‘Ulva Terland is Dead.’

Hobus Macreid, esquire, had never known the horrors of his new class or job until today. Esquire meant ‘young nobleman’ or shield-bearer to a [Knight]. It was a term for someone who wasn’t really a [Lord]…too distant to hold any power in his house. A nobleman in title alone.

First Landing was the only place in Izril which still had them. These days, there were so few nobles that most ‘esquires’ became full [Lords]. But not Hobus. He was actually a sign of better times, in a sense.

His father had sat him down to explain the issue when Hobus had been teased about his class. It was down to…capacity. Just like how armies had limits on how many officer classes they were allowed, or a kingdom couldn’t have infinite [Barons], an aristocratic house could only support so many, well, nobles. If they were bigger or had more influence, or had just wanted to, Hobus would have been made [Lord], but it hadn’t gone down that way. Nor did Hobus really want the class.

He still had six siblings ahead of him in his family, and so he’d taken to other classes to make a living.

Such as…[Newspaper Editor]. A quite prestigious job, and he had joined News From the North, the First Landing version of the many newspapers. It had been fun being important, breaking stories only First Landing cared about. He’d gotten in touch with other newspaper organizations too, even had Wistram News Network reach out; his job was not to review the wording of stories, but to put together the best headlines for the next day’s press. Then a Golem, Terland-made, would print it out, fast as could be, with quill and ink.

Someone had offered to sell a ‘printing press’ to his company twice. First, Gnolls in the Great Plains, then Golaen of all places. He’d politely declined, and when his [Newspaper Manager], Robbel, had heard the offer, the other man had agreed it was pointless.

Why bother? A Golem could do it faster, cheaper, and more beautifully. That was House Terland for you. For a bit of advertising in each paper glorifying them, they’d sent over this magnificent Golem who resembled a four-armed Naga, a male one with spectacles built onto his blank, calm face as his hands blurred, printing the rest of the test-run of the next day’s paper.

Hobus stared at the Terland Golem now. Watching as it moved with speed and precision not even a person with Skills could match. He waited for…something.

Anything. A reaction, perhaps an acknowledgement that its master of masters, the matriarch of House Terland, was dead. Or…Hobus glanced down at the second paper being printed.

‘Ulva Terland Survives Assassination Attempt!’

A second paper slid into the tray next to the first. This one with a different front-page story for a different world. Hobus picked it up, careful not to touch the ink or the illustration of Ulva Terland still drying. He held it up, as if willing it to be tomorrow’s headline.

He didn’t know. But the best practice of newspapers was, apparently, this. If you knew a story was going to break and you didn’t know which way it would go, prepare for either.

He hadn’t come up with that; it had come from Rémi Canada, who Hobus’ newspaper had hired to consult. A very friendly, knowledgeable young man that made Hobus feel like his job was more than just earning fame and a bit of fortune. The news mattered. But oh, dead gods.

“If she’s dead, what happens next?”

Robbel was in the room with Hobus, and the young esquire jumped. He half-turned; Robbel was a former [Trader], not a man who’d ever made it big selling things, but who’d jumped on the newspaper business. He had ink on his white sleeves that were rolled up so he could haul bundles of newspaper around. He worked hard; they didn’t have a Golem for loading, so the staff of fourteen could work like Demons some days to get everything organized for the Runners to pick up. They’d send the newspapers off to the Guilds and whoever else had a subscription.

Hobus sometimes felt like he was the odd one out. He was the only noble here, and as such, he didn’t do much lifting. He decided what was important and navigated the political waters he understood; he knew what not to print and what might attract trouble. He could also soothe ruffled feathers when someone complained about the stories being about them.

All well and proper, as Hobus had been raised to understand it. He was above the common man, but Robbel was his boss, and sometimes it felt like the common man was still better friends with the staff than Hobus. They went out drinking, laughed and joked, and Hobus was the nobleman who was the snooty, important fellow you couldn’t joke with.

But today…today no one wanted Hobus’ job. Because the news was going to be…

“Hobus? If Ulva Terland’s dead, what happens?”

Hobus realized he hadn’t replied. He turned and saw a [Gossip Reporter] eying him. Two [Rumor Journalists], a [Prominent Columnist]—you got classes like these in high society. Everyone waited. A [Typo Finder] was checking over the newspaper, but not really doing her job. Hobus swallowed.

“If she’s dead…it’s war.”

“With the Drakes? The article House Terland sent in said—I mean, if you read it closely, they sent a Hunter-Killer at that Wall Lord.”

Hobus nodded; he’d read it too, and they’d had to translate it into an ‘unbiased’ account, or as close as you could. Rémi’s instructions, that. Otherwise, they might have just printed the Terland account. But the nobles’ firsthand testimony was in there…and Hobus had to explain.

“It doesn’t matter, though, Nass. If she’s dead, it’s war.”

“But if they were defending—”

“It’s war because she’s the head of House Terland. It doesn’t matter why. If she’s dead, the Five Families will declare war. If we’re…lucky, it’ll just be a fight at the Bloodfields.”

“Lucky.”

Robbel spoke, the gray seeming to stand up as he brushed at the spiky, short-cropped hair edged with a hint of blue. He massaged his jowls, glanced around. At the newspaper.

“How…how many people would we send, Hobus? Give it to me straight, lad. We’ve had tons of colonists go down to the New Lands.”

“…For Ulva Terland? My guess is they’d have every city send at least a thousand troops. The Five Families would insist on—if it was restrained, they’d probably send twenty thousand. Each.”

So an army of a hundred thousand—on the low end—would go down to the Bloodfields to fight the Drakes. Which meant the Drakes would have to match those numbers. Hobus went on.

“The real issue is they wouldn’t fall back like the regular, yearly battles. And that’s if House Terland didn’t push for more. It could be double that number. When the Drakes killed a member of the Wellfar Admiralty at sea, I was told we sent four hundred thousand down south. Less than five thousand came back. It…it was over a thousand years ago, but they said it caused a huge impact in the north. We killed at least that many Drakes, though.”

Dead silence. No one said a word, and Hobus clarified after a moment.

“It’s not something I think would happen. But she’s…House Terland. They have to do something.”

“I haven’t even met my idol, Drassi, yet. We can’t go to war.”

The [Gossip Reporter], Nass, or Nassilendra, whispered. A while ago, that would have sounded insane. Liking a Drake? Not wanting to go to war with them? But Hobus agreed. His household hadn’t sent troops to the Bloodfields since he’d been a kid, before the Second Antinium War. He’d seen the news, watched Sir Relz and Noass and all the antics in the south. If there was a reason to go to war, it was to support the Gnolls after the Meeting of Tribes. The New Lands were waiting. This wasn’t what they should be doing.

“It’s how it is.”

He mumbled, seeing their eyes on him. Accusatorily, as if it was his fault. Hobus sat with the two newspapers in hand. Robbel murmured.

“If she lives…”

“They still have to do something. We print this and the Five Families will all want to send reprisals.”

“Which means escalation. Drakes never back down from that kind of thing.”

Chirbe, one of the older [Journalists], muttered. Silence again. Hobus sat there. And he spoke.

“If we’re lucky, it’ll be the Five Families targeting this ‘Wall Lord Ilvriss’. But if they kill him…I think Salazsar might go to war.”

“Dead gods. But they wouldn’t do that if Ulva Terland lives, right? They’re not that st—”

Someone nudged Nass, but Hobus just laughed. He chuckled as he held the newspapers in his shaking hands and smeared the fine work the Golem did. Just for a second, he thought the printing Golem glanced up, and the impassive eyes flashed, annoyed at the young man for ruining the hard work. But Hobus just laughed until tears sprang to his eyes.

“Reasonable, the Five Families? Reasonable…they say the Reinharts are back. When I was a kid, my mother told me never to cross a Reinhart or they’d run you over by ‘accident’. I thought she was joking. Then I realized she had two scars on the back of her legs she never talked about. Right at the level a carriage’s bumpers are…”

He tried to explain to them, slicing a hand across his legs. They just stared at him, and he realized they thought of nobles like him. Pampered, arrogant, powerful enough, and monied, but just that. He stood there.

“They’re mad. That’s what real nobility is. I’m sane because I’m not important, but the Five Families are true nobles. They’re all mad. For Golems, for power, for their weird lives like the Veltras or Wellfars…”

He sat down, two newspapers with two futures in hand. And Hobus saw the same outcome as he waited for dawn. He wished the Lord of House Terland hadn’t sent in the story. Maybe if they didn’t publish this, the news might spread slower, the anger might not turn to inevitable consequence. But he was the news, and he had to publish this. Didn’t he?

It was wrong. Who could stop this? Hobus’ hands shook as he searched the black and white print for a way out. Someone stop this. Someone…

——

It was late at night, and Liska was yawning. She should have clocked out of work ages ago, but she’d been helping some new friends, and she’d traded a morning shift with Xinthe to cover her bases.

She was also on-duty because Lyonette was still away from the inn, and Liska, as the door-manager, should be there to make sure the [Princess] got back safe and sound. Mrsha was here, so Liska reckoned it couldn’t be that bad, even if the girl just kept complaining about how horrible the Cowpat Plains were.

I’m telling you, Liska, it was like someone dipped a rag in the outhouses and wedged it up my nose, then gave me a swirlie in a Poo Slime before I swam a mile in Pallass’ sewers.

“Yuck, Mrsha. But it wasn’t that bad.”

Was so.

“Was not. I know you’ve got a good nose even for a kid, but c’mon. It’s just cow dung. I’ve smelled it, so have you.”

Mrsha wrote furiously, shaking her head.

It was worse, Liska! I swear to cake, it was horrible! Just gross! I’ve never smelled anything like it.

“Well, okay, fine. Maybe it was bad, but it sounded sort of fun hanging out with that Wall Lord guy. Why didn’t you get nose plugs? Also, d’you think he’ll find what he’s searching for?”

Mrsha hesitated. She scrunched her face up, and Liska realized she was doing her Roots Mrsha thing. She waved her paws.

“I don’t want to know if it’s like super destiny stuff!”

I don’t know. I just know that half the time he doesn’t even get down there. So long as Mother’s there, I think it helps. But it depends on nothing bad h—

Liska held up a paw absently as Mrsha wrote. She adjusted the door dial, anticipating someone wanting to come in.

“Looks like someone’s coming from the entrance to Cowpat Hell. Let’s just see if it’s a messenger. Lyonette said she wouldn’t b—”

The door opened, and Liska had one second of warning. She grabbed Mrsha, dove off the sofa, then there was a shout. Lyonette du Marquin rode her custom bicycle into the portal room. She screamed. Liska screamed. Mrsha screamed—silently. Nanette screamed.

“Lyonette, we’re going to—”

Wham. Lyonette hit the sofa, went off the bike, and Ser Dalimont threw himself in the path of the [Princess] and caught her before she hit a wall. Nanette went flying, and Ushar grabbed her before she could headbutt an open-mouthed Liska and Mrsha. The rest of Lyonette’s companions slammed into the Portal Room, and there was shouting.

“Everyone inside! Everyone in—”

Nerul Gemscale, several members of the Calanferian staff, and Colfa val Lischelle-Drakle hurtled into the Portal Room. The Vampiress was on foot, but sweating; she slammed the door shut. Lyonette adjusted the dial. Liska and Mrsha peeked up.

“Wha—wha—Miss Lyonette, what are you—?”

“Everyone in the [Garden of Sanctuary]! I—I need my mother, and you need Salazsar, Nerul. Use the [World’s Eye Theatre] if you have to. Mrsha, garden!”

The Gnoll girl turned to Nerul as the [Diplomat] straightened. Sweat had run through his purple coat, and some of the gemstone buttons had torn loose.

“I have to use security protocols. I’m on the way.”

“Miss Lyonette, what’s going—”

Lyonette began running as Nanette got up. The young witch’s face was pale, and she spoke as the Calanferians ran like someone had set them on fire.

“Wall Lord Ilvriss and Lyonette might have just murdered Lady Ulva Terland. She was trying to assassinate Ilvriss with a Golem, but Xesci was there, and we think she gave Ulva Terland a heart attack.”

Dead silence. Liska’s mouth worked.

“Who’s that…?”

Mrsha had gone pale. She straightened, held up a card.

Okay, in all the projections I saw of the future, I never saw that. What happens next?

“Besides a hundred Hunter-Killer Golems coming to kill you, me, and everything in Liscor and Ilvriss’ dig site? Hopefully we de-escalate. Inn! Move!”

Lyonette charged forwards as her daughters and staff ran after her. She ran for a door, yanked it open—slammed into a wall, and Liska winced. The [Princess] held her nose as it began to bleed.

“What the—?”

“Miss Lyonette? Inn’s that way.”

Liska stared at the [Princess]. Lyonette turned around. She’d tried to throw open the [Door of Portals]. She blinked.

“Right. Follow me!”

Everyone ran after her. Liska wondered how you made that mistake. She sat back down, then had a thought.

“Wait, so if I detect a Golem on the other end of the door, I don’t let it in, right? What do I do if it tries to get in? Am I in danger?”

Ser Dalimont hesitated at the door. He turned.

“No. Don’t let it in. Just change the dial and sound the alarm. And yes. We’ll post security with you.”

Liska swallowed. Then she squared her shoulders.

“Right. The moment I see trouble, I’m turning off the door, peeing my pants, and running like a coward.”

She saluted him, and the Thronebearer glanced at Liska and nodded.

“We’re counting on you.”

He vanished, and Liska sat back down on her couch, rattled.

“Wait, no. You’re not supposed to say that. Don’t count on me.”

After a moment, she peered around.

“So who’s Ulva Terland again? Inkpaper? Can you bring me a book?”

——

If Ulva Terland was dead…

If Ulva had died, aggressor or not…

In moments like these, you didn’t need an Erin. You needed someone who had political influence, clout, supreme magic, and an understanding of the world to reverse the wheel of causality. You needed, in short, a Super Nerul.

He was doing his best, but Lyonette needed help. She needed—

“Calling Magnolia Reinhart. Calling Magnolia Reinhart, hello? Lovely Magnolia? Okay, Teriarch. Demsleth? …Taletevirion?”

No one was picking up in the [World’s Eye Theatre]. All her attempts to rouse the powerful people she knew? Absolutely failed. Because they were warded.

“Fucking Creler eggs in my salad. Someone help! Quarass! Quarass of Germina—”

Lyonette was swearing in terror as she tried to raise anyone for help. This was not usual inn-chaos. This was her fault, not Erin’s for once, and Lyonette had always thought she might make gaffes, but never commit a real Solstice Event like Erin always got into.

More egg on her face. Dead Ulva-egg. She had helped kill a Terland. It had been an accident! She’d just been there when Ilvriss had—but she’d thrown her aura at Ulva with him and—

This is so bad. I’m dead.

It was probably…three in the morning. Lyonette had rushed back when the incident had occurred; Ilvriss was strengthening his guard on the dig site. The mad-Drake hadn’t even wanted to start running south. He’d just said he’d try to negotiate, that they had to keep digging.

Lyonette might have screamed at him that when a Golem reached into his mouth and pulled his tail out, he’d not be so confident. The Terlands would never let this lie, but the damn idiot had said he couldn’t retreat in the night, not with so many people. Which—fair, but someone had to—

When the Quarass of Germina appeared, she had on pajamas made of silk with little daggers embroidered on the pale cotton and a nightcap on her head, complete with a little pointed tip, only instead of a piece of cotton on the end, there was an actual dagger.

It was both cute and highly disturbing. She glared at Lyonette.

“Lyonette du Marquin, that I have agreed to tutor you is not a sign of my infinite patience. Does this crisis merit my interrupted sleep, or e—”

“Wall Lord Ilvriss may have given Ulva Terland a heart-attack while defending himself from a Hunter-Killer Golem. I helped.”

The Quarass paused. She opened her mouth, massaged her eyes, then, gratifyingly, focused. She didn’t ask ‘how’ or ‘why’—it was a sign she was the Quarass of Germina that she just sighed.

“What was the nature of your involvement in this?”

“I—I was throwing my aura because Ulva was controlling the Golem—it was a Hunter-Killer, you see, and—”

“I am aware. What did it look like?”

“I—uh—uh—”

It was Xinthe who took over, bowing and reporting in a clipped, precise tone of voice befitting a Calanferian spy.

“Minotaur head, magical steel, emerald eyes, knife-fingers, and odd, bounding legs, Your Majesty.”

“If it didn’t kill him, it was…one of their hybrid models. Four thousand years old, post Creler-wars. Not high-grade. Overconfident. She was controlling it personally. Overconfident. Her heart cannot be that weak, though. How else?”

“It was Xesci, um—”

Lyonette related a few more details, and the Quarass’ eyes sharpened. She held up a hand.

“Of course. Clever. I’ve slain a few enemies like that. Without even a sympathetic heartbreaker Skill? Level 50, then. Your involvement in the aura clash—I see.”

She tapped at her lips, and Lyonette waited, begging for a bail-out, a do-over. The Quarass thought, then nodded.

“I will contact House Terland and ascertain if my knowledge can aid in keeping Ulva Terland from dying.”

“But if her heart stopped—”

The Quarass shot Lyonette a withering glance.

“She rests upon a Throne of Health. House Terland is far more adept than your inn at preserving life. A [Stasis] spell would occur to them—or it should. If she is dead, tell your Wall Lord to flee or he dies. If she lives…they will still try to kill him. I doubt they shall blame you; you are a [Princess], and he is the Drake.”

The Quarass yawned as she waved for a servant. Lyonette’s stomach dropped.

“What can we do to stop that?”

The annoyed ruler of Germina shot her a look.

“I am a consultant, not your problem-solver. Ask the sock puppet. Perhaps he can magic a solution or at least send bodyguards capable of warding off multiple Hunter-Killer Golems. I shall try to save Ulva Terland. Goodnight.”

“But—”

“Goodnight. My advice, incidentally, pupil, is this: don’t send a damn Drake up north with no excuses for his presence!”

“But how should I—it was important and—”

The Quarass snapped as she accepted a glass of water.

“Marry him, take over the venture, obfuscate his reason for digging up a damned Walled City—anything but how the [Innkeeper] did it!”

She vanished, and Lyonette took a breath. Then another. Marry Ilvriss? The things the Quarass—just because she did everything in Germina’s name, it didn’t mean Lyonette was capable of it, for all she was a very progressive, worldly [Princess]. She shook her head.

“Let’s hope that helps. In the meantime—call Duke Rhisveri!”

Then she realized he was warded, and she glared.

“Dame Ushar, send a [Message] to our contacts in Ailendamus. Get me Rhisveri.”

She paced around frantically, waiting for her last great ally in the wings to come. As he had sworn he would. Plus, he owed her. She’d danced with him, and she and he…they were allies. Not just two people with gambling debts.

Best friends, really. She fondly thought of the time he had teleported her to his nation to have a plus one for a dance. Rhisveri, her chum, her obliging Wyrm! She put on her best smile to welcome her buddy. So he knew how valued he was.

She ended up waiting thirty-five minutes, the same pained smile on her face, until an apologetic Dame Chorisa informed her the Duke was delayed, but would be with her shortly. Lyonette’s face hurt.

——

In the [Garden of Sanctuary], Mrsha and Nanette were poking each other, waiting to see what went down.

If Ulva Terland’s dead, it’s bad, Nanette. How could you let this happen? You were supposed to keep Mom in check!

“I was! Those bastards sent the Hunter-Killer, Mrsha! Also, the Lischelles were super-rude at their cookout.”

No kidding? Rude Humans? I trusted you to be the responsible adult because you know those two weren’t going to be ones! I have half a mind to give Nerul a smack too!

The two nervous girls escalated into a slap-fight, then calmed. Nanette sat there, worried.

“Mrsha? Did your Roots-futures show you what happens here too?”

Not everything was in the futures I saw, Nanette.

Mrsha wore a pained expression on her face. She sat heavily, and Nanette leaned against her in the garden.

“So we’re in uncharted waters.”

Pretty much. Did Xesci really take out Ulva by looking like her dead twin sister?

“Yep.”

Hardcore.

“Can Rhisveri help? He is a super-important Wyrm, right?”

Mrsha hesitated. She sat there, head bowed, then scribbled on a card. Held it up.

I wish I could tell you he’s the best aside from Teriarch, Nanette. But neither one’s invincible. And something…around now takes Rhisveri out in most futures. I don’t know what, but—

Nanette turned, and Mrsha observed it all, fur blowing, a dreadfully analytical look on her face. For she had seen the same thing the present held.

The Wyrm of Ailendamus…

Was not well.

——

It had hit him fast and suddenly shortly after the banquet incident with the [Princess]. He hadn’t seen it coming.

He should have.

Avoidable, really. But the Wyrm had just thought…

No, hoped.

He’d just hoped he’d make it, you know? When he’d buried his mother, his real mother, he’d felt the hand of death on him. Just like when he’d seen so many little servants go, like Dioname. He’d sworn to bring them back with the power he’d killed his brother for. But he’d always thought—

Me, I’ll make it. I’ll be the one. I’ll be the Wyrm who goes the distance. Who lives as long as Dragonlords. He had his empire. He had his allies. He had time…in this waning world.

But no. It turned out this was it. They’d got him. She’d got him. He never saw it coming.

His allies didn’t know he was…incapacitated, of course. He’d sequestered himself in his chambers in the palace, pretended to be grumpy, indisposed. To his annoyance, no one, not even Eclizza, had detected anything wrong with him.

His stupid bodyguard, Chorisa and the others, kept watch. No one noticed his curt [Messages] revealed the suffering Wyrm within. No one came by to say hello. It was like…they didn’t notice. As if he’d put himself up as the strongest, most fearsome being and they’d accepted him at his word.

Rhisveri was too prideful to ask for help, anyways. He lay, curled up on himself, a snake meant to devour the world, all tangled together. Sweating greenish fluids that ran like muck on the beautiful floor no matter how much he cleaned it. Clenching his teeth. Fighting his weakness.

“Ryoka Griffin. In the end, you’ve killed me. Thief. Thief of miracles. Thief of mothers. Thief of lives.”

He bore her…less ill will since it wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t aware of what she’d done. She really was the Windy Girl, the carrier of plagues, the unwitting dupe bearing poisoned knives and hurling them into well-meaning tyrant’s bosoms.

He’d have to tell her that. Write it in his will. ‘I forgive you for killing me, Ryoka Griffin’, so when the Kingdom of Glass and Glory fell to pieces without its leader, when it all came crashing down, they knew who not to blame.

…He was just being petty. The Wyrm lay there, suffering. Using his willpower as he could, fighting his malady until someone called his name.

“Duke. Duke—Princess Lyonette is requesting your presence. It is urgent, Duke.”

“Go ‘way.”

“Duke Rhisveri. Er, Great Wyrm!”

Chorisa walked forwards hesitantly, eying the huge mass of Wyrm coiled inwards on one section of his chambers. He seemed…off. Steam was rising from his green scales, and there was green liquid oozing onto the ground. She glanced at the other Thirsting Veil [Knights] in genuine concern.

But they didn’t know what to do, so Chorisa tried again.

“Duke, she claims she’s in danger.”

The Wyrm of Ailendamus uncurled. Just a bit. He opened his eyes he’d been squeezing shut.

“Again?”

Of course she was. With supreme effort, he conjured his alter-ego, the Human Duke. He had to…there were children at that inn. Wyrmesse oblige and all that. He made the Duke appear, and Eclizza jumped, then scowled.

“Duke, your clothing!”

Duke Rhisveri looked…about as bad as the Wyrm felt. His eyes were bloodshot, and he appeared distinctly off. He was also naked. He’d forgotten the clothing.

“Whuzzat? Damn clothing. How do you filthy apes deal with it? Let me just—”

He pointed a finger at himself and zapped on some clothing. It constricted against his body, on backwards, and he yelped. Swivelled around firing clothing spells—Chorisa ducked, brought up a shield—

A pair of underpants appeared on the top of her crescent shield, and she snapped.

“Duke!”

She thought he was just being silly. Chorisa strode over, grabbed his arms as he got the pants on around the right way, yelled, and let go.

Her enchanted gauntlets had just turned bright red. With heat. The enchantments saved Chorisa from literally frying her own hand, but she put a hand out and backed away.

“Duke, you’re burning up! Are you sick?”

Then the bodyguards realized he was ill and approached. Duke Rhisveri was sweating so hard it looked like it was raining on him. The skin of his magical body had long since passed any temperature a living body would be able to maintain.

“Just a bit ill. Don’t worry. It’s not contagious. But you should, uh, get out of here. Right now. Don’t come in. I’ll contact Lyonette. Just you—bleg.”

He turned, tried to cast a [Gateway] spell to project himself into The Wandering Inn, and fell flat on his face. The Thirsting Veil Knights eyed him as they backed up.

“How dangerous is it, Duke?”

“For you? Potentially fatal. Out. Out. Tell…tell the others I’m under the weather. And, uh, that Lyonette should send her Skill-thing to me.”

He was lying about the fatal part, but it got the [Knights] out of his scales. The worst that would happen was—no, he was more than that. More than…he lay there, trying to inchworm his way vertical, until someone finally appeared in front of him.

“Thank goodness, Duke Rhisv—what are you doing?”

There was something bracing about Lyonette’s annoyed tone, even worried. Rhisveri rolled over.

“Oh it’s you. Don’t worry, I’m just figuring out how to stand. I can’t figure out how you bipeds do it.”

That flummoxed her enough that she didn’t notice the tone of his voice. He’d managed to lower his fake body’s temperature and adopt a posture of superiority, crossing one leg as he lay flat on his back. She stared at him and clearly decided she didn’t have time to deal with whatever this was.

“Rhisveri, I have an—emergency. You see, there was an incident with Ilvriss. You know Ilvriss?”

Rhisveri had trouble thinking, which meant he was probably still smarter than she was, so it took him only a moment to recollect what this was about.

“Wall Lord? Purple scales? Salazsar? Digging for definitely a Walled City in the north?”

He had the reward of seeing her stiffen and snorted.

“It’s beyond banal figuring out your people’s schemes. I recall you helped the fellow out. Can’t you go one week without incident?”

“It’s been more than a week!”

She defended herself, blushing, and he conjured a calendar, stared at it, and put his head back down.

“…So it has. Well done. [Fawning Applause].”

He conjured clapping and cheering as she spoke over him.

“This is no laughing matter, Duke. We were attacked by a Hunter-Killer Golem. The Terlands wanted Ilvriss dead. I helped defend him, and we…mayhavekilledUlvaTerland.”

Sick as he was, struggling as he was, even the Wyrm of Ailendamus had to take a second to process that one. He covered his face with one hand, and Lyonette had to explain.

When she was done, he just lay there, and his mind, adapted to the politics of mortal realms, understood just how much trouble she’d landed herself in.

This is not going to go well. I might have to intercede militarily, but bringing a force to Izril is no easy matter. It’d be war if I sent an army and—

The Wyrm cracked open both his eyes and spoke.

“Princess Lyonette du Marquin. One question.”

“Rhisveri, I really need your help, and I am calling on my favors to you. No jokes, no insults, please?”

“Perish the thought.”

He actually sat up slightly on the floor as she gave him a stressed gaze. The Wyrm cleared his throat, and she waited.

“Lyonette. In this incident with a Hunter-Killer Golem, from House Terland, who has the best Golem-assassins in the world, where a Wall Lord’s life was in imminent jeopardy…I wish to have the details accurate, so is this correct?”

“Yes? What’s the question, Rhisveri?”

He eyed her, noting her dishevelled red hair, her travel dress stained with dirt and sweat from the road, and he bet she smelled like it too. Delicious sweat and anxiety and—Rhisveri blinked, slapped his real body’s face with his tail, and spoke. Focus on what mattered.

“Lyonette. In this situation, and in the north where you were aware of hostile Humans, I am sure a good mother and [Princess] like yourself wouldn’t have had a child like, oh, say, Nanette and Mrsha anywhere within a mile of the danger, correct? You, naturally, didn’t bring them, or you had them well behind the danger zone with a full escort of bodyguards. Yes?”

Lyonette opened her mouth, then closed it. She hesitated, coughed, and glanced past Duke Rhisveri at the curled up Wyrm.

“Er—Rhisveri, Ulva Terland might be dying now! This is not the time for—Colfa and Ushar were in front of Nanette, and Mrsha was back at the—”

He began screaming at her, forgetting even his ailments for a moment.

“Lyonette. LYONETTE. You cannot keep doing this. Are you a mother or some kind of reckless, child-hating maniac trying to turn them into child soldiers or caskets?”

“Rhisveri, how dare—”

“No! No, shut up! I’m a Wyrm, and I’m more conscientious of child-mortality than you are! Lyonette, this is utterly unacceptable. STOP BRINGING CHILDREN INTO DANGER AREAS. I WILL SIC THE AGELUM ON YOU AND HAVE THEM TAKE CUSTODY OF THE CHILDREN. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

The throne room shook with his voice, and the [Princess] clapped her hands to her ears, face bright red. The doors opened, and Dame Chorisa and the others stared at the Wyrm upbraiding the [Princess]. She was trying to get a word in edgewise.

“I—we didn’t know it would be dangerous, and we had to help—”

He just stared at her. After a few moments, Lyonette closed her mouth, then nodded.

“…It was wrong to expose Nanette to danger. You’re…you’re right, Rhisveri. Dead gods, you’re right.”

She appeared vaguely concussed by the idea. Frankly, so was he. When Rhisveri, the Wyrm of Ailendamus, was the most conscientious person about child-safety in a room, something had gone terribly wrong.

He cleared his throat after a moment.

“Ahem. Well, let’s put that aside for the moment. I see the problem. If the Quarass is reaching out…I’ll do likewise, not that we have many contacts in House Terland. If it’s escalation, get that Drake to run or he’s dead, no matter what I send. I’ll try to help.”

She nodded, relieved, and he began marshalling what he had. He’d have to ask House Shoel about healing or the Agelum…damn, this would be tricky with the Golem-lovers. She turned.

“I have to call my mother. Thank you, Rhisveri. Anything you can do…are you well?”

She glanced back at him. The Wyrm blinked with both his bodies.

“Me? Why would I be anything less than stellar?”

Lyonette eyed him.

“You’ve been lying on your back the entire time we’ve been talking, and your real body is, um, curled up and leaking green.”

She pointed, and the door opened. Dame Chorisa and the definitely-eavesdropping Thirsting Veil Knights glanced at Rhisveri’s real body as if just putting together that this was not normal for any species. One began running, and Rhisveri just lay there.

She noticed. I love you. He exhaled gustily.

“Just a natural biological phenomenon. It will pass. Don’t presume you understand Wyrms, Miss Marquin. Don’t you have an international incident to head off?”

She jumped.

“I do—contact me when you have anything, Rhisveri! Will you be at the inn?”

“I may be slightly indisposed, but I shall attempt to be.”

He was truthful there. She nodded and vanished, and the Wyrm lay there. She’d noticed he wasn’t well.

Wow.

He wasn’t sure if the bar was high or low given that. But the Wyrm…he groaned as he tried to focus, but his willpower was being sapped. He’d thought he’d had a handle on it, but…

“Damn Ryoka Griffin. Damn you. And whomever that is. Who was it again?”

Oh, right. Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui. A female Wyrm, a Great Wyrm from the lands of the fae, apparently. Someone who had seemingly wormed—heh—her way into the gathering of the fae at the Summer Solstice last year and, in doing so, made contact with the Wind Runner, whom she had known would run into Rhisveri in the future.

Or just guessed. Laid her plans well in anticipation that the immortalphiliac Wind Runner would meet some Wyrm eventually. Was it genius or just good intuition? Either way, applaud the female Wyrm’s intellect.

Smart as I am, almost. A survivor from another world with biology like mine, or Wyrms are just some kind of constant in even multiverse realities. That’s rather flattering. He could almost imagine her. Vast as he was, cunning, mighty in both magic and fang, and probably…sinuous.

Like, super sinuous, able to triple-curl on herself despite being hundreds of feet long, and he wondered how she looked in person. He should have grabbed a memory from Ryoka’s head, but of course, the Wind Runner wouldn’t have smelled or tasted her presence fully. Was Sikeri poisonous? She had to be. He wanted to lick her scales clean with his tongue, piece by—

Another shudder passed through the Great Wyrm of Ailendamus, and as he lay there for a second, despite the heat in his body, he was cold. Because the intellectual part of him saw it.

Here it is.

Death.

The great poison that would end Duke Rhisveri, the blade the Wind Runner had brought was no Relic of old, no spell or sword of the future. It was just…a female Wyrm’s musk, which would run out…in three decades. Which, once scented, was like a poison of the mind and body.

It had put Rhisveri into…mating season.

‘Heat’ was the wrong word and referred to other mammalian instincts. It was also derogatory, if, sadly, accurate. Rhisveri was experiencing, for the first time in thousands of years, a base, carnal attraction to another member of his species.

He had never met another Wyrm who was female that wasn’t also born of his mother. Let alone a fully-grown one. Rhisveri had studied his own species’ biology. He knew everything, such as the fact that male Wyrms died after mating with a female.

Highly objectionable, but a biological phenomenon that meant that female Wyrms could sire broods of literal millions if two Great Wyrms mated. The older and more powerful the Wyrm, the more numerous and powerful the offspring.

But his kind was dead, and so he’d actually considered never having to die to mate one of the few benefits of being utterly, soul-crushingly alone in this world absent of his kind, with no family but the ones he had found and made. He did not want to die, you see.

The problem was…well, other worlds, eh? Rhisveri had thought when he’d first detected Sikeri’s pheromones that he could master it. He’d had some…attraction…but he’d used his great willpower to suppress the urges, thinking that was that. Any male Wyrm who didn’t resist was just some sucker who didn’t understand the catch.

…Now Rhisveri got it. The allure of a female Wyrm was biological, in his very cells. And it didn’t relent over time.

It got worse. He was literally steaming with a desire to throw himself into her coils and die in one final bang. Which really, really sucked because…his intellectual mind knew it was his end.

But dead gods damnit, I want to know what that’s like! Ten thousand years of isolation and the first she-Wyrm who’s not my sisters shows up and I have to die so she gets to lay a brood? Not happening! But I wish I knew…

There was a joke in this world that if you went thirty years without having sex you were accorded a [Wizard] class, which real [Wizards] really resented as jokes went. Plus, it wasn’t even accurate, because to Rhisveri’s understanding, Mages of Wistram were highly promiscuous.

But what did you get if you were over 11,000 years old and had never, you know…?

It wasn’t like he was insecure. He was a Great Wyrm! He could literally roll over and crush an army. It was just that Rhisveri had heard it was great. Wonderful. Was he not allowed to want to know? Was he not…

“Can I just know without dying for it?”

The Wyrm muttered. He lay there as Chorisa ran back in with Dame Paterghost, Sophridel, and one of the Merfolk. Whatever objections they might have had to the usually taciturn Wyrm were silenced in a moment.

“Rhisveri, we are calling for Agelum and every member who knows healing. Just hold—hold on.”

Even haughty Paterghost sounded unnerved. Rhisveri waved both his bodies’ appendages at them.

“Don’t worry, I’m just…under the weather. Plenty to do. What? What are you staring at me for?”

It was only when they glanced at each other that he produced a mirror. Then he groaned.

“Oh, come on.”

His normally luxurious, green scales with a hint of white, like the deadliest viper in the world? The redolent scales of armor beyond Adamantium’s toughness, the green-and-purple fins that spoke to the poison to slay a nest of vipers with a single drop?

Gone. Rhisveri Zessoprical’s scales were now a bright, rose-red in color. And glowing.

…He decided to send Lyonette a message saying he might be a bit indisposed on this particular problem of hers. Few things could take the Wyrm of Ailendamus out, but as Mrsha had observed across the many worlds—he might have a problem. And the cure was way worse than the disease.

——

“Did the [Healer] say whether or not she’s…dead?”

“Not yet. Hearts of stone—no one knows for certain. The family’s flooding back into the mansion. Someone told them.”

“Those idiots—who? I saw Lady Irs and her entire family riding in on Golems. It’s a madhouse out there.”

“There’s more faces in the courtyard than the annual gathering. It’s like a festival.”

“Or a funeral. The last time the mansion was this full was when Petria died.”

“…There’s another person contacting us. Not just the Quarass of Germina. Some Duke in Ailendamus. He wants to help.”

“Aren’t we at war with them? Or we were—how did he find out?”

“Who knows? Someone leaking information? Detection Skills? The Drakes told everyone?”

Silence, then, a longer one, and the conversation had already been full of pregnant pauses. But the conclusion might be stillborn. At last, the two Lords of Stone, senior members of House Terland, turned to regard their peers who sat in the inner sanctum and the empty high seat.

“If Ulva dies, is it war?”

“I…we have to do something. We elect a new leader, I suppose. Dead gods. Golems speak truth to mercy, who?”

“Nouzcrat’s the most senior. By rights—”

“Nouzcrat’s no leader. He’s no Petria or Aunt Ulva.”

“No one’s like the Twin Virtues. No one, Madrinal. The old days are gone. Maviola El has burnt her last. We lost Fulviolo, Gresaria, Linter and Inawi Veltras—Lord Hibrec Wellfar, you remember him?”

“Stones, that takes me back. They used to be tall as giants, even when I sat on a Golem’s shoulders. You remember how Hibrec would sail into harbor, run his ship onto the streets, and just stride off of it onto a rooftop? The old Harbormistress used to give him so much grief, but all the Five Families would be on his ship and come down like heroes. What happened to us?”

“The Sacrifice of Roses, the King of Destruction—the Antinium Wars? Take your pick. How d’you live up to them, anyways?”

“…Maviola El might still be alive. No one saw her die, and I’d expect a crater of everburning flames to mark her death.”

“She’s dead, Madrinal. She’s dead, and we’re alone. So, Nouzcrat or not?”

“He’s too cautious. We need the highest levels.”

“That would be Xitegen, then, but he’s young.”

“He’s pushing Level 40 at least. Who else can claim that among the Lords of Stone?”

“He’s a radical—”

“He kicked the Goblin King.”

“I still don’t think it was—”

“Who else?”

Another, longer pause, and then a [Lady] joined the duo and it became a trio.

“Are you talking about who to elect? For shame! Great Aunt Ulva’s not even dead and—”

“We have to do something, Minlera. We thought Xitegen?”

“Enough of who’s next! What about the Drakes? Do we call for an army in the morning? Muster a levy and just attack them?”

“Now? We don’t have the troops, Minlera.”

“What do you mean? You saw what they did to Great Aunt Ulva!.”

“Yes…and have you taken a look around Izril? Between the New Lands and the winter, it’s been damn hard. If we levy the cities now—”

“You want to do nothing, Izin?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m just telling you that this is not the time. I’d rather send twenty Golems south. Hunter-Killers, one way mission. Golem Hearts armed to detonate. Three per Walled City and two for other cities. Hit every Wall Lord and notable.”

“We’ll never get them back.”

“They killed Ulva. We have to do something.”

“She’s not dead yet!”

A fourth and fifth voice.

“If she dies, I will vote to unleash a Golem from the innermost vaults. She deserves nothing less. Wipe out all the Drakes digging there, then hit Salazsar.”

“Nouzcrat…they won’t stop at that.”

“So? The Drakes have lost more than we have. With the tribes against them, what are they going to do? I heard they lost a [General] and their Grand Strategist at the Winter Solstice.”

“Was that all real? I saw the scrying orb. I read the reports. But the casualties were low.”

“Low? We lost nearly thirty Golems and—!”

“And it was a hundred thousand Draugr, Minlera. It should have been like Pallass’ 2nd Army in the High Passes. It wasn’t. Oh, people died. I was ordering from Vaunt and they told me some hero of the city died. But it didn’t feel like a regular war.”

“Strange times. These are such strange times. Who could ride an army at that many monsters and not lose ten times the number of soldiers? That’s how many troops you need to kill a Draugr on a good day.”

“Maviola El could, that’s who. She and Fulviolo set Salazsar’s armies to flight with three thousand men. Remember that? You know who could do that? The Twin Virtues conducting the hearts of Golems.”

“Is she going to make it? Here. My handkerchief. Mind your tears. The family’s going to need someone to tell them what’s going on…”

“We should prepare a statement. So what do we send? Armies? Golems? What happens to House Terland when she’s gone? She’s the last of the old families.”

“…Hearts of stone, beat for the last of the [Ladies] of Terland. Listen, o’ carven stone, for the voice to awaken your dignity. With each articulated step…”

“…walk with us, this path designed ‘twixt flesh and stone. Till the day you guide us…”

“…Our long dance waiting for our partners to laugh and sing. Awaken, hearts of stone. Your [Lady] is passing.”

They whispered the old words, and it felt like they heard them anew now. Shivering men and women, voices falling to silence, and the inner sanctum of House Terland going still as statues. Eventually, someone murmured.

“We should be there. Let’s go.”

——

…So as great powers were unable to help, or reaching out, the fate of many things rested on the life of a woman who lay on a healing dais, heart being manually activated by a Golem projecting a magical hand over her chest.

Not quite dead.

Not alive.

Ulva Terland lay, caught in the last moment of her life. Seeing it replay over and over again. Petria’s face, a mask of betrayal as she cupped red blood in her hands.

All the guilt of her life reflected onto Ulva as her heart stopped. And she…

She could not stop seeing Petria’s face, even as she told herself it was a lie. It was true enough, and the Drake who had taken Petria’s face had read Ulva’s heart. Her guilt. She had stabbed the Matriarch of House Terland with a blade that cleaved across time and space.

Again, Ulva saw Petria staring at her. Again, her heart stopped. And she found her life replaying itself.

First waking up and peering over to see an identical face staring at hers. Thinking nothing of it for years until she realized that face wasn’t her reflection in the mirror, but another being. So similar, they.

Growing up, running around with Golems, the only ones who could keep up, wild, speaking the language only they knew because they’d made it up, best friends with—

[Twin Virtues], they called them. Petria and Ulva, in their teens, each one with a favorite Golem, fighting with the other ‘greats’ of the Five Families. Maviola El and Gresaria Wellfar, battling in the news, the established legends while Petria and Ulva were the prodigies, bickering, arguing over their future, but never fighting. How could you fight with your own heart?

—Older and trying to be the same as Petria, who was more adventurous, more inclined to being the leader. Realizing they weren’t the identical twins anymore, but different, ever-so-subtly. Crying until Petria took her hands.

“You be the shield, I’ll be the sword, deal?”

Hugging her other half and agreeing. [Twin Virtues of House Terland: Fortitude of the Unwavering]. That was Petria. And Ulva—

[Twin Virtues of House Terland: Prudence of the Heart].

Heart.

Maybe that was when it had all been laid in place. Long ago—

Petria’s throat slashed as the blood ran. A [Princess]’ and Wall Lord’s auras clashing with her ailing heart—

Replay her life.

Flirting with the same [Lord] that Petria had, because she wanted to share the same thing her sister did. Arguing about the way Petria pushed ahead and Ulva sometimes…didn’t understand. They were supposed to be twins.

Trouble in Izril. Antinium to the south, and Petria listening to a young Magnolia Reinhart demanding the support of the Five Families. Standing up with Petria to send Golems with the might of the Five Families.

Then…the Goblin King emerging in Baleros. Dreams of peace with them dying in flames. Petria Terland’s face as she announced that House Terland would fight him upon their shores. Arguing with her sister.

Battle—and falling behind. Shouting for Petria as Golems died, Golem-Hearts igniting as Goblins slew them, powerful beyond belief. Turning her head and feeling her heart plucked away. Petria’s head, held in a bloody grasp as the crimson eyes swung to her. A scream that would never end.

…Twelve years. The last twelve years of her life had been the hardest, emptiest, of them all. They said, now, she was the last of the greats. Old Linter Veltras was dead. The old Wellfars were passed. Maviola El was gone. Magnolia Reinhart had upstaged the old guard.

They said Ulva Terland was the last of the Five Families from the old days. They treated her like she mattered. But the last twelve years had been just despair for Ulva Terland. Days and nights of terror, waking to see Petria dead and knowing half her heart was sundered. Keeping House Terland going because someone had to.

Mourning how few remained. Watching the world change once more and being unable to find joy in it. Seeing Goblins on the news and hating them. Hating and hating…until she felt the Goblin King come again, so soon.

And cowering in her House of Stone as a braver son went to fight him. Xitegen. Xitegen, whose family had starved. Just a boy. Just a boy…now a man.

“Dead gods. What a pathetic life it became.”

Ulva Terland sat and watched her life flash by. She didn’t appear her age; mid-sixties, older than she should have been, decrepit and worn from fear. Not even that old, really. But aged with grief.

She looked younger. A hint of green in her hair, a tunic sewn by Golem-hands blowing in the wind, a younger [Lady]’s dress adjusted for riding and Golem-work. Festooned with pockets for little tools to alter a Golem with. A generous belt on her hips, a [Golem Artificer]’s friend with a multitool to open Golems up.

She hadn’t looked like that for ages. A tinkerer. An experimenter, willing to change a Golem to see if it improved them. She’d studied in Illivere, in Wistram; she was young and proud. But shy. She’d throw on a dress and hide if suitors came to call. Because she needed her other half, the brave one.

Petria Terland liked men’s clothing. Even, annoyingly, suits. She had one on now, in Terland grey, a flower made of crystal pinned to her chest. She didn’t wear it often when they needed to be ‘official’, but she stood with that oddness that separated the two. Something…Ulva hadn’t been able to read as they hit their mid-forties. A change between them.

But it was still her. Her hair was longer, and she smiled with a wan joy. Ulva turned, peering up from the reflection of her life, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Petria.”

It was just like Ulva’s daily dreams—well, nightmares. Petria didn’t seize her throat and begin to drown her in the blood of Terlands, though. So it was a gracious dream for a dying old woman. Instead, her sister sat. And she cocked her head, staring at the memories flashing before Ulva’s eyes.

“Pathetic, you said? It seems a fine life, Ulva. If too sad at the end. You didn’t do aught when I died. Just hid away.”

That stung. But as if they were both alive, Ulva averted her eyes. Mumbled when no one else in this world had ever made her mumble since Petria’s death.

“I…I just didn’t know what to do. I kept House Terland running, didn’t I?”

“You ran it like a Golem. Unceasing, unchanging. That’s what you always hated about them, and so did I. That’s not you, Ulva. Twelve years is a long time to grieve.”

“Shouldn’t I?”

Petria smiled as she brushed her hair back. She sat with Ulva in what felt like a field of stars, overlooking Izril itself.

“No. I’m glad you did. But I just wish you’d been happier.”

“I wish you hadn’t died.”

“Well…he was faster than I thought.”

That was it? Ulva half-turned her head and nearly snarled at this illusion of her sister. Then she realized this was some dream as she died, and she let the illusion have it.

“That’s all you have to say? He’s ‘faster than you thought’? You were always overconfident! Always thought you could best anyone! Well, you finally ran into him, and unlike Maviola El or Killbes Wellfar, the Goblin King had no mercy to give! You killed yourself, Terlands, and me!”

Petria’s head bowed. She fiddled with her collar, just like the real Petria, and Ulva’s heart hurt because if this was a memory, it was truer than the Drake. Dead gods—and Petria’s next words were ones Ulva had never heard nor dreamed of. But they were Petria’s.

“I did do that. I’m so sorry, Ulva. I thought I could do it. I really did. And I left you, and look. Look at what I did to you and Terland and Izril.”

Tears were falling from her eyes now. She was faster to weep, faster to anger. Ulva averted her gaze.

“It’s over now. I’ll see you soon. There shall be war with the Drakes over this.”

She didn’t feel…good about it. It would be a pointless, bloody war. Who would they appoint to head the family? She had recommendations in place, but she would have switched them to Xitegen if she’d thought to amend her will. He was what they needed. Highest-levelled. Dead gods, they’d lost so many people. And the rest were shattered, even if they’d counter-levelled back then. Traumatized by the Goblin King.

Petria seemed to agree. She shook her head.

“This is not what the world needs. Not what Terlands need. There are greater foes, Ulva. I…I heard you didn’t go to the Winter Solstice. You let that boy go. Xitegen? I barely recall him. Wasn’t he some little lad? What about his parents?”

“Dead. All starved. His home fortress starved almost to the last person. They all fed him to keep him alive. One half-dead boy sitting on his keep’s battlements when I finally broke the siege. Don’t you remember?”

Ulva blinked tears out of her eyes, remembering his staring eyes as she bent to pick him up, weeping that she had been too slow, too weak. But Petria…just gazed at her sister.

“No. I wasn’t there. Ulva…do you think you’re dreaming?”

“I know I’m dying. What else could I be?”

Petria just nodded at that.

“You are. But Ulva…you’re not dreaming me. Where do you think you are?”

Ulva Terland stared at her sister. Then she turned her head. And the sky they sat in, over Izril, became something else. She felt herself floating high over the land she had lived in, and when she peeked up—she saw souls falling.

Like a rain of stars.

A lost man drifting downwards, weeping and clutching the infected arm that had been his death.

A trio, a married man and wife, young, and an older brother, explorers to the New Lands, still waving at a Gnoll who had saved them. Falling downwards, holding each other.

Naught but a babe ceasing its final wails and opening its eyes as a peace took it from the brief, painful world it had known.

An old man catching a child in his arms and carrying the baby downwards. Eyes opening wider, wider—

Ghosts. Not shedding their memories, their final experiences, but rather, radiating them outwards. They did not lose the memories; they were falling stars glowing with the light of their very souls. Some had been falling for months. Processing their own lives before they were ready to continue; others dropped faster, having fewer regrets, not caring to look back.

Life flashing before your eyes. It made Ulva’s own eyes sting to see.

Souls falling past her, towards…what? A copy of the world she had known? No. Ulva’s head rose, and she saw something else. There lay the Izril she had known. And beyond…

Her eyes stung. For the first time, Ulva glanced away from her sister, from the memories of her life streaming before her, and at something beyond which her mortal heart had no words for. She shaded her eyes.

“Petria. What’s that?”

Her sister turned and smiled.

“Something new. Something the woman who called herself ‘Goddess of Death’ finally remembered to grant the dead. The true promise her kind holds, which is why they are loved. What do you see, Ulva? I see gleaming gears, a land built of constructs and metal I cannot fathom. And beyond that, something not even Dragons dare comprehend. It gleams brighter than any Golem’s Heart.”

Ulva kept wiping her eyes.

“I don’t…am I dead then?”

“Yes. And no. You’re where we end up now. A new place. A better one than the old; believe me. There, we were just in holding. Prisoners and at the mercy of six gods. Now, we are free. Not all of us, but the Goddess of Death has met her end. I was one of the ones she ate. When I was freed, I waited here. For you.”

Ulva didn’t understand what any of that meant. She just reached out with both her arms.

“Then we’re together at last, Petria. And a far better ending it is! Let’s go.”

She went to embrace her twin and lost heart, and Petria hugged her. Then let go and pushed Ulva back.

“No. Not yet, Ulva.”

The gentle rejection made Ulva’s ghost stumble backwards. She tried to reach again. Crying out.

“Petria! We’ve just met and—”

Petria floated back. She spread her arms. Smiling with all the pride of the Terlands. And regrets.

“I’m dead, Ulva! I fought. In two lives. Once, I died against the Goblin King. The second time, I fought for the dignity of the dead. I lost, both times. But I stood with every Terland to ever exist. We damned the Seamwalkers and defied Death herself to the last. I am so proud of them and you. But I will not take you with me. Not yet. You’re not done. Are you?”

She pointed down at the streaming memories below Ulva, and the woman realized she wasn’t falling. She alone was not joining the rain of souls entering the lands of the dead. She hovered, borne aloft by the memories of a lifetime. And she realized, like a strange gravity, they were trying to drag her back.

To that unkind world where voices echoed.

“—not let her die! In the name of House Terland—!”

“—administer another 50 fraerls of Cepile Toxin. Now. And that potion, 300 fraerls. Do not argue with me, [Healer]. [Obey My Will].”

“—aunt? Great Aunt?”

They were calling for her. But Ulva did not want to live. She was weeping, reaching out.

“Petria? Petria, I am so tired. I have nothing to do here. I don’t love Terland enough. Not if this is what is after. Wait for me, I’ll join you. Even if—”

Petria slapped her hand down. And now she was stern, lecturing, pacing.

“Ulva, you always were the smarter one. You always led. And nothing to do? In this age? I tell you, there are six—possibly five foes now—that deserve to die! House Terland needs you! And if I cannot be there, you cannot follow me. Do it and I will scorn you, Sister. You’re needed.”

“But—”

Ulva was gasping. She felt herself dissolving, and Petria’s face twisted. She came forwards and held Ulva’s hands, and they were aging, now. But Petria stopped…and Ulva’s hands grew more wrinkled. She aged past her twin sister, and then they were different. Petria gazed into Ulva’s eyes and averted hers.

“I’m so sorry, Ulva. I’m sorry I left you behind. I…listen to me. You need to guide House Terland. I don’t know what happened, not exactly. I just know I was freed. And that [Princess]? She was there, and the Goblin King, I think. She beat them.”

“The—the [Princess]? The Goblin King?”

Ulva’s heart constricted with fear, but Petria held her hands harder, speaking urgently, gazing into her eyes.

“Ulva Terland, Virtue of House Terland, you must live! I don’t know the right course; I never have! But you must live, and do not dare join me a second too early! Save our House! Save our Golems! Save our very souls, for the foes who come against us would eat it all!”

“It is too hard.”

Ulva was begging. But Petria just smiled guiltily.

“I know. But I will wait for you here, Ulva. As long as it takes. When we meet again, we’ll go and see what else is out there. Until then, here I stand. Go back to that cruel world, and set those Golems’ hearts to beating as we once did. Be kind to that [Princess]. I think we must be on the same side. And…more than the [Princess], there’s a child. A little Gnoll child with white fur. If you should meet her, sister, then thank her on behalf of us all. And all those who will die. It was far from perfect. But she did it.”

Petria stared past Ulva, and now the ghost was receding. Two worlds drifting apart. Ulva was shouting.

“Petria, I don’t understand! What Gnoll? The Drake! How did she know you? The New Lands! What do I do?”

“I don’t know!”

Petria cupped her hands to shout back, and Ulva could have killed her sister. Because that—that was the most quintessential Petria answer. She had no clue. No idea. But the [Twin Virtue of House Terland] caught her breath, then gazed down.

“I’ll tell you this—I do remember that Drake who took my face! Ask her about how we met, if you’d care to know me entirely, sister! Just know I was too ashamed to tell you. Now, it feels so—silly.”

“What? What does that mean?”

Petria just laughed. And Ulva Terland reached out, for the lands of the dead, which she had never thought could have a continuation. Now she understood what Lady Bethal had been talking about, but this was more than even miracles or strange beings called ‘Goddesses’. This was beautiful. She yearned for it, this kindly vision of a place after death. But then Ulva saw Petria lift her hand.

“Ulva Terland, the Golems call your name. You have work to do. Stand. For House Terland, stand—”

——

Her damaged heart knit. The healing magics caught hold, and the Golem’s glowing eyes flashed as the [Lady]’s grey face shifted. It moved backwards, and Ulva Terland gasped.

The [Healer], the image of the Quarass, the nobles of House Terland being held back, tears staining their cheeks, their torn clothing as they wept, trying to touch their dying matriarch, all froze.

Ulva Terland breathed. Then stood. In one motion, not gracefully, not easily, but rising. With sheer force of will. With the aura of the twin virtues pushing her upwards. Like a corpse coming to life, cheeks flooding with ruddy blood, eyes focused on the far country coming to life.

She stood on the healing dais, shedding the healing crystals, the spent scrolls, and cried out.

“PETRIA!”

The single word threw her House on their butts. Even the Golems recoiled. The [Healer] turned dead white, threw his hands up, screamed, and fainted. The Terlands who didn’t pass out turned and ran, screaming.

Even the Quarass recoiled. Then pretended like she’d seen this a hundred times instead of barely a dozen. Ulva Terland reached a hand out, and her heart ached. Her body was beyond stiff. She had a foul taste in her mouth, and she was older, leaden, in agony.

But she lived.

She turned her head, and Lord Xitegen Terland gazed up at her from the shining scrying orbs. Then he knelt. Terlands bowed, those not running and screaming, and Ulva Terland stood there. Swaying.

“Aunt Ulva. You made it.”

That was all he said. Ulva gazed at Xitegen, and her weary eyes were glittering with tears. She wiped at them with one hand.

“I wish I had not, boy. But I have duties. When I die, you shall lead House Terland. Golems, witness me.”

There was only one Golem in this room, the bodyguards standing outside. But the healing Golem’s eyes flashed, and it spoke, though it had no mouth.

“ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴡɪᴛɴᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ.”

Ulva Terland stood there a moment. Then Xitegen coughed.

“Aunt, there’s an announcement in the newspapers heralding your untimely death or survival. Either way, it might cause a war if it were to be announced. I realize you might wish to war with the Drakes, but—”

Dead gods, he could not give her a rest. She’d been alive again for a second and he spoke sense. Damn him. Ulva closed her eyes, then turned her head. When she opened her eyes again, he hesitated.

“I shall enjoy you leading this sorry house of stone, Xitegen. Cancel that. I shall dictate the news of my survival.”

He bowed his head, and Ulva sat down on the healing dais. Then she lay back down.

“I’m tired, however. Golem?”

“Yes, Lady Ulva Terland?”

“Fetch me my clothing. My old clothing. Adjust it for my size and dust it off. Then find Petria’s old companion-Golems and activate them. Then prepare me a list of every Golem in our 9th Vaults. Ready them for activation.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing Xitegen swallow hard and open his mouth, then cough. Ulva sat there dreamily.

“If I must, I will reduce that Wall Lord’s entire dig site to ash and blood, and Salazsar with it. For House Terland, and in honor of Petria Terland, I judge thee.”

Her head turned.

“[Awaken, Hearts of Stone]. Hearts of Golems, beat.”

The healing Golem went still, and its gemstone eyes flashed. It pulsed, once, twice, and Ulva Terland sat there as the Mansion of Stone trembled. She sat there a while, then arose. She had work to do.

——

The day dawned like a dead man. Lying against a heap of dirt in the trenches, blood drying amidst his open guts. A fly crawling across one staring eye. Neck spines snapped, and his clenched teeth parted, revealing an empty hole through which his soul had fled.

Nerul Gemscale had known such days before, when sleep was impossible, however much you wanted to skip time and just pass this horrible ‘now’. But he spent it, snapping into speaking stones, communicating with Salazsar, Manus, trying to get in touch with the Terlands, anyone, to avert a war.

Only one thing would avert that war, and that was Ulva Terland living. But the [Diplomat] fought with all his tricks because he had seen war. And he wouldn’t have that again. Not the true war that this could lead to.

When he finally did sit back and someone sent him a [Magic Picture] of the day’s newspaper in First Landing, Nerul Gemscale exhaled.

ᴛᴀɪᴍᴀɢᴜʀᴏꜱ ɪɴ ɪᴢʀɪʟ. ᴀ ꜱʟᴀᴘ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ?

It was not the headline he feared. Which was one that referenced Ulva’s near-death, let alone the one that told the world she was dead. Nerul drank some coffee, scanning down the headlines.

ᴡᴀʀ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴏᴢᴛᴇʀᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴜʀꜱʜɪʟ. ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴏɴ ᴘᴀɢᴇ 𝟦!

Just…news. Nothing groundbreaking. But what struck his eye was the way the newspaper was formatted. It had a bit of dead space on the final page, almost as if someone had rearranged it and hadn’t had enough articles to fill it at the last moment.

“Hmm. Nerul to Salazsar.”

“Zail. Speak to me.”

The curt voice came from Ilvriss’ father. Nerul spoke quietly, grimacing. If Zail was in the command room, the ‘Last Sons of the Wall’—or whatever they were called—really were gaining in power.

“It’s not war. Ulva Terland’s not dead.”

“We just received the newspaper as well. How are you sure they’re not covering it up?”

Nerul grunted.

“[State of Nations]. I can tell when Salazsar’s at war with someone even if it’s not public, Zail.”

“Interesting Skill. The arrows are a bigger clue.”

That was Zail for you. Nerul didn’t dignify that with a response. He rasped as he felt the adrenaline leaving his body and realized he needed sleep, to de-scale his face, and a bath. He still ached from that idiot punching him. But he had work to do.

“I need a Wyvern or Pegasus flight back to Salazsar waiting for me at…let’s call it 9 AM, from Pallass. I won’t be long; I need one on standby, and I’ll likely need a heavy-duty flight.”

“You don’t weigh that much.”

That was enough. Nerul barked into the speaking stone.

“Zail, this is a crisis! As we speak, there are multiple threats on Ilvriss’ life coming his way! I can’t see them, but I’ll bet my tail the Terlands are sending more of their Hunter-Killers! He is a dead Drake walking, even if Princess Lyonette does her best. And the [Ranchers] are still angry at us.”

Silence a moment, then Zail’s voice ameliorated slightly.

“Ranchers. Has he not put them to flight? I’m heading north myself with reinforcements.” 

Nerul shook his head.

“It’ll take you months to get there, and we don’t have that many Wyverns. If we weren’t at war with Fissival—”

“Eschowar’s sending me. It’ll happen.”

…Lightning Lord Eschowar. Nerul recalled how damn fast that Drake could deploy units. He felt a crawl down his scales, but one battle at a time.

“Very well. Don’t escalate. That’s a damn order. I’m going to try to deal with the Terlands and the other issues, but I don’t have any prep-work. Just keep Ilvriss alive, and don’t kill anyone.”

“Very well.”

They hung up, and Nerul stood there, then rang a bell to ask for one of the staff to draw a bath, get him a go-bag, and some food. He had to fly. War had been averted, but as he saw it, that was only a mercy for Izril.

Ilvriss was in no better state than before after last night. The Lischelles hated his guts, and the [Ranchers] might be more coordinated in attacks. And the Terlands…

The Terlands were going to try and kill him again. Nerul had to hope Captain Osthia and his nephew’s own reflexes would keep him alive. He wasn’t helpless, but he’d gotten trounced in the last engagement. He had to set up properly; this was way harder than the Trisstral Alliance. At least the old Drakes being in charge might help. Nerul was about to break a few rules. He just hoped there weren’t any other complications floating around.

Ah, who was he kidding? There was always another complication. The Drake hissed to himself. To do what was necessary, he had to leave. He went to bathe and find something to eat before his chartered flight.

Back home, to Salazsar. Backwards as that seemed, that was where he needed to be to save Ilvriss’ life. He just hoped he could do what needed to be done in time, there.

——

In the morning, Lyonette was relieved to be given a brief [Message] via the Quarass of Germina.

Ulva Terland lives. She will not relent. You appear to have galvanized her. The Wall Lord is best served by flight, but he may level if he survives the next attempt on his life. It will be far more intensive. I regard this as a favor despite our arrangement.

A favor to the Quarass. Wonderful. But Lyonette had to believe it had helped avert total disaster, so she gave orders as she guzzled a cup of coffee.

“Mrsha, Nanette, you are staying in the inn this time.”

“No way! I’m coming with—”

“Absolutely not while we have Terland Golems running around. Rhisveri’s right. Dead gods. Did he ever get back to us, Ushar? Well, assume he helped with Ulva Terland. I’m not heading back instantly myself. I’d much rather Ilvriss come here. The Hunter-Killers won’t find him here.”

If he stayed at the inn, he’d be safe. That was her big idea. Lyonette sent a message to Ilvriss advising him to come to the inn, and then she paced around.

“We must speak to the Terlands! Is Nerul—”

“Leave them to me.”

He actually was in the inn, eating breakfast and holding a briefcase by his side. He appeared as bad as she felt, but he glanced up between popping fried eggs into his mouth and eating them in single bites.

“I have a plan with the Terlands. Even a way to mitigate the Lischelles. But it will take…weeks. I need you to stall. Keep Ilvriss here if it won’t endanger the inn.”

Lyonette cursed.

“The Lischelles…they’re not as bad as the Terlands, surely?”

Nerul grunted.

“One kills Ilvriss. The other raids and starves and punches down his workforce—which he doesn’t have enough of. The longer he’s in the north, the worse it gets.”

So both problems…Lyonette closed her eyes.

“Colfa’s at her farm. Someone get her? Ilvriss here, we strategize. Agreed? I’ll ask if Normen’s Order of Solstice can act as bodyguards. His [Soldiers] might be good, but they’re not able to fight—whoa!”

That was her nearly falling flat on her face as her legs gave way. Xinthe, Dalimont, and Ishkr all virtually teleported forwards to grab her. Lyonette felt woozy and stumbled as they helped her right herself.

“I’m fine. I’m just—”

She winced. Her legs were afire, and she felt weak. Ser Dalimont gave her a stern look.

“The dancing overtaxed you, Lyonette. Sit and give us orders.”

“I’m fine. I really am. I just—”

Mrsha and Nanette pulled out a chair, and Lyonette sat. And she wasn’t doing well herself. She sat back in her chair, groaning.

“Wonderful. My first real Erin-style crisis.”

If we live, you get a free cake, Mother.

Mrsha remarked, and Lyonette groaned. The girl scribbled.

I hafta go to school.

“School? Now? But I n—what a wonderful idea, Mrsha, dear.”

Lyonette realized that was the best place for Mrsha to be. The Gnoll girl got an elbow from Nanette, but she refused to budge. She was staying out of it. She wrote only one more note.

Ilvriss is going to have to go back to his dig site eventually. If they can’t find him, they’ll kill all his officers. I really doubt the Order of Solstice is going to do bodyguard stuff. Good luck, Mom. I don’t have a vision of the future to help you with, aside from maybe learning to dance that cool Highstepper thing. Wish I’d seen that. Oh, and using your Skills and stuff.

Lyonette turned red as Nanette giggled, and she was reminded of the most personal failure of all. Failing to do that dance! Ilvriss had struggled, naturally, and it had been a trap, but she was Calanferian royalty. She felt like she could have done it if not for…her condition. She sat there, sour.

“Did you do your homework? Have a lovely day, sweetie.”

Mrsha gave her a smug thumbs up and went out of the inn. And Lyonette sat there in the rainy Floodplains with a far more rapidly-changing, urgent world beyond sleepy Liscor. She sighed as she pushed herself up, wincing at the effort it took, and walked over to one of the windows. She opened it to stare moodily at the rainy landscape.

Between the undead and Bush Shamblers…they wouldn’t slow a Hunter-Killer Golem for more than a minute combined. But the inn being invisible is our greatest asset. And Bird, Elia, Todi, and Earlia could all be good defense. I can’t make Tessa fight. Vaulont is a good anti-[Assassin]…

Liscor, so quiet and unchanging now. Like her hidden inn—

The light shone into Lyonette’s blue eyes. Yelroan leaned forwards, and the light caught his sunglasses and blinded Lyonette twice.

“My eyes! Yelroan, stop that, your damn glasses—what the—what is that?”

At first, Lyonette thought the sun had parted the clouds. Liscor’s spring rains ended at last. But while the rains were lessening, that wasn’t what made Yelroan lower his sunglasses.

“I was going to ask, Lyonette, but I heard we might be at war with the north. Hexel’s been annoyed all week.”

“Hexel? Our lovely [Architect]? About what?”

He wasn’t even living here anymore; he and his assistants had built homes for themselves and moved into the city. But he was working on the—Yelroan pointed up as Nanette craned her head around the table, and Dame Ushar half-turned from speaking into a stone.

“The inn? He wants to know if he has to finish the whole thing before you move in.”

The [Princess]’ neck craned back. Then she had to lean out the window—before walking to another one. But she didn’t have a great view of…

“Where is that coming from? Is that—”

She climbed the stairs to the second floor, and there she had a better view, but she still had to crane her neck back and bend down—so she climbed onto the third floor with Nanette, Yelroan, and Ushar all following. Then Lyonette decided just to climb up into—

Bird’s tower. The emerald Antinium was snoozing as she held a fishing pole with an extraordinarily long line that was anchored to several spots and ran into the waters below. Bird leapt up and fanned her wings as Lyonette rushed to the side of the tower.

“I was just experimenting! I’m allowed to f—Lyonette, why are you here? Without even knocking? Do you think this is the alleged free real estate Kevin keeps talking about? Shoo, shoo!”

“Bird, I just need to see—Eternal Throne!”

And there it was. Bird peered in the direction that Lyonette was looking.

“The new inn? Yes, it has been there for months. I can see how it astonishes you, if you were blind.”

“But it’s—it’s—it’s finished! At least some rooms are! And that’s Hexel! Look!”

Directly across from them, no, even a bit higher up, Lyonette saw the Lamia. His tail was coiled in a neat bun, and he stood behind a layer of nigh-perfect glass; only the raindrops bouncing off the surface told her it was there.

He had a coffee cup and breakfast croissant in either hand. And he was watching her. Perhaps—smirking. Lyonette goggled. She gaped. She flabbergasted as Nanette clapped one hand to her mouth, giggling, and Dame Ushar smiled. Bird tried to shove Yelroan back down the stairs.

“Out of my tower! This is not public property! Only Nanette is allowed up here! It’s not my fishing pole, I don’t know how it got up here!”

“But what is—”

Bird nearly shoved Lyonette over the edge of her tower and down the roof, and Lyonette decided to get a better vantage point elsewhere. But it meant she had to walk down all the stairs, go through the trapped hallway, and leave the inn itself to see.

——

The new inn. Drevish’s posthumous work and the place that would replace the current inn, a masterpiece in every way. It wasn’t done, naturally. It had been an ambitious, hugely expensive project that Lyonette had only funded with Erin’s [Box of Incontinuity].

Hexel Quithail, the Lamia from Baleros, had sourced countless workers for the project, both Antinium and Rheirgest’s undead. He’d paid for magical materials from around the world and had to work in the rain and use weatherproofing spells to lay foundations on the hill. Lyonette had grown used to the construction site outside her inn—it transpired that the half-destroyed common room had the best views once she de-activated the illusion spells.

The new inn was not connected to the old inn. It was being built a stone’s throw away on the same hill, but Hexel had said even the foundations needed to be new for Drevish’s designs, and he didn’t want any of the inn’s regular chaos. So the worksite had been months of progress.

Lyonette had seen it going up day-by-day, with [Necromancers] and Antinium and Hexel’s people, but it had faded into the back of her mind. Especially since you didn’t have a good view from the windows in the rain, and everyone used the portal door unless they were going out across the water-islands. Who went outside except to use the outhouses—which were now moved and had their own covered walkways for the rain—anyways?

Yet there it stood. A wall of gentle oakwood, varnished darker and given the texture of an older building, a plain color, rose from neat, stone foundations. Just plain grey stone, the color of Rock Crab shells forming the base of the building that stretched right and left as far as her eyes could see.

A fake cladding that concealed the real wall, of course. Mere wood cladding over far harder, enchanted stone in a double-layer exterior wall with solidified magicore forming an interior insulating sealant. But it looked like what it should be.

An inn. Only, it stood over The Wandering Inn of the current day like an adult next to a child. One…wall of it.

It’s just a wall, Mom. Just walk right or left and you can see it’s not done.

To be precise, the southern wall of the new inn was somewhat up. Three floors, to be precise, on top of the foundations. The rest of the inn was indeed still just under construction, Antinium hammering new beams into place, pouring magicore into funnels—all under a huge bubble spell to keep the rain out—and measuring things.

Constantly measuring and consulting huge blueprints tacked up to boards. A trio of [Necromancers] were gesturing at one room in progress—magicore blocks arranged like bricks to form a wall—and clearly unhappy. One pointed, the other two argued, then they ran over, and the undead began disassembling this section of wall and moved it exactly one foot to the left.

Clearly, the blueprints Drevish had drawn were insanely complex. But Lyonette didn’t understand.

“Why the wall? Why is Hexel starting from one side?”

Surely, he’d do all the first floor, well, first. Then the second floor? Nanette shook her head knowingly.

“The new inn is like a jigsaw puzzle, Miss Lyonette. Each room fits together; you could build in the center and work your way out, and so long as you’re on-specification, it would all work right! Master Hexel took personal charge of the southern wall because different groups are assigned to each room. Plus, he wanted a place to take breaks in.”

That explained why the wall and rooms there were built up. But the [Princess] still had to run her eyes along the new inn’s exterior.

If this is what it was going to be…it made the Adventurer’s Haven appear quaint.

The first thing that caught the eye, what had dazzled Lyonette, were the windows. These weren’t the kind of windows you got in Liscor.

Most windows were, by necessity, a square design, usually with individual panes held in place by a metal guard. The four-square window with iron bars forming a cross was a standard in most homes—you got bigger sheets of glass for extravagant storefronts, but glass was expensive.

These windows? Massive, polished, and crystal. If Lyonette recalled right—quadruple paned. From Ailendamus’ artisans. So wide they revealed the interiors of each room splendidly, even if she couldn’t see all the way inside from below.

Polished crystal framed by brass. No iron in the entire building, not from the nails to the struts. The windows were like eyes, reflecting the true heart of the inn, hidden behind this humble-ish exterior.

She knew the design. When you passed through one of the secured entrances, you would enter a security checkpoint, and then the real inn should begin. A common room for main access, of course. Walk-in kitchen, and a courtyard in the center. Hallways leading to separate rooms. The gymnasium, rec room, multiple stories of guest rooms, a huge basement, a stable built into one side, interior well, plumbing in the toilets and bathrooms, secret escape routes…

She had gone over the designs many times. Even seen Hexel bring them to life with his Skill. But this was the first time Lyonette had ever seen the inn…as it was.

There were three finished rooms, each on a different floor of the inn. The third floor, where Hexel stood, had a floor-to-ceiling window along the southern wall. A way to overlook the Floodplains of Liscor and bring life and light to the interior. You could walk up to it and see everything, unimpeded, and vice versa. Lyonette had a perfect view into…a lounge?

Lyonette could see, in the golden light filtering down through that window, a big common room. But not like the current inn, with its almost all-wood design, exposed rafters, and plain wood tables. She swore she saw bright, soft white marble tiles, a corner counter with bar stools set against the window to let someone sip coffee and stare out across the Floodplains.

Someone like…Asgra. The Cave Goblin was snacking on a donut and drinking coffee blearily, checking a clock built into the wall and clearly counting down the minutes before she got to work. She sat on a high padded stool and glanced around. Saw Lyonette staring up at her from the inn.

Paused…then pointed at the clock on one wall and kept eating. Not my shift, don’t bug me unless it’s a crisis. And I expect to be paid overtime.

“Is…is that the breakfast nook?”

“What, that? Yah, it very nice. We eat breakfast there all the time. You didn’t know it got done?”

Peggy passed by Lyonette. The [Princess] half-turned, but then kept staring upwards. At Hexel. He was sipping coffee as well. And from the way he and Asgra looked so at home, it was clear the two were used to taking breakfast here.

A blue glow from further down distracted Lyonette, and she switched her attention to the first floor instead of the third. One window was emitting light, but unlike the yellow [Light] spells from the breakfast nook, Lyonette saw, in another window themed like a porthole…she squinted, then saw a weird plant, an anemone with long, tendrilly pink arms, slowly moving from left to right. Then a fish swam past it.

“…Is that the aquarium?”

Peggy shrugged.

“Eh…yep.”

“It’s not supposed to have a window! It’s for all the damn fish in Erin’s [Gardens] and—”

“Hexel said he thought it very cool to stare at. So he put window in. Also, he said having fresh fish is very important. Drevish not know everything since he a dry Chandrarian. It sort of hard to see into the second floor. Hold on, let me turn on the lights.”

Peggy went striding into the rain. The second floor was indeed un-illuminated, and Lyonette had been squinting into the much more formal, arched windows that were purely Terandrian to her. The second floor was far larger than the first floor or third floor, incidentally. At least, this room was; it dominated the wall. The aquarium-room was just one room on the first floor, meant to store fish. The breakfast nook might fit, what, sixty people at max occupancy?

Both were fractions of the sprawling second floor, but what was on…then a pale white glow shone through the windows. Lyonette stood on her tiptoes, cursed, and then snapped.

“Chair!”

A resigned Ser Dalimont produced her chair, and she stood on that. That gave Lyonette just enough vantage to see a column on the inside of the 2nd floor windows. A glimpse of some familiar smoothed stone on the far end of the vast space, and her eyes went round in delight. Of course, this has to be only one thing!

“Oh, the ballroom!”

It wasn’t a full ballroom, as much as she’d tried to get Erin and Hexel to go for it, but it was one of the classiest parts of the inn. She’d sold it to Erin as a place where the [Innkeeper] and Ulvama could dance. But it would also have some duality for classy tea parties and, Lyonette recalled from the blueprints, it would have a splendid path from the dining rooms up to it via some gentle ramps that made it less Centaur un-friendly.

For the new inn was no box. Hexel hated boxed structures. The inn was a multi-floor compound, just like how Liscor’s 3rd District had changed the very square-shape design of the city and given it a bit of flair. Antinium and skeletons were hard at work building on top of the ballroom, and the inn…

The inn was functional. Lyonette’s eyes roamed back up to the third floor, and the light that shone from the windows was gold. Magical. Bright, unlike her inn lit only by a few [Light] spells, the fireplace, and some lanterns.

Modern. As close to the Eternal Throne as she’d seen. Only one place could be brighter, and that was the [Gardens of Sanctuary] when they were open.

There was space for them in this inn too. Above her, gazing down at her, was the [Architect] behind it all.

Hexel was finishing his croissant. He gave Lyonette an arch, self-satisfied look as he lorded down over the [Princess] in his great work, master of his domain. She stood in her silly, half-destroyed inn on her chair as he turned grandly, and Asgra groaned as she hopped off her seat to punch in for work for the day.

Peggy nudged Lyonette.

“He been doing that all week. Just in case you saw. He be really happy you finally noticed. We moving in yet?”

Lyonette was at a loss for words. She turned to Nanette; the girl was already running out the door to explore the new inn. And Liscor, which she had thought was quiet? Lyonette looked up, and the clouds parted a moment to reveal blue skies beyond.

“Summer’s coming.”

Then she heard shouting and cheering from the hallway as Mrsha left for school. A roar of people.

“Silverfangs for the Council! Kr-shi-a! Kr-shi-a!”

“Vote for the old Council! Vote for a return to decency!”

Someone poked her head into the inn. Xinthe seemed nervous.

“Miss Lyonette? A Krshia Silverfang is trying to find her way to the inn. Should I admit her? She’s looking for you regarding those elections.”

Lyonette passed a hand over her head. Yelroan cleared his throat.

“I’ve prepared a budget for how much we can financially support Wall Lord Ilvriss’ enterprise, seeing as he might need it, Lyonette. I can go over that with you whenever. But don’t forget about the Golems. I’d put those higher than the digging.”

Lyonette didn’t respond. Oh, she had so much to do.

——

The day Ulva Terland nearly died came and went. While events had been set in motion, no one tried to kill Wall Lord Ilvriss the next day or the day after that.

Travelling took time. Vengeance took time. He got his people back to digging the day after they’d disposed of the Hunter-Killer Golem, and then he was just working.

Busy. Ilvriss certainly had his hands full.

“I want security tripled—everywhere, Asrira. The Rubirel Guard will be spread thin, but draw up more [Soldiers], and put our [Miners] on alert. Treat this like a dig with the possibility of monster attacks on any given day.”

He snapped at Osthia as she and his adjutants raced around. She was grimacing.

“I’m going to be spread thin, Wall Lord. And I can put our [Soldiers] on guard-duty, but the Sisters of Chell…”

He halted.

“They fought bravely.”

They hadn’t lasted more than a few seconds against the Hunter-Killer, but they’d saved his life. Osthia nodded slowly.

“They are not—happy with the casualties. I don’t understand their chain of command, but reinforcements should be coming. What should I do with them?”

He didn’t know. They weren’t helpful with the [Ranchers], but they were apparently good preventatives against underworld sabotage or [Assassins] that weren’t the Golem-variety. He rubbed at his temples.

“I need you to take command of them, Asrira.”

“Me? But sir, I’m a [Soldier]—”

“Xesci’s busy with her…brothel. And she doesn’t like command. You’re the only person with the flexibility to do it.”

One glance at Welsca revealed how reluctant she and his other ‘traditional’ aides would be to work with Humans, let alone criminals. He respected them of course, but they hadn’t been changed by their time among non-Drakes like he and Osthia had. She had to manage the Sisters. Reluctantly, Osthia nodded.

“I’ll try, sir.”

“Good. And, um, see to pensions for the dead, please.”

That was all he could devote to them. Of course, Ilvriss tried to seek them out to personally thank the survivors—and he had to talk to the local townsfolk.

Thirthoof was a small town, and the [Mayor] was a woman named Bootsy Barlie. A character—who wasn’t around here? But she was clearly overwhelmed by the Terland Golem attack.

“Dead gods. I never thought I’d see one of them here. Most we ever did see was a Clay Golem. This is real Terland work.”

The ruined, half-melted carcass of the Golem and the slagged Minotaur head shook her. She glanced at Ilvriss.

“Seems t’me that this is more trouble than you told me, Wall Lord. When you asked to dig—”

“Legally, I have a right to dig. No one owns these lands, Mayor…Bootsy. If your town objects to my company using its services, we will, of course, accede to that request. But I think the business we bring is welcome, is it not?”

She hesitated.

“Sure does bring in gold, and I heard one of your people started up a brothel.”

“Er…yes. I do apologize, it’s not something I personally sanction—”

“No, no. I think it’s good. Beats having [Streetwalkers] getting attacked. Far more respectable than two folks shacking up in an alleyway. But the, uh, Golems. And I heard the [Rancher] clans’ve been raiding you something fierce.”

He nodded at that, eying the woman who did have magnificent boots.

“They are. It is not an enviable experience, but I don’t believe the danger will come to your town, Miss Bootsy.”

“And if it does, Wall Lord?”

He bared his teeth at her before realizing that wasn’t a friendly smile to Humans. Ilvriss closed his mouth tightly.

“To my knowledge, my only offense has been digging in the north. I’m not the one launching raids or sending kill-Golems, Mayor. Perhaps you should direct your complaints at those responsible?”

He hoped she’d take that point, but the woman was, sadly, like most Humans. She peered at him and scuffed her bright gold boots against the floor of his command…tent. It wasn’t much, but she treated it like it was a high office in Salazsar. He’d seen her ‘office’; not a book in sight save for a ledger she used for the city’s finances.

Poor. The entire town was poor. It had a septic pond, and the streets were unpaved, and still—she eyed him and stood straight, for all she was a head shorter than he was.

“Since I reckon you’re not the slice-at-the-neck sort, Wall Lord, us knowing each other a few months, I daresay I’ll speak my mind which I wasn’t minded to when we first met.”

“…Of course. Go ahead.”

He sighed as she glanced around.

“Some might say you Drakes and Gnolls coming north is an invasion in itself. Y’know, since this is our land and in the past—”

“…We’ve been at war and murdered each other for generations. Yes, yes. Thank you, Mayor. No one’s brought it up.”

“Just speaking my mind. I realize you probably heard it from most folks, but you can’t blame me for saying what we’re all thinking. Plus, it’s hard enough for us to see you lot walking around flaunting what we don’t have.”

The woman’s voice was a shade cooler than before, and Ilvriss glanced at her, annoyed.

“I could argue with you for ages about Human aggression starting with Tyrion Veltras, but it’s a gemless endeavor, Mayor. As for flaunting, what flaunting? We have [Miners] and [Soldiers]!”

He was living in a military camp! But Bootsy just eyed the books on the walls, mostly about mining, then glanced around.

“Looks rich to me. All you Drakes with your gems—and I saw them outhouses you have. Very fancy.”

“…The temporary outhouses?”

They were just pieces of wood slapped up with adequate toilets for use en masse. Bootsy frowned at him.

“Very fancy. Not like ours. All magic runes and spells. You got some piping or stuff so it all drains natural, right?”

“That? That’s just a drainage ditch. We do have water spells, but the runoff isn’t contained. It runs into a septic pit, just like your lovely pond. It’s hardly…”

He trailed off because his instincts told him he was making a faux pas here. Bootsy shrugged, trying to remain impassive.

“Magic water spells? Very fancy. We don’t have any of that here. No gems, nor the [Enchanters] to have that. Just well water for us. Some of the [Rancher] families might have those, but that’s the City of Gems for you, ain’t it?”

He was reminded how wealthy her town was. Ilvriss cleared his throat.

“Plumbing would be cheaper, actually, but we didn’t bring the infrastructure—I see your point, Bootsy. But we are paying a fair price for goods. Beyond a fair price, I believe.”

She nodded amiably, but still with that slight edge that told him she wasn’t on his side.

“Oh, sure. That’s just us gouging anyone we can. Gotta make a living. Maybe it’s too much gouge, but well, Drakes and Gnolls and Humans. Not that I have a problem with Gnolls, mind!”

“No one seems to after the Meeting of Tribes.”

She didn’t respond to that, and Ilvriss sighed.

“…But there’s also a bit of economic envy involved here.”

“Just so you know. Your lot won’t leave anything so we have to grab all we can right now. Nor’s it fun working with you Drakes, according to the people who’ve hired on.”

Given how Drake hierarchies worked, and how friendly Salazsar’s people were feeling to Humans after all these raids and so on, Ilvriss believed it. He sighed.

“I understand, Mayor. We have our faults. But unless we’re banned from Thirthoof?”

They were not. So he crossed the meeting off his list, then glumly ordered fifty more head of cattle he just knew that the Lischelles were going to steal back next week. Ilvriss wished he could just slaughter the damn cows, but that much meat required more Chests of Holding than he had—especially after some [Thieves] had stolen two in the night. Heads of cattle were cheaper. When Lyonette invited him to Liscor, he almost went then and there.

But he couldn’t run. Drakes didn’t run.

Except when a Hunter-Killer Golem was chasing him.

…Ilvriss scheduled it for next week. He needed to see about hiring more [Miners], anyways. He instructed a few representatives in Liscor to try to hire more workers en masse, but the problem was competition. Alrric laid it out frankly over a meeting on budgets.

“The problem is, despite the door, you’re trying to outbid a lot of other good jobs, Wall Lord. [Miners] are considered bottom-tier work outside of Salazsar. It doesn’t exactly transfer to a lot of other jobs.”

“I know, I know. Liscor’s actually livable, so fewer workers from there, but we can get some workers, surely?”

Alrric growled as he worked, shuffling some papers around.

“Your reputation’s not good for the job quality, Ilvriss, and that’s before the rumors of these cattle raids spread. Now, traditionally, you’d have Esthelm and Celum and even Riverfarm to draw from; Invrisil would require higher pay to incentivize them, but they’re a huge pool as well. Celum normally as well. However…Lord Xitegen is in Celum, and his anti-Drake stance means few there want to work for you.”

“He’s not enforcing that, surely. I heard he was rather open-minded…”

“His attitude still makes citizens wary, even if no, he’s not putting any rules into place. Esthelm’s another problem. They’re traditionally [Miners]. However…Master Pelt’s in Esthelm.”

“And? He’s revitalized their smithing economy.”

“Right. So more [Miners] like to work around their home, not hundreds of miles away, even if it’s via door. Trust, again, Ilvriss. Riverfarm? Also out. Emperor Laken doesn’t like Drakes at all, given what Manus did. Plus, his lands are providing ample job security.”

Ilvriss’ head thunked down.

“And the solution is to do what Salazsar does best: outbid the competition. Only, you’re going to tell me that’s not an option.”

Silence. Alrric coughed delicately.

“It’s not that House Gemscales’ fortunes are gone, Wall Lord. On the contrary. Despite, uh, the Adamantium mine selloff, we found good prospects.”

Ilvriss had done that. Sold a fortune for Erin. He didn’t say a word, and neither did Alrric. He’d compromised Alrric’s job and his company for his friend. But now…Alrric went on.

“However, Wall Lord Zail is in charge now. Which means your shares are, uh—”

Reduced. Zail had begun demanding his share of the company’s finances, which meant Ilvriss no longer had the fortunes of the Gemscale Company’s profits to call on. Alrric hurried on.

“You have enough to keep financing the expedition!”

“I don’t see how. If Father’s not willing to back me—how many months do I have before I’m personally bankrupt?”

It was a word Ilvriss had never applied to his own fortunes. It was mostly a joke. Mostly. But he’d paid a lot for the Village of the Dead raid and financed quite a number of things out of his personal funds. He’d never run out entirely, but the Merchant’s Guild downgrading his account or being told he had to scale back or sell assets was a distinct possibility, surely. To Ilvriss’ relief, Alrric laughed.

“I’m not going to let you run out of gold, Ilvriss. You made two investments that are keeping you in the black. Remember your investment into Liscor?”

“Oh, right. I bought a lot of land. What happened with that?”

Alrric’s voice was too patient.

“You told me to develop it. Well, I did. We have plenty of housing. Rather lovely housing, not just mass-apartments. Shops, other buildings we’ve leased out—it’s an income. Check your spreadsheets.”

Ilvriss did and brightened up.

“That’s rather considerable. Bet on Liscor, heh. But that’s not enough t—what’s this number?”

His eyes bulged at another figure that dwarfed even the Liscor revenues. Alrric chuckled.

“Forgot your own genius, Wall Lord?”

“It says…High Grade Quartz and Enchanting? For what? Oh—!”

The Singer of Terandria. Ilvriss recalled when Brilm had put him onto the song crystals last year. He’d told Alrric to look into sourcing the materials to make more. Alrric’s voice was smug.

“We’re providing 36% of all materials that go into making the Singer of Terandria’s insanely profitable song crystals, Wall Lord. That’s your income. With all that said, you’re spending fortunes out here. I’ll raise the bounty on workers, and hopefully they’ll bite, but expect a trickle and plenty of turnovers occurring given conditions in your dig site. You might just break even at this rate.”

“Well, considering we’re experiencing Golem-Assassins and almost-daily brawls, I’ll take it. Thank you, Alrric.”

Ilvriss sagged. Then he had one more thought.

“Can you…can you buy some cheap but high-quality piping and get a few more experts, Alrric? Plumbing is a concern here.”

Bootsy had reminded him of that, and it wouldn’t hurt. Alrric chuckled.

“Dead gods, I don’t think I want to live there. I’ll have it rush-delivered and sent with your father when he arrives. Glad you asked.”

“Excellent, thank you. Wait, what was that about my father?”

Then Ilvriss’ headaches got worse.

——

The Last Defenders of the Wall were a rapidly rising faction in Salazsar. Old [Generals], leaders, [Mages] who’d had enough of dying in obscurity and wanted to do something with their lives.

It was more than just a fad; it literally seemed to rejuvenate many of them like old Eschowar. And in the way of the world, levels and Skills had rewarded that determination.

The problem was…it meant that the current leaders of the City of Gems were now fighting with their parents and elders for control. Said elders knew all the levers to pull and were taking back authority, doing things the ways they thought were best.

The old ways. Ilvriss had trotted out that tired saying, but only now did it occur to him that the old ways were definitely not always the best. The old ways had been war with the Humans before the Antinium had arrived.

Zail was those old ways. Ilvriss knew his father as the tired, grumpy Drake paranoid with loyalty to Salazsar, a divot taken out of his head, covered in war wounds, needing help to walk around, at times confused, at times just…empty.

The Drake who strode off the Wyvern and limped over still was old, still felt his wounds, but he walked like a soldier, and he had a single-edged sword on his hip that made the mind tingle to gaze at it.

Swordmaster of Salazsar. A title that Ilvriss had never acquired, despite his hard work. When Zail saluted Ilvriss’ command, for all he was shorter than Ilvriss, the younger Drake felt like he was still in Zail’s shadow.

It stung in a way Ilvriss had forgotten. Worse, Zail’s return wasn’t just in his bearing. He’d flown in on Wyvernback, amazingly fast. And he’d brought nearly two hundred [Soldiers] who were disembarking in good order.

“House Gemscale’s retinue. They’ll add to your security, Ilvriss. Where are your patrols? I heard you were being raided by [Ranchers].”

“Father, thank you for coming. Patrols? We have some regularly. These are our people?”

They didn’t have two hundred [Soldiers] in their personal staff, unless these were promoted [Mine Sentries]. Zail glanced up at the sky, the flat dung-infested plains, and at a group of Drakes and Gnolls marching slowly around the perimeter of Dig Site B.

“No fliers? No sentry towers? A Golem will punch through one in a second or ram through unless it has a six-layer [Earth Wall] spell. You, you. Start digging. The trench should be equally deep as it is tall.”

He gave orders, and Ilvriss’ heart sank, partly because…that was a sensible decision.

“Father, my people have security in hand—”

Zail ignored that.

“You’ve never fought Terlands. You didn’t bring Oldbloods? I’ll add more to our retinue when I get back. There are less than I’d like…”

“So these are our people? Are they new?”

Zail was striding along, and Ilvriss had to hurry to keep up. He didn’t like this, but Zail looked alive. Even happy.

“I’m employing them. That’s how we did it. Not just the Gemstone Regiments; we need our own trained people. I brought some of your fancy ‘special forces’ you initiated. They’re not bad.”

He must mean the anti-Az’kerash forces! Ilvriss saw some rather well-equipped soldiers milling about in a separate group. Who’d arranged that? He’d take them, but—he was growling at Zail now.

“Father, I’m not here to fight a war.”

“Maybe not, but you’d better be prepared for one! They nearly killed you, Ilvriss!”

Zail spun and jabbed Ilvriss in the chest with a claw. He was angry, Ilvriss realized to his gratification. Zail peered around, motioned everyone back, then lowered his voice.

“I saw that thing going after you. We all did. You did well escaping one, son. Plenty of comrades haven’t.”

He awkwardly put a claw on Ilvriss’ shoulder. Both men stared at it, and Zail took his claw back, clearing his throat.

“Everyone was watching. We didn’t spread news of the attack, since we don’t need a war, but believe me, it shook everyone. Your friends, other Wall Lords—even Calistoca stopped sniping with Itreus long enough to fall in line.”

“They all saw it?”

They all saw Ilvriss running for his life while good people fought and died? Ilvriss’ heart sank, but Zail was smiling encouragingly, and there it was again. We are not on the same tier of spellcasting.

“We showed the image around. Told people—quietly, son. Everyone cares. It’s galvanized support. We’ll pay the Terlands back for this, don’t you worry. Eschowar has a plan—”

“No!”

Ilvriss shouted. Zail recoiled as heads turned, but the Wall Lord took his father by the shoulders.

“Father, no! No Eschowar, no retaliation!”

“Ilvriss, lower your voice! They nearly killed—”

“I’m in their lands, Father. I might disagree with the damn Terlands and Lischelles and every idiot here, but if they kill me, we cannot go to war! Nor should Eschowar continue his stupid campaigns against Humans!”

“They sent a Hunter-Killer against you! They’ve killed—”

Zail’s eyes narrowed, and he began getting angry. Which was how Ilvriss often remembered him. But Ilvriss was just as angry. He only lost his temper like this with his father. The one man he couldn’t outrank, really.

“I’ve seen how this goes, Father! We have to ‘pay them back’, then we do something to them, they reply, and it escalates! Even if it’s not this year, we just build up bad blood until we can’t even go past Liscor without trying to assassinate each other! Look around: this is the result of our damn wars! There’s no point. We have real enemies to fight!”

“…You mean the Antinium.”

Zail had gone from angry to outraged to quiet. He eyed Ilvriss, and the Wall Lord thought a name.

Az’kerash.

But he could not say it here, so he gritted his teeth.

“And more. The Humans are not our foes here.”

“Plenty of times that’s been said only for them to stab us in the back at the right moment when we let our guards down.”

“And once, we were about to be overrun and Magnolia Reinhart came from behind us and bailed us out of annihilation!”

Ilvriss snapped. He’d never argued like this with Zail, and the older man recoiled.

“You sound like Navine. What’s gotten into you? Is it this…[Princess] you’ve been associating with?”

“It’s not the [Princess], it’s sense, Father. Listen to me. If Eschowar wants to respond to the Terlands, stop him. If they do something to me, don’t respond. We have bigger wars to win.”

Zail was staring at his son like he was a disappointment, a traitor, and a stranger. All the things Ilvriss feared, but the Wall Lord didn’t look away. Zail whispered.

“If they kill you, you want me to do nothing?”

“I hope it won’t come to that. Nor do I exactly want to go unavenged, but I need you to see the big picture, Father. That’s what you always told me.”

“A bigger picture than the North?”

“Yes. What did you think the Winter Solstice was about, Father? The Goblin King’s return?”

“So it’s the [Innkeeper] you care about. Her wars.”

Zail glanced away, now disappointed. Ilvriss wanted to punch him. He couldn’t, because the old man was probably still fragile, even if he appeared as tough as teak right now. Ilvriss tried to shake Zail, and the other Drake grabbed his hands. Forced Ilvriss’ claws off him.

He was way stronger than—Ilvriss swallowed because he just realized Zail was stronger than him. For all his age and wounds that had laid him lower, the Wall Lord’s eyes narrowed.

“You told me when you left that you had to do this alone. For Salazsar, Ilvriss. I…trusted you. I still do. But everything I remember about the north applies to them. Ulva Terland’s warred with us. She’ll never relent. How are you going to survive without fighting a war?”

Ilvriss didn’t know, and he said so. He stepped back.

“I’ll try to change their minds, Father.”

“Like Nerul?”

Zail sneered, and Ilvriss just gazed at him until the older Drake hesitated and grew uncertain. Ilvriss shook his head.

“That’s unworthy of you, Father. Yes, like Nerul, but also like Zel Shivertail. I’m no Tidebreaker. But I don’t think he was a fool. I have to try. General Sserys trusted me with locations. This is one of them.”

He’d been saving that trump card, and Zail went still. He hadn’t seen the ghosts, but Ilvriss had. Even now, that felt like a dream. Erin’s face being worn by a dead hero, whispering to him places to dig.

A silence arose, then, from Zail and the eavesdroppers. To that, Zail had no reply. He glanced around, then kicked at a dried piece of cow dung in the grass. After a while, he heaved a sigh.

“If you’re still set on doing this, you need more security, which I’ve brought. I’ll make some recommendations to your people. Just…don’t get yourself killed.”

That was, Ilvriss supposed, the best he could hope for. He nodded at his father and realized the times were changing. He just wished he were certain they were for the better. Old Drakes.

Old ways, some which Ilvriss thought were misguided. And sometimes…they hurt to see because they reminded you what you had to live up to and might never achieve. They said the young should surpass the old, but what if you stood in the shadow of legends?

In that one way, Ilvriss supposed he and Iradoren, the [Prince of Men], had been slightly alike.

——

Wall Lord Zail didn’t like how his fight with his son had gone. His certainty had become uncertainty, both in his son’s decisions…but also in what he thought was right. That was weakness, of course. Indecision was death on the battlefield. But he had always found it harder to deal with…other people than a war.

He knew war. His son had seen battlefields, fighting for Salazsar. But he had not fought even a hundredth as many battles as Zail. One was a [Lord of Commerce], even if Zail didn’t know his son’s exact class.

He had been a [Lord of the Battlefield] when he was younger. So, all his anxieties, confusion, indecisiveness vanished.

Wall Lord Zail drew his sword. The sword he carried had only a single edge. It was not Drathian, but a Drake’s design. Older than he was. The hilt was curved differently than Human blades, with deeper grooves and a wider base that a Human would have found hard to grip; perfect for a Drake to avoid their claws digging into each other.

Truegold hilt. 10% Mithril-composite Gaam-steel, fullered down the blade, with faded gem-patterns around the hilt. The reverse side was flat; a weakness, some called it, but a blade should cut true. There was only one place where it was not flat; the tip had a flared edge moving away from the cutting edge.

Spikes, shaped like flames, so if Zail needed to, he could reverse the slash and drive in the reverse edge into unguarded flesh. The curved spikes left wounds that didn’t close right and could hook an opponent’s weapon.

A sword of Salazsar’s sons. He’d once offered it to Ilvriss, but the boy hadn’t known how to use a single-edged sword. He was not a Swordmaster of Salazsar.

Zail carried no golden bell. He was not a [Fencer] or [Duelist]. He just had a single tag that hung from his belt since the pommel of the blade might catch. It was a sword of gems cracking the side of a mountain. The kind of seal that, if you were his audience, you might recognize.

But from where? You’d stare at the little seal as Zail lifted his sword and realize you’d seen it just once before. On the blade a [Sword Legend], a Revenant undead, had carried.

Then, you might understand what that meant. Perhaps Ilvriss himself did; Zail hadn’t been well enough to wield that sword in decades. The Wall Lord gripped his blade two-handed and swung. A horizontal cut, almost lazy in speed, but precise. He angled his body, stepping to the side, slashing up and backstepping.

A strange pattern. His first cut, across the oversized training dummy’s chest, was light, but when Zail sliced up, he came across the outside of the ‘Golem’s’ arm. He used that blow to push off with his sword, backstepping and pushing himself away in a single motion. He turned, his tail moving in the grass, and delivered a third whirling slash to the back of its leg.

He strode away from the training dummy, sauntering as he sheathed his sword, taking his scabbard from his belt and sheathing it horizontally. Then he addressed the watchers.

“That’s how you fight a Golem. One sword form, at least. Do that.”

Do…that? He nodded at some [Soldiers] to practice the move. Ilvriss was watching and blinking.

“There are anti-Golem sword techniques?”

“Of course there are. You weren’t ever taught any in your fancy sword school training?”

Zail frowned at Ilvriss. The younger man hesitated.

“Some, but that was an odd move. You used the second slash to propel yourself off the Golem’s arm. So you’re expecting it to attack like that?”

“Any limb will do. The most dangerous place to fight a Golem is head-on. Or to try and surround it; any decent one will tear apart a formation. You have to close with it. Keep moving around it. Strike the joints. Spear-formations won’t work.”

Well, they’d work, but the front ranks would be minced. A dozen Drakes with blades and courage could do the job of two hundred rank-and-file soldiers. Zail eyed Ilvriss, and the Wall Lord hesitated.

Zail had never had the chance to teach his son swordsmanship. His condition had deteriorated by the time Ilvriss was old enough to really want to learn. But now, the Wall Lord drew his own sword.

“I’ll try it.”

It took him eight tries to figure out the exact move to push off the Golem’s limb, and his ability to spin and slash was almost nonexistent. Zail snorted, trying not to be—

“You don’t do any twists or spins in battle?”

“Never expose your back to the enemy, Father. That’s what I was taught. Besides, the spins are too fast! How can you control yourself?”

“Pah. That’s what your tail is for!”

“My—ah.”

He didn’t use his tail! Humans might have trouble with these techniques, but your tail was an anchor and balance for this kind of move. Zail watched, shaking his head. But the second time Ilvriss managed a decent copy of Zail’s move, the old Wall Lord wished…

He wished he’d had this Skill to reclaim his strength decades ago. He watched for a while. Then he and Ilvriss retired to let other soldiers try the moves. They snacked on some things Ilvriss called ‘hot dogs’, which Zail worried about until he was told they were beef.

“You’re not bad. I suppose you really have been training.”

“Thank you, Father. I’m glad I meet with your approval. I won’t be a Swordmaster of Salazsar, though, no matter what I do.”

Ilvriss’ voice was dry, and Zail rolled his shoulders uncomfortably.

“That wasn’t an insult. You could be, if you took the time—”

“I don’t have your head for battles. I’m…decent. Decent at battle. Better at business. An all-rounder.”

“Well, you managed House Gemscale more adeptly than I could.”

“Thank you.”

This was one of the more positive conversations they’d ever had. It beat sitting in their apartments arguing. After a moment, Zail coughed.

“Look, Ilvriss. I understand you don’t want to escalate, but if you don’t reply, it’s weakness. They’ll keep coming at you. Bullies never stop. I taught you to fight back.”

Ilvriss sighed.

“You taught me to beat them down to protect Brilm, and I did, Father. That works on bullies and because it was just them. This is the north. It’s not the same.”

“I’m just offering…I can’t be here long. We still have a war with Fissival, but if I took some soldiers, led a counter-raid on these [Ranchers], you could say it was just me—”

“No. How do you think they’d react?”

Poorly, but Zail had a desire to take some real fighters and punch his way through a few thousand Humans to show them what a real brawl was like. He bit his tongue. If he had that happen to him, he’d reply. So Ilvriss was right, but—

No good solution. He had to…trust his son. Or at least, let his son do what he wanted and be ready to bail him out. Zail grunted.

“If those Golems come for you, run. Don’t listen to what those idiots say. You did the right thing. If you’d tried to fight it, I’d be burying you.”

Ilvriss’ head rose. He nodded at Zail once.

“I hope not, but…if they come, they come. The reinforcements should help. As for your actual forces…”

Zail glanced at the mining teams going back and forth from the dig sites. He paused.

“I noticed what you brought. Good. They weren’t in position, though.”

“I’ve never had a Golem try to assassinate me. It’s far faster than we thought. And, ah, harder to stop.”

“Hah. We’d buy you drinks all night for that. First dance with a Terland, we called it.”

More awkward silence. Ilvriss cleared his throat.

“How did you get here, Father? You flew in on Wyvern. Did you fly all the way from Pallass? You couldn’t have taken the door. You must have used more Wyverns than I thought they had, with the losses they took at the High Passes. Unless Salazsar has Wyverns I didn’t know about? It must have cost a fortune.”

Zail smiled crookedly.

“No, it was Eschowar’s doing. He has movement Skills that used to be the best in Izril. As for how…”

He casually twisted a ring, then spoke in the secrecy spells.

“We flew straight north. Through the High Passes. There are flight paths through the mountains if you can take the risk.”

Ilvriss’ head snapped up.

“There are?”

“Dangerous ones. I was scouting them out. We might have to clear them. But it’s how you strike at the Humans if…”

He fell silent. Ilvriss sat there, reminded of the wars they had used to fight. Then he murmured.

“Eschowar. I studied my history books, of course. I knew him when he retired and you were still—more mobile. But he was always small.”

“Age does that to you. He wasn’t the same after he was forced to retire.”

Now Eschowar was back, at least for a few minutes each day. Ilvriss bit into his hotdog.

“Tell me about him, Father.”

“Eschowar? Brilliant leader. Taught Wall Lord Aldonss. With him, the Cyclops, and General Garllor, we were a strong alliance—when Pallass wasn’t stabbing us in the back.”

Ilvriss squinted, like someone trying to recall a lesson.

“That was Oteslia, then? Garllor. We had an alliance, and we fought the other Walled Cities. And the north. And the tribes. Ancestors. Eschowar’s campaign of lightning strikes—I should be glad he’s back, I suppose. Fissival must be regretting it.”

They were, in spades. Zail was describing some of the offensives Salazsar had taken in the war, hitting cities under Fissival’s aegis of protection, but Ilvriss just sat there.

“We shouldn’t be fighting each other, Father.”

“They attacked you. Nearly killed you.”

What was with Ilvriss and ignoring the times he’d nearly died? Ilvriss just shrugged.

“I attacked them at the Meeting of Tribes.”

To protect Gnolls. Not what Zail would have done. Again, there was that rift, and Zail just…

“I’m doing what I think is best for Salazsar, Son. Making our military stronger before I die.”

“Don’t talk like that. I think we need a stronger army too, but—what’s the end goal, Father? For the Last Defenders of the Wall?”

“Leaving Salazsar ready for what comes next. What’s your goal here? With this [Innkeeper] who seems to cost you so much?”

Zail challenged Ilvriss hotly, and the Wall Lord just glanced at him.

“Leaving Izril, leaving the world ready for what comes next, Father.”

Zail blinked.

“Enemies and allies? The north and south and Terandria and other nations?”

“They’re not my enemies, Father.”

“These [Ranchers] seem to be.”

“Then they’re temporarily enemies. It doesn’t have to be that way forever. I’m trying to negotiate a ceasefire, a truce.”

“They’ll always be…”

Zail closed his mouth, and Ilvriss looked at him. Just looked, then glanced around.

“That’s what I would have said about the Antinium two years ago, Father. Or Humans. Just…think about it.”

Zail glanced at Ilvriss when he brought up the Antinium, but Ilvriss just shrugged. He couldn’t push his father that far, and Zail let it drop. They sat there, and Zail ate another hotdog. And another. He ate four hotdogs; Ilvriss managed one and a half. They really weren’t the same. Zail turned to Ilvriss as the Wall Lord produced a handkerchief to wipe his mouth. Zail had just used his sleeve.

“The Winter Solstice.”

Ilvriss froze. Zail studied him.

“I saw the reports. Some of the scrying spells before they went down. You know, plenty of your fellow Wall Lords think it was an illusion or Skill that looked worse than it was?”

“It was on scrying spells. How do they…? No, I had Brilm asking me about it. I guess if you’ve never met a Draugr, you can believe they were just big Ghouls.”

Ilvriss’ mouth twisted. Zail cleared his throat.

“I’ve fought Draugr. I know how fast they move. I believe.”

Ilvriss glanced up, and his eyes filled with gratification. Zail paced around in a circle, hand on his sword’s hilt.

“It’s just…if the threat were still out there, I’d have that woman hunted down. Eschowar would be sending out kill-teams. But they were killed, right?”

“Essentially.”

“And there are more such threats out there?”

“…Five. Possibly four or three.”

Ilvriss seemed like he was counting. Zail’s scales tingled, but he gestured to the camp.

“So this is what that’s about. I can see that. My actions seem like they counter that. But if you had a location, even a lead, Son…”

“I don’t. I just know what I was told.”

“By the [Innkeeper].”

“Yes. I’m taking it on faith. And the fact that she’s always been right before. But that’s why I’m here, Father. That’s why the old fights feel pointless.”

“I see. So it’s going to be worse than a hundred thousand Draugr.”

Ilvriss peered up, and he met his father’s eyes with that simple earnestness.

“Yes.”

Wall Lord Zail had fought across Izril. He’d battled Archmages, renegade Zelkyr Golems, Nagas, and Humans of Izril and Terandria, and even then…a hundred thousand Draugr. He sat next to Ilvriss.

“I’m trying to believe, Son. I am. When you find one of these…things. Tell me. If I see the enemy, I’ll be right there. And I’ll make sure the others believe. Some of them saw ghosts and yours—they’ll listen.”

They were all on the same side, that of Salazsar, weren’t they? But for some reason, he seemed to feel like he was at cross-purposes with Ilvriss, and his son seemed to sense that too. But he just nodded.

“I’m counting on that. This is me doing my part, Father. I still think I have a chance, Terlands and Lischelles or not. Thank you for the help.”

After a while, Zail got up. He had to fly home soon.

“I’ll do a few more tours of the dig sites, just to make sure things are going well. Check in with your subordinates. It was good to see you, Ilvriss.”

“Yeah.”

Zail strode away, not wondering if his son was a traitor or addled by love, because it hadn’t appeared that way. But just…thinking. Disturbed.

Hoping he didn’t have to fly back north to bury his son and avenge him.

——

Days passed. After the Golem Incident, the work at the dig sites resumed, more or less according to ‘normal’.

But what was normal? You had to wake up in your tents each day, trudge past the fly-infested cattle dunglands, through mud sometimes if some idiot Wall Lord’s son walked in it and made everyone copy him, then get to work.

Mining. Digging up tons of dirt, which was more of a pain than stone at times, and hauling out rocks as you dug down and down…

Worse than Salazsar’s mines? Definitely. Any real [Miner] would tell you that. Oh, sure, you could work for a bad company in Salazsar and there’d be angry [Miners] ready to brawl, bad safety-standards, lousy pay, and mandatory overtime.

But in Salazsar, they still had minecarts that carried you down to the right shaft. You still could go back into the city after work and spend your gold. They still had…infrastructure.

Backup mining teams. Gear. [Healers] and adventurers. When you were off your shift, the worst thing that happened was that there was a traffic accident or brawl, and the Watch would be there. You didn’t troop back to your tents, sweating and exhausted, only to have a huge line for the damn outhouses, then for a Human to run up and belt you in the face and try to steal all the cows.

Wall Lord Ilvriss’ expedition sucked. A fact he would readily agree with—before the Golem Incident. It was unpleasant and hard because the deeper the [Miners] and [Diggers] went, the further they had to haul things up. The more they had to reinforce the shafts. And the more monsters they risked running into.

You know what liked to live deep down in the dark of the earth? Big monsters. Nests. Crelers. It was a known fact that the deeper you went in the ground, the worse things got. Think about it: normal, cute monsters like a Fuzzyworm Intestinescrambler or some shit was a Silver-rank threat. It had to eat. It might get big and nasty and evolve into a, uh, a Killertitanfly Intestineblowerupper in time, but it operated like most creatures.

But the deeper you went, the less food there was. Which, you’d say, meant fewer creatures, right? Wrong.

The big things liked the dark. The big things lived on the mana that compressed down there. Mana compressed; every [Miner] knew that. That’s why magical gemstones were deeper down. And guess what thrived on magic?

The really powerful monsters. Things went down there to hide and gather strength, and then some idiots started swinging a hammer while they’re napping, and guess what they decided to do?

Mining was all horror stories. That’s why you always had a team ready to fight what came out of a mine. Salazsar, now, Salazsar was fairly safe despite the gemstone deposits because you had adventurers ready to go; they had standards of safety in place.

This was the wild. This was frightening, and so the worst job you could have in Ilvriss’ entire expedition was one specific title:

Advance Miner. That was a job for someone who, well, mined at the head of the pack. They were in the deepest area, the ones widening a vein. They were the ones who woke whatever was down there and ran for it or got eaten.

Proportionally, they were the ones who got paid the most. Which was why young bucks signed up for the job. No one smart or with a family or who’d seen what happened to an Advance Team wanted the job.

So, for context, that was why [Advance Miner] Georgie was tolerated.

Not liked.

He had fourteen incident reports on his record from this dig alone. Drinking while working. Brawling with other miners. Insubordination to [Foremen]. Lecherousness to female employees. Urination in non-latrine areas. Pocketing minerals.

He would have been drummed out of any normal mining team by their [Foreman] in the first week. He was sarcastic when he wasn’t ill-tempered. He was first to throw a punch if there was a fight. He was also…well, important.

“Georgie, get your claws out of your ass and get to work!”

A [Foreman] with dust all over his fur and nose plugs in roared on yet another day of work, and Georgie stopped trying to flirt with a pair of very annoyed Drakes and threw a salute.

“Yessir, Foreman Dirr, can’t wait to dig up more dirt for the Gemscale company! Whole lotta shit. All fifteen gems we’ve got sure are lining the big Drakes’ pockets in their towers.”

“Shut it, Georgie!”

That came from half a dozen voices, and Georgie ambled his way down the mining shaft, past teams digging out branches in the earth.

Branches, yes. It was all exploratory mining. No exploiting veins—not that they’d found shit here besides some vaguely precious rock. It was all earth, so the [Miners] dug out, each branch spaced well out from the other.

Looking for something. Georgie would have called it prospecting, but for what? This was not good earth. He could tell that, and he knew the [Prospectors] claimed the Cowpat Plains were worth less than the cowpats.

But they dug down in multiple sites, searching for what only the Wall Lord knew. All Georgie was aware of was that any time he found a shitty piece of ceramic pottery, all the bigwigs would run over and make them dig in the spot they found.

Pottery. Or ceramics. Something that was orange-white, that had an inner color of the same make. A few had faded designs on them…some kind of vases or something?

Georgie had found six pieces in Dig Site 2, which was why they had an entire dig site here instead of a single exploratory shaft. Well, six pieces he’d reported.

He had two more hidden in his spare boots in case he could sell them.

Georgie had no company loyalty, unlike other Drakes and Gnolls. He knew House Gemscale was the ‘best’ company to work for. Well, it felt like shit here. Besides, no company had any loyalty towards him. So why play the nice Drake?

They’d kick him out sooner or later, so he’d milk this contract for all it was worth. He grumbled as the heat baked into the ground made him sweat through his overalls. He didn’t take his shirt off like some Drakes and Gnolls, but he swore a blue streak.

“Ancestors damned heat. Stinks like hell. Foreman on my tail all the time.”

Dirr, who was following Georgie literally three paces behind to make sure he was working, glared.

“Less talking, more walking, Advance Miner! You want to get paid?”

Georgie sauntered down the dirt steps, refusing to go faster. Dirr appeared ready to explode, but he didn’t tell Georgie to get off the dig site. He didn’t even write him up. Because again—

Advance Miner.

There were six in the bottom of the shaft, a hundred foot radius between them and any other team. Six, each one over Level 20. They all had bags of holding. One person was shovelling dirt into a Chest of Holding, the rest yanking stones out.

“Hit another rock vein. Georgie, come and h—”

One of the Drakes was swearing and actually using a pick on a stubborn section of rock they had to go through when a pickaxe took a huge chunk out of the stone. She shouted, ducked—every Advance Miner was on their feet, ready to run, when they turned.

Georgie had tossed his pick.

“[Gouge Throw]. Hey, I’m working.”

“That’s it, Georgie! One more incident and I’m docking your pay!”

Dirr roared, and George swore at him, then stepped forwards to start mining. He swung his pickaxe hard and fast when he finally began mining, ripping through stone. The Drake was sweating already, but when he worked, the stone vanished. Annoyed, but seeing him working, the other Advance Miners spread out more. Dig. They didn’t have to widen the shaft much; they just had to go deep or far. That was the job.

Go first, and if anything was out there, sense the tremors, hear their [Dangersenses] or [Forewarning: Monsters] or other Skills go off, and get out of there before they died. Once they were done, then the regular [Miners] could come and actually widen the holes.

No one said a word as they dug for a while. Grunting, swearing—Georgie gnawed on the cigar in his mouth. At last, one of the Gnolls growled.

“You ever gonna light that damn cigar, Georgie?”

“I only got one from that fancy Gnoll. Like hell I’m lighting it. Down here with gas? You want us dead?”

“Just asking how stupid you were. Can’t tell with Madtail Georgie.”

“Fuck you.”

They did relax, though, which suggested that had been a fear. Georgie rolled his eyes.

“You think this is the first damn mine I’ve ever been on? I’ve done more advanced jobs than women you’ve kissed.”

The other [Advance Miner] turned and raised a fist, but another body-blocked him. Back to work. Georgie shifted the cigar around in his mouth, grinning. It beat tasting this damn soil. After a while, someone grunted.

“First [Ranchers], now Golems. Think we’ll get pulled out of this? Fat paycheck if our contracts end early.”

“Doubt it. Drakes don’t run.”

That came from one of the two Gnolls. Grunts of agreement. Georgie spat.

“You so ready to run? Why’d you lot sign up for this?”

“We work for the Gemscale Company. Wall Lord Ilvriss needed volunteers, and he pays well. We wanted to support him and see the north. Why the hell are you here, Georgie?”

One of the four miners with regular contracts with House Gemscale answered. They checked something; a little glass bird in a cage hanging by their hip.

Georgie had one too. For all he’d bust up any gear they gave him, he never damaged that.

Not the Miner’s Canary. It was a magical version of an old practice that [Miners] had. The canary which died before you did if you hit gas. This was a modern version of that, a magical artifact that detected poison, gas, and so on. If it chirped, they were gone. If they hadn’t given him one, he’d not have a cigar in his mouth; he had to smell if something was around him. Not that some deadly gases smelled.

In a different company, he might not be issued one, and then you’d hope someone had a Miner’s Canary, but that cost a lot of gold. The kind of gold even [Advance Miners] couldn’t make, which was why few groups could afford to go solo. Why the companies were the only place to work in Salazsar unless you were a risk-taker. And even then, they liked to cut corners. So Georgie relied on what he had.

Instinct. Practice. He did have a lot of experience. Being in his thirties as an [Advance Miner] meant he was an old man. You didn’t last long in this class. You retired or died at some point. Georgie grunted.

“I came because I’m the best there was, and they paid me five times the standard signing bonus.”

“Five times? You bastard!”

“Yeah? You didn’t negotiate your contract right.”

He sneered at them, and the female Drake in the team eyed him.

“And because no other reputable company wanted to hire you, eh, Georgie? Working a crazy job like this is the only way you get paid.”

He didn’t answer that. Just yanked something out of the stone and grunted.

“Found another shard.”

Oaths. He grinned as he tossed it in a bucket; there was a bounty on any ‘artifacts’ like these. Then he glanced into the hole.

“Hey, you lot, guess who’s pulling home a ten-gold bounty today?”

There were more shards in the tunnel. The others clustered around.

“Okay, that’s a team discovery.”

“Eat shit, I found it.”

“You can’t take credit for all of it, Georgie. We all got here! Don’t damage it. Someone get a shovel—”

Georgie plunged the pickaxe in the loose dirt and stone and ripped the entire area out with [Traction Pull]. They shouted as the dirt collapsed over them, and he grunted.

“Stop screaming. The stuff doesn’t break. I hit it with a pickaxe hard one time—it’s tougher’n basalt.”

He tapped the end of his steel pickaxe hard on one of the orange fragments, using a piece of stone as proof. Then gave it a damn good swing. His pickaxe powed upwards, and they shouted at him, but the piece of pottery or whatever just jumped.

“Ancestors, what the hell is this? Some kind of dungeon fragments? Armor?”

No one knew, but they sent one of them up to Dirr. Georgie listened with half an earhole to make sure they didn’t take credit for his work, then he kept mining.

Sweat and dirt was mixed in his scales now. It was hot. Oxygen lowered in the confined spaces; there was a shout after another twenty minutes.

“Fresh air coming down! [Windblast] in five!”

A [Mage] fired a wind spell down, cycling the air, and everyone breathed deeper, and felt their scales and fur cool. Then it heated up. Even with Ilvriss paying for it…

They worked in four hour shifts. Georgie would get off for an hour or two, then go back in. Ten hour days. Then back to sleeping in the shitty barracks after showering with a rain spell and, if you were lucky, fight a drunk [Rancher] and sleep without a healing potion for any cuts and scrapes.

Georgie’s arms hurt from the repetitive work. Healing potions in mines mattered. He was grimy. He took a piss in a corner when no one was looking rather than walk all the way up, and the Gnolls began swearing at him.

Yet they dug. And no matter how miserable it was, all of them, even Georgie, stayed. Not just for the pay. Not just to get in good with the Gemscale Company and get assigned to a cushier job or be promoted. One more reason, which everyone here knew:

They were all levelling.

Misery made levels. Adversity made levels. Georgie had levelled four times working here.

Four. He was eying Level 35 this year. If he did that, even the companies who’d blacklisted would take him back. Maybe even if they knew his other indiscreti—

The Drake’s practiced [Miner’s Swing]—which cleared far more ground than normal—struck something. He could cleave through most objects and just noticed what it was by how hard it had been. But this—

His pickaxe reverberated so hard it vibrated out of his grip. He swore, glancing at his scales; they felt nearly torn under his gloves.

“Shitting Ancestors on my head!”

“Hit your boots, Georgie?”

Laughter. He swore as he picked the pickaxe up.

“No, I hit—”

He went in gloves first, yanking stones and soil away. If it was some high-density rock, he’d hit it with his best Skill and powder the entire area, and damn the scaffolding. Then Georgie saw what he’d hit and stopped.

“…What is that?”

It was a long, broad slab of…something shiny. Covered by dirt, but when he brushed at it, the dirt fell away; it was brilliant, pale peach, and glowed.

His breath caught. Instantly, Georgie peeked around.

If this is valuable, could he smuggle it in his bag of holding? They did check, but—he brushed around the object, then realized there was no way to smuggle this.

It was taller than he was! And as dirt fell away, he saw stone, cracked from pressure, at the top of the—Georgie began digging down using his pickaxe. [Tool Utility: Pickshovel]. The dirt came away and revealed the piece of metal—he thought it was metal—running down deep.

It was a curious object. It formed a weird, wide top, like a wineglass, and much like a wineglass, it had a narrow stem and a wide base. Only, it was narrower than an actual wineglass, and Georgie, blinking, knew exactly what it was as he dug down and hit an empty pocket. Dirt showered down, and he saw…empty ground to his right and left as he stepped back from a hole.

“[Detect Cavern] just went off! Who hit one?”

That was a shout from another [Advance Miner]. The sounds of digging froze, and Georgie muttered.

“I found it. I think I found…it ain’t no nest.”

They shuffled, calling out, ready to run.

“Danger?”

“Don’t know. But I think we got what the Wall Lord wants. Or something. Hey…this the first time he’s dug down here? Anyone know?”

“How the hell should we…I think so, why?”

Georgie squatted down, and then he felt his heart racing. He had to pee again. He spoke very slowly.

“Well, then I don’t trust this thing. C’mere, don’t be hatchlings.”

“What’d you find?”

They crunched over, and he stared down.

“A support beam.”

They made noises of confusion, then came over and stopped. Like him, they knew it instantly. How could they not?

It was…a literal support beam. Just a pillar with a braced bottom and top, the kind you used in mines to, well, hold the ceiling up. Keep things from collapsing. But Georgie was used to ones made of wood or metal, but never this.

“What kind of metal is that?”

“Dunno. I could swing through steel, and it stopped my pickaxe. Just a dimple where I hit it, see? This is a damn mining shaft.”

That’s what it was. A neat one too. Not like their hasty dig; it was almost perfectly geometric, a half-circle carved through the earth, moving upwards by the looks of it. The dirt was on the ground but…Georgie muttered.

“The hell is that?”

He jumped down, and they shouted.

“Georgie, don’t be stupid! We’re calling it in!”

He ignored them. He had to see…there. He brushed at the dirt he’d collapsed inwards to make the hole and grunted. Beneath his boots, he saw it.

Pale orange. And white. Some kind of simple arrow pattern. The weird ceramic bits and pieces he’d found? His claws brushed away dirt, and a long pathway appeared before him. Connected tiles placed obsessively together. Broken in a few sections, snapped upwards, perhaps from the earth shifting.

“Someone tiled this damn mine shaft? That’s the craziest…”

He glanced around. The mine shaft stretched a long ways in either direction; the lantern at his hip barely illuminated anything. But it did catch…

“What’s this?”

Georgie strode over as the voices above him grew more distant. They were still shouting at him to come back, but he was rewarded for his daring. Because when he went down the nearly-pristine mine shaft, he found something lying on the ground.

Something he also knew.

A pickaxe.

It was long, a bit longer than he’d use, with a brassy handle with little carved runes on it, way too fancy. The grip would be absolutely shit when your hand got sweaty and held the metal; it had probably had a leather wrap which had worn off long ago. Georgie grunted.

“Must be some fancy piece-of-shit tool for a [Forem—Ancestors!”

When he picked the pickaxe up, it was too light. So light he nearly went over on his back. And the metal pick? It glowed.

A blue light burnt off the pale metal, and Georgie held up the pick, wide-eyed. He gasped as the first magical pickaxe he’d ever seen—real magic, not just [Lightweight] or [Durability] enchantments—flared to life. The handle’s runes glowed, and he stared at it. Then down at the ground.

Next to the pickaxe was a lantern, like his, but made of the palest white metal he’d ever seen. A work of art. It had a movable metal shutter, and when he picked it up…

“Doesn’t take oil. Or a candle. The hell’s this?”

It had a weird groove in the base. Some kind of slot which opened and closed. Georgie stared at it, then had a thought.

“Magical lantern. Does it take magical gems for power?”

Insanity. He cast around, then did the most logical thing possible.

He hid both items in his bag of holding. Georgie grinned. He was rich. He’d quit his job as soon as possible. He’d have to hide this in the mine shaft; they’d inspect his bag of holding for sure. Then he’d sneak back, grab it, run…

A part of Georgie felt guilty because he stole, but he’d never stolen this. A few gems? Sure. Most [Miners] took their profits back, and everyone knew that. It was how it worked.

But this was…like a Relic-class pickaxe or something. He actually hesitated, wondering if he should report it.

“Not like they’ll keep me around. Look out for Number 1.”

He reminded himself of the rules. Georgie hesitated, then he had to take the pickaxe out for a second look.

It was beautiful. Like the kind of thing a Wall Lord would use, not a common grunt like him. The glow of blue activated each time he held it. So light…but when he swung it, it felt like it had heft.

“This here, this is a real [Miner]’s tool. Someone made this who knows how it’s gotta weigh. Ancestors. Ancestors…”

Was this what the Wall Lord had come for? He hesitated again, holding it.

There’s gotta be more of this stuff lying around. Take it and go. Take it, sell it to someone—don’t know who—and just leave. Leave Salazsar, leave the south, leave all of Izril before they wise up and put a bounty on your head. Move to Nerrhavia’s Fallen or Baleros and just…

He didn’t really want to go. But hells, he was an [Advance Miner]. House Gemscale was his last company before he probably had to work outside of Salazsar, and they’d only hired him because they needed him for this job. Georgie stood there, still torn, and then he saw the oddest thing happen.

The glowing blue pickaxe head changed colors. It went from blue to red in an instant, filling the shaft with a lurid, unsettling light. Georgie instantly dropped it, but it kept glowing red in the darkness. And then he realized that his desire for wealth had made him commit the only sin an [Advance Miner] should never do.

He’d forgotten to look out for Number 1. Safety before anything else. Run, even if you see Adamantium ore in the dark. Because it now occurred to Georgie to ask a question.

“If this damn thing’s someone’s tool…who dropped it?”

There was no skeleton here, no body. No one put down something like this, and maybe the tunnel was so old that any body had rotted away. Or maybe it was still there.

Waiting. Georgie saw a light at the end of the tunnel. A faint, faint glow of purple, too far for the red pickaxe to illuminate it. He slowly picked up the enchanted pickaxe and began backing up towards the hole.

“Guys? Guys, throw me a rope—”

No response. Georgie backed up faster, and the purple lights began to move towards him. Ever so slowly. Then he saw another pair of lights appear in the darkness. Yellow. Then another pair, red.

Only a few beings had glowing eyes like that. Georgie shuffled faster until he nearly hit the support strut.

He looked up. The hole was right above him, but no one was there.

“Guys?”

They had [Dangersenses]. If they’d detected something—Georgie put his back to the wall, holding the pickaxe up.

“C’mon, don’t leave me—hey! Hey!”

He thought he heard the most distant of shouts from above. But his voice made the glowing eyes stop. Then they began coming faster. Georgie raised his pickaxe.

“Stay back!”

He had [Gouge Throw]. He had combat Skills—a lot of them. That’s why Ilvriss’ people had tried to recruit him three times for their soldier initiative thing. But—Georgie raised the pickaxe to throw, then pivoted.

He’d heard the slightest sound to his left, from behind him. The mineshaft ran both ways. He turned—and the long undead was curled over him. Mouth open, a tube of rotted flesh and teeth, like a walking worm, a salamander which stood on two feet, silent as the grave—glowing slits for eyes hollowed out of its flesh.

Its jaws snapped shut and sliced through the top of his mining helmet without any effort. Georgie had ducked. He swung his pickaxe, screaming, and the red tip sheared into the monster’s body, just as lethal. Then he turned his head.

A dead Drake scuttled down the corridor, moving up the wall as it raced at him. A Drake with eight limbs, like a spider, mutated and naked and jaw cracked open so it was all mouth. He screamed as the voices grew louder, driving the pickaxe into the wall.

[Miner’s Swing].

Darkness buried them all, drowning out the pickaxe’s light.

——

Wall Lord Ilvriss was really happy to go on vacation to Liscor. Nothing had been going on with the mining so far, and aside from three more cattle raids…each one bigger than normal…he had agreed that getting away from the Terlands’ possible Assassin-Golems with a visit to the inn would be great for morale.

His morale.

Selfishly, he knew he was leaving his work behind, but he had nearly been killed by a Golem. And frankly…

“Miss Marquin and the inn are allies worth the time investment. If anyone can bail us out of this quagmire, it’s them.”

It was a mark of how much they’d changed, the inn’s reputation, or just the desperation of the moment that none of his staff argued with him. Indeed, half were trying to find reasons they should accompany him.

This really is like the command all swanning off while everyone else is miserable. That thought drew Ilvriss up.

“…Welsca, put aside a rather generous budget for amenities to be brought back via Courier to the dig sites. Fresh food from Riverfarm too. Also, I have a few plans with that piping we had delivered. Alrric has the particulars. I’d like teams to begin work right away. I will be back the moment I’m needed.”

“Sir!”

He also resolved he wouldn’t be long. He’d ride hard, no breaks, talk with Lyonette, be back as soon as—

——

Salad.

Ilvriss sat there with a bowl of artful leaves arranged in a flower with an acidic vinaigrette coating the thick, but surprisingly edible, Elfear lettuce. Which grew from trees. Gaiil-Drome. Fresh, Noelictan tomatoes, sliced avocado from Oteslia, and of all things…

“Tuna? Why in a salad, Miss Imani?”

He was in Barehoof Kitchens. Not The Wandering Inn. Ilvriss loved the inn. Respected Lyonette greatly. He’d told her he’d arrive after lunch.

This was lunch. He’d put in a reservation ahead of time, and Imani had not disappointed him. She smiled.

“It’s not a salad in the sense you were imagining, Wall Lord. There’s actually some Oteslian soybeans and rice at the bottom. Green soybeans; not fully ripened.”

“Thank goodness. I was going to say the concept was slightly revolting…so what is this?”

“A Poke Bowl. I adapted the recipe from my homeland, and the vinaigrette is my own creation. It tingles on the tongue.”

“I find it both savory and incredibly tart. What is in it?”

He hadn’t ever had it before and was digging in with relish after so much damn meat. He liked meat. He was a Drake and more carnivorous than most Humans, but dead gods, had no one over there ever heard of roughage for the intestines? Imani’s smile grew slyer.

“Acid Flies.”

Everyone but Ilvriss began to choke on their bowl. He just chewed thoughtfully.

“You diluted the acid until it’s harmless? Astonishing.”

“It’s a recipe no one dares copy. I am, in fact, a [Chef of Otherworldly Ingredients].”

He blinked. Then narrowed his eyes, glanced around, and stood to applaud. His staff did likewise, blankly, until he spoke.

“Have I missed your Level 40 celebration, Miss Imani? May I buy you a gift?”

He had a briefcase of gems, after all. Imani put her hands on her hips, beaming, as the entire restaurant burst into applause. She took a bow.

“It’s very recent, and I didn’t do anything like fight my way through five Crypt Lords barehanded like Garry…”

“That’s Level 50.”

“Of course it is.”

She rolled her eyes. But Ilvriss truly was astonished and gratified.

Here is perhaps one of the first Earthers to achieve what Erin did. Her cooking will define Liscor, just as any high-level personage would. She has replaced the niche Erin left in part. No, exceeded Erin’s banal pizzas and hamburgers.

Acid Fly vinaigrette. It’s a damn industry if it catches on, and it tastes indescribable.

How could he even say it? He sat down and ate with a will as people congratulated Imani, and Palt came out to brag. Ilvriss saw the very industry and economics of a city flowing and turning around her.

If Zail understood war alone, Ilvriss understood this. Imani beamed at him.

“I have to thank you for announcing it, Wall Lord. I wasn’t going to have a party…”

“Nonsense. It’s advertising, and it means lesser [Chefs] come crawling to you. You make alliances, forge pacts, see who’s the enemy…”

She laughed, rueful, fiddling with her eyepatch, and Ilvriss fell silent, recalling that she had real enemies.

“I fear that’s the case. However, I have my alliance already. Timbor is a fine [Innkeeper] who knows the score. As for enemies—I have a few in other cities.”

“Not Miss Lasica and Rufelt, I trust?”

“Oh no, she and I are friends, and she knows better than to war with me. Because I have more tricks than she does.”

My oh my. Whatever happened to that shy young woman he’d heard about from Erin? Here was a fully grown adult confident in her cooking. Ilvriss beamed.

“Well, I have a gift for you—Welsca, the briefcase. And I may ask if you have any food for sale upon my return? It is rather grim out there.”

“I can vaguely smell it. And for you, Wall Lord? I can certainly pack some lunches.”

She teased him. Then she sighed.

“I’m even hoping to take on some more apprentices. Scale up my kitchens and not just teach classes. Just as soon as the elections are done.”

He stopped eating and glanced at one wall of the rather trendy restaurant with open glass windows. Despite the rains, there were people in the streets for a rally, and he coughed.

“May I take it you have a few candidates you’d care to win?”

Imani had a bunch of colorful posters placed against one wall, showing beaming Drakes and Gnolls holding thumbs up or posing. They had little slogans.

‘Cats trust him, and so should you! Vote for Elirr for [Councilmember]! District E2’s candidate!’

‘Honest smithing, honest leadership! Re-elect Councilmember Raekea!’

‘Korrge Silverfang needs your vote for Amentus district W1!’

‘Lord Raithland of 3rd District will fight anyone for your vote! Even Archmages!’

‘Lism expanded the city, lowered rent, and made a second army! Vote for the only way, the Lism way!’

…That last one really didn’t sell him. But Ilvriss did admire the image of Raekea with a hammer in hand, ‘forging’ a new law on an anvil, and the illustration of Lord Raithland fighting the two Archmages.

Democracy was so funny. He rather thought that of all the posters, though, Elirr had the best one. He was holding a scroll in one hand, surrounded by adoring cats and other animals.

There was something more relatable about that one as opposed to Lism with one foot planted over the trio of people that Ilvriss assumed were his opponents in the race, holding a Liscorian flag.

He coughed.

“Er, how are the elections going?”

“Lyonette’s not said? I suppose she feels like she’s out of it. Between you and me, it’s been months of smear campaigns, candidates running on anti-Human, anti-Antinium, or just anti-current Council campaigns. Lots of old councilmembers…money from the Walled Cities…you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

The [Chef] shot Ilvriss a pointed look, and he squirmed.

“I don’t actually know if Salazsar backed anyone…I suspect we might have, but Pallass and Manus were probably the two major donors.”

“It sounds like it. It’s a close race. The Council should have never allowed a snap election, but the city is growing, and so there are way more seats up for grabs. It’ll be a council of thirteen, now.”

Ilvriss shook his head.

“Which…district do you vote for? Forgive me, I don’t know these ‘elections’.”

Imani sighed.

“Elirr’s, thank goodness. I don’t think he’ll lose. For one thing, no one’s eating at my restaurant who votes against him!”

“Is that all legal with your democracy nons—er, protocols?”

She beamed at him.

“It is when I’m the [Chef]! But not all of the current Council might survive their challengers.”

She grew worried again, and Ilvriss drummed his fingers on the table. As far as he understood it, the current Council was rather good at adapting to Liscor. If a less-helpful majority took over…well, it wasn’t his city, but he had a lot of interests here.

“If I thought it would help, I’d weigh in, but I don’t think my presence here has much power anymore.”

“You don’t need to do anything, Wall Lord. But the person who could tip scales won’t even answer the Council’s calls. Maybe it’s for the best.”

Imani was shaking her head, and Ilvriss agreed. He glanced at a crowd chanting outside.

“No more chaos! No more madness! No-tress for Councilmember!”

He winced at the rhyming. Imani nodded outside.

“That’s Lism’s challenger. He sounds fairly reasonable, but he’s very anti-Free Hive. And if you listen closely, anti-Human immigration. He wants to stop paying anyone over Level 30 a fee for working here and put a charge on new residents.”

“That sounds like it would be disastrous for the city’s growth.”

“Well, he has a lot of supporters. Plenty of people don’t like the rent being controlled or the new visitors. And the old Council had a lot of Guildmasters and money.”

Ilvriss hmmed. By rights, he should be supporting the old guard, but if it was like his father…

“One would assume the average Liscorian sees the way the city has changed and feel it’s for the better.”

Imani gave him a dark look.

“Some still hate the inn, the Antinium, the Humans, us letting in Goblins, or—it just takes one hangup and they’re against the current Council. I think they’re listening to rumors or seeing that greener grass on the other side.”

“Fair enough. This is why I dislike elections.”

“As opposed to Wall Lords who’re passed down via bloodlines?”

She smiled sweetly at him, and he decided with his newfound wisdom not to engage in political discussions. Ilvriss coughed.

“I can’t blame Lyonette for abstaining either. Though if she hasn’t visited the city, she is missing out! All respect to Calescent, but this is far better cooking than the inn fields.”

“I know. Calescent serves more, weirder clients, but I think Lyonette believes we’re still on equal footing.”

Another self-satisfied smile. Ilvriss chuckled.

“I actually told her I was coming after lunch. Heheheh. All due respect to her; I’m sure she would have served me some food she thought of as delightful Calanferian cooking! And I grant you, she has a decent palate, but I have noticed her menu’s ‘elegant’ dishes are rather banal, unlike your cutting edge dishes, Miss Imani.”

He was, perhaps, a bit too relaxed. A bit too happy to be here. Imani hesitated, and a very saccharine voice spoke from behind Ilvriss.

“Oh my, I’m so terribly sorry, Wall Lord. I’ll have Calescent dispose of our banal cooking at once.”

He froze, mouth full of delightfully seasoned tuna as Lyonette du Marquin hobbled over, and a chair was placed at the table. Welsca and the aides all picked up their bowls and vanished. Ilvriss coughed.

“That was just a joke, Lyonette. Er—”

She beamed at him.

——

Lyonette wasn’t that mad, really. Ilvriss clearly thought she was, but she admitted Imani’s new dish and Acid Fly vinaigrette were superb. He didn’t need to keep leaning away from her or watching her feet. She wasn’t going to kick him.

“So, Ilvriss, you haven’t been murdered yet.”

“Thank you for—oh, no Golems. My father sent reinforcements, and we’re now on-guard, so I have confidence in my security. Some. I truly would like help with the [Ranchers], though. Miss Colfa’s advice would be splendid.”

Lyonette blinked. She turned to Colfa, who was enjoying a Poke Bowl.

“The Lischelles? Really?”

Nerul had said, but—Ilvriss heaved a sigh.

“The Terlands might try to kill me, but they don’t slow down everything with a brawl that leaves a hundred too injured to work, Lyonette! Plus, the damn cattle raids…we rather botched the cookout, didn’t we, Miss Colfa?”

The Vampiress shrugged and patted her mouth with a napkin.

“This is most excellent, Miss Imani. As to the cookout—it ain’t like it’d have gone better.”

She switched from her elegant speech to the Lischelles’ accent so fast Lyonette blinked. Colfa leaned over the table.

“Marvus and Aronia are stubborn as goats, and my sister’s more stubborn than he is. I never expected Diplomat Nerul to sway them; the fact that he put my sister on the back foot in her own turf is amazing. You gave them things to think about; Lyonette getting slapped and you being willing to try the Highstepper gave you some points.”

“How is my injury a boon?”

Lyonette grumbled, and Colfa flashed a smile at her.

“Because she didn’t know you were cracked, Lyonette. It’s one thing for Aronia to knock another woman out cold for three days and nights. But hitting a mother who’s poor-of-health? That’s embarrassin’. Not like it’ll stop Marvus, though.”

“Can we convince them, Miss Colfa, or is it a lost cause? My father wanted to fight them hand-to-hand.”

The woman tapped her lips.

“You know, it wouldn’t be the worst idea. You have to hit Marvus before he’ll back up; he’s like his bulls.”

“Hold on, hold on—”

Ilvriss was dismayed and said so. He hadn’t wanted to escalate, and that was just what Zail wanted! Colfa clarified.

“Oh, a brawl would never work, even if your father punched out every Lischelle himself. They’d just get all the [Rancher] clans to ride over, and it’d be a ten thousand-man brawl. Even if you won, you’d only get them coming at you harder. You’re right you don’t want to escalate. [Ranchers] are mean shots, and they’ll just ride over, shoot your cattle, shoot your horses, and ride off. But you still have to push them.”

“Delicately.”

Lyonette murmured. She felt bad too, because she hadn’t been at her best politically despite being a [Princess] of Calanfer. Drat it, this was exactly like her mother’s lessons!

“We have to push them in a way that doesn’t escalate, but makes them respect us.”

“That I can agree with.”

Ilvriss nodded, and Colfa began listing things that wouldn’t work.

“You can’t beat Marvus in a brawl. Probably literally. The only man big enough to do that would be Nerul, and Marvus is a lot of muscle.”

“I’ve trained to fight for over a year, Colfa, with the finest instructors—”

“He’s got probably two hundred pounds on you. You got ten levels on him? That might do it. With a sword, I’d bet on you. Without a sword, I’d bet my farm on him. Besides, as I said, he doesn’t respect you for punching him out. It’d just stop him throwing his weight around. As for Aronia…”

“Does she need anything? Can we buy her neutrality?”

Colfa was dubious.

“She’s rich enough. The Lischelles make tons of money. She’s proud of being a northerner, and I didn’t help, but she’d never even talk to you without me.”

“Was there anything in the family, um, squabble that I can help with, Colfa? I know sibling fights.”

Lyonette spoke up. She thought she did know sisterly rivalry, but Colfa gave her a pained smile.

“It’s not like you and your sisters, Lyonette. We’re too old, too far apart.”

“Oh come now. I fight like Gnolls and Drakes with my sisters all the time.”

“Hey. I resent that.”

They ignored Ilvriss, and Colfa shook her head.

“But you’re all still [Princesses] and living under your mother’s roof, more or less. I left my family. Walked off with an outsider, cut ties—I had to, but Aronia never forgave me. She always had a chip on her shoulder, and now that I’m…not as Skilled as I used to be, I think she likes that dynamic. It’s fine. Just don’t count on me talking her round.”

She sighed. Lyonette knew it was the secrecy of Vampires that had made Colfa not talk to her family, but she had to imagine that had caused hurt feelings. She chewed on one lip.

“I just wish we could have beaten them at their own game! The Highstepper—I’ve never seen that dance or that footwork!”

She burst out, and there Colfa and Ilvriss laughed at her. The Wall Lord grinned.

“Lyonette, of all the events there, I think that one they held against us least.”

“Exactly. Lyonette, it’s my family dance. No one ‘wins’ at the Highstepper. Didn’t you see them cheating? No one can do it without practice, and the adults all need boosting.”

“We could have done that dance. It’s not the hardest in the world. The 5-Step is harder.”

Lyonette grumbled. Colfa gave her an arch look, and Lyonette realized that the country-born woman wasn’t beyond defending her home.

“Easy for a noblewoman to claim when she didn’t get a tenth through it. You don’t have a chance in ten of pulling it off now, Lyonette. Not with your condition. I can barely do it these days, and that’s with my enhanced reflex…Skills. Dead gods, I really was fit as a girl.”

That genuinely stung. Lyonette knew it was accurate; she’d barely kept up with [Flawless Attempt] with Ilvriss.

“I could…! Fine. Let’s—Ilvriss, what else do you need?”

“Personnel? Thousands more personnel if anyone would work with us. Asrira’s managing the Sisters of Chell, but calming the Terlands, avoiding being cattle-raided, finding my damn objective and securing that…”

Ilvriss grew gloomier the more he listed things out. Lyonette clapped her hands.

“In that case—I’m definitely visiting more often, Ilvriss. And we shall get you those reinforcements! Come on!”

She stood, or tried to, wincing, and Colfa and Ilvriss helped her up. Lyonette hobbled for the doors.

“I have friends to call on!”

Just as Erin could mobilize an army to quell a riot, or defend her inn, Lyonette could do the same. A [Princess] called for aid!

——

The Order of Solstice refused. Normen was out, and Jewel was watching hundreds of [Squires] training. Antinium and other recruits. She glanced back at Lyonette as the [Princess] held out her hands towards Ilvriss.

“No, Lyonette.”

“But Jewel, his objective—”

“That’s political. You can ask Normen when he’s back from a High Passes escort, but he’ll say the same thing.”

“Everything’s political—”

Lyonette tried, but Jewel gave her a knowing look.

“We fight monsters, and we defend people who need defending, Lyonette. Ilvriss is very political. Erin told Normen we wouldn’t be part of the inn, and she was right.”

“Oh come on, Jewel. Don’t make me force you. I’m serious. Don’t smile! Remember Erin? Jewel, Jewel—”

——

Laken Godart couldn’t see, but he smelled the burnt hair and made a face.

“Er, problems, Lyonette?”

“It turns out Jewel’s grown a backbone.”

She did not elaborate. The [Emperor] made a show of smiling at her and the Wall Lord before turning to Lady Rie.

“And you’d like Riverfarm to contribute to Wall Lord Ilvriss’ efforts, I see. Very well.”

“Ah! You see?”

Lyonette was instantly relieved. Laken drummed his fingers on the armrest of his throne.

“I can send five hundred at what I am going to assume are very generous rates.”

“Only five hundred? We could use five thousand—”

“No.”

Laken cut Lyonette off, rather enjoying her reaction. He turned to Ilvriss.

“I don’t know what you’re digging up, Wall Lord, but I can guess. You may employ from my lands, but we have our own…conflicts. With a number of nobles, no less.”

“Actual conflicts, Your Majesty?”

The Wall Lord was polite. He wasn’t like the Drakes that Laken had expected, but the [Emperor] still recalled the saboteurs, and the Walled Cities…they spoke to each other. What Manus did, Salazsar had probably known. Besides, he smiled unhappily.

“Reinharts, local nobles—a group has decided they don’t care for the Unseen Empire’s expansion or our policy on Goblins. You have raids? We have raids.”

Annoying ones that darted in and out of his land. [Witches] arrested abroad. He gestured.

“I have to protect my empire. Moreover, I don’t really fancy helping a Wall Lord obtain his treasures, Lyonette, Wall Lord Ilvriss.”

“Laken Godart, you know what he’s doing—”

Laken’s voice snapped.

“I know exactly what he wants, Lyonette. But unless he’s sharing…? No? Then there are limits to what I’m willing to give.”

He sat back on his throne and turned.

“I believe I have more pressing matters. I have a coven of witches ready to fight with each other or those idiots—Lady Rie, send them in. Handle the people who want to work with the Wall Lord?”

He ignored Lyonette objecting as Gamel showed her the door. Laken did hold a hand up and turned his head.

“One last thing, Lyonette. Do you know why a bunch of new nobles are cropping up in the north?”

“New nobles? No, Laken. Ow! Emperor Godart.”

That was Ilvriss stepping on her foot, which amused Laken. Right up until he sensed Rie’s knowing eyes on him. He leaned forwards.

“The Circle of Thorns does not appear to be entirely dead, Lyonette. That is a warning in confidence, here. I would advise you to play dumb. But coalitions are forming, annoying Reinharts aside.”

He sat back on his throne as she went still, and Lyonette exhaled.

“I can only deal with so many…I suppose I must leave this to you, Emperor Laken?”

“I suppose you must, Lyonette. And with knowledge of the fact that I am engaged in my own conflicts, I wish you luck. Unless it benefits Riverfarm, there my largesse stands.”

He paused.

“It also includes some free shampoo. Lady Rie, please issue the Wall Lord and Lyonette with some.”

He rather enjoyed their spluttering as they were shown the door. And there went two of Lyonette’s biggest backers at once. In truth, she could not even fully blame Laken for that.

She’d heard about the Reinharts.

——

Lord Gorthes Reinhart had no clue what was going on with the Wall Lord some twit was yammering about, or House Terland being up in arms. Every Reinhart was doing their own damn thing.

He’d heard Cosoi had left. Cowardly bitch. She always knew where the wind was blowing.

But Gorthes was free. And he was a simple man. He sat on his new, six-wheel carriage with ugly metal cladding reinforcing the bumper and sides. Six wheels, six warhorses.

The interior had actually very little space aside from storage. After all, Gorthes drove himself. Thus, his carriages were made for one purpose.

Ensuring that whomever crossed him on the road regretted it. A lot of the inside of the carriage was just reinforcement struts and bracing that Vultine had installed. It wasn’t even hidden; an [Obsequious Servant] had to squeeze under one to speak to Gorthes.

A word on his hiring practices. Gorthes only hired cringing yes-men who could do what he wanted or big men who spoke with their fists, like him. No women. Women told tales and were distracting.

He was sitting in his reinforced driver’s seat as the spindly idiot whispered in his ear. They were waiting outside a village near House Reinhart’s manor.

“That him?”

Gorthes was staring at a man swaggering down the street, drunk in the day, but wearing a rather rich coat, soiled from a night out. The servant whispered.

“Yes, milord.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, mil—”

A hand reached back and grabbed the [Servant] by the scruff of the neck. And Gorthes had huge hands. He had a slab of a face with the classic Reinhart strong nose, but little else. He growled.

“If you’re not sure, I’ll feed you to the dogs.”

The servant paled and double-checked his notes.

“I-I’m sure, Lord Gorthes.”

“Good.”

Without a word, the [Lord] snapped his reins, and the horses—warhorses all, angry as he was—jerked the wagon forwards. A few of his bodyguards, little more than [Thugs] armed well, rode after him, but only to keep up. No one got in front of Gorthes.

He was a simple man. But a Reinhart. He’d been driving around, literally running into shops, people he didn’t like, trees—once because it was an accident, once because he’d objected to the damn thing.

He did what he pleased, but Gorthes was also a product of his house. He understood one thing.

No one gets away with it forever. He ascribed to the Reinhart values, which weren’t what people thought. Snakes, they were called, but snakes who were loyal to their own, which was why Magnolia was such a traitor. You stabbed each other in the back, but you never murdered another Reinhart. Watched them sit in ruin, but never executed them.

That was her biggest sin, actually. Putting all of them in a Skill-bind for a decade? They’d take back their due, make her life hell, then get back to business as usual. But the fact she’d killed them—that made it far more personal.

Reinharts had killed each other in the past, but always it was the final act, the ultimate one. You did it when it was you or them. And that might be one thing, even, but she’d been more than that. She’d executed dozens of nobles. Maybe over a hundred, Gorthes didn’t know.

Damn her. And the other thing Gorthes knew was this. He rode faster, teeth bared, and the people in the village heard the rumble and glanced up. They scattered. The drunk man ambling along cast around, saw the carriage racing at him, and stumbled. Then did what any man would and leapt smartly to one side. Gorthes saw him turning, face outraged.

You maniac! Who drives like this in the middle of the vill—

Gorthes pulled on his reins. The horses turned right. He saw the fellow’s eyes go round with horror, saw him twist to leap away, heard a shout.

“N—”

The thump and crunching sounds made everyone in the carriage but Gorthes go still. He just slowed the carriage, took it around as someone screamed. Inspected the body on the road. Twitching.

Gorthes clicked his tongue, moved the reins, and ran the fellow over again. Slowly. Then he drove off.

You might recover from that kind of thing with only a broken something, crushed legs, or whatnot. Well, before healing potions had gone out of circulation. Unless you hit the spine.

Gorthes whistled as he rode off.

“Get me another bastard.”

He commented to the servants inside, and they scrambled to find one. Because this was Gorthes’ genius, of a kind.

He knew people hated him. You only got two shops or places people loved before they started laying out ropes and spikes. Or hiring their own [Assassins]. To enable his lifestyle of vehicular homicide, Gorthes had come up with his cleverest idea.

To be a bastard they tolerated, all you had to do was run over a bigger bastard every now and then. Hence, him telling his servants to find someone who had raped a girl and gotten away with it. Or a [Merchant] who took money out of houses being built so they collapsed and killed a family. Men who fancied they were untouchable because they’d bought the law.

He enjoyed seeing them coming face-to-face with the front of his carriage and realizing that there were things they couldn’t buy. Small men who left divots on his bumpers until he had them refurbished.

“It’s good to be free again. Drink.”

Someone passed him one, and Gorthes drank greedily. Then drove off. Two more men and he’d probably ‘equalize’ his reputation around here for a month or two, he calculated. It was all…what was the word?

“Pragmawhatsit.”

“Lord Gorthes?”

“Shut up.”

Silence. Gorthes drove. He was in a hurry, anyways. As soon as he finished running people over, he was headed straight south.

That was where that bitch with the black carriage had gone. Apparently, it was some new, fancy vehicle. ‘The Unmarked Carriage’. Pah. He’d beaten the nastiest [Drivers] in the Driver’s Guild.

“Get me three more carriages from the mansion. Load ‘em up with all the bullyboys we got. Then find me that woman.”

No one ran Gorthes off the road. It was payback time. He cracked his neck, and there was a Reinhart true to his name and nature.

A [Brute of a Lord].

——

[Level 10 Incestuous Lady!]

[Class Change: Incestuous Lady → Sharp Dame Class!]

[Level 10 Sharp Dame!]

[Skill – Lesser Charisma Obtained!]

[Skill – Underworld Niceties: Preferred Bribe Obtained!]

[Skill – Basic Leadership Obtained!]

[Skill – Basic Mathematics Obtained!]

Damia wondered whether it was her association with the criminal underworld that made her class go from [Lady] to [Dame]. She wasn’t sure she liked it.

[Dame] was still quasi-noble, and it was acknowledged as a formal noble class of a kind…but it sounded to her distinctly like she wasn’t even qualified by full [Lady] status, much like an esquire up north.

She really didn’t like the implication of that. Was it because her mother had all the power and she and her brother were largely ornamental?

At least she’d consolidated. That was something, and her new Skills seemed powerful. Not that she’d got them from more than surviving.

Damia jerked awake the day after their encounter with the half-Elf. She had a crick in her neck, and the Unmarked Coach had finally stopped at its destination.

“All out! We’re at Celum.”

“Took long enough.”

The two [Gang Leaders] were the only ones speaking. They were alive; the Unmarked Coach had sped off when the half-Elf had gotten distracted with the singing Goblin and driven erratically at full speed, trying to lose him in case he came back to finish the job. What a side-trip this had been.

Damia Reinhart survived her first close-call with death aside from the time she had nearly choked on that oversized grape. Her reward? Level 10, which she took. From Binevy, her new [Head Servant]’s smile, she’d levelled too.

No one else had gotten a levelup, clearly. The other three passengers. The member of the Sister of Chell’s leadership Haple, the fussy secretary; and the two gang leaders, male and female, were probably all over Level 30. The female gang leader scowled at Damia.

“Levelled, didja?”

“How’d you—?”

Damia jumped and admitted the truth after a second since the woman knew. The female leader spat as she fiddled with her daggers.

“Got an [Eye for Talent], don’t I? You just jumped up. Good for you. Always said you could level up to Level 10 by sneezing hard enough. Us? We just wasted time and maybe got on some bastard’s kill list. Wonderful day. At least we’re alive. Plus, looks like that really was a freak accident. I’ve never seen her freak out this bad.”

The crash made Damia flinch, and she drew back in the carriage. They were in a copse near Celum, within walking distance of the city. Only, the copse was getting smaller mostly because—

Karsaeu strode past Damia and the passengers disembarking, face like thunder. She swore an oath in a language Damia didn’t know and kicked another tree.

It went over, roots spraying upwards in a shower of dirt that rained down on the coach’s roof. The upset, scared Djinni was kicking down trees. She spun.

“Get out of my coach! No one’s riding. I’m going to ground, and any one of you’d be safer doing the same.”

“Fair advice.”

That was the member of Haple. She came out, adjusting her spectacles, and brushed at her scribe’s clothing. Then she nodded at Damia, Binevy, and the two [Gang Leaders].

“I’m pleased we survived. I’m sure we’ll all keep notes on whatever that was. One thing: we never met. You don’t know me. Try to use the knowledge of who I am and I will have your mouths filled with razors, then drown you in a bucket.”

The threat against a Reinhart and two powerful [Gang Leaders] should have been beyond the pale, but Damia just watched the two [Gang Leaders] nod. The male one actually saluted her.

“No trouble, miss.”

“Good.”

Those plain eyes found Damia, and she nodded rapidly.

“Absolutely. Lips sealed. What happens on the coach—”

Wham.

Another tree went down, and they decided to make tracks. That was how Damia parted with the two [Gang Leaders]; they strolled off as a group of [Riders] came galloping out of Celum.

“Boss, boss! We didn’t know where you went after—”

“Couple of the lads tried to have a word with that guy. He minced ‘em. Rotated all their limbs around, and their heads, and just—”

“You fucking idiots, we told you to stay put!”

The female leader exploded, and the male one glanced at Damia and the Haple member.

“Shut your yaps. We’re all friendly here. Don’t go alarmin’ the goodfolk.”

They still had to get into the city, but the [Guards] at the gates and the Golems barely glanced at the gang who literally just walked past the checkpoint. Damia whistled.

“That’s some anti-detection Skill.”

She had to wait in line, much to her annoyance. The member of Haple actually went through, answering the basic questions. When she confirmed she wasn’t entering the city to commit a crime, Damia almost laughed before realizing that might get her killed.

Also…it might be true. If she’s just here to manage the Sisters…how clever! In fact, the Sisters were waiting for this woman too, although her reception was fascinating.

A huge woman named Yeire, the local boss of Celum’s Sisters of Chell, was waiting with a group of six very bored women who all appeared fairly deadly. When the scribe-like woman walked over and waved a hand, Yeire blinked, then spat.

“You serious? They made us wait all this time…for a bean-flicker? Look at this, girls! One of the damn counters is here to complain about us wastin’ gold and inventory our stocks!”

So saying, she put the woman in a headlock and began mussing her hair up. Damia and Binevy were frozen with a kind of horror, but the smaller woman put up with the ridicule.

“Excuse me, let me go. I’m here on the business of you-know-who—”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut it, runt. Just give us our orders. You here to check on the group that went with that Drake? Word from Xesci is they got messed up—”

“That’s my j—”

“Okay, get moving.”

They shoved her forwards, harassing her, grabbing her clipboard, rather like schoolyard bullies. Damia kept her face controlled, and internally, she thought it was another bit of genius.

If Haple pretended to be the rank-and-file accountants like that, no wonder no one knew who they were! Then they got to see what each branch of their gang was really like. So long as they were fine being the abused underlings. Were all of them like…?

A prickle ran down Damia’s spine suddenly, like someone poking her with something sharp. The ‘bean-flicker’ never turned her head, but Damia quickly averted her gaze and stopped trying to think about Haple’s identity.

The sensation vanished.

Damia took a step forwards, drawing a breath as the bored Watch and Golems waved her forwards.

“And you are…?”

“Lady Damia of House Reinhart!”

Binevy introduced Damia, and the young woman smiled at their reactions. She’d come all this way to find a business opportunity. At least she had noble privilege on her s—

——

Lord Xitegen Terland tossed Damia out of his city so fast she barely had a chance to argue with him. Heads turned as the red-faced Damia kicked and shouted while a Golem carried her under one arm. Primera, his repaired Golem, was striding down the street as Xitegen walked along.

“Lord Xitegen, you cannot lay a h—”

“I can and will, Lady Damia. Do remember me to your mother. Or don’t. I quite detest her. Don’t you sleep with your brother? Incest is banned in Celum. It should be. Seconda, make a note of that.”

“Yes, Lord Xitegen.”

The woman, who seemed even more animated than most Golems, dipped her head, and Damia reddened. Xitegen was not keeping his voice down.

“I am a [Lady] of—”

“You’re a child. You don’t have power here or your mother would have sent you with an escort. I’ve had enough of Reinharts in my city. Now, gate or magic door?”

“When my family hears of—”

For a moment, the Golem Lord’s eyes flashed, and Damia went still. Because she had just seen danger, and it was the same look. His voice was steady, brisk.

“They know better than to cross a Terland in Golem lands. Or they’ll re-learn. Door or gate? Last chance.”

“D-door! Please!”

Primera changed directions at Xitegen’s nod. He gave Damia a second look.

“A Reinhart who says please. You might survive longer than a year after all. Excellent to meet you, cousin. Don’t let it happen again. Excuse me. Miss Liska?”

He rapped on the door, and nothing happened. Xitegen sighed.

“Ten minute delay.”

He tapped his foot for eight minutes, speaking to his underlings as Damia hung there, and people in line stared at her. Then the door opened.

“All aboard to—huh, you don’t see that everyday.”

Liska stared at Damia, whose rear was dangling in the air. Xitegen Terland nodded.

“Good morning, Miss Liska. One for…anywhere but here.”

He produced eight silver coins, put them in a bowl, and nodded. Primera tossed Damia into the portal room, and they shut the door. Binevy hurried through after it reopened, and Liska peered at Damia Reinhart. Then she shrugged.

“Okay, where to?”

Damia stood, wanting to scream, faintly red-cheeked, people chuckling at her in line, but she kept her face controlled.

Do not make a scene. I must be allowed to work here. I will remember that.

“L-Liscor, please, Miss.”

“Okay, stand in that line. Next! Pallass!”

The door opened and closed, and Damia shuffled into line, grateful people stopped paying attention to her. Her breathing calmed, and she admired the door, the system in place here, the Gnoll.

If I had this, I’d be rich! Look at how powerful it is, how useful! This was why she’d come here. When the door to Liscor opened, revealing a rainy world past a little checkpoint with some members of the Watch ushering people through, Damia smiled.

A foreign city. Ripe for the intelligent and precocious. She stepped forwards—

——

Damia Reinhart’s head was flat on the table. Watch Captain Zevara exhaled some more smoke.

“…Are you listening, Lady Reinhart?”

She’d gotten eight steps before the Watch had asked for her name, and Binevy, the idiot, had given Damia’s last name to them. Now she was in the Watch House.

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“No, Ma’am. You have not. This is merely a friendly greeting from me. Say hello to your mother if you object. And just so you know, Miss, we will be watching you. If you break a law, we will hold you to the same standard as other guests of Liscor. Without bias. But we will be watching.”

Damia hated her mother more today than she had in her entire life. Cecille had utterly poisoned multiple cities against her. She protested.

“I have no plans on—”

“Do you want to swear on truth stone you have no intentions of working with a criminal in any capacity in Liscor? Because I’d love to have that on record, Lady Damia.”

The young woman’s lips compressed, and Zevara gave her a cool smile.

“Welcome to Liscor, Miss Damia. Do excuse me; I have crimes to solve. Don’t end up on my list. Get out of my office.”

Thus began a rather unfortunate time in Liscor, and the connected cities, for Damia Reinhart. Because, you see, the problem with being a Reinhart was reputation.

——

Banned from Pallass even though she didn’t give her name. She applied at the desk for a day-pass, and the Drake used a Skill, glanced up at her, and told her the Five Families were not allowed in Pallass.

She tried to tour Liscor, but there were some kind of elections going on, and some crowds chanted ‘no more Humans’ at her. When she went to find an Antinium, just to scope them out as potential hirelings or see about those healing scrolls, one took one look at her and ran screaming.

“Thief Lady! Thief lady! Heeeeeeeeelp!”

The Watch being there actually saved Damia; the panicked Worker had thought she was going to steal his doll or some nonsense. He’d apparently recognized her as similar to her mother. However, the Antinium were already on-guard after the Zevara incident; rumors quickly spread, and not a single one would talk to Damia Reinhart.

“That’s her! That’s the bad lady’s daughter. Don’t talk to her.”

A Worker was, in fact, running ahead of Damia wherever she went, pulling aside all the other Antinium—and their friends—and pointing Damia out to them. One of the [Guards] assigned to watch her was sniggering behind a hand. But that was…fine!

She didn’t have to make inroads with the underworld in Liscor. She didn’t need to capitalize on the Antinium and their damn new scrolls! She—she had plenty of people she’d been researching! For instance, what about—

——

It took a long time to hike out across the treacherous bridges to the village of Rheirgest. Let alone find someone in charge. They had some giant…barn of ivory that had peculiar noises coming from it, and when a [Necromancer] finally emerged to hear her out, he looked her up and down.

“Work for you, milady? I dunno. Can you raise your chin slightly? Give me a scowl?”

She stared at him. When she did so, reluctantly, the man pulled someone aside.

“Leiithe, whaddya think?”

The woman glanced over from wheeling a skeleton…affixed to a wheel…into the barn-structure. A young woman with a Solar Cycles uniform was walking out of the barn, wiping a greasy rag. Damia stared at the woman until the two [Necromancers] blocked her. Leiithe scratched her head.

“I’m not seeing it. Sure, they say the Reinharts were pretty villainous, but—”

“I’m not that kind of Reinhart! I’m very respectable, Miss Leiithe!”

Damia protested and, for once, misjudged her audience. Because the two [Necromancers] glanced at each other.

“See? And she’s got a good look. Nice scowl; I can see her going ‘off with her head!’, but I’m not feeling it. Now, our [Princess], there’s a woman with potential.”

“Oh, absolutely. She’s got a bit of that royal madness in her already. The cracks? Oh, it makes me feel bad, but the style. And give her a decade, two, and she’d be a real [Mad Queen]. Sorry, Lady Reinhart.”

They turned to Damia, and she wobbled in place. It turned out Rheirgest thought she wasn’t stylish enough. Plus, they had a project already.

——

She made it into Riverfarm and was chatting up the locals on prices and such for a good two hours before the [Lady] found her. Lady Rie Valerund smiled at Damia Reinhart, who glanced up from a conversation with Farmer Ram.

“Lady Damia Reinhart? I’m Lady Rie. May I greet—?”

Rather to Rie’s surprise, Damia’s shoulders sagged. The [Lady] raised a hand.

“Hello, Lady Rie. No need. I’ll see myself out, shall I?”

She wandered over to the door and waited to eject herself. Rie opened her mouth, then turned to Mister Ram.

“That was the easiest time I’ve ever had with a Reinhart. Do you know what that was about?”

He shrugged.

——

The Dwarf in Esthelm threw a hammer at Damia. She ran away.

——

By the end of the day, a rather defeated Damia was sitting at a bar in the Drunken Gnoll as Binevy tried to cheer her up. It turned out that even if this area was a hotspot of invention and progress…every obvious place had been claimed.

She couldn’t even tell where The Wandering Inn was. Everyone had backers or—or had established themselves! Even the [Innkeeper], Timbor, had said he was in a profitable relationship with Miss Imani, whom Damia hadn’t even gotten a meeting with, and he was well set, thank you, your ladyship.

How do I get ahead? Binevy was trying to brainstorm.

“You just need to get on top of something here, milady. I see what you’re doing. Your aunt did that too, you know. She travelled as a young woman, backed projects she saw that were good. It just takes time!”

“I don’t have time, Binevy. Nor do I have enough gold or favor with the family to bully my way into something. There’s only a few ways for me to get ahead. One’s being lucky or spotting something, but I’m here too late! Damn Aunt Magnolia, if I’d only been here two years ago or one—! The only other way is sleeping my way ahead. Do you have a list of Liscor’s eligible bachelors?”

Timbor dropped his mug as he listened in on their conversation. Binevy hesitated.

“Er…I could get a list?”

She hurried off and, after some gossip, presented Damia with a list that included Menolit of Liscor Hunted, a Lord Raithland, Councilmember Elirr who looked like he was going to win his election…Damia sighed.

Lord Mireden’s an option, but rumor is every brave bachelorette is throwing themselves at him. Small chance of me beating the pack. As for the others… I can probably do better in time even if I want to use myself in that manner. I wonder if I can find that Goblin tribe around here? She heard chatter from patrons and listened, eavesdropping in the vain hope for a clue, something big.

But sadly, a lot of the people in the Drunken Gnoll were, well, Gnolls and Humans. Some Drakes, but a lot were just passing through.

“Hrr. Brother. How are you doing?”

A Gnoll with distinctly un-citylike dress was greeting a Gnoll in a [Shopkeeper]’s outfit, who stood to hug him.

“Kert! Was the trip north long? How’s the…tribe? Can I get you a drink? A Velrusk Claw? This inn does excellent food.”

The Plains Gnoll sniffed the air, then dropped what looked like his life’s burdens next to the table. He sat, and Damia stared at him.

“I won’t be long, yes? I wish I could stay, but I’m going with more of us north.”

“Oh? Not even for a day?”

“Hrr. No. We have to get our group established. We haven’t found a good mining and grazing site, or so it seems. Chieftain Akrisa sent us as fast as we could. She’d have come herself given the Silverfangs are mostly staying with the Meeting of Tribes camp, but, eh. She’s with child.”

The [Shopkeeper] blinked.

“Didn’t her husband, er, partner die at the Meeting of Tribes?”

Kert shrugged.

“Lots of babies being made. The tribes are empty. Everyone’s doing what they can in some way or another. Is this your wife? Hello, I apologize. Kert of the Silverfangs.”

“Er, hello. Jallis Ascale. I’m, uh, Thonal’s girlfriend. We’re dating. Not ready to, um, do my part.”

Fascinating. Damia hadn’t realized Gnolls were already in the north, though of course, it made sense. They’d talked about it, and there was a lot of pro-Gnoll sentiment of late. It made sense from a species perspective too. Getting away from the Drakes would really help. Assuming the north went well, and to hear Kert begin complaining, it wasn’t.

Not much gold in Gnolls, at least as far as I can tell. Damia turned to Binevy.

“Isn’t there some stellar group of Gnolls known as Ekhtouch? Find out where they are.”

She’d been ravenously devouring the news and finding what she’d missed. Sadly…no dice. The Ekhtouch had gone to the New Lands. Damia began gossiping with Timbor and the other patrons, trying to buy drinks and be friendly.

It…sort of worked. Timbor was all-too-happy to talk to her about Liscor and the area and point her to the different Guilds where she might hire people for…a job if she had one. Not that she had one. And he himself managed to slip in there that he, a Level 33 [Innkeeper], was very single.

She sighed and rented a room at his inn, at least for a night. It didn’t seem like it could get much worse until a Drake walked around the inn.

“Excuse me, Miss? Might I have a word?”

He finally came to her table, and she blinked at him. All Damia needed was a chance. A spark! She smiled at him, being as charming and friendly as she could be, and saw him relax. He gave her a friendly smile in return.

“Yes, can I help you?”

“You seemed a bit down on your luck; apologies. I saw a few [Guardsmen] keeping tabs on you. I know it can be—hard in situations like these.”

Her heart began beating faster, and she glanced around, but the Watch had vanished or gone on break, perhaps busy or contented she wasn’t doing much. She lowered her voice.

“I, um, am in a bit of a strait, but I hope to rally. Did you want a word?”

He gave her a very polite smile, without any leer, and Binevy eyed him. She had a Pepperspray potion she claimed worked on troublesome assailants, and Damia had an emergency wand in her bag of holding, and Timbor’s inn was safe. If he wanted her to go somewhere…

An in with the underworld. The Drake fished something out of his belt pouch, handed it to her.

“I just wanted to give you a way out of any bad situations, Miss. It might be difficult, but I believe a woman like you can level and adapt.”

She stared down at what he’d given her.

A card. It said…

House Gemscale is recruiting [Miners] and [Diggers] now! All hands wanted; inquire at the local Builder’s Guild or with representatives in any major, Liscor-connected city! Lodging and food paid for, including transport! Excellent levelling potential; even more pay!

Her face went slack. The [Recruiter] went on.

“Don’t worry about the labor, just stick it out a month and you’ll be Level 10! Now, if either of you ladies had any friends who might want the job, there’s a small bonus fee I can offer for referrals…”

That pretty much knocked out Damia for the night.

——

Lyonette du Marquin felt pretty damn defeated after running around trying to get Ilvriss help and failing. Mrsha was right about the Order of Solstice.

“It’s not that they don’t want to be political, it’s that they don’t want to be…Walled Cities political, Ilvriss. I know they respect you—”

“I understand. Frankly, five hundred workers is worth the trip.”

…But he’d hoped for a miracle. She was having him served a very classy, very modern dish courtesy of Calescent. Couscous, which turned out to be from Imani.

You couldn’t beat her. The Wall Lord was happy, though, and putting a brave face on it.

“I’ll inquire with Mrsha the Intellectual for help. And maybe watch a movie or two, then head back tomorrow morning. That will raise my spirits, truly.”

Mrsha the Intellectual glanced up from her homework.

Wall Lord Ilvriss, with respect, my advice is not one I would take. But speaking of which, hypothetically, if you had fifteen apples in a bucket, and you had seven point six such buckets, how many apples would you have? I’m in advanced mathematics and I wish to leave.

He stared at her, and Mrsha held up her homework in case he needed a visual aid.

“…Ninety-five apples.”

He turned away and winked at Lyonette. She hid a smile as Mrsha wrote down the answer. That’d teach her. Lyonette wistfully sat there.

“I just wish I could call on more, Ilvriss. I could speak to Valeterisa…”

“She might be more hindrance than help, with due respect.”

“Fair.”

Ilvriss just sat there before putting a claw out. He hesitated, then touched her hand, and she blinked at him. He withdrew his hand.

“You know, it’s fine, Lyonette. We can’t always rely on Erin’s power. Sometimes, we have to provide what we’re missing. Like the Horns. They’re a good example of rising to the occasion. It’s my turn now. I just wish I were more like my father. He’s a Swordmaster of Salazsar.”

“Really? A real, genuine—?”

Even Ser Dalimont seemed impressed, and Ilvriss hunched up a bit.

“I forgot, but he really was a war hero. I’m…in his shadow, I guess. Funny, Zel’s is easier to be in at times. He could have beaten that Hunter-Killer himself. It was ‘only’…well, I forget what class it was, and he was good enough not to say that out loud.”

“Ilvriss…I’m not my mother. And you’re plenty talented! Your holdings in Liscor are huge!”

He hadn’t even used the entire space. Ilvriss exhaled.

“That’s just business. I need to be a warrior, a leader, a diplomat…but I’d rather be good at one thing than average in all! I’m not, and this venture proves it.”

She shook her head rapidly.

“Ilvriss, I let you down. And Colfa, and Nanette!”

“Hey!”

“Hey! Vhatch your mouth. I dealt with family for you!”

Lyonette ignored them. She gestured at her skin, which she’d put makeup on, but still…hurt. Oh, Erin. And her legs.

“I can’t even—I can’t even dance right, Ilvriss. I know it’s petty, but I used to have that! Erin is not a better [Dancer] than me, for all she got the class!”

He smiled at her.

“That was entertaining.”

“It was, wasn’t it? I know it wasn’t much, but…”

Lyonette trailed off thoughtfully. Then she pushed herself up, or tried to. Ser Dalimont had to help her, and she glared at her shaking arms.

“Ilvriss? If you have time tonight, would you entertain a bit of my fancy? It might not help, but…I have something I’d like assistance with. Something only you can do for me.”

“Such as?”

It ain’t math, that’s for sure. You sure your business is doing well?

Mrsha held up a card as she glared at Ilvriss; Yelroan was teaching her multiplication. Lyonette stuck her tongue out at Mrsha. And then she entered…the inn.

——

The new inn was still under construction, with Antinium laboring over the foundation even at night. Skeletons were hauling masonry around, and the foundations were so big that a section had dried under the [Bubble of Calm] spells that Hexel had demanded, then replaced with his own Skill.

[All Weather Worksite]. The Lamia [Architect] had gained levels himself, and he was actually here supervising the night’s work when Lyonette and Ilvriss stepped past the courtyard-in-progress.

“Miss Lyonette. I didn’t actually think you’d show up. Like the inn?”

Lyonette stared at the beautiful walls that had stunned her this morning. At the inn, which rose already, faster than Hexel’s timelines.

Or rather…the wall he’d put up and about three different rooms. She stared accusingly at the Lamia.

“It appeared rather more complete from one side.”

He laughed.

“One room at a time, Miss Lyonette. The way Drevish laid this out, I can build it in sections—most likely because even he thought the budget for this would be insane. I admit, having a breakfast nook struck my fancy. And I thought we’d better get a spot for those fish before the rains stop.”

The ‘fish room’ was fascinating, and he toured the two across the rooms that were done. You could walk into the room with a huge pool and cast a line and almost instantly catch a fish. In fact, Calescent and Elia were fishing for more ingredients at that moment.

Elia nearly hurled herself into the pool to grab a fish when she realized she had company. Calescent just grinned at Lyonette.

“You should see the breakfast nook. Is very classy. Inkpaper put books up there.”

Was his diction improving? She thought it was! The ‘breakfast nook’ was indeed the same bright room with a beautiful view of the landscape. Lyonette sighed.

“Oh, it’s so classy!”

“I enjoy a cup of coffee here, myself. The Goblins love it, and the Antinium put their ‘beanbags of fluff’ over there…I’m considering working on the garden next. I think those Bush Shambler things want more greenery and with all the undead around—well, I’d say they make me nervous, but Drakes still scare me at night.”

Hexel had scars from his first run-in with hostile Drakes in Izril, and Lyonette turned to him.

“Hexel, are you alright? Truly, you work so much for Liscor. No one’s given you trouble, have they?”

He slithered around the room, inspecting the walls, before replying.

“Truthfully? Not in Liscor beyond comments and a few idiots. But I’m worried if this new Council isn’t full of…pragmatic people. Elirr is very generous with his, ah, time. I think he’ll win his election, but it’s funny how much I care about this city’s future. I know you’re staying out of politics, but Krshia has been worried and wanting to talk with you.”

Guiltily, Lyonette sat on a swivel-chair and hung her head.

“I’ll speak to her. It’s just—”

“I know. Hard to love a city that tried to burn down your inn. I’m working hard to make sure whatever comes next, this inn won’t fall. But even if Drevish thinks it was made to be his finest inn…I don’t know if it can hold off a hundred thousand Draugr. Even so, I’m proud of this work.”

That was all Hexel said. He smiled at Lyonette and Ilvriss.

“Don’t let me interrupt you two young lovebirds. And feel free to use the three rooms I’ve got built. Just be careful around the construction site; I’ll put down some pathways.”

Lyonette and Ilvriss both began denying that they were doing anything like that, and Hexel chortled as he slithered off. Embarrassed, Ilvriss cleared his throat.

“To prevent rumors, what did you want me to do, Lyonette? Just tour the inn?”

She shook a fist at Hexel’s tail.

“Nothing untoward, Wall Lord! Just a bit of exertion!”

He hesitated.

“Er, I think I should retire early. It’s been a long day and—”

Her face flamed over, and she seized his arm, leaning on him and half-dragging, half being held up towards their destination.

“Argh, shut up! Follow me!”

——

The ballroom was everything Lyonette had wanted. It had that real Terandrian feel to it, from the gable arches to the huge, decorative fireplace that had an enchanted, blue magical fire in it. Not Erin’s flames or it would have frosted the beautiful, tiled dancefloor that just so happened to have Calanfer’s sigil etched on it.

It took all Ilvriss’ will not to make a comment about Terandrian excess, and he was a Wall Lord of Salazsar. But the [Princess] was happy, and she swept around in it.

“See?”

He…didn’t see. Until she struck a pose and began doing a familiar kick-step. Then Ilvriss blinked at her.

“Lyonette, what are you…?”

“The Highstepper, Ilvriss! We failed at it! I need a dance partner who can keep up! You’re the only trained dancer I know except for Ushar and Dalimont, and they have to do their jobs!”

Ser Dalimont shot Ilvriss a glance that spoke to the fact that the [Knight] also probably didn’t want to dance with his employer, which Ilvriss got. The Wall Lord hesitated.

“Lyonette, is this to help with the Lischelles? Even if we mastered the dance, I really doubt it’d do that much—”

“What? Nonsense, it would impress them! We just need to—how does this step work? One, and two, and—ow—”

She winced, and he saw her wobble. Dalimont was there in a flash, and Ilvriss recalled what she’d said about her condition.

[Crippled Reflexes]. She was not well. That just added to his reluctance.

“Lyonette, I truly don’t think it’ll be the silver arrow to open them up.”

Plus, it seems like a hellish dance. He enjoyed dancing well enough, but the Highstepper was a showman’s dance. Designed to punish the arrogant and break all shins. Lyonette’s face fell.

“I…you don’t want to? I understand, Ilvriss. I know it’s not the most critical. I just thought—and I didn’t do well, even with [Flawless Attempt]. Funny, I’ve never failed a [Flawless Attempt] before. But of course, we can—”

Ser Dalimont was staring at Wall Lord Ilvriss with great entreaty. Ilvriss blinked at Lyonette’s truly crestfallen face, and he had a thought.

Oh. She just loves dancing. Like Erin. Only, Lyonette loved this kind of dancing, which was technical, hard. But she was hurt…he hesitated, then smiled.

“If it means that much to you, Lyonette, of course I have time. And you know, you’re right. We could demonstrate that Highstepper if we do another of those cookouts. I hate losing in anything.”

He made a show of tossing his coat off, and she brightened up.

“You’re sure? I’d hate to do it if you’re not willing—”

“Nonsense, it’s good exercise, and I do think it’s rather a challenge. Er, but maybe we should warm up.”

“Of course! And we had that splendid dance in Oteslia, remember?”

He did. He truly did. Wall Lord Ilvriss thought to himself as he walked forwards and joined her in some stretching, then conferred over the steps of this horrible dance which Ser Dalimont had found for them…this he did appreciate about Lyonette.

He remembered that dance and seeing her in Ailendamus. Her [Dance of Blessings] with that damn…actually, Ilvriss set his jaw.

If that damn Duke can dance with her, I can spare her at least a few jigs! He was all stiff without having much time to train at the dig sites, anyways. So he smiled as she took his hand and bowed.

“Wall Lord, will you do me the honor of the dance?”

He bowed over her hand.

“It would be my honor, [Princess].”

She beamed at him, and for a second, he thought of dancing with Periss in private. His face fell, but then he took a breath. Time…Periss would shake her head at him if she could see him now. But he wished she was with him, agonizing over damn Humans and trying to dig up a city of the past.

His heart hurt sometimes, but at least he had friends, true friends to fill it. Ser Dalimont produced a song crystal, and they began to dance slowly.

Author’s Note: 

This is not the end of the chapter, obviously. I split this for readability because it’s big. Most of the chapters of this Ilvriss arc are big, because you may note how many plotlines it’s touching.

I have been writing hard of late. I’m glad this chapter won the poll, but whoof, it does take a lot out of me. In this case, I’m releasing this mondo-chapter without splitting it up.

I won’t keep doing that; I’ll split up the next chapters without fear (especially since one is 80,000 words unsplit), to maintain my buffer and keep to a tiny bit healthier release schedule.

However, sometimes you write a chapter and there’s no break point I find narratively rewarding, so you release it all. That’s this chapter. We’ve got a few more in the arc, so I hope you’re entertained. It’s been good getting back to our favorite slightly snooty Wall Lord. Okay, good luck—the second half of the chapter awaits.

Previous Chapter Next Chapter