranks of Medain! Faith defeats magic! Faith defeats martial arts! Behold, this is the avenging angel that shall guide us to victory. [Summon Lesser Angelic Spirit]!”

—And then there was light. Marrieh saw the spirit descend, a burning radiance to its outline, a light so painful as to be blinding such that you could not look upon it. A humanoid form, stitching connecting each limb as it knelt upon the ground, wings folded, and they gasped.

She grew angry.

“Manoset. That power is not for you to show off lightly.”

He turned and quailed before her wrath, which was echoed by Lazimeh and the others.

“I merely wished to show them the spirit that humbled the Fury of Skies himself—”

He was one of the highest-level members of the People of God, and this was his Level 40 capstone Skill. The ability to summon a being that was unto an angel, though Harvey was…uncertain of its nature.

It did not speak, nor did it do anything other than fight, but God almighty, when it fought? Only magic could harm it; it had bested the Fury of Skies simply because all his punches and kicks had gone through it. Each blow—it had no weapons—burnt the flesh and scorched stones.

The new faithful shrank back, but Manoset gestured, and the apparition hovered in the air, casting around as if searching for enemies. He began recruiting with far less showiness. He strode up to one prospective man, who turned.

“You, newcomer! You look sturdy of body! A fellow Hemp? What’s your name and where do you hail from?”

A blunt-nosed man with grey hair and sharp eyes grunted.

“Me? Thurg. I’m from…”

He paused, and Marrieh’s heart sank as his mouth worked. He counted.

“Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Mirgen.”

“Ah, on the border. Fled the King of Destruction’s wars, did you?”

Manoset had noticed the slowness, and his eyes flickered, but he smiled and clasped the man’s arm more gently. Thurg nodded.

“Yes. Fled. Told to fight. First rank.”

Every Stitch-person from Nerrhavia’s Fallen turned, and they knew what that meant. Only Lazimeh and Yirene did not. Yirene whispered to Jilthread.

“What does that mean?”

Jilthread glowered back as she whispered harshly.

“He was conscripted to the Golden Hordes, obviously! First rank…they were going to send him head-first against the King of Destruction. He’d have died if he stayed.”

Every Hemp knew they were fodder in wars, but first rank was a death sentence. Small wonder he’d fled. Marrieh whispered.

“I think he’s thick-clothed. Manoset shouldn’t recruit him.”

Another term that meant that Thurg was obviously slow to respond. It happened in Hemp due to their lower quality of cloth—if your body parts were not made well, you could develop complications in them. Including the brain, which was just another form of cloth.

Yirene understood, and frowned.

“Oh, you mean he’s snarled. It happens to Silk and Cotton too, you know, but it’s always caught very quickly. There are ways to fix that. If we had a high-level [Weaver]…”

“No one of Hemp can afford that. And no high-level [Weaver] who’s not Hemp will work with us, anyways.”

Jilthread snapped at Yirene, and the Silk Stitch-woman shut up. Then murmured.

“Perhaps prayer could help that man. He was bright enough to get here. He appears familiar, actually. Did I tend to him or some such? And who are the others?”

“Germina’s people, and Hellios’. More of the latter than the former.”

Few in Germina wanted to leave the Quarass’ side, but there were a number of Hellios’ people too. They just came here, hearing word of a people who would feed and take care of them, and if they were willing to stay and work, they were accepted.

Not just the needy. Manoset came to another likely woman with scars running down her back, fresh-healed by Yirene, and hesitated. The clear marks of a slave-brand and collar told him who she was.

“You, ah, escaped Roshal?”

“‘Sright. Been travelling for weeks. Nearly got taken by [Manhunters]. Someone said you feed anyone. I’ll work. I’ll do whatever, just so long as you don’t turn me in. As long as I can get to a coast, maybe. I’ll fight. Just hand me a weapon.”

The woman was raspy, parched, and Jilthread strode over with some water. She seemed ready to bolt, but Marrieh walked forwards.

“You do not need to fight. What is your name, stranger? And how did you escape Roshal? We do not turn anyone over to the Slavers of Roshal.”

She smiled, and the wary Human woman relaxed.

“Me? Uh…Gladys. I was east of here. Far east. Got free with some of my friends. I hope they made it.”

Her twisted lips said she thought she was the only one. She took a huge gulp of water, coughed.

“The Bane of Roshal freed us. Ran down on a caravan in the night, started breaking chains, but they had a Djinni. We just ran for it.”

“And so you made it here. That must be God’s will. Sit and eat. This is the body of Christ, given for you.”

“The what of the what?”

Several people nearby who’d been eating manna dropped the bread in horror, but Marrieh explained it wasn’t literal. Gladys just eyed the bread and took a bite.

“So it’s really communion? Amen.”

Marrieh stared at her for a second. Communion? She knew the words, but hadn’t Harvey once called it…?

Then everyone was on their feet, and there was a shout.

“The Prophet! The Prophet is coming!”

——

Harvey had come for Marrieh. He swept into the camp as they knelt, followed by a procession of his Disciples, including Izreal. He raised one hand.

“Marrieh, there you are. I wished to discuss our battle plans.”

She bowed to him and gestured left.

“Of course, Prophet. I was just feeding and greeting the newest members of the People of God. Surely, you have words of wisdom for them.”

He blinked, hesitated, and then turned, and his face was impatient, then open with smiles of welcome.

“…Naturally. Be welcome, all of you who have travelled so long to come here. Your burdens may be put down. You are in God’s hands, now. Safe. I am the Prophet of God, and this is our camp. Jilthread is one to speak to if you need anything. Listen to her words, and learn what it is to believe in God.”

He didn’t actually know who was in charge of this camp. But Marrieh smiled because he was open and welcoming. Not all of the newcomers fell in love with the Prophet, of course. Thurg was on his knees, mouth open with stupefied wonder, but Gladys hesitated, and a number of other faithful had doubts.

They might leave, in time. Sneak off with manna and go, or just hang around, praying but not believing. That was fine. Faith took time. However—Harvey was unpredictable.

He could either win over newcomers in a moment or alienate them depending on whether they caught the man or the messenger of God. Today, it seemed like they had caught the messenger, because when his eyes lit on Gladys, he sucked in a breath.

“And [Slaves] from Roshal, I see.”

She tensed as he approached, but he just knelt and offered her a hand.

“What is your name, sister? Excuse me, for we are all sisters and brothers here. I give you my word that no [Slaver] of Roshal is welcome among us. No one will sell you out or take you. That is the will of God, and there will come a day when all chains are broken.”

Bold words. Dangerous words that made Izreal uncomfortable and glance at Marrieh. She was reminded they were trading with Roshal’s [Merchants], but she smiled, because Gladys untensed.

“Thank you. I’m Gladys…”

She rose, and there was something there that made Marrieh think she wouldn’t run off with bread that night. As the Prophet rose, he lifted a hand.

“Let there be food for all to eat. [Manna from the Heavens].”

He raised his hand, and more began to float downwards, a storm of food that everyone rushed to collect, far more than anyone else could produce. And that was pure Prophet.

…Right up until he spotted Manoset’s summoned spirit hovering over the camp, circling like a holy watchdog, and his features contorted. Then Marrieh groaned—for out came Harvey.

“It’s that…apparition again. The spirit. Who summoned it? Manoset? I told you, use it only in battles. It is not what should be hovering around the camps! There are children here, and it is—not any being of Heaven I know.”

He spoke, and Manoset hurried over, bowing.

“Prophet, I only wished to inspire all those faithful with its presence.”

The Prophet nodded, but his face was conflicted, and he stared at the being which was called divine…and he glared.

“You say that, but it is not an angel. Even your Skill says that! It’s not a—a cherubim, let alone a seraphim. It’s not any of those things. What is it?”

“A holy spirit, Prophet—”

“No!”

The word rebuked Manoset, and he backed up. The Prophet raised a finger.

“It is not the Holy Spirit. That is blasphemy. To think any one of us could summon that? It is…a spirit, perhaps, but I do not know it. And—”

He peered at it and grew angrier.

“It has stitching!”

Uh oh. Here it came. Marrieh strode over as Izreal hesitated, unwilling to be the target of the Prophet’s wrath.

“As we have spoken of, Prophet, is it not a sign of divine grace that it has features of Stitch-folk?”

Harvey glanced at her, and he was angry. Angry from the dead faithful, angry about Khelt, and he snapped back.

“No! Marrieh, we have been over this. In the Garden of Eden, it was Adam who was made first, then Eve from his ribcage. The first to inherit the Earth were men and women. Humans. When the Angel, Michael, descended to Earth, he did not have stitches!”

“Is that written in the Bible, Prophet? Perhaps, as you have said, the image of such beings is unknowable.”

Izreal tried placatingly. But Harvey spun.

“That is not unknown, Izreal. Jesus of Nazareth was a man. A Human. And I will not have images made of him falsely as a Stitch-folk, dark of skin, or—”

He hesitated, because his followers were gazing at him, and he, Harvey, might be Human and light of skin, but he was a rarity. Marrieh…

Hurt. Just a bit, whenever he spoke like this. Gently, Jilthread came forwards and spoke.

“Of course, this is all that is written in the Bible, Prophet.—But surely we can have our own angels?”

Or are there none in Heaven? Then the Prophet realized he stood on the edge of dangerous theology, and he looked to Marrieh, and she spoke.

“The Prophet only means that real, true people from the Holy Bible were Humans. To imply otherwise is untrue.”

He nodded after a moment and took a breath. Closed his eyes and turned his head up, as if listening. They all waited, and after a second, he nodded again.

“Yes. Yes. It is true that the Holy Bible on Earth was written with Humans and only Humans in mind. But it seems to me…”

He glanced around.

“…It seems to me that it was the creation tale of my world. Mine, which is a land without Stitch-folk. The Lord sent no angels of cloth-flesh because he wished not to confuse us. But here, in this land…”

He cast his eyes up to the spirit, which had flown even lower and was roaming the camp. Manoset frowned at it, but didn’t speak as Harvey lifted a hand gently.

“The ways of God are mysterious even to his most devout. No, I recant my anger, Manoset, Izreal. It is well, and it is a mighty servant. Stitch-folk are a mighty people of God, and yours is the most common among the flock. Surely, this is a sign you are beloved.”

It was like a tense breath left those listening and they smiled, and clasped their hands in prayer, but a few were worried, like Jilthread and Marrieh. She knew Harvey noticed, for he began to marshal them to the council of war.

Faith was indeed a difficult path for them all to tread. Yet, as Marrieh began to follow the Prophet, she still believed his heart and theirs were in the right place. Just conflicted. Izreal was striding ahead, trying to speak to the Prophet, but Harvey kept waiting for her. Perhaps Yirene was right, but what was her vision? Marrieh tried to listen to God’s voice as she closed her eyes a moment—

And then Yirene grabbed her arm and hissed.

“Marrieh! I know who that is!”

Her arm was strong, and she was suddenly terrified. She drew Marrieh aside and pointed covertly backwards. Marrieh frowned.

“Who, Gladys?”

The [Slave] had been listening intently to the Prophet and was frowning as she stared up at the holy apparition overhead. But it was not her that Yirene was pointing to in such fear. No, it was the Hemp man trudging after Manoset.

Thurg. The other Hemp were being kind to him, explaining how the camps were laid out patiently—you had to take care of thick-cloths in the community, but Yirene’s finger was shaking.

“It’s his eyes. H-he can change everything about him, even his skin, but those eyes were a reward. I remember them. That’s no common Hemp. That’s Alked Fellbow.”

Marrieh’s heart began to judder in alarm.

“You’re sure?”

“I saw him when I was at court, before we were deposed. He was just a Silver-ranker being promoted for slaying a nest of Manticores single-handed. Those eyes were his reward. He’s in our camps!”

Spying. Marrieh reached for the club she carried.

“Go to the Prophet. Make sure Izreal is next to him. I’ll speak to him.”

Perhaps they could avoid confrontation. Perhaps they could negotiate; they had not managed to speak to anyone from Khelt in a position of authority. She was casting around. Jilthread would be good backup. And Manoset, though he was a hothead.

“Marrieh! Are you coming?”

“Manoset, to me!”

The Prophet and Izreal didn’t understand what the delay was. Both called out, and Marrieh waved a hand at Harvey, but Manoset shouted back.

“I will, Izreal! Just a moment—something is off with my spirit.”

The floating being was skimming over the camp, now, and Marrieh had never seen it doing that before. It was combing through, row by row, in a weird pattern, as if it was…

Searching for something. Marrieh saw the being flying barely over the tents, and she called out, suddenly realizing what it had sensed.

“Manoset, call back your spirit.”

He glanced at her, but he didn’t comply right away. Marrieh began striding over as Thurg’s head lifted, and his too-keen eyes saw the spirit waver—then dive at him and two of the Germinans, who cowered and screamed.

“No—”

There was a flash of light as the spirit struck the ground, cries of alarm—and then Alked Fellbow shed his disguise, ripping the ‘skin’ of his face away as he drew a shortsword. He didn’t curse nor waver—he took two steps forwards, lanced the glowing spirit with his sword, and then jumped.

He frontflipped over the spirit as it lashed out at him, then slashed across its head again. Two killing blows, which tore some of its light body away but didn’t harm it. Then Alked Fellbow was sprinting away.

“What are you doing? What—Thurg?”

Manoset was dumbfounded, but Yirene called out, panicked.

“It’s Alked Fellbow! Protect the Prophet!”

Gasps, then screams. The faithful flung themselves in front of Harvey, and he shouted.

“Get back! Battle prayers! Capture him! Don’t let him get away—Marrieh! Marrieh, stand back!”

She was running at Fellbow, trying to stop him. They had to capture him without killing him—but he was fast. He sprinted back as the divine spirit gave chase, emitting sounds like tolling bells. He slashed as it struck at him, and it missed, overshooting him—

Halted in the air. It had perfect control and dealt him a blow to the side of his face. He stabbed it thrice, snarling, and Marrieh saw his skin burst into white flames for a second, then he was twisting away.

Just like the Fury of Skies had found, even regular magic didn’t do well against it. Alked leapt back again.

“[Reset Leap]. Not a Djinni.”

His shortsword rammed into its sheath, and he pulled something from his bag of holding. A bow.

The Arc of Heavens rose as the spirit flew at him, chiming with wrath, and Alked’s eyes swivelled to Marrieh. She shouted.

“Stop! This doesn’t have to come to blood! Stop, Manoset!”

The spirit didn’t stop. Alked Fellbow took one long step back as it flew at him, fearless, straight as an arrow. He spoke.

“[Bound Skill: Arrow of Radiance]. [Timed Activation].”

He fired, point-blank, spun—

The world went white. Marrieh hit the ground, blind, shielding her face, and heard a terrible shriek, a divine, beautiful voice tolling and then cracking like a bell of glass breaking…

When she heard pounding footsteps and someone healed her to restore her vision, Alked Fellbow was running, firing arrows at the few faithful on horseback who were knocked off their saddles by blunted arrowtips. She shouted, but he was gone.

And the spirit was gone too. Destroyed. The Prophet stood there as Manoset stood, face white.

“It—it will surely return.”

But in how long? And it had been bested. Marrieh went to remonstrate with Manoset for his foolishness, but the Prophet lifted a hand and spoke.

“It is clear our enemy sends spies among us. They were uncovered thanks to Yirene’s wisdom and the spirit. Marrieh, my bravest and first follower, I wish you did not endanger yourself so. Look upon all these people and know they are our most glorious.”

He spoke to everyone, and they listened. Then Harvey glanced at the scorched place the spirit had been and nodded.

“And know this: many are the ways of God and glorious are all his works, even the least of them. The Named Adventurer bested a mere spirit, but the true Heavenly Host is without number. Do not call it an angel. When one descends, you shall know it.”

Then they returned to his camp to continue to bring Khelt to battle.

——

Alked Fellbow’s cheek hurt for days thereafter. Not enough to use a healing potion, but he kept tabs on it constantly to make sure he hadn’t been hit by some kind of spreading damage.

He cursed his inability to enter the camp proper—he didn’t know how they’d uncovered him. He’d felt like they’d noticed his presence before he even got found out by that summoned being.

His report to Fetohep was terse.

Alked: Infiltration of the camps failed. Prophet’s followers have unique abilities. Creation of seemingly-real wine, water, bread. Anti-slaver links. Far more numbers than previous reports indicated. High levels. 

They are disorganized. I have identified several leaders, attaching names and descriptions below. They also possess some detection abilities, though only a few are employed. I was forced to battle a summoned being of considerable ability. One rank below a Lesser Djinni in danger, highly resistant to damage, even magic. Light appeared to diffuse it.

My cover was broken in the battle. I have retreated without injury.

He didn’t count the cheek punch. Alked mused for a moment longer, but he felt like it was pertinent information, and he wrote slowly.

It is my belief that the summoned being may have noticed my presence, but it did not attack me specifically. It was attempting to assault two other new ‘faithful’ near me. 

The Quarass of Germina may owe Khelt a favor.

But that was just a suspicion. He sent the [Message] spell. The People of God were not stopping, that was sure. Perhaps he should have put an arrow through the Prophet’s head when he had a chance, but…Alked didn’t like killing people outright. Kill that man and you might have someone else take over and only see escalation. He wondered if he’d regret his choice, but it was hard.

Hemp-folk like him, mostly. Hard to shoot them. He sighed. Then got back to work.

——

The beginning of the year and Khelt’s woes were not noticed by many nations. There was just too much else going on.

New Lands, upheavals at sea, war with the King of Destruction—even in Chandrar, there were distractions.

Like the Horns of Hammerad. It was all far more exciting than Eternal Khelt, and Fetohep himself appeared on the news as if nothing was wrong.

Of course, some nations were a bit more perspicacious, and they did notice oddities, starting with the Jaws. High King Perric, the Claiven Earth, Nerrhavia’s Fallen, countless big players had tabs on Khelt, and when rumors reached them that the Prophet hadn’t been immediately expunged for crossing Khelt, they had questions. Just like about the Jaws’ rampage.

So they relied on their spies, their carefully-sourced windows into the nation. There was always a traitor or a fool one could dupe into communicating with the outside world. High King Perric himself knew of his best source of information into Khelt, and he shared it in confidentiality with his top [Generals].

“Not that one crosses Fetohep, of course, but we must spy, and I am sure he is aware of such matters and acknowledges mice are everywhere, ha-ha.”

Some of his [Generals] exchanged glances, but the room was well-aware of Perric’s high esteem for the Revenant. However, they were curious. One man, the [High Admiral of Coasts], leaned forwards.

“You have a direct source of information in Khelt, Your Majesty? I’ve heard it’s all but impossible!”

Perric stroked his beard smugly.

“Yes, well. I have not only a source, but a highly-placed member of Khelt’s courts, such as they are. One of my own concubines, the Djinni, Maef, corresponds with someone who visits the palace regularly.”

His eyes glittered as the men in the room shuddered at the thought of having a Djinni in bed, or looked at Perric with admiration. He waved this all off as his due.

“Don’t fret about Khelt. This Prophet isn’t doing anything at all but annoying His Majesty. They’re hard to track down due to some Skill as we know, but they’re only tolerated because a former citizen, some Adoive fellow, is with them. But for them, he’d squash the lot, but that’s a [King] for you.”

Ah, of course. That made sense. Everyone nodded and turned their attention to the war in Jecrass.

——

The same for the Claiven Earth, actually. The Speaker of Trees was scribing in a [Message] scroll as Joreldyn reported his findings on that circlet Ceria Springwalker had been wearing. Nothing too much of note since she was already long gone, but the half-Elves, like Fetohep, had well managed kingdoms and not much else to do.

The New Lands, the King of Destruction, Khelt, and the Horns were the only places in which they had any stakes outside of their home, and the Speaker of Trees sighed.

“That child…I truly wish we had more contact with home. Then I would understand the Village of the Spring better and not just through old stories and other members. Enough about her. I trust you to know magic better than I. As for Khelt, I am assured by my contact inside that the Prophet of God has done barely more than skulk around the borders.”

Joreldyn raised his brows.

“You have a contact?”

“Of sorts. I cultivated it myself, since I felt it was needed. A stroke of luck, really. It’s the only way one finds out anything in Khelt.”

When he showed Joreldyn the chat logs, the Mage of Rivers sighed.

“Of course. Wistram’s new message rooms. Er…who is ‘SexyAir’?”

He read one of the usernames, and the Speaker of Trees flushed slightly.

“This is all above-board, Mage of Rivers.”

“You’re flirting with her.”

“This is all in service to the Claiven Earth! Look, here’s the important part.”

He pointed, and the Mage of Rivers read.

Quiescent Bloom: We should all meet up in person sometime. I should be delighted to buy you all drinks, especially if half your promises come true, Air.

SexyAir: You tease! I’m married! But I’m down~

RealStitching: Scandalous! I approve!

Potgirl: I would love to meet all of you as well! Sometimes, it feels like you’re my only friends…

SexyAir: We’re here for you, child!

RealStitching: Absolutely. How was your day? Anything new happening in Khelt?

Potgirl: Well, I was called back to the palace again…

Quiescent Bloom: You appear to go there nonstop.

Potgirl: The hazards of being one of the few people who has high levels. You repair some unenchanted flagstones once when all the other day-servants can’t even pick up a trowel and His Majesty calls upon you. You won’t believe what’s going on now.

SexyAir: More insects? It’s really not bad here.

The Mage of Rivers sighed.

“Ah, a young Kheltian?”

“Pewerthe the Potter, I believe. A penpal. She was eager to chat when Wistram rolled the feature out; most Kheltians were, but they’re disinterested in their own nation’s goings-on. Pewerthe, on the other hand, is a goldmine of information because she appears to be often called to the palace as a capable woman.”

“She sounds young, even by Human standards. Is she Human?”

“I believe so, and she is…but in Khelt, age is almost as irrelevant as for us. Needless to say, this Prophet appears largely overblown. He’s been allowed in only by virtue of keeping one member of Khelt hostage, and resolving the issue is why they’re so delayed.”

The Mage of Rivers snorted.

“That sounds like Khelt. Though I would not wish to be this People of God when the man is freed. Death might be a kindness—well, King Fetohep is kinder than his predecessor would be. She’d feed them to her gardens.”

The Speaker nodded, and that was that. He kept chatting along, pumping his well for information. He felt guilty, at times, because he suspected the other people in their private chatrooms were just as false friends as he.

He even suspected that ‘SexyAir’ might be Maef, Perric’s personal Djinni. But one did what one must. Taking advantage of a lonely Kheltian girl’s kindness was the least of the things a leader of a nation had to do. He just felt ashamed.

——

Pewerthe the Potter smiled as she wrote to her best friends throughout the day. Smiled, because this was one of the few things that made her feel good in the world and her service to Khelt.

Oh, not because she was lonely. It was just that as Fetohep’s heir, she wanted to do something for this nation in jeopardy, but she was no good fighter, administrator, leader, or anything else. She was learning from him, but she sometimes wondered if anyone else could fill her role better.

…But this was useful. Especially because she had several such chatrooms with people eager to know what was going on in Khelt.

King Perric’s Djinni, the Speaker of Trees, the Master of Spies in Nerrhavia’s Fallen…this particular chatroom was easy to feed lies to. When she showed it to King Fetohep when he worried about the other nations noticing the Prophet’s actions, he just stared at the messages for a second.

“Why…‘SexyAir’?”

“It is the style of the thing, and she’s a Djinni, Fetohep. It’s not very hard.”

“Far less difficult than turning a pack of [Bandits] upon one another?”

She smiled at him as her mind flashed to far, far worse moments in her life.

“Far less. Though I don’t even have to turn them against each other, just lie. But it won’t hold forever. The Prophet’s actions are spreading throughout Khelt. And your people are noticing the skeletons.”

Her fingers hurt from writing all day and making pots. Fetohep glanced at her muddy work clothes and sighed as he motioned a servant to sweep up after her. One came in, chasing a beetle but too afraid to pick it up, even with the dustpan, and he and Pewerthe stared at it.

“We should redouble your lessons, Pewerthe.”

“I need time to rest and make pots, Your Majesty. And I truly think you should go back to Captain Galbram and hire him. This [Mercenary] group cannot stop the Prophet.”

“His intrusion into Khelt would cause too much havoc. It would expose our weakness.”

Pewerthe shifted impatiently on her feet.

“Perhaps, but it is necessary. Alked cannot halt them without their deaths. Armed men and women cannot. Your skeletons cannot.”

“I have prevailed upon Commander Nava to redouble her efforts, and she intends to strike their camps directly. I have also requested more mercenaries willing to adhere to my limitations to enter Khelt. It shall be fine, Pewerthe.”

“If you would just—”

Now she grew angry, but he cut her off, and there was the moment when he was a ruler and she was not.

“Pewerthe. The dignity of Khelt cannot be sullied. When you rule, you must remember that.”

She stopped, and the servant peeked at her as she replied.

“Your Majesty. You chose me for a reason amongst all of Khelt’s people. Was it not because I had perspectives unique to Khelt?”

He nodded slowly.

“You were born of Khelt, but you have seen the world beyond. You are adaptable of mind, loyal—and brave. Some have these qualities in Khelt; none have all three as you do.”

She smiled and bowed, and her heart hurt with the trust he had in a mere [Potter], but she wanted to answer it. Yet she had to chide him.

“But Fetohep, you also chose me because I have gone through what few other Kheltians have. And I think…yes, I think it is something even you lack.”

“Oh? What quality have you cultivated that I have not in my hundreds of years of service?”

One brow raised, she spoke without flinching away from his golden stare.

“Defeat, Fetohep. You have never been the lesser in any moment. Never had to swallow your pride in order to survive. I am telling you to call for Captain Galbram, to ask the Herdmistress for help. Or the Quarass or anyone.”

Then he hesitated. The King of Khelt looked at Pewerthe, then turned his head abruptly.

“The Quarass already extracts enough favors for her silence. I shall…consider Captain Galbram. Or perhaps other…yes, other means.”

She hoped that meant he’d relent. But all she could do was bow, then return to her kilns. She began making pots. Not good ones, not great ones. Just putting mud on the wheels, spinning them into containers, baking them—a few people stopped by to eye her work, but walked on at once. They were poor, shoddy pots. Not with much art to them.

She just made lots of them. Pot after pot as the stress upon her and Khelt grew. It was all she could do.

——

Then came the [Palace of Fates].

It did not affect Khelt, well, at all. In the scheme of things, it was an event that only concerned King Fetohep of Khelt.

—It just affected him personally. Distracted him, perhaps. Took his focus from his people, who had continued to line up and beg for more skeletons to do work. And begun to protest…the new citizens of Khelt.

Specifically those in New Jecrass. Not the Gnolls or Centaurs. That was a—a bad look, but the Jecrassians? What had they done for Khelt? Why were they worthy of it?

At first, they were quiet, but in the way of people who were not getting what they wanted, they learned quite quickly how to be louder. And they would protest in earshot of the throne room and in other cities to officials.

The bugs, you see? Your Majesty?

He was busy. Busy thinking of an [Innkeeper]’s words to him, writing to a little white Gnoll child. For a time.

Erin Solstice would not be Khelt’s ruler. She had told him that, and it was unclear which blow struck him harder. That unimaginable event he was only part witness to, a tragedy they did not wish to tell him, to avoid burdening his conscience, or the woman he felt could work wonders turning her back on the kingdom she owed too much to.

But he said nothing. Erin Solstice was, if no ruler, a citizen of Khelt. And Mrsha was a child. The Kingdom of Khelt had no end of generosity for either. The world for a single soul of Khelt and damn the rest.

Damn the rest.

——

One final nation had a bearing on Khelt, though it was so removed as to literally be a continent away. Far to the west of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, past the Great Desert, down along the coast of kingdoms who had not felt the King of Destruction’s return in the form of war, lay that famous city on the coast.

It smelled, even now, of dust. When the wind blew into the high tower in which they had gathered, all those below went still in Lailight Scintillation’s harbors. Even the wind was trauma. As was a name.

“Fetohep of Khelt.”

Thatalocian the [Numerologist], Slave Lord of Roshal, spoke the name and saw the others flinch. Each one. Not in the same way, but it was a weakness, to him.

Names were power, of course, but this was a foe.

So why did Emir Yazdil, in his Human form, recoil and jerk back from the window? Shaullile jabbed her thumb with some embroidery. Andra, half-floating above her ruined body, stopped counting and gazed at him, eyes wide. Even Pazeral, the arrogant Jinn-ruler of ages past, scowled and opened his eyes. Rage masking fear in the latter’s case, but it was a reaction to a name.

“What of him, Thatalocian? We are about greater business.”

“Can there be greater business or greater foes?”

Thatalocian shot back. The others traded glances, and Andra spoke in that halting voice, a half-ethereal whisper as her mortal form shook and tried to lift the quill to write in precise notation.

“T-Thatalocian. You speak not at all in these m-meetings but to interject nonsense and m-made up numbers. Now you change the subject at your whims.”

“I am not a governor of logistics like you, Andra. Nor do I care about much of what is said. I do not know the Walled Cities well. In my day—”

Oh dead gods, here he goes again. The other [Slave Lords] stared at the ceiling or floor as Thatalocian went on, unmoved.

“—they were isolated bastions, more so than even Roshal. Let Shaullile do what she wills there.”

“And what of her budget? Our involvement there? The manpower she asks about? Who to press and who to avoid? Your thoughts on favoring any city would be…?”

Yazdil was annoyed now by the interruption, and he glided over, all silken tongue and cunning mind. Thatalocian met his eyes.

“Give her what she wants.”

“Oh, thank you, Thatalocian!”

Shaullile beamed at him, but even she rolled her eyes. That truly was how the second-oldest [Slave Lord] operated. Andra’s voice was impatient, unhappy. She was trapped between life and death, and only her work seemed to give her any joy, though how she found it in shuffling paper, Thatalocian could not know.

“Thatalocian. A question. In your day, how well-provisioned was Roshal? Did your people ever suffer from shortages of food? Lack of coin or material?”

He smiled at her, pleased by her curiosity, and answered honestly as he almost always did.

“Often, we starved or lacked for many things.”

“P-predictable.”

“I pour as much is needed upon the pyre. If it is wasteful, I would rather it be done than not. This is my quality which you observe of me. I am not useful as Shaullile or the Emir or even Pazeral.”

“Not at all as of late. Even I have worked some magics and taught sword arts. You? Drowned a [Slave Captain], took a single Demon as a slave, and annoyed our allies in Rhir.”

Pazeral stretched, yawning. Thatalocian raised his brows.

“I have uncovered truth. But as I say, I am not useful. So when I speak: listen. This is my value. Khelt. 11-8-5-12-20.”

“Oh, ceaseless chains, he’s counting again. Make it stop!”

Shaullile held her claws over her ears, and even Yazdil appeared sick of this. Not even the Emir could understand Thatalocian’s numerology. He tried anyways.

“I, ah…assume you saw eleven seagulls at breakfast, and perhaps you had eight berries in your porridge, Lord Thatalocian?”

Everyone laughed, and the [Numerologist] scratched at the left side of his face. He had been healed, but the memory of being burnt across half his body lingered with him. Andra had half-died, the others being more shocked than killed. Though he wasn’t sure how Shaullile had survived; the others had been able to protect themselves, but she—?

“A close guess, but too random, Emir. I simply asked the Demoness, Vrikeyre, to think of a number. She said fifty-six.”

“…The sum of all Khelt’s numbers. Rather convenient how any number matters, doesn’t it, Thatalocian?”

The [Slave Lord] laughed at Yazdil’s cynical comment.

“No, I knew it mattered, Yazdil. She has given me false numbers made to manipulate me many times. But in this case, it was fifty-six. Auspicious.”

“How?”

“Simple. She has seven arms on her body. She used to have eight. Eight and seven. Fifty-six. The match—”

The [Slave Lords] groaned. Pazeral stood up and began banging his forehead against a pillar in Andra’s office. Trying to remove Thatalocian’s logic from his brain.

In a way, despite their return to life, despite the power of Roshal and their bathing in pleasures, there was nothing worse for them than having Thatalocian as a sworn companion and ally. But his logic was simple.

“Our enemies wax in number and power. Or will you leave both Khelt and the Antinium unmarked?”

All went silent, and every eye turned to Andra, who flinched and shook in her ghostly containment.

“I—I do not motion to continue these costly and needless battles with our enemies! Not until proper safeguards have been established!”

“And I would rather fight with allies, which we don’t have, than alone.”

Shaullile spoke, and Pazeral glared fire.

“In my time, we would already have sent wrath on carpets and wing!”

Yazdil nodded slightly; in this, they were in alignment.

“The Blighted Kingdom has already been made aware of the issue and threat. Notwithstanding our issue raised with Lord Thatalocian, they have received another ship’s donation—”

“Paying for another to wage your wars.”

Thatalocian’s sneer cut Yazdil short, and the Emir’s eyes narrowed to slits. But that was the issue. They could vote to action, but Andra and Shaullile were largely peaceful. Yazdil and Pazeral favored more direct action. They could form separate camps; when it came to other matters, it might be Pazeral and Shaullile versus Yazdil and Andra on expenditures or liberties of [Slavers].

Thatalocian was the tiebreaker, which meant they had to be cordial with him, but dead gods, he was aggravating. Not that theirs was a true democracy; they were just pretending towards it until one of them had enough power to force the others to heel.

I knew this as well, in my time, though you all would laugh at me to hear it. Yet this is still all inwards, all personal. Roshal, the nation itself, the idea, was what Thatalocian prized more than his power, and some of them saw it.

Yazdil, Shaullile, even Andra, in her way, saw that Roshal was greater than them. Only Pazeral was selfish, because Roshal was him. So, Thatalocian pushed himself up from the table.

“The Antinium I do not know. Nor will I push for retaliation. Let Shaullile deal with Izril. Then leave Khelt to me. That is my request.”

All of them glanced up sharply, and Yazdil recoiled.

“If you endanger Roshal—”

“Emir Yazdil, I have lived a lifetime in Roshal’s name. Do you think I intend to damage it?”

Even the worried Emir, most traumatized by an attack on his home, hesitated. He had never known such devastation as Fetohep had wrought. He had never died. The other three had, but they all watched Thatalocian and shared the same thought.

If there was one of them who would selfishly act on their behalf…

“Agreed.”

“I a-agree.”

“If it shuts you up, agreed.”

Yazdil nodded after a moment, and Thatalocian smiled. He stood up and nodded.

“Then I go to ruminate on Khelt. If you must vote, my answer is 1-1-2-1. You may decide which number means yes, the other no.”

They watched him go, and after a second, Andra’s head thunked onto the enchanted desk hovering around her.

——

Rather to her surprise, Thatalocian ended up returning to Andra’s office after the others had finished their deliberations.

She sat, her body shivering in the floating prison they had built for her soul, healing magics and preservation spells flashing around her, a desk floating there which her ghostly form could write on.

She was cold. It hurt. The pain of that—that—thing burning her still tore at her very essence, and she no longer felt young. She no longer felt dead. She was caught in between, and the misery of it nearly had her send for a favored slave, but what was the point?

Sensation was muted. So she wrote, stabbing trails of ink from her quill, managing Roshal—which no one else could do—until she jerked.

“Securit—”

Thatalocian at the doors. Andra stopped recoiling and snapped icily.

“I told you to introduce yourself, Thatalocian. What is it you d-desire? I am in no mood for small-c-chat.”

He stood in her doorway, a hunched, bald man with his curious lamp of numbers at his hips, plain, like some [Monk], not a man of station. She wore a business-suit, but she knew the jerking, sometimes-incontinent corpse no longer was a beautiful woman. Unhappy. To her surprise, his eyes fixed on her with sympathy.

“It has barely been time at all since you were wounded. I ask how you feel, Andra. If you should will to tell me.”

No one but the [Healers] had asked that. Andra hesitated, then lowered the quill, though her mind still wrote words out.

[Trade Spike: Sulfur]. Must acquire. Blockaded by Magnolia Reinhart, Izril. [Item Embargo]. Can overturn. [Seller’s Market]. Identified clients (order of profitability): Rhir, Ailendamus, Roshal? (investigate, [Flag Thought]), Kaaz…

A woman of numbers herself, only no warrior. Not brave like he was. She cursed it now as she spoke.

“H-how does it feel? It hurts, Thatalocian. All my joys diminished. This body—! They say it may heal, but if not, I will be a ghost again. Only taking another f-form will be difficult. I might lose another ten levels.”

Then she would be inferior. Expendable. The [Healers] gave her a 30% chance of her body surviving. They were confident they could salvage her soul…what hadn’t been damaged…but ten more levels?

She shouldn’t have told him that, but he tended to figure things out regardless, and he’d saved her and Shaullile from the Emir’s attacks when they were first reincarnated. Thatalocian’s nod was somber.

“If it is necessary, I will safeguard this secret or even weave you a Logic Cage to keep the others from knowing as best I can, Andra. Even if you lose more levels, you are still a true Lady of Roshal. Treating you with due respect for your capabilities, if not your levels, is wise.”

She grunted and added some points to her trustworthiness score of him as an ally. She spoke, irritably scribbling a note for a tonic to make her feel better.

“Your concern is…appreciated. What do you w-want, Thatalocian?”

Another nod.

“I need you to move people, perhaps items, certainly horses or wagons and provisions, to a location I have found on a map. Fast as you can. I will be in their company and will make the journey faster.”

Dead gods. He had a map, and he pointed to it, and her mouth opened.

“That is a telling…what are you planning? How many?”

He gave her a blank look.

“I do not know. Enough.”

She almost threw the ink pot at him. Andra grew worried despite herself.

“T-Thatalocian, if you are planning something dangerous…”

“Andra. Trust me.”

She laughed as she tried to wet too-dry lips with her tongue, a ghost and body moving out-of-sync.

“Trust is not a quality of Roshal that I knew, Thatalocian. In my time.”

He stood before her, eyes like numerals blinking up at her, solemn.

“Then I shall teach it to you. But I require your help, Andra. I could organize this, alone, but I trust you with my designs. We have acted alone despite our gathering in concert. Now, one of the Masters of Roshal works with another. Shall we see what it creates?”

She stared at him, then wiped some drool from the corner of her mouth and grinned. Andra’s hand jerked as she raised her quill and touched it down upon the paper.

“T-this is why you have need of me. [Perfect Orchestration: They Came Upon the Bazaar, Every Chain Gleaming, Smiles Upon Every Face].”

The numbers danced as she wrote out a list, gave orders in that stuttering voice, and moved Roshal. People, places, logistics—until they reached his eyes and became a value only he could calculate.

——

Adventurer Frieke woke one morning and saw her neighbor, Mistreq, plastering a poster on their walls. It read:

Gathering at the Sereptian Plaza all day! Bring a sign to tell His Majesty all is not well! New Jecrass is not Khelt!

There was also a rather good illustration of the beetles she had to kill now and then with a red line through them. He didn’t look happy.

He seemed rather stressed, in fact, and she paused as Konska pecked at the poster.

“Another, er, gathering, Mistreq?”

“Yes, Adventurer Frieke. It might all be acceptable to you, but I wish to show you the standards Khelt should conform to! His Majesty is ignoring us, and he—he has never done that before. You wouldn’t care to join us?”

The unhappy Stitch-man turned, and Frieke held up her hands.

“I, uh, have a breakfast engagement. And then I’m adventuring.”

“Of course.”

They stood there awkwardly in that way of people who had no small-talk left but felt like they should at least pretend to have a conversation, and Frieke glanced around.

“…Got any more bugs to squash? I have a moment.”

Mistreq shook his head.

“No. There was a nest of those beetle things, you know. They’d hollowed out part of the wall and laid a nest of these little…larvae…and some kind of grey residue that made the nest.”

“Oh no! How dreadful! I can get rid of that!”

And it’d solve him coming to her for help! Frieke offered, but Mistreq gave her a pale smile.

“No need. I, ah, destroyed it myself.”

Konska and Frieke peered at him, astonished.

“You did? How?”

“Well, you had gone, and no one else was willing to—so I found as much dry wood as I could. One of my chairs, three pillows, and shoved it closer. Thankfully, the beetles didn’t notice it, and starting a fire…well, I had to start some fire and then throw it at the kindling. Then it went up—it took near an hour to burn it fully, and I had to put coals into the hole as they tried to come out—!”

Frieke felt a peck on her shoulder. She glanced sideways and peered down from the second floor apartment to the courtyard below. A rather huge section of one of the walls was burnt completely black and even melted inwards. By, say, a giant bonfire? She thought she saw a tiny fist-sized hole in the center of the structural deformity but that was probably her imagination.

She turned back to Mistreq, who was shuddering.

“How—it was quite difficult, Adventurer Frieke. How would you have done it?”

“Well…you did good on your first time, Mistreq. I used to have to clean up bugs as a [Street Rat] for coppers. If I had to do it? As a kid, you just took a rock and some rags and wrapped it around your hand and squished everything. But since we’re a bit more refined—”

He’d gone pale, and Frieke hurried on.

“Probably, I’d take those embers and shove them in the hole and seal it up. Burn the suckers to death.”

“Some would fly out, though, surely? And I imagine they’d get—agitated—how would you deal with that?”

She looked at him and shrugged.

“You have to, um, squash them at some point, Mistreq. Or at least, catch. Even with nets. I suppose you can do it your way, but it might, uh, take an hour. As opposed to a few minutes.”

“That’s what I feared.”

He sagged, then nodded to her. Konska sniggered behind a wing, but Frieke felt a bit bad for the silly fellow. After a moment, Mistreq turned to her.

“It isn’t much like your work, I realized, though.”

“Hm?”

She was strolling onwards, but turned reluctantly, and he gestured at the blackened pit.

“Everyone was telling me how brave I was for getting rid of the insects as His Majesty said, and I even received a bounty. But I didn’t gain the [Hero] class. Your monsters are rather bigger. Insects as large as you are.”

“Some of them, yes.”

Mistreq nodded. Then stared at Frieke as if for the first time.

“How do you fight those?”

She tapped the hilt of her sword.

“Mostly, you stab them to death.”

His eyes focused on the sword, and for the first time, Frieke thought that someone in Khelt actually got what that meant, a bit. Then he went to protest, and she went to meet with Pewerthe.

——

It wasn’t like she had anything better to do. Which astonished and annoyed Pewerthe as they breakfasted on some Liscorian-themed foods. Earth-style pancakes drizzled with Ashfire Bee honey and fruits. A sign at their table warned them that eating outside might attract flies, but they didn’t care.

“His Majesty hasn’t sent for you? But Alked’s at the border trying to deal with you know who.”

Pewerthe appeared tired. And muddy from her clay work. She was not very popular in the city right now, because as a Fetohep apologist and someone who went to the palace, lots of citizens took their frustrations out on her. Frieke had these breakfasts to help Pewerthe, and she ducked her head, embarrassed.

“Well, His Majesty seems to think I’m—”

There was a scream from within the restaurant. Both women turned. Frieke had sword in hand, Pewerthe a pot. Someone came out of the kitchen. The [Cook], screaming.

“Something’s in my flour! Something’s in the—”

They relaxed. Konska groaned, hopped into the kitchen, and Frieke whispered.

“Maggots in the flour. Konska can handle it.”

“Oh, yuck. That actually deserves a scream.”

They went back to breakfast as everyone else lost their appetite. Frieke glanced around. This…wasn’t a rare occurrence these days. All these bug incidents—she was surprised the entire kingdom wasn’t more up in arms. Frankly, from how Mistreq reacted, she would have thought every Kheltian would be out on the streets, but it still seemed like a simmering pot.

Not that this was good, but Fetohep was acting like it was fine, and his citizens still seemed to be largely buying it. Pewerthe played with the pot, opening and closing the lid. It wasn’t a good pot, just hand-sized and rough. Maybe it was the one you threw at a problem.

“So what about His Majesty not using you?”

“Oh, that. I asked if he would, and he said he requires nothing of me. I’m…well, I’m a citizen of Khelt. And I should want for nothing. In his eyes, I suppose I’m equal to everyone else.”

Pewerthe stared at Frieke, and the smile the Named-ranker wore was both happy and a bit forlorn. Once more as yet again, the exalted and impartial rule of King Fetohep.

She Who Would be Queen Pewerthe took one bite of her pancakes, gagged, spat a baked maggot onto the table, and pushed her plate back. She stood, eyes flashing.

“Fetohep is wrong. I’m conscripting you, Frieke. You work for me. If you don’t have a job, you report to my potter’s shop each morning.”

Frieke stirred, much like the maggot writhing a bit on the blown glass table. She blinked at Pewerthe, then raised a hand.

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“Against my will?”

“Yes.”

“Do I get paid?”

Pewerthe shook her head.

“We don’t use real money here, and I don’t have any, so no.”

Frieke the Falcon considered all this as Konska poked his head out of the kitchen to say ‘hey, maybe this [Cook] had better close everything down because there’s a lot of insects in her food’ as Frieke stared at Pewerthe. Then the adventurer stood and nodded.

“Okay, then.”

She looked rather pleased.

——

When Frieke was presented to Fetohep as a second Named-rank adventurer to deal with the Prophet’s minions, despite her clear reluctance to have to fight and risk her life against the People of God, Pewerthe expected understanding. What she got was a golden glare.

“Pewerthe, I promised Frieke of Medain citizenship upon no conditions. She is a citizen of Khelt!”

“And Khelt needs her to act!”

“If I do not require this of all my citizens, then I shall not single her out.”

“Well, I do. That is my will, and we cannot deal with these issues without asking some of our most capable citizens to take arms, at least! Or what of Alked? We must ask Geraeri or the Gnolls to help us!”

Frieke stood awkwardly as the two glared at each other, and Fetohep lifted a finger.

“Fellbow has volunteered his services of his own accord, and I intend to reward him for his service. As for that wretched Prophet and the failings of mere [Mercenaries]…the Herdmistress is not required yet.”

He sat back, steepling his fingers, and Pewerthe eyed the king, genuinely annoyed. Frieke was saved from having Pewerthe throw a pot at the Eternal King of Khelt by a horncall. Then King Fetohep’s gaze brightened, and he smiled down at Pewerthe.

You see?

And they saw.

——

There were twenty-one men and women in the front ranks of the small army that had ridden into Koirezune. Mere [Mercenaries], like those already contracted for Khelt.

Or they had been. But what separated these kneeling figures from the others, the reason by which Fetohep knew them all by name, was simple: they had been here before.

When King Fetohep of Khelt had made his now-famous ride towards the sea and sailed upon the Meeting of Tribes, twenty-one men and women had emerged from their city gates. They had ridden with the Dragonward Bells singing damnation and taken part in a journey of legends.

It had not mattered that they had little strength of actual arms. Their bravery had carried them across the sea and back, and he had rewarded them.

These were the [Riders] from Dovive, whom Fetohep had showered with gifts after the Meeting of Tribes. They had left with Khelt’s friendship, and now, in their hour of need, Khelt had called for aid.

Fetohep was rather proud of himself, and he smiled as they knelt before him in his throne room. Each one, he was pleased to note, had not only levelled, but consolidated their classes.

“We are now all members of Dovive’s army, Your Majesty. When you requested our aid, the city released us and a thousand of our [Riders] to deal with this Prophet.”

The man who spoke for their group had been a [Mercenary] months ago; now he was [Coin Rider] Lashivet, and he looked better. Not…the highest of levels, but Fetohep had not given the man a decade to mature.

This was enough. They had come, and Fetohep bade them rise.

“Your actions do not go unnoticed, Lashivet, Triekas, Vilyet…”

They stood in awe of him twice, but they had come to do business. Dovive was not rich, but it mattered little. Fetohep first had them banqueted, as was proper, and only afterwards did he relay some details. He could trust them more than the [Mercenaries], so he was forthcoming with information.

“These People of God have an ability that damages undead greatly. Hence my unwillingness to waste my undead to no end. It is my intent that Dovive’s forces sweep the Prophet’s forces aside. They move constantly, but Alked Fellbow is tracking their main camp. They have great numbers, but most are not warriors.”

“How many, Your Majesty?”

When he told them the numbers, Lashivet swallowed, but Fetohep lifted a hand and smiled.

“I do not mistake the odds, friends of Khelt. I intend to arm Dovive’s forces adequately for the expedition. Each rider in your company shall be issued an enchanted weapon. Not of great strength, but enough.”

Triekas’ mouth hung open, then she burst out.

“T-that would do it, Your Majesty! With a Named-ranker at our backs, we could scatter them. ‘Specially if we get that Prophet.”

“Alive would be my preference, but it is optional, regardless. Do this for me and I shall ensure Dovive is handsomely rewarded.”

And perhaps then see about hiring some people who can act as cleaners? Fetohep was still highly resistant to bringing anyone into his cities, be it foreign workers or [Slaves]. In his experience, that lent itself to second-class citizens, and he did not wish that for his nation.

But he was so relieved by this simple solution that he bade the forces of Dovive set out the next day. Without Adventurer Frieke.

Pewerthe was so upset she came storming into his throne room at near midnight when she heard this, but Fetohep had meant what he said.

“One Named-rank Adventurer shall make no difference here, Pewerthe. Neither your assistance, nor the Quarass’, are necessary.”

The Quarass had in fact called him six times that week, offering her own forces or agents as methods for dealing with the Prophet. She had seemed entirely off-put by his refusals.

“Fetohep, it is one thing to limit the actions of [Mercenaries], another to refuse the aid of a Shield Kingdom!”

He glanced at her as he sipped from a goblet.

“I would not wish Germina to bestir itself unduly, Quarass. This issue is adroitly handled.”

She hesitated, chewing on a grape as she lounged in the gardens next to her palace.

“I would trust to Germina more than any other force…”

“And I as well. However, though Khelt’s largesse is infinite, my propensity to spend it is not. Good day to you once more, Quarass.”

He’d had the satisfaction of cutting her off. The King of Khelt had grown quite tired of her extortion. He rewarded, he did not pay. 

Both Pewerthe and the Quarass would see…the King of Khelt sat back on his throne, passing the long night in eager anticipation of the next day. But when battle was joined—

Ah.

He saw faith meet magic for the first time.

——

The Prophet didn’t know what hit his camps at first. The riders swept down out of the darkness with undead, and the faithful were fighting when Marrieh tore the flaps of his tent open.

“Prophet, we’re under attack!”

A thousand [Riders] plus [Mercenaries] on foot assailed the Prophet’s camp, and at first, it was almost a rout. Screaming people fled, and those with weapons were cut down or even subdued without death—they were coming for the Prophet, and they might have succeeded except for two things.

The first was Marrieh and the militant arm of the People of God, who formed a line of bodies around the tent and met the [Riders] in a clash of arms that took all of them off-guard.

A Stitch-man armed with a glowing lance taken from one of the Terandrian [Knights] who had led the Crusade against Khelt rode down on Marrieh who stood, club in one hand, a buckler in the other. She set herself, and the tiny buckler met the lance as the rider thundered at her.

“[Faith is My Shield]!”

Thunder. The lance snapped as a glowing shield adorned by feathered wings flashed for a second, and the [Rider] was hurled back off his saddle as the enchanted item detonated its magic. A surprised [Mercenary] skidded to a halt, and Izreal pointed.

“[Bolt of the Heavens]!”

The lightning struck the ground so hard and fast that only downed bodies and glowing sand remained in the crater it left. The charge towards the Prophet faltered as the faithful turned—and then the [Light of Faith] began to glow.

The undead assailing the camp fell to pieces as it bathed them, and the mortal men and women threw up their hands, blinded. Even Alked Fellbow was left unable to shoot, cursing—and that was when the counterattack began.

The Prophet’s camp was the primary one, but the sheer size of the People of God’s numbers meant that the periphery camps were spaced out around his, and when they saw the attack, they came streaming across the ground, throwing themselves into battle.

The Prophet saw it from the back ranks where massed prayers rang in the air, empowering the People of God, but oh, despite their divine blessings, it was a bloody battle.

Surprised or not, Dovive and the [Mercenaries] were armored warriors, and most of the People of God were not. Only the weight of their numbers kept the soldiers back, and blood began to wet the sand. Panicked [Mercenaries] skewered screaming pilgrims on their blades, and for every one that died, another would get back up, wounds healed.

“Fight! Fight in His name! Retreat!”

The Prophet was trying to pull back from this massacre, and by the sounds of it, Dovive’s forces were doing the same. Alked Fellbow loosed an arrow which turned into a smokescreen, trying to break up the front where Marrieh was throwing herself against the foremost riders.

“Marrieh! Come back! Protect her!”

There was some kind of vanguard. Twenty-one men and women, armored in magical gear, who were trying to cut towards the Prophet, and no one could bring them down. Even as more [Mercenaries] disengaged, terrified by this divine foe, the twenty-one fought forwards another step, then two.

[Massed Prayer: With Flaming Sword In Hand]!

White fire burst along the weapons of the faithful, and the Stitch-folk fighting them recoiled in horror. The Prophet saw Marrieh’s head turn at last, and he shouted.

“Marrieh! Retreat!”

This bloodbath was enough! They had to escape into the desert. She was falling back as Dovive’s lines broke a second. The twenty-one men and women stumbled, eyes burning in the [Light of Faith]’s glow, the flames from those holy weapons keeping them back.

One of them tried to advance on the Prophet, hoisting a glowing javelin in hand. He pulled back for a throw, and a sword thrust forwards. An enchanted blade, which skated off the plate armor that Lashivet wore.

The [Coin Rider] recoiled and slashed at the blade Izreal was wielding two-handed. The man had the blade he’d taken from one of the Golden Ranks of Medain. They clashed, magic weapons shooting sparks of electricity from where they met. Then Izreal shoved Lashivet back, slashed again.

The first time his blade had met the enchanted plate armor, the two enchantments had equalized each other and done little more than scar the armor. This time, the [Warrior of Faith] spoke.

“In His name! [Weapon Art: Divine Cross]!”

His sword flashed, tracing the symbol in the air. Lashivet blocked the downwards slash with a cry of his own.

“[Sterling Parry]—”

His sword went down from the force of the blow, and as he raised it, the horizontal cut struck his breastplate. The glowing blade sliced the enchanted metal without slowing.

The spray of blood struck Vilyet in the face. He flinched, recoiled, and saw his companion drop.

“Lashivet?”

The man lay on the ground as Izreal swung his sword, shouting.

“Advance! Protect the Prophet!”

Lashivet’s eyes were open to the sky, and the blade had slashed through ribs and armor. His blood ran onto the sand as his friends reached for healing potions—which not even Khelt had in abundance—and cried out.

He was dead within a minute. There were dead among both Dovive’s soldiers and the People of God. One man dying on Khelt’s borders, unnoticed except by his companions, who fell back, cradling his body.

Unseen by all but the King of Khelt. Then…the Prophet’s followers began to cry out, and he felt a terrible premonition in the air. Someone shouted.

“Prophet, my [Dangersense]! My [Dangersense] is—”

“Fall back! Retreat! Re—”

He looked up into the sky, thinking the dawning sun had come and then realized it was not the sun he saw, but a far closer glow. A light which swooped down across the skies like some vast bird of prey and touched the earth. Then the explosion swept him off his feet, and he heard nothing at all.

When he arose, the place where Izreal and countless warriors had stood was nothing but a pit of ash. The Prophet stared at the crater as his ears rang and glanced up.

The second of Razzimir’s Arrows struck his camp and followers. Then the third and fourth—as Fetohep of Khelt began to unleash the wrath of Khelt on the People of God.

——

No matter when or where, annihilation always looked the same. When his head rose and he saw the glowing arrows streaking across the sky in the pre-dawn night, for a moment, he feared his plans had been unravelled.

Feared the unravelling, but did not despair, for a plan was not the be-all, end-all of a battle or scheme. When he saw the trajectory and realized they were not aimed anywhere near him, Thatalocian nodded.

“We are safe. Pick up the pace.”

His voice was the lone one amidst the silent column, and when he stepped forwards, he realized they had frozen. He turned and saw their eyes were wide with terror.

Even Lintl, the young [Slave Guard] whom he had recruited from a ship. As well as the Demoness, Vrikeyre, his only [Slave] as of yet.

Theirs were faces of fear, but Thatalocian had not asked for their company. He had demanded it. Now, he spoke to them, the [Slave Lord] whose finger pointed.

“We are behind schedule.”

“Lord? We have not rested for hours. For—for days!”

They were exhausted from marching through the Great Desert, as if they had not had transport, camels, water, and provisions. In truth, Thatalocian himself was impressed by how far they’d come, but not for the efforts of his company.

It was all Andra. She was truly an expert in what she did, which was move people on paper and in reality with the mere scratches of her quill. It had been fast as he wanted.

Night drop via carpet and Djinni into the Great Desert with provisions, guides, and close enough to get here within days—if they marched hard. She’d estimated a week.

He’d made it three days. His company looked dead on their feet and haggard. They’d left behind the camels. And pack horses. He’d ridden them until they collapsed then had them march. Thatalocian disliked wasting lives of animals or people, but this was to a purpose.

Every hour they risked detection. Speed was essential, and so he kept up his advance, feet churning through the sand. They could barely keep up. Thatalocian seemed an old man, but compared to their parched throats and weary bodies—the [Slave Lord]’s voice deepened.

“I did not ask. You are Roshal’s warriors. I say to you: march.”

They hesitated. Yes, it was true; they wore Roshal’s armor and carried their blades, but they were…[Guards]. [Slave Guards], [Pit Captors], used to warding caravans or standing duty. Not a formal army, but Andra had obliged Thatalocian with as many fit people as she could.

Lintl was first to march. The others began to hurry along, but it was not to Thatalocian’s liking.

“I said march. One-two-three-four. One-two-three—”

His voice took on a thunder, and they flinched as their feet moved to the beat of his words, but he realized this might attract attention. A Skill would. So, he turned and spoke.

“Whip.”

He did not know how to swing the instrument that most of them carried and gazed at the long whip used to lash the backs of [Slaves] in silence. Then he handed it to someone else.

Vrikeyre, the seven-armed Demoness, nearly dropped the whip, and every head turned in incredulity now. The one and only [Slave] in this group—

“Lord? What are you doing?”

“Picking the pace up. Vrikeyre, lash those slowest to the pace. March.”

Thatalocian strode forwards, and the Demoness grinned in that twisted way when he surprised her. Someone protested as Lintl glanced back and then began to jog and run. He knew Thatalocian well enough; the others not at all.

“But she is a [Slave], Lord—”

“Who better to keep the pace? Run.”

“We are free—”

The crack and cry of the tip of the lash striking a woman’s face made them all go silent. The [Slave Guard] turned and drew a blade on Vrikeyre, and the Demoness waited.

The terrible clicking sound that came next was of Thatalocian’s hands gripping the [Slave Guard]’s neck and twisting it around. Every head saw the woman’s face spin around a hundred and eighty degrees, and he dropped her on the cold sands. The [Numerologist] turned, and the whip cracked again.

“Run.”

They ran.

——

The King of Khelt did not stop firing Arrows of Razzimir as dawn began to rise. The People of God were fleeing in every direction. So the arrows landed in every direction.

His golden eyes blazed in the night as he signalled Alked and the [Mercenaries] and soldiers of Dovive to fall back. Nothing roused him from his black rage.

Nothing—until he turned his head. The opposite direction of the fleeing Prophet. Then he stood.

“Who dares? Arise, all of you! Arise—”

——

“What is your name, daughter of Roshal?”

Screaming. The dead were coming, but Thatalocian’s voice was like a bubble of silence. Pure sanity in the wake of madness, and the more terrifying and unreal for it.

He turned to a trembling [Soldier] next to Lintl whose eyes rolled up white as the skeletons rose. They were coming, but she—

“Calnous, Lord.”

They would have run, but he had sworn to kill any who fled. Five men and women were already on the ground, and they feared him more than the dead, now. But the skeletons—

Thatalocian bent down and inspected her eyes. The rolling whites, a Stitch-woman’s dusky skin of cotton, pale white hair, not beautiful and pristine—someone who was no master in Lailight Scintillation.

“3-1-12-14-15-21-19. Calnous. We shall measure the meaning of that number. If there is time, after. Calnous, I wish you to repeat something for me.”

“Lord? They’re coming. They’re—”

A mere thousand men and women, none of them over Level 30. Most under that. Any more and Andra had told Thatalocian for all her swiftness, their stealth would not allow them to move undetected and at the speed he wanted. He had been displeased, but told her it would serve.

Ten might have served, but in this, Thatalocian wanted a larger number. Gently, he placed his hand over her eyes.

“Do not think of them. Just these numbers, Calnous. Understand? 8-1-1-4-5. Say it for me?”

“Lord? Eight-one-one-four-five?”

“Again.”

Lintl had torn his eyes away from the oncoming death. He knew that number. He stared, wide-eyed, as the terrified woman said it.

“Eight-one-one-four-five. Eight-one-one-four-five! 8-1-1-4-5. 8-1-1-4-5. What’s going—8-1-1-4-5. H-Haade. Haade. HAADE. 8-1-1—”

Her voice was deepening. And the number was becoming a chant. She was shaking, and Thatalocian took his hand away from her eyes. He stepped backwards, then touched another in the ranks of soldiers. A figure stumbled forwards as Lintl stepped back, and they saw her rising. Thatalocian called out.

“Once more, arise from the depths of time. I summon you, Haade the Ogre! Forwards, Roshal! Through the mindless dead!”

And he was chanting another number as thick flesh burst Calnous’ armor, and her face warped, becoming blunt, huge flat teeth grinding, and hands larger than Lintl’s chest began to smash skeletons downwards. She tore forwards, screaming, as another of Roshal’s number began to jerk and shake. Then Thatalocian was wading forwards, roaring.

“To me! MULDREEM. MULDREEM. 13-21-12—”

Lintl and Vrikeyre were in the front rank. They saw him burst into the skeletons, swinging that lantern and a mace around as his face and voice warped, and they followed.

If they ran, he would kill them. There was terror of the King of Khelt and—this. To slay monsters, sometimes one had to wear their flesh. Lintl shoved his sword through a skeleton’s head as Vrikeyre’s whip cracked and she swung weapons in her other arms.

Running—running—as Thatalocian broke through the skeletons, leaving Haade and the other creatures he’d summoned behind him. Running towards his destination.

A city.

——

They hit the city as the light began to shine down, and there was nothing to slow them down. No gates, just an ornamental arch. No watch. No defenders.

It was Khelt, after all. Paradise. The safest place in the world until a voice howled like a nightmare from the Long Night and the [Slavers] of Roshal broke through the unlocked doors and dragged screaming people into the streets.

The Slave Lord of Numbers led them, blood running down his face, still roaring orders as he carried the light of reason, smashing the skeletons trying to stop them. When the first citizen of Khelt heard the click of a metal collar around their necks, the skeletons froze, and the others understood.

“Hostages. He’s mad.”

Emir Yazdil was in his saferooms, anticipating armageddon from the skies again any second. But when Pazeral saw the collar lock and the skeletons hesitate, he smiled.

“He is our blood after all.”

He had doubted Thatalocian, but now he saw it. Andra was just as wide-eyed. But Thatalocian had told her what he intended, and he had said to trust him.

“He can’t be serious. He’s got a handful of citizens, and that monster has hundreds of long-ranged spells pointed at us! He’s going to kill us all. He’s—”

Shaullile had no faith in Thatalocian. She looked towards the ceilings, as if expecting death for herself and Thatalocian any second, but it never came.

The attacking skeletons hesitated as they saw the [Slavers] halt, shielding themselves with the citizens they’d grabbed. They advanced, slowly, one reaching for the man who tried to grasp a skeleton’s hand as the collar glowed—

Thatalocian’s fist smashed the skeleton’s face inwards, and his voice rose ever-louder.

“Take the city. TAKE THE CITY.”

——

They swept through the city like a torrent. Half the Kheltians didn’t know what to do. Some ran, but not far enough. Others hid, but like children. They were dragged into the streets until the [Slavers] ran out of chains and collars, so Thatalocian just had them bound with curtains.

The undead had stopped attacking. They had begun to until the collars started activating, and then they had gone silent.

They might have. Might have, but even here, the Lord of Numbers conducted this raid in his way.

“No one is to touch the captives. Gather them unharmed outside of the city. Take care with children and infants. Do not touch them at all.”

Twice, one of his people disobeyed. Twice, he crushed a head, and both Kheltians and Roshal’s children flinched. This was not the way of that old Terandrian [Lord] whose name Thatalocian had already banished, a debauched, barbaric rape and pillaging.

They took nothing but the souls. Chained them and then Thatalocian stood, feeling at dried blood running from his head. Then the bloodlust cooled from him, and he spoke to Lintl, who stood in the silence of uncertainty.

“Lord Thatalocian? What comes next?”

The [Numerologist] grunted.

“Now comes the King of Khelt, of course. I shall meet him. You will stand here and wait. Touch no one. Demon Vrikeyre, kill any who do.”

He turned to her, and the Demoness was staring at him like the others. She whispered as the skeletons outside the city kept rising.

“He’ll kill all of us. What do you think to negotiate with him? You don’t know Khelt, old Slave Lord.”

Skeletons had already been marching upon them, rising in ranks unending, but now—there were hundreds of thousands outside the city. Millions. More bone than soil; glowing eyes, chattering jaws and bones, a sea of them to bring down even Giants. Thatalocian grinned.

He had seen worse undead hordes.

“Your Majesty, save us!”

The Kheltians were screaming, but the skeletons did not advance. Why would they? Thatalocian’s [Slavers] would die in minutes, cut down, if the skeletons attacked.

But so would Khelt’s citizens. Thatalocian spoke as his eyes stared across the ground. A figure was rising from the sand, and golden flames fixed upon him, but the [Numerologist] was a master of his fear. And he did not fear Fetohep, regardless.

“He may kill us, in which case I do not know his number. I do not believe I am wrong. Witness it, Lintl, Vrikeyre. Calnous.”

The shaking woman in her shreds of armor, staring at him with the rest. Thatalocian stepped forwards, back straight, as he holstered the mace.

“Roshal was built of beings like I and these moments.”

He walked past them, only stopping once. Among the countless citizens of this city he had ransacked in less than an hour was a child, a boy, separated from his parents. He had no chains, just a piece of rope around his ankles, and Thatalocian halted.

“What is your name, child of Khelt?”

“A-Anleth.”

The boy answered with a petrified face. Thatalocian considered him, then bent and pulled the rope apart. Then he reached down and scooped the boy up in one arm. The child froze, and the citizens gazed at him in horror.

The burning eyes of the Revenant blazed, and he took a step forward, but Thatalocian just turned and began to walk out of the city’s gates with the boy staring around.

“Come, Anleth. Let us meet your king.”

——

A hundred thousand ancient bows pointed at Thatalocian, arrows gleaming. The eyes of a sea of undead fixed upon the [Numerologist], but he strode forwards slowly.

The boy, Anleth, was afraid, even though he had never feared skeletons, even as a baby. The being made of sands, robes swishing around him with those golden eyes…Anleth focused on him.

“Am I going to die?”

He wondered aloud, certain that at any moment, those arrows would loose and this dreadful man die. Or perhaps this was all a nightmare, a horrible dream, and he’d wake and tell his parents…but it felt too real.

Strangely, the man who called himself Slave Lord Thatalocian was the most reassuring. He glanced down at the boy he carried and shook his head.

“I do not put children in danger, Anleth. You will come to no harm. I swear it. As for your king…”

He met the eyes of the Revenant as they burned, and his voice carried across the dry ground.

“We are people with souls. He will not harm you or I.”

They were close enough, now, that Fetohep of Khelt heard them, and he stirred as Thatalocian put Anleth down. The boy sat down, knees too weak to stand, and Fetohep began to reach down for him, then halted. His voice, when he spoke, was terrible and grand, and Anleth hoped he would make it all better.

“You presume much, intruder who has despoiled Khelt’s lands with your presence. But for my citizens, I would subject each of Roshal’s minions to torture unto death. For this, I may scorch what remains of Lailight Scintillation to rubble. Why did you lay hands upon a child? He has no place here, Slave Lord Thatalocian.”

He knew who this was? Anleth stared at the bald man, who was so much less…grand than Fetohep. He wore plain armor, and he was balding, with scabs running all down one side of his face, a gouge in his bald pate, and white hair matter with blood.

But for all that, he was also…huge. A hunched man whose voice had a terrible weight to it. He addressed Fetohep with a simple nod of his head.

“To remind you of the children of Roshal who turned to dust, oh murderous king. Babes and children and those whose only crime it was to stand in the harbor.”

For just one moment, the golden flames in the sand-Revenant’s eyes flickered, then they blazed hot.

“So you have come seeking vengeance?”

“Naturally. But see—I have hurt none of your subjects. Despoiled nothing, save for the tread of my people’s boots. I come to you in restraint and honor, oh King of Ancient Khelt. I am as you name me, Thatalocian the Numerologist of Roshal. Will you greet me?”

His chin rose, and the undead ruler’s hand stole towards his side unconsciously. Fetohep’s mouth opened, then his head drew back. He regarded Thatalocian, and never—never.

In all his years of existence, never had one of Roshal’s get ever come before him and dared to look down upon him from higher moral ground. The rage that coursed through Fetohep became a stillness of ice.

“If you pretend towards decency, Slave Lord, then know me as Fetohep, Ruler of Eternal Khelt. For your trespass, I shall—”

“Let us not play games, King Fetohep. I hold the lives of your citizens in my hand. Few though they may be, you are said to be a king who treasures even one life like no other. My terms are hence: we shall depart upon your sworn word with none of your citizens harmed. This oath you shall swear in exchange for the terms I shall deliver.”

Thatalocian cut Fetohep short, and the Revenant stepped forwards.

“You dare? I would shred your city twice for this, Slave Lord.”

“You might.”

Thatalocian conceded, but his eyes were like numbers ticking down towards the end of the world. He whispered back as Anleth’s head swung between the two.

“You might, but Roshal has equal spells to hurl back at Khelt. As I have bid her, Slave Lord Andra holds them now in readiness. Shall two nations vanish today, King of Khelt?”

“You would risk your nation’s destruction, Lord Thatalocian?”

Fetohep didn’t move for a second. Thatalocian’s smile was bleak.

“We may scorch each other, Your Majesty, and I would weep. For I would live. Just as my people would live, the few, the broken, and rebuild as we always have. But what of Khelt? A [King] who loves his people would not see a single one hurt, as I have already witnessed. Would you damn those innocents? No. And your people…yours cannot even clean dust from their eyes.”

Fetohep felt like he was gazing into a stranger’s face. The bleakness of Thatalocian’s stare reminded him of—of Erin Solstice’s in some twisted way. Someone who had lost everything. He averted his gaze.

“You threaten me whilst surrounded. There is no strength in that negotiation, for all you guess that I would not wage war with spells of calamity.”

He intended to bring this conversation back to reality only to realize that Thatalocian had already been standing in it. For his next words made Fetohep freeze.

“I am surrounded. But by what? Khelt’s legions. The armies to damn any enemy in the world. So it seems, yet I have broken through them in a moment. You claim I am surrounded, and this is true. But I speak in truth: I do not believe I will die. My followers, yes. But if you should order your undead attack, I believe we would speak thusly when the day next dawns. Only I, more exhausted, and you, grieving. For I would claim ten lives for every one of my followers that fell. Then, Your Majesty of Khelt, I would flee. And the raids would truly begin.”

He knew. How, Fetohep did not know, and the boy who sat there could not understand what Thatalocian was alluding to, but the answer was in Thatalocian’s eyes.

That was why he had come. The instincts of a rational man who saw perfectly a weakness in his foes. Fetohep whispered as he drew closer.

“What do you wish, Slave Lord? It would appear you consider my position imperilled. Yet I have never seen value in feeding a starving jackal. Where once it threatens to bite, it shall again and again until put down.”

The [Numerologist] did not smile. He merely produced something and handed it to Fetohep, who unfolded it and stared at the scroll.

“This was not my design, but Andra’s. You may review it, but the terms are simple. This first incursion shall be the last. All of Roshal is bound by this agreement, even my fellow Slave Lords. Again, this is a mercy.”

“Mercy?”

The rising fury again banked as Thatalocian blinked those numbered eyes at Fetohep.

“Yes. Or did you think vengeance would not come for your deeds? I ask for coin to mend what will never return. I ask it, for your nation may serve my ends and against our common foes, though I would break your bones upon your throne for your deeds, Revenant King. Do not sully my honor with your pitiful ire. Or do you think Pazeral would come as gently as I? Yazdil? Look: not a drop of your citizens’ blood has been spilt.”

He pointed at the city, his [Slavers], and Fetohep’s eyes flicked to the contract. He stared downwards.

“This—is beyond ridiculous. You dare ask—”

At last, Thatalocian lost his temper, and a hand reached out and grasped Fetohep’s shoulder, or tried to. The King of Khelt reacted, and his hand intercepted Thatalocian’s. Until they were grasping forearms, almost like warriors engaged in combat.

His strength. Fetohep had been above Level 50 when he died, but the Slave Lord’s grip was terrifyingly strong. Now they drew closer, and Thatalocian seemed to grow before Fetohep’s eyes, and his voice deepened.

“Shall we make war, King of Khelt? I offer you a third boon. No one has seen this raid. Not a word of it will be spoken. You pay for silence, for the dead, against future harm. Make war, against your every wit and instinct, and prove yourself to be no better than any babbling undead, King of Khelt. And I shall shake your nation before the world’s eyes.”

Anleth didn’t know what was being said. He only saw his king, his infallible, perfect king, standing there, and the boy waited for Fetohep to smite his foes. He waited for good and justice to be restored to the world, this dreadful nightmare from Roshal to be banished.

He waited…and the King of Khelt’s gaze cast downwards to him. Only then did Thatalocian step back and glance down.

“Child. Go find your parents.”

“Yes…go in safety. Your name, boy?”

“Anleth, Your Majesty.”

Fetohep bent down and took the boy’s hand to help him up. He spoke once.

“Your bravery, Anleth, I note. I shall send for you when these horrors are gone. Go to your family. No one will harm you: this I swear.”

The boy broke into a relieved smile. He bowed, then turned and ran back to the city, shouting in relief. Fetohep watched him go and then spoke.

“For that, alone, I should thank you, Slave Lord Thatalocian.”

The [Numerologist] stood at ease now, just an old man, tired. He nodded once.

“A hero should not falter before children.”

——

They stood a little while longer there, speaking, and then they left.

Lintl had a gash down one arm, and it hurt. When Thatalocian told him to release the citizens, he obeyed, but he felt…whatever he felt was changed by the sight of the dead sinking beneath the ground and what came next.

The Kheltians felt it too. For all they were freed without a single one collared for Roshal. No [Slave] class assigned, no chains binding them. Lintl did not know what happened to the citizens he’d freed.

He didn’t really care. Nor did he even feel the journey back, though it took days—until Djinni were sent to literally fly them back and carry the rest with them. He didn’t sleep, he thought, for at least two days and nights.

All of them, each one who had come with Thatalocian, unwillingly, fearing the whip he had given a [Slave], his orders enforced with instant death—like Lintl, they had not loved this strange man reeking of older days.

But when he returned to Roshal and set foot in Lailight Scintillation, Thatalocian the Numerologist walked before a crowd who gazed upon his back and only then remembered to cheer. When he glanced over his shoulder, Lintl would have followed him back to Rhir in an instant.

The [Slave Lord] raised his hand, and in the high towers, Slave Lady Andra gazed down at him along with the other Masters of Roshal.

No one broadcast the image of his return on scrying orbs. Word of exactly what had happened was kept silent, though rumors spread, of course. How not?

The first wagons that Thatalocian brought through Roshal’s gates were laden with treasure the likes of which had not been seen since the King of Destruction’s conquests. It seemed unending as Djinni carried wealth falling from their arms onto the streets. Gold, gemstones, magical artifacts, spices, rare alchemical plants without end.

“The first of many. Let it be a reminder. All those who are curious as to how it was won, who seek more than merely holding chains, follow me.”

That was all Thatalocian said as he dipped one huge hand into a chest and let the coins fall clinking back into the chest. He turned, and Lintl followed. The Masters of Roshal gazed with wariness, envy, and yes, even appreciation at the strange son of Roshal. And for that, the riches of paradise, the Slavers of Roshal had nothing more to do with the failings of Khelt.

The rest…was the Prophet.

——

They should have all died there. Not in the first hour, in the first volley. The Arrows of Razzimir had fallen and left glowing craters in the sand. Scorched bones and glass.

Each detonation erased up to a hundred feet around it, hurling bodies from the sheer impact or blinding the others with the light. It did not matter who.

Men, women, children…

So that was the true nature of the King of Khelt. This was the Prophet’s folly. His punishment? He didn’t know.

Izreal was dead, obliterated in that first glowing arc of light. Then had come the next arrow and the next, killing the faithful with weapons.

Then those who knelt in their tents, praying. Those who had never picked up a blade. Flashes of light and the rumbling of sand and—

At first, they’d just missed him. Harvey Glastone had just been a single figure, impossible to pick up around the milling bodies, and the King of Khelt had simply hit every large group of people he could see. Nor had he stopped.

For hours, he had loosed those arrows with the endless rage of an undead ruler. Thousands of lives for just one man’s life.

He would have erased them all, scattered a handful to the desert, but for that thing he didn’t understand.

Faith.

So, there, the Prophet of God stood. Hands outstretched despite the burning of his limbs. Eyes wide, face blackened with soot, in front of the kneeling, weeping People of God. Even when he saw the glowing arrows sweeping down at him, he didn’t turn and flee.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw people behind him. Yirene clutching two children. Gladys holding a bloody sword, so many people he had promised protection to. And he spoke.

“Oh, God…”

The glowing Arrow of Razzimir fell, contoured light magic, hand-crafted to look like some ballistae bolt made by false Gods themselves. The spiral tip curved down towards him, and he held those shaking hands up and called on his faith. His desperation. His conviction in his heart that these people should not die.

The Arrow of Razzimir halted in the air. It hung there, the glowing magic and sheer mana becoming a charged odor that burned his nostrils. Slowly, slowly deforming until the magic began to run like cheap wax—then imploding in the air. A sunburst of light that exploded harmlessly.

One arrow. Then two. Then four.

The Prophet’s arms shook as he held four Arrows of Razzimir above his head, and they prayed. The spells that had been meant to fly the length of the continent deformed slowly, until they burst, but the King of Khelt kept hurling them down.

Yet the Prophet stood, even as he screamed from the exhaustion of keeping his arms raised and that crushing weight from killing them. He was not alone.

The camps of the People of God were aflame, or scorched rubble, but he saw another gathering of people. Over a thousand. They knelt in the cratered earth as Jilthread stood amongst them, clutching a cross to her chest.

A prismatic dome shielded her camp. Every time an arrow struck the dome, she faltered. Falling to her knees, blood running from her eyes and nose and mouth and ears, but they healed her, and she stood.

With will alone.

Marrieh, Lazimeh, each stood behind their own miracle as they prayed. The Prophet kept his arms raised, watching as the arrows targeted everyone who hadn’t reached a safe zone.

He felt like the [Light of Faith] shrank with each believer turned to nothingness. Destroyed by the hateful arrows falling from the sky.

They hadn’t stopped. Not for cries of mercy, not after the battle had been won. They scorched everyone. Fighters, those who had not picked up a weapon.

A monster’s actions. Then, and only then, did the bombardments stop. He didn’t know if the King of Khelt had run out of magic, or simply grown tired. Only then did the Prophet fall to his knees. They were not all dead, then.

Not all. But the People of God cried out to him, as they saw the skies clear for a moment.

“We must flee, Your Holiness. Away, out of range!”

Marrieh was urging him up as he clasped his hands together. It was Adoive, the Kheltian man, who whispered, face covered in soot and ash.

“There’s nowhere in Chandrar to run. He can strike any part of Chandrar with those arrows. Day and night.”

The arrows would come again, the Prophet was sure. He prayed for something. Salvation, a miracle.

Was this not the way, oh Lord? Guide me. Please…

Marrieh was urging him up and snapping at Adoive to stand. She believed. And the Prophet had seen the light. He had begun writing the next holy text. Salvation for all. This was a holy purpose.

So then…his eyes opened slowly, and he stared at Adoive, who he had thought for a second was the whispering of the Devil himself, a delusion sent to lead him astray.

Or—the Prophet rose. Rose and turned to his followers, who were upon their knees, gazing at him. Their faith shaken, but he rasped.

“I know where we must go. Follow me. Hurry.”

He began to walk through the sands, robes leaving a trail. They stirred and rose, uncertain, and Marrieh called out.

“Prophet! That’s the wrong way! You’re going—”

He turned to gaze at her, then shook his head, and his revelation came to him, and he spoke.

“Those arrows will strike us anywhere in the world. But not his cities. We will bring salvation to every street. His magic may assail us, but his army will break before our faith. Forwards!”

He began to run, then, ungainly, but they followed, and it was so obvious. There was no survival in any other direction. God had shown him the only path, as ever. So the Prophet ran, and when his eyes rose to the sky, he prayed.

“God…please show me a sign. A sign that good can triumph in this world. Please.”

When he collapsed on the ground, in view of the first Kheltian city, the divine messenger who might well be the Holy Spirit whispered in his ear, not quite happy about that idea. But nevertheless, it spoke:

[Class Change: Prophet of the Holy People → Witness of Divinity!]

[Witness of Divinity Level 40!]

[Faith (Christianity) – The Church of God Created!]

[Prophet of God rank Created!]

[Bishop of Christ rank Created!]

[Deacon of the Trinity rank Created!]

[Priest…]

[Miracle – Biblical Earthquake Created!]

[Skill (Faith) – Their Blades Slew the Unholy Obtained!]

[Miracle – Sacrament: Summon the Divine (Angel) Created!]

——

The King of Khelt was tired. He knelt on the ground of the city he had saved with coin and wealth and knew it was the right action.

His citizens’ relief was proof of that. Not a single one had Roshal touched.

The rest…

He felt it crumbling, now. The weight of eighteen ruler’s lives, so many who had come before him, all this effort, and it was his grip which slackened. As if trying to hold onto…sand.

It blew from his hands as they gathered around him, weeping, traumatized. Someone was trying to speak to him. Frieke and Pewerthe, who had ridden towards him in a panic.

“Your Majesty, the Prophet—”

“Were they from Roshal? Why weren’t they killed?”

“Your Majesty! The people are still protesting about the insects, and word of this—”

“They’re demanding New Jecrass be exiled—”

He said nothing. What was there to say? No more lies, even to himself. He met Pewerthe’s gaze, and the voices rose.

“Your Majesty!”

“Your Majesty, please!”

“Save us from—”

“Your Majesty!”

“Your Majesty—!”

“…Your Majesty?”

Author’s Note:

We have waited for a long, long time to see the Prophet. And less time, but still some time as well to dive into Khelt’s woes.

These are hard chapters, and I shall not sugarcoat it; not the most fun or easy, either. But fascinating? I hope so.

Fetohep of Khelt is a bad king to have as a neighbor. A terror, really, especially if you need medicine and he has a single citizen sick. I like him. I think he’s had some of the best and most selfless moments in the story, but he is not perfect and this arc is, I think, when those flaws become apparent.

However! Harvey’s just as interesting too, in his way. I think you can see the shades that make him up, and I did have to do my research, but I’m happy to report that ignorance is not a failure to write Harvey, but sort of part of necessity. I hope that readers regardless of religious beliefs or not read into the various things that make up the Prophet and find him compelling…even if not as your favorite guy.

Two interesting characters, and Pewerthe, who’s interesting, and Frieke, and Satar. And Mirrex. Thatalocian? Hmm…less interesting and more of a headache because his numbers thing makes my head hurt, and I know what he’ll do each time. Interesting for what he can do or has survived, more like. I like them all in their ways, and I hope this chapter was entertaining. I’m a tad bit tired so I won’t wax long and only say that we’re in it now. It’s Khelt-month. Thanks for reading!

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