Political map

Chapter 1

A hulking humanoid wearing white armor walked onto a golden platform and moved to the center where a podium stood prominently. Below the platform, countless people sat ready to listen. But perhaps to call them mere people was a disservice—these were gods, one and all. Nevertheless, they stayed silent. They had to—they were in Law’s Court, and the ancient god’s Justiciars kept the peace.

The Justiciar held its two gauntleted hands out, declaring, “The King of Vasquer, Argrave, will give his closing speech, and then we shall take a vote on the proposal.”

The hundreds present came to rapt attention, looking around. Curiosity was etched on the faces of those that actually a face, but it was well obvious that people were eager for this final speaker. They had good reason to be—less than a month ago, Argrave had led forces into battle against the infamous Palace of Heaven. Yet unlike thousands before him that had tried, Argrave’s host didn’t break against its walls—instead, he slew Erlebnis, mortally wounded Sataistador, and gutted the Qircassian Coalition. All of these events took place within hours of each other. The method and circumstances of the day eluded total clarity, but the fact remained that it had happened.

A golden door on the side of Law’s Court opened wide and in walked Argrave, King of Vasquer. For a mortal man, he was tall, standing at seven feet. He steely gray eyes and wavy black hair which had been trimmed recently until it was just above his ears. He wore a large black coat, and just beneath it, a golden breastplate bearing his personal sigil: a sunburst, with its rays as snakes. The leather armor elsewhere was of the finest quality and adorned with precious metals bearing enchantments both ancient and modern. It was an attire fit enough for a king, but the gods cared more about the man wearing the clothes.

Argrave walked onto the golden platform, regarding the hundreds of gods without so much as a blinking eye. “We’ve been holding this trial for days, now. Any information that was going to come out has come out. I can’t bring you something that would turn the world on its head in the final hours. What I can do, however, is give you a reminder. And something poignant to think about, perhaps, as we decide Kirel Qircassia’s fate.”

Argrave let his words hang, then put one hand to his chest. “The other senior partners you’ve heard from earlier established that I inherited Erlebnis’ knowledge. I’ve demonstrated the breadth of that knowledge to the senior partners of the union, each of which supported my claim. With that knowledge, I laid bare the misdeeds of Kirel Qircassia. We’ve established the path of reckless betrayal he left in his early years. We outlined countless who were betrayed by the Qircassian Coalition. And we outlined the malignant designs he had on countless present here, today, in Law’s Court. Half of you here today, Qircassia planned to kill.” He tapped the podium thrice to emphasize that point.

“Kirel Qircassia must die. He is someone who cannot be trusted to persist in this world. He will conspire with anyone—Sataistador, Erlebnis, for the barest hope of gaining a mite of power. He has no loyalty, no honor, and I wouldn’t dare greet him with any in return. Some here, today, have argued that any agreement made with him could be officiated in the White Planes, just as this Blackgard Union was formed. I argue that he is not worthy of having such power to begin with.” Argrave leaned in. “He should be broken, stripped down, and his body used for parts to make something greater.”

Argrave leaned back. “But as I think I just established, I’m a touch biased.” Those few that had senses of humors left in their divine bodies laughed. “You junior partners of the Union will have your say. As will the senior partners—my kingdom included. With Law as our witness, we’ll come to an answer regarding his fate. Then, whatever occurs, we’ll abide by the vote. But keep in mind some things as you make your choice. If you were up there as he is, trapped… what decision might Qircassia make?” He let them run through that hypothetical. “Today you deal with me. I’ve tried my damnedest to be open-handed, so much so that Law bestowed upon me his blessing. But if you let Kirel Qircassia live… tomorrow, you might be dealing with him. Him, and whatever allies he’s managed to scrape up. He’s not such a saint as little old me. And he has no problem killing anyone who slights him.”

Argrave walked away from the podium without further ceremony, leaving the new junior partners of the Blackgard Union to begin the voting process.

“We shall begin the vote,” declared Law’s Justiciar as Argrave made for the door. “The matter at hand… the fate of Kirel Qircassia.”

***

Argrave returned to where his sister, Elenore, waited for him within Law’s court. Black of hair and gray of eye, she had the classic Vasquer look excluding exceptional height. She was the shortest of the family, though taller than most women. One such exception to most women waited right alongside her: Anneliese, Argrave’s wife and his kingdom’s queen. She was an elven woman hailing from the icy land of Veiden, and like many Veidimen, stood tale and pale with beautiful white hair that stretched past her knees. Both of them wore the colors of Vasquer—black and gold—to signify their affiliation here in this trial.

“Did you make any mistakes?” Elenore asked.

Argrave sighed. “Most people ask, ‘how did it go?’ It’s a more polite way of asking the same question. Come on, try again.”

As Elenore’s face scrunched in annoyance, Anneliese studied Argrave with her amber eyes. “It went well, Elenore. He’s pleased.”

“Of course it went well.” Argrave held out his arms, striking a slight pose. “It’s just words, right? I know words, and I know how to put them together in a way that pleases people. I didn’t exactly get a standing ovation, but it was a tough crowd in a tougher venue. I think it’s illegal to cheer here, anyway.”

Elenore rubbed her forehead. “Well, when you’ve put in as much legwork as I have making sure this vote swung the right way, you’re much more concerned about someone else’s mistakes than anything else. Your head is still a little scrambled. I don’t want to have to apologize to yet another parliament member because you forgot their name.”

Argrave walked toward the two of them, and they joined him in walking to their destination. “You wanted the vote, remember. You said it would look good to all the newcomers.”

“It would. It does.” Elenore nodded. “More than that, it gave me ample opportunities to get some connections to these new junior partners. They’re much more… pliable, shall we say, than the other gods. A lot easier to bribe, to blackmail.”

“And what about the connections we need to fix Raven?” Argrave looked at her.

Anneliese answered for Elenore, explaining, “We have the names we need. All we need is a distraction. Ideally, if this crusade against Kirel Qircassia goes through, we’ll have the opportunity to contact the person that can help him without drawing any attention.”

Raven. The Alchemist. The Smiling Raven. If people knew what he was, this entire alliance that they’d built could crumble. The Smiling Raven had destroyed an entire continent, and vanquished countless gods. Argrave had promised to fix the Alchemist after he’d helped him inherit Erlebnis’ knowledge, but it was proving a difficult task to find the help he needed without drawing undue attention.

Argrave lowered his voice and asked, “Can this person be trusted to see the Smiling Raven and not flip out, try to kill him, then spread the word that we’re all psychopaths?”

“Maybe not. But you killed the god of knowledge and the god of war naked, bare-handed, and within three minutes of each other, so you can probably manage the odd lesser god or two,” Elenore responded drolly, eyes facing forward. 

“So, this is quite the risk we’re taking.” Argrave shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we keep looking.”

“I’ve looked in every single continent, Argrave. There aren’t many people that handle minds and souls well. There are even fewer capable of repairing a mind as vast and complex as the Alchemist’s. There’s basically only the Alchemist himself, and this man.” Elenore looked at him. “To be blunt, if you want to fix the Alchemist, we have to take the risk. Take a huge risk. Maybe a risk not worth taking.”

“The man saved my life.” Argrave tapped his forehead. “And gave me the gift of knowledge, besides. Without his help, you’d be standing over me while I drooled in a sickbed, ranting deliriously about being the god of knowledge and taking my revenge on that pesky Argrave. A little gratitude is in order.”

“I know I can’t dissuade you from taking the risk,” Elenore sighed as they turned a corner. “But I can remind you it’s there. That counts for something, at least.”

“What’s this god’s name?” Argrave asked her. “I’ll look him up in the wiki.”

“Lindon.”

Argrave thought on it. “Not ringing any bells...”

Elenore snorted. “Might be some of those bells aren’t working anymore.”

“…but I’ll catalogue it for later,” Argrave finished, then stop her just before their door. “Now, the vote shouldn’t be long. Let’s see what Rook’s got thus far, even still.”

Argrave put his full weight into pushing aside both of the gargantuan golden doors to another of the chambers in Law’s Court. There, a black-clothed figure wearing a hood that concealed any identifying figures looked at them. Rook, god of deception and subterfuge, awaited them.

“Here comes the boy prodigy.” Rook had been toying with a dagger, and he slipped it away into his clothes so expertly Argrave couldn’t track it. “How did your second trial in Law’s Court go?”

“Not finished yet,” Argrave greeted, shutting the door behind him. “And neither were really trials.”

“I have to say—you’ve handled this all very shrewdly.” Rook leaned up against a stiff-looking golden chair. “From what I could gather, you’ve got the vote of every senior partner. But then, we were already committed to killing the roosting pigeon anyhow.”

“Traugott.” Elenore stepped in front of Argrave. “What do you have for us?”

Rook held up his hands. “It’s been two weeks since you asked. A god needs time, even with one as slick a kick as me.”

Argrave joined his sister in confronting Rook. “And you didn’t ask at all when you took it upon yourself to steal the kill.”

Rook pointed. “Hey now. When people think, ‘who killed Erlebnis?’ They sure as shit don’t think me of me. They think of you, tall man, not me. I haven’t heard any thanks for that, by the way.”

“Thanks? That could be considered yet another disservice. Another target, painted on Argrave’s back,” Anneliese argued. “You owe us, and—"

“And I’ll pay,” Rook interrupted. “But for now, I assure you, I’m doing my best. I’m not stringing you along because it’s expedient—I’m doing my best to be expeditious. But tracking one man around the whole world? A man that might be in the Shadowlands, where no gods walk? Even with my newfound power, and all the newfound friends a deceptive fellow like myself could ever ask for, it’s quite the task.”

Argrave wanted to demand more of Rook, but the man’s excuses didn’t sound implausible. Rook wasn’t alone in searching for Traugott. Elenore had been expending significant resources and clout to the same end, with similar results. Subterfuge was Rook’s specialty, but if even he couldn’t dredge up any information, it was sounding more and more like a hopeless task. They might need another route.

“What does Erlebnis say about the man?” Rook questioned.

“Too little. Way too little,” Argrave lamented. “Just some stuff about—”

The door opened behind them, and one of Law’s Justiciars entered. “A vote has been reached regarding the Blackgard Union’s response to Kirel Qircassia.”

Chapter 2

Argrave stood at an elevated place in Law’s Court, looking down at the assembling masses. Though he most preferred single-player games, he had to confess he had some experience with what these people were preparing for: a raid boss. Law was the raid leader, while the majority of the junior partners and some of the seniors were mere participants, each hoping to score a great bounty in the battle to come.

“I say we go now.” Argrave looked back. “All’s ready for our absence?”

Elenore nodded to Argrave. “Yes. Anneliese will be your regent, with ample guards alongside her in light of her magical setbacks. We’ve sent word to Raccomen to expect our presence. What did you learn from that thing in your head, that wiki?”

Argrave started walking, and she joined him. “The page was only a few paragraphs long.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Very damned unusual. It means that someone avoided significant inquiry by Erlebnis, whose very nature revolved around obsessively pursuing knowledge. You achieve that by doing two things—being very unimportant, or being very skilled.” Argrave stopped before a Justiciar, then told Elenore, “The extent of it is this: Lindon is the god of the mind, dreams, and the consciousness. Anything more than that’s beyond my ken.”

“Right.” Elenore looked up at the Justiciar. “Take us to Raven, Law.”

“Of course,” the Justiciar responded, then took off down the hall.

Law’s Court began to distort as they walked, staircases heading down appearing where they hadn’t been before. They descended deep, deep into the depths of the divine realm, and all clamoring sounds they’d heard in moments past began to die. The stairs they came from sealed off one after the other, and Argrave heard clicking noises that sounded like locks. This was where the court kept its criminals. In particular, war criminals.

Finally, the Justiciar took them to an incredibly small door, far smaller than all the ones lining the rest of the place. The pommel of the Justiciar’s weapon was a key, and after opening it, another door awaited them at the end of a small hall. This place was a little like an airlock, ensuring that nothing followed them before they left completely—and it was something truly needed, the Alchemist being what he was.

“Would you mind if I waited outside?” Elenore asked. “Being in a divine realm is more excitement than I care to handle already. The Alchemist…”

“I’d prefer it,” Argrave told her, then stepped into the door. “Shouldn’t be long.”

The door shut behind Argrave. The Justiciar took great care to ensure there was nothing that could slip by it, then walked to the other door. Argrave’s heart beat a little faster as it unlocked the next golden door, then pushed it open. Argrave was expecting something to jump out at them, but nothing like that happened.

The Alchemist stood in the center of the box-shaped room, precisely as Argrave remembered him. Around twenty feet tall, gray skin, lacking a nose, and possessed of a robe made of his own black hair spilling down from the top of his head. Then, in a familiar voice like splintering ice, he spoke.

“You took far too long.”

Argrave walked in with the Justiciar, his eyes scanning the room. Only once he was content nothing was lurking in the shadows, he answered, “Hey, Raven.”

“It’s unwise to call me that. Now, tell me—what have I missed? You must’ve come here needing my help. Sophia’s ability is doubtless beyond your simple mind.”

Argrave took a deep breath, trying not to let that familiar tone and condescension let him lapse into bygone times. “We’re going to take you out of this place.”

“I told you days ago I had excised the Smiling Raven. Fortunately, it seems your fool mind can recognize the obvious, even if at significant delay. Let’s go. I have work to catch up on.” He walked forth, heading for the entrance, but the Justiciar came to attention and planted his large shield down on the ground.

Argrave pointed to the corner, where there was a box-shaped indent in the wall. “I need you to get in the box.”

“The box?” The Alchemist looked down at Argrave. “I have things to do—things that are impeded by walls of metal compressing the whole of me into a tight space. If we’re to adequately fight Gerechtigkeit, there can be no more delays, no more unnecessary imprisonments. I say again—let’s go,” he said, voice a tight yet deep whip.

“It’s just a precaution.” Argrave shook his head. “You, yourself, told me how dangerous the Smiling Raven was. How you destroyed an entire continent. I just can’t risk it. If you’re truly yourself again, then you’d understand that perspective. You’d know why this is necessary.”

The Alchemist glared down at Argrave with his gray eyes. He raised his hand up and shook his head as if in abject disappointment…

Then he lunged, his body exploding into thousands of ravens that hunted Argrave like missiles. The Justiciar raised his shield up and caught him, and the entire room came aglow with golden light. More than a thousand chains erupted outward, catching each of the individual beasts and restraining them.

“Let me help you, Argrave!” Raven shouted, his voice a deep, desperate caterwaul coming from the thousands of different bodies he’d become. “I just want to help you. You know so much, but you need to know just a little more! You need to know—I swear on my soul, you need to know! I have to help you. You’re my friend! You need to be more. You need to be me!”

Argrave clenched his teeth together and closed his eyes. “Get him ready to be moved,” he told the Justiciar quietly.

“Be me, Argrave! Please!” The Alchemist screamed, crying from innumerable eyes. “You must be me. Only then can you know! Only then can we grow, together!” The Justiciar slowly advanced, pushing the Alchemist closer and closer to a box-shaped compartment in the corner of the room.

“Be me!” he continued to shout, again and again, as desperately as if he was watching someone he loved be murdered before his eyes while he stayed powerless. It was so hauntingly emotional that Argrave couldn’t help but feel his throat seize up in sorrow—both at what his ally had become, and the simple emotion in that voice of his.

But in perhaps a minute, the Justiciar utilized Law’s power to force all of the Alchemist into that tiny compartment. Then, he placed his shield flush against its surface and twisted the handle. Metal fused with metal, locking the Alchemist—and the Smiling Raven, as well—away. The room went silent. The Justiciar grabbed the handle of the box and pulled it away, setting it down in the center of the now-dark room. A simple cube with a handle, containing one of the most dangerous individuals in the world.

“Where should I take him?” The Justiciar asked.

“Just follow me. I’ve got someone for the rest.”

***

Argrave watched his brother, Orion, sitting with his wife in one of the many courtyards of the Great Chu imperial palace. Her name was Sun Li—formerly Ji Li, and daughter of the Emperor of the Great Chu. When he’d first seen her, she’d been wearing an ostentatious outfit, a pound of makeup, and enough gold in her hair to pay a king’s ransom. Now, she sat next to Orion in more casual wear without makeup or excessive ceremony. He was a giant compared to her, easily three times her weight, but she didn’t seem afraid of him as she once was.

From what Argrave could see, she was trying to teach him how to play an instrument from her homeland: a guzheng. These days, Orion spent a lot of time with his wife. He was trying to find something he enjoyed doing while fulfilling obligations he felt he had to the woman he married. Theirs had been a practical arrangement, and though most of that practicality was nullified by the death of her grandfather, Orion kept the vow he made. In this strange circumstance, neither seemed unhappy. Perhaps that was because both were trying to be the opposite.

Argrave must’ve made a noise, because Orion snapped his head over. He said a brief word to Sun Li, then jogged over to Argrave quickly. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I didn’t know you were coming. Is now the time?”

“Yeah. But maybe you can stay. I can ask one of Law’s Justiciars to help.”

“Nonsense.” Orion shook his head quickly. “This is my duty. Sun Li understands that.”

“If you’re sure,” Argrave said somberly, still thinking about that scene with the Alchemist. It wouldn’t rest in his mind.”

“I’m sure. One moment, and I shall be prepared.”

Orion walked off again, then he and Sun Li retreated into their quarters in the imperial palace. Orion had been ‘taking a break’ in the imperial palace, though truly helped in watching over Emperor Ji Meng. Patriarch Dras had assumed Argrave’s role as Grand Commandant and established his Veidimen throughout the region. The land of Veiden had most lost its population to mass migration, and now the snow elves had spread out throughout the whole of the Great Chu and Vasquer. The patriarch, together with Veid, had made the Veidimen into excellent peacekeepers. Indeed, there was peace—or as close as they had come to it, at least. Though still insular, refusing to intermarry significantly, they cooperated and traded with the locals wherever possible. They were the pioneers of trade routes between the kingdom and the empire, their longships carrying goods across continents. With most of the world in order, they could afford to.

Argrave knew this was but the calm before the storm, though.

“Is something amiss, Argrave?”

He turned his head to see Emperor Ji Meng. The rough-hewn general had been polished back into a gem adorning the imperial court. True to his word, the emperor had continued to drink Ebonice tea, totally divesting himself of any magic. He barely had any hand in politics—public ceremonies, nothing more. He was a puppet, through and through, and even reveled in that role. The only iron hand he still had was over his family. That family included the Zen family, now.

Argrave shook his head in response to the emperor’s question. “No. Nothing’s wrong. We’ll be gone, soon.”

“I won’t try anything,” Ji Meng said amiably. And even without Anneliese by his side, Argrave didn’t doubt those words. Well, didn’t doubt them too much. “I’ll just enjoy the fruits of your labor, as I promised I would.”

“Don’t sound too smug.” Argrave straightened his back.

“Why not? I chose correctly,” Ji Meng continued, without dropping a hint of smugness. “I said it’d turn alright if I submitted to you, and then you killed two ancient gods. I have to say, the smartest choice I made. Now, I have all the luxury with none of the fight.”

Argrave frowned. “Just don’t get fat. It’ll be hard to parade you as the glorious emperor if you’re being carried on a palisade creaking beneath your ample girth.”

The emperor only laughed, and Orion walked back up to Argrave. “Ready,” he declared.

“Great. You’ll be carrying a box—it’s extremely heavy,” he explained to his brother.

***

Argrave watched that crack in the sky far above. There, Kirel Qircassia licked his wounds. Argrave couldn’t say how damaged he was, but with Law and hundreds of others gods clamoring to kick down his door, it was safe to say his day was done. It was just the bright, brilliant distraction the whole world needed for Argrave to slip out, seeking Lindon.

Their crew was small. Argrave, Elenore, Orion, and Rook. Rook was nigh strong enough to be called an ancient god, but he hadn’t yet been tested enough to wear that title confidently. Whatever Lindon attempted, if anything, Rook would surely be enough to handle.

Argrave looked at the golden cube in Orion’s hand, then turned to the portal Raccomen had constructed here in the Great Chu. Infinite realms awaited, and with Raccomen’s permission, they’d be travelling to a place where Lindon was said to dwell.

“Alright, let’s—"

Argrave was about to take a step forward, but then something entered his head. A thought that was neither fully his, nor an interjection like Elenore’s. It was foreign, yet at the same time, it was somewhat familiar.

“Well…” said the voice, deep and rich and full. “You’ve been thinking about me a great deal. An honor, for one so famous to spend so much of his time on me. And these musings of yours… they’re so unusual. Such a rich tapestry of things that shouldn’t exist.”

Argrave tensed up. There was only one name that came to mind—Lindon. And if his thoughts could reach Argrave here, in the heart of Vasquer, it began to make sense why Erlebnis’ file was so thin.

“Mmm… yes, I’ll meet you. It would be rude of me to refuse my blood relative. We’re very distantly related—my niece is your ancestor, after all.”

The moment Argrave wondered what he was talking about, Lindon perceived it as a question.

“You ask me who? Who else? Vasquer,” Lindon said. “Poor taste in mate… indeed, strange taste, given the gap in body types… but a bright girl. Come now, let’s see if you inherited her spark. I think you have, Argrave… or would you prefer Vincenzo?”

Argrave realized who—or perhaps what—he was dealing with. A Gilderwatcher. And apparently, uncle to Vasquer, his family’s ancient matriarch.

Chapter 3

Gilderwatchers.

As the name suggested, they were gigantic serpents that appeared gilded. All from their eyes on their head to the feathers adorning their body shone with the color. They possessed a presence of mind expanding far beyond their body, and the ability to communicate telepathically with their kin by touch alone. In the past, Argrave and Elenore had used this ability in several circumstances, from sharing their true thoughts to scouting out the cities of Blackgard or Vasquer.

Erlebnis’ knowledge gave Argrave several new insights on top of what he already knew. For one, most of their kind resided deep underground. Given their ability, it made some sense. Argrave likened it to snakes that used sound to aid in detecting prey. For two, the ‘watcher’ part of their name came from their propensity for neutrality, not their presence of mind. Their ancestral matriarch had been a rare exception.

Argrave was sorely tempted to return to Vasquer and inquire deeper about the character of his alleged great-granduncle. But they had timed things with the raid against Kirel Qircassia to avoid undue scrutiny, and they couldn't delay further. Argrave did inform his siblings of the message he’d received, but it turned out that had been a futile thing.

“I heard it too,” admitted Elenore as they leapt through the endless corridors of space in Raccomen’s realm, heading for where Lindon was supposed to be. “I don’t like it. It makes me hesitant to think.”

“He’s our relative! I, for one, am looking forward to it,” Orion said, ever the optimist when it came to family.

Argrave was hesitant to speak, but since they’d passed into Raccomen’s realm, Lindon had gone silent. He risked the god’s ire and said, “I think you’ve learned by now that just because someone’s family doesn’t mean they’re a saint. Let’s be cautiously optimistic.”

“And I’ll be cautiously pessimistic,” Rook, the only one who hadn’t heard Lindon, added. “That’s the job of a guard. Keeping you three alive. If he were an ancient god, surely I’d have heard of him by now.”

Argrave wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t voice that opinion.

***

When they finally emerged from Raccomen’s realm to another part of the world, Lindon’s voice came back to them.

“There you are. You were beyond me in Raccomen’s realm,” Lindon said. “Oh... that pleases you, does it? Were you speaking ill of me? What was it, I wonder?”

Argrave thought of nonsense about purple elephants, and he felt a glow of amusement that wasn’t his own.

“So guarded. Rest assured, I won’t pry too deeply. For now, I shall merely inform you that I’ve sent a boat to retrieve you. Seek out the port in the nearby city, and tell the green-capped man, ‘amaranthine.’”

Argrave looked at his siblings, and he could tell they’d received much the same instruction. Raccomen’s portal wasn’t too far from a city, and they found the place quickly. Argrave had been preparing to do a great many things to gain entry, especially with Orion hauling a giant golden cube, but instead...

“Welcome back, sir,” the guard at the gate, wearing armor of a foreign style made largely of fur. “Enjoy your stay.”

They were let in without incident. Argrave was tempted to ask more questions, but they continued on into the city to its port. Largely wooden houses and oaken palisades, this place seemed more tribal than Vasquer or the Great Chu. There weren’t very many people at the port, most having gone out to sea in skiffs to fish, but there was a single fisherman remaining wearing a green cap.

Orion walked to him first, carrying the golden cube with the Smiling Raven locked inside. “Are you Lindon’s man?” he asked.

“Who?” the fisherman looked up at him. “Listen, I’m busy here. Just move along.”

The fisherman whittled something, but as far as Argrave could tell, there didn’t seem to be something he was working toward. He was just whittling to whittle, almost absent-mindedly. Orion looked back at them for guidance.

“Amaranthine,” Elenore said simply.

The fisherman came alive, dropping his knife and wooden piece both into the sea. He walked to his boat, got in, and waited there while staring blankly ahead. Orion hefted up the golden cube, but looked to Argrave for guidance. After hesitating a great deal, everyone got aboard the boat.

Lindon’s voice returned. “I sense you have some worry for the man. It’s not due. The guard, most of the people in this town... just some simple tweaks of mind. They won’t remember this. Neither you, nor me.”

Argrave felt disquieted by the totality of Lindon’s power as the boat took off from the docks. He had already felt some unease about having things overwritten by Sophia, but now there was someone amply demonstrating that they could quietly rewire memories, keeping an entire town ignorant.

“Your fear is natural, though I’m disappointed it comes from kin. Orion seems fine with it. Why can’t you be more like Orion? He’s a beacon of calm.” He felt that familiar glow of amusement from Lindon, and when it quieted he continued. “But you’ve already experienced our power, you know. In the White Planes. You forgot much about your time there.”

The boat continued onward, heading for a distant black rock. Argrave listened patiently, glad this meeting wasn’t starting off antagonistic.

“You aren’t the first to fear dominion over the mind. It’s led to widespread persecution of my kin, persecution of me. During one cycle of judgment, when the extent of our capability was revealed, most all of them hunted us. In the end, months of concerted effort resulted in a stalemate devastating to both sides. But they had numbers. Billions of them, and thousands of us. We made peace, lest they wipe us all out. We Gilderwatchers were forced to relinquish our power over the mind to aid in creating the White Planes. Now, our minds meld with kin alone... excepting myself, of course. We Gilderwachers aren’t neutral by temperament. Most of us are bound by the White Planes, limited in innumerable manners. In return, we were given secrecy. As good a peace as any. Their fears are abated, our lives are protected.”

Argrave’s mind wandered to Vasquer as the boat moved ever closer toward the distant volcanic island. Why was Vasquer allowed to break that neutrality?

“You and your sister both have questions, while Orion is simply sympathetic and distraught that we were persecuted. Truly, why can’t both of you be more like your older brother?” Again, that glow of amusement came. He was getting a sense for this Lindon’s character, provided he wasn’t putting on a front.

“Well, the answer is simple. Vasquer was born after we forged that peace. Her soul is unbound by its dictates, and she remains ignorant of the heights of our power. As you know, she possesses a presence of mind, but lacks the capacity to communicate telepathically with anyone. Any other than kin, that is.”

Argrave had never heard any of this history before. It almost beggared belief, but they’d seen both how terrifying Lindon’s power was, and how it could make everyone in an entire town ignorant. Argrave did wonder if Lindon was being entirely forthright, but everything that he said did make a great deal of sense, right down to the reason for Erlebnis’ ignorance.

Concurrently, it was entirely reasonable for the god of the mind, dreams, and consciousness to toy with all three. If he could peruse Argrave’s thoughts, he was undoubtedly capable of crafting such a rich story to entrap them.

“Why bother making a story when I could merely change your minds?” Lindon posited.

His lone declaration was quite chilling, and reignited some of those fears. Argrave hadn’t felt quite so powerless in some time. What defense was there against this?

“The only defense was genocide. That was what those in the past thought, at the very least.”

There was a moment of silence in the boat ride, and the small black island loomed ever closer. It would be time to disembark soon enough.

“But I’ve given explanation enough; seeing is believing. You’ll be coming upon an entrance to our home soon. I share you and your sister’s caution in trusting kin. I have a vague idea of what you came here to ask of me, but blood relation alone is insufficient to listen, trust, and help. When you come inside, I suspect your other relatives will wish to greet you. They’ve never taken the time to learn your language as I have. Or rather... I never taught it to them as I did others.”

Argrave’s mind danced as he considered what the deity was driving at.

“Greet your family. Enjoy their welcomes, and suffer their rejections. Just as humans, we Gilderwatchers each and all have personalities of our own, and Vasquer’s ascent to the surface to aid mortals was perhaps the most controversial event we’ve endured in recent centuries. I understand that you and your sister both like to gain awareness of a situation before plunging in. You like to know the people, know the terrain. To that end, you two have a task.”

Task? Argrave hesitated, unsure of what he was getting involved in.

“I can try and mend the fractured mind within the box the best of you holds. But would you be so eager to lend a helping hand to a dozen-timed removed relative who comes knocking on your door? I think not. If you cannot understand us, you are not worth my help. To that end, my prerequisite is understanding us.

“You two must figure out what I want in return for my aid. Ask my children, my nephews and nieces, and all the ones that have ‘grand’ prefixing them. If you come to meet me without knowing what I want, I will banish you from this place as I have countless before you. You will remember nothing, not even in that strange thing you call a wiki. And try as you might, you will never remember me again.”

Argrave felt a chill. To forget something forever... he could understand, in part, why people had been afraid enough of the Gilderwatcher’s power. Despite who might overhear, he even wondered if it had been justified to limit the abilities of their kind.

“Enjoy,” Lindon left them as parting.

Elenore looked at Argrave. “He’s giving us a gods-damned riddle?”

Argrave nodded. “It sounds like it,” he said, voice stiff after remaining silent for such a stint.

“All I’ve seen is you people making various weird faces, looking at each other in total silence,” Rook noted. “Very bizarre.”

They said nothing more as the fisherman took them over to the island. His boat bumped against the black rock, and once everyone was out, they saw him row away without a word. It was only when he was a sufficient distance away did he seem to come back to himself.

Argrave looked around the island. Initially he saw nothing, yet eventually a stairway revealed itself to him. ‘Revealed itself’ was the only description he had for it. It was like an illusion had been torn away to show a passage downward. Perhaps it had always been there, but he wasn’t sure.

“Reasonably... we should get out of here,” Argrave told Elenore.

“Maybe,” she conceded, crossing her arms. “Almost certainly… even definitely.”

With that said, Argrave took the first step down the stairs. Apparently, a large family reunion awaited them. Argrave was no stranger to meeting relatives he barely knew. He wasn’t particularly accustomed to the idea of those relatives being giant snakes. And apparently Vasquer, that warm scaly old lady, was the youngest of the bunch.

It proved to be an eventful day, and one only just beginning.

Chapter 4

The further that Argrave and his siblings descended down into the cavern that Lindon directed them to enter, the less things made sense. The first crack in the image came when Argrave questioned why they hadn’t run into seawater, as the stairs that had been carved hadn’t been steep enough to avoiding breaching the island and running into water. Then, when Argrave looked ahead and behind, trying to gauge it... he could’ve sworn the stairs grew steeper by several magnitudes.

Then, he questioned how the Gilderwatchers, being snakes, had carved stairs at all. Next he knew, all beneath his feet was a slope, rough-hewn and marked by distinct pathways. He asked his companions, and Rook and Elenore both told him that it had always been a slope. Orion, however, still saw stairs. And when Argrave reasoned Lindon might’ve had human craftsmen carve stairs with another trick of the mind, they appeared again. Try as Argrave might, he couldn’t remember what the slope had looked like.

“There’s something off about this place,” Argrave voiced. “Something to do with our perceptions, our minds. Rook, have you noticed anything? Anything at all?”

“Nothing in particular, no.” Rook glanced around, searching for anything.

Argrave was disquieted, but he didn’t stop moving forward. Eventually, Orion said that he saw light up ahead. Argrave saw it too, before long; a rich, golden light that gave one the impression of warmth by sight alone. As they continued toward it, that warmth was confirmed. And when they finally reached the place whence the light came, Argrave’s mind felt flipped on its head once again.

Ahead, there was a verdant grassland with the blades of rich green rising up to the ankles. At the center of it all was a giant tree, rising taller even than the enormous trees of the Bloodwoods. It dwarfed the tallest skyscrapers Argrave had ever seen, and had a huge crown of leaves atop its head. On the thousand branches, Gilderwatchers every bit as large as Vasquer hung, coiled around and up its branches and its trunk like vines. The only description that sufficed was to call it a tree of life, and it seemed to shine as if projecting the golden light all of them felt. He could see the snakes moving, interacting, in the far distance. Dozens more wandered the grasslands.

It didn’t make sense that such a place could be beneath the earth, not when their trek had been so short. Argrave looked behind at the stairs, only to realize they were gone.

“Rook?!” Argrave demanded. “The stairs, where...?”

The black eyes of the god stared at Argrave in confusion. His next words brought Argrave chills. “What stairs?”

The extent of things finally sunk into Argrave’s head. He stayed and watched for a while

***

Argrave watched for a long, long time, his feet frozen into place as he wavered between disbelief and awe. The majority of the Gilderwatchers moved serenely through the short grass in steady advance toward the tree. In time, only one persisted anywhere near Argrave’s group. It cut across the field, displaying tremendous agility and quiet. Even as the other feathered serpents wound around the gigantic tree looming above them all, this one came to them.

This snake... male or female, Argrave couldn’t tell. He was reminded precisely how terrifying the Gilderwatchers truly were confronted with one that didn’t have a motherly demeanor. It must’ve been a mile long, maybe more. Slowly, that huge body coiled around like a spring, and its head slowly lowered toward the three of them. The golden feathers aback its head rippled with both the force of the wind and the movement of his body.

“What’s it doing?” Rook questioned. “Should I be doing something?”

Argrave held his hand up to inform that Rook should stay, then walked forward cautiously. He held his hand out, waiting for the Gilderwatcher to come and meet him. When its colossal snout met his hand, he felt a familiar torrent rush into his head. Vasquer’s presence of mind was often warm, gentle, yet this sensation was reckless, free-spirited, and bold.

Constant queries flooded into Argrave’s head, each without words but with one singular subject: Vasquer. Argrave revealed all that he knew, and as the story passed from his mind to the confines of the giant snake’s, he felt a torrent of reactions; sorrow for what had been done to her, rage at those who had kept her captive, frustration at himself, and a bitter gratefulness toward Argrave for helping her. He felt the tinge of something behind each of these that confirmed who precisely this Gilderwatcher was. He had no name. Names were foreign to most of them, as all was conveyed by their mind alone, and they needed not words to differentiate between each other.

Argrave looked over to Elenore and Orion. “He’s Vasquer’s father.”

Next came the Gilderwatcher’s explanation of what this place was. At first, the images that pervaded Argrave’s mind made little sense. The place was neither here nor there, and had no beginning nor end. As Argrave searched through the information, bits and pieces slotted into place. This area wasn’t a physical location. It was one born of the mind—a collective remembrance and unified desire both. It was a grand meeting place, where all of them combined their consciousnesses together to birth the great tree at the center.

Gilderwatchers, like most snakes, were solitary creatures. They didn’t live in packs or groups, and even families seldom stuck together longer than it took for children to be born. This was their once-in-a-millennia meeting, where all of them met and combined their consciousnesses under Lindon’s watchful eye to form the Tree of Being. And through this melding, some among the Gilderwatchers made that colossal tree bear fruit. It bestowed some precious few with a Fruit of Being, born of the memories and willpower of all the snakes working in tandem. That fruit was capable of countless things, but foremost among its capabilities was creating new Gilderwatchers.

Argrave retracted his hand, looking at the tree differently.

“What?” Elenore insisted, looking at Argrave. “You’ve gone pale. What’ve you seen?”

“I think…” He inhaled deeply, the words feeling a little distasteful on his tongue. “I think it’s a snake orgy, Elenore.”

“Is now the time for jokes?!” Elenore chided him, but when Argrave didn’t respond, she hesitantly stepped forward and touched Vasquer’s father in turn. Soon enough, she was similarly pale, but that quickly faded. “You idiot. It’s much more decent than you’re making it out to be.”

“I thought this was a family reunion,” Orion commented, hefting the golden cube in his hands. “Yet they all seem to be asleep on that tree.”

“He wants us to come to the tree,” Elenore continued. Of all of them, she was the one to speak to Vasquer most—she was most accustomed to the mental magics the Gilderwatchers used, and had her willpower built up by constant use of Lira’s blessing. After a time, she pulled back her hand. “He posits we might die if we attempt to enter it alone. But the three of us, together, can wander through the tree as any of the Gilderwatchers do.”

Argrave looked at Elenore and Orion in turn. “What is he suggesting?”

Elenore looked like she was trying to wrap her head around it, herself. She explained without conviction, “We would be three bodies, yet one mind. One person, made out of the three of us.”

***

Argrave, Elenore, and Orion stood at the foot of the giant tree towering above. He couldn’t remember how long it had taken to walk to it. Hundreds of miles wide, hundreds of miles tall… it didn’t feel like it was something that could exist, but Argrave perceived it as clear as day. Now that he had come closer, its brown bark seemed golden. Countless Gilderwatchers coiled around it, their eyes closed as they drifted into the most peaceful sleep Argrave could imagine.

Vasquer’s father remained behind them, towering. Elenore received some last bit of wisdom from him, and then withdrew her hand. The titanic snake moved around them, then slowly wrapped around the base of the tree. Before it even he seemed small, yet his scales clung to its rough, uneven surface, and he vanished out of sight in a few moments. When next Argrave saw him, he tightened around a branch and drifted off to sleep.

“Should we really…?” Argrave asked her. “What if we, you know… what if the three of us… a little snake?” Even as Argrave said it, he felt so absurd that he couldn’t conjure the proper words.

“I don’t think that’s possible.” Elenore shook her head slowly, staring at the tree.

Argrave leaned in and whispered, “Need I remind you that’s precisely what Vasquer did to the founder of the kingdom?!”

Elenore looked at him. “It was different. Vasquer was exiled from this place—that’s one of the reasons she’s not here, today, nor even knowledgeable about Lindon’s existence. She employed a different method, though one with a similar root.”

“I think we should do it,” Orion contributed. “It sounds intriguing. Perhaps it might help me expand my understanding of this life the three of us share.”

Argrave looked between the three of them. He had shared much with his siblings. He trusted them with his life—but to do this was to trust them with quite literally everything. Having one’s mind invaded was a frightening prospect, but this? It was far beyond. As Argrave debated, another took action.

“To hell with it.” Elenore held out her hand. “Come on. Grab hold.”

“You’re serious?” Argrave looked at her in total surprise. She was ostensibly the least trusting of them.

“I’m terrified, is what I am. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff that leads only into the abyss. But I know that we need allies, and I know you want to help the Alchemist. And above all… I most simply want to know what’s awaiting us in there.” She shot her hand forward more urgently. “So, let’s go, before the nerves change my mind.”

“Rook,” Argrave called out. “Watch the box.”

“Sure. Right,” the deity nodded. “I’ll just stand around while you three go on your trip, whatever it might be.”

Orion handed Rook the box, and the god took it in hand, watching them. Orion put his hand atop Elenore’s, and then Argrave completed the hand-pile.

“Alright,” said Elenore, taking a deep breath. “Vasquer’s father showed me how. It’ll happen when I touch the tree.”

She reached out gingerly. Argrave watched her hand with his breath held, and the moment her nail touched the bark, we awoke.

Chapter 5

We’ve had some hard times, the three of us. There was a period when the youngest considered every word and action he said to us like it might be his last. Maybe he was right to do so, given how two of us had acted once; one a zealot, the other cold-blooded. But he brought with him from Earth a little softness, rounding the edges out of his elders. One of us had been sharp by nature, the other by nurture, but our youngest part had taught us lessons beyond his years.

But then, he’d just as quickly say he wouldn’t be who he was without the aid of his elders.

Then again, none of that really mattered. We were as one, now. We had been expecting pain, perhaps confusion, when we reached out and touched the Tree of Being. Nothing of the sort came. Instead, it came as naturally as being. All our insecurities and uncertainties, when unified, felt insignificant. How could we reject ourselves for what we’d done? A ludicrous idea. Our mistakes are our own, our fears are shared, and our desires are understood.  It was intensely comforting, though the emphasis was certainly on ‘intense.’

We had a desire, a single will, and a purpose for coming here. Once we had acquainted ourself with who we were, we took a measure of our surroundings. We lingered near the roots of the Tree of Being. Here, the existence of will was shepherded upward toward the light. The roots were the point from which the plant drew its life, but the true beauty of the tree existed further upward. It existed in the place it might be exposed to light, and where, in turn, our minds would be exposed and seen.

Trepidation rose within at the prospect of bathing in the light, at being seen by all who would look. Yet one part of us retained its boldness, its adventurousness, and its unending desire for deeper connection. And that one part, though a minority, was enough to send us rising upward. We did not lack for courage, to say the least. So long as one of us could persuade, we would keep pressing onward.

So we rose through the roots of the Tree of Being, rising upward with the ferocity of comets shooting through the starry skies. We grazed countless other ascending stars, but the roots were many and divided and we gleaned nothing from our brief passings. Before long, however, we felt an intensity unlike anything else we’d experienced before. Myriad wills collided, each of them opposing forces with just as much, if not far more, being as we had. Just like us, they had been, and after this, they would continue to be.

Our delusions of grandeur were truncated in the trunk of the Tree of Being, rather fittingly.

Our grand ascent met their chaotic whirlpool of golden minds, where the sheer magnitude of their being crashed against ours with noise enough to drown out the purpose of our existence. Those that had been for millennia uncountable crashed against theirs. The birth and death of civilizations, the slaying of ancient gods, the coming and going of Gerechtigkeit in all the times that he did… so many other existences, so many other consciousnesses, so many other beings and ways to be. It felt sufficient for us to be whisked away by the whirlpool, to listen to the melodies of minds far older and vaster than ours… after all, how could we hope to learn if we don’t stop to listen?

At least… it was almost enough for us.

Deep within us, one part carried with it an indignance that could not be suppressed. It asked many questions. What made us lesser? What demanded that their stories demanded more attention than ours? What made one suffering, one being, more interesting than another? Who decided that just because we had not yet been, we could not soon be? Who decided the fact that we had lost meant we could not gain?

And that cynical indignance permeating through all of us gave rise to a strength of will that was unimaginable. It was the strength of will to forge an empire even when crippled and blind. It was the strength of will to carry on, even when those closest had cast you aside. It was the strength of will enough to consign everyone, even those you loved, to terrible fates without breaking stride.

And so, like a rocket, we plunged into that whirlpool of will and being, disrupting its very heart. Our story rung out through the whole Tree of Being, regardless of our existence’s brevity in face of the Gilderwatchers. We were important, and our being mattered. Vasquer’s story, our attempts to end the cycle of judgment, our very existence—it rung out boldly, heard and seen by all who could. And thus, the whole majesty of the Gilderwatchers took note… and descended upon us.

The mind of a species was a fell thing. The brevity of our lives meant each was subject to unimaginable scrutiny. It was a cyclone, earthquake, and tsunami all at once, washing over us in a golden tide of will and thought. Yet we did not break, and we did not bend. We stood tall and proud before the Gilderwatchers, letting them see and understand our being.

Just as we understood and accepted ourselves—the mistakes, the insecurities, the reasonings born of our reason—so too did the Gilderwatchers. We felt the countless reactions to Vasquer’s parting—the bold child who, kept ignorant by a peace treaty made before her birth, headed into the world seeking answers her kin could not provide. Sympathy, disgust, contempt, envy, longing—we received all these feelings and more, and while some minds did not change, they did come to understand. And understanding, we knew, was the most fundamental thing to being.

That understanding coiled around us like a warm blanket, wrapping us in such tenderness and comfort that it felt all that we had ever done had been wholly worth it. We belonged here. We were welcomed here. Even those that disdained our actions understood and accepted us nonetheless. They let us be, together. Being was enough, surely?

For one part of us… understanding, acceptance, belong… it was nice, to be true, but it was not enough.

Our ambition ignited. Though permeating all of us, it came from one part the strongest. It was ambition enough to pursue the Alchemist with a sickly body. It was ambition enough to try and preserve all, even when it was not pragmatic. It was ambition enough to consume the knowledge of Erlebnis wholly, and ambition enough to try the impossible—breaking the cycle of judgment—even when a kingdom and a family awaited if nothing was risked.

And with that fire permeating us, it was enough to see understanding and acceptance not as something warm and pleasant, but as yet another whirlpool coiling around us and trapping us. Our ambition reminded us of our purpose. We sought neither acceptance nor understanding—we sought results. We sought Lindon. But more than that, we sought Traugott, and the Heralds. We sought everything, all at once, and to get it, we would risk the whole operation.

We burst free of the second trap, ascending ever upward along the tree. As we soared for the skies, we scoured the minds and wills of ancient Gilderwatchers for answers to questions we hadn’t intended to ask. We saw it—flashes of Traugott, of the Heralds’ presence. It was enough for our investigation to progress on both counts. But if Lindon could not be satisfied, these memories would fade, and everything would be for naught.

Lindon. As they ascended, the others’ understanding beget further understanding. He was not a soaring star in this sea of wills, nor a being to be parsed through. He was the frame, the backdrop—he was the tree itself, keeping them all contained in this beautiful landscape. At first, we could hardly understand that… before it dawned that the totality of his being was vast enough it encompassed all of them, bearing it silently and graciously. He was enduring their battle of wills with all the poise of a tree erupting thousands of miles upward. He, alone, was supporting their minds and bodies while remaining totally unbending and unbreaking.

Yet when we posed the question of what such a being could want, the warm light of acceptance and belonging all vanished, leaving behind only the cold blackness of a void that should not be. We ascended up the trunk in total silence with no accompaniment besides ourself. Finally, we came to the branches and the leaves. It was the end, yet a new beginning. It came from what was, but represented what would be.

And here, we fell asleep to awake again.

***

“So they awake.”

Argrave slammed open his eyes, moving them around. He was returned to his body, and once again was only himself. It felt oddly wrong, like he was missing something, forgetting something. But when he looked around, he saw the rest of himself—his two siblings. When he failed to spot Rook, he scrambled up.

Argrave stood on a golden sea, his body rising and falling with the tides. But the tides themselves were the Gilderwatchers, and together they formed a vast ocean. As his siblings awoke, he once again spotted the Tree of Being. It seemed smaller, somehow, as it persisted as a lone island in a sea of gilded snakes. And coiled around it all… Lindon, Argrave somehow knew. A silver feathered serpent coiled around his golden tree, looking at the three of them. His majestic mane of silver-white feathers billowed under the force of the winds of this great sea.

“Your labor bore fruit, as I thought it might,” Lindon said, his voice echoing in Argrave’s skull. “In all of our beings, never before has one of us been human… nor one of us been three acting as one. And behold; Being.”

Lindon’s head, as if pointing, drifted near where the tree blossomed. Argrave saw the lifecycle of the fruit before their eyes, passing by in an instant. Four great golden flowers bloomed on the tree. Then the petals fell away, and the base of it began to swell from a small, green thing until it ballooned into a golden fruit with an oddly serpentine shape. Argrave knew what it was without being told: it was a Fruit of Being.

Argrave locked eyes with Elenore, and he gave her a look as if saying, ‘I told you this could happen.’ She walked across the sea of snakes as the tide raged, asking, “Did you deceive us? When we sought answers to the question you asked, we found only the void!”

Lindon looked ahead. “Is that what you think I want? To deceive you?” His head drifted near the fruits, and when his head passed, they all fell into the sea. Their golden brilliance was subsumed by the ocean of one thousand snakes. “Or do I want your Being, bearing fruit on our tree?”

Argrave opened his mouth to speak, but all the tides of snakes beneath them writhed and churned before rising up in the shape of a golden box with a handle atop it. There, Argrave could feel the Alchemist, somehow.

“I have your Raven, and his fractured mind, well at hand. I can return him as you want him.” The cube soared high into the air, and Lindon’s head came before the three of them. It seemed as wide as the universe, yet compressed onto the point of a pin striking at their very souls. “But do you know what I want? You’ve come. Now, answer.”
Chapter 604

What did Lindon want?

The only things that they had learned that might clue them in was what he had done and what he had said. He seemed to have vague dominion over much of the world, though was in some ways limited by the events of millennia past—unfortunately, Argrave hadn’t seen the details of this peace treaty to know how his vast power was limited. Despite his power, Lindon remained largely unseen, largely unfelt. He clearly could influence the world—the three of them, plus the city they had passed through, was evidence enough of that.

“He allowed us to come here,” Elenore’s voice entered his mind through Lira’s connection. “There’s significance to that act.”

Orion, however, spoke aloud. “Gods, no matter their kinship, remain ever-bound to their domain. Lindon has mastery over minds, dreams, and consciousness.”

As Argrave took in their opinions, accepting they were deferring to his choice for now, he had thoughts of his own. Was the answer in front of them, as plain as day? Had Lindon merely wanted the Fruit of Being? Even despite that bizarre journey they’d gone through, details remained muddled as to what that fruit actually was.

“I’d like to ask a question,” Argrave called out to Lindon as the tide of snakes raged all around him.

The tree that Lindon coiled about glowed brilliantly, and Argrave recognized that familiar sensation—the glow of amusement. Argrave thought the serpent’s silver maw was inches away from his face, yet somehow the deity moved it miles closer until Argrave could feel the warm breath from the serpent’s nose.

“I am glad the atmosphere did not make you act overeagerly,” Lindon said, his voice echoing around Argrave’s skull like a bullet ricocheting in a metal room. “You may each ask one, but I shall decide how to answer, if at all. Elenore has already expended hers.”

They looked between each other, and Argrave pointed to himself indicating he had something he wished to ask. Neither dissented, and so Argrave walked across the tide of gold.

“What are these Fruits of Being capable of?” Argrave asked.

“Being,” Lindon said as if it was a stupid question, and Argrave briefly considered if he was going to be mocked and answered with that alone before the snake continued. “Should you plant it into the ground, life would sprout; a Gilderwatcher, born of your collective will and tempered by ours. Such is how the first of us were born. We are will manifest, but the fruit is more than merely that. It is potential. It is the future.”

Lindon pulled his head backward and ascended in a corkscrew. “Should you eat it, you will be made greater, reforged by your will and that of those within the tree. Should you cut it, bountiful fertility will pour from its wound, reshaping even the most barren wastelands into fertile fields capable of growing crops enough to feed millions. Should you desire anything else of it, you need only act with conviction. Anything that is within its power, it will do. Is that not the nature of Being?”

Having heard its description, Argrave knew what the hell he wanted—that fruit. The question, however, remained unanswered. That didn’t feel like something that the giant serpent before him truly desired. He had no insights into the truth of Lindon’s being, but what he saw was the deity’s countless relatives—those Lindon ostensibly raised, nurtured, as family. Children were reflections of their parents, in part, and Argrave didn’t see budding blossoms of ambition. Neither did he see any burden from the Gilderwatcher’s fall from grace and subsequent peace treaty. Argrave had felt the scars from the war, but each wound spoke only of a desire to avoid forcing others into the same fate. They would not war because they had endured war.

Rather, the crux of the Gilderwatcher’s philosophy was harmony. Whether it was with themselves, with others, with any who was feasible—they wanted peace, and little more. Despite their great bulk and fearsome presence, Argrave had never once seen them use great force. Argrave knew Vasquer sustained herself not on the flesh and blood of animals, but by the mere presence and will of those within Blackgard.

Their power rested in others. And that was all the realization Argrave needed.

Argrave looked at Orion for him to ask his questions, but he was taken aback by the conviction on the man’s face. His brother bunched his large black beard together and said, “I believe I know the answer, Argrave.”

Ordinarily, Argrave might’ve stepped in and dissuaded his brother from acting—Elenore, too, for that matter. She might’ve been more insistent, in fact. But after everything they’d been through, they understood each other. Orion wasn’t dull-witted, or wrong, or malignant. He was merely different. Orion was as deserving as giving the answer as any of them.

“Go ahead,” said Argrave with a nod. And Elenore joined him in offering consent.

Orion looked right at Lindon, perched up and reaching toward heaven from atop his tree. He held his hand out and said, “You wish from us nothing more than any other Gilderwatcher. You wish us to Be.”

Argrave closed his eyes, listening, while Elenore crossed her arms and nodded.

Orion continued, “You want us to persist in this world, taking in its malevolence and benevolence with open hands. You wish us to return here, rest at the base of your tree, and share all that we are with the same openness as we received it. You wish us to remain as one with our kin, united by the fact that we have Been, and will continue to Be.”

The snakes forming the ocean ceased to writhe, and in moments the whole of them became calm. Lindon craned his silver body across it all, coming down from the tree. His colossal silver body slowly wrapped around them, obscuring everything from sight.

“Is that your final answer?” Lindon’s voice tore into Argrave’s skull, almost enough to make him stagger. “Does he speak for all of you.”

“He does,” confirmed Elenore.

“Yep,” added Argrave.

“You were so close.” Lindon shook his head. “But… it’ll do, I suppose. One must be somewhat lenient with one’s blood. I want that, yes.” He slowly lowered his head, looking over them all. “But next time, I expect you to bring your children. And your spouses as well, even if they cannot participate fully in this great festival of Being. Hopefully, the next melding will not take place in a millennium. Even I cannot say whether it will or will not, given the magnitude of what you intend to attempt. There are things even my mind cannot know, and that task rests on you, doesn’t it? But… I shan’t keep you longer. We’ll speak again soon, when you’ve had a moment to enjoy the restoration of your friend. Give my greetings to Vasquer. And… please, help her remember us.”

Lindon’s body compressed, wrapping around them. When it met Argrave, he was greeted by darkness.

***

“You’re spacing out. ‘Alright, let’s’ what?”

Argrave heard a voice, and whipped his head to spot Rook. When he looked around more, he realized that he stood in front of Raccomen’s gateway. His brain whirled, before he finally realized this was the spot where Lindon had first spoke to Argrave. He turned his head toward his siblings. From look alone, he knew they’d just experienced the same thing. He spotted something peculiar on their person, and soon enough, realized he had some, too.

Whatever had happened, they brought with them their four Fruits of Being—one in Elenore’s hand, another in Orion’s, and two with Argrave. He could feel them, like a great rift in reality, both weightless and of infinite weight concurrently.  

After remembering what Lindon had said, Argrave walked toward Orion. “Set down the box,” he insisted.

Orion nodded, placing the golden cube he held in hand down on the ground. Rook, however, urgently gripped Argrave. “What are you doing?! Isn’t… isn’t the Smiling Raven in there?” he whispered.

“Not any longer,” Argrave shook his head. “Just trust me, won’t you?”

Argrave touched the cube, then called upon the Domain of Law. Though he used none of its power, the cube responded to Law’s divine spark. He heard a click, and the handle jutted upward slightly. Orion took hold of it, pulling the heavy thing backward. It returned to its initial form—a shield. They all stepped back.

The great figure within slowly emerged, rising from a compressed mass within the cube to something vaguely human. Argrave was both eager to speak to the one within, yet reasonably cautious about what could go wrong. Perhaps Lindon intended for one of them to use the Fruit of Being to cure the Alchemist. Whatever the case, Argrave was ready.

Gray eyes took shape on that familiar imposing form. They looked around, taking in the sights as his body stayed still. His hair grew, forming a robe around his body, and a mouth slowly split open on his face.

“Where are we?” he asked, voice splintering ice just as Argrave remembered it.

“New portal near the Great Chu,” Argrave told him. “How do you feel, Raven?”

The man looked at himself, his whole body, as if it was foreign. A long while of silence passed under his silent scrutiny, before he turned to look at Argrave.

“Whole,” he finally said. “Alive.”

Chapter 6

“He speaks the truth,” said Law, speaking from one of his Justiciars as they stayed within his realm. “If he’s sworn while bound by my power, he could not lie. It’s an impossibility.”

Argrave exhaled, looking upon Raven with a great measure of satisfaction. They had returned to Law’s Court. He had agreed to be bound by its power, and they had inquired whether or not he was still affected by the impulses that led him into becoming the Smiling Raven. And he’d claimed they’d gone, utterly.

“You should have killed me,” Raven said, leaning up against the golden walls of Law’s Court. “The risk of keeping me alive was too high.”

“Evidently not, Raven.” Argrave had been happy to return to calling him the Alchemist, but word from the man himself indicated he was no longer uncomfortable with his old name. “You overestimate yourself.”

“Or underestimate you, perhaps,” he conceded.

“You said you felt whole,” Argrave continued. “What does that mean for you?”

“Hunger drove the Smiling Raven. Hunger, compassion, and certainty. The first is gone, but enough of who I am remains that I can still claim to be alive.” He looked down at Argrave. “I couldn’t claim that, before. I was a shell, driven by an objective hammered into me. Now, I am what I said. Whole, and alive.”

Argrave held out his arms in congratulations. “Raven, back from the dead.”

“Hmm. It’s been many years,” he agreed quietly, closing his eyes.

Argrave smiled at him. “Never had the chance to thank you for saving my life. And giving me one hell of a gift, besides.”

Raven nodded, opening his eyes. “Don’t thank me. I made the assessment it would be more pragmatic for you to live, even if risking a calamity. What Erlebnis did to you was worth the risk to salvage. By nature, I suppose he couldn’t bear the idea of his knowledge dying off. Helping you… on that point, at least, I was correct. But again, I underestimated just how good that outcome would be. Another underestimation of you.”

“Maybe it was the right estimation,” Argrave dismissed humbly, though felt pride at the praise. “I can earnestly say we lucked out with Lindon. It feels luck hasn’t happened to us very often, but maybe it’s because I’m lucky often enough I’ve forgotten what unlucky looks like. But hell, better to be lucky than to be skilled.”

“To a point,” Raven agreed.

Argrave looked at him. He still retained that inhuman appearance, but Argrave thought his words were softer, somehow.

“Speaking of skilled, can you still do all of what you used to? Precise surgeries?” Argrave asked, thinking of another urgent matter.

Raven’s eyes glowed green, then settled. “You seem fine. Do you intend to add more to yourself?”

“I am fine, thanks for noticing. It’s Anneliese.” Argrave beckoned. “Perhaps it’s time I caught you up on everything that you missed. We’ve a hell of a decision ahead of us.”

“I’ll listen. But there’s one thing that needs to be said.” Raven looked down at Argrave, then extended his hand. “Thank you.”

If Argrave could’ve, he would’ve taken a little recording of that and stowed it away. It was rare enough to sell for many fortunes.

“You’re welcome.” He shook Raven’s hand—a somewhat comical scene, given the man’s size. “Alright. Now that the verification is done, let’s start with how the battle ended…” Argrave began.

***

“Are you foolish?” asked Raven. “Eat the damn thing. All four of them, perhaps.”

Argrave, Elenore, Orion, and Anneliese resided in a room with the newly-restored Alchemist. He claimed that fixing Anneliese would be a ‘rudimentary procedure,’ and indeed it had taken him no longer than a few minutes. They sat on a table atop balcony in the imperial palace of the Great Chu. Above, the siege into Kirel Qircassia’s divine realm persisted. They could feel the power from the battle even many miles below. But that power felt somewhat pale in front of the four golden fruits on the red table between them. The Fruits of Being, with supposedly limitless potential.

“But if we plant it—” Orion began.

“If you plant it, you create excess,” Raven interrupted. “A hatchling Gilderwatcher, when you already have Vasquer. She cannot even fight, and you yourself painted them as a harmonious, peace-loving species—what would a newborn do for us, then, but cause burdens?” He examined the Fruits of Being, but did not touch them. “Have you brought any to Hause?”

“Yes.” Elenore nodded. “She confirmed what Lindon said. Each of them contains finite infinite potential.”

“Her and those vagaries.” Raven scoffed. “Did she elaborate?”

“They can do anything within the limits of their power,” Anneliese said. “Looking upon them with [Truesight], it… words cannot do them justice. Each fruit is like an unborn star, slumbering, waiting for someone to break its golden skin and unleash the universe of possibilities within.”

“Then Argrave should eat one. The way I see it… there are only a few more battles left to fight.” Raven looked between them. “Sophia is mastering her power by healing others. It’s a fine enough way to learn of the human body. In time, I intend to show to her the diagrams I made of your body when I was searching for signs of the other realm you claimed to come from, Argrave. With that, I believe our access to where Gerechtigkeit returns to is guaranteed. As for Gerechtigkeit himself, our triumphs have united the majority of the world as one. These are fights we’re amply prepared for.”

“Leaving Traugott and the Heralds,” Elenore summarized.

“Indeed. One possesses an Undying Soul, now, despite our efforts. The other is largely unknown and has powers unlike anything we’ve ever experienced before. They need to be dealt with. You claim that visiting with the Gilderwatchers has given you insights.”

“Their vision encompasses the world,” Orion said. “Whether cloaked in shadows or bathed in light, none escapes their presence of mind. In their festival of will, we saw hints enough to form a robust plan of action to flush Traugott out. Our lead on the Heralds is less substantial, but I hold hope in my chest that Lindon will contact us again.”

“Proving my point: Argrave should accept the fruit’s power, whatever it might be. Traugott and the Heralds both need to be beaten, and thus far, we’ve been proven lacking. Should Argrave truly hunt Gerechtigkeit to the source of his being, he would need power.” His gray eyes scanned them all, and when no one responded, he continued, “I don’t believe I would be missing the mark in saying none of you intend to claim godhood.”

Everyone at the table looked at each other, judging whether or not to say their thoughts on the matter. There had been some discussions, though only in passing. They’d never laid their thoughts out flatly.

Argrave decided to admit his earnest thoughts and placed his hands on the table. “It’s too limiting. We’d be pigeonholed into acting in a manner befitting whatever sphere we govern. That frightens me—I can’t be sure how it might change things up. Much better to form robust alliances with deities we can trust, as we already have.”

“I tend to agree,” Raven said. “And should we fail to fully destroy Gerechtigkeit, being confined to a divine realm for most of the next millennium is unideal regardless of how much power godhood might offer. I am already equal to many lesser gods. This Fruit of Being may offer similar opportunity to gain strength while remaining mortal—not to mention what Hause might do for us, should we persuade her to unlock potentials once again.”

“Shouldn’t we hold onto the fruits?” Anneliese questioned. “Wait for the opportunity to arise when it’s best to use them?”

Argrave reached forward and grabbed a fruit. “Kill Traugott for me,” he told it, then threw it in the air. It did nothing, and he caught it. “Didn’t work. For a wish-granting genie, it seems a little broken.”

“Given from what Lindon said, we would have to deform it in some manner for it to act,” Elenore suggested, then ran her hand through her long black hair in frustration. “I’m only speculating, though. Damn it all. Why couldn’t he have been more specific?”

“Yet another reason for Argrave to consume it,” Raven pressed. “We would find out its limitations. Argrave, then, could cross-reference it with countless things inside of his head—that wiki of his. We would have a subject of scrutiny, who I understand in and out. And uses of these fruit henceforth would come not from a place of ignorance and guesswork.”

“Why have I been volunteered?” Argrave protested, holding the fruit out. “Why not you?”

“Indeed, why not? Give it here,” said Raven, holding his hand out and gesturing.

“No, that’s… we’re fine,” Argrave said at once, retracting his hand.

“Are you, now?” Raven managed what might’ve been a laugh, which Argrave wasn’t sure he’d ever heard before.

“It’s just… if the possibilities are limitless…” Argrave looked at the fruit, no larger than the palm of his hand. “Anneliese could be the wisest one here, that wouldn’t be the first time. We shouldn’t be hasty, no?” As he looked between everyone, doubt festered. “Or maybe that’s the wrong feeling. Maybe they should be used, or we’d end up still hoarding our elixirs while fighting the final boss, that sort of thing…”

“Why think about it rationally at all? It’s clearly beyond all of us.” Orion asked.

Everyone went quiet. Argrave pointed at Orion. “The man makes a good point.”

Argrave looked down at the Fruit of Being in his hand. He felt a nervousness far worse than when Erlebnis had rushed at him from the Palace of Heaven. But he raised its golden brilliance up to his mouth, and sunk his teeth into its soft skin.

Chapter 7

“So… Argrave of Vasquer.”

The lead interviewer scrutinized Argrave from behind his glasses, golden eyes moving calculatingly. Despite the suit he wore, he sported many tattoos. It spoke to an accommodating workplace, or a poor one.

“That’s right,” Argrave confirmed cordially.

“You’re applying for the position of Upper-Level Human.” The man looked to the other interviewers, on his right and left. They all wore fancy C-suite suits, with luxurious black fabric and gold buttons. “That would place you at upper management, here with us. I’m Durran, and this is Anneliese and Melanie. Our chief executive officer, Elenore, will still have the final say, but we thought this interview might provide us something to present her.”

“Nice to meet you all. Some of you I already know. All three of you, in fact. Upper management is something I’ve long looked forward to,” he answered cordially, bearing a hint of familiarity.

“Alright.” Durran shuffled some papers, taking one in hand. “Let’s start with your educational history.”

“Sure.” Argrave shifted on his seat. “As you know, I studied with Professor Erlebnis, majoring in Everything in the Known Universe, with a minor in Somethings in the Unknown Universe.”

“Professor Erlebnis in Germany, right? His thesis on Everything in the Known Universe is quite renowned.” Durran’s finger traced the paper he held until it stopped near the bottom. “But we couldn’t find any information about your educational background before that.”

“Ah.” Argrave scratched the back of his head. “I had a name change.”

“A name change?” Anneliese spoke up. “Was it due to any controversial or infamous event that could compromise the company?”

“No, I just got transported to another world. Nothing significant,” Argrave explained.

“Okay, that’s understandable.” Anneliese nodded, contented.

“You came up through the sales department. People there had nothing but positive things to say about you, from your demeanor to your performance.” Melanie looked through some papers, then focused on Argrave. “What other roles have you had before our company?”

“Well, I was the King of Vasquer, managing a population in the millions. After that, I became the Commander-in-Chief of the Expeditionary Force Against the Barbarians of the Great Chu. I’ve also been acting as the de facto leader of the Blackgard Union, managing several high-level deities with large portfolios of divinity.”

“So, you’re already well-accustomed to dealing with people that have rather inflated egos,” Anneliese said positively.

“Indeed,” Argrave nodded. “Some of them are here today.”

The joke landed, and the interviewers laughed. Argrave thought the process was going rather nicely, but Durran’s demeanor quickly became serious and the man leaned in.

“What do you think an Upper-Level Human does in his or her day-to-day? What are their responsibilities and abilities?”

The dreaded curveball came, catching Argrave off guard. He took a beat to compose his answer carefully, and the interviewers all waited in silence.

“Well, naturally, they’re immortal. That’s one of the largest perks, but also the largest responsibility. Old age can’t claim them. Any wound that they receive can be recovered from. Aside from that, it comes with a tremendous advantage against divinity. They’re sort of like… like an envoy for humanity. Not divine, quite, but like divine. A guardian, a protector. Not just a protector of humans, either—human-like mortals, too.”

“Could you elaborate on what you mean by ‘like divine?’” Durran fixated on that.

“Well, ordinarily…” Argrave scratched his chin. “If a mortal uses spirits, it’s either in one of two ways—with magic, or by strengthening the flesh temporarily by injecting it inside the body. While they’re both effective adaptations, it’s not really ‘using spirits.’ It’s jury-rigging divinity. But being an Upper-Level Human, we can finally utilize those vaunted existences properly. In a way, it could be said to be better than they use it, as I’d have a great many of the perks without the responsibilities and restriction that true divinity brings.”

“Interesting. You think spirits are vaunted existences?” Melanie probed.

“What else can I call them?” Argrave shrugged. “Magic has rules, limitations, boundaries. S-rank is the peak. Even using spirits to enhance it, there’s only so much that one single spellcaster can do. The gods, though… with the Domain of Law, I can slow time. It might be a very small amount, but it can be done. Is there magic that can achieve such a thing? Sataistador was a one-man-army in more than one sense of the word. Raccomen can open portals throughout the world, and Elenore has a cellphone in her head thanks to Lira. Erlebnis even implanted knowledge directly into my mind!”

“Is that an admission you cheated in university, Argrave?” Durran questioned.

Argrave raised his right hand. “I plead the fifth.”

“I see. Well…” Durran once again shuffled through the papers in front of him. “As we established, most of this information is something we already know. You have quite the resume, Argrave. And fortunately for you, we here at Being Co. are quite nepotistic.”

“Me too!” Argrave exclaimed excitedly. “I would also promote family members regardless of their skill. Fortunately, they just happen to be extremely skilled. Does this mean that I get the position?”

“Indeed you do.” Durran set down his papers and nodded at Argrave. “You’re going to start your role as an Upper-Level Human as soon as possible. It should be a relatively painless adjustment period.”

***

“What’s wrong with him?!” Elenore insisted urgently.

Everyone crowded around Argrave after he had bitten into the Fruit of Being. It was because, moments after his first bite, he had slumped against the table and fallen to the floor. Everyone had moved quickly—Anneliese quickest of all, who held Argrave in her arms—but rather than unconscious, Argrave seemed to be in a trance.

Anneliese studied Argrave intently. He muttered something as he chewed on the golden fruit. His eyelids flickered, alternating between open and closed. The hand which held the Fruit of Being continually raised it back up to his mouth, taking fresh bites out of it as he zoned out. The movements were more like sporadic spasms, and his mutterings somewhat sounded like groans and coughs beneath his mouthfuls of food… but Anneliese saw neither pain nor disgust on his features. Still, the oddity of it all made her declare nothing for certain.

“What can you see with your [Truesight]?” Orion asked her, calm yet insistent. “Need we pry the golden fruit from his hand, that it might not again grace his lips? Would that harm him?”

“What I see…” Anneliese’s gaze went past the surface, into Argrave’s very being. She saw much the same thing she had seen within the fruit—an infinitely-expanding universe of possibilities with neither end nor beginning. It was as though he ate the starry skies themselves, taking in the unknown and chewing it up with his teeth until it became part of him. As for whether or not it was doing him ill…

“His soul isn’t weakening,” Anneliese said, unable to convey much else sufficiently. “Rather, it’s growing in brightness, in intensity. Most notably, however, is what the spirits inside him are doing.” She looked up at Raven.

“I see it too.” He kneeled down before Argrave, the gray eyes on his head glowing green as he called upon [Minor Truesight]. “It’s fascinating. I’ve never seen spirits behave in a way like this, ever.”

“I can’t get through to him,” Elenore said, massaging her forehead as she paced around nervously. “The connection between us is still there, but I just can’t get through. Can we stop him from eating? What if he’s in pain?”

“Pain has proved an insufficient obstacle for him in the past,” Raven observed passively.

“Doesn’t mean he needs to go through it all at once.” She looked at Raven, and fearlessly said, “Did you have to encourage him so? Can you take responsibility for what happens?”

Anneliese slid her arms under Argrave, and picked him up. In his trance-like state, he was much easier to carry—his arm even slid around her neck, like it was natural. He had grown a fair bit heavier, but the enchantments on her armor made such a task easy.

“I believe all he needs is a place to rest easy. Rest in quiet, without undue stimulus to interrupt the process.” She looked around. “I shall find a bed for him to rest in, for now. Rest assured I will have any of you at hand in a moment’s notice.”

***

Argrave opened his eyes. He saw a blue bed canopy, and turned his head about. He felt quite clear-headed. He remembered eating the Fruit of Being, then… a strange dream.

“Hello there,” Anneliese said—he recognized her voice at once. He turned his head to see her sitting on the side of his bed.

“Hey,” he greeted, in no hurry to move. “Had a dream about you. You looked rather… ravishing. You usually do, but…” his mind went back to Anneliese in a suit, with her long legs... Was that something to keep in mind? He certainly wasn’t eager to forget it.

“That’s the first thing you say?” Anneliese scoffed. “Everyone was panicking about you dying or being in pain. You do remember eating the fruit, yes?”

Argrave sat up. “Very vividly, yes.”

“I insisted that you would need low stimulation due to your changed mind when you awoke, but I really just wanted some peace for my own inquiries.” Anneliese leaned in. “I cannot think it was painful. Am I wrong? Is it painful now? It looks like you continue to change, but I detect no pain. That’s rather unlike your past incidents.”

Argrave touched his face. “Continue to change, you said? What does that mean?”

“Internally, I meant,” Anneliese clarified. “Only internal changes, for now. How do you feel?”

“Pretty good,” Argrave said, nodding slowly. “No different than normal, really. Like nothing happened at all. But…” Argrave’s mind wandered back to the dream.

“But?” Anneliese repeated.

“I think I know how I changed,” Argrave looked at her. “I think the dream I had told me what was happening. But the things that it said… it’s a little…”

“You seem skeptical, yet hopeful.” Anneliese tilted her head.

Argrave replayed the memory in his head. It was almost too clear to be a dream. “It claimed I could use spirits as divinity could, but that I wasn’t a deity.”

Anneliese took a deep breath, closing her eyes. “Why don’t you look where we ordinarily keep spirits for shamanic magic?”

Argrave obeyed her instructions, but it was like grasping at an empty void. He touched his chest in alarm, only to realize that much more than that alone was off. All of the energies inside of him, even his blood echoes, were astir. They were changing, morphing, making room for something new deep within.

Thrusting his body to the edge of the bed, Argrave rose up and looked around. “I think we need to go outside. Not just outside—maybe back home, to the mountains in Blackgard. Quiet place, to test this out.”

Argrave rubbed at his neck, imagining what exactly this new state of being would make him into. He couldn’t say he hadn’t asked for, even expected, this change, and yet… how deep did things go?

Chapter 8

Though the siege against Kirel Qircassia persisted above the skies in the Great Chu, Argrave was infinitely more engaged with the changes that had taken place within himself. He and his family returned to Blackgard, and thereafter to the mountains, enduring Raven’s constant scrutiny. Along the way, he explained to his companions what he believed he had experienced. But rather unexpectedly, he received contact from the source of all of this the moment his foot stepped back on Berendar soil.

“You work quickly. I thought we would again speak long after Vasquer had remembered that which she has forgotten,” Lindon observed, his voice bringing pause to Argrave’s step. “You walk a route that few before you have travelled. Only the dead, by this point.”

Argrave looked around, only to see that none of his people were moving. Another trick of the mind brought about by Lindon, but seeing it still made nervousness flourish in Argrave’s chest.

“Seems like the first order of business I have is shutting you out, somehow.” Argrave looked around, trying to sound disaffected despite the futility of deceiving the deity. “I was in the middle of something, Lindon.”

“That’s the second order of business. I’m sparing you the time you’re about to spend,” Lindon countered.

“You could’ve spared me the time a long time ago.”

“No. The terms of the treaty I forged were clear. I am disallowed to reach out to people unless they seek me out first, under extraordinary circumstances. In return, I am entitled to be able to perform some protective mental measures, such as obfuscation of my presence or that of the Gilderwatchers. I never expected to be able reach out to someone. The dictates of the treaty are so strict it was a wonder you met them at all. But circumstances are extraordinary, and you did seek me out. Dumb luck? Some grand plan? Shrewd planning in the negotiation, millennia ago? It hardly matters.”

Argrave poked Anneliese in the forehead to be sure she was still, then said idly, “By extraordinary circumstances, you’re talking about the changes to Gerechtigkeit.”

“I’m talking about Traugott, actually.” Lindon manifested before Argrave’s eyes—now a small serpent, comparatively, about twenty feet long.

“Him?” Argrave raised his brows. “We learned a little of where he’s been when we were travelling through the Tree of Being. What did we miss?”

“The glaring red flag. The Shadowlands,” Lindon explained, coiling his body until his head rested at Argrave’s height.

Argrave broke free of his companions, coming to stand just before the silver serpent. “I thought this would be about the Undying Soul he claimed, but it’s the Shadowlands? I’ve read about them more. According to Erlebnis’ records, they always appear when Gerechtigkeit descends. The creatures there are brutal, barbaric… but they’re not new. Even if Traugott did open a large portal, what’s the worst he could do?”

“You and he are parallels. You possess mortal sensibilities, but with immortal husks.”

“Immortal husks?” Argrave repeated. “That dream was real, then? And Traugott, he…?” His head spun.

The snake’s silver eyes flashed, and vivid memories rose to Argrave’s mind unbidden. “With Norman’s body, born of Sophia’s power, he had a template. Through experimentation, he found out how to mimic her power.”

He saw that inhumane workshop of Traugott’s hidden within the Great Chu as clearly as if he’d been there only yesterday. There, Traugott had made Good King Norman be born again innumerable times. It was only a small comfort that apparently Norman experienced unimaginable torment during this process. Traugott had claimed hundreds of lives worth of ‘materials’ in pursuit of his goals, and all without blinking an eye.

“My kind observed some further experimentation in a location deep, deep into the ocean. His caution and resolve are admirable, as is the depth of his intelligence. He saw Sophia’s power not as just creation, but as the potential for recreation. He was rather efficient with his use of raw materials. You saw the product of his ingenuity—that shell of Norman, bearing a dog’s characteristics.”

Argrave heard the barking, and recalled Traugott possessing the thing with druidic magic.

“You almost sound like you admire him,” Argrave noted.

“I fear him,” Lindon said simply. “I thought to impart some of that to you. If he could imbue that creation of his with the soul of a dog, why could he not imbue it with the soul of a human? Why not allow that human to retain its memories?”

“You’re saying Traugott created a Norman with memories?”

Lindon’s eyes flashed again, and foreign thoughts filled Argrave’s mind. He saw various stages of experimentation, at a location rather like what Lindon had described—deep underwater, in a dome of air that persisted despite the ocean all around it. Argrave saw another figure there, with him—Fellhorn. The two seemed to be collaborating deeper after their victory versus Melanie and Dario.

And indeed, it was just as Lindon said. Traugott experimented with imbuing memories and personalities into the core of Norman. Countless creations were cast away into the ocean after he was done with them, their human bodies succumbing to the high-pressure of the deep sea and imploding immediately. Perhaps there was some mercy in that quick death.

Running through the progression, Argrave came to a rather eerie guess about Traugott’s intentions.

“When you said an immortal husk…” Argrave focused on Lindon. “Did you mean Traugott managed to imbue the body with the Undying Soul, bearing his memories and personality?”

“Quite the leap, but not a wholly incorrect one.” Lindon’s silver eyes stayed fixated on Argrave. “You’re missing one key detail, however.”

Argrave once again saw another vision. In this deep-sea altar, something slowly took shape from a misshapen black lump that exuded unpleasant energy. As it became more human, Argrave began to recognize it, too. The way it seemed to eat light, eat everything around it…

“That’s flesh from a Shadowlander, isn’t it?” Argrave asked, and received a silence he knew was affirmation. “This is why you said we’re parallels.” It dawned on him.

“Yes. The both of you are mortals with mortal sensibilities, yet possess a power that could be likened to a god. As you came to me and obtained the Fruit of Being, Traugott endeavored for so long on this matter to create a perfect body for himself.”

The newly-born ‘Norman’ on the altar blinked its eyes open, scrutinizing its body with wonder. Unlike the others, who retained Norman’s skin and eye colors, this creation was darkness incarnate on every inch of its body—nails, eyes, mouth, all of it. The blackness was so intense that it was impossible to make out distinguishing features. Argrave thought that the way it moved seemed familiar, and knew in his heart of hearts that that thing was Traugott. The former Magister of the Gray Owl had discovered a way to reform his body with the characteristics of the fell creature that had torn through the former capital, Dirracha.

“You’ve keen instinct. It is him,” Lindon confirmed. “After assuming this form, Traugott entered the Shadowlands. He’s yet to return—and believe me, my kind watch everywhere. Watching, waiting—in these things, we excel. Traugott has not revealed himself again. He is beyond our presence of mind.”

Argrave studied Lindon. Since coming here, it felt like he’d never had any true guidance, anyone coming to him with a plan and help. Now, at the final hour, help reared its head. Unconditional help, or so it appeared.

Lindon heard Argrave’s thoughts and said, “There were conditions. Unspoken conditions. But you met them, by and large.” Argrave only blinked in confusion. Lindon said plainly, “If you act with largesse and benevolence, Argrave, you’ll find people seeking you out of their own volition. People like to feel good. There’s no denying that Traugott was able to come so far because of your intervention—most recently, the trade for his help with the Palace of Heaven. But I also cannot deny that you’ve done a world of good. And so, I welcomed you and yours.”

Argrave felt a strange swell of pride. A goodly man? Him? He’d always tried to be, yet to hear it had been the reason that good fortune found him…

Still, he focused on Lindon’s strange intensity. “Do you know something about the Shadowlands that Erlebnis didn’t?”

“I know only one thing; true power in the hands of one unversed in contentment or accepting of refusal will result in disastrous consequences. You have the anchor, Argrave. You have Sophia, and she’s been freed of the box the Heralds made for her. That means more than anyone knows, save the ones who placed her there. Traugott wants her desperately, and even I cannot say what he gleaned of her power from his constant experimentation. You cannot allow an inglorious psychopath to sabotage our would-be freedom from the hidden architects of the cycle. If the world should change, I would have it be at the hands of a trusted one.”

“And the Heralds, too?” Argrave narrowed his eyes. “Can you give us anything?”

“Only that they don’t belong in this world.” Lindon’s head leaned in. “Though they are worrisome, I fear them less than I do Traugott. I suspect they hold a similar opinion; they fear Traugott more than you. Perhaps, in time, they will reach out to you on their own. From all I see, their ilk much prefer to reach an accord before things devolve into war. Though you should keep your ears ready to hear what they say, for now, I advise you focus on Traugott. To that end, about the time I was going to save you…”

Argrave took a breath. “You said this is a route few before me have travelled. That they’re dead. I can’t exactly protest given my spontaneous choice, but can you finally elaborate on how exactly I’ve changed?”

“No. I can’t tell,” Lindon said simply.

Argrave blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You consumed consummate will. How it manifests is beyond me. It isn’t a product of my divinity. Even were I to perish, you would remain changed. All I can offer is teaching.”

“A rather poor offering, considering you just admitted you can’t tell,” Argrave said skeptically.

“You came here to test your new abilities, yes?” Lindon uncoiled, moving closer inch-by-inch. “I’m helping, now.”

“How?” Argrave insisted.

“You’re experiencing it; the aforementioned second order of business.” Lindon circled around Argrave, body slowly tightening around him. “Trapped. Blocked off from the world. I’ve coiled about your mind. Perhaps you’re at ease because you thought I came bearing a message, because I haven’t shown any hostility in the past. I have no intent of leaving this time, Argrave. You must break my hold with your own strength.”

Argrave was going to dumbly repeat, ‘how,’ before he realized Lindon’s intent. The serpent was exerting his divinity. To combat it, Argrave would need to exert his own.

“Not divinity,” Lindon disagreed. “Strength of being. You must figure out how yours can be used. With proper application, you can never again be subject to the divinity’s mastery over their domains. And depending on who you are, you can exert the fundamentals of your being upon the world.”

“I want a power that stops you from being vague,” Argrave sighed.

“Let me be emphatic.” Lindon’s scales met Argrave’s flesh, and he realized that he was in prime position to be strangled by a python. The serpent’s face stopped a few inches from his face. “I am not weak, Argrave. The whole world could not kill us; it merely brought me to the negotiating table. And now that the Melding is over, I have nothing else to do but this. So… to coin a phrase from where you came from… buckle up.”

Chapter 9

Who the hell really was Argrave?

It was the answer to that question that had led him to avoiding pursuing S-rank ascension in any detail. He didn’t like mirrors; he’d made a point of not checking the bronze one, as a point of fact, to keep him grounded in the here and now. He’d somewhat dodged the bullet of ascension by taking on Erlebnis’ knowledge. He had enough information about S-rank ascensions to spend several days perusing the wiki he’d built, and so didn’t need to confront his inner self to engrain his consciousness itself with magic. He’d reached S-rank without it.

Now, it was coming back double. Karmic retribution. Argrave laid back on the unmoving grass, staring up at the clouds in ponderance as they stayed frozen in the blue sky. If his newfound power was linked to who he was, then he finally needed to figure that question out. Honest introspection; this one simple trick had saved countless people years of therapy. It was Argrave’s turn for it.

Was he like Anneliese? A curious fellow?

Maybe he’d been so once. He did spend all of his time filling out the wiki in years past. Even though things did draw his attention sometime, his unbridled interest, he couldn’t fully relate to what she’d told him. She’d said that she wasn’t interested in the wiki in his head. She said she liked the process of discovery. Argrave, though, wasn’t complaining about his inheritance. He was more than happy to be a nepotistic baby. His power, whatever it was, couldn’t rest on that.

Was he a jokester? A wiseass?

Even as he thought it, Argrave knew it wasn’t fully true. He had mellowed out a great deal. Time was he could hardly hold a serious conversation. Much of that was just about not letting on how terrified he was, about staying in control in the face of danger. Anneliese had helped him come to that conclusion. Maybe he wasn’t as funny as he once was, but that was more a sign that he didn’t need to cope as much.

Was he some tryhard protector? A champion of Law, god of justice?

Argrave didn’t like saying so. But looking at it objectively, Lindon himself had said he’d approached because he’d demonstrated ‘largesse and benevolence.’ Fact is, though, Argrave knew he was only benevolent because he didn’t see the value in excess. If push came to shove, he’d prioritize his well-being over another’s.

Even as he thought it, the gears in Argrave’s head met resistance as past memories arose in conflict with his assertion.

“Then why do you keep doing painful shit?” he asked himself aloud, emphasizing his own confusion.

When losing track of something, it was common advice to retrace one’s steps. Argrave did just that. Upon reflection, he’d always been a pain-seeking gremlin. Fighting the druids, he’d ingested the blood of a Winter Nymph. A painful memory. But thinking of blood led him to a deeper revelation; from the beginning, he’d gravitated toward blood magic. His plan had always been etched with the idea of self-sacrifice. The first thing he’d made in this world had been his thesis for Blood Infusion. And most recently, he had invited Sataistador’s fire of chaos inside his body to get what he wanted.

He felt some deep discomfort confronting this notion. Was he one of those people? The notion of Anneliese whipping him in a gimp suit brought him no pleasure, but he couldn’t deny that there was too much evidence against him to so easily handwave matters. In terms of emotional turmoil, the prospect of Anneliese being hurt alarmed him far more than that of himself. He’d sooner be stabbed twice than see her suffer one.

Argrave couldn’t honestly say he’d prioritize his well-being over another’s, given his damnable track record. If that had been the case, he’d not have put himself as such risk so quickly trying to stop Veiden’s invasion. Furthermore, there were other routes—slower routes, granted, but routes nonetheless—he might’ve taken for sufficient power to overthrow King Felipe, to cure his body, to stop the plague. He’d chosen risk of his own volition. And why?

Well, that was the answer. It was just who Argrave was.

It disturbed Argrave a little, accepting that. He supposed no one would like to realize and confront squarely the fact they have self-destructive tendencies. He found the notion incompatible with another trait he knew he had—greed. He liked fancy clothes, flashy things, good food, and the simple act of gaining something. But in the end, what he’d done wasn’t incompatible with his greed. It was an extension of it.

Argrave operated under the principle that he had to give a little to get a little. He’d given a great deal, but it had all been because he wanted to get something in return. He wanted to keep Anneliese and all of his family. He wanted to keep all the people of his kingdom, and a few others besides, alive. He wanted so damned much—all he ever did was want. And to get what he wanted, he’d given enough to have near the whole damned world at his disposal by this point.

But that wasn’t enough. Argrave wanted much more than what he had, even now.

He wanted the Heralds and Traugott done and gone. He wanted the cycle of judgment to end, forevermore. He wanted to make anyone with even the slightest intention of meddling with what was his reduced to ash. He wanted more than a good ending—he wanted the best ending. Elsewise, from the beginning, he would’ve contented himself with what he knew and never acted in a way that might throw things off.

If he needed to bleed a little more to make his best ending come true, what’s the damned harm?

As the words rose to Argrave’s mind, he took a deep breath and let out a sigh tinged with despair. He hoped that he wasn’t on the money. He certainly wasn’t eager to bleed for his cause, but time had proven that he generally needed to. He was just too damned greedy. If he wanted everything, he’d have to give enough to get it.

Argrave turned his head, where the snake remained and watched him passively. “If I eat two fruits, do I get a new power? I want a reroll,” he complained.

“You’ve yet to discover the first,” Lindon reminded him.

“It’d be a blessing if I was wrong. Maybe my power is stand-up comedy. I say some jokes, and people’s heads explode.” Argrave held his hand up toward the sky, hiding the suns with his fingers.

“Given how little impact that joke had, it would seem that’s not the case,” Lindon poured ice over Argrave’s fire immediately.

“I wasn’t standing,” Argrave protested, sitting up. “In hindsight, I should’ve gained an obsession over the passage of time. Or spatial distortions. Those would be prime powers. Man, if I had Raccomen’s ability…”

“If we could choose our obsessions, every mortal man would rise to where you have. I would say you have been blessed sufficiently as it is. What more could you want?” He added, playing off Argrave’s thoughts.

“What more could I want? Everything.” Argrave rose to his feet, then started walking over to where Lindon remained waiting passively. “I won’t hurt you, will I? Breaking free, I mean. There’s a lot I want for you to do for me, still.”

Once again, Argrave felt the glow of amusement radiating outward from Lindon. For a serpent, he had a rather strong sense of humor. Perhaps Argrave had inherited his funny bone from this fellow. But then perhaps not; their relationship was bloodline alone, and Argrave had spent most of his life in another body.

After the glow faded, Lindon goaded, “Try your damnedest to hurt me, I implore you. I daresay you couldn’t even if you wanted to.”

“Clench your teeth, then. Because I’ll be going home on foot, while you’ll be leaving in an ambulance.”

Argrave held up his hand, then conjured a greatsword of his own blood. He felt the pain despite the mindscape he inhabited. He took the thing firmly in hand and swung it at Lindon. It cleaved through the snake, dissipating it into nothingness.

“Seems that theory failed,” Lindon’s disembodied voice continued to taunt.

Argrave looked around, then studied the greatsword in his hand. “Nah,” he disagreed. “I just wasn’t thinking large-scale enough.”

Argrave hefted the weapon on high, craning his whole body… and swinging it in a great arc, he cut the entire world in twain. Like a deluge brought by a god, it tore through the ground and sky with such ease it felt as though he wasn’t swinging at all. He swung it in a great circle, and after, all that remained was darkness.

And in darkness, Argrave again found light.

***

Argrave, back in Berendar, stopped midstride. His people walked ahead of him, looking back in confusion. Just as the time before, it seemed no more than a moment had passed.

“Why’d you stop? Are you unwell?” Elenore asked in concern, then looked to Anneliese to gauge if there was need to be worried.

Anneliese only watched Argrave in confusion. He looked between everyone—his siblings, his queen, Raven… though a lot of his people were missing, he felt it needed to be said.

“All of you…” his fingers pointed to them generally. “You’re my people. Mine.” He tapped his chest.

“What are you saying?” Elenore walked forward.

“And I’m keeping you. So I don’t want to hear any complaining about what needs to be done to do that. It’s just who I am, and I don’t think I can change that.” Argrave looked around, where his city of Blackgard stretched, growing more every day. “Those people over there? They’re mine, too. I’m a greedy bastard, but it just so happens I’m also a good person, too. The two aren’t exclusive. I figured all that out.”

Everyone waited for Argrave to continue, questions written on their face.

“I know how to use my new power,” Argrave explained with a sigh. “I know what changed. You can thank Lindon for all of that.”

“What, then?” Raven indulged, the least surprised of everyone.

“My blood magic’s evolved.”

Chapter 10

“Thanks for coming, Melanie,” Argrave expressed his gratitude. “I know you’ve been taking it a bit easy since that debacle with Traugott.”

The red-haired mercenary-turned-countess stared up at him with her defiant green eyes. “You just haven’t been giving me things to do,” Melanie disagreed. “Unless you include fobbing off Dario onto me, having me follow him about as we fortify the cities and the towns. But enough about me—you wanted me to create a portal, yeah?”

Melanie did so, reappearing somewhere else a great distance away. She hollered at him to inform she was done, but Argrave was already doing something. He conjured a dagger out of his black blood, clenching his teeth at the pain of the blood magic. Then, he swung it through. It passed by what she’d made like passing through air.

Yet the portal… like a cloud of fog blown away by a swift breeze, it dissipated into nothing. Argrave exhaled in eager shock, then looked to Anneliese.

“It vanished,” confirmed Anneliese with her [Truesight], crossing her arms with a mix of wonderment and displeasure. She wasn’t fond of Argrave using blood magic, but she couldn’t disguise some awe and curiosity at what it had become.

“Melanie!” Argrave shouted. “Did you feel that? Anything hurt?”

“I felt it, but it didn’t hurt!” She yelled as he walked back slowly.

“Try the blood echoes, now” Raven instructed quietly.

They repeated the experiment without changing any variables besides that, all the way down to the spot Melanie teleported to and from. Argrave cast a spell of the same rank as the dagger he’d summoned from an echo. Unlike before, his blood magic seemed to catch and stick on the portal before overwhelming it.

“The power is diminished, but still present. You can annihilate divine powers with both forms of blood magic.” Raven confirmed after the experiment had been repeated. “That’s well in line with what both Anneliese and I can perceive in them. It would seem your hypothesis is correct, and the power is proportional to your personal sacrifice. But at the same time…”

“My recovery is so far beyond what it used to be.” Argrave clenched his hand.

Ordinarily after using blood magic, he’d feel some lethargy, especially in the limb that’d cast the spell. It had still come, but it faded in less than a minute.

Raven grew eyes on the tips of his fingers, and they scrutinized Argrave from all angles while glowing green. “The spirits you once used for magic have become part of you. One with you, even. It’s similar to that displayed by a god, but simultaneously different enough I cannot deem you one. I can sense no new organ for this function; rather, it is as though your soul has become the conduit through which divinity manifests as something physical. So long as the soul exists with spirits inside it, you can reconstitute. Considering your soul is undying…”

“Sounds rather like a lich. A holy lich,” Argrave marveled.

“Without its many burdens, nor the imposition of possession by Gerechtigkeit when he descends.” Raven withdrew his probing eyes. “I daresay you’re more durable than I am, by a small margin. Should you take in yet more spirits, that margin will become an insurmountable chasm. But enough talk—let us see the magnitude of your improvement elsewhere. Cut this.”

Raven conjured an S-rank ward, the mana ripple visible for only half a second before a golden shield appeared to ward him. Argrave again conjured a dagger, then swung it. It was F-rank—he wasn’t expecting much. Yet to his surprise, it pierced and sunk in slightly. Argrave could feel the thing bubbling in his hands, and though he wished to drop it, he continued on. The dagger burnt itself away, and when it ceased, he’d nearly pierced the entire ward.

“It nearly broke through. Impressive. I have a theory, however.” Raven waved his hand, and the ward vanished. “Prepare a weapon of higher-rank.”

Argrave conjured a C-rank [Putrid Paramerion], taking hold of the curved blade it conjured. Already his pain faded in wake of his healing.

Raven raised his hand slowly, then conjured an ice ball about the size of a bowling ball. “Cut this,” he demanded.

Argrave had been prepared to walk forth and cut it, but it projected forth with intense speed. Argrave swung the weightless blade quickly, expecting to meet resistance. He felt it only briefly before the ice ball combusted into dark red embers and vanished into nothingness.

“It eats through magic,” Raven explained, his sharp teeth appearing in a grin. Argrave had never seen him smile before, and so he stared in shock. The huge man took a step forward and planted his foot down. “That whip-like spell you’re fond of— [Nine-Tailed Bloodbriar]. Use it against what comes next.”

Argrave brought the spell to the tip of his mind, expecting to be met with a small snowstorm or a wave of ice shards. Instead, Raven brought his hand back, and a mana-ripple spread out. A pillar of fire erupted like a raging volcano, and Argrave cast the spell by preparation and instinct both. His wrist and much of his arm exploded with blood, and the B-ranked spell cracked outward to meet the S-ranked spell. Instead of its briars withering before the superior strength and coverage of the inferno, the fire died as easily as a candle flame in harsh winds.

“Argrave.” Raven walked forth as the fire died. The scorch marks left by his spell were vastly overshadowed by the gigantic claw marks in the earth from Argrave’s whips. “You may well have become the strongest spellcaster in the world with this. I do not believe I could best you in a straightforward fight, anymore. And I believe we merely scratch the surface of your ability’s true potential.”

Argrave clenched his wounded arm. A B-rank spell had stung a hell of a lot, but it had put an S-rank spell in its place with what appeared to be relative ease. Even as he watched, the cracks in his skin born of blood magic sealed, leaving behind only small lines of coagulated black blood that had spilled from the wounds before they closed.

“Three of those fruits remain,” Raven said. “Having seen firsthand what they can do, I can now agree with the assessment posed by others; they possess unfathomable power and potential. If it might bring about such a change in you, I daresay there is little we could not use it for.”

Argrave stared up at Raven for a few moments, then turned to look at his family.

“By rights… what remains of them is yours,” Argrave told Elenore and Orion. “We earned them together.”

“I renounce my claim, and render it unto you,” Orion told Argrave without a moment’s hesitation.

“The math is strange, anyhow. Each of us own one and one-third of a fruit. Best to just to give it to one person. Who better than the king?” Elenore crossed her arms. “Doesn’t make sense for me to eat it or hold onto it. I’m not a combatant. Never have been.”

Now that he knew what each Fruit of Being could offer, rather than eager to use them, he was more hesitant than ever. Raven said yet more powers remained unexplored, but even with what Argrave already discovered, it felt a little difficult to wrap his head around the extremity of the gift. The fact the supply was limited, however, meant it was not something they could give so liberally. With only three, given how large his circle had grown, someone would be left behind.

The meaning of the word ‘immortal’ set in, without a solely positive connotation any longer.

“The man just found out he’s one of the strongest people in the world, and he looks like he’s going to cry,” Melanie jested to Elenore. “Damn baby.”

Argrave was somewhat pulled away from the solemn edge he found himself standing on, and managed a half-hearted chuckle.

“All I know is this; we need a new tax. A spirit tax, for every spellcaster with knowledge enough to have them,” Elenore declared. “Maybe there’s still time enough yet to join in on the raid of Kirel Qircassia. Or maybe I can find some reason to have you execute one of our new junior partners in the Blackgard Union.”

“Let us plumb the depths of your abilities.” Raven put his hand on Argrave’s shoulder. “What would you say to allowing me to totally eviscerate your body, to test the limits and speed of your regeneration?”

Argrave looked in horror… and Raven actually laughed. It sounded more like ‘infernal demon taunting his victims’ than ‘friend making a jest,’ but it proved one thing. Raven had gained as much as he said he had. He was alive again.

***

The minds of Gilderwatchers were vast things, capable of concentrating on enough at the same time that most human minds would break under the workload of their kind. But now, Vasquer’s own brain was stretched to its limits as she saw a huge silver serpent slither over the mountains, approaching her. The reason? Memories that she had lost, returning all at once. Her family. Not the one falsely implanted by consequence of her leaving them, but her true family—the Gilderwatchers, the Melding, and the one before her… Lindon.

She thought to reach out to Elenore and inform of this guest, but Lindon’s voice entered her mind.

“Let them come to you in their own time. They have much to contend with, at present, and I would like to speak to you before they arrive. Besides, I’m not truly here. I’m not truly anywhere.”

Vasquer’s mind combed her old memories, unearthing something she’d long ago been forced to forget as her price for coming to the surface. Lindon did not have a physical form. Instead, he existed in every Gilderwatcher as a welcome, relatively unintrusive guest. He was them, and they were him. In ages past, their enemies had not genocided the Gilderwatchers due to their association with Lindon. They hunted him alone—but he could only die if every single Gilderwatcher died.

Now, he visited with Vasquer. If Argrave or another witnessed her, they would see her eyes had gone silver.

“You were missed at the Melding this millennium. Unfortunately, Argrave did not seek me out quickly enough to reinvolve you before it occurred. Still, he has opened the link for my relative freedom. Hence, I came here.”

Vasquer felt his regret along with his words, and questioned why he spoke in mortal tongue when both might see and feel each other’s minds without restraint or obfuscation.

“My mind could overwhelm even you,” Lindon said, without arrogance. “And besides, it’s not a mortal tongue. You have forgotten much. By treaty, we maintain a universal language. But ask me no more questions, please—I assure you that these memories will return in time.”

Vasquer contented herself, feeling happiness surge within at the visit of her distant ancestor. She sent forth queries about her descendant’s wellbeing after their meeting. Argrave, Elenore, Orion—they were precious existences to her.

“I helped them obtain something, and I intend to help them further yet. But despite my help, there are matters I believe I cannot broach easily. They are attached to you more than they are me, and so I would ask favors of you.”

Vasquer felt suspicion and protectiveness rise up unbidden—though she respected Lindon, she loved her children. She did not wish to be the cudgel in a scheme, if that was what he intended.

“An admirable quality of yours. I do not ask you conceal my name, only deliver my words and feelings in a manner you believe they would respond best to. All of them—Argrave most of all—have deep affection, even love, for this young girl Sophia. Hence, this will be a difficult subject.”

Chapter 11

Argrave reached out to touch Vasquer alongside Elenore and Orion, expecting to feel what she usually offered as greeting—a matriarchal love, far unlike anything else in its intensity. They had come here alone to deliver a brief message and have a slightly longer reunion chat, then return to check on the parliament. But instead of unending love, gray solemnity welled up into Argrave’s being. He suspected his siblings received the same thing, for he felt their puzzlement with Vasquer as their nexus.

Before he could offer any of his own thoughts or memories, Vasquer gave one of her own. Lindon’s visit. He found himself made superfluous as a messenger, and heard some fantastical details about this treaty of ages past—like the fact Lindon had no physical form, or that the Gilderwatchers were what maintained a universal language so that all might communicate with ease. This knowledge was extremely frightening to him—it meant that the Gilderwatchers quite literally influenced the minds of anyone and everyone, eliminating the development of separate dialects or independent languages.

Argrave expressed he felt useless as a messenger. Then, instead of bringing a message, Vasquer conveyed one to them.

Memories played at the corners of Argrave’s mind, tinged with Vasquer’s caution. She asked for his earnest attention, and requested he make no rash decisions. She bridged Elenore’s and Orion’s psyche to his own, and they both gave encouragement to accept this vow. Argrave did. Then, with the eagerness of a stump, Vasquer allowed these memories to permeate Argrave’s being.

Argrave saw the sky, but it wasn’t blue with white clouds—instead, the colors had inverted. The white clouds had turned into mounds of black smoke, hissing and sparking with golden lightning, while the blue of the sky had taken on an eerie dark orange. The red moon had covered the suns in a total eclipse. It was familiar to Argrave both from his experience with Heroes of Berendar and from Erlebnis’ vast databanks. This was the sky on Gerechtigkeit’s advent, when his physical form was ravaging the world.

Argrave saw a putrid living miasma of maleficent darkness covering the landscape, and from it, golden bugeyes on stalks glistened like oil beads atop ever-grasping maws embodying hunger and thirst. It was Gerechtigkeit. Despite the calamity’s awful presence, the bearer of this memory held the gaze of those eyes, then tried to break inside them, psychically projecting their mind forth.

The projected mental being pierced through those eyes, travelling along the nerves to reach the mind and soul. Within, Argrave felt the most malignant rage imaginable. Even though it was just a memory, he felt his whole body strain beneath the weight of the hostility. It was a storm of a thousand daggers, stabbing at his joints with the simplest abstraction of destruction.

Argrave almost wanted to pull his hand away from Vasquer to escape this scene, but held on vigorously as the bearer of this memory continued deeper into this storm of oblivion. It pressed and pressed, wading through a sandstorm in the harshest, most inhospitable desert imaginable. And past all of the rage, past the mindless being, the thoughts of the orchestrator bore themselves. The genesis of this pain.

Memories, attachments, knowledge, a life; they entered into sight, like brilliant gold that had sunken deep in the ocean of blood all about them. This core existence was fragmented, broken, repressed, and oppressed, but it was still the lodestone, the compass, by which this storm of malignance directed its terrible engine. The memories did not say much. They were too brief to represent a full life, but they said enough Argrave knew.

Gerechtigkeit was Griffin. He was Sophia’s brother.

The moment Argrave made the connection, the bearer of this memory was forcefully seized by a hideous, wretched claw of consciousness. The memory-bearer wriggled, struggled, and attempted to free, and finally broke away out of the glistening golden eyes. But it had been a trap. Gerechtigkeit followed the probing mind back to its body.

Gerechtigkeit’s malignant energy infused the psychic attacker, and Argrave felt unimaginable pain. The death was only a second, yet Gerechtigkeit used sheer strength of mind and force of grudge to stretch the deed into an eternity. The original body of Lindon died for a million years before violently exploding along the whole length of his miles-long body.

The unusual manner of his death and his unique talent among Gilderwatchers to project his mind into another meant that Lindon lived, yet he was consigned to exist without a physical form. Despite this terrible fate, he was not abandoned in the world. Relying on the generosity of his kin to share their minds, he persisted, helping and strengthening them as best he could in the eternal struggle against mortals, gods, and Gerechtigkeit. In time, he became the god of minds, dreams, and consciousness.

Argrave pulled his hand away from Vasquer. He could tell the memory had been muffled for his sake, yet the sheer experience had sent his whole body into a terror, sweating copiously and tremoring. Lindon had died there, yet the way he’d done so created a wholly unique existence in the world. Nevertheless, he had died. And Argrave had felt it.

When he opened his eyes, his senses coming back to him, Elenore and Orion both had reeled away as he had. His sister leaned against Vasquer, while Orion laid on the floor looking at the heavens. Argrave sat on the mountain rocks, taking some time to gather himself. His thoughts finally came back to him.

Argrave had long harbored suspicions about Gerechtigkeit’s identity. Between what he’d seen in Sandelabara and what he knew about Sophia’s ability, there was plenty to stoke that hidden and uncertain flame. He hadn’t expected to receive confirmation before judgment day, when they would take it upon themselves to try and end this cycle.

But he had learned. Griffin was not the raw material the Heralds had used to create Gerechtigkeit, nor an unwitting manifestation of his power while he slumbered somewhere, trapped, as his sister had been. Since the very first cycle of judgment to this one soon to come, it had been Griffin alone driving the beast. That young boy was the direction behind that terrible power. He returned here eternally for one reason alone—Sophia.

The reason why Gerechtigkeit descended on Berendar wasn’t random chance. He came down near the closest entry to Sandelabara, which was ever-moving in its location buried dozens of miles beneath the surface of the earth. Sophia was both his anchor and his impetus. She was his freedom and his tether. Both of them were bound by the Heralds, somehow, in service of their objectives. Griffin knew that as fact, but not the how nor why of it.

Argrave rose to his feet, and Elenore and Orion looked up at him from their stupor.

“He’s given us the context. Mind penetration, then noodle explosion.” Argrave said to them. “Now that we’re all stirred, he’s going to ask something of us.”

As Orion sat up, Elenore simply said, “Of course.”

“Why the hell should I even listen?” Argrave asked. “Why the hell do I even want to know? What in hell is so important he gives the message to Vasquer to soften our response?”

“Anger won’t serve you,” Elenore reminded him.

Argrave tapped his foot against the ground, heeding her words and getting himself back under control. With heavy steps, he walked back to Vasquer. He placed his hand on her scales once again, a cynical air about him for what came next. All of this led back to Sophia at root.

When next he touched Vasquer, as expected, he saw Sophia. A young girl, eight years of age, in a green dress like Elenore favored. She had straight black hair and red eyes. Then the scene shifted away into something Argrave was familiar with. The volcano of Vysenn. Argrave saw his own mind laid bare, twice. Once when entering, once when exiting. Lindon offered incontrovertible proof that Sophia had changed him, and not insignificantly.

Now that fact was established, Vasquer showed him Lindon’s message. Two paths lay before them—two branches, two universes of possibility. The first, Argrave travelled. Accepting Sophia as his family, guiding her abilities with a cautious hand, and coming to the confrontation against Gerechtigkeit armed with the knowledge the ancient calamity was her brother. The ending to it all was hazy, uncertain. They did not know if they could master her power, nor if Sophia would be up to the task.

Argrave felt fear and anger both for what path came next. All this talk of anchors, of how she’d changed him… he knew where it led. He’d heard it before. It had come from the Alchemist.

But things defied his expectations.

The alternate path did not end in Sophia’s death. Argrave instead saw himself, carrying Sophia as she slept. Lindon awaited, looming proud with his body that had ceased to be. Argrave awoke Sophia, setting her down and pointing upward to the great snake. She expressed fear, at first, but with Argrave’s urging went to greet Lindon.

After meeting, greeting, and speaking, Lindon and Sophia left together. Argrave did not follow. All his memories of her, both false and genuine, left with them. The silver serpent carried her down that long road atop its head, and together, they greeted the Gilderwatchers. She entered into their great writhing whirlpool of harmony and being, accepting their influence, their philosophy, their guidance. They showed the child as gently as could be done the millennia she had missed trapped in Sandelabara.

At some point, Sophia joined into that great harmony. Welcomed as one of them, when the advent of judgment came, the Gilderwatchers rose as a single entity. There was certainty in their actions, their convictions, as they heralded Sophia. They stood against Gerechtigkeit having fully explored and mastered her power of creation. They executed it flawlessly in aid of an ending to the cycle of judgment, leaving the final blow to Argrave.

The battle against it grew hazy… but when it ended, all the Gilderwatchers surrounded Sophia. The world was peaceful, and Sophia its savior. Lindon craned forward out of them, and took away all of the terrible memories she had endured. Good King Norman disappeared totally and utterly, and Sophia regained the normal childhood she deserved.

Then, they shepherded Sophia outward. Argrave and Anneliese awaited her.

“Mommy!” Sophia greeted, running forth. “Daddy!”

And the two of them knelt, receiving Sophia with smiles on their face. They were family. In their minds, they always had been. Or perhaps they had adopted Sophia, as they truly had. However Argrave and Anneliese wished it to be, it could be. She could live normally, as their biological daughter. She could live with the knowledge she had been part of the battle against the cycle of judgment.

With the power of creation, the world could be shaped as they wished. All that Lindon requested was to take Sophia as his ward. He wished Argrave to place her under the care of the Gilderwatchers.

Chapter 12

After Lindon declared that he wanted to take guardianship of Sophia, Argrave asked the first question that came to mind. Life wasn’t one or the other—it was a gradient.

“Why not both?”

Vasquer projected only uncertainty, as the messages she bore could not answer such questions. It faded as something welled up from within her being, and Argrave felt something dormant come to bear. Lindon, who had been waiting and watching, spoke in appreciably non-mental terms.

“The dictates of the treaty make such a thing impossible.”

Argrave realized in hindsight that the question might’ve been foolish, but tugging on the corner of this shared space within Vasquer’s mindscape, he felt Orion’s confusion and hesitance. In ages past he might’ve thought Orion simply didn’t understand something, but he knew better now. His brother’s hesitance made him gain some of his own—hesitance quickly mirrored by Elenore.

Argrave was going to ask what Lindon wanted with Sophia, but Elenore’s voice cut through the din.

“Why were you able to contact Vasquer now where you couldn’t before? That, too, was dictated by the treaty, no?”

Argrave’s own question caught in his tongue—or mind, as it were. Hers was a good question that everyone, including even Vasquer, came to mirror. Argrave could hear Elenore’s voice bouncing around without end as all reflected the inquiry with their own minds.

“Because the circumstances of the treaty allowed me to,” Lindon answered.

“I think it’s well past time that you show us the damned treaty, then,” Argrave said with a laugh. “You keep mentioning it, and then defying what you’ve established.”

“I cannot show it, for reasons you can doubtless guess: the treaty itself.” Quietude reigned for a few seconds before Lindon appealed briefly, “You know my nature. I have given to you without end. This will not be an exception.”

Orion’s confusion deepened into suspicion. Argrave felt that something was off, too. Lindon was ordinarily anything but brief. He might be called wordy, even verbose. He almost seemed desperate, right now. Argrave assumed there was an ulterior motive. From his worldly experience, such a thing made sense. Lindon had given a lot, but at some point, favors would need to be reciprocated, even for giant bodyless snakes. Sophia was someone who could do nearly anything. He didn’t particularly like treating her as a bargaining chip, even after what he’d learned, but the situation demanded it.

Perhaps Lindon wished for a new body, free of the symbiosis with his fellow Gilderwatchers. If it was just that, Argrave didn’t see something too wrong with it. It wasn’t all that different from her healing the disabled, as far as he was concerned. Still, Argrave needed more information before he could give the idea genuine consideration. And above all, Sophia’s opinion still mattered. No eight-year-old would be thrilled to go on a vacation to Snakeville.

“I’m positive the treaty won’t keep you from telling us what you want Sophia for,” Argrave continued. “I don’t care who they are, no one could’ve predicted an eight-year-old could hold the keys to the universe.”

“I wish only to safeguard her and this world’s future.”

“I don’t buy it,” Argrave disagreed. “There has to be some way to compromise, here. I’m not too fond of meddling with the mind too much, even if you claim it’s already been done to me without my knowledge. Sophia is fine as she is. If we can play around the treaty—perhaps have Sophia visit you as we did, or something of that sort—then we could do it. Unless, of course, there’s something more you intend to do with her that you’re keeping from us. Something you think we might not approve of.”

There was silence for a long few seconds, and Argrave felt that he was catching onto something.

“I intend to remove the treaty.”

Argrave was taken aback. Everything that he’d experienced while travelling through the Tree of Being with his siblings told him that wasn’t a common sentiment, or even a sentiment at all, among the Gilderwatchers. They had their presence of mind, the ability to communicate with one another, and that was all they needed. Argrave got the impression most had little desire to interfere with the trivialities of the surface world. Argrave supposed that Lindon was different. It would make sense, right? Without a body, his existence was the mind alone. In a word, dull.  

But along that train of thought, Argrave caught a snag. If the Gilderwatchers, by nature, didn’t care to interfere with the mind much, how could they have drawn the notice of the wider world? How could they have provoked a genocide against them? It must’ve been Lindon. That was concerning. But then… by his power’s nature, it had quite the subtle touch. And Lindon himself seemed to outwardly share his people’s value.

“Why remove it?” Elenore asked.

“Any would chafe with their freedom restricted,” Lindon argued.

Vasquer interjected with her own thoughts—memories of Lindon, who, despite being vastly more subdued than any other Gilderwatcher, never raged or spoke of rebellion against the hand that fate had dealt them. Though tricksome and troublesome, he was always warm and kind. He had discouraged Vasquer from seeking out the surface, even. Her testimony was fuel for further suspicion.

“Is it so much to ask for a little bit of earnestness? You’ve seen me—greedy as can be. Even if you’ve got some strange wants, A), given Vasquer had children with a human, you can’t be the weirdest Gilderwatcher. And B), you’re right on one point: you’ve given without an end. We can, at the least, hear you out with an open and possibly forgetful mind so long as you’re honest.”

The silence was deafening. Argrave was ready to speak again before Lindon’s voice came back, dark and dreary. “This was never going to work.”

“What?” Argrave was taken aback.

“We will leave this place, together. If you wish to help Sophia, give in.”

Argrave placed what was wrong. It was Lindon’s voice… but not his tone.

Darkness surged out at Argrave’s mind, seeking it out with fury, rage, and destruction manifest. It was just as it had been in the brief memory that Argrave saw, where Lindon’s body perished after probing that which he should not. The memory of the attack did little to prepare for the reality of it. As it came closer, Argrave’s body ceased to function. When it was almost upon him, he felt nothing other than certainty it was all over.

A wave of protective gold swarmed into the path of this darkness, and Argrave felt a fury that was barely able to match what approached. This second power was not born of malignance, however—it was born of love. It was the rage of a mother who had seen her precious child enter into harm’s way, and carried with it a ferocity that enabled action far beyond what it should’ve ever been capable of. With that shielding him, Argrave gathered strength enough to rip his hand away.

Argrave collapsed backward onto the stony mountain rock, covered in sweat and worse. He saw Elenore and Orion spasming, their hands grasped onto Vasquer, and rushed to move them. Seconds before touching them, Argrave stopped with his thoughts blaring warning signals. He conjured a rod of ice as quickly as he could, then used it to pry and throw them both back without touching them. Had he touched them, it might link him back to the madness.

With his siblings free, Argrave stepped in front of them and gazed at Vasquer. “Contact Raven, Anneliese, everyone!” he told Elenore, even though he couldn’t be sure she could hear him. He, himself, was trembling terribly.   

Elenore likely didn’t need to send a message, though. The entire mountaintop rumbled as Vasquer’s body, stretched out along the whole of the Blackgard mountain range, spasmed and thrashed. Argrave could feel something emanating out of her. It inspired a primal terror that Argrave wrongly thought he had conquered. Her feathered mane bristled wildly, and her head thrashed about with the jaw unhinged wide in what looked like a silent scream. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head.

“What’s happening?!” shouted Orion. “What can we do?”

Argrave could think of only one thing, and stepped forth, declaring, “In this domain, my allies have strengthened mental ability.”

The domain encompassed some Vasquer, and the tremoring quieted briefly. Then, Vasquer’s eyes shot open, their golden brilliance flecked with a dark red. Argrave thought it was over, yet half a moment later her gigantic body craned backward, far away from them. Blood flowed from her eyes like tears of pain, raining everywhere.

Argrave’s heart tore in two from the sight, and his brain moved at a thousand miles a second as he thought of what more could be done to help her. But before that power, he’d already been proven totally inadequate. He considered searching out the Fruit of Being, using that. They had been left them in a safe, distant location. Argrave weighed the possibility of teleporting there to retrieve them, planning out the fastest path.

When he resolved to leave, Vasquer’s movements changed. Argrave watched in horror as her head contorted backwards. Her fangs pierced into her own serpentine body, drawing blood. Seeing such a desperate unhinged action, Argrave intended to retrieve a Fruit of Being and bring it back for some hope of saving her life. He grasped at spirits for the shamanic magic to teleport… yet felt nothing. It was like ice water poured upon his flame of his resistance when he remembered why. He had changed; spirits were not as they were, anymore. If there was another way, he could not figure it out quick enough to matter.

“Elenore, I need…!” Argrave began, but then Vasquer’s body grew tighter and tighter until it seemed as taut as a string.

The great feathered serpent’s jaw slackened, coming free of her own flesh. Her spasms ceased, and she fell to the ground. The impact of bone and flesh against stone was loud, and sickened Argrave to hear. That terror-inducing energy began to lessen, but Argrave couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or an ill omen of Vasquer’s fate. At first, Argrave feared to approach. As the seconds passed, concern won the debate roaring in his mind.

He approached, intending to learn what Gerechtigkeit had done… and if it was too late.

Chapter 13

Argrave’s hand hovered just near Vasquer’s scales, and his eyes scanned her body. He looked at her eyes, but they were still and unblinking. He looked at her wounds, and already, the blood coming from them was beginning to wane in volume. He heard noise from behind, and then felt a huge arm at his shoulder.

“Don’t touch the body,” Raven instructed him. “Not until all that power dissipates.”

The body. The word rang in Argrave’s head, again and again, no matter how much he wished to dismiss it. Dead? Vasquer was dead? Seconds ago, they had been consulting her, basking in her warmth, delivering joyous news of a family long ago lost to her that was now soon to be returned. She was supposed to be welcomed back among her ancestors, just as Argrave and his siblings had been welcomed by her. Now, her once-proud mane of feathers moved only because of the mountain winds, stained by her own blood.

The whole world had been turned over. Had that been Lindon? Had he always been an agent of Gerechtigkeit, or had he been corrupted, somehow? Or was it merely an impersonation? How much of what Argrave experienced in the preceding events had been genuine, and how much had been total fabrication? If it had been since the beginning, it made no sense for the deity to offer them so much help. Mere minutes ago, Lindon had helped Argrave master the abilities granted by the Fruit of Being. Argrave could make no sense of it.

Regardless, because of his negligence, Vasquer had died. 

Another hand grabbed him from behind—a more familiar, consoling touch. “Argrave,” Anneliese spoke in hushed tones. “This may not be the end of things. Without Vasquer’s presence of mind, it will be more difficult for us to detect covert approaches, as from the underground and elsewhere. Onychinusa’s barriers still persist, preventing teleportation, but you know as well as I that isn’t the end of our vulnerabilities.”

For a moment Argrave felt a terrible weight coming from his own mind that was near too heavy to make him straighten his back. But the reminder of the root of all this—Sophia—helped him rise, compartmentalizing the grief in a small box to be let out at another time. He wiped away and slapped his face, then turned back with a fierce mien. He was not granted the luxury of grief.

“First priority is securing Sophia,” Argrave said, voice hoarse yet strong. “Anneliese—I need you to teleport me there. I can’t use spirits as I once did.” He looked at Elenore, who seemed to still be in something of a state of shock. Despite her nature, she wasn’t as used to squarely confronting death. He kneeled down.

“Elenore,” Argrave said quietly. He put his hand on her, and she finally turned her gray eyes toward him. “Elenore. Are you alright? Are you fit to move? You’re needed.”

With her body trembling terribly, she tried to stand, then nearly collapsed before Argrave stopped her.

“Stay sitting,” he ordered her, and she nodded as he let her down. “You’ll join Sophia soon enough—someone will teleport you there. I need you to contact everyone we trust. Everyone needs to come to Blackgard prepared for a fight. We have to assume the worst—that this is a beginning to something much larger.”

“Alright,” Elenore managed, her voice regaining some of its vigor and her trembling fading with a clear objective before her. “I’ll assess the situation, as well.”

Argrave nodded and stood up, looking to Orion. He saw his brother staring at Vasquer. He was shaking, too… but certainly not from fear. Veins on his forehead and neck bulged, and his hands were clenched into fists tight enough his gauntlets creaked in protest. There was a dim crackle in the air about him as the blessings within manifested unbidden. He bore a silent fury with an intensity Argrave had never seen from him before.

“Orion,” he called out. “We’ll find them. Be ready for that, but only act when that time comes.”

Orion’s fist slowly slackened, though his anger did not fade in the slightest.

Raven walked ahead of Argrave. “I’ve collected a sample. I can temporarily fill the role of watching the underground using earth magic, but my method will have a degree less efficiency than she did.”

Argrave nodded at him. “I think I’ll look in the wiki, too. Learn that spell myself. For now, let’s get moving.”

As Argrave prepared to teleport with Anneliese, his mind busied itself wondering if his newfound abilities had a way to use shamanic magic without the typical mechanisms all other casters used. That distraction inevitably faded, and his mind wandered back to the incident. Lindon… what the hell was this? It felt like luck had finally found them, but its sweet taste turned to sand in the mouth in mere moments.

Something told Argrave that the matter with the Gilderwatchers ran far deeper than Argrave knew. There had to be some reason why Gerechtigkeit, or Lindon, or whatever that had been used Vasquer as the medium of attack. Argrave had been totally caught off guard by this, lured by a sense of momentum into overlooking pivotal details. Gerechtigkeit was never this overt before his arrival. Perhaps it was an omen of his strengthened ability, as the Heralds had promised would come.

The mind. It was a terrifying thing to meddle with. What did it matter if Argrave had unified the world, if their minds might be changed overnight? Measures needed to be taken—quickly. The one who might be able to help them the most on this matter was compromised, possibly even outright malevolent.

***

Contrary to Argrave’s expectations, Sophia was not under siege. Her appointed guard, the Magister of the Gray Owl, Vasilisa, reported nothing out of the ordinary. She slept, peacefully. A great deal of Argrave’s force came to bear in light of Elenore’s rapid and frantic assessment of the situation. In less than thirty minutes, countless powerful people had arrived, and the whole continent was on high alert.

For a moment, Argrave felt as though the incident had come and gone as if it was a mirage. But eventually, ominous stirrings came to light.

“I searched the underground city, somewhat, with earth magic and my own sight,” Raven relayed to Argrave and Anneliese as they stood outside of Sophia’s chambers. The man was in his ‘Doctor Raven’ form, as he was about to give Sophia an examination to see if anything was wrong with her. “I noticed something extremely strange. The ground… all of it was rumbling, trembling. It wasn’t enough to consider it an earthquake or other event of similar magnitude. But something beneath the ground is stirring.”

Argrave nodded. “Maybe I should go and see it myself, cross-reference it with the things in my head.”

“I did one better.” Raven shook his head. “I contacted the dwarves. Things have been progressing quietly with them, but they still have been progressing. I was able to inquire if their machinery had detected anything, or if they’d similar anomalous reports.”

“Diplomacy. From you.” Argrave shook his head. “And?”

“They concurred.” Raven looked around. “It’s strongest near here, beneath Blackgard, but around the world, something huge is stirring underground. Things are in motion.”

“The Gilderwatchers, maybe,” Anneliese posited seriously. “I believe you said they live underground, largely.”

“I cannot say with certainty it’s them.” Raven looked to the door. “Enough speculation. Let us see the girl.”

With a nod, Argrave made for the door. Vasilisa gave him a polite nod as he neared, then stepped out of the way of the entrance. Gently, he pushed into her room while trying to keep the hinges silent. They creaked slightly, and a crack of light illuminated Sophia’s face. Her eyes opened, then fell upon the three of them.

“…Argrave?” she muttered sleepily, sitting up and pulling her blanket with her in light of the chill.

“Did we wake you?” Argrave entered, abandoning the plan. “We just wanted to check up on you.”

“Why?” she asked innocently.

Argrave stared at her without an answer, his mind somewhat scrambled after the events of today. Apparently, this girl had changed his mind, somehow. But could that information be trusted, after what happened? Was it another machination of Erlebnis? He could believe none of what he heard, and half of what he’d seen.

“Has anything strange happened to you?” Anneliese kneeled down.

“Umm…” Sophia rubbed her eyes to dispel her fatigue.

“What happened to you today? Recently? Say anything, no matter how trivial,” Argrave encouraged her, looking between Raven and Anneliese before he also knelt. “It’s of the utmost importance.”

“Mmm…” Sophia thought hard, gradually waking. “Yesterday, I woke up, then Auntie Vass took me to the place so I could see the people. I dunno where it was. We teleported. I helped a man without a leg get it back. He was asleep. And then, I…”

Sophia carried on, describing her day in minute detail while Anneliese and Raven scrutinized her for anything off. Her day seemed typical for Sophia’s admittedly atypical lifestyle, and Vasilisa said that it matched with what she remembered. Argrave was frustrated that he could find nothing, until Sophia started recounting something that struck hard.

“I guess… I guess I don’t have nightmares, anymore,” Sophia said.

“Nightmares?” Argrave repeated.

“I haven’t had them in a while.” She shook her head, clutching her blanket. “I see… I used to see Norman, a lot. He would…” she trailed off, muttering. Argrave wouldn’t dare ask her to repeat it. “But now… hardly ever.”

Argrave was glad of it, but he wished that he’d known about this earlier. Anneliese probed, “Why do you guess? Do you still have unpleasant dreams?”

“I still see Norman. But he’s a little different. And he doesn’t… he never does the things, anymore. And he talks different,” Sophia said, gaze distant.

“What does he say?” Argrave pressed.

Sophia clenched the blanket tighter. “He wants me to leave this place.” She shook her head. “But I don’t want to go. So he goes.”

Argrave heard her, and his grip tightened. A man that looked like Norman, but different. A man that wanted her to leave.

***

Argrave sat on a rock outside Sophia’s room. Many months before Gerechtigkeit was meant to descend, the calamity was already playing a heavy hand in the world’s affair. Argrave had half-dismissed the notion that Gerechtigkeit was Griffin. Now, however, with the dreams that Sophia had been having…

He’d felt all-powerful not too long ago. Upgraded, enhanced blood magic. A match for divinity. Now, he was scared it would all crumble around him. Ironically enough, he’d become adept at fighting, strategizing, warring. Now, it was affairs of the mind that outplayed him all around. That attack was an assassination attempt, without a doubt. And they desperately needed a defense.

“Before you attack, listen.”

Lindon’s voice made the hairs on the back of Argrave’s neck stand up, and he conjured a blade of blood magic at once, preparing to cut away the intruder.

“If not you, I could converse with Elenore or Orion,” Lindon said quickly. “Instead, I came to you. I understand your rage and sorrow, but refrain from playing into his designs, I beg of you. Just listen.”

Chapter 14

Argrave felt like he had a parasite in his body, and though he longed to move to cut it out, he saw the sense in what was said. If this was an attack, it likely wouldn’t have started with words. He would listen—listen distrustfully, listen with total suspicion, but listen all the same.

“Thank you,” Lindon said, relief flavoring his tone. If this was an act, Argrave already thought it was a better one. “I shall say it bluntly; whatever you spoke to was not me. I was recovering from the daze you inflicted by banishing me from your mind. Vasquer’s death wounds me as much as it does you. Two millennia old… she was a fucking kid. And that animal, I can’t even say his name—he killed her.” Silence reigned—Lindon’s grief, or a travesty of it.

“Nothing can make it right. I’m going to tell you what I conjecture, and then I’m going to give you provable facts.”

Argrave leaned the blade of blood up against his knee as he sat on the rock, saying nothing further.

“Gerechtigkeit must’ve found a way to work through the Gilderwatchers as I do. It may be that he’s had this ability for countless cycles, yet only now shown his hand when an opportunity presented itself. It may be that I am that conduit, and he’s been using me from the beginning. Even I lack total certainty. Regardless, I believe his plans are threefold. He plans to destroy the treaty limiting my abilities and that of the Gilderwatchers. That ties into his second plan; destroying the White Planes themselves. Without its binding scriptures, alliances around the world would crumble overnight. Everyone in the Blackgard Union would no longer be dictated to defend one another. Notably, by achieving the second, he would achieve the first.

“I can feel a tremendous mental energy reverberating around the world, mindlessly throwing itself against the forces that prevent us from acting in ways contrary to the treaty. If I am merely powerful, it is omnipotent. And worse yet, it’s growing in power as surely as the calamity descends. For now, only the Gilderwatchers are vulnerable—them, and those related to them. In simpler terms, you and your siblings. But later, his power could be far greater than ours ever was in the days of old. I believe you’ve already seen some of that—Sophia’s dreams.”

Argrave believed nothing that was said… but he wasn’t in a hurry to forget it, either.

Lindon continued. “His third goal is as it ever is. You’ve built a terrible power in the Blackgard Union and the nations you’ve united. By fracturing it, he hopes to throw the world into chaos and achieve victory. But more than the world, I suspect his target is you, specifically. You, and all those close to you. He will attempt to isolate and mitigate all those you have even a remote relationship with, because you are ostensibly the final barrier between him and Sophia. You are the glue holding things together.”

Argrave felt a chill. Whether this was Gerechtigkeit or Lindon speaking, that message was ominous. He had been right in assuming that the incident with Vasquer was an assassination attempt.

“I have given you conjecture,” Lindon continued. “I will now relay fact. Anneliese’s prediction was correct; that rumbling Raven reported is related to the Gilderwatchers. They heed a false Melding, heading for a Tree of Being I did not establish. I am terrified of what it entails. You can verify their movements for yourself, and Raven might feel traces of this false Melding in the continent of Anorexhai. Furthermore, if you depart to the White Planes, I suspect you would see it strain against the calamity’s power.”

Argrave took note of these things. Could each of these be a trap? Possibly. But traps could be disarmed, and if these words did prove to be true, it gave some credence to this conversation.

“In parting, I say this. Do not trust my words. Do not trust any Gilderwatcher. Assume we are yet another of Gerechtigkeit’s puppets as the golems or the undead. Assume all of my words have been flavored in deception designed to entrap, and trust only that which you, yourself, have verified. I will move to fight against this mental energy, and this false Melding, likely to my death. My people march toward what I assume must be a slaughterhouse, where their wills and flesh will be processed into meat for one who judges the world. I must do something or die trying. And above all—find ways to protect yourself. Your bloodline has been a boon, but now it is a tremendous vulnerability as Gerechtigkeit strengthens. Even having consumed the Fruit of Being, you remain at risk.”

Argrave could think of no further response. It took a sophisticated scammer to recommend distrusting them, or it took an honest person. The line wasn’t entirely clear. Regardless, Argrave felt a hidden pressure in his head abate and was certain Lindon had gone. Even still, he brought the blade of blood near his head, letting his power melt away whatever might be inside there.

That talk about the death of the Gilderwatchers… either it was something immensely concerning, or bait to attract Argrave toward a battle he might not win. Argrave agreed with the notion of acquiring protection, but even to that end, he wasn’t willing to divert his forces chasing after what Lindon had highlighted. There were proverbs about the number of times one had been fooled, and Argrave didn’t care to explore them.

But there were people that owed them debts, and gods that could be enticed to act in their stead. With a person in mind, Argrave made to find Elenore.

***

Elenore was all too eager to follow up on Argrave’s plan. Her manner of dealing with grief was somewhat similar to Argrave’s—work, work, work. There was a severe gap in their defenses with Vasquer’s parting, and it needed to be filled long before the funeral could be held. That was one of the few burdens of their position.

In no more than a few hours, the one that Argrave hoped to speak to sat across from him. He was nearly too short for the chair he sat upon.

“You didn’t participate in the battle against the Qircassian Coalition in the slightest,” Argrave said, arms crossed on the table before him.

Yinther, god of exploration, curiosity, discovery, had the look of a blonde child ill-suited for the title of god. He listened to Argrave with impassive golden eyes.

“Anneliese bore my blessing. She helped you every bit as much as I might’ve,” he disagreed. “Seeing the true nature of things—there is little more that I can offer than that. I am not a fighter, unless you consider falsities and misinformation an enemy to be fought.”

“Then I have no doubt you’re very enticed looking at me.” Argrave held his arms out.

Yinther narrowed his eyes. “It sounds very queer when you put it like that. But… yes, I’ve never seen anything like as what occurs within your body. Are you asking for my assistance in finding it out?”

“No, merely confirming some thoughts.” Argrave sighed. “Listen. We made you a senior partner in the Blackgard Union, despite your lack of participation in the battle.”

“You did,” Yinther nodded. “Quid pro quo; is that the gist of what you suggest? I’m not opposed. My greatest use is my blessing. It might be said that blessing so many people is the reason I remain so weak. Is that what you would ask of me?”

Argrave shook his head. “No. I want you to go to the White Planes. I have it on good authority that it’s under attack right now, and I want you to scout it out, scrutinize it, and tell me everything that you learn about said attack.”

“An attack on the White Planes, where all gods are made equal before it? The very idea is ridiculous.” Yinther crossed his short arms.

“But very curious,” Argrave rebutted.

“Do you think my mind matches my appearance? That I would lose my mind and go gallivanting to a supposed warzone simply because it’s a curious idea?”

Argrave smiled without saying anything.

After a while, the silence seemed to make Yinther uncomfortable. He asked, “What could even attack the White Planes? You know what they are, don’t you?”

“Does anyone actually know what they are?” Argrave answered the question with a question. “I think I have a better idea than most, given recent events.”

Yinther went quiet, fidgeting on the chair that was a little too tall for him. He looked liable to ask countless questions, but his mouth opened and closed without asking any. Eventually, he turned and jumped down off the chair, his curiosity spurring him to action.

“I’ll look. But… this trip best not waste my time.”

Argrave sincerely hoped it did, but said nothing to indicate as much. This first matter was settled. As for protection…

***

“You want another Ravenstone?”

Argrave nodded, looking up at Raven. “It was supposed to protect from mental attacks. When Erlebnis died, it went away with him. I don’t care about its ability to keep you contained, but given Vasquer’s death, that’s something I need. Not just me, either—all of us. My siblings for starters, but in time, everyone. Maybe the whole nation.”

Raven shook his head. “The Ravenstone ‘went away’ because it was made out of Erlebnis’ blessing, and consequently died with him. Powerful blessings from ancient gods aren’t common. You’ve only one. We might use the Fruit of Being for such a thing, if you’d let me experiment with them.”

Argrave shook his head. “No one’s using those, not for a while.”

“Why? They have verifiable results. You’re fine.”

“Just… because,” Argrave answered weakly. “Just in case.”

Argrave expected chiding, but Raven said, “So be it. I understand. But if you’re asking me, that means Erlebnis’ wiki had nothing on the subject of mental protection?”

“Nothing magical. Most of it links back to the Gilderwatchers or certain gods. Dead gods, mostly.” Argrave shook his head. “But it’s a lot to parse through.”

“I’m surprised.” Raven narrowed his eyes. “But perhaps I shouldn’t be. My mastery of the mind can’t be called true mastery. I’m likely the foremost practitioner of psychic magics, if you can even call what I do such a thing, but most of it centers around my own personal power or rigging other powers to my ends. The theory for it didn’t come from me, however. It came from Llewellen.”

Argrave looked at him in shock. “The one who made Anneliese’s A-rank ascension? The one who helped Emperor Balzat make [Requite] and [Subjugate], all of the imperial spells?”

“The very same, although I didn’t know he worked with Onychinusa’s grandfather. He was far more intelligent than me, but had such a low affinity for magic it was astounding he made it as far as he did,” Raven admitted as though declaring someone was smarter than him didn’t deserve special mention. “If you wish for inspiration as to where to begin, I suggest reading about him on the wiki. Erlebnis won’t have it all, but he’ll have enough for me to fill in what remains. Then, we can talk more about the possibility of psychic magic.”

Chapter 15

Argrave was having a moment rather similar to the distant past—something that inspired him to get into editing wikis to begin with. It was that feeling he got when he discovered something very fascinating about something he thought he was intimately familiar with. A wiki page for a character in a franchise that had a neat backstory, or a place in the world that inspired deep consideration; quite frankly, the wikis were often more compelling than the story itself.

His fascination was Llewellen. The man was an orphan of the ancient elven empire of which Onychinusa was the last descendant. Despite being an elf, he’d been made a slave to a spellcaster who he served for sixty-seven years. At the age of eighty, he embarked onto the path of magic. Rumor said it took him ten years to reach D-rank in magic. That detail had been confirmed in the dwarven music box that Anneliese had collected to learn his method of A-rank ascension.

To reach C-rank, however, it took him forty-two years. The time to reach B-rank was unknown, but again presumed to be several decades. With two hundred years of life under his belt by the time he got there, he was considered ancient for normal elves and quite old even for spellcasters. His magic affinity could be said to be among the worst. Most normal people could, with equivalent effort, reach much greater heights. If he were a human, he wouldn’t have reached that level at all.

But Llewellen bore a sobriquet. ‘Theorist.’ And that was what he was remembered for.

As Argrave read through his list of accomplishments, he recognized countless things he still used today that Llewellen had been a part of. He was responsible for the principles of moving and molding metal with earth magic, commonly used by the Order of the Rose, as well as most of their unique spells— [Electric Eel] among them. As it turned out, those were holdouts from the ancient elven empire. Llewellen had furthermore aided in the creation of most higher-level shamanic magics originating on this continent. Erlebnis credited him as the main pioneer behind all strength-enhancing enchantments used by the ancient elven empire, but his credit was stolen by another researcher of higher rank.

The list didn’t end there. He discovered druidic magic independently of the Veidimen, though never taught it to very many. He spent many years in the Great Chu, and was responsible for a great deal of their defensive systems—including, most notably, the forts that took their armies moments to construct and could self-destruct if taken by the enemy. The foundation of their recent military strategy came from an elf, if Erlebnis’ knowledge was to be believed. On top of that grand list, there was what Argrave had personally confirmed with others.

Anneliese’s A-rank ascension, [Life Cycle]. All of Raven’s knowledge about psychic magics. The imperial spells, including the spell parry [Requite] or the mental attack [Subjugate]. Even to this day, the mountain range that surrounded Blackgard was infused with magic from the A-rank ascension Llewellen had attempted. In a study where new contributions were singular, spread out among many hundreds and often hoarded for personal gain, Llewellen was a pillar of magical theory and the foundation for countless spells—even entire fields of magic.

His intelligence and skill, despite his considerable handicap, was such that Erlebnis himself had intended to reach out and recruit him for his cause. Unfortunately, he hadn’t survived until the cycle of judgment, so that conversation never occurred. He died ingloriously in an abandoned dwarven city that he might not inflict any innocent people with his fell power that was enough to shift even the landscape. Argrave had been the first to unearth him (in this reality, at least), and Anneliese had become the heir to his perfected A-rank ascension.

At the end of all these confirmed accomplishments, there were things he’d done that could make any decent spellcaster salivate. Rumors.

Rumor said that Llewellen had long been theorizing about spatial magic, psychic magic—both feats largely in the realm of gods, but Erlebnis had multiple accounts of Llewellen suggesting to others that the feats of the gods might not be so far from the hands of mortals. The Theorist wasn’t one to talk out of turn. There was evidence of that in [Subjugate]. Though a shamanic spell using spirits, it attacked the mind directly. 

The problem was, Llewellen didn’t have a lair, a tower, or any convenient place where he kept his research that Argrave might pillage. He roamed—it was why he was able to talk to and influence so many people, but it also meant that a lot of that research was probably lost with him. The page Erlebnis had was filled with endless speculation about where the Theorist’s lost theories might be.

So, armed with this information, he returned to the one that had set him on this track.

Argrave entered into Raven’s room in the far corner of the parliamentary hall. The man was scrutinizing the sample taken from Vasquer. A strip of scales had been laid out across an obsidian table, and magic twinkled around it from countless sources.

“Do you have more information about Llewellen, or did I waste my time reading all of that? Do you know where his theories about psychic magic might be?”

Raven didn’t divert his attention from the sample. “Do you think if I knew where they were, I wouldn’t claim them? The man was a genius. No other magical practitioner reached his toes, even. If he’d been blessed with talent in magic as much as intellect, he would wipe the floor with all of us, today.” An eye formed on his elbow, and soon after, a mouth beneath it. “But then, perhaps not. Perhaps his lack of talent proved fuel for his relentless theorizing.”

“So, why did you direct me there?” Argrave demanded.

Raven stopped working, turning his full body toward Argrave. “I have some of his theory, as I mentioned.” He tapped a stack of books in the corner of the room. “I compiled them while you were reading. Furthermore, you have that spell, [Subjugate], that even Erlebnis was ignorant of. Are there more of Llewellen’s relics you have knowledge of?”

Argrave shook his head.

“Still, it should be enough.” Raven nodded sagely.

“Enough for what?” Argrave demanded.

“Do I need to remind you that you have the whole Order of the Gray Owl, and countless practitioners in the Great Chu, at your disposal?” Raven sneered at Argrave condescendingly. “It seems I do. If things are as you say, it’s past time to create a rather unprecedented research team in light of this emergency. Am I wrong?”

“Is a new field of magic something you can just…” Argrave snapped his fingers. “Whip up, like that? There’s a reason we’ve come so far without developing it.”

“The reason is that significant attention has not been diverted to it. People can pass by something useful for thousands of years, but until it’s scrutinized and experimented with, its potential is never known. Innovation comes from exceptional individuals who are generous enough to share their findings, or from focused direction from a higher authority. In this case, you.

“You’ve united most of the world, and have the knowledge of Erlebnis resting dormant in your head. If you can’t do something with that, you’re a dullard, imbecile, moron, and all other synonyms you might conjure. This world would amply deserve to be destroyed if someone so braindead could rise to the top.” Raven turned back to the sample. “Get to work. You can take the books.”

Raven’s simple explanation gave Argrave confidence enough to want to get started immediately, but the practitioner in him knew that it was never as simple as he said. Still… if magic might be viewed as technology, it had taken people countless millennia to rise from the point of using clubs and spears to something grandly complex like computers. Magic was at least as old as Erlebnis—one hundred and seventeen millennia—and likely far older. Given progress was disrupted, perhaps even directly halted, by the chaos Gerechtigkeit wrought, Raven’s point might stand.

Or it might not. Still, Argrave took the books.

***

Argrave sat across from Elenore. There were dark circles beneath her eyes as she stared back at Argrave.

“I can get Artur’s Hall of Enchantment to join. It’s grown in popularity significantly under the new patent system we established,” she summarized robotically. “The Order of the Gray Owl, however, is a different beast to wrangle. We have several individual Magisters we could entice, but you’d honestly need the influence of the new tower master, Tarah, to get them involved.”

“I can speak to her,” Argrave nodded. He knew Tarah. He recalled her as being a good-natured Magister who had a deep mastery over healing magic.

“But our frantic call to arms has caused some unrest,” Elenore continued. “In Orion most of all. He’s breaking things, unintentionally but often. He’s erratic, inconsolable. He wants vengeance, but I don’t think we can give it to him yet.” Elenore closed her eyes. “We have to announce Vasquer’s death. Then, we should hold her funeral not too long after. I believe that should quell some unease.”

“Maybe someone else should handle that. Anneliese, or Durran,” Argrave suggested. “I think we can trust them to do it properly.”

Elenore shook her head. “No. I want to do it.” She stayed silent for a while. Evidently reminding herself of Vasquer’s death had stirred up something, and a few tears escaped her eyes despite her attempts to hide them.

Argrave’s throat seized up seeing her sadness. “You want to torture yourself more?”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she dismissed him coldly, and Argrave chose to stay quiet.

“Why did it have to be her, Argrave? She was so kind, so full of warmth,” she said, voice tight and trembling with raw emotion. “I would go to her after a long day of work, sometime, and the pride she felt was greater than my own. Pride for me. She saw everything I did in the past. She saw me order the deaths of entire families, even, but she was still proud of me. I thought… I thought that nothing like this could happen to her. Who would possibly want to hurt such a harmless creature? I got it into my head that she’d watch us all grow old, that I could show her a life outside of that dismal cave she spent so much of her life. She was supposed to be welcomed back to her kin, Argrave. I was looking forward to helping her and Lindon meet so damned much.”

Argrave stood from the chair and walked around the desk, kneeling down before Elenore and holding her as he, himself, tried not to cry. He thought words would do nothing, so he stayed as silent support. She cried quietly, but held him tightly as though a tide threatened to sweep her away.

“…I’m tired, Argrave,” she said after a while, her grip slackening. “And I feel old.”

“Then sleep,” he offered.

Elenore pulled away from him, then wiped away her face. She looked back to her desk. “I have more work to do.”

Argrave knew any advice or insistence he had would only be met with firm indignance, so he nodded. Still, he made a mental note to ask some of the staff to help Elenore rest.

“I’ll go speak with Tarah. I’m thinking of having Anneliese chair the research team,” he changed the subject, knowing well Elenore would be uncomfortable if he insisted on this further. And maybe he, himself, didn’t like thinking on it too much.

“She would do well. Adept at leading and talented at magic,” Elenore nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind for those I contact.”

Argrave nodded, then walked for the door.

“Argrave,” she called out before he touched the doorknob. “Thank you. I’m… I’m glad you’re my brother.”

“I’m glad to be your brother.” He smiled sadly, then left.

Chapter 16

“Sophia.”

Upon hearing her name called, she blinked open her eyes, expecting to see the familiar and comforting wooden ceiling of the room that Argrave had given her. Instead, there was an endless grayness above that gave no sense of distance. She sat up urgently and looked around. There, she saw the man was not her father, yet resembled him all the same.

Tall. Neat black hair. Dark red eyes. She couldn’t tell what he was wearing because the grayness seemed to billow mist that concealed him. She tried to say something, but found she lacked the energy to speak. Her whole body felt heavy, like she was wrapped in something entirely contrary to her being.

“You always said you wanted a knight to come and save you. To take you away,” he said, his figure shimmering. He spoke as if he was tired—as if being here was a tremendous strain on him. “A knight that could stand up to anything. A knight that never tired. A knight who took you to a place where hardships never came.”

She calmed when she knew this was not a nightmare. Hearing her dream for a knight said now, it felt like a desire of the distant past and a reminder of the death she had caused by giving life to that dream. She already had been taken away—not by a knight, but by a king just like her father who truly deserved the title of ‘Good King.’ The life that she had found was not at all like what she expected, but now… now, that knight didn’t occupy her thoughts. The next day was not dreaded, but merely expected. There was still sadness, but there was also joy. And that, as Elenore had once told her, was just life.

“That knight is coming,” the man said. “He will be born, soon, answering the call of all your wishes. He will do that which I was powerless to. He will protect you from all harm, all danger. He will bring a justice your world lacked.”

Darkness seemed to reach out from the gray, clawing at the man’s body. Sophia had an ominous premonition it didn’t seek him, but her. A haunting roar of primal anger echoed across the place, and Sophia felt chills run up her spine before that force disappeared.

“The gold comes together to form a tree,” he continued, nearly panting as he looked upon her. “And from their wills, the knight shall be born. Your knight. Await him. I will not be long after.”

Then he was gone, leaving no trace of his presence behind. In parting, the man took more than his being. The grayness all around dissipated, as did that malignant presence that he fought against. He took the words he spoke, too, leaving only the feelings they evoked.

Sophia awoke, and saw the familiar and comforting wooden ceiling of the room that Argrave had given her. As she blinked the morning fog from her eyes, she knew that she had a dream. As was often the case with dreams, she thought deeply on it yet could not recall its contents. Still, she felt a strange feeling; apprehension, anticipation, hope, and recognition tied together as a knot that brought pause to her mind. But despite her exploration, the dream did not return to her—only images of a knight, and the surety she had been with someone she once knew.

But… it wasn’t an unpleasant dream, surely?

***

Four days had passed since Vasquer’s death. Argrave had finally managed to force Elenore into sleeping the night. Not longer after, news of the end of the siege of Kirel Qircassia finally graced their doorstep. The god of land and sky had died as he lived; rather ingloriously, and at the whim and whimsy of a massive coalition. Argrave would have to remember the lesson taught there if he didn’t want to end up sharing the god’s fate.

The great bounty of spirits wasn’t plundered by Rook, this time—instead, they were distributed rather evenly, with a great bulk nonetheless going to Law for his direct and significant contribution. Before, it had merely been widely thought the Blackgard Union was the most powerful force in the world. Now, it was undisputed.

All the same, that foundation of invincibility had cracks. Many were revealed upon Yinther’s return.

“It was just as you said,” the god of curiosity informed Argrave. “The White Planes are not quite as sterile as they once were. Instead, something unclean mars, pushes, and molds it without reservation. Jabs, spikes, and blunt blows are its preferred attacks, but it seems any would suffice.”

“Poetic,” Argrave praised sarcastically. “I was more interested about your read on what it was. Gerechtigkeit, right?”

“No one else would benefit, but I’ve no proof. It felt somehow different from the times I’ve encountered Gerechtigkeit in the past. Regardless, I didn’t care to stand around and wait for the vessel to break.”

“Is that going to happen?” Argrave asked in surprise. “Soon?”

“How in the blazes could I adequately assess that?” Yinther protested with his boyish indignance. “I’m entirely ignorant of its design, much less its capacity to weather attack. Before this, the White Planes were something beyond assault.”

“If you had to guess,” Argrave encouraged.

“If I had to guess, I’d like to find out what’s compelling me against my will. But I don’t have to guess.” Yinther shook his head. “I will say it took me a while of quiet observation to notice anything amiss. But once others take note of this, or if the situation worsens… it’ll be our word and bond alone keeping the Blackgard Union cohesive. Law, I trust. All the others… deception is Rook’s sphere. He’ll color outside the lines, somewhat, but he’ll still go along with all the others since the White Planes binds him. Without it binding us, it could be a rather quick unravelling.”

Argrave scratched at his chin. “I disagree. Everyone will play extremely cautiously when the White Planes falls. They’ll know it’s something serious.”

“That is an argument.” Yinther nodded, then looked around. “It wasn’t a wasted trip, but I wish it was.”

“I wished the same.” He pointed at Yinther. “But between the possibility of a wider mental assault, and the movement of the Gilderwatchers beneath the surface, it’s clear that what I said about Gerechtigkeit having a greater strength than every other cycle before was correct. On that note, we’re forming a research team around psychic magic. Does that draw your interest?”

Yinther looked at Argrave with a familiar glare. It was the expression of someone who’d just learned something they wished they hadn’t, because they knew it meant their time was about to become rather thin.

***

In the coming days, a loose structure had been established for the research team—now, it merely needed bodies to fill it. More and more raw talent continued to flock to Blackgard, heeding Argrave and Elenore’s calls to arms. In time, enough people had banded together that they could no longer refuse to answer the question of why they had acted in such a drastic manner. Thus, they announced Vasquer’s death… and her funeral, shortly to come. To the people, it was to be an impersonal event—a period of mourning no longer than a day for a symbol of their nation that few had any genuine attachment to. If anything, they would be more concerned with her attacker than her death.

To the royal family, however, this was a matter of great import. She had been a tremendous pillar of support for Orion and Elenore. Argrave had not been as close as either of them—perhaps only because he had Anneliese to rely on for all of his personal problems—but he felt her loss sharply all the same. Her unconditional love was not something that could be easily forgotten. More than a matriarch, she might be considered the real mother that bound the three of them as siblings. It was largely through her that they had an understanding of each other.

Elenore approached Argrave on the day of the funeral very early in the morning. She looked slightly better rested, but not by much.

“I’ll lead us. Everything’s ready for the cremation,” she said without much inflection. “I was thinking we might light the pyre together. After… after it’s all done, she said she always wanted to be a part of this city… so, I believe it would be fitting to scatter the ashes in the mountain.”

Argrave took a deep breath and exhaled. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds fitting.”

Elenore nodded, looking numb. “Orion wanted to talk to you about something on the way. Over there,” she gestured.

With that, she walked away. Durran joined her, supporting her diligently yet quietly. Argrave hoped he might succeed in cheering her up where he failed. But he turned to someone who was just as badly affected—Orion. He wore a somber face that seemed rather unlike him.

Argrave walked up to him. “How are you?” he asked.

“I carry pain. It’s not unfamiliar to me, but it is at the same time.” Orion focused on him. “Magnus. Induen. Levin. Felipe. All family, who died in the past years. And yet it’s only this one… only this one, Vasquer’s… her… her death… that makes me believe there’s something wrong with the world we inhabit.”

“She left behind only good in this world,” Argrave comforted. “Without her life, the world would’ve been a little darker, a little less joyous.”

Orion nodded, then looked ahead to follow after Elenore as she led on. Argrave walked alongside him.

“I knew her well enough to say she would feel only pride for what she did in her final moments. I have told myself that countless times.” Orion shook his head. “It hardly sates the beasts in my mind. Shame. Powerlessness. Rage. Vengeance. I have been trying to tame them in your service, but they’re crawling back. Heading that pack, the alpha: hate.”

Argrave looked at Orion as they walked. “There’s no one more deserving of hate than Gerechtigkeit. But I don’t want it to push you toward a lesser version of yourself. What you feel could be amplified in your siblings if you act on this without proper thought and wind up injured, even dead.”

“Yes. If I was the man when you first met me in the swamps, I would’ve died long ago acting without proper thought. You have given me a measure of contentment with who I am.” Orion touched Argrave’s shoulder with his hand to emphasize his point. “You bestowed upon me peace, yet I still neglected to prepare for war. By consequence, a brilliant soul vanished.”

Argrave stopped Orion. “Her death isn’t your fault.”

His brother sighed defeatedly, then carried along the trail. “You cannot deny I possessed no way of influencing the outcome I saw. We may play pedantic games of blame, but I stood trembling while a malignant evil wracked Vasquer’s mind. I hate that. I hate myself for that.”

“That’s foolish,” Argrave told him bluntly.

“And I was once the Holy Fool,” Orion answered back. “But… enough of that. You asked how I was, but perhaps I overshared. I came to ask something of you. Something selfish, perhaps ignoble.”

Argrave gave him his full attention. “Ask away,” he prompted.

“I cannot replace what is lost, nor would I ever try. But there exists that which I must ensure continues to shine brilliantly, and there is darkness I would burn away with my meager flame.” Orion put his hand to his chest. “I have given this no small amount of thought, and in the end, come to this conclusion. I would ask you allow me to consume one of the Fruits of Being, that I might become more able.”

Chapter 17

Argrave stared into the fire as it roared. Some time ago it had been something familiar, but now it was only flame. There was no service—just a searing fire contained by a makeshift stone structure that signaled that the time for mourning Vasquer around Blackgard, and perhaps all of Vasquer. While it burned, Argrave’s mind kept running back to what Orion had asked of him. His brother had graciously decided to let him think on the matter.

He didn’t like these Fruits of Being, anymore. He’d been eager to get his hands on them, but after his powerlessness in preventing the death of their matriarch, it felt like nothing special. Maybe it was even something malignant. Despite the fear they might be tainted, he couldn’t deny there was a possessiveness blossoming in his heart. A hope they might be used for something else, or a desire to give it to the ‘right’ person.

Was Orion the ‘right’ person, or did he already have enough advantages in life?

Argrave’s instinct was to do nothing rashly, because Orion’s question was assuredly motivated by the grief of losing their ancestor. Elenore had cried in front of him, and Orion had the ambition to gain yet more power in pursuit of vengeance. Vasquer’s death had changed the temperament of two key factors in the Kingdom of Vasquer. Perhaps three, if Argrave counted himself, but he felt he was coping well.

Argrave felt a sense of déjà vu as the heat from the fire continued to assail him. His mind searched through what he might be thinking of, and eventually the answer came to him. Relize, the city hosted at a strategic location in an inland sea. He couldn’t think of why that came to mind until he remembered the bulk of time that he’d spent there. It had inspired one of his most outlandish feats; impersonating a snow elf to infiltrate and eventually gain control over the entire north of Vasquer.

He felt déjà vu because he felt the same feeling as he had, then. Stagnation.

Victory in the Great Chu and consolidation of the world’s deities into the Blackgard Union had been a change of mode, taking him from an active fight against a specifically defined enemy to a nebulous gathering of power. Finding Lindon, even, hadn’t been an especially proactive move. Rather, it had been handed to him—though, perhaps saying it was forced into his hands was a better way of putting it.

Eight months remained until Gerechtigkeit revealed himself, if all stayed as it was from Heroes of Berendar. Argrave couldn’t be totally sure of that fact. That was a long time to wait, hat in hand, while Gerechtigkeit attempted all manner of ungodly things. If he had many more tricks up his sleeve, more than Vasquer alone could perish. Lindon—if indeed that had been him—claimed his siblings were vulnerable, as they were related to Gilderwatchers. That meant Nikoletta was, too. Argrave suspected many noble houses carried at least some lineage with the royal house. Much of their leadership structure was vulnerable, but all that could be done was wait for the research team or other sources further information. Stagnation.

On top of that, Traugott would be scheming and conniving for any opportunity to get at Sophia, to get at Argrave. He hid within the Shadowlands, apparently, with a body made in Good King Norman’s image bearing the flesh of a Shadowlander. In Heroes of Berendar, the Shadowlanders had come months before Gerechtigkeit did, rising from the sea, falling from the sky, and crawling from the depths beneath the earth. Once again, all that could be done was wait for him to poke his head from his mole hole, where Anneliese would hopefully lock him into a duel he wasn’t certain she could win. Stagnation.

The White Planes were breaking? Wait until they learn more. The Gilderwatchers might be moving? Wait until Raven can confirm that. The Fruits of Being? Wait until an opportunity arises. Everyone’s minds are under attack? Wait until the research team devises a countermeasure.

It seemed that every time Argrave stopped running toward a goal, something caught up with him. As a rule, rushing water was cleaner than stagnant water. Being one step ahead was his bread and butter. He wasn’t a defensive player. Even when the Qircassian Coalition had come knocking on the door, he’d ended up sailing overseas to bring the fight to them. That had come with its ups and downs, but ultimately they had emerged as the winner beyond a shadow of a doubt.

It was better to be the invader than the invaded, right?

The best outcome would be not to have a war at all, but Argrave knew that it was an inevitability. Even if Traugott or Gerechtigkeit offered a peace of some kind, he wouldn’t accept it. After all that they’d done and tried to do, they deserved to be wiped out entirely. The world would be a better place without them drawing breath.

Two enemies stood in their path, as Argrave saw it. Traugott and Gerechtigkeit. The latter was beyond reach, for now, while the former… he was merely difficult to reach.

Argrave looked upon the fire as it crackled and burned. Without more fuel to call upon, the pyre was slowly shrinking. He’d thought that he’d never come up with something more outlandish than disguising himself as a snow elf, but it seemed that he had. Perhaps if he asked others they’d tell him he already had, but as he thought of what he intended, even he had to admit he might’ve lost his marbles.

Before Gerechtigkeit could receive his comeuppance, Traugott had to die. The fire in front of Argrave, started by the calamity, burned bright and bold, but it was what was hidden in the shadows that was the most dangerous. If Argrave allowed himself to be caught up in the wave of vengeance his siblings both clamored for, it might be playing into exactly what the calamity wanted. Lindon had explicitly warned them of the threat Traugott posed. Like a bolt, an idea came to him.

Gerechtigkeit’s impersonation of Lindon might be intended to make Argrave ignore Traugott.

It was just speculation, but Argrave felt a great deal of clarity after that. Viewed as a loud distraction, all of the questions about why Vasquer specifically had been targeted faded away. Lindon had just given him quite pointed advice on that matter, and Argrave intended to attack. Lindon had placed Traugott before even Gerechtigkeit in priority. If the calamity truly was on the verge of using mental attacks of some sort, he might’ve simply waited, biding him time until the grand finale. Instead, he showed his hand.

Argrave closed his eyes, dissecting the idea again and again. Perhaps it was excessive paranoia. And there was another matter—it would be difficult to broach the idea with Elenore and Orion. Argrave knew them well enough to know Vasquer’s death wasn’t something they could just ignore, changing targets to Traugott without proper regard. Their bond had grown quite strong, but this was quite a request from his speculation alone.

To that end, he felt the need to consult someone smarter than he was. For now, he watched the pyre as it burned, casting glances at his siblings as they grieved.

***

After the cremation of Vasquer’s remains, the next task was scattering the ashes across the mountaintop as per her request. For now, they let the ashes cool. In time, great wind spells would do the job for them. Elenore and Orion were both being rather solitary, and so Argrave joined up with Anneliese.

“Invade the Shadowlands?” Anneliese repeated, sitting on a rock as they watched the cooling pyre.

Argrave nodded. “I’ll invent the flashlight. They’ll never see it coming… until their life flashes before their eyes, that is.”

Anneliese blinked at him in confusion, before she shook her head dismissively and asked, “I assume you have some rationale for this?”

“I told you about Lindon’s warning about Traugott, right?” Argrave asked, and Anneliese nodded. “If we view the attack on Vasquer as something to distract us from that… do things fall into place?”

Argrave watched Anneliese for a while, her amber eyes jumping from place to place as she thought on the matter.

“I can see the gears turning in your head. There isn’t some logical reason why that’s impossible, is there? No gaps in my thoughts?” Argrave followed up, eager to probe her mind about it.

“But, Argrave… invade the Shadowlands?” she reiterated, with special emphasis.

“The danger is coming to us regardless,” Argrave pointed out, then tapped his leg. “If you find out an enemy is massing troops at your border, are you just going to let them get into the most strategic position possible? The Shadowlanders could devastate the whole continent if Traugott does it well. We’ve spent far too long dancing his sociopathic steps. It’s time for the winner’s waltz, the, the… triumphant tango.”

“All well and good, but the defenders generally have a defensive advantage,” Anneliese reminded him. “And this is the Shadowlands. Erlebnis had appreciably little knowledge on that plane of existence, and the only one who’s actually been inside and returned is Traugott, who we would be hunting. Besides—the research team, the White Planes, the Gilderwatchers…”

“We’ve the world at our disposal. We can multitask,” Argrave argued, then hung his head with a calming sigh. “Before I get too attached to the notion, tell me—do you think it’s foolish?”

“Obviously,” Anneliese answered at once, and he deflated before she continued. “Historically, though, you’ve done objectively foolish things to great effect. I can’t dismiss the idea immediately because the possibility exists that you’re right.”

“It’s been known to happen.” Argrave smiled.

She studied him carefully. “I’m glad you’re not taking Vasquer’s death as harshly as your siblings. And presumably that’s part of the reason you came to me alone about this, yes? Elsewise, you’d involve them in this conversation.”

Argrave felt a little guilt and couldn’t hold her gaze. “Yeah. They’re both reasonable—I think I might be able to convince them of this. But the fact I say ‘might’ is all the information you need. Orion’s asked me for a Fruit of Being. Elenore’s working herself to death. The idea of asking them to forget about Gerechtigkeit for the time being…” He grimaced. “…does not resonate with joy.”

“Mmhmm.” Anneliese pursed her lips as she thought. “Logistically… what’s your plan for going in there? I can’t imagine many gods will be raring to go. The Shadowlanders bring no benefit to anyone besides… perhaps mortal armies, given we might use their hides or bones for weapons. No gods will be enticed by the idea to risk life and limb for you.”

“Rook owes us. Law would understand. Still, getting either to come with us is as much a stretch as taffy.” Argrave leaned back. “I was thinking… you and our third person eat a Fruit of Being, while the last might be used to actually enter the Shadowlands. We inject spirits right into our veins, then take the place by storm. But that was just an idea, and I’m not sure how good of one. I don’t know how powerful I am, even.”

Anneliese lowered her head in thought, then raised it again, brushing her long white hair away from her face. “’Third person,’ you said. So, you’ll refuse Orion?”

“It could be him.” Argrave rubbed his chin. “But given the state he’s in while he made the request, I’m going to hold off, keep it on ice. Still, the way I look at it, waiting to use them is as large a tradeoff as hoarding them for important moments.”

“And why me?” Anneliese asked.

“If I’m living forever, so are you,” he said bluntly. “But… hell. Elenore, Durran, Galamon, Melanie, and so many others…”

“Galamon is already immortal,” she reminded him. “And I’m sure you have ways enough in that wiki of yours to keep everyone you wish alongside you forevermore.”

Argrave laughed. “Well… yeah, maybe.” He laughed harder, considering how foolish he was being. He looked at her. “So, do you agree with me about our target, at least?”

Anneliese thought long and hard, braiding her hair as she sat there in silence. Argrave was certain she was going to refuse, but then her amber eyes locked with his and she said, “I do. I want to kill Traugott.”

“Will you help me convince the others?” Argrave asked.

She rose to her feet. “No.”

He was taken aback. “What?”

“’What? What?’” She imitated, then flicked him on the forehead. “Why do you even ask anymore? Do you expect me to genuinely refuse? Has my answer ever changed?”

He smiled, having been proven a fool.

Chapter 18

Argrave rolled his shoulders and flexed his hand, warding away the pain. After the funeral, he’d taken some time to explore his powers more in-depth. As it turned out, he wasn’t barred from using spirits in magic—he merely needed to change the way that he did it. Every shamanic spell that he learned had to be changed with [Blood Infusion]. Effectively, the field of shamanic magic had been folded into blood magic. In actuality, it was likely vastly more efficient in terms of spirits consumed than shamanic magic had ever been. He’d had help in figuring that detail out, elsewise he expected he might’ve struggled for a long time.

“Thanks, Raven.” Argrave turned his head. “I did have a few more things to ask you.”

The man stared impassively without response, a comfortably safe distance away from him.

Argrave turned toward Raven and took some steps closer. “Operating under the assumption that Gerechtigkeit attacked Vasquer to distract from Traugott, do you think invading the Shadowlands is a dumb idea?”

“Yes.”

Argrave waited for Raven to say more, but nothing came. He was forced to ask, “Why?”

“They lack our senses. We lack theirs,” he explained bluntly. “They can adapt our senses to perceive this world. We cannot adapt their senses to perceive the Shadowlands. Sight, smell, sound, even touch—none function there. Not even the gods can perceive its true nature. It’s an abyss, an absence of light. A shadow.”

“Traugott does it,” Argrave pointed out. “He took on the form of a Shadowlander, but even before that he managed to hop in and out enough to escape any attackers.”

“He fumbled about in the dark until he figured out the lay of the land. He has more ready access to that realm than any other mortal or god in the entire world, and thus the time to discover its intricacies. We do not.”

Argrave crossed his arms. “I think that problem can be remedied with a Fruit of Being.”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting, you say. Care to elaborate?”

“I don’t have a clue,” Raven elaborated. “Do you think I have a rational explanation for those things?”

Argrave uncrossed his arms and tapped his forehead. “Erlebnis claims there are ways into the Shadowlands before the allotted time. I’ve yet to test any, but the possibility exists. Given those two variables… is the idea still dumb?”

“I would come, if you do it. Perhaps I might find a way to adapt to the Shadowlands independently of whatever method you devise. Regardless, one of those creatures tore through the entirety of the old capital. As you are now, you would die.”

“Have you ever dissected a Shadowlander?” Argrave inquired.

“Yes. Enough to know they function by different rules,” he explained with a shake of his head. “Their organs were made to process something different than us—though, what that is remains beyond me. Their flesh and bones break several preconceptions I have about the world. They lack an identifiable brain, but not intelligence. I believe they have a stratified society of some kind, and those we see are of a lower class.”

Argrave bit his lip until he summoned the humility to bite the bullet and ask, “What does stratified mean, again?”

“They have classes. A social hierarchy,” Raven explained without judgment.

Argrave was taken aback. That made the Shadowlanders sound a lot more advanced than they acted. “How do you know this?”

“If you’d listen, I said ‘believe.’”

“Why do you—”

“I found consistent markings on their body added by an unnatural process,” Raven interrupted. “A brand, you might call it, but definitely not brought about by a branding iron. Through countless examinations, I was able to work out a pattern that roughly corresponded to what each specimen was capable of.” Raven shrugged. “Slave markings, by my guess. The rest is mere extrapolation. To have slaves, you generally need slavers. The two are distinct classes.”

Argrave nodded. He was glad he asked Raven—sometimes, he seemed as knowledgeable as Erlebnis. He had the added ability to not only gather information, but analyze and theorize about it.

“Alright. I’ll take all of that into consideration. One last thing, then—counsel from a pragmatist. How would you use the remaining three Fruits of Being?”

“Keep the three of them on you to have a contrivance whensoever you should need it.”

Argrave stared, then felt the need to ask, “Are you being serious?”

“Why not? Contrivances are wonderful things. When you find yourself in a corner, or things seem impossible to escape from… contrive something. As a matter of fact, that might be a more apt name for those. Fruits of Contrivance.” Raven shook his head. “You know what I’ll say, don’t you? You ask only to hear your disappointment confirmed. Give one to me. Keep the others for when they’re needed. No one could use its power better than me—in reasoning, pragmatism, mental acuity, and diligence, none are my peer. With my ability of self-actualization finally tamed, neither your siblings nor your wife can hold a candle to me. It might be said the power was wasted on even you.”

Argrave stared at Raven, off-balance from the blatant display of ambition.

Raven waved him away. “But you’ll do what you will, because foolishly, they gave the decision for their use to you alone. And, foolishly, I will heed your wisdom without… significant reproach.”

***

With Raven’s counsel at hand, Argrave decided to tackle the task of persuading his siblings to follow along with the idea of invading the Shadowlands. To that end, he called his old friend who he hadn’t had much time to speak with properly. The difficulty of running a kingdom spanning most of continent meant they were often quite far apart, each doing very important things.

The door to the quaint inn opened up, and Durran walked in—his brother-in-law. Though still bearing black hair and golden eyes, his tan skin had paled somewhat after a long while away from the desert and more time spent indoors. His golden tattoos still shone ever brilliantly, and his carefree demeanor hadn’t waned through both war and marriage.

“So, Elenore told me that you evolved,” Durran said as greeting to Argrave.

Argrave looked around uneasily when he said as much out loud, thinking about pocket monsters. The floor had been rented out, but he didn’t like to mention it all so casually.

“I’m told as much,” Argrave confirmed vaguely. “How is she holding up?”

Durran pulled back the chair in front of Argrave and sat. “Not well. I’m doing what I can, but… gods. Death. You can’t fight it. I lost a ton of siblings. Mother, too. Uncles, aunts. Disturbs the heart, the guts,” he waved in that general area. “Time fixes it. You either come to terms with it, or you repress it. Either way, there’s only time.”

“I know how much you care for her, but even still… treat her well, please,” he urged.

“Of course. Take care of yourself, as well.” Durran nodded somberly. “Was it just that, or did you have something else? Because if it’s something else…” He leaned in. “I know that you have limited choices, and I know that I have, in very distant centuries past, acted a little liberally… but you can’t deny I’ve put my everything on the line for your cause.”

“What?” Argrave narrowed his eyes.

Durran put his hand near the mark Raven had bestowed upon him. “I made a commitment, remember? Either we discover how to end the cycle of judgment, or the Alchemist eviscerates me. In return, he gave me S-rank spellcasting. Thereafter, this gracious King of the Burnt Sands bestowed upon you a territory just as vast as Vasquer, of his own volition.” He held his hands out. “If you want someone to share your burden, my life itself is aligned with your interests. I can step up. And I’m not afraid of what the fruit might do to me.”

“I see,” Argrave said, uncomfortable recognition dawning on him.

Durran leaned back. “If you choose otherwise, no hard feelings. I just hope you’ll give me a proper burial when you’re still young and immortal, and I’m three hundred and withering.”

“Durran…”

“I’m just kidding around,” he shook his head. “Listen—if I don’t ask, I don’t receive, right? I’m just officially throwing my name among others. If I didn’t, I’d spend the rest of my short life asking, ‘what if?’”

Argrave nodded, deciding to take Durran at his word. The whole talk left a bitter taste on his mouth. He wished more and more neither Orion nor Elenore had relinquished the right to the fruits. Perhaps it was time to give them back, have them decide. At the very least, he wouldn’t be solely responsible for distributing them. Hefting such a burden upon his siblings, though, while they were distraught…

“I actually wanted your help broaching something with Elenore,” Argrave said. “Can I count on you for that?”

“I mean…” Durran leaned back. “I’d kiss your royal haunches for the fruit, but I won’t scheme against Elenore. She may be your sister, but she’s my wife.”

Argrave was glad to hear his adamant hesitation, honestly—it was some sweetness that mitigated the bitterness of moments prior.

“It’s nothing covert. You don’t have to agree if you don’t agree, but even still, just hear me out,” Argrave began.

***

Not even hours later…

“Who told you?” Argrave asked of Melanie, who’d managed to catch him off-guard and alone in the parliamentary hall and mentioned his recent promotion to upper-level management. 

“Well…” The red-haired woman scratched the back of her head. “I’m not sure I should…”

“Never mind,” Argrave shook his head. “Let me guess—you’re throwing your hat in the ring should a second position open up?”

“No, no,” Melanie shook her head, adjusting her tellerbarret. “I think… you shouldn’t give the fruits to anyone. Keep them for a special occasion. Let them ferment, then make ‘em into wine.”

Argrave pursed his lips, thinking. “Reverse psychology. On me.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she answered back with narrow eyes. “Nah, I mean… just keep them there. Hold them above people’s head. An incentive, you could call it. You could let certain people prove their worth to eat the fruit. I mean, some people, like me… we’ve already proven our worth. True, Traugott might’ve slipped out of my reach, but I followed you into Erlebnis’ vault, helped you with the dwarves, and even caught Dario. I even gave up godhood when Sataistador offered it to me. Some might consider that slightly meritorious. And just rulers give proportionate rewards. You are a just ruler, aren’t you?”

“When it suits me.” Argrave smiled. “Thank you for your unbiased counsel, Melanie. You’re a paragon of objective wisdom in these trying times.”

“Well, I try. I try a hell of a lot harder than most of these people, at least,” she waved around. “Remember me, Your Majesty. Pretty please?”

***

After freeing himself of Melanie, Argrave made some accommodations for Rowe. The snow elf had requested an audience—it wasn’t unusual, given his position as a local leader for the Veidimen settlers in Blackgard. The snow elves had a sizable presence on the parliament, too, and from what Argrave remembered, Anneliese had mentioned she might seek his counsel. He almost didn’t dare believe, but he couldn’t say he was surprised, when…

“Give me a fruit,” Rowe proposed.

Argrave tapped the table, feeling rather belabored. He leaned his head on his hand as he asked, “Anneliese told you?”

“I pried it free. She sought me for counsel about invading the Shadowlands, and she isn’t dumb enough to suggest such a thing without some special edge. So, I battered her until she gave in. She is my apprentice, you forget. Worry not—word won’t spread beyond me. But I am rather interested in cutting Traugott down to size—namely, the size of a pinpoint.”

“Sell me the idea,” Argrave prompted, knowing that was the inevitable end to this conversation.

“Where to begin? My list of virtues is quite long…”

***

Argrave sat on his bed, staring ahead. In front of him, his queen stood.

“I’m sorry…” Anneliese apologized profusely. “I just… I didn’t… he helped me a lot, and I just wanted to consider every angle. The Veidmen have withheld some knowledge from even Erlebnis, and Rowe knows all of it, so…”

“I’m not angry,” Argrave shook his head.

“That still doesn’t justify it.” She sat down beside him. “I made a mistake.”

“I think everyone told someone. I wouldn’t be surprised if Orion told Sun Li, and then she told Ji Meng, and then he sails over here presenting a grandiose list of reasons why he should have it.” Argrave shook his head. “I guess I never mentioned to keep it quiet. Still… hell. I don’t know what to do.”

Anneliese shook her head. “I don’t need one.”

Argrave didn’t answer with words, and merely wrapped his arm around her body. She leaned her head up against him. In the silence, a strange idea came to Argrave. He rose to his feet, retrieving some cups from a shelf. Then, he set them on the floor upside down.

“What if…” He took a blueberry off the table, hiding it beneath one cup. Then, he mixed the cups up.

“What are you doing?” Anneliese asked, perplexed.

“Lindon talked about how these fruits are so mystical, yeah?” Argrave rambled as he moved the cups around and around. “How they do whatever you want—give you a million dollars, regrow your bald spot, improve your virility, make the girl next door fall in love with you, whatever. He claimed that they’re consummate will, and as such, have a will of their own. So what if…”

Argrave stopped moving the cups, then gestured to them all. “Pick a cup. Any cup. If you pick goodly, you might just become a little godly.”

Anneliese laughed. “Make the fruits choose? You can’t be serious.”

Argrave didn’t join her in laughter as he stared at the cups. “Maybe I am, baby. Maybe.”

Chapter 19

To satiate his desire to gamble the fate of the universe, Argrave visited someone to enable him; a craftsman who was entirely ignorant of what these fruits were.

“I need you to make two four-sided dice that have a hollow space that could fit this fruit inside of it,” Argrave gestured toward the two of them. “I can’t accept them being damaged, so you’ll have to be gentle. On top of that, I need to be able to open up the die to remove the fruit inside. Do you think this is feasible?”

Dario looked at him incredibly strangely. “Why do you want to put a fruit inside a die?”

“Incredibly high-stakes gambling among the rich. Don’t question the whims and wishes of your betters,” he said, putting on a fake snobby voice.

Dario reached out and took the fruit. Argrave was deeply alarmed when he squeezed them slightly, but resisted the urge to snatch them out of his hand. “I suppose I could make a bizarre mold for a tetrahedron, split it in half, then add some mechanism for it to open and close that doesn’t disturb its balance nor open while being tossed.” The red-eyed man looked over coldly. “Alternatively, I could just make a pair of dice without all of this stupid stuff.”

Argrave shook his head adamantly. “Both have to be able to fit one fruit.”

Dario sighed. “Come back in three hours.”

He patted Dario on the shoulder with a smile, then turned and walked toward the exit. Anneliese stood there, and she gave him a disbelieving shake of her head when he walked by.

“You’re really doing this? Really? A game of dice for the fate of the Fruits of Being?”

Argrave protested, “Of course I’m not playing dice. That would be incredibly crude. Do you really think that I’m so irresponsible as to play a simple game of dice to distribute unimaginable power? That would be tactless. Impetuous. Harebrained. Ludicrous. Inconceivable, even, and I don’t use that word lightly.”

“…yet from the glee on your voice, you do have something in mind that involves those dice.”

“A sixteen-person lottery.” Argrave nodded. “Elegant. Sophisticated. Refined. A patrician fashion to decide the fate of the world, far removed from the crudeness of mere dice.”

Anneliese followed him along in silence, finally stunned into quietude by one of his antics. Argrave thought that it was one of the best ideas he’d ever had.

***

Argrave opened the door to Elenore’s office, and she looked up to greet him. She set her writing implement down and leaned back in her chair.

“Is something the matter? You might’ve spoken to me through our connection,” Elenore pointed out.

Argrave put an ornate black wooden box on her table, with a slot on the top of it just large enough to fit a large hand through. He shook the box, keeping his hand over the top, then held it out to her.

“Draw one piece of paper,” he told her. “Then, tell me the number.”

She studied him with narrowed eyes. “What is this?”

Argrave looked at what he held. “A black box, containing papers with numbers ranging eleven to fourteen, twenty-one to twenty-four, thirty-one to thirty-four, and forty-one to forty-four.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything,” Elenore said, her distrust intensifying.

Argrave pushed the box closer to her.

With a sigh, she reached in, rummaging through. She pulled free a crumpled piece of paper, unraveled it, and read the number. “Twenty-one. Are you happy?”

Argrave held out his hand, and she deposited the paper back atop his hand. He combusted it with a simple spell. “Very happy.”

***

“Orion,” Argrave greeted, finding the man in his golden armor walking about the courtyard of the parliamentary hall. “Elenore said you would be here. I have an important task for you.”

Orion straightened his back. “You do? I am at your disposal, Your Majesty.”

Argrave thrust the box out. “Draw a paper. Tell me the number on it.”

“I see.” With his demeanor relaxed considerably, his brother reached into the box and pulled a paper free. “Forty-two, it says. Does that mean anything?”

Argrave took the paper and burnt it. “It means everything.”

***

Argrave searched out sixteen people—now fourteen, after his siblings—and had them draw a paper.

Raven caught on to what Argrave intended, and called him an inbred—it was a factually true statement considering his biological mother was also his first cousin, but not very hurtful nonetheless. Eventually, however, the man once known as the Alchemist capitulated to the tides of fate and drew a number. Twelve.

Argrave told Rowe it was related to the parliament, and the Veidimen drew a paper without question. He asked questions after, but Argrave gave no answers and left with the elf’s number. Argrave did question whether or not it might be a mistake even allowing the possibility of such power to one so zealous. Forty-four.

Next, he sought the mountains of Blackgard for its now solitary denizen. Onychinusa, last heiress of the ancient elven empire on Berendar, offered her condolences for Vasquer’s passing. She proved to be the most difficult to persuade to reach into the box and draw her lot, but Argrave eventually coaxed her into taking number thirty-three.

Next, he told Durran that it was a lottery, but not a good one. It was the draft to see who would come with them into the Shadowlands, because the space would be limited—a blatant lie. The man hemmed and hawed and protested, but he did eventually draw his paper. Thirteen.

Melanie received the same treatment Durran did. She tried to negotiate for an entry fee to the lottery—namely, that she would be paid to enter the lottery—but Argrave remained steadfast and she did eventually succumb to the simple promise that she wouldn’t regret it. Twenty-four.

Artur, master of the Hall of Enchantment, S-rank magister afflicted with dwarfism, had been an arrogant if reliable ally. In the Bloodwoods he’d proven his worth many times over, especially in stressful situations. His mastery of the arcane made him a good candidate for the fruit, so Argrave entered him in. Forty-one.

Dario was resistant to enter the lottery because he hated gambling. Argrave finally had to break his demeanor and admit that this was rather important, and the man once of the subterranean mountain tribes unwittingly threw his hat into one of the most important lotteries many worlds over. Thirty-two.

Vasilisa of Quadreign, S-rank spellcaster, sister to the present Archduchess of the North, and guardian to Sophia of Vasquer often acted as though she wasn’t as steadfast as she was. Countless times, Argrave had been able to rely upon her more than any other. Sophia had not suffered a single scratch under her watch. She was hesitant when he mentioned the Shadowlands, but resolved when he brought up their task; killing Traugott. Twenty-three.

Argrave also paid a visit to his cousin, Nikoletta. He both informed her of the possible danger she might be in because of the Gilderwatcher heritage they shared, and pondered if she would be willing to risk her life to enter the Shadowlands. He held no punches about the danger entailed. In this lifetime, she had grown as the successor to the dukedom rather than the last heir to Monticci, so he thought she might refuse. Surprisingly, she didn’t. Twenty-two. 

When thinking of faithful combatants and close bonds, one name did come to mind. At first he considered Elias of House Parbon, but upon thinking of it deeper… there was quite the fearsome warrior who was steadfastly loyal and unafraid to die in the Shadowlands: Margrave Reinhardt himself. Upon explaining the situation, without hesitation… Reinhardt chose fourteen.

With House Parbon entered into his historic lottery, Argrave sought out one of their close relations. Stain—formerly Veladrien of Jast—had proven himself capable of following orders, and he had the bonus of being a protagonist from Heroes of Berendar. He’d been made Duke of Whitefields after his service in the Great Chu, and resided there in central Berendar even now. Argrave had been prepared to dole out some heavy bait, but Stain agreed to hunt Traugott without fuss. Forty-three.

On his way to the most distant lottery entrant, Argrave passed through the Bloodwoods. Their lives had improved markedly, and they were even gladder to hear that Argrave had slain the one that destroyed their homes so thoroughly—Kirel Qircassia. While there, he entered another into his contest, enlisting their proven reliability; Ganbaatar of the wood elves. Thirty-four.

Thereafter Argrave travelled overseas, heading back to the Great Chu where Galamon still commanded the armies there. The man thought he was needed back in Vasquer, but instead, Argrave only said it could be possible and asked him to draw a paper. Thirty-one.

And lastly…

“I said I don’t need one,” Anneliese shook her head as Argrave held out the box.

“Well, there’s only one left. Yours. Eleven,” he disclosed. “If fate should will it, you shall get it. All the numbers are distributed. All that’s left is to roll the dice.”

Anneliese studied him. “You’re seriously going to do this? Roll the dice and let fate decide?”

“Not fate. Not really. It’s the fruits,” he said grandly, pulling the last paper out and burning it just like all the others. “Pay tribute to the fruit. Pray to the fruit. Respect the fruit, and let the fruit guide you, young apprentice.”

Argrave headed over to the dice that Dario had crafted. They were large—they needed to be to accommodate the fruit without deforming. He picked the first one up, twisting it strangely until it split. He placed the fruit within, and turned around while closing it shut. It fit snugly inside—shaking it, he couldn’t feel it move.

“You ready?” he asked Anneliese, hefting the unwieldy pyramid.

“No,” she shook her head.

“Well, here we go anyway.”

Argrave tossed the first four-sided die at the ground.

Chapter 20

Argrave and Anneliese both stared at the number that had come up on the die. The first winner of the lottery had been acceptable, but the second…

“…I didn’t think that…” Argrave babbled, searching for justification for his choice. “I mean, the people I put on the lottery were the ones that evoked a strong impression during our journey. I thought that the fruit would filter out the outliers.”

Anneliese looked at him. “Evidently not.”

Argrave stared at the inscribed number one. “What do I do? I mean, this can’t be right, can it?”

Anneliese chewed on her lower lip.  “Reroll it,” she encouraged him.

“Reroll it?” He repeated incredulously. “That defeats the whole integrity of the lottery! How can anything be sacred if—”

“The whole reason you did this was to let the fruit choose, right?” Anneliese looked at him. “If that’s true, it’ll repeat the result.”

Argrave was hesitant to follow through with the reroll for the principle of the thing, but her words made sense. With his eyes closed, he dropped the die to the floor once more. After it settled, they looked at the number. Four. They shared a glance, and their faces hardened. Anneliese knelt down and picked up the die, then dropped it again.

One. Put four and one together, there’s forty-one—the same as last time.

“…good lord,” Argrave muttered, hand held up to his mouth. “I don’t know what to say.”

Anneliese looked at him pointedly. “Respect the fruit,” she repeated his earlier words. “Let it guide you.”

Argrave twisted the top of the pyramidal die, and it split open. He extracted the fruit from within, then looked around. “I, uhh… I think I’ll deliver the first one. I need to think about what I’m going to say to the second. I need to think about what I’m going to do.”

***

Argrave knocked on the door, and a female’s voice answered, “Come in.”

He entered, looking upon where Elenore and Durran had their dinner. It seemed a rather soothing atmosphere, and both looked upon him as if he had disturbed something. He held the fruit behind his back as a world-bending surprise. Hopefully, it might be a pleasant dessert after their meal.

“I’m sorry to interrupt the two of you,” he said, looking between them. “Hopefully, the news that I bring will make you a little more able to suffer my presence.”

“Pull up a chair,” Elenore offered. “We were discussing the strange shenanigans you pulled today. That little box.” She shook her head. “I don’t think you intend to conscript me for the draft, so it must be something else. I think it’s a task of some kind—something unpleasant, but something that doesn’t require physicality.”

“I’m the optimist. I imagine it’s something nice,” Durran countered. “Honestly I agree with her, but I’m taking the opposing side because it’s more interesting.”

“Well…” Argrave revealed the prize—the golden Fruit of Being. “I’d say it’s nice.”

Elenore stared at it, then her gaze turned to Argrave with eyes sharp enough to bore a hole through his head. “You’d better be joking, Argrave. You did not hold a lottery for the Fruit of Being.”

Durran looked at her, pointing at the fruit. “Is that it? Really?! That’s it?”

“I made a four-sided die, fit it inside, and then let the fruit decide,” Argrave said weakly.

Elenore covered her eyes with her hand, pushing aside her dinner with her elbows as she leaned against the table. Durran simply started laughing, and eventually pounded the table twice.

“No matter how many times we redid it, it chose the same numbers,” Argrave told them, adding conviction to his words. “Every roll, it came up with the same result. That means something. That means it chose.”

Elenore shot him a fiery glare. “Or, the die was badly balanced. Or, it was simply random chance. And even if it did choose, would you consider yourself less intelligent than a fruit?”

“You think these notions didn’t cross my mind?! I tested it!” He looked between them. “Look. Everyone was asking me to choose who to bestow a tremendous gift upon. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life questioning if I made the right or wrong choice, or if I hadn’t suitably repaid the efforts of the people around me. This was the only way I could be sure of some level of fairness.”

“Fair? You want to talk about fair, after who we’ve lost?” Elenore’s voice cracked. “Forget fair. The world isn’t just, isn’t equal.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t be,” he said softly as he met her stare.

Elenore looked to have more to say, but his words made her hold her tongue. She placed her hands on the table, her temper cooling somewhat. Durran placed his hand over hers, squeezing it gently. Meanwhile, his golden eyes fixed on Argrave.

“So, who won? If you say Melanie…” Durran grimaced.

Argrave studied the fruit, debating changing his mind at the last moment. Maybe Elenore was right. Maybe this entire idea had been a mistake from the beginning. What did this fruit really know? Was he dumber than a fruit?

Argrave held the fruit out to Durran. “You did.”

“What?” Durran rose to his feet, and the chair fell over. He stared for a few moments, then nodded his head with a grin on his face. “Oh, I get it. This is a test—it has to be. You’re checking if… hell, I don’t know. You’re checking if I’m willing to be selfless enough to give up the fruit, because I know there’s someone better it should go to. At this point, I’m just a competent commander in your army.”

“You sound demented,” Argrave chuckled. “Why can’t it be you?”

“Because I don’t get lucky.” Durran tapped his chest. “I got my one piece of good luck—your sister. The chances of getting luckier after that… astronomically low.”

Elenore turned her face away, hiding a slight smile. Her protests had vanished like morning dew now that she knew its recipient. Argrave assumed she had protested so vigorously because she suspected she had gotten it instead of Durran.

“It’s not astronomically low, it’s 1/16 odds. Actually… 16/16. The fruit chose you, Durran.” Argrave held it out further. “Don’t look a gift fruit in the mouth. Just put it in yours.”

Durran reached out delicately, as if he was trying to pet a flighty bunny, then grasped the fruit gently. He weighed it in his hand, then locked gazes with Argrave. “Did it hurt? Historically, anything you’ve done hurts.”

Argrave shrugged. “I didn’t even notice a difference, but I did pass out.”

“Alright.” Durran stared at its golden skin. “I’ll go… I’ll go eat this on my bed, then. Yeah.” He made for the exit, and he started laughing as he stared at it. “Lottery… the damn lottery,” he laughed. “Smell that air! Couldn’t you just drink it like booze? HAHA!”

Elenore looked at him. “I hope this isn’t a mistake.”

“It won’t be, surely.” Argrave stared after Durran. “Now… I have to give it to the next…” he sighed. “Good lord… trust the fruit. Trust the fruit. Just trust the fruit, Argrave.”

***

Argrave could hear the busy clanging of industry in the building ahead of him. He looked to Anneliese just beside him.

“The fruit chose,” she reminded him almost mockingly by this point. “You told me to let it guide us. And so it has guided. The fruit does not err. It is we who cannot comprehend its vast intell—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted, and Anneliese giggled before regaining her composure. “Let’s go see him.”

Argrave entered inside Artur’s Hall of Enchantment. Within, countless forges worked diligently to process metal, enchanters overseeing the whole process like hawks looking for prey. Their prey, however, was any mistake in the production process. Here, Artur, formerly a Magister of the Gray Owl, had carved this hall in the mountain of Blackgard, converting it into a workshop that elevated Blackgard into a bastion of wealth. Enchanted items left this place by the thousands weekly, while research and development brought forth new small discoveries every day in search of glorious profit.

Ever since the legalization of magic outside of the Order of the Gray Owl, there had been a huge vacuum. Artur had filled that vacuum alongside government subsidies. He was a capitalist through-and-through, born in the wrong era. Argrave had merely made it the right era for him. Now, this place had artificers of every stripe. He worked closely with Elenore to fuel Vasquer’s war economy, and a few other economies besides.

Today, it seemed exceptionally busy. Even the supervisors were working. Argrave knew that supervisors didn’t actually do any work, so it was strange. There wasn’t even someone waiting to greet him. Argrave knew where Artur’s office was, however, so he merely walked down the vast hall for one of the stone platforms.

An enchanted lamp above illuminated the whole hall in sterile light. As it had been before, this was a multi-story building without stairs. Instead, levitating stone platforms as seen in Order elevators carried everyone everywhere. Offices lined the two side walls in long rows, all of them reachable only by levitation. Argrave was about to transport himself to Artur’s office before he heard a voice.

“This is an embarrassment!” the man shouted. “I’ve made it distinctly clear we have quotas to meet. At this rate, you cannot meet them. If we can’t have things prepared before the research team is fully assembled, our Hall of Enchantment will be an embarrassment in front of all spellcasters of any esteem. The queen herself, Her Highness Anneliese, will be presiding over it. I’m paying you good money, aren’t I? Each and every one of you nitwits is earning ten times you ever did plying your trade in Dirracha or Jast. It stands to reason you should earn your keep!”

Argrave looked at Anneliese, and then the two of them both nodded. They took their place aboard one of the stone platforms, then headed to where the shouting was coming from. Their stone platforms docked on a third-story office, and they stepped inside.

“I think you’ve done enough that your Hall of Enchantment can’t embarrass,” Argrave called out.

Artur, floating on a maroon cape, whirled toward Argrave. Countless golden necklaces and bracelets on his person rattled from the speed. When he saw who it was, his red face faded back to white immediately. His peculiar eyes sparkled like a rainbow before returning to a normal brown.

“Your Majesty!” he greeted pleasantly, clapping his hands together. A loud click echoed as his countless bejeweled rings hit one another. “I wasn’t informed you were here. What brings you? Is something amiss? I’m sure I can fix it or make it, whatever it is.”

“You remember that paper I had you draw earlier?”

Artur narrowed his eyes, opening his mouth as he thought. It was clear he remembered nothing.

“You were very busy at the time—I don’t blame you.” Argrave gestured. “Still, there’s something to talk about in your office.”

“And what is that, Your Majesty?”

Anneliese said simply, “You won.”

***

Artur stared at the golden fruit placed on his desk. Argrave sat across from him patiently, waiting for his next words. He remained suspended in the air above his chair rather than simply sitting atop it. His affliction of dwarfism coupled with his sky-high pride compelled him to seldom touch the ground, as he didn’t like others to see him walk nor guess his height.

“Your Majesty consumed the same fruit?” Artur’s eyes sparkled countless colors again, then settled into brown. “And you would give it to me, now?”

“It changed the way my blood magic functions.” Argrave gave him a nod. “And it chose you. If you want it, there would be some more expectations of you; namely, incredible danger. As I recall, you have wonderful situational awareness. It might be said you saved my life in the Bloodwoods.”

Artur floated forth and touched it gently. “I risked my life to get out of the frontlines, not rejoin them. Now… now, I’m doing quite well”

Argrave was taken aback and looked to Anneliese. He could tell the idea sounded strangely tantalizing for both of them.

“You could be more than wealthy and esteemed. You could be a hero of this nation. You could be enshrined forevermore, steeped in myth and legend as long as people are alive to tell your tale. You could—"

“Argrave, Argrave, Argrave,” Elenore’s voice cut into his head, loud, frantic, and rapid. “Durran’s awake, but something’s wrong with him. He won’t tell me what, but he keeps hitting his head—with his fists, and even the wall, and he’s talking aloud, and he’s not focused on anything I’m saying, and he’s—”

“Calm down,” he interrupted her. “I’m coming. Hold on.”

Argrave rose to his feet. “Elenore reached out,” he informed Anneliese, and she nodded understandingly. “Finish things up with Artur. I trust your judgment,” he tapped her shoulder, then set off to see how Durran had changed.

Argrave imbued shamanic magic with blood, and felt great pain as teleportation whisked him away just out front of Elenore and Durran’s room. Immediately upon landing, he heard Durran shout.

“No! Just shut up!”

Chapter 21

Upon seeing Durran clutching his head and howling at invisible enemies, Argrave first assumed the worst—that he had made a mistake, and he had fed poison to one of the most important people in his kingdom. He had survived the Fruit of Being, but others unrelated to the Gilderwatchers might not be able to endure its power. Or, worse yet, he’d been fooled by Gerechtigkeit, somehow.

With guilt and trepidation both in his heart, he approached the panicking Elenore and the in -agony Durran, who crawled about on the floor beside his bed. Both his hands were balled into tight fists, and he pounded his head with his knuckles. There was a large amount of blood, but Durran seemed entirely uninjured. Then, before his eyes, he saw wounds closing on Durran. It defied his expectations that the fruit had failed if his wounds would close so quickly.

“Help him!” Elenore commanded Argrave, trying to sound authoritative in spite of her worry. “You need to do something, Argrave!”

“Argrave?” Durran lifted his head up, scanning the room. His eyes trembled as if he was bearing an unimaginable weight. He rose shakily, but poor balance caused him to simply lunge at Argrave. He grasped at his knees. “Bastard… gods-damned bastard… get me out of here. Get me the hell out of here.”

Argrave kneeled down. “Focus, Durran. Focus. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Don’t…” Durran bashed his head against Argrave’s knee. “Don’t ask. Just do, do!” He closed his eyes and again screamed, “Shut up!”

Argrave’s eyes danced as he considered his options, then he grabbed Durran’s shoulder. “I’m taking you to Raven.”

“No, no, no! Absolutely not!” Durran crawled away from him like a rabid animal.

“He’s the only one who’ll know what’s wrong, Durran,” Argrave told him insistently.

“I know what’s wrong,” Durran managed coherently, his voice a crying whine. “Just take me away. Far away. Someplace with few people—no people.”

His brain whirled as he processed the strange request, but decided to simply give in. “Alright. I’ll take you to a wide-open field,” he promised.

Durran shook his head frantically, balling up. “People die on plains all the time. No plains. Water plains. The ocean,” he suggested, then latched onto the idea. “Yeah, ocean. Ocean with low people. Ocean between the places. The places we own. Middle of it.” 

Argrave tried to translate his gibberish into comprehendible language, and eventually nodded. “The ocean between Vasquer and the Great Chu?”

“Yes, yeah!” Durran nodded frantically.

“Alright.” Argrave stood to his feet. I’ll bring… bring a small rowboat or something, teleport it with us.”

“I’ll find one,” Elenore promised, sprinting out the room the fastest he’d ever seen her move.

“Hang tight, Durran,” Argrave walked around, dispelling nervous energy. “Can I help you right now? Anything I can do?”

“Kill me,” he said.

Argrave nodded. “Any better ideas?”

“No,” he moaned sadly.

With a deep breath, Argrave prepared to figure out what the hell was happening.

***

Argrave stared at Durran. The two of them sat on a rowboat in the middle of the tumultuous ocean between the Great Chu and Vasquer. Durran, who’d been writhing, had calmed somewhat, and gazed out distantly across the ocean as he sprawled out with limp legs and arms.

“I hate you,” he said.

The words wounded Argrave and he fell silent for a few moments before saying quietly, “I didn’t know it would be like this, Durran.”

“Not you, bastard,” Durran looked at him. “The other guy. Well, come to think of it… I might hate you a little, too. But it’s not the same.”

“You sound coherent. More so, at least.” Argrave rubbed his hands together. “What’s happening to you? You said you knew.”

Durran looked out across the rocking ocean, then used his arms to sit up. He looked exhausted. “I should’ve known. I even told you I couldn’t get luckier, but I had to push it. Pushed my luck, now I’m getting pushed in when I’d just about forgotten this bit of my past.”

“That doesn’t tell me much,” Argrave pointed out. “Listen—we’re going to find some way to fix this. Somewhere, there’s an advantage to what you’re feeling. We can make you right, make you whole.”

Durran shook his head. “I know what I have to do. I just don’t want to do it.”

Argrave grabbed his legs and jostled him. “Just tell me what the hell’s wrong!”

With his hands trembling, Durran clenched his arms until he hugged himself. “…the dead.”

“What about them?” Argrave asked, but he was already guessing.

“I can hear the dead,” he said louder, though his voice still trembled. “I can feel the dead, smell the dead. I can think their last thoughts, take their place, live their life. I can feel the god damned sword piercing my stomach. I can feel it yank out, pulling my guts with it. I can stare up at the soldier—this guy, he’s just a kid, just like me, and he’s terrified. He stabs me again, and again, and I just won’t die! And I’m bleeding, and…” he broke off into a fit of trembling. “Fuck. That fucking fruit. I’ve lived entire lives, Argrave, in moments. I could tell you their mothers, their fathers, their dreams…”

Argrave felt a chill as he looked upon Durran’s face. These weren’t mere hallucinations—it seemed incredibly real to him, incredibly vivid. He was experiencing the last moments of the dead. It must’ve been tied to the location, somehow—and that was why Durran had requested he come here. Incredible guilt welled up at what he’d inflicted upon Durran. He’d made the man die countless times. He’d consigned him to a life of death.

But to experience that which the dead did… to quite literally pry their genuine thoughts from beyond the grave… Argrave already saw immeasurable value.

“Do you speak to them?”

“No,” Durran answered, then said, “Stop laughing. It’s not funny, you miserable...” He caressed his forehead, then looked at Argrave. “No, I don’t speak with the dead. I become them. It’s such an intense bombardment of being that it makes me want to puke. But I can’t puke, for some reason.”

“Upper-level management doesn’t puke, maybe.” Argrave crossed his arms. “Still… you’re speaking to someone right now, aren’t you?”

Durran sighed incredibly deeply, and that was all the answer that Argrave needed. They sat in silence as the ship rocked. Argrave felt out of sorts, but Durran looked as though he was distracted. Perhaps it was the voice in his head. And given all that Argrave knew about who Durran was, and what he’d experienced… and above all, how Durran spoke to the person…

“It’s Garm, isn’t it?”

Durran turned his head to look at Argrave. There was a stretch of silence before, eventually, he nodded.

Argrave covered his mouth with his hand. Garm. A-rank spellcaster, last true surviving member of the Order of the Rose, and a head on a wooden stake. Argrave and the others had found him in the Low Way of the Rose, as his presence was necessary to advance deeper within. They had passed through the whole of that dreadful place, until finally, they came to the Burnt Desert.

Garm was combative, stubborn, narcissistic, and by Argrave’s estimation, quite funny. Along the journey, they’d had their ups and downs. He was even beginning to like the poor fellow, and empathize with his situation. Then, Garm stubbornly chose to die, bestowing his soul upon Durran that he might help him learn magic quickly.

But more than helping Durran, Garm had simply wished to not be a burden upon Argrave.

“It’s been, what… two years and a half?” Durran questioned. “Yeah, I moved on just fine. Just fine. Until…”

Argrave leaned back in the boat, joining Durran in staring out across the ocean as he imagined the totality of how the Fruit of Being would change Durran’s life. Argrave hadn’t noticed exceptional changes to his body. Durran couldn’t escape his. It was quite literally in his head.

“Anneliese and I had agreed to name our first son Garm,” Argrave confessed. “This somewhat complicates things.”

Durran half-laughed, half-cried. “You think you’ve got it rough? Even if I manage to overcome the whole ‘dead people infecting my body’ thing, this bastard might be watching as I try and make my first son.” He leaned in. “How’s that? Do you have any idea how much the course of my life just changed? A damned cyclone slammed into the boat that is my life, and now I’m adrift…. who knows where the hell I am.” He leaned out the side of the boat. “Can I go back? Can I vomit the fruit up and give it to Melanie?”

Argrave hung his head in shame.

“Yeah, you’re back because of a fruit.” Durran paused. “Yes, my mother did teach me not to eat random things. Look at this prick. He’s fine and dandy, and he ate the same fruit,” Durran gestured at him.

“You and he don’t share thoughts, memories?” Argrave inquired.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m still getting used to it.” Durran shook his head, then quieted down.

Argrave studied Durran carefully. Now that he knew, he could see the man listen to Garm intently. Argrave decided to ask, “You said you knew what you have to do, but you don’t want to do it.”

“Yep.” Durran nodded. “It’s like jumping off a cliff into water. It’ll probably be safe. He says that he can leave my body. Considering he died for me once before, I don’t exactly harbor too many doubts about his truthfulness. But what if there’s rocks beneath the surface? It’s dangerous.” He sighed. “But sometimes… sometimes, I guess you just have to do it.”

Durran looked at him intently, golden eyes locking with his. Argrave was a little uncertain about what it was, but he waited patiently for Durran to continue. Then, he saw the white sclera on Durran’s eyes darken, turning gray… then finally, turning to black. With black on the outside, gold on the inside, it reminded Argrave only of a necromantic creation. A chill set in.

“It seems even I can’t kill me,” Garm whispered with intense joy, then examined his limbs. “I’m back.”

Chapter 22

As Argrave stared in stunned silence, Garm seemed to be having quite a few problems.

“How does one move their arm, again?” He studied Durran’s arms. “Quite nice arms, but my faculties appear to have eroded somewhat.”

“The same way you’re talking, I imagine.” Argrave studied him, trying his best to act as though this situation wasn’t abnormal.

Just then, Garm started to tip over, and Argrave lunged forward to catch him. As Garm laughed maniacally, he gently lowered him down to the floor of the rocking boat.

“I feel quite useless,” Garm said with a big smile on his face. “But this body is a nicer decoration than a stake piercing the bottom of my skull where my spine ought to be.”

Argrave studied Garm’s eyes intensely. Just from their way of talking, it was impossible to mistake Garm for Durran. “Why are you here? What did you two do?”

“Why? That’s quite abstract. If I knew, I wouldn’t have written you that stupid letter. ‘I don’t care for sappy stuff, but I wish for you to know I consider you a friend.’ Bleh.” He fake-vomited. “Why did I ever think to write that? Still, did you cry?”

Argrave looked away.

“Ahhh, I can see it. You cried like a bitch. Hahahahaha!” Garm laughed happily. “I’m here because the universe decided Durran is incompetent, and he can’t do the job alone. Why else?” He paused. “The man is very angry at me for saying so, but it’s true. You see, rummaging around in his body, I’ve figured things out about our powers. Oh, yes—powers.”

Argrave was alarmed by the possibility there might yet be more yet unpacked, but said nothing to draw attention. “Such as?”

“I understand how to listen to the voices of the dead. He doesn’t,” Garm explained simply. “If you take me back to where we were, with that woman crying over him—she looked a little like you, come to think of it—I could stand upright amidst the waves of death and decay, and parse the mystery from the misery.”

“You can’t stand upright now,” Argrave pointed out, thought felt disquieted when he wondered how they might explain this to Elenore.

“I’ll get the hang of it,” Garm coped. “Mastery over death—that’s what I bring to the table. It’s my power. Mine. Durran wasn’t man enough to use it—me, though, I’ve seen deaths uncountable. I’ve taken baths in blood—which is a rather ineffective skin treatment, despite rumors to the contrary. It seems he’s made a habit of tossing away perfectly good gifts. It’s quite the wasteful thing, to bestow the grandest necromantic soul of the age upon one who nigh entirely disregards his specialty.”

Argrave had been an attentive listener, and so asked a pertinent question. “You say that’s your power. What’s Durran’s?”

“His? He would know better. Oh!” Garm looked down at his hands. “I’m moving my fingers! No, they’re not ‘your fingers,’ Durran. At worst, I can call them ‘our fingers.’”

“Have him describe it,” Argrave pressed the issue. “You saw your power, locked within. What’s his?”

Garm listened, then relayed, “He says he doesn’t yet fully know yet, but he knows that it’s useful in combat, and it’s quite powerful.”

“Well…” Argrave nodded. “Maybe there’s someone I know that can help us out with this whole dilemma.”

“Who might that be?” Garm smiled pleasantly.

“You’ve met him,” Argrave replied simply. “As a matter of fact, you struck a deal with him behind my back. Do you remember that?”

“Durran?” Garm narrowed his eyes.

“Taller,” Argrave said, and took some joy in watching Garm’s face harden.

***

“It’s difficult to say if they could be parted,” Raven mused while examining Garm. The man stayed eerily still with extreme trepidation, not knowing just how much Raven had lightened up. Argrave was content to keep him ignorant.

“What’s difficult?” Argrave pressed for explanation.

“Garm’s soul does not exist. It was destroyed and melded with Durran’s, and that hasn’t changed. The being that inhabits his shell is a manifestation of the imprint left behind, sustained by the Fruit of Being’s ability. Therefore, it’s difficult to say if he could exist independently of Durran’s ability to witness the imprint left behind by the dead.”

“He’s wrong,” Garm said with some vim, then shrunk as Raven turned his withering gaze back toward him.

“Explain,” Raven demanded.

“I saw this power. I saw it. I know there’s a way to leave. I saw the exit.” He looked at Argrave. “Bring me a corpse.”

“A corpse?”

“Do you need an explanation?” Garm condescended. “It’s like you, but more interesting. Go fetch one. Fresh, and humanoid.”

Argrave sighed, both enraged and amused at this man’s sudden return. He contacted Elenore, asking, “Do you have any fresh, largely intact corpses?”

“What?! I thought you said you had everything under control!” She answered back, panic still lining her tone.

“I do. I just need a corpse,” he answered her.

“…wait a moment,” she said.

Argrave looked at Garm. “I ordered a corpse. Delivery driver is on the way. Estimated delivery time is thirty minutes.”

“Why not bring someone, have them killed?” Garm proposed.

“Because people aren’t lobsters.” Argrave glared at him. “We don’t cook with living ingredients, here.”

“Peak freshness,” Garm pointed out.

***

Argrave looked down at the corpse that Elenore had managed to rummage up. He was rather glad to see no fresh wounds inflicted by Elenore’s agents in their haste to procure a body.

“It’s so old,” Garm complained. “Wrinkly, and sad. And what’s that smell?”

“He was a beggar. No family far as we can tell, and died in the streets less than an hour ago in Dirracha.” Argrave turned his gaze away from the old man’s rheumy, dead eyes. “I’m not going to kill some twenty-something year old for your twisted purposes.”

Garm grumbled, looking at the corpse. He gingerly raised his hand, then cast a B-rank spell. Argrave could tell at once that it was necromantic, and surely enough, the corpse shambled upward. Its eyes turned to black and gold.

“Alright.” Garm tried to stand, but stumbled a bit. Argrave caught him. “Bring me to it. Bring me,” he commanded.

“I see not much has changed for you, even with a body,” Argrave ribbed as he brought Garm over. “Still relying on others to haul you around.”

“Old habits die hard,” Garm jested without taking offence. He seemed bright and cheery, all things considered.

Once Argrave brought him near the corpse, he leaned forward and clung to it. The wizened corpse’s body resisted feebly, barely staying upright with the large body of Durran leaning against it.

“So, uhh…” Argrave looked around, not wanting to witness this strangely indecent scene of Durran clinging to some old man. “You have a plan?”

“I’m trying some things,” Garm answered back, crawling up the old man’s body. Argrave looked around again. He did not care to explain this to Elenore, and only hoped her agents weren’t watching.

“Trying to get aroused, looks like,” Argrave commented. “This is what you’re into?”

“No. I much prefer dead women. A lot less speaking and cuddling, but you can still do the fun part.” Garm continued for a few moments, then looked over with regret etched on his face. “That is a joke, I hope you realize.”

“Sure.” Argrave nodded. “A joke. You’re not a necrophiliac. I have no doubt.”

“Well, I did have a son, if you want some evidence. His mother may have been a terrible cunt, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call her a zombie. The dead, for all their virtues, can’t give birth. Plenty of my colleagues with zero charisma tried… I, however, was quite the looker. I had no need to rely on such methods,” Garm said distantly as he focused on the task. “Oh. Oh! I think this is it,” Garm said excitedly.

“You had a son?” Argrave asked in surprise.

“Yes. He’s the one that put me on the stake.” Garm stared into the corpse’s eyes. “I think I just…”

Both Durran and the recent-arisen zombie fell to the ground, and Argrave gaped for a moment before rushing forward. Garm blinked open his eyes—or rather, Durran did, given the fact the blackness had faded from his sclera.

“Are you there? Garm, Durran, whoever?” Argrave grabbed his face.

“Durran,” he answered, swatting away Argrave’s grip over his head. “And Garm… Garm’s voice… it’s not…”

Movement to the side drew both their attention. The beggar’s corpse was moving again, and Argrave watched cautiously. It suddenly sat up with intense vigor.

“By the gods…” the corpse said, in a tone identical to that which had been coming from Durran moments before with a different, aged voice. “This feels so much better than that idiot’s body. I feel alive! I feel whole!”

The once-sluggish corpse rose up with incredible speed, rolling its arms about. Garm laughed vigorously as he jumped from foot to foot, doing a slight dance. Argrave couldn’t help but join him in some mirth despite the morbidity of this endeavor. Then, he looked back at Durran.

“Still bothered?” he asked.

“…less so,” Durran admitted after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s less intense, less vivid. Enough so that I can speak to you. But there’s still a lot there.”

“That’ll fade.” Garm kneeled down before Durran and Argrave. “But in order for it to do so, you need to do something for me.”

“Second life’s not enough?” Argrave asked him.

“It’ll benefit all of us.” Garm shook his head. “I need more corpses. A lot more corpses. If you want for the intensity of Durran’s experience to be lessened, I imagine I need to remove the rest of myself from his body. I won’t accept beggars, anymore. I want powerful people. High-ranking spellcasters. Perhaps we can butcher those sentinels in the Low Way?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Argrave shook his head. “Not a chance. Not only is wanton slaughter a mite morally objectionable, but creating necromantic things only presents a vulnerability when Gerechtigkeit descends.”

“Pah. Do you think anyone could break my hold over this body? I would love to see them try.”

“How would you know?” Argrave scoffed.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Garm spread his hands out. “I don’t feel undead—I feel alive, totally in control. Have you ever seen an undead being on the same level I am? If Gerechtigkeit can commandeer the undead, and this Fruit of Being chose me… it stands to reason that my ability might be one of the counters you need to defeat him.”

Argrave didn’t want to act with conviction, but what he suggested was a good enough idea that he hoped it was true. It would explain why the fruit had chosen Durran. He took a deep breath, and thought of another matter that Garm had appeared for, as if by providence.

“I can do that. Powerful corpses—you want them, you’ll get them. But you have to extract memories from a dead person, and help me with a certain matter.”

“And what might that be? Not that I’m agreeing, of course,” Garm said.

“Come on.” Argrave stood up.

***

“This is the spot where a man called Llewellen died,” Argrave explained, standing with the risen corpse in the room where they’d retrieved the dwarven music box teaching his method of ascension.

“Mmm.” Garm looked around. “And who might this chap be?”

“Our strongest lead into discovering psychic magic,” Argrave explained. “And an invaluable source of magical knowledge that made Anneliese one of the strongest spellcasters in the world.”

“That woman?” Garm looked over. “You two sleep together yet, or did the big, strong, thoroughbred elven vampire sweep her off her feet and leave you seething and crying in the sand dunes?”

Argrave stared ahead blankly and said, “We’re married.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Argrave laughed. “I feel rather sorry for Durran.”

Garm laughed too, then knelt. “Alright. Llewellen, is it? I’ll see what I can find.”

“See what you can get,” Argrave tapped the beggar’s body. “Then, come join the research team.”

“Just get me bodies,” Garm nodded. “Good bodies. That’s all I ask. For now, at least. Oh,” he looked back. “Is there anyplace a man can have fun in your city?”

“…I suppose.” Argrave nodded. “I’ve never tried.”

“Give me a stipend, too,” Garm said. “I think I’m long overdue for some fun. And I need to figure out where the blazes I am, and what the hell I’m doing. Damn, this feels good.” He inhaled deeply through his teeth in anticipation. 

Chapter 23

Argrave finished explaining what had happened with Durran and Garm to Anneliese, and leaned back in his chair with quite the sigh. She sat on the edge of his desk, listening patiently for her chance to interject.

“I would be very interested to know what kind of person Llewellen was,” Anneliese commented. “Garm… I suppose we might change the name of our first son, if he’s returned.”

Argrave laughed. “I already said that.”

“If it’s any consolation, I got Artur to agree,” she said with a subdued brightness. “Given the trouble with Durran and the fact the research team assembles tomorrow morning, I suggested that he hold off from consuming it. Still, he’s ready, and he has conviction.”

“Thank you.” He looked up at her, nodding with a smile. “Thanks.”

Quiet set in between the two of them, and then there came a knock at the door. Argrave came to focus, then asked, “Who is it?”

“Knight-commander Orion, Your Majesty.”

“You don’t need to knock,” he called out. “It’s an office, not a bedroom. Come on in.”

Orion opened the door. From the way he carried himself, and the strangely formal greeting he had offered, Argrave could tell that this was something that warranted close focus. He stood up from the chair.

“What’s bothering you, Orion?” He asked intuitively.

Orion shut the door, then walked up to Argrave’s desk. “When were you going to tell me?”

“About the lottery?” Argrave guessed. “I’m sorry, but a lot came up today. I was intending on letting everyone know as soon as possible.”

“I know.” Orion nodded seriously. “I spoke to Elenore. She told me everything that came up today.” He leaned in and placed his arms on the desk. “Did Your Majesty even ever seriously consider my offer?”

Argrave’s jaw tightened uneasily. “Of course I did.” He nodded.

“Then why did you decide against, Your Majesty?” Orion’s voice was calm, but it still unsettled Argrave.

“Orion…” He softened his eyes as he looked upon his brother. Orion remained firm and unshaking in waiting for an answer. After casting a glance at Anneliese, he looked back at Orion. “It was my judgment that requests made in the throes of grief might not reflect the true desires of, or the best option for, the parties involved.”

“And making that decision, did you not feel any grief, Your Majesty? Or rather, do you not?” Orion asked.

“I do.” Argrave held Orion’s gaze. “But I was considerably less affected than you and Elenore. I spent less time with her.”

“If you do, then why do I hear word that, rather than Vasquer’s attacker, you would continue to put the vast majority of our efforts forth into tracking Traugott?”

“Traugott is within reach. Gerechtigkeit is not,” Argrave defended. “We can’t reach him. While we can build up our defenses, if this was a distraction intended to divert our intention away from Traugott, we might miss our opportunity. Then, everything could be lost. I have to use the fruits in this way.”

“And in the end, you made the decision that random chance was a preferrable method to distributing the Fruit of Being than listening to my request born of heavy-hearted conviction? Regardless of the enemy we were fighting, you would prefer it be given to me only if chance dictated it?”

Argrave felt a wave of uncomfortable emotions at the direct confrontation. “It was done in such a way that I allowed the Fruit of Being itself to choose who best it suited. Anneliese can attest to the fact that it wasn’t chance.”

Orion didn’t even spare a glance in her direction. He simply kept his gray eyes fixed forward, right on Argrave’s face, in total silence. Then, he stopped leaning on the desk.

“I would like to request a weeklong leave of absence from my duties as knight-commander of the royal guard, Your Majesty.”

“A leave?” Argrave repeated. “What?”

“If Your Majesty does not permit it, I am duty-bound. I will stay and perform my duties as best as I am able. However, I desire a leave of absence.”

Argrave grasped the implications immediately. Orion was indicating he would do anything that Argrave needed of him while expressing his desire to be granted a break. He was demonstrating his displeasure without displaying any intent to jeopardize their common cause.

“…enjoy your leave, then.” Argrave nodded.

Orion turned on his heel and walked toward the door.

“Orion.” Argrave walked out from behind the desk. “Where are you—”

“If you command me to return, I shall,” he interrupted. Then, he opened the door and walked out. He nearly bumped into someone, but gave her a nod and walked by. Elenore walked inside, a question on her face.

“He requested a leave of absence,” Argrave explained, shaking his head and scratching his forehead. “If you could, it would ease my mind if you check in on him. Maybe just talk through the mental link. He’s not happy about how I handled the fruits.”

“Few enough are.” Elenore also shut the door.

Argrave looked at her. He could tell from the look on her face that she had similar things on her mind.

“Elenore, you were there when I gave it to Durran. You—”

“As you’ll recall, I only ever voiced protest at the idea.” She walked into the room. “Now, Durran is forever changed.”

“It’s all going to work out,” he assured her. “Garm is already thinking of ways to separate himself fully from Durran’s body.”

“Sure. Yes.” She nodded dismissively. “But was that on your mind? Did you give the fruit to Durran knowing this would happen?” She shook her head. “I know you didn’t. You put on this little display to avoid the responsibility of the choice being yours, because you didn’t want to be perceived as denying others.”

Argrave couldn’t muster a response immediately. Perhaps it was because this all came out of left field, or perhaps it was because he couldn’t deny what was true.

“You’re our leader.” Elenore stepped forward. “You’re intended to guide and direct us. These difficult decisions are left upon you to make. And if you make the choice and some of us feel wronged, we’ll know that we were wronged because we chose you as our leader. It would be our fault as much as yours.”

“I did make a choice,” Argrave pointed out defensively. “And I think… no. I made the right choice,” he rephrased, showing conviction. “Without the die, I probably wouldn’t have chosen Durran, if I’m being frank. And if I hadn’t, we might’ve never had access to the sort of knowledge that Garm opens up to us. I made the right choice,” he repeated.

“Did you?” Elenore asked him. “Maybe you did. I can’t deny that Garm will bring us incredible utility. He might even grant us all the opportunity to know what Vasquer thought in her last moments, to grant us some peace.” She stepped forward, staring up at Argrave boldly. “But you didn’t make the right choice.”

“What do you mean?” He stood his ground.

“You could’ve let the fruits choose quietly, without letting anyone know. You didn’t need us to draw numbers. You didn’t need to make up these ridiculous excuses to each of us. You could’ve done it in peace, then acted like it was your own choice.” She shook her head slowly. “But you had to do this show, had to let everyone know what you were doing. You didn’t want anyone to think less of you. You didn’t want anyone to think you had chosen others before them. But as a result, all of us ended up bearing witness to…” she trailed off. “I’m upset, and I’m tired, and I’m riddled with anxiety, so perhaps I’m being cruel. But this? I’m disappointed, Argrave.”

Leaving that wounding assessment behind, Elenore walked back to the door. She turned around and leaned up against the wall.

“I’ll keep tabs on Orion, make sure that he doesn’t do anything that might get him hurt. On top of that, I’ll prepare everything for the research team tomorrow. Everything should go flawlessly, but contact me if you have any questions,” she said, like it was business-as-usual. “Goodnight, Argrave. Anneliese.”

She exited the room, shutting the door behind her. It was only when Anneliese put her hand on his shoulder did Argrave realize how terrible those two conversations made him feel.

“Give them time,” Anneliese suggested.

“…she’s right,” he said. “She’s right. She saw right through me, Anneliese. I made a show out of it. I made a damned show out of it, because I didn’t want anybody not to like me.” He laughed sadly. “Lottery. What was I thinking?”

“Hoping to be liked is not a terrible thing, I should think,” she comforted. “You did as you ever do. You did something you found amusing, hoping it might uplift downtrodden spirits, including your own. Unfortunately, jokes after funerals often fall flat, doubly so when they’re especially pertinent.”

“I do think I made the right choice,” he looked at her. “I do.”

“Amusing and practical can align, but in their alignment, they seemed to have collided ungracefully.” She squeezed his shoulder. “But they love you. So long as you give them time and do not err further, they will see your intentions. I’m sure of it.”

***

Anneliese stood in the parliamentary hall, occupying the podium that typically addressed all of the seats. Typically spellcasters occupied a third of the seats. Now, though, they occupied all of them—though they varied in origin, from the Hall of Enchantment to the Order of the Gray Owl to the more militantly-dressed spellcasters loaned from the Great Chu. Even Rowe the Righteous was taking part, though he and a few other Veidimen stayed isolated.

“I intend to keep this matter somewhat formal,” Anneliese called out, looking between all of them. “It’s my intention that all of you should have an equal voice. You’re here because you’ve already earned the right to an equal voice. Even still, for progress, there must be a hierarchy. At Argrave’s order, I will be occupying the position of chairwoman for this team. Though I may be queen, you may address me simply as Anneliese so long as we’re working together.”

Anneliese pointed. “Artur has cleared out ample space in his Hall of Enchantment for any and all of our needs. Furthermore, I’m designating him vice-chairman.” Artur and her locked gazes, and the former Magister gave a curt if proud nod, floating atop his crimson cloak. She looked to the right. “Garm, who is… of yet absent,” she said, trying to mask her annoyance, “…is also designated vice-chairman, due to his specialized knowledge on the field we’re researching. Lastly, Tarah, the Tower Master, will occupy the role of vice-chairwoman.”

A woman whose hair was blonde yet graying surveyed the crowd—Tarah, Castro’s designated heir. She seemed to fit the role much the same way he had. Though low-key, none seemed willing to defy her calm authority.

Someone near the front raised their hand, and Anneliese pointed. “Yes?”

“What is the objective of this research team?”

Anneliese nodded at the natural question. “Our objective is to prepare for the possibility of full-scale mental attack from Gerechtigkeit, something we received evidence for some days ago after the attack on Vasquer. Her death was likely an assassination intended for Argrave. In the future, we believe the minds of all people could be at risk.” At this sobering declaration, Anneliese’s amber eyes swept the crowd. “Our role is very important. Hence, the rewards will be commensurate. We’re to follow a collection of disparate leads searching for ways to ward the mind from malign influence. If it should be a patchwork solution, so be it… but I estimate that we will instead forge forth into an entirely new field of magic.”

Anneliese smiled so broadly and purely that everyone recognized the spirit of scholarship brimming out of her soul. It was the smile of a child’s joy, of innocent curiosity. It was the spark so many of them had that spurred them toward the pinnacle of magic.

“I’m looking forward to this,” she concluded. “And I’m looking forward to working with all of you. Now, let’s begin by reviewing notes from one of primary sources.”

Chapter 24

Many of the people of the research team had a unifying thought. This thought was shared between some few members that knew one another and had a rapport.

The queen only received her role because of nepotism.

Some few quietly dissented against that opinion, arguing that the fact that she had become an S-rank spellcaster at all was evidence enough of her right to belong here. Still, there were quite a few stages of the pinnacle of magic. Ancient casters like Castro, Rowe, Moriatran, or Tarah could not be put on the same level as those that had just breached the barrier. Her knowledge, rather like an iceberg, was doubtlessly grand, yet surely tapered off at the top where it breached the water. Theirs were mountains, looming far above the sea.

Rowe the Righteous spoke to one such doubter hailing from the Great Chu. He listened patiently, not displaying the fickle wrath he was well known for. At the end, he suggested, “Why not give her some difficult questions? If she’s embarrassed, her authority over us will be lessened.” He prodded the man. “Put her words of treating all as equals to the test.”

Though the person Rowe spoke to did not immediately do as he suggested, the idea spread rapidly among the proud spellcasters assembled. As everyone else reviewed the notes that she had distributed, someone gained courage and walked up to her where she sat.

“Anneliese,” the man said boldly—a caster from the Great Chu. He knew her prowess on the battlefield, but the battlefield was not research.

“Yes?” She looked at him expectantly.

“Have you considered the possibility of the S-rank illusion spell [Unperson] being one of the points of attack?”

Anneliese nodded. “Yes. That’s one of the points of reference in the third booklet—I can’t recall the page, but it’s about midway through. I, myself, have scrutinized it in some detail. I wrote some of my thoughts on the matter within the annotations.”

Hearing his question answered thoroughly and respectfully, others yet approached the queen. They posed reasonable, if increasingly esoteric, ideas. No matter how thoroughly they delved, the queen had an answer ready for each and all. Moreover, she answered follow-up questions adroitly, demonstrating insight that did not come from rote memorization. Rowe continued to shepherd people into undermining her position, sometimes even directly supplying them questions they could ask her with a devious smile on his face.

Eventually…

“I don’t find your joke particularly funny,” Anneliese rebuked someone calmly.

“A joke? It’s a perfectly reasonable question,” a Magister of the Gray Owl defended. “Is there some reason you can’t answer it?”

“Your question was answered on the first page of the notes I distributed,” she retorted, then looked around. “It appears I need to give clearer direction, as a startling number of questions posed are already some that I answered in the distributed texts—in short, surface-level.” She rose. “We may be inventing a new field of magic. New fields do not revolve around S-rank magic. They must be capable of casting spells from F-rank to S-rank. Read what was distributed. Catch up to where I stand, theoretically. Only then can we press past all of this, getting into the meat of the matter.”

The people that sought some sort of humiliation walked away humbled, though none could protest. She had indulged them as equals, but in so doing, proved she deserved her title as their superior. Rowe, though, walked past all of them and greeted Anneliese.

“Well done,” he told her quietly. “It’s about what’s expected of my apprentice.”

She shook her head. “Most of the questions were about illusion magic. Considering it’s new to our people, can you really claim any credit?” She smiled, and Rowe himself stood humbled. “Still, thank you for forcing that opportunity. Now, I believe you should catch up to me as well.”

With no retort, Rowe managed a few awkward words then shambled away, joining the rest in having been artfully cowed by the Queen of Vasquer. When everyone had begun poring over the notes, she sent out word to Elenore through their mental link.

“Thank you for speaking to Argrave, despite your tension. His wiki spared me in a few tight moments. I think the results will be wonderful in the team. As a matter of fact, we may be far ahead of schedule.”

“You’re welcome,” Elenore replied simply. “I hope it goes well.”

In unfair games, Anneliese found it felt rather good to cheat a little. She wouldn’t make a habit of it, but she saw why Argrave found it so addicting.

“Anneliese,” someone said, and she turned her head in response. There, Artur floated. “I wished to consult you further about the matter we discussed yesterday.”

She nodded, judging his emotions. He seemed ambivalent. “Certainly. Seek me out at the end of the day,” she told him.

“I will.”

***

“I can confirm that the unusual seismic activity is directly related to mass movement of Gilderwatchers,” Raven told Argrave as they walked together through a particularly gloomy volcanic cavern. Lights from spells billowed around them as they walked, illuminating their path. “And I can confirm they converge on a point of unusually potent power. Furthermore, I did some preliminary investigation on the affected feathered serpents.”

Argrave was intensely focused on the cavern ahead, but he did listen intently. “What kind of preliminary investigations?”

“I compared them to the sample that I had collected from Vasquer. The comparisons were rough, and I took no samples, as I did not wish for the same sort of mental energy that assaulted you to come for me.”

Argrave looked at him. “You don’t have their blood. You’d be safe.”

“I do,” he disagreed. “I consumed countless things in my time as the Smiling Raven. Gilderwatchers were not exempt from my wrath. If I wished it, I might’ve communicated with Vasquer. How else do you think I recognized your heritage when no others did? Mine is a different relation than yours, but it is present.”

Argrave scoffed in shock, then stopped to survey a branching path. “Alright. And what was the result, then?”

“We can safely assume that the words Lindon contacted you with after Vasquer’s death were genuine. I felt the same energy I had extracted from the sample coming from the Gilderwatchers. And the point of power upon which they converge, in the continent of Anorexhai… somehow, it is subtly similar to the Fruit of Being.”

“Where is Anorexhai?” Argrave asked.

“That would be the place I wiped out, millennia ago,” Raven said. “A few gods occupy it, lording over the coastal mortal populations. Nothing worth mentioning.”

“I see.” Argrave digested that information, but looked to Raven out of the corner of his eye. “You don’t have anything else to say?”

“I reported everything.”

“No comments about the lottery?” Argrave pressed.

“Now that I heard your rationale, I believe it somewhat ingenious,” Raven said ponderously. “None could guess one as vacuous as Durran might have such potential lurking within. Garm will prove invaluable. I hope you will lend him to me, as I have many dead people I hope he might visit. And the short one… I cannot guess how he might be of use.”

Now that Argrave had heard some praise from Raven, he knew something was wrong about the way he’d handled the situation. There were cracks in the foundation. Argrave hated the feeling intensely. He would need to have a long think about what might be done to mend the fractures. Hopefully, something stronger would be born as a result.

Still, the situation demanded little time to rest and think about what had been done. The present demanded action, not the future.

“Erlebnis’ information is millennia-old, but if everything that he said holds true…” Argrave pressed onward over a steep incline in the volcanic cavern. “We’re nearly there.”

Things were hot and damp down here, and the black rock had shards of obsidian embedded at random intervals that made the light dance. Sudden glances of light often caught his eyes, making Argrave glance about wildly seeking enemies that didn’t exist. At times like this, Orion’s presence eased Argrave considerably. Even Raven wasn’t a suitable replacement.

The pathway steeped until it was a sheer wall. The volcanic rock had many pores, and Argrave climbed up with great ease. At the top, the cavern opened up, and the light pooled upon it. What was ahead rather reminded Argrave of the obsidian pathway one needed to take to discover the Alchemist’s lair. They shared their material—so-called volcanic glass, black and brilliant. It looked so smooth as to be polished.

“Yeah…” Argrave kneeled down, peering ahead. The light from their spells strangely didn’t carry very far into the pathway of obsidian. “Just as the wiki describes. This is one of the potential early entrances to the Shadowlands, for sure.”

Raven walked ahead, stopping just short of the volcanic glass. “Do you know why I employ obsidian so often? At my home, for my staff…”

Argrave might’ve just read Erlebnis’ wiki for the answer, but he answered, “Some quirk, I imagine. Or maybe you just like it.”

“Obsidian is the single best receptor for earth magic,” Raven explained. “Nothing else moves so fluidly, so smoothly. Nothing else can respond to the most whimsical of whims without falling apart beneath the burden of the magic inscribed.”

“That’s good, right?” Argrave looked back at Raven. “We can just walk through all of this.”

“If you control the obsidian, perhaps.” Raven knelt. “If we don’t, we may be in for quite the time.”

Argrave ground his teeth together somewhat anxiously. “We were just scouting. I think we take note of the location, and then get ready to return.”

“Does this fall outside the purview of scouting?” Raven questioned.

***

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the idea of consuming the Fruit of Being,” Artur told Anneliese.

Though Anneliese could see a great degree of hesitance in his voice, she saw something else—frustration. She couldn’t begin to guess the source of it.

“May I ask why?” Anneliese prompted him.

Artur stroked his well-trimmed chin. “I’m not sure I wish to shoulder the responsibility such a bestowal might entail,” he said.

Anneliese could tell he was lying, but she wasn’t entirely sure why. She thought about angles she might approach this from, thinking hard about how to pry the answer from him.

“Argrave and I both believe you’re well-suited for the responsibility,” she said, stroking his ego—he had quite the large one, as she knew.

“Well… thank you,” he smiled, eyes sparkling with the praise. “I have done a great deal for… but…” he cleared his throat, realizing he was getting carried away. “Nevertheless, I’m hesitant.”

Anneliese took a deep, considerate breath. “Is there any other reason? I am willing to listen to anything that might be on your mind.”

“Well…” Artur looked at her, then around the small room they both stayed within. “I’m not…”

“Nothing you say here will be held against you. You’re a vital part of the kingdom,” she told him. It was true, though she meant it to flatter.

“Then… if I can be frank…” Artur adjusted his position on his cloak as he sat atop it. “The very idea of being a chosen one appalls me.”

Anneliese tilted her head. “Could you help me understand that?”

“I was born to a common family in Vasquer. I was born with dwarfism. Both of these things, you’re abundantly aware of.” Artur looked at her. “Nothing that I obtained wasn’t achieved by my own hand. Everything I have, I clawed and scratched and fought to earn. I’m proud of that. The idea of simply being bestowed some fruit to enter the upper echelons of Vasquer…” The man shook his head. “You say it might do wonderful things. I don’t care if it makes me normal, even—it’s not earned. I’ve done nothing for it.”

Anneliese bit her lip, surprised at his conviction. She respected it, even if it was rooted in pride.

“Be that as it may, you’re the best candidate,” she told him bluntly. “Is there anything I might do to allay that concern?”

“I’m not sure.” Artur looked around. “If there is, nothing comes to mind. Might something else be done with the fruit?”

Chapter 25

“Artur is one of the best craftsmen in the world,” Anneliese said to Argrave. “I do believe the idea of letting him choose another method to utilize the fruit holds some merit.”

Argrave cleaned off his armor of black dirt accrued in the cave of volcanic rock—armor of Artur’s make, upon reflection—as he listened to Anneliese. Raven had derided Argrave somewhat for cowardice, but even he eventually admitted it might be foolish to press further. He remained behind to gather more information, while Argrave returned to preside over Blackgard and Vasquer.

“Yeah, but…” Argrave conjured some water, rubbing across it with a rough cloth. “Give a man a fish, you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, he can feed himself for a lifetime. Imagine the things Artur might be able to make if he does eat the fruit. He could turn anything he touches into a work of art.”

Anneliese narrowed her eyes. “In this scenario, we would be feeding him the fruit.”

He tried to think of some way to rework the idiom in this context, but eventually gave up and set aside his mostly-clean armor. “Consider this. Giving the fruit to Durran might have given us the ability to loosen Gerechtigkeit’s control over the undead. On the other end of the spectrum, giving the fruit to Artur might unlock some way to prevent automatons from falling under his sway.”

Anneliese considered that deeply, then shook her head. “I don’t see it. If it were Dario, perhaps. Artur has no relation to automatons.”

“All I know is I’d much rather have King Arthur on my side than Excalibur.” He shook his head. “A special artifact. Whoopee. Unless it can duplicate itself indefinitely, cut through space and time, and kill Gerechtigkeit in one strike, what’s the point?”

“You were reserving the last fruit to help us invade the Shadowlands, as they’re allegedly vastly different from both mortal and divine realms,” Anneliese pointed out. “Perhaps we can give the task of creating an artifact that would allow us to breach the Shadowlands upon Artur.”

“That’s…” Argrave tossed the idea around in his head, and as he saw its merit, his back grew rigid as his depleted vigor returned. “That’s wonderful. And if it’s Artur that handles things, it might do far more than allow us to infiltrate the Shadowlands. I won’t say no to a key item that gives some other buffs. But… I don’t know. What the hell do you craft out of a fruit? A smoothie? Wine? Maybe you use the skin to make a lampshade?”

“Artur is the crafter, not us. I believe the idea will appeal to him greatly. Asking him not to change his body, but to employ his well-earned craftsmanship to create something unparalleled… that might ignite his fervor far more than the research team did.”

Argrave studied her. “He’s not so enthusiastic, eh? Not a team player?”

“Well…” Anneliese crossed her arms. “He left the Order of the Gray Owl for a reason. He has a stubbornly independent personality which prohibits him from effective cooperation, yet also bestows that fiercely entrepreneurial spirit that allowed the Hall of Enchantment to arise. Some people aren’t suited to working with others. They only prosper if they can command unilaterally.”

Argrave’s mind wandered to the unflattering scenes of Artur shouting down his employees about quotas. It was hard to imagine the man meekly working with people in the team. He dismissed the thought and asked, “Besides that, how was the first day?”

Anneliese practically bounced with eagerness as she said, “It’s so much fun, Argrave! Developing hypotheses, testing them, revising the theory again and again as we press toward an answer. Of course, it had some politicking at the beginning. Everything does, sadly, but I’ve grown rather accustomed to it. And because I’m the chairman, I don’t write the notes. Someone else takes notes for me. That was always my least favorite part, but now it’s gone!” She sighed wistfully. “Frankly, the only thing that might improve it is if you were there with me.”

“Sweet talker,” Argrave smiled.

“Oh.” Anneliese pointed at him, remembering something. “Garm needs to be reigned in. He showed up drunk, and he was complaining about the Domain of Order over the city that prevents lawlessness. He inquired to various members of the team about where he could buy certain herbs which I presume were drugs of some kind. I elected to have him removed. I wasn’t able to learn what he gathered from studying Llewellen.”

Argrave sighed. “One night of stipend, and he’s already… well, fine. I’ll talk with him.”

***

“How is anyone going to take you seriously if you act like this?” Argrave sat by Garm’s bedside.

“I don’t want them to take me seriously,” Garm answered back, his words still slurred. Argrave wondered just how much he had to drink. “I want them to think I’m a worthless nobody. Because if I can’t work with your research team, you’ll be forced to get me a new body, a new identity, so I can begin again. Heee…” he grinned cheekily in his drunken state, showing the beggar’s yellow teeth.

Argrave crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair. It had been long enough he’d forgotten how conniving Garm could be.

“Besides, I was used to just…” Garm ran his hands over his body. “Cast a spell, and the alcohol goes away. All fun, no pain. I was so happy, I kind of forgot I can’t do that.” He giggled deliriously.

“Raven has said he can prepare a body that meets your standards, but it’ll take some time,” Argrave said. “In the meantime, I need you to act with the dignity and gravity that everyone else acts with. We’re dealing with a very serious matter. Quite literally the highest stakes.”

“Do you know…?” Garm looked at Argrave, a subdued smile on his face. “The last thing I remember… you were in the Alchemist’s little workshop, getting worked and shopped. The last few centuries before we met I had spent in a haze, running through my head again and again why my own son would put my head on a stake. I was alive… but not alive. A head on a stake.” He smiled. “I chose to die. I died fighting, but I did die. I died, you little bastard. I died. For the third damned time. No… second, actually.”

“You got better,” Argrave countered. “Because of us.”

“I died,” continued Garm, practically ignoring Argrave. “Then, ‘snap.’ Wake up in Durran’s head. When I last saw this place, this kingdom, it was the half size and the Order of the Rose reigned supreme. We had an empire paved. We of the Order of the Rose were more kings that any of Vasquer ever were. I don’t even know how it all fell apart.” He grabbed a pillow and sighed into it, then threw it aside clumsily. “Now… you, supreme king. Order of the Gray Owl. Gods on earth. Biggest calamity ever. And me, a little figment on Durran’s tapestry. Still dead, but a little less so. Can I just take a moment… to have a little fun? Do I have to hop on the trolley heading for the crusade against the devil immediately? I got my life back. Can I enjoy it, while it lasts?”

“While it lasts?” Argrave repeated.

“You’ll be rather relieved to know I’m not eternal,” Garm grinned broadly. “Especially not if I do what I should do.”

Argrave narrowed his eyes. “You mean to say you’re dying?”

“I died. I died! Catch up, you two-legged bastard…” Garm covered his mouth, and Argrave thought he was about to retch.

“Why don’t you tell me what you mean,” Argrave suggested.

“I’m a tribute to Garm. An impression. I’m not the real thing, just a collection of what he was, assembled to replicate him,” he said. “Well… what’s the difference, anyways, if it all ends in death? All roads end the same way. What’s the use in doing anything?” He scratched as his nose. “I’m a tornado. I’m a coin spinning on the table. Once the initial push stops, I’ll settle down, rattling… and cease to be, just like I was. I got it all back…” Garm held up both his arms, clenching his hands into fists. “Only to see a timer of the time I got. A countdown to the third death. The universe’s fucked me so good that I’ve come to like it. Ergo, hedonism. Debauchery. Why not do all I missed the first two times? I don’t even have to care about the body I end up in, because you’ll get me a new one.”

Argrave saw it all—the big talk, the humor, the scheming, the callous disregard for others… and he felt incredibly sad. Were these truly the death throes of the man Argrave had thought was incredibly lucky? Darkly enough, he wondered if he wasn’t being played. Garm was certainly capable of such a thing. Anneliese wasn’t present, but perhaps he could call her.

For now, Argrave would try it on his own.

“How much time do you really have?” Argrave pressed. If Garm was lying, he hoped further scrutiny might make it all fall apart, or clarify its veracity.

“I only know I’m fading,” Garm said. “But if I can notice it, it must not be long.”

“What are you supposed to do—that thing you said earlier?”

Garm looked at Argrave. “I could give life to other impressions, like myself. Or, I could just recreate myself. That was my original intention. Split the fun, maybe? Perhaps I could do something insanely twisted with two of me… or perhaps we’d just fight. But that might be fun, too.”

“You mean… bring others back from the dead?” Argrave said in surprise.

“Mmhmm.” Garm scratched at his face. “A sequel to your favorite dead people. I could even bring back that Llewellen fellow. But if I do, I would have to surrender some of my time, some of my own life. So, why bother?”

Chapter 26

“I’m surprised you’re visiting me.” Emperor Ji Meng poured tea for Argrave. “I thought I might see you only when it was absolutely necessary.”

In truth, Argrave himself was the most surprised he’d ended up here. Emperor Ji Meng had been a very large obstacle when they’d first met, then became a snake waiting for an opportunity to strike after he’d been imprisoned. Now, the old man might be considered a docile predator. Clean-shaven, wearing luxurious Great Chu-style robes, and devoid of any and all magic… frankly, he looked better than ever. And why wouldn’t he be? He enjoyed an emperor’s lifestyle without any responsibility. But there were still gluts of knowledge in that head of his.

“I need fresh eyes. Experienced eyes,” Argrave responded. “There’s not many other people that have experience with as large a nation as you do. When it comes down to it… I’m realizing the larger things get, you end up dealing with a few elites. Your commands trickle down from there. My problem lies in how I’ve handled some things with those elites. I don’t want the negative effects trickling down to my people.”

Ji Meng picked up his own tea. “I’ll need more specifics.”

“I tried to bestow an… important position, let’s say, impartially. In so doing, I just made everyone a little miffed. I can’t afford any flaws right now, not with things as they are.” Argrave looked to the side, thinking. “And on the other end of the spectrum, I’m dealing with an erratic personality whose cooperation is extremely important. He’s selfish in a… hedonistic way.”

Ji Meng sipped his drink, then set it down. He rubbed his finger around the rim of the cup. “Impartiality is a fool’s errand in our seat. The simple fact is, some people are better suited for reward. Some people you don’t need to reward, because they don’t complain enough to matter. Even if you kick them, they’ll come crawling back. Some people only work for reward. And some… no reward will be enough. Those people will get the most done, but they can also try and plant a dagger in your back. But you’ve already made the mistake, if I hear you right.”

Argrave nodded. “You do.”

“Do you have a good relationship with these people?”

“Yes,” Argrave answered without hesitation.

Ji Meng drank, thinking. “Do they have rapport with each other?”

Argrave considered that. “Some of them.”

“Yes, your closest confidants were your family, as I recall,” Ji Meng mused. “Friends and family don’t make especially good officials, I’ve found. The problems become all the more personal. Their disappointment is substantially greater when they expect something from you, and you don’t deliver.”

“That… holds true.”

“You can’t be seen as trying to placate them,” Ji Meng cautioned. “Nor can you show indecision by retracting the position. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is disarm yourself. I mean, look what I’ve done.” He gestured all around. “Giving a show of faith, a show of goodwill, can earn you a great deal. It can’t be forced, can’t be inorganic. You have to be patient. A chance will come, as it did for me. As for the other question, this erratic fellow… what do you need him to do?”

“Make a sacrifice for the greater good of the nation,” Argrave said.

Ji Meng winced, inhaling sharply through his teeth. “Ouch. Quite the ask. And you can’t drag him to the altar yourself, bleed him?”

“He’d smile if I tried.” Argrave shook his head. “No. It has to be something he does willingly. It’s his talent, his ability.”

“Would you describe him as self-important? Did he inherit all he had?”

“Self-important, sure. Inheritance… absolutely not.” Argrave crossed his arms. “He crawled his way up from the very bottom. An orphan.”

“I can work with that. It tells me that he had ambition at some point, but something changed that.” Ji Meng inhaled deeply, then something seemed to come to him. “You need to ruin his hobbies, somehow.”

“Ruin them?” Argrave narrowed his eyes. “You mean, stop him from doing them?”

“No. He’ll just come up with clever ways to get past whatever obstacles you erect. You claimed he was hedonistic. He gravitates toward debauchery for a reason. If you can find that reason, you can twist it so that the things that he does bring him no pleasure. When the joy turns to sand in his mouth… people like that, they can’t stand with their emotions. They have to keep moving, keep going, keep seeking the next thing. Because if they stop to reflect, whatever it is they’re avoiding will catch up with them.” Ji Meng spread his arms wide. “And so you’ll come, giving him a chance to feel something. Even if that something is pain.”

“Hmm.” Argrave leaned back. “What if I make it very easy to get everything he wants? Bombard him with drugs, liquors, et cetera.”

“You could kill him,” Ji Meng pointed out.

“Not if I tried.”

“Well… even still, I don’t think it’ll work. He sounds like one of those people whom no reward will ever satisfy that I mentioned earlier.” Ji Meng fell into deep thought.

“What if I showed him something more than he could handle?” Argrave questioned. “Something far beyond what he was willing to endure?”

“Those opportunities are few and far between,” Ji Meng said. “When you attempt to uproot the desire with fear, scaring someone straight is seldom the actual result—especially in adults.”

“I think I know something that could work.” Argrave drank the whole teacup in one go, then set it down. “Nice tea.”

“That isn’t really how you’re supposed to enjoy it, but you made an attempt, I suppose.” Ji Meng raised his cup. “I hope this becomes a regular thing. It’s nice to put my hat back in the arena, once in a while.”

Argrave smiled at him. “Maybe not. I would hate if you got the wrong idea.”

Ji Meng laughed heartily. “I can see why that might cause problems.”

***

“You’ve turned the place around, somewhat. Made it a bit more… human.” Garm looked up at the entrance to the Low Way of the Rose. They stood on the side of the Burnt Desert. A new road had been paved, facilitating trade between the southern deserts of black sand and the more fertile valleys of Vasquer. Even now, some few caravans entered into the vast cavern below.

“But I also can’t see why I’m here.” Garm looked at Argrave.

“Melanie and Elenore did all the renovations. I can’t take credit. But you really can’t guess why I brought you back?” Argrave asked him. “You asked a rather pertinent question last night, my friend. The Order of the Rose collapsed. No one really knows why.” He gestured toward Garm. “You can fix that. You can find out how and why each and every one of these people died.”

Garm narrowed his eyes. “A lot of people die without knowing the reason. A rockfall, a trip, a flood of blood… just because they died, doesn’t mean it can be explained. Perhaps it was divine providence.”

“We know that can’t be true,” Argrave disagreed. “But it’s a lot more than that. We can take a stroll down memory lane. We can reminiscence about puddles of blood that used to be there, and necromantic abominations that once attempted to eat the face of passersby, or the vampires protecting a vault of books they couldn’t even reach.”

“Well and good. But do you have time for strolls?” Garm questioned.

“For you, old buddy? Why not.” He rolled his shoulder. “And hey, this isn’t just for my curiosity. This is for you, too.”

“I fail to see how.” Garm frowned.

“You asked me something yesterday, through your haze of wine and mead. Why did your son kill you?” Argrave shrugged. “It’s a good question. And since this is the first place you died, we can do a comparison: before and now. We can run through how much you’ve changed in the centuries you spent staring at a door. I think, though, you’ll be far more interested in the life of your son, or the life of his mother. You can answer those questions you had last night, you realize. The ‘why’ of it.”

Garm’s invulnerable temperament finally proved a façade as he was rendered speechless. 

“Is the idea a bit much?” Argrave scratched the back of his head. “Yeah. I suppose I was a little thoughtless. If you don’t feel you’re up to it, we can turn back.”

“You’re not half as subtle or manipulative as you think you are,” Garm cut in harshly.

Argrave laughed, his reverse psychology called out. “All cajoling aside, you have to admit… it does make you curious, doesn’t it? Why would your son betray you? Was it just cold-blooded practicality, or was there something else? Maybe it was out of some twisted sense of affection. Either way, he probably died somewhere in there.”

“A lot of people died ‘somewhere in there,’ you realize. Malgeridum was the capital of death in the world.” Garm kneeled before the gaping opening in the mountain. “You didn’t stay here for long if you didn’t have a little sadism in your blood.”

“Either way, we can finally find out so many answers,” Argrave continued. “Even Erlebnis didn’t know just how the Order of the Rose came to be extinct. But you can, perhaps. And along the way, you might unlock more secrets to necromancy. More ways to perfect the new body that you transfer for. Every bit of necromantic knowledge you could ever imagine is hoarded within there, ripe for the picking. Not just what was written in books—what was written in their minds. It’d be the greatest heist of the century.”

“Yes, because you care so very much about the field of necromancy.” Garm spoke distantly. “You just want to scramble my head. I’m not an idiot.”

“Don’t you want to know how people remembered you after you died?” Argrave asked. “I know I would.”

Garm rubbed his leathery lips, thinking hard as that dimly illuminated abyss awaited ahead. Argrave let him think in silence. Then, Garm stood and began to walk. He lacked the carefree vigor he had, instead walking measuredly and solemnly. Argrave followed right behind, eager to learn the truth of the man that was—and is—Garm.

Hopefully, learning about the legacy he left behind might make him want to forge a new one, with what time he’d been reallotted.

Chapter 27

Garm found that walking through the ancient city of Malgeridum was rather like walking through a recently renovated library. The previously blood-ridden canals of the Low Way of the Rose had been replaced with unending clean water, and the streets and buildings that had been paved with blood had either been torn down or cleaned. The vines atop the ceiling illuminating the place had been replaced with far more reasonable magic lamps. The place couldn’t exactly be called thriving—certainly not as he remembered it in its heyday. But it had been reborn, in a sense.

And for Garm, it told tales uncountable.

He walked from place to place, letting the lives and deaths of all those who had once occupied this place wash over him in a grand tide. He experienced both the sadism and the misery it wrought. He experienced the reckless ambition of necromancers and the desperate hope for freedom in all those they captured. It was so much at once that the experiences often bled together. All of it gave Garm a wonderful bit of nostalgia. After all, he’d been both—the hopeful, and the sadistic.

Even though he knew Argrave was goading him into searching for the remnants of his old life, Garm couldn’t help but play into his hand. Would anyone not be intrigued how they were remembered, how others thought of them? Certainly not. But despite how much he searched… his name seldom appeared. He was there. But not his name.

Instead, Garm was most often referred to as Macheid’s father.

Garm was not remembered as a pioneer on the field of necromancy, an extraordinarily young prodigy, nor even a High Wizard of the Order of the Rose. He had been reduced to nothing more than set piece for his son, Macheid. Garm was a demonstration of his exceptionalism, and of the wanton cruelty that invoked respect in other members of the Order of the Rose. 

“The man has a wicked intelligence,” they all had thought. “He discovered how to turn his father into a necromantic being while retaining his intelligence and his ability to speak. It would be unwise to cross such a person.”

And from Garm’s view, Macheid was exceptional. He had become S-rank at nineteen. Nineteen. Not even Argrave, the bastard with the knowledge of the universe in his head, could claim that level of prodigal talent, nor his elven wife he was so proud of. He was quite literally the youngest S-rank spellcaster in the history of the Order of the Rose. He was the youngest Garm had ever heard of ever.

In the face of such exceptionalism, Garm was merely Macheid’s father, whom he hated enough to subject to an eternity of torture.

Ordinary parents might’ve been proud of their son for achieving such heights. They might thank their good stewardship for allowing the child to grow up so wonderfully. Garm only felt a pit of despair that felt as though it was taking bites out of his insides. He hadn’t wanted to be a father. It was a mistake from the very beginning. But he had grown to like a woman a little too much, and acted with less discretion than he usually did. And when the child was born, he hadn’t the heart to kill either of them.

If he had killed them… would he be here, today? The twisted irony of it was that the answer was probably ‘no.’

Garm stood in the center of the square just before the Order of the Rose’s hall. It looked to have been repurposed, turned into a mansion of some kind. People stood guard out front. He saw a plaque that read, ‘Estate of the Countess.’

“Found something?” Argrave asked. He’d been following behind in relative silence.

“It’s like a pool of it, up ahead.” Garm’s gaze swerved from window to window.

“That was the guild hall, right?” The king looked at him. “You had such wonderful attractions like the Menagerie of Morbidity, or stalker vampires. Should I be surprised it’s not exactly clean air?”

“Can I get inside?” Garm asked. “Do you know the countess well enough?”

Argrave nodded. “Yeah, it’s Melanie. I’ll talk to her.”

Garm waited in quietude. All he saw suggested that his son likely died somewhere in there, when the Order of the Rose had fallen in Malgeridum.

***

As Argrave visited with the newly-established countess of this underground city, Garm wandered the renovated halls. He had expected a calamity of some kind to be the cause of the city’s extermination. It was a part of it—a wave of blood had come through and washed away everyone that didn’t evacuate or establish a sufficient shelter. But that was a built-in defense mechanism to ward away the southern tribes of the Burnt Desert.

It wasn’t some disaster. It was one man.

Garm saw flashes of him gallivanting through the hall in storied glory. He was a freakish thing—a mutant, doubtless born of some experimentation here. He was a spellcaster, too, on par with any in these halls. Any necromancer worth their salt would agree he was a perfect specimen. A beautiful carapace body, arms like a preying mantis, four ape arms for legs, a bug-like head that gave omnidirectional vision… and despite all that, Garm could tell there was intelligence behind all that it did. It acted like a human.

Garm heard shouts in the hall from men who were just about to die—Macheid is dead, they screamed as they fled. His death had shattered and demoralized them. He hastened his steps to learn what there was to learn about his son, and if indeed he’d died ahead. It was impossible to miss, Garm found. Macheid’s death brought with it a certain intensity. Nothing remained of the battle that had been fought, but Garm could feel the imprint of Macheid lingering behind.

Unlike all of the others, Garm immersed himself in his son’s life and death, taking it deeply without hesitation or reservation. He hoped both the living and the dying would be wrought with pain. He wasn’t disappointed. As a matter of fact, he found his son’s life rather familiar. Both of them had grown up in the service of older men who taught them things only that they might be of better use in helping with their own research. The only noted difference was that Macheid called him ‘father,’ while Garm would’ve been flayed for even considering the idea with his old master.

And just as Garm’s slavery had ended, so too did his son’s—with their owner’s death. His son didn’t feel much of anything as he cut Garm’s head off his body, planting it atop a stake as it bled. His feelings had caused far too much trouble for him to let it burden him today. From there, it was just a steady drive forward. Garm was confused by the monotony of it all. Do this, do that, go here, get this… but in all of it, he couldn’t figure out why.

Macheid, just like Garm, strove upward not knowing why. And at the end of the road… the last day… Garm watched through Macheid’s eyes.

The day began ordinarily, yet at midday, it spiraled out of control. The Guardians of the Low Way fell under sway of something dark. All of the canals blocked off escape. The stone roses illuminating Malgderidum all stopped at once. Then, their hunter came, picking them off one by one. Macheid fought with the others, and when he felt it was prudent, abandoned them. Garm would’ve done the same.

But it didn’t matter. The hunter found Macheid no matter where he ran—all he’d done was give his colleagues an easier death.

Spellfire bridged the gap in the corridor the two of them fought in. Macheid had inherited Garm’s A-rank ascension—the ability to use spells from all parts of the body, not merely the hands. He used it to great effect in the fight to bombard his foe. But it was clear a bombardment was entirely ineffective. The mage-hunter was resilient, and the hordes of Guardians heeded his command. Eventually, Macheid made a mistake, and was hit. But even if he hadn’t, his supply of magic was running low. From the beginning, he was doomed.

As the mage-hunter approached, Macheid realized something. The same magic he’d used to preserve Garm was what allowed this being to be created. It was an irony that Garm rather appreciated. Knowing his fate might be cruel if he did nothing, Macheid cast his next spell not at the foe, but at the ground. The earth twisted, then swallowed him entirely. He died without pain.

Garm finally pulled himself out of the endless haze of death, and was himself again. He walked over to the wall and leaned up against it. He hadn’t realized it, but his whole body was wrong—sweating, nausea, migraine, heavy breathing… he must’ve overdone it. Even still, he smiled.

There was no purpose to any of it. Garm had been forgotten. Macheid had been forgotten. Even that hunter—gods only know his motive—was lost, persisting only in the memories of the dead. All life ended in death. Everything became nothing. Permanence was a myth. Destruction was an inevitable reality.

Garm wished there was something more so desperately. Some afterlife, some way out. But he had died twice, and there had only ever been this. No matter what he did or didn’t do, he would never be happy. Nothing could fix what was fundamentally broken. Perhaps the calamity would be right to come here and wipe all of this away. Perhaps what came after it would be better.

“…Garm? Garm!” Argrave shook him fiercely, and only then did he focus back on reality. “Are you well? You don’t look it, but…”

“How do you become happy?” Garm asked him faintly.

“Happy? What…?” Argrave studied him. “Let’s get you out of here. I shouldn’t have… damn.”

“I don’t much see the point in living,” Garm continued. “It all comes to an end. Everything ends. Why bother if there’s an end?”

“Fuck if I know,” Argrave said in confusion. “Listen. You’re alive now, and that’s all that matters.”

“It’s all so flat.” Garm closed his eyes. “There’s no highs, and there’s no there’s lows. I wanted nothing more than a working body, and now that I have it, it’s the same thing it ever was. Why do I bother?”

“Listen.” Argrave grimaced, steeling himself for what he was to do, then slid his arms under Garm. He stood up forcefully. “I’m going to let you into a science lesson. Maybe you’ll take some solace it in it. Nothing ends, Garm. Nothing ever ends. Everything is in a constant state of flux. If you break a rock, it doesn’t cease to be—it turns into fragments, dust, sand, and scatters elsewhere.”

Argrave looked down at him. “If you burn wood, the various things comprising it don’t vanish. Some of it becomes smoke, or ash, or… whatever. It hasn’t vanished. It’s merely changed. Every bit of energy you exert came from energy you took from something else—food, water, whatever. And the energy doesn’t disappear. It becomes force, which exerts change. Life is change, you bastard. Death is change. Everything is change.”

“I don’t want to change,” Garm responded weakly.

“Change isn’t so bad.” Argrave looked around. “This place changed. I changed. Melanie changed. Durran’s changed, because of you.” He focused back on Garm. “You’re alive again, Garm. That’s a change. You have to ask yourself what kind of change you’re going to be to the world. It’ll echo infinitely, what you do. Every little detail of every little thing you do changes the whole damn world. Especially now. Don’t think in beginnings and ends. Think in infinity.”

“…put me down,” Garm said.

“I was going to teleport back—”

“Just put me down,” Garm interrupted.

Argrave complied begrudgingly, and Garm stood straight.

“Change, is it.” Garm’s voice was flat. “I’ll bring some back.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll bring back who you want me to,” Garm said. “They won’t last long. Months, maybe. But maybe they’ll change things.”

Argrave stared. “What about you?”

“I want an unchanging existence. But just because you want something doesn’t mean you’ll get it.” Garm looked up. “I don’t think I can be happy. Inflicting pain, receiving it. Doing the right thing, doing the wrong thing. Booze, women, drugs, magic… all of yesterday already feels like nothing. But I know you’re happy.” He turned over. “So, I’ll try it your way.”

Argrave opened his mouth, and Garm thought a thank you was coming. Instead, Argrave said something that hit far deeper.

“I’m sorry, Garm.”

Chapter 28

“Don’t you think this is a little morbid?” asked Anneliese. “Bringing Llewellen back… feels perverse, in some manner.” She rubbed her hands together uneasily.

“I thought you might be eager to meet him,” Argrave answered, leaning up against the wall disaffectedly. He was still quite bothered by the conversation with Garm. No one liked hearing another was so utterly depressed. He’d said what he felt was the right thing, but he couldn’t say everything would be all right.

“…I don’t know. Maybe I am?” Anneliese questioned, then nodded in confirmation. “No, I am. I am looking forward to it. At the same time… perhaps it’s a bit much to ask him to work on our behalf immediately. Despite everything, he’ll still be a living, breathing person with his own wants and desires.”

“It’s a lot like what Sophia tried to do, in a way.” Argrave closed his eyes. “Maybe it’s crueler. Giving others a few months of life and expecting them to work. But Llewellen died in extreme pain, not knowing how he’d be remembered. Look at it as a remedy to the way he died rather than a corruption of his memory. And if he’s half as intelligent as Raven praised him as being, he’ll be a tremendous boon to us.”

Anneliese nodded. “I’ll try. But if he’s resistant…”

“Then he’s resistant, and we’ll deal with what comes,” he assured her. “If you could, keep an eye on Garm, would you? I think he’s fine, but you’d know better than I ever would.” He kicked off the wall. “I’m going with Artur. He wants to take a look at the Shadowlands before he decides what to craft.”

“Does that mean you’re going to create an opening in that location you scouted out?” Anneliese questioned.

Argrave nodded. “A partial one. But he needs to feel and experience the existence of the Shadowlands to craft something to combat it, I should think.”

***

“What ideas did you have?” Argrave asked Artur as they walked through the obsidian caverns. Or rather—he walked, as Artur floated along on his cloak. Raven followed, ensuring that everything was safe. Argrave talked partly because he was uneasy. In these caverns of obsidian, reflections of oneself were all too common and unnerving. It felt like they were already in the Shadowlands, in a way. “Would you craft goggles, maybe? A spectacle?”

“I was under the impression that the artifact I would create should be able to affect a large group, Your Majesty,” Artur said uneasily.

“You’re the craftsman,” Argrave reminded him. “What’s on your mind?”

“…the running idea I had was a lantern,” Artur disclosed in a quiet voice. “It was the first thing that came to mind when dispelling a land of shadows. A glass box in a metal frame held upright, dangling from a firm rod by a single chain link. I would place the fruit inside the glass chamber, then set it alight.”

His description brought to mind vivid imagery, and Argrave nodded in approval. “Maybe its light could fight more than merely shadows.”

Artur gave a nod of his own in return. “Still, seeing the Shadowlands is the most important part of this journey.”

“It’s a little impossible to describe. I’ll just leave it to you.”

Artur moved ahead of Argrave, watching him. “You forget I worked alongside Traugott. All of us Magisters did, despite how he tried to isolate himself. Not many of us were exceptionally surprised to see him become a wanted criminal in the kingdom, but I’m surprised to learn he takes such priority as a threat. He often spoke of the Shadowlands joyously, but to everyone else, they sounded like a horror show.”

“That’s understating it a little,” Argrave finished simply.

With nothing more to say, they continued onward in silence until they came upon the altar that Erlebnis’ memory spoke of. It was a hollow, spherical room of obsidian with a walkway bridging to the center of the sphere. There, an incredibly dark altar awaited them—just like the Shadowlanders themselves, the altar was so black that it was impossible to distinguish its features in any great detail beyond its basic shape. It seemed to eat any light that fell upon it. Resting above it, like lurking claws or surgical instruments, were three daggers of the same material and color.

While Artur and Argrave paused at the entrance, Raven advanced boldly. He touched one of the daggers, and then the altar. His eyes glowed green as he scrutinized them with [Minor Truesight], and once his observations were done, he looked back. “These items aren’t of this world. They’re made of the bones of one of the Shadowlanders.”

“Mmm.” Artur approached curiously. “I saw the one that Argrave put on display, but I never had the opportunity to work with it.” His stubby fingers tapped against the dagger’s blade cautiously. “Gods. Quite sturdy, yet still light. It almost feels like metal. Something really had bones made out of this?”

Raven nodded.

He looked back at Argrave. “Do you still have the corpse of the Shadowlander that attacked Dirracha? I recall you displayed it boldly when you were demanding the submission of the southern nobles and the Order of the Gray Owl.”

He only shrugged. “Like the rest of the furniture, I gave it to Hegazar and Vera when they became the rulers of Dirracha. I can’t say what they’ve done with it.”

Artur scoffed. “Those useless wastes of space… I’d rather die than speak to them, or even see them. But I’d much rather them die, first.”

Argrave didn’t know what his grudge was, and he didn’t care to pry. He smiled blankly as he waited for the master of the Hall of Enchantment to come to a conclusion.

“Seeing this altar, I have had an idea,” Artur spread his arms out and ran it across it. “I’ve never seen black be this beautiful. It’s like a night sky, or… or more than that. An abyss. It almost eats light. It eats everything. I can’t say for sure, yet… but I think I have to use this as a material. If not for this project, others.” He looked at Argrave. “Could you get your hands on one of their bodies?”

“That depends,” Argrave crossed his arms.

“On what?”

“Are you prepared to fight?” Argrave asked with a smile. “Because we can open the Shadowlands wide enough for some of them to come out right now, and then you’ll never run out.” He looked at Raven. “We could take a lesson from Traugott, too, and give the bodies to Garm for his little reanimation frenzy.”

“I am unsure if necromantic magic would work on their flesh so far removed from ours,” Raven answered back. “It would be worth trying, though.”

Artur spun one of the rings on his finger, genuinely considering the offer in cautious contemplation. Ultimately, he shook his head. “All I need for now is a sample of the place they live in.”

Argrave was a little relieved, too. Though he was somewhat curious about what his blood magic could do to Shadowlanders, now, he wasn’t exactly eager to bleed on demand. He dismissed the notion, then sat on the ground and closed his eyes, diving deep into Erlebnis’ wiki now that they’d found the altar.

He heard Artur questioning what he was doing, but was so intensely focused he was able to pay it no mind. He found the article pertaining to the altars to the Shadowlands. The daggers above were the instruments that allowed one to breach into their realm. Their means of activation were a little… antiquated.

“Hey, Raven.” Argrave stood up. “Could you spare me a set of eyeballs, and a set of ears?”

“You have some,” Raven pointed out.

“You can make infinite,” Argrave countered.

“So can you,” Raven held his ground.

Argrave stared, and Raven eventually gave what might’ve passed for a laugh were it not so terrifying. “I should’ve known their altars would involve such a thing.” He held his hand out, and a pair of gray eyes and matching white ears appeared, then promptly popped loose with an unpleasant noise. “Where shall they go?”

As Artur stared in abject horror, Argrave casually pointed to a basin that was part of the altar. “Just fill one of those. That should make the dagger above awake.”

Raven obeyed, plopping eyes and ears into the bowl. Their gelatinous noise echoed in the quiet chamber. The fact they were bloodless made them a little more acceptable—he almost thought of them as Halloween props. But then the inert knife rapidly descended, stabbing eighty times in half a second until eyes and ears both were reduced to a pink goo. It drained into the black bowl, leaving nothing behind.

Then, Argrave felt a shift in the room—a stirring of the heart. And just above the altar, a diamond of absolute darkness took form, revealing the horrors of something beyond. The Shadowlands.

***

“I’m kind of glad I don’t have to live in this,” Garm remarked as he stared down upon Raven’s creation. “At least this beggar had some character. But this… it’s a shame. No artistry.”

Anneliese, Garm, and Durran had come to the spot that Llewellen died, where Raven had left what he promised. The body that Raven had created was utterly devoid of any distinguishing features. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman—largely because the spot where one might’ve figured out was entirely flat. It even lacked nipples.

“Mmm… this won’t do,” Garm shook his head, then looked over. “Help me out, Durran.”

“With what?” Durran said, still looking a bit peaked.

“Help me change the body,” he clasped his hands together. “Let’s make it into something livable.”

Durran gaped. “I’m not going to reshape the flesh for you,” he refused.

“Come on,” Garm looked between Anneliese and Durran. “You’re going to be asking this man for help, right? Then it stands to reason you’d want to show special care to the form that he occupies. If he’s not happy, why would he help you?”

Durran looked to Anneliese for insight, and she crossed her arms. “I can tell that you just want to do this because it’s fun… but you’re not wrong,” she admitted, looking to Durran. “Llewellen may appreciate the gesture. I don’t know necromancy, though. I never bothered, because I thought Gerechtigkeit would make it unviable.”

Durran sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “Fine. Fine, alright.”

Garm smiled, and Durran became the instrument of his artistry. It was a rather revolting thing, reshaping the flesh, but Garm was talented at it, and Durran had inherited Garm’s talent after consuming his soul. They gave Llewellen’s new form elven ears, a leaner physique, and a face resembling Llewellen’s own. Eventually, though…

“I’m not giving him genitals, Garm,” Durran stood his ground. “We’re done. It’s done. Move on.”

Garm sighed. “You’re such a child. Every living thing has them. But, fine.” He rose to his feet. “Let’s stuff the ancient elf back in the corpse. Are you ready to meet your mentor, Anneliese?”

“No, but yes.” She nodded.

“Great conviction. Then, without further ado…” Garm held his arms out. “Let’s wake Llewellen up.”

Chapter 29

Llewellen set aside the dwarven music box, exhaling in a mix of pain and amusement as magic continued to flood into him. He imagined, decades or even centuries from now, someone finding the last recording he’d made. If the dwarves ever came to reclaim this place, or if the elven empire breached in search of something… what was the likelihood of them knowing how it functioned? What was the likelihood it wasn’t tossed aside, or found by someone who had no understanding of its value?

Statistically, quite low.

But it didn’t really matter. There was nothing else for him to do but die, overflowing with magic. He could already feel it cracking free of his body, pushing aside organs in its bid to escape a vessel too small to hold it. He had finally found an A-rank ascension that suited him, yet as if the world was thrusting him back into place, he still lacked sufficient expertise to carry it out without perishing.

There was no pain as he leaned up against the stone walls. He had cut away pain with an improvised spell so that his last moments might be those of peace. There had been so much he had wanted to do. So many problems that he’d intended to solve, so many branches of magic left unexplored. He hadn’t spent his life in vain, despite his shortcomings. Yet it still didn’t feel like enough. The ideas coming to him never ended, but he was to die long before he could put any of them out into the world.

He felt a warm blanket cover him as blood started to escape his body, and when he exhaled, he felt it pour out across his chin. The rising power came to his neck, and then shortly after to his head. Then…

Llewellen was standing, feeling all of his limbs devoid of the sluggish power that had been coursing through them moments before. In abject surprise, he whipped his head about. It was the same room, yet now was covered in blackness that was undoubtedly traces of the magic he’d absorbed. And yet… standing there just ahead of him were three humans, of all things, bathed in blue spell light as they stared at him in wonder.

One of the humans was an old man with yellow teeth and eyes. Another had tan skin with golden tattoos, whose eyes were also yellow. The human in the back was dressed as decadently as the emperors he’d met in the lifetime, and struck quite the tall figure. But upon further inspection, she wasn’t a human—partially hidden behind her long white hair were elven ears. They were considerably less large and sharp than his. They might’ve been of a different heritage.

The woman stepped forward. “Llewellen?”

He flinched when he heard his name from this person he didn’t recognize, then looked around at everything, including his own body. Upon further inspection, this wasn’t his body. Most jarring was the androgyny, as this form lacked any parts denoting sex. But other things were subtly different, too—unrecognizable arms, legs, et cetera.

He had been so resigned to death it was difficult to feel fear, much less process what was going on. But this woman… she knew his name. That meant they all likely knew more, too. He looked at them.

“Am I safe?” He asked.

The woman nodded. “You’re in no danger.”

“I died…” he said with certainty. “…so you must’ve brought me back, somehow.”

The well-dressed woman stepped forward. “You’re right. You’re no longer in any risk of suffering from what afflicted you. I’m Anneliese, Queen of Vasquer. I’m acting on behalf of Argrave, my king. That’s Garm, and the last is Durran.” She put her hand to her silver breastplate. “We hope to bring you out of this place.”

The tattooed man began to speak, saying, “We brought you back to—”

The elven woman stopped him from saying more. “You died, Llewellen. I’m not sure how long ago precisely, but it was at least a millennium.”

His heart throbbed violently in shock—it, at least, still functioned as it ought to, despite his new and unusual body. It was difficult enough to accept the fact that he’d been brought back from the brink since he couldn’t deny things as he saw them. But the passage of time? He couldn’t even begin to imagine how much things could change in one thousand years. The fact that this woman was so ridiculously tall and possessed of shorter ears was something to evidence that. She called herself ‘queen,’ however, and not emperor. As far as he knew, no such title existed in this region.

“You know my name,” he said, looking between them all. “You know how much time has passed since I came down here, roughly. The dwarven music box I made is missing. You brought me, in particular, back. Royalty is here for this event,” he stated his observations, then crossed his arms. “While I’m very much curious about the details, I imagine you have a reason to bring me back other than charity.”

The tattooed man looked surprised at his deductions, scratching his head of black hair. The old man flashed his teeth in a wide smile, as if it was expected.

“You’re right—we do. Do you know of Gerechtigkeit?” Anneliese asked.

The unwieldy name was somewhat familiar. The man he’d met in his long journeys known only as the Alchemist had mentioned something of the sort. There were some among his people who spoke of a doomsday prophecy bearing that name, too. Still, he was working with incomplete information.

“Perhaps you’d best explain.” Llewellen gestured.

“On the way.” Anneliese gestured to Durran, then the man gave him clothes. “For now… let’s get headed to the surface. You must have experienced a terrible shock. We’re not so impolite as to make a request without at least offering you some time to adjust.”

***

After the long story from Anneliese, Llewellen’s head was still spinning as he sat in a chair. Night had come, but this body didn’t need to sleep, so he stayed up thinking.

When he’d left this place, the Empire of Twelve Under One, more simply called the Elven Empire by most without and within it, had felt invulnerable. It felt as though nothing could topple their reign. Independent sentiments existed only in the slaves, and they lacked expertise or power enough to shatter a continent-spanning empire. Forget declining—the empire was still growing rapidly when he’d headed underground. There had even been projects in the works to make vessels capable of crossing overseas to the Great Chu.

Now, it was called the ‘ancient elven empire’ simply because it had fallen so long ago that few enough remembered its real name.

A millennium had come and gone, and he’d been dead that entire time. Not just him—every single one of his people had been killed. That woman he’d met was wife to a human king, which was entirely unthinkable in the time he came from. He wasn’t displeased by this development. Llewellen may have been one of the elves, but he had no special attachment to them—he had, after all, lived his earliest years as a slave. He’d spent more of his years in human territories, frankly. Mortals were mortals, and he found race to be largely arbitrary.

Even still, the thing that made his head spin the most—or more accurately, made a grin grace his face—was the reason that they had gone through such lengths to bring him back.

His work, his theories… they were of such value to the people of today that they could think of no one else more fitting to help them with the task of creating psychic magic. He wasn’t a particularly joyful person, but hearing that was enough to somewhat suppress the feeling of existentialism that came from hearing he had died and been brought back in the body of what might’ve been a homunculus.

If something had been paying attention to his last thoughts… they must’ve decided to grant him a second chance. They wished for him to have an opportunity to put all of his theories to paper in what time had been given back to him. He was not merely willing to help them, he was eager.

Because more than anything… Llewellen wanted to help magic as it had helped him. He wanted to be recognized in the field, remembered forevermore by new acolytes. And now, he was born again. People recognized his work—respected his work, more than anyone. It might as well have been the heaven of an afterlife.

“Hey.”

Llewellen jolted, looking to where the voice came from. An elf with an appearance he was more intimately familiar with sat across from him, with tan skin, white hair, and quite large ears. She looked rather like some people he’d met before. As a matter of fact, it had been within the retreat of the former emperor.

“They told me you came from the ancient elven empire,” she said, studying him with amber eyes.

Llewellen stared, not sure if she was a hallucination. Anneliese had said every last one of his kind had been wiped out.

“Hey.” She tapped the table in irritation. “They did allow you to speak, right?”

“Yes,” he answered quickly, off-balance by her intensity. “You’re one of my kind, aren’t you?”

She looked pleased he had said that, but her words were somewhat harsh. “What else would I be?”

“Anneliese said we had perished,” Llewellen said, half a question.

“She left out some details,” the woman said. “Erlebnis took me in and preserved me, at the price of keeping the knowledge of the imperial family alive. He’s dead now. Argrave killed him. He’s Anneliese’s friend. Or husband, whatever. I’m her friend. He’s kind of, but not really.”

Despite her rapid, poor communication, he understood her. Llewellen covered his face. “So… we’re the last, then.” He exhaled. It was of such large scope it was difficult to comprehend. “I’m Llewel—”

“I’m Onychinusa,” she interrupted. “I already know you. They said you were alive during the days of the empire. Is it true?” She spoke quickly.

“Yes,” Llewellen nodded. “I was a slave there for most of my life.”

Her expression crumpled like she’d been hit in the face by a wooden plank. “Oh. Um…” She gripped the table. “Was it as great as…? I mean, no…” She shook her head. “The empire, what was it like for a… hmm…”

Llewellen realized why she’d come—to learn about her heritage. She had been intending to ask him if the empire was as grand as others had made it out to be, yet his remark about his being a slave had thrown a wrench into her questionings. He couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You’d like to know what the empire was like?”

“I know what it was like. I can read,” she defended.

“But you’ve never lived in it,” he pointed out neutrally.

“…no,” she said meekly.

“Then I can tell you.” Llewellen smiled. She seemed terrible at communication—not unexpected, given how she claimed to have survived where others had died. He would need to be patient with her, for her own sake. “But first, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“Why? That’s hardly pertinent.” She narrowed her eyes.

“It will help me better explain the context of the empire,” he subtly misdirected. In truth, he was merely curious about this strange woman who’d appeared in his room.

“Technically, I’m royalty,” she said proudly. “My grandfather was Emperor Balzat I.”

“Really?” Llewellen raised his brows. “I met him quite a few times. He consulted me for a project.”

“Really?!” She repeated his own words, her excitement twice what his had been. She leaned in closely. “Can you…?”

“Certainly.”

What a strange fate. What a strange world. But… this new life, even if brief, held a great deal of promise.

Chapter 30

Artur had been examining the small diamond-sized portal into the Shadowlands in total silence for near an hour. He might’ve expected that behavior from Raven, or a cat, but not him. Argrave had attempted several calls to pull him out of the trance, and even considered removing him physically. Every time, Artur insisted that he remained silent. Raven assured Argrave that there was nothing ailing his mind, but he wasn’t so sure.

Then, after that hour-long period, he floated up above the altar and leaned up to one of the daggers looming above the altar. He tapped the side of it. “Cut this off. Remove it immediately.”

“What?” Argrave looked at Raven. “Are you sure that’s—”

“Do it!” He shouted ferociously. “I’m returning to Blackgard. I need it to be back there as soon as possible. You’ll also need to bring me that jade staff that I’ve sometimes seen you carrying around. Bring me a few samples of the obsidian here, each about the size of my fist. Gold, silver… I can get those at my shops. I may need gemstones in short notice.”

Argrave looked at Raven intensely, trying his best to question with his eyes if he was certain nothing had permeated Artur’s mind. But the Alchemist remained steady, and he made no attempts to stop Artur from what he was doing. Before they could do anything more, Artur started to do as he said—return to Blackgard.

“Well…” Argrave examined the altar. “Give me a hand, Raven.”

***

It had been incredibly strenuous work to remove the dagger made of Shadowlander bone from the altar that it hung over. Despite Raven working alongside him, Argrave had needed to call upon blood magic to create something sufficiently powerful enough to remove it from the pillar. With it at hand, they returned to the Hall of Enchantment. The mood was strange.

Every bit of production in the Hall of Enchantment had come to a stop—for the capitalist overlord that was Artur, this was unusual indeed. Instead, they were all hovering around the room where Artur resided, heeding his every whim as he made his people fetch him various materials. He allowed no one to work on the project besides himself. Though Argrave had some intense reservations about surrendering a weapon that had saved his life on multiple occasions, he did eventually bring both dagger and the Resonant Pillar to Artur.

“You know what this does, don’t you?” he asked the craftsman as he handed it over. “It can absorb attacks and—”

“And deliver them back. I know. Go. Get out of my space.” He waved Argrave away, floating around the forge with several different utensils on hand. “No project has ever called to me like this. I won’t have your unwanted lingering ruin my masterpiece.” He turned to one of the people and pointed. “YOU! Fetch the electrum!”

Though the people nearby gave Argrave pleading eyes to stay and make sure they weren’t abused by their boss, ultimately he felt a strange sense of hope that whatever Artur was doing would turn out to be worth their time.

“I’ll send for you with further requests,” he dictated. “There will be plenty. This… nothing will surpass this. I can see it in my head, so clearly…”

***

Argrave returned to the parliamentary hall, and presently stood in front of Elenore’s desk.

“I will do what I can to meet his whims,” his sister promised. “Was there anything else you needed?”

“I want to be sure you’re alright,” he told her. “That we’re alright.”

“Wants are not needs.” She smiled icily. “If there’s nothing else, I have work to do.”

Argrave chewed on his lip, greatly disliking the distance she was placing between them. “You know… we’ve managed to convince Garm to bring back those who’ll be useful to the cause.”

She held her writing implement at both ends. “I’m aware. Llewellen has already returned. Durran claimed that the act lessened the burden that he’s feeling. That means that Garm’s influence over him is subsiding.”

“Are you interested in speaking to Vasquer once last time?”

Elenore went quiet, staring ahead without saying much for a long stretch. Then, she shook her head. “In a new body, she wouldn’t be useful to the cause.”

Even Argrave couldn’t help but double-take at her cold words. “But wouldn’t it be worth it? For you, for Orion…”

“Every imprint that Garm brings back whittles away a little more of the limited time he has,” Elenore reminded him. “We have to pick and choose very carefully. As such, we cannot waste it on someone who is neither a combatant nor a useful person like Llewellen.”

Argrave closed his eyes. “Garm could still experience her last thoughts and convey them. Not just him, either—for Orion, he could speak to our other siblings, or Felipe III, even. And for you, there’s…” he paused, realizing he might be overstepping in his attempt to connect.

Elenore would not be pleased to be reminded of Therese, the maid that had served her loyally and died as a consequence. He was trying to buy back Elenore’s affection because he couldn’t stand being disliked. It was why he ended up in this mess in the first place.

“For me?” Elenore prompted, perhaps knowing what he was about to say.

Ji Meng’s urgings came back to him—be patient, be cautious. Wait for a moment to show your sincerity. For now, he would leave her with only this.

“There’s nothing else except this last thing.” He dipped his head to her. “I’d like to apologize for the way I handled the matter with the fruits. You were right in every word you said, all the way down to my motive. Thank you for continuing to put up with me.”

Elenore turned her gaze away, staring at the corner of the room. “…you should go join Anneliese,” she said quietly. “I believe she has much to say about Llewellen.”

Clearly, forgiveness didn’t come so easily. But he felt, just maybe… her words were a little softer.

***

“Guess who’s speaking with Llewellen?” Anneliese whispered to Argrave excitedly.

“Rowe? I don’t know,” he shrugged, though he was curious about her excitement.

“Onychinusa,” she said with joy. “I told her about him hoping it might help her come out. I had some plans to get them talking. But she approached him, first!”

“Ooh.” Argrave raised his brows in surprise.

Ever since Onychinusa had been taken from Erlebnis’ realm, she’d been incredibly reclusive. Her aversion to people was even greater than that of the Alchemist’s. She lived somewhere in the mountains—only Vasquer had known precisely where—and the only time that she spoke to people was when Anneliese occasionally came to visit, or when they had a task that they needed her to perform.

“I’m very proud of her,” Anneliese said of the woman centuries her senior. “I think that Llewellen will be able to handle her without causing harm. He reminds me of Castro, in many ways… yet he’s quite sharp, and he’s oft inclined to share his opinion. Many times, I would get halfway through a story before he finished it for me, having predicted the outcome. He was seldom wrong, too. I have so much I’d like to talk to him about… but for now, I’m letting him come to terms with what’s happened.”

“And… can his form cast magic, as Raven specified?”

“I’m unsure,” Anneliese confessed. “We hadn’t the time to do any testing, and—”

Someone knocked on the door. “Your Majesty, Your Highness. A visitor from the Hall of Enchantment.”

Argrave came to attention. “Send him in.”

The door opened, and a distraught-looking attendant entered. “Master Artur said that he needed your presence immediately.”

Argrave stood. “Alright. I’ll be there.”

“Em…” The man lowered his head. “Both of your royal presences were requested in… well, in Artur’s way. And he insisted that Her Highness bring along the staff she often bears for combat.”

Argrave looked at her. First the Resonant Pillar, now Veid’s heart? He swallowed, considering how much had already been invested into this project. But Anneliese retrieved her staff, which was leaning up against the wall just by her, and stood.

“Let’s not keep him waiting,” she said passively.

***

When they entered, Artur floated past them aback his cape and slammed the door shut. He turned to look at them with his eyes gleaming.

“Give me the staff, then take off your clothes, both of you,” Artur insisted, holding his hand out and gesturing at Anneliese to surrender Rowe’s former staff.

Argrave instinctively shielded Anneliese with his arm. “You’re going to need a little bit more than goodwill to make a request like that while keeping all your limbs.”

“Don’t make threats like that. Were it that giant, I might actually be scared. You, however, have more finesse than to recklessly remove my limbs.” He shook his head. “I’m not making a single artifact. I’m making a pair, using the Resonant Pillar and Anneliese’s staff as a base. You two are going to serve as the chain that binds them. Though… conduit, or pipe, might be better suited.”

Argrave looked at Anneliese—and indeed, she gave no indication Artur was lying. He looked back at the short man.

“How would you know how to do something like that?”

Artur tapped his eyes, and as if at will, they sparkled myriad colors. “You’ve seen my eyes flash as so, right?”

Argrave nodded. “It’s your A-rank ascension, yes.”

“They saw something in the Shadowlands that I’ve never before experienced,” he told them. “It was as though… it was as though they finally showed a new purpose—a new reaction, to that foreign realm beyond this world. I don’t make a habit of staring into abysses for hours if I don’t see the value in it. And I saw value unimaginable.” He waved between them. “You two must be linked. I’m somewhat confident it would interest no one else. And I’m even more confident no one else could make as good a use of the pair.”

“Assuming you’re capable of this…” Anneliese looked at him curiously. “How might this help with the Shadowlands? How are they related?”

“Dark, light. Life, death. This realm, that realm.” Artur clapped his hands together. “They’re dualisms. I intend to take ample advantage of that dualism using you two. Argrave shall be the dark—death. Anneliese shall be the light—life. Man and woman. Husband and wife. Together, creating the full function of my masterpiece.”

Chapter 31

Argrave and Anneliese wore strange robes of Artur’s design. They were made of metal formed into a wire—how it had been crafted was beyond Argrave, but apparently, it was made of electrum. Argrave had rather embarrassingly thought electrum was a fantasy metal, but no—it was an alloy of gold, silver, and a few other metals. Both of them looked like they were going into a rave, doubly so because every single inch of metallic thread had been enchanted. The worst part was, Artur had insisted their flesh be bare against the metal robes. To say the least of the situation, it made cotton seem pleasant by comparison.

Despite the uncomfortable garment, watching Artur consumed by his strange mood was truly a sight to behold. His ability to multitask was exceptional—he spent as little time travelling as possible, efficiently routing his path around the forge so that he would move to one task and stick to it until all that he’d gathered had been put to use. He mumbled to himself all while he worked.

It all seemed rather excessive until one realized the level of detail each part of the work contained. If every inch of the metal robes they wore were enchanted, that same level of detail was doubtlessly replicated elsewhere. It was heartening to know he was putting so much work into creating this artifact. No one else could likely create something so intricate in this day and age.

The former Magister of the Gray Owl was very secretive about his unnamed A-rank ascension, but it was a large part of his success as a craftsman. In essence, he could use magic to determine something’s structure. It was a vague description, Argrave knew, but he supposed its true effect could only be experienced by the one who bore it. He could tell at a glance something’s material composition, the layout of an enchantment, or how an object was held together. It might be likened to [Truesight], but that was geared toward perception while Artur’s was geared toward analysis.

“Alright.” Artur descended off his cloak, alighting and looking between everything. “We’re ready.”

With that declaration, Artur opened a small metal box that contained the Fruit of Being. He turned it upside down, and it fell into his hand. As Argrave and Anneliese both came to attention, he beckoned them forward.

“Reach in. You, there. And you, that one,” he instructed them, pointing out two metal boxes with openings barely large enough for a hand. “Take hold, firmly.”

They both heeded his instructions, reaching inside their respective boxes and grasping what was within. It took Argrave a moment, but he recognized the feel of the Resonant Pillar. Additions had been made, but the core of it was the same. Artur squeezed in between them and placed the Fruit of Being in a chamber bridging the two boxes. He slid a lid shut, then rested his hand on a knob at the top of the box.

“Door locked?” He looked over, confirming the door to the workshop was indeed closed. “Alright. Whatever you do, don’t let go. It shouldn’t be painful, but if it is, bear with it. I shudder to imagine what the things I’ve coded to happen will do if one half of the equation is simply missing.”

Anneliese studied him. “Coded?”

Artur pushed the knob in, and Argrave heard a squelch. Had he just crushed the Fruit of Being?

“In craftsmanship, many things are about efficiency. It’s a lot easier to make a machine that makes what you need than to do it by hand. Imagine if we smelted with magic instead of a forge, for instance, or ground wheat by hand instead of with a mill. This process might’ve taken us weeks if I hadn’t made this contraption—weeks during which your royal presences would need to lie stark naked on a table.”

Argrave was sure of it—the Fruit of Being had been crushed. As a matter of fact, he was certain he heard juices flowing.

“Instead, I’ve delegated the minutiae to the powers that be, so to speak.” Artur stepped away, examining things. “While they do their business, let me tell you about the royal heirlooms I’ve made. Indeed, you’ll be passing these items down to your heirs for time eternal.”

Argrave wanted to look at Artur, but he couldn’t turn with his arm embedded in the box. He stared at Anneliese as she, too, exuded the same desire to turn around.

“Argrave’s staff is the negative side of the equation. It negates, erases. It’s intended to take in what permeates the Shadowlands, leaving behind emptiness which can then be replaced by the positive side of the equation—Anneliese’s staff. Hers can take that which is negated and recreate it in a fashion more hospitable to you and those near to you. These weapons can effectively rebuild the Shadowlands into a state more habitable for you and yours. I wish I could give you more detailed information about what that entails, but all I know is that’s what it’ll do.”

Argrave felt a cold liquid fall over his hand. Then, he felt a strange tingling travel up the sleeve of the electrum robe that he wore. The Resonant Pillar seemed to morph and twist in his hand, and in response he tightened his grip.

“But they’ll have more functions, as intended. I cannot rightly say what, but the reason I chose the two of you wasn’t coincidence. For one, you’re the king and queen—through you, I hope to make my works last longer and earn me great repute. But for the second reason, I’ve seen in both of you something that resonates with your respective side of the equation. I don’t know how to explain it, but… there’s that.”

As Argrave looked at Anneliese, old memories surfaced. As far back as when he first tamed the Brumesingers, he was told that he had an affinity for death. It had never again come up, so he figured it might’ve meant he’d be talented at necromancy or something of the sort. Perhaps it was why he was drawn to blood magic.

And Anneliese… even dismissing the fact her A-rank ascension was called [Life Cycle], Hause had claimed that her potential was related to eternity. There had been too many possible explanations for that to so quickly decide on one, but Argrave thought it might fit, somehow. Hause had claimed his potential was judgment, which somewhat fit with the affinity to death.

“Through death, comes life,” Artur continued. “That is the embodying principle behind these weapons: dualism. I said that, already, but you should remember it. Considering Argrave’s ability awakened by the Fruit of Being is to deal death with his blood magic… it stands to reason there should also be one to bring life after the fact. What you destroy, she will heal. Your negation will be supplanted by her addition. With these two polarities, it’s my aim that you will become an invulnerable pair, bound by fate. I believe the two of you will be fond of this idea,” Artur said proudly. “It’s a craftsman’s role to predict what you want out of your commission, after all. And there is no craftsman superior to me.”

Argrave felt a strange power surge through the electrum robe, following the tracks that had been laid out by Artur. It wreathed over all of it, and then… the metal started absorbing into Argrave’s skin. It disintegrated and soaked in like golden lotion. Looking at Anneliese, she, too, was experiencing the same thing. It wasn’t painful, but Argrave’s whole body felt tingly. It felt as if he was being massaged from inside and out.

Then, Argrave felt the Resonant Pillar shrink in his hands. In panic, he gripped tighter… but in time, there was nothing left to grip. And soon after, the incredibly jarring sensations occurring all around his body also stopped. Looking down… the electrum robes had vanished in entirety. Only his bare skin remained.

Artur had turned around long in advance. “You can remove your hands. And cover yourself up. I put some blankets on the table, there.”

Argrave walked toward their clothes, eyes lingering on Anneliese in concern and curiosity as he grabbed one of the blankets. He was glad he had been so cautious, because it was in time to see her stagger and fall. He rushed forth and caught her before her head could impact with the ground ungracefully. She felt dreadfully cold in his arms, and he brought the blanket over her.

“Anne? Anne!” he said insistently. “What’s wrong? You’re cold.”

“I feel… dizzy. Heavy,” she said groggily.

“I should…” Argrave thought urgently of who was needed, making to move her elsewhere as he covered her better with the blanket.

She grabbed his hair sloppily, fussing against the blanket. “Stay. You feel good. Come here.”

“What?” Argrave studied her for a few moments, until he felt it. It was as though Anneliese was taking something from him, something innate. She clung to him tighter in her haze, pulling his head downward in an awkward embrace.

“I think… I think I know what’s happening,” Artur walked up to them. “I’ve paired you, but the equation is imbalanced in your favor. From what I can see, the weapons have merged without incident. Now, both sides have to be of equal strength. Think of it like a scale. A balancing act,” he explained.

“You’re sure?” He insisted of Artur, giving in to Anneliese lest she pull out his hair.

“I’m certain,” Artur nodded, his eyes gleaming. “I can see it happening right in front of me.”

***

After a few hours, Anneliese’s only remaining affliction was a touch of embarrassment. She had put on a beige shirt with brown pants and sat on a bench just beside Argrave, who wore something roughly matching. Artur floated a comfortable distance away.

“I forgot it all, Your Highness,” Artur insisted as she cast glances at him.

Anneliese covered her face. Argrave told him, “Lying only makes it worse for her. She knows.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” she said dismissively. “More importantly, I can feel the changes. Not just the weapon, but much else.” She offered her hand to Argrave. “Let me show you.”

He put his hand on her own, and then… he felt magic flowing into his body. Shortly after, vitality, energy. He withdrew his hand in surprise.

“[Life Cycle]’s functions have been expanded,” she informed him. “I can perform both—absorbing and ejecting energy. It feels even more efficient than it once was. And… you can feel it too, right?”

Argrave nodded, staring into her eyes. “Yeah. The connection.”

“Those artifacts are a part of us, now. But they’re also bound together,” she said in wonder. “I am curious… just how far we can feel it?”

“The artifacts were the only thing I’d intended,” Artur admitted. “But it seems as though you two have changed in more ways than one. You can conjure the weapons, though, correct?”

Argrave held his hand out, reaching within himself for that presence he felt. Then, it took shape just as a magic spell might’ve. He gripped what had once been the Resonant Pillar, examining it. Once, it had been a quarterstaff, evenly weighted. Now, it had turned into a long scepter of sorts. Its base was black, gilded and studded with gemstones tastefully. There were ornate carvings related to Vasquer’s heraldry all along its surface, and sunbursts of gold at points. He could feel an ominous resonance from it. It felt attuned with his blood magic—he could feel it by instinct.

Anneliese, too, conjured hers. The staff crafted of Veid’s heart had been an ungainly wooden thing. Now, it was sleeker and white, with silver and amber for decoration. He saw some magic script scrawled all along it. Anneliese gave the top a pull, and the blade came free. It looked almost divinely white, with silver accents. Artur certainly had a flair for the beautiful. Both staffs were something Argrave were almost decorative.

“…I added some magic to make it easier to use as an actual blade. Barring the access to the Shadowlands, I know they have yet more powers that you’ll need to discover,” Artur said quietly. “I designed them intending for there to be deep synergies between the two weapons. Apart, they will still be tremendous assets. Together… is there any cycle more potent than that of life and death?”

Argrave and Anneliese looked at each other. Both of them knew what the other was feeling—unbridled excitement.

Chapter 32

Argrave had been skeptical if giving the Fruit of Being to Artur to use in a crafting project was truly the best use of the item. A masterpiece was infinitely less useful than a skilled master, by his estimation—someone that could continue to make ingenious project after ingenious project. Instead, in the twisted fate the fruit had chosen, he’d received two wonderful artifacts, and shared with Anneliese some of the power he received after eating the Fruit of Being.

After a while, they were prepared to depart.

“What would you like as payment, Artur?” Argrave asked, gauging for the man’s reaction.

“Just pay me what you think my work was worth,” Artur said. “And tell everyone who asks that I made the weapons that make you what you are. Oh—and let me out of that research team.”

“We can.” Anneliese nodded. “But you’re very insightful, Artur. Are you certain you wish to stop coming?”

He seemed to waver briefly, but ultimately shook his head. “No. I’m as insightful running this place as I am in that research team, and I have to entertain fewer fools that I can’t put in their place.”

Argrave offered his hand to Artur. “I think you deserve more than money for what you’ve done—but you’ll get plenty of that, I assure you. I’m certain we can produce some rose gold magic coins. And I can guarantee you, until the day we die—which may be never, after what you’ve done—we’ll be coming to you for anything truly important.”

“Well enough,” Artur said, seizing Argrave’s hand for the handshake. “I look forward to it.”

***

After leaving Artur, they decided to visit Raven for his scrutiny into what might’ve changed in Anneliese. Artur may have been exceptionally keen, but he lacked the perception of Truesight and the insight of someone millennia old.

“She is not as changed as you or Durran,” Raven informed Argrave. “She has not subsumed spirits into herself, imitating divinity. She might still be considered an ordinary spellcaster in most ways. But you two now exist in a closed loop, sharing many things.” He looked at Argrave. “And just as her abilities changed, so too did yours, more subtly. Your blood magic can still erase magic spells, even divinity—but instead of burning them to ash, all that you destroy will return to her as energy.”

He looked to Anneliese. “And through you, that energy can return to him. You can heal his wounds or replenish his magic. Or, you could use it for other purposes—your own spells, your own shamanic magic, or even distributing it to others. All of that is at your discretion, it would seem. Fighting together, you would become an unstoppable machine that grows eternally. I can think of nothing more fitting to tackle the Shadowlands.”

Anneliese accepted all of that grandiose responsibility with a simple nod. Argrave was certainly reconsidering his perspective on what should be done with the last fruit.

On top of all this, Argrave now had the remote GPS tracking feature installed on his wife. It might have been a touch overbearing if she didn’t have the same feature installed on him—with the right wording, it might even be considered romantic. No matter how far they travelled away from one another, they knew where the other was. It even worked through divine realms.

“We have our siege weapon, it would seem.” Argrave walked around. “But we’ll need others.”

“They’ve all been preparing,” Anneliese reminded him. “It won’t be long until we find him. I’m rather eager to see that sociopath dismembered.”

“Not a sentiment I thought I’d ever hear from you,” he remarked.

“But you share it,” Anneliese said with certainty. “As do countless others, I suspect. Let’s give the people what they want.”

***

“You seem a little better after I brought the Theorist back,” Garm spoke to Durran as the man had a small breakfast in a public dining area at the parliamentary hall.

“Yeah.” Durran nodded. “It’s all a bit easier to sideline, now. It’s like being in a crowded bazaar, rather than being stabbed repeatedly in the gut.”

Garm sat across from Durran. “Care to help me with something?”

“Figured I couldn’t expect small talk alone.” Durran studied him. “I think I’m being plenty help just sitting here. You’re alive, aren’t you?”

“It’ll help you be free of things more immediately,” Garm promised.

“Hit me,” Durran said, then sipped his soup.

Garm leaned in. “I want to resurrect all of the heavy hitters of the past to give Argrave an elite troop to tackle the Shadowlands without fear of losing anyone important. I’m rather positive I have the capability to emulate the Alchemist’s ability to reconstruct spell pathways.”

Durran set his spoon down. “Alchemist goes by Raven, now. And you should just ask Argrave. I’m sure he can pick out some choice names with whatever’s lying dormant in his head.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. I’ll ask him when he needs to be asked. But I’ve got the whispers of a thousand dead in my head after my stroll through the Low Way of the Rose. I have enough information about who would be good to bring back.”

Durran narrowed his eyes. “Why in gods’ name did you go to the Low Way?”

“Argrave’s idea, twit,” Garm rebuked. “But… listen. The body that Raven made… it’s good. It’s fine. It’s passable. But it’s not quite what I had in mind, and it took forever to get.”

“Point being?” Durran pressed as he dipped some bread in the soup.

“You want to stop hearing voices—I want to get my hands on a lot of body parts. What do you say we team up, massacre a village, and then prepare a nice little present for Argrave?” Garm smiled.

“I know you’re trying to get a rise out of me by saying something disagreeable, but that one was a little sad.” Durran shook his head and peered at his food as if disappointed. “You really can’t muster anything more believable than that? Just tell me what you’re really thinking so I can eat.”

“Alright, let’s not make it personal. I’m a little hurt,” Garm said, though it wasn’t clear if he truly meant it. “What if I know a place we can find a lot of undead? Ready-made parts, with the damage already done,” Garm whispered. “Would you come along? You said that the Fruit of Being gave you a combat-related ability, but I’ve yet to see any insight on that front. Why not come with me, put that glaive of yours to good use?”

“I’ll figure my power out,” Durran insisted. “It’s complicated.”

“Sure, sure. But nothing like real combat to stir up that instinct, eh?” Garm nudged his elbow. “I promise it won’t take very long. Especially not for a real S-rank spellcaster. Especially not for someone who deserves the position.”

“You’ve misread my personality if you think goading can make me do something dumb. Find someone else,” Durran suggested. “Or better yet, don’t do it at all. Just wait. Argrave’s generally got the right idea about things.”

“I’ll kill myself if you don’t,” Garm said plainly.

“What?”

“I will. And then, I’ll end back inside your head.” Garm tapped his temple. “One way or another, this is getting done. I’m not going to let that hulking monstrosity make those disgusting little asexual creatures again and again. Necromancy is an art. It deserves some respect.”

Durran tapped the side of the bowl with his spoon. “Don’t bluff me.”

“I already did it once,” he pointed out. “Do you want to risk it? I’ve got the reins, Durran. Horses that buck live painful lives.”

“I won the lottery, and I’m the least lucky person in this city.” Durran scratched the back of his head, then tossed the spoon down onto the table. “Fine. But I’m a bit different than I once was—I won’t go behind anyone’s back. I’m telling people what we’re doing. Only if I get permission will I leave.”

“Alright, fine.” Garm lifted his hands up, conceding. “You should be excited. We’re going to build the greatest troop of spellcasters the world’s ever seen.”

“Hmm… sure,” Durran said, not quite convinced. “You should let me do the talking. There’s not a chance Elenore or Argrave will agree if you give them that same pitch.”

***

Llewellen was scanning through the vast number of notes that had already been taken by the assembled research team. On some level he was impressed by the advancements of magic in his long absence—in other regards, he was appalled by the stagnation. He was rather surprised that he hadn’t been the first to discover druidic magic—and in it, he saw the long history of the Veidimen reflected in their magic.

But whether it was merely doing this research or speaking to the people here, Llewellen was having a great time in this strange second life. Once he caught up on the past sessions, he had great hopes for joining the research team and contributing his theories—and indeed, he already had some ideas forming. Illusion magic was a dead end, he felt. Druidic magic held the key to unlocking the psyche through magic. He would prove it.

But besides the research, he was especially enjoying Onychinusa’s interrogation sessions. Her clumsiness and lack of social graces was quite charming, in her strange way, and she was the last of his race… but he couldn’t let himself get too close. He was here for a last hurrah, as it were. There was no need to make the parting difficult. It would be an undue burden on her, and she had plenty of those already. She was very alone, both in body and mind. He hoped, at least, he might help her break that.

A knock came at the door, and he looked over. Onychinusa never knocked; she merely broke in. Llewellen called out, “Enter.”

The door opened, and a hulking human walked through the door. He had a large mane of obsidian-like hair, and stony gray eyes. He wore golden armor that Llewellen had seen as the royal guard of this kingdom.

“Are you a relative to the king?” Llewellen asked at once. “Am I needed?”

“Yes. I’m Argrave’s brother. My name is Orion, sir.” He bowed, then walked deeper inside. “I had some questions for you, if now is a good time.”

“Certainly.” Llewellen put the paper down, then turned his body fully. “Avail yourself of my knowledge freely.”

“Will this research team bear fruit quickly?” He asked bluntly. “Or are we all expecting too much?”

Llewellen tilted his head, considering the question earnestly. “The people here… Anneliese especially… are the brightest minds in the world.” He shook his head. “I don’t say that because I was told it—I say that because I’ve been reading what they write, and come to that conclusion on my own.”

“But bright minds can only manifest so much,” Orion argued.

“You’re wrong, I’m afraid.” Llewellen smiled. “Bright minds can overturn the universe, if they’re working together in harmony. I believe the solution will come far sooner than you think.”

Orion grinned brightly, white teeth gleaming through his black beard. “I’m very pleased to hear it, sir.”

“Why do you ask? A routine check-in for the king?”

Orion put his hand to his chest. “I have the feeling that something is approaching, sir.”

“Gerechtigkeit?” Llewellen guessed.

“Yes, but… no.” Orion lowered his head. “I get the sensation that a strong foe is approaching. One who I must fight, being perhaps the only one who can. I am not the strongest of those in this kingdom anymore. The king could certainly best me on his lonesome, now. But in persistence, durability… I am confident none are my peer. And I believe a foe that requires that attribute will come.”

“You speak with a strange conviction,” Llewellen observed.

“Indeed. I have always had strange flashes of intuition—they have seldom led me astray. None before have been this clear, however. None this potent.” He dipped his head. “I hope that all goes well with your endeavors. Thank you for your time.”

Llewellen watched Orion go. The man had very heavy steps.

Chapter 33

Anneliese had gone to talk to Elenore, and after, she intended rejoin the research team—Argrave could feel her presence inside the parliamentary hall in his sister’s office. Raven hadn’t been lying in saying that they’d become a closed loop, sharing everything. Argrave had been lying in bed trying to think of what was to be done next to prepare when Durran came to him, spouting a rather outlandish idea.

“It was Garm’s idea, not mine,” Durran clarified as he stood in front of Argrave.

“Well… what… I mean, how… what’s the limit?” Argrave pressed, incredibly eager now that he’d heard the idea. He rose up off his bed. “He’s really willing to do that? If there were anything to get second thoughts about, this sounds like it. We’re going to have an army of the strongest people in history at our disposal—that’s what you’re telling me?”

Durran held out his hand as if to calm Argrave. “Just judging based on what Llewellen cost him, he suspects the upper limit for this matter is about thirty people. Still… he claims he’ll be able to remake them perfectly, A-rank ascension and all.”

Argrave felt like he was getting dizzy with greed after hearing that. “I’m almost tempted to ask if he’s exaggerating.”

“Check him with Anneliese, I suppose. I wouldn’t put it past him.” Durran shrugged. “There are two limits to it, though, insofar as resurrection goes. He needs either the location they died, or the location where their body is. Buried in the ground, mummified, cut into a thousand pieces—so long as the body ended up somewhere, he can catch their impression. He said it’d be best if their ashes were cremated and scattered, because that would extend the ‘net,’ so to speak.”

Argrave tapped the table. Though he had admittedly first thought of Castro, the man had died in Sandelabara. That place was buried beneath magma, now. With the limitation, he couldn’t be retrieved. But even with that limitation…

“I think I should help him pick the right people,” Argrave proposed.

Durran’s face scrunched up and he crossed his arms. “He was pretty adamant about doing this on his own after we get the body parts.”

“Hell, Durran.” Argrave paced around his bedroom. “We could bring back just about anyone. I could scan through the wiki for days picking out the right people.”

Durran held out a cautionary hand. “For my sake, I hope you be careful—he’s very attached to doing this, and if you try and usurp his role, I’m not certain he wouldn’t kill himself just to get back inside my head, torment me.”

Argrave briefly weighed if it was worth pissing off Durran to exert control over the project, but dismissed the idea—he didn’t care to make things tenser than they already were. Orion still hadn’t even spoken to him, and Elenore kept an unpleasant distance between them.

“He’ll at least speak to me,” Argrave hoped.

“I’m sure he will.” Durran nodded. “Considering how enthusiastic you’re being, I assume you don’t have any objections about this?”

“None at all. Rather, I’d have an objection if you didn’t go, now that I know Garm is fully willing.” Argrave rubbed his hands together. “Don’t worry—I managed to change Garm’s mind once before. I think I know how to get through to him.”

“I don’t think I sounded worried,” Durran said disaffectedly. “I’ll look forward to it. I’m sure the illustrious Argrave, leader of the Blackgard Union, king of Vasquer, ruler of all the Great Chu, will succeed where I failed. He can overcome any challenge, after all.”

***

“So, not only do you want me to kill myself, but you want me to do so on your terms? Good gods, Argrave. How selfish can you be?”

Argrave tried several different approaches to influence Garm into choosing the people that Argrave could find in the wiki bestowed to him by Erlebnis. Every response was more or less an iteration of the above. He was adamantly opposed to allowing anyone other than himself have the final say in who was brought back. Argrave, in a small bout of paranoia, thought that Garm might be bringing back some people that might aid him in doing something nefarious—gathering mischief-makers for a coup, perhaps.

To kill his paranoia, he brought Garm before Anneliese, disrupting the research team. She confirmed Garm’s honesty that his sole intention was merely to prepare a force that was willing and able to enter into the Shadowlands. All that Argrave ended up looking was foolish—and Durran, who had warned Argrave, mocked him about that fact.

“I think there’s only one thing you should worry about,” Garm said as he stood besides Durran, both of them ready to depart. “Yourself. The people that I’m bringing back aren’t small players. They’re people that shaped the world, in one way or another. Even you, with all your fancy ways, can’t necessarily tame them so easily. They’re born leaders who reached the top of their fields. Very few of the people I’ve chosen thus far actually died in battle—instead, they often died in bed, having never fallen.”

“I get the picture.” Argrave crossed his arms, realizing Garm had a point. These people would have some difficulty accepting him as their leader.

“And as you’ve proven, you’re very persuasive,” Durran continued to joke.

As Argrave rolled his eyes, a voice cut into their conversation.

“Bring back my grandfather.”

Argrave, Durran, and Garm all whipped their heads to the right. Onychinusa sat on the grass inconspicuously.

“I want to talk to him,” she explained further. “I want him to see me. You have to give that to me.”

Garm looked at Argrave. “Who the hell is she?”

“Last of the imperial family of the ancient elven empire Llewellen was a part of,” Argrave explained quickly. “Hi, Onychinusa. Hope you’re well,” he greeted cordially—she barely acknowledged him with a wave of her hand. He pointed at Garm. “She’s right. Far as I know, that man did die in bed.”

“Ah. Emperor Balzat.” Garm nodded, then walked closer to Onychinusa and squatted. “Listen, woman. I don’t take requests. If he’s worth bringing back, I’ll bring him back. If he’s not, I won’t. Simple as.” Garm tapped his chest. “Every time I bring someone back, I spend a little more of my life. It’s my artistry—my final work. I don’t care who your grandfather was. All I care about is the product.”

Argrave was certain that Onychinusa was going to burst—she wasn’t known for her patience. But to his surprise, she tore up a clump of the nearby grass, and then vanished into magic. Argrave exhaled in relief.

“Just give it some thought,” he insisted. “And good luck. As for you, Durran… I hope you find some answers about your ability. I had Lindon to help me discover mine—you, though… think about who you really are. Think about what you’re capable of, and what drives you.”

Durran smiled. “That’s the trouble—pinning down what I’m capable of. It’s a rather gargantuan undertaking.”

***

Several days passed without much word from either Garm or Durran. Elenore was keeping in touch with her husband, but apparently Garm was insisting that he not disclose too much information. It was a rather disconcerting turn of events given how much stock Argrave had in Garm’s idea. Ordinarily he might’ve called upon Elenore to extract a little information out, but things remained somewhat frigid between them despite Argrave’s attempts to show his warmth.

Anneliese’s work in the research team, meanwhile, continued to flourish. Their efforts led to several advancements which, while not the target, were immeasurably useful. Countless defenses against illusion magic developed for those without magic—and the Hall of Enchantment eagerly adapted them to sell nationwide for profit. Besides that, the research team even submitted a formal request to Argrave to head to the Burnt Desert to speak to one of the southron elves. They hoped to examine and experiment with their strange illusion magic that defied conventions.

Given what Erlebnis had compiled on the subject, Argrave could’ve taught them all himself—still, he did manage to talk Florimund, leader of the last of the southron elves, into paying a visit. Last time they’d spoken, Argrave had claimed that the elf would hear his name again someday. The witty veteran took great pleasure in reminding Argrave of that fact, boisterously telling tales about far Argrave had come, and how skinny he used to look, before joining him in Blackgard. Argrave was pleased to see their community continuing to flourish under Durran’s ‘government,’ which only consisted of several completely autonomous communities protected by his wyvern riders and Argrave’s own forces.

But once Llewellen had finally caught up to the rest of them, and began to take part in the research team… everything was flipped on its head. He ruthlessly closed off other routes that people had been exploring by showing them how they ended. His knowledge was so sweeping, and his points so robust, that very few could genuinely challenge them. Anneliese had a deep respect for the man who’d taught her the A-rank ascension she’d used, so she lent him considerable authority to conduct the team.

He steered them away from study of illusion magic toward druidic magic. Llewellen had barely stepped a toe onto the field when he’d departed, but after only a few days, commanded an impressive mastery over the field that even most Veidimen couldn’t contest. Only Rowe was his superior; even Argrave wasn’t privy to how Rowe had tamed a dragon, despite having Erlebnis’ wiki at his disposal. Once the team began to examine the control of animals, they hit something of a snag—barring the Veidimen, few present knew and understood druidic magic. It was overcome quickly enough.

Complex philosophical debates arose as they all delved deeper—how were elves and men actually different from animals? What lent druidic magic control over animals, while exempting humans? Indeed, a rather dark question took hold. Could men and women be controlled just as the animals were? It was a very grim road to tread, and many questioned if such research should even be allowed.

Anneliese reminded them it was this very prospect that threatened Vasquer, and as such, it was necessary to proceed.

With Llewellen as their shepherd, on the eighth day, people began earnestly experimenting on how to seize and control the minds of mortals, only so that they might find out how to defend against such a thing. While the notion chilled Argrave, his attention was diverted to something else.

Garm and Durran had returned. And they had brought a rather large retinue.

Chapter 34

“Before I could even consider lending you any help whatsoever, you must make certain concessions for my people,” said a dark-skinned southron elf. “Your kingdom must provide them special privileges, as well as state-subsidized immigration programs allowing them to move out of the Burnt Desert to where ever they wish to go. Considering the limited time I have, I would expect you to promulgate this law in a public address.”

Argrave regarded the greatest emperor of the southron elves, trying not to let his displeasure at this notion show in his face. Such special privileges would surely incite anger from many factions. Even allowing the Veidimen such liberties in Vasquer had caused considerable problems—problems only slightly abated by the fact Anneliese was his wife. To initiate a program like that… it would cause serious unrest.

But it wasn’t merely this one emperor—he was surrounded by giants of the past, each standing here in their original forms that evoked shock and awe. Garm hadn’t been bluffing when he said there was an artistry to his necromancy. The Guardians of the Low Way and other such Order of the Rose abominations had been decaying for centuries when they’d seen them, but long ago, each and all were must’ve looked as cohesive as these twenty-seven heroes of ages past.

Alongside the emperor of the southron elven empire that had elevated them into a hegemony, there was the great Archchief that had once united the human tribes of the Burnt Desert, alongside a zombified wyvern that he had apparently created himself—Durran was rather shocked to learn the Archchief was a necromancer.

There was Felipe I, Vasquer’s mate and father to those that founded the kingdom Argrave ruled. There was the last emperor of the first imperial bloodline of the Great Chu, who Garm insisted was considerably better than the founder. The founder of the Order of the Rose already had a few undead servants at his disposal, and insisted upon the reinstation of his organization. The founder of the Order of the Gray Owl threatened to walk if Argrave reinstated said organization.

Those were merely the sung heroes. Plenty of other unsung heroes, whose deeds had made and broken the greatest empires of old, had been brought back to life. They were every bit as forceful as the great leaders—perhaps even more so. None of them truly denied Argrave’s right to lead, fortunately, but their service was conditional. Just as they had in their first lives, they hoped to leave a long-lasting mark. Argrave became the instrument of their change. He was pulled about like a stretch toy between these juggernauts.

In the end, the first conversation was an utterly disorganized disaster, where nothing got done besides learning who Garm had brought back. Their resumes were certainly up to snuff for their roles, but the idea of making some of these people work together was extremely thin. Some were calling for the genocide of peoples they had fought against—and Argrave said ‘some’ because it was more than one person. Racial tensions were extremely high between some parties.

Amidst this crisis, Argrave thought of what Ji Meng had advised him about. He had asked the emperor how he might win back the loyalty of his siblings, and mend the cracks in the foundation of Vasquer. And to that end, he made a prudent suggestion.

“Giving a show of faith, a show of goodwill, can earn you a great deal. It can’t be forced, can’t be inorganic. You have to be patient. A chance will come, as it did for me.”

And remembering that… there was only one place that Argrave could turn to.

“I need your help really damn bad,” Argrave said, looking between all of those assembled.

The group here wasn’t entirely dissimilar from the composition of the lottery that he had held, and that wasn’t a coincidence. Elenore and Anneliese were who he needed chiefly, but each of these people were impressive problem-solvers on their own. Melanie had shown incredible loyalty and decisiveness, remaining unwavering even before Sataistador and saving everyone’s lives on multiple occasions. Galamon had always been Galamon—a steadfast wall that could always be relied upon.

Those of House Parbon were here: Elias and Reinhardt. Nikoletta and her father, Duke Enrico, had also joined them. Ganbaatar, envoy for those in the Bloodwoods, was showing his support. The Archduchess of the North and her sister Vasilisa were poised to help. Patriarch Dras and Emperor Ji Meng had come from the Great Chu. Orion had not yet ended his leave of absence, but he had agreed to take part in this conversation.

Raven, Durran, Artur, Stain, Rowe… everyone Argrave thought reliable and even-tempered was here, each of them one of the greatest living people of this generation. He might’ve involved the gods, but they wouldn’t have to live with the consequences. Each and all by his side today, would. 

“If I talk to them out there, I’m outnumbered and outgunned. These people are some of the greatest leaders that the world has ever seen—and me, I can barely even claim to be their equal without cringing at the notion.” Argrave shook his head. “I need your help in the negotiation, otherwise, I’ll get steamrolled. We need to be a cohesive front. To that end, I’m wiling to give all of you substantial authority in speaking to these people.”

“How substantial?” Rowe questioned suspiciously.

“What you promise to them… I’ll do,” Argrave vowed. “All of you are doubtlessly aware that what happens today will echo for the rest of this kingdom’s existence. To that end, I trust that all of you will make the right calls today. You have, time and time again—that’s why you’re here, and that’s why I can rely on you.”

It was an immense display of trust in the people that Argrave considered his counsel—and that display didn’t go unnoticed among those present, who seemed affected one and all. Except Raven—frankly, he didn’t look like he cared one way or another.

“Well… I’ll need to interrogate you,” Elenore said. “I need to know what each one of these people is like. Once we have that, I understand the kingdom better than anyone—we can work out a detailed plan of action for everyone present.”

Anneliese nodded in agreement with a smile as she looked upon Elenore.

“Perfect. Let’s handle that right away,” he suggested. “The rest of you—speak amongst yourself, build some synergies. My sister and I will be back shortly.”

“Longly,” she disagreed at once. “We need to proceed with caution.”

“In the meantime—Orion. If you’re willing, can I count on you to keep an eye on the assembled parties? Preferably walking among them, so you can hear what they’re talking about.” Argrave gestured at his brother. “Someone else can handle it if you need more time, but there’s no one I trust more to remain undaunted in front of all those people.”

Orion stared at Argrave, then slowly nodded. “Very well, Your Majesty. I would be honored.”

With a weight lifted off his shoulders, Argrave walked to Orion and patted his shoulder. He cast a glance at Ji Meng, who gave him a knowing gaze and smile. It seemed he knew his advice was taken. Of everyone here, he was most worried about the former sole ruler of the Great Chu. At the same time, he knew no one better to achieve the results he wanted. Ji Meng might be counted among those dead people returned had Argrave taken his life.

With these people… perhaps the great heroes of old could be tamed.

***

“The Council of the Living and Dead.” Llewellen read the brochure. “Your king is rather bold for publicizing something like this. He’s rather conveniently left out the necromancy involved. He seems the type to take shortcuts.”

Onychinusa brushed her long white hair. “He’s not my king. I should be an empress. We’re just allies.”

“Of course.” Llewellen put the brochure down, and smiled at her.

“Are you laughing at me?” she asked.

“Admiring,” he said simply.

She said nothing in response, but her brush moved faster through her hair in what might be described as embarrassment. Then, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Llewellen called out.

Onychinusa looked annoyed at him, and briefly cast a glance at the door before preparing to dissipate into magic and vanish. But the figure who entered brought her pose, and she dropped the brush she held.

A tan-skinned elf with large, long ears, tan skin, and white hair entered, looking about the room before settling on Onychinusa. The woman stayed paralyzed beneath his amber eyes. He approached with his hands behind his back, stopping just before her. He stayed quiet for a long while, staring down with a stern gaze.

“You look like your mother,” he said.

Emperor Balzat brought one hand forward, but Onychinusa flinched away and he withdrew it with a slightly guilty expression. He looked at Llewellen, then back at his granddaughter. Holding his gaze steady, he fell to one knee.

“Onychinusa… I’m sorry.” He dipped his head. She blinked in confusion. “The empire I built was not enough to protect us. I dare not ask for forgiveness, but I must apologize. To you. To all of us. Because of me, we fell victim to Erlebnis. You, most of all.”

Onychinusa clenched her hands into fists… then burst into magic, disappearing. Balzat looked around in confusion.

“Her A-rank ascension,” Llewellen explained. “Your granddaughter is as talented as you were, Balzat, if a bit… impulsive.”

The emperor lifted his head. “I cannot claim to be talented when all I built turned to ash after I passed.”

“I was calling you talented.” Llewellen shook his head. “What we call ourselves matters little, anymore.”

“It’s good to see you, Llewellen, even with present circumstances.” The emperor rose back to his feet. “I inquired about you often when you disappeared, but… I didn’t know how you’d died.”

“Few enough did.” Llewellen gestured to the chair. “Stay a while, please. Perhaps your granddaughter will return. In the meantime, I’d love to know what you’ve heard about this Council of the Living and Dead.”

“It’s largely jockeying over pointless matters.” The emperor pulled back his chair. “I believe most do not believe just how much leverage King Argrave has. I’ve met his close council—they’ll help demonstrate Vasquer’s supremacy. My sole concern is my granddaughter.”

“She has many burdens, yet she is wonderful all the same,” Llewellen praised unabashedly. “She turned her back on Erlebnis, after all, and lived to tell the tale. Not just anyone can do that. And she has wonderful people by her side.”

“Like you?”

Llewellen shook his head. “I’m a passing boat on the sea, nothing more. We’re both fated to pass her by, while she is fated to be the last of our race.”

“There is still opportunity,” Balzat disagreed. “Reviving the race.”

Llewellen put his hands on the table. “I suspect I might dislike what you’re thinking of.”

“No, I won’t do anything outlandish. I know my role in this play, unlike others. I’ll cooperate with Argrave. But…” he sighed. “Gone. They’re all gone. All of them, to the last. None of our culture persists. And yet I’m here. What does it mean? What is one supposed to do?”

“I suggest you use the time to be a positive influence on Onychinusa’s life, and this kingdom. That is my intention.”

Balzat stared at his hands intensely. Then, he nodded.

“Insightful as always. I had similar thoughts.” Balzat looked out the window, where the stars shone. “I intend to give this kingdom the largest gift it’ll ever receive.”

Chapter 35

Argrave wasn’t necessarily opposed to giving those who’d been brought back by Garm’s machinations some generous concessions. The Fruit of Being had chosen Durran, and as a consequence, all of this had spiraled into this. He had started this joking idea about trusting the fruit, but actually going through with it had made clear that the golden snacks had some deep foresight. Without leaving it to them, things would not have turned out half as well.

Just because he wasn’t opposed didn’t mean that he would stand idly by and let these people run roughshod over his kingdom.

The nature of domestic politics, in Argrave’s eyes, wasn’t born of cooperation. It was born of disagreement. Two or more opposing desires or viewpoints would come into conflict, each seeking advantage often at the expense of the other. It came at the other’s expense simply because they debated what the resources of the government might be spent on. The role of a truly good government was to be a system by which this conflict could be resolved in a manner that was not only non-violent, but also synthesized the opposing viewpoints to create a productive compromise.

That was what he had been aiming at with the creation of the parliament. In Argrave’s experience, one worldview seldom held all the answers—not even his own, much as he’d like to pretend otherwise. And now, that was what he hoped would be the result of this Council of the Living and Dead.

“So—we have intel on everyone present. Now… our plan of action.” Elenore pushed aside stacks of paper and rose from behind her desk, walking in front of it.

Argrave, Anneliese, and Elenore—king, queen, and head of parliament—plotted their approach to the negotiation in Elenore’s office. Argrave was rather pleased to see that any frigidity she’d been displaying had evaporated like morning dew. Perhaps it was the urgency of the task, or perhaps Ji Meng’s advice had truly worked wonders.

“Realistically speaking, despite everyone formidable we’ve gathered, I think we still fall short when it comes to experience, intelligence, and insight,” Elenore explained to Argrave and Anneliese as she paced around the room.

“And even if we aren’t, operating under that assumption only helps us stay cautious and prepared,” Anneliese agreed, expounding on the issue.

“Just so.” Elenore crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. “So, assuming they have more intellectual capital than we do… we need to consider our advantages.”

“They lack unity,” Argrave said confidently. “Some of these people met just yesterday. Many of them actively hate some of the ones they’re working with.”

“If we exploit that, we risk alienating certain stubborn figures.” Elenore scratched at her cheek as she remained lost in thought.

“Rather than call upon their dislike of one another, why don’t we focus on emphasizing the voices of the ones we might count on as allies?” Anneliese walked to Elenore’s desk, reviewing some documents. “Felipe I can be relied upon. Others are people of good character, with no indication of racial ties that remain the most hot-button issues. They can be our wedge on the inside that disrupts the stubbornness of some others.”

Silence fell as they considered her point.

Elenore nodded and broke the silence. “I think that’s the best initiative.”

“Seconded,” Argrave concurred. “With three motions in favor, our ghostbusting strategy has been decided.”

Elenore chuckled, but then hid her mouth with her hand and cleared her throat to disguise it. “Alright—we have that. But a pretty damned large problem remains. How in the world are we going to make a compromise that satisfies all of these people? We need to give our side of the negotiation direction—a goal to work toward. Shepherds need to know which field to bring their sheep.”

Anneliese nodded. “I’ve been thinking about what Raccomen did. He requested a zone of empty land to occupy—a steppe south of the Order of the Gray Owl. That’s worked out very well. It would satisfy these people and their demands for special privileges if we can distribute land similarly.”

Argrave shook his head. “Historically speaking, segregating populaces into different zones has had terrible results. We don’t want to divide people up with either distinct privileges or distinct zones. Any ounce of inferiority or superiority, perceived or genuine, in separate populaces can breed resentment that builds over decades. Before long, separatist sentiments are brewing. The nation could fracture as each seek to establish an independent state of their own. And conveniently, we’ve given them zones that would become borders with a now-hostile country.” Argrave shook his head adamantly. “We can’t give them an inch. No privileges. No people of higher or lower status. We should only have citizens.”

“A… very excellent point,” Anneliese conceded with a nod of her head.

“I have the benefit of having seen some of this stuff play out,” Argrave said dismissively.

“She’s right, though. It is a good point. I could see such a situation arising if we concede to them.” Elenore tapped her temples, as though she’d a headache brewing. “But… we can’t just deny them one and all. That would be a disaster. We need to have an objective to work towards—something everyone presses toward in all separate conversations.”

Everyone went silent, drafting up answers to this complex question. Argrave started laughing after a while.

“What?” Elenore narrowed her eyes.

“I’ve just had a dumb idea that might be secretly genius,” he explained, then laughed a little harder.

“Do tell,” she prompted, listening curiously.

Argrave looked between Anneliese and Elenore. “Anything that happens today will have incredible weight, right? I mean, all the great heroes of centuries past have come together, here, today. The decision made could impact the future of our nation for as long as it lasts.” He smiled. “And there’s been something I’ve been meaning to do, anyway.”

***

The living and the dead stared at each other from opposite ends. The king had called together all of his greatest counsel to take part in this debate—and opposing them, some of the most legendary figures around the entire world. He explained this to those that questioned how this had come to be by being incredibly vague, gesturing both at Gerechtigkeit and the Order of the Rose for answers. None could deny these figures—many were recognized, and others had undeniable presence.

And watching this whole event, as uneasy spectators, was the parliament.

Argrave stepped forward. “I’ll take it upon myself to conduct this meeting. The general sensation I’m getting from each of you is that you’re willing to help in the crusade against the Shadowlands and Gerechtigkeit, and you’re willing to accept me as the leader of this operation. The sticking point remains, however, is the price of your mercenary work.”

“True enough,” the former emperor of the Great Chu said.

“Blunt, but true,” the Archchief of the southern tribes confirmed.

“Only a fool works for free,” the woman who’d founded the Order of the Gray Owl claimed—personally, Argrave preferred Castro to her.

Argrave looked between them. “But there’s something a great many of you don’t seem to understand. And that, plainly put, is the situation.” He scanned. “You don’t understand the situation. We’re not having a negotiation today.”

The more paranoid among them braced, looking around as if ready to fight ambushers that Argrave had prepared. But there were no guards, and there were no traps—there was only him, standing before all those assembled today.

“Many of you have been dead for thousands of years. But you show up today, learning small anecdotes about what’s changed, and you think you have the full picture. You think you have a grasp on what changes you could make in the short time you’ve been allotted to leave another mark.” Argrave put his hand to his chest. “You’re all men and women of great repute. But times have changed.”

“People don’t change,” the southron elf emperor shook his head. “They live and die, vying. I’d be a fool to let my people stay by the wayside. The price for my help is your help—simple as.”

“Perhaps we should listen,” Emperor Balzat counseled.

Argrave took the opportunity to continue. “Many of you have returned to find the glory that you built faded. Perhaps it was destroyed by another. Perhaps it withered from within. Perhaps Gerechtigkeit had a hand in bringing an end to it all—and for some few, perhaps it still persists.” Argrave held up and clenched his hand into a fist. “For now.

“If this was a negotiation, we might come to an agreement. The agreements we come to—I’ll honor them.” Argrave tapped his chest. “I will. But I won’t be the only one to hold power. What I build henceforth—like many of you experienced—could crumble after I do. A nation is transient. What I propose as an alternative… is an idea. A concept, and indeed, an agreement. It’s something that will be far more permanent than any deal that we come to today.”

People waited for Argrave to continue. He looked around, calling upon everyone. “Ladies and gentlemen—both those of the past, and of the present. Both the legends of old, the heroes of today, and the assembled parliament. Today, at this council, I intend to create a foundation. It will become an unshakable pillar that will hold this nation aloft. It will be a lodestar in troubled waters. It will be a shield from any enemies. It will be a light when night falls.

“Today, I intend to write a constitution. And I would like all of you to help me determine its contents.”

Argrave smiled as he looked upon everyone. Who better for founding fathers than the most eminent dead of the world? If all assembled here today signed a constitution, no document could be more legitimate, and no words could carry more weight. And in it, Argrave—and most importantly, his allies—could establish the guiding principles for the nation they built forevermore.

And once all that business was done, might as well get an autograph from these famous fellows—it would be the last time anyone could.

Chapter 36

Elenore looked at the debate raging all around between many different parties, and felt a rather peculiar feeling. She was certain that she was witnessing a historical event of far greater magnitude than even the organization of the parliament. That was merely an institution, and they could rise and fall. But today, they strived to create something that defined the essence of their government henceforth.

Argrave had created a very effective cudgel. By limiting what was to be written to a small document that didn’t dictate law, but rather fundamental aspects of how the citizens of Vasquer were to be treated, he could effectively force the crueler aspects of the heroes gathered to compromise. In the event that they could not obtain superiority over another, they would be far more likely to settle for equality.

Everyone on their side adamantly refused to separate human from elf, as was agreed. They refused to cement the idea of nobility or divine right. Long-standing traditions were challenged, and people were forced to be honest with one another. Beyond mere tribalism, there was very little dividing the races from each other. What few differences existed did not warrant dramatic difference in governance. The majority of these people had made their names known by merit, and the merit of the many demonstrated that superiority could come from any walk of life.

“You’re doing a lot better than I did realizing my dream.”

Elenore was whipped out of her thoughts, and turned to someone. He had the features of the Vasquer family—black hair, gray eyes. He looked upon Argrave with a certain measure of pride. He had the right to be proud, perhaps—he was Felipe I, the founder of their family. He had endured Gerechtigkeit with Vasquer, yet ultimately, his own blood betrayed him and founded a kingdom instead of carrying on his vision.

Elenore had heard Vasquer speak of him many times. Felipe and Vasquer had intended to establish a militant order that loosely governed the region, without much interference other than defense against invaders and raiders. After Gerechtigkeit, they had no regional competition. Their children didn’t care to carry on that vision—rather, they established a hereditary monarchy after their betrayal of their parents.

Elenore regarded him curiously. “How does it feel, to see how things have changed?”

Felipe stared ahead, thinking. “Relieving,” he finally said. “And depressing.”

“…because of Vasquer, I imagine,” Elenore guessed. To miss her by only a few weeks must’ve been unimaginably painful.

“Hmm.” Felipe nodded. “That’s one piece of the puzzle, but you’re missing a lot of context. You don’t get together with someone older than you by millennia and expect to outlive them. I just never assumed it would be me.” He looked over. “You must think I’m a real psycho. Maybe I am. It probably does take a psycho to see a golden feathered serpent and decide ‘yeah, that’s the one.’”

“Uhh…” Elenore sputtered, caught off-guard.

“Frankly, it was an accident that neither of us expected,” Felipe admitted. “I didn’t exactly choose. I got chosen. By fate, the universe, whatever.”

Elenore narrowed her eyes, growing more and more confused. Are children something one does by accident? With people, certainly. But with a snake?

“When accidents happen, you do the best you can. It’s harder to raise children when one of you doesn’t have opposable thumbs, let alone arms, and you’re dealing with the aftermath of the war against the world’s millennial butcher.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It turned out alright in the end, because you guys came of it. I wish it turned out alright before my little rascal stabbed me, but I’ll take what I can get. Corpses can’t be choosers, despite what these bastards today are arguing about.” He looked at Argrave, who was laughing in the face of the southron elf emperor. “I take none of the credit for you all, by the way. Vasquer did it all. I don’t have more than one kind bone in my body, but somehow, her nature must’ve distilled down to today.”

“She is…” Elenore caught herself. “She was great. I’ve never met someone so warm.”

He looked at her. “She was the best. The very best.” He smiled. “But what you’ve got today… it’s better, in some ways. Our kids hated each other. You two… working together, cooperating… it’s so damned nice. Wish it could’ve been like this with mine. Tried to give them everything they wanted, but all it led to was them wanting more. I yelled at them a lot when they were greedy or immoral. Called them hurtful things. But I never had the heart to actually do anything to stop what I saw them becoming.”

He let out a deep, wistful sigh. “Look at me, dredging up ghosts of the past. We’ve got enough of those here today—I shouldn’t add any more.” Felipe shook his head. “If you want some tired advice from a poltergeist, don’t ever let your siblings go. Hold them tight. And don’t let things fester, go unaddressed, until it’s too late. Say what needs to be said, and do what needs to be done. Elsewise, you could lose them.”

Elenore felt tears rise unbidden at the advice, but she blinked fast enough none fell. She nodded with determination. “Yeah. I love them both. I won’t.”

“Thank you. Means a lot. Don’t want my pretty little descendants to get stabbed like I did,” Felipe said sincerely. “And on my end, I’ll ruin anyone and everyone that tries to harm your brother. I’m pretty good at hurting. Sometimes I say mean things, and people cry. But even more often, I swing my hands about and make lights shine, and people die in droves. Some people call that magic. I call it the difference between them and me.”

Elenore studied him. He acted like Argrave, in some ways, yet seemed different in many others. Somehow, after only that short exchange, she felt a certain weight on her shoulders feel all the lighter. Knowing that Vasquer had lived with someone like this at her side, even if only for a short time… it made it all the easier to let her go and remember the good times. And already, what anger she held toward Argrave had faded. How could she stay mad at him, after what he’d done for her in the past?

“Alright.” Felipe nodded. “I’ve done my part. If you want, though, I could say a few words to your husband, make sure he never steps out of line.”

Elenore laughed. “No, thank you. Durran’s wonderful. Just… help Argrave, if you would.”

“Look at you. Just as selfless as your mothe—no, your great-great-great-great-grandmother. I’ll do that.”

***

Though the establishment of a constitution was a rewarding event to some, others did not take it quite so well. In particular, the noble wing of the parliament presided over this entire event with heavy heart, only a small few given permission to participate in open debate. Those few were clearly loyalists to the king rather than to their own faction, though.

But drafting a constitution was not such an easy thing it could happen in a day. Written hastily, it could have fundamental errors that might lead to grave mismanagement or misapplication in the future. At the end of the day, the basis of the document was established—to be called the Three Principles, it was divided into distinct sections.

The first principle was the Principle of Freedoms, which outlined the rights and protections citizens of Vasquer enjoyed. That was agreed to be the focus of the assembled parties, henceforth—outlining how the common citizens of Vasquer ought to be treated. Importantly, it was established that this principle, of all of them, should not be modified or redrafted in any way.

The second principle was the Principle of Governance, dictating the structure of the government. From the beginning, it had been firmly established that this was to be largely untouched by the legendary heroes revived here today. It would require significant mediation over months, as any decent constitution required. Moreover, the government should be a far more malleable thing than certain essential liberties.

The third principle was the Principle of Magic, something that had become rather relevant over the past few days. Its purpose was to decide how magic ought to be practiced, restricting potentially unethical practices like necromancy, illusion magic, or the burgeoning field of psychic magic. It, like the second, was to be set on the wayside, debated and redrafted over the course of months to ensure ethical practice. It had to be open for change, as magic would continue to advance.

Leaving the second and third principles open to further drafting was the only way to ensure compliance from the nobility and the spellcasters, by Elenore’s estimation. But even with only one as the subject of debate, a long, bitter week began. Twenty hours of each day were spent in heated discussion, and each day had at least seven drafts proposed and rejected.

People walked out in rage countless times, yet the prospect of being left out sent them scurrying back to let their voice be heard again. These people would not allow a rival to have a singular voice, and so they swallowed their pride and stuck around. Better to be heard and mocked than to be left out of the council entirely. 

Argrave and his companions fought hard against the legends of the past to create something that applied to all people neutrally, and ensured a nation in which any race willing to exist peacefully alongside others was allowed to. The presence of people that held animosity against others turned from a troublesome thing to a boon—if they could not oppress their opposition, they insisted firmly upon equality. After all, from their perspective, if they were made equals, their kind’s innate superiority would naturally prevail.

In the end, despite bringing together some of the brightest and most fiercely independent minds of several millennia… the document was drafted. Not all were happy—few enough were, actually. But it was something that they had agreed on. Why had they agreed to it?

Because it was fair.

***

Argrave sat at the table with his close family, tapping his foot nervously.

“I don’t know how someone that can call every emperor an idiot multiple times looks this nervous when the draft is heading out,” Elenore commented to Anneliese.

Argrave looked at her. “You’re not nervous? What we’ve worked on for a whole damned week is going to the people.”

“Most of them can’t even read it,” Durran reminded him.

“But it’ll get read eventually,” Argrave argued. “And… hell, I don’t know. What can we even expect from this? It’s a lot different from a movement started among the people—it’s a top-down imposition of liberty. What if it’s not wanted? What if—”

“It’s not law. It’s not legislation,” Elenore interrupted.

“Meaning?”

Anneliese explained, “Meaning, it’s merely the foundation for a very long struggle. The true challenge begins in extrapolating what was written there into the structure of the government, and the magical institutions of the world. We’re sending forth a sentiment that can capture the heart of the people. Once the seed takes root, we can grow the nation we intend, uprooting the power structures of old with something of our design.”

Elenore put her hand atop Argrave’s. “You have another matter to focus on. The Shadowlands. Your mercenaries have had their fee paid. Think only of that, Argrave. I don’t want you to get hurt within thinking of what’s happening here.”

Argrave nodded, pleased to see his sister had set aside her disappointment in him. Finally, after so much time… Argrave, Anneliese, and Durran would venture into the Shadowlands with great heroes at their back. All others would remain behind to maintain the integrity of the Blackgard Union and the Kingdom of Vasquer.

Only a few more days, and the hunt for Traugott would begin.

Chapter 37

Knowing that all of them might not ever again return from the Shadowlands, Argrave gave one final compromise for those he’d brought back beyond the grave: a day to say their goodbyes to this world, in whatever manner they saw fit. He wasn’t trusting enough to see them roam freely, though, so he only allowed those who were fitted with something of Raven’s design to leave. It would kill them if they did not return in a timely fashion.

Argrave sat with Garm, who went without eating despite a good-looking pile of food being placed before him.

“How does it feel, knowing you’re responsible for all of this?” Argrave asked.

Garm picked up a leaf of lettuce and moved it between his fingers. “Empty, yet complete. It feels like there’s nothing more to do, and that’s a rather empty feeling. At the same time, I don’t feel things are as… unfinished as they were.”

Argrave nodded. “I don’t know how much time is remaining to you, but do you want to tie up some loose ends? We visited Malgeridum, but I’m not entirely sure that’s enough.”

“I got closure in that regard.” He studied Argrave. “It’s only you I haven’t tied things up with. In terms of the amount of time, you didn’t appear in my life the longest. But in terms of the influence? I don’t think any one person has had more impact on me.” He tapped the table. “What you said, about naming your first son after me…”

“Yeah. I meant that.” Argrave nodded. “If you want, the offer still stands.”

“No.” Garm looked at Argrave squarely. “I don’t want you to do that. I respect what you’re trying to do, but I want my name to be my own. Besides, it’d probably bring the kid bad luck.”

“Okay. I’ll remember that. Instead of the first, I’ll name the second son Garm.”

Garm laughed, then finally took a bite of his meal. “Alright, you bastard. Do whatever you want.” He chewed for a few minutes, then his gaze went distant. “It’s hard to imagine being anything other than alive. But I’ve been dead, twice. Once more isn’t so much trouble.”

Argrave stared solemnly, letting his thoughts go. “What you’ve done… so long as the people you chose are up to the task, it’ll never be forgotten. I absolve you of any sins.” Argrave drew a cross in the air. “Your soul is saved. Rejoice, my child.”

“I don’t need absolution. The only thing I’d have done differently is… well, I wouldn’t die.”

Argrave looked at him, having some trouble understanding that sentiment. “Then why help me?”

“Hmm.” Garm pushed away his plate. “Maybe… it’s because I think you might be the one person who’ll miss me when I’m gone. And even in spite of all I’ve done, you won’t forget I’ve done something worth remembering. Hell—I don’t understand it myself.”

Argrave couldn’t begin to understand why Garm had helped. But he was right in one thing—it wouldn’t be forgotten.

“In that sense, at least… memory… I’ll make sure you never die,” Argrave promised.

“You’ll have to live yourself,” Garm pointed out.

“Indeed I will…”

***

“You’re a little bit late,” Onychinusa told Balzat. “Argrave and Anneliese already brought me here. How else do you think we learned the imperial spells?”

The former emperor looked at his granddaughter fondly as the dryads wove crowns of twigs in her hair. She seemed far more comfortable with them than she did anyone else. He had intended to come here, where he knew the dryads would still faithfully serve the imperial family, and bestow them upon the ascendant kingdom of Vasquer. With their aid, never again would they suffer famine. Mastery over the dryads had been one of the reasons his empire had been able to control the masses; through them, the imperial family controlled all agriculture, causing great prosperity or harrowing famine at whim. These ones, here, had been his personally raised litter.

“It seems I’m quite late,” Balzat agreed.

The dryads came to him, too. He saw so many that had once been children. With the presence of Onychinusa, they had been able to grow into adults; she had taken his role as their caretaker. He wouldn’t dare deprive her of that right. They kept the Bloodwoods sprouting brilliantly, never to be shaken. In the past, this region had been a sparsely inhabited place claimed by the imperial family. Now, these redwoods supported the elven ethnic group that had once been slaves to the empire of old.

“All of this land was supposed to be yours,” he said to Onychinusa.

She stopped and stared at him. “But it isn’t.”

He nodded. “It isn’t.”

“I don’t want it, either.” Onychinusa rose to her feet. “Anneliese works so hard. I don’t want that.”

Balzat couldn’t deny he was a little disappointed, but at the same time, he was strangely relieved. A life of peace, or a life of reclaiming the nebulous idea of a birthright… for his granddaughter, he earnestly hoped she’d choose the former. And it seemed she would, so far as he could tell.

“What do you want?” He asked bluntly.

“To do whatever I want.” She held out her arms. “Whenever I want.”

He smiled. “You seem to be doing a great job of it.”

“It’s pretty easy,” she admitted. “I just watch, listen, learn. To see people’s lives play out… is entertaining.”

Balzat wondered if he should say anything, but felt he might regret it if he stayed quiet. “I only hope you make time to live your own, after what you endured at the hands of Erlebnis.”

“Well, he got his comeuppance.” She sat back down on the dirt. “I know what not to do. I know to be nice, like Anneliese is. I know not to enslave people, because Llewellen said it was hard on him. Argrave says to treat others like you want to be treated. He can be annoying, but I like when he said that. It’s easy to follow.”

He felt a little heartbroken that she struggled to understand things like that… yet at the same time, seeing how she’d ended up in spite of all those troubles…

“I’m very proud of you,” Balzat said earnestly.

“Okay.” She nodded.

With a grin on his face, Balzat turned around. “I understand the elves here wanted to speak with me. I’m going to take care of that.”

“I think… I think I’ll miss you,” she said. “And I wish we had more time to talk.”

He paused. “And I as well. But even this was more than I deserve. I hope I was of help to you.”

Onychinusa shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Balzat stared at her. “Your parents loved you. And I do, as well, difficult as it might be to understand. So long as you remember that… I’ll meet the dark, gladly.”

***

Balzat examined each of the elves that led these people in the Bloodwoods. And right alongside them, he witnessed others—the leaders of the slaves that had revolted against his empire. The ones partially responsible for the extinction of his people, who had become gods of the Bloodwoods. He had died before they had revolted, but the fact remained they’d been responsible for the death of his descendants. They loomed nearly as large as the redwood trees towering above. This place retained the eerie beauty that it always had, and the elves residing within had adapted far better than his empire ever had for this brutal location.

Of all people… they had called for him asking for counsel. It felt like a joke the universe was playing.

“With the situation as it is, more and more people are immigrating to Vasquer. Dozens, even hundreds, are leaving seeking better opportunities,” one of their commanders, who led a tumen, explained to him. “We wished to know how we might emulate the empire of old. How we might rise to our former glory.”

Balzat looked at the gods, who were present yet silent. He looked at these eager-eyed leaders. He looked at the fierce warriors, who regarded him like some idol. All of these people had been fed a lie. Should he break their illusion, tell them the truth? Should he play up his glory—embolden their fantasy? Perhaps the gods were here to break him if he attempted as much.

“I could give some advice. I could tell you of our tactics, and revive some secrets. But even if they could be emulated, my ultimate advice would be the same.” He looked between them. “King Argrave came here, spilling blood. It might’ve been to spare his own kingdom the unrest should the Bloodwoods fall, but nevertheless, he fought hard for each and all of you. He refused to betray you, or use you as bargaining chips in games beyond yourself. And even after all of that, he didn’t demand fealty—instead, he rose you up as allies. One would be wise to remember that.”

“We don’t intend to betray the Kingdom of Vasquer,” another elf argued. “We would simply prefer we be equal allies, rather than a fading power reliant wholly on Vasquer. All our people migrate away because they have a reason to leave—now, we must give them reason to stay.”

“You may think that, for now. But I know better than any that the future generations do not always carry on the torch of the past.” He shook his head. “If you want glory and freedom, I’ll give you the route. Swear fealty to Argrave,” Balzat said plainly. “Because what he builds today is grander than my empire ever was. You will not match it, yet you still can be a part of it… if you put aside pride and submit.”

“Submission?” they protested loudly.

“Yes. Actions speak louder than words—and I’ve already submitted. That action in itself is the largest bit of advice I can give.”

With that, he elected to leave them. Whether his advice was to be taken would remain to be seen.

***

“What do you mean? You gave me the fruit for this, no?” Durran protested loudly.

“It’s for the best, Durran,” Elenore said quietly.

“Listen to my sister,” Argrave advised. “You have the Fruit of Being’s ability, yeah. But did you unlock anything more? No, you haven’t. I’m not saying that to disparage you—I’m saying that for your benefit,” he argued. “When I’m gone, I want to rest easy knowing that I can come back to something. Should Gerechtigkeit try to take advantage of any absence, I want to know that my best people are here, ready to receive him. So stay here, Durran. Guard Blackgard.”

“You only call me your best person because you want something from me,” Durran countered, then cradled his head in his hands. “Wish Anneliese was here, so I could ask her if you’re bullshitting me. But… damn it, Argrave. I spent so much of my time steeling myself for this.”

“Then keep that steel.” Argrave grasped his shoulder. “And put it in defense of Vasquer, of Blackgard.”

Durran nodded solemnly. “Alright.”

***

“I hope all of you made your peace,” Argrave called out, looking behind his shoulder. Then, he held out the elegant black scepter of Artur’s design. He felt pain in his arm as he called upon blood magic, and then a shimmering blade of dark crimson energy erupted from the top of it. He plunged it forth into the inky portal of darkness ahead of him.

He could feel a terrible power in motion as his blood magic burned through the stygian darkness, setting it alight and transferring through the staff. Then, he felt a soothing balm erupt from within his very soul as Anneliese replaced what the blood magic had ripped from him with the very energy he burned away. She raised her own staff up just beside his.

Where a dark portal had been once before, strands of light fell from Anneliese’s staff, drifting like dainty white petals until they took shape into something beyond the repetition of darkness. Where there had only been the Shadowlands, something new was being born—something within their comprehension. There was no color beyond—only black and white, and all shades of gray between. Even Argrave’s blade appeared colorless beyond the portal. He pulled it free and looked behind him.

“Going by probabilities, all of you will die in there.” Argrave looked back ahead to the transformed Shadowlands, now finally perceptible by his naked eye. “Only one man’s gone in and out of this place—and he’s the one we’re hunting.”

Chapter 38

Entering into the Shadowlands, even changed by Anneliese’s rewriting of its fundamentals, stripped Argrave of countless things that he’d come to take for granted; fundamental aspects of being that helped qualify the world around him. He was the first to pass through the threshold, and once he did, several facets of several senses left him.

Color ceased to exist. There were only different iterations of white and black, and all in between. Or at least, so he thought—when Anneliese entered, he still saw her amber eyes gleaming brilliantly. He thought she might be unique in some capacity, but when the heroes of old followed after them, Argrave realized that the only color still remaining was that of one’s eyes.

It was more than color. A dull, stale odor constantly wafted into his nose. It resembled cardboard. It became difficult to distinguish the intensity of touch—no matter how tightly Argrave squeezed the staff in his hand, it felt as though he was only squeezing it lightly. It made it impossible to tell how heavy things were, or how much strength his muscles were exerting. No matter how tightly he pinched himself, the pain felt like a dull ache no harsher than gently pressing a finger against a bruise.

At the edge of his vision, that darkness that had warded them from entering the Shadowlands persisted without an end. It did not encroach, but nor did it retreat. Argrave called upon his blood magic, casting a spell that sent an expanding whirlwind of blood outward. It was a wave of blackness that set all it touched into colorless flames. The Shadowlands had a distinct presence, but the flames left behind an emptiness, an absence of presence. Anneliese raised her staff, both healing the wounds Argrave’s magic had caused himself and recreating the Shadowlands into a place they might be able to understand. Shards of light spread out like a storm of white petals, creating the land ahead.

Once it took shape, this place did look an area where people might be able to live were it not so far removed from the laws of their world. They stood in a field of white grass, every blade looking like it had been folded out of bleached paper and planted into gray dirt. Despite Argrave expecting he would need to face waves and waves of Shadowlanders, they were totally alone in this empty plain.

“Argrave—” Anneliese said, but her voice came out strangely. She touched her throat, then tried to speak again. “Something’s wrong with my voice.”

It sounded flat, emotionless. It had no pitch or tone—it was a constant thing, lacking variation.

“Yeah, I—” Argrave began, only to double-take. His voice… it sounded exactly as hers did, to the point where he was unable to realize that he was speaking. “It seems, even changed, this place follows fundamentally different laws from the world we left.”

Others tested their voices, one by one. They all sounded identical. It might’ve been a bit of a hack for creating a perfect choir if the voices didn’t sound so dead, so emotionless.

“We’ll need a way to distinguish our voices from one another,” Argrave decided, thinking of call signs for half a moment before dismissing the idea. “Our names will suffice. Say your name, then say ‘speaking.’ When you’ve finished, cap it off with ‘over.’”

“Our enemies could easily take advantage of that,” came a voice from out of sight.

“Argrave speaking, who’s speaking?” he countered. “I can’t see any enemies. We can deal with that when it happens. For now, say only what’s pertinent, and keep your eyes open to any and all strange noises. Over.”

As if responding to his call, Argrave heard a very distant sound echoing across these silent plains. He whipped his head over to see a shape emerging from the darkness. At first, it was difficult to discern its shape. But as it broke free from the outer boundary of the abyss, coming to stand upon the white field, its form became clear.

A horseman trotted forth, alone, a dark cloak billowing behind his shoulders. No wind blew, yet it flowed upward like smoke. Where the horse stepped, the gray dirt and white grass turned black, seeping and spreading across the world as thick drops of inks might spread across paper. Where the darkness took hold, mist rose upward, replacing the shadows Argrave had burned away.

Argrave didn’t hesitate in stepping forward, a spell at the front of his mind. If this was the beginning of an attack, he hoped to reveal all enemies hiding in the shadows before it began. Emboldened by his recent gains in power, he called upon an S-rank spell, using Blood Infusion to strengthen it with his blood.

Using his scepter as his medium, he thrust it forth and conjured a pillar of black fire that moved with the speed of a hawk. But he heard a rumbling bang that sounded like a huge drum had been struck. His spell veered upward, punching a hole in the darkness. It tore through the Shadowlands with little effort, vanishing into the distant horizon. Anneliese’s staff resonated, healing his wounds and replacing that which his magic burnt away.

The black horseman stood there, a sword that billowed darkness in his hand. It was obvious from his stance he had parried the spell with that alone. Anneliese’s translation of the Shadowlands took shape behind him, revealing a sheer cliff edge. It seemed they stood on a plateau of marble, the horseman on its edge. But as more and more of these lands took shape, something fell revealed itself.

Far behind the lone horseman, a gigantic draconic creature flew in place. It had one red eye where its mouth ought to be that peered upon them with malice, but it did not approach. It waited there fearlessly, even as the fire continued to pass by it. In the far distance, a towering black tower took shape, partially concealed by the translucent wings of the dragon. Unlike all else, the tower did not remain visible for long—darkness fell back upon it, just as the tide fell back upon the beach.

Argrave heard a voice from across the grassy plateau, echoing out to them in a fashion identical to how everyone else’s sounded.

“You are unwelcome,” the horseman told them, putting its sword back in its sheath. “Will you come as denial or acceptance? Will you come as pain or mercy?”

Everyone stirred uneasily, but Argrave was the first to respond. “I’ll not go gently into that good night. You might even say I’d rage against the dying of the light,” he said, feeling his humorous delivery of that line was somewhat stifled by the flatness this dimension imposed upon its residents.

“This place is only acceptance, and only mercy. If you’re here in defiance of that, it’s nothing less than you deserve.” It raised its head, and in that shadowy horseman’s face, he saw white eyes shining with life just as theirs did. It drew its sword once more, and dropped it into the ground. It sunk in, as if through water. Then, far behind it, the dragon craned its neck, roaring mightily through its eye in a dead tone intensified by the sheer volume of its call.

A gargantuan black hand reached up from the empty space below the marble plateau, grasping hold of the side as it pulled itself up. There, one of the nightmares that Argrave knew as the Shadowlanders revealed itself, crawling up. Argrave heard other noises below—a consistent rumble, not indicating either the weight or the speed of what was coming, only that it was.

The horseman turned around, sending its steed galloping forth right off the edge of the cliff. As it did, Argrave prepared a spell, shouting, “Argrave speaking. I’ll clear the surroundings, so duck!”

Mere moments after, trusting the ability of all those that came with him, he sent out another wave of blood-imbued wind that ate through the surroundings like nothing else, feeling only a dull ache of pain soon soothed by Anneliese’s part of their cycle of death and rebirth. The white grass plateau took shape around them. All around it, the monstrosities that had invaded the mortal realm since time immemorial crawled up, heeding the call of the dragon.

“Over,” Argrave finished once his spell was.

“Roland speaking,” one of the great human generals of the past began. “I used my A-rank ascension to mark the dragon and the horseman. They possess a lifeforce that I can track. Wherever they flee, I can follow. Over.”

“Anneliese speaking,” she said, slamming her staff down. “Raven was right. I can see bindings between all of the beings here. All of these creatures are bound in a web of servitude. The horseman was one of the highest ranked, but there is something above even him. What approaches us now are the lowest of their society. Over.”

“Mistislav speaking. The earth here is pliable via magic. Eighty-seven separate entities approach by ground. I’ll attempt to slow their approach by creating hindrances. Over.”

On and on declarations went, and in moments, the ambush turned into a non-issue as all contributed their own unique element to the fight. What had seemed a frightening prospective enemy seconds ago became a sluggish force exposed to the elements.

“Argrave speaking,” he said after a time. “After we have freedom of movement, we pursue the horseman, then follow him up the ladder using Anneliese’s [Truesight] ‘til we find the top dog of this place. But before that…” Argrave strode boldly ahead of them all, into this world of black and white, feeling a rumbling pain as he called upon the blood within his body. “I’m going to let loose. Over.”

All power had limits. Argrave felt it was time to test the boundaries of his and Anneliese’s. This was a suitable testing ground, it would seem. Once, a single one of these monsters had nearly overtaken the capital of Vasquer. Now, Argrave and Anneliese, together, might prove their equal.

Chapter 39

From the beginning, their group had agreed upon some strategies. One such strategy was a devastating opening salvo combining the grim virtues of necromancy and Argrave’s blood magic. As the dull steps of the Shadowlanders filled the air before them, Bhaltair, founder of the Order of the Rose, tapped Argrave’s shoulder.

“Bhaltair speaking,” he said quietly, predatory orange eyes gleaming. He was a large man, bulging with fat in places that hardly seemed possible. “Fifteen blades should suffice for the first wave. Over.”

Argrave gave him a nod, then sent out blood echoes. He spent the whole of them to conjure fifteen swords of his black blood, and they fell into the white ground ahead. Bhaltair moved to the center of this circle of blades, then gripped the bottom of his jaw. He unhinged it, then gray flesh spewed forth out of his mouth like something highly pressurized had just removed its lid. Undead beings resembling goblins sprawled out over the floor, already moving to grip the blades Argrave had prepared. They rushed into combat, moving with an animalistic grace. Bhaltair had lost some weight after he expunged what was inside—unlike most people, he had a genuine excuse for his obese appearance. He stored undead inside his body.

With Bhaltair’s undead facing one side equipped with black-blooded weapons, Argrave was content to consider that front held. The reason why became immediately clear—their frontrunner undead held his hand out, and Bhaltair cast an S-rank spell through it. Much like Argrave’s blood echoes, Bhaltair could cast spells at a distance—unlike Argrave, he wasn’t limited in rank, and his undead were merely a conduit for his magic rather than a reservoir.

A great blast of colorless electricity erupted from the undead and buffeted the coming Shadowlanders. Shortly after, Bhaltair’s undead fell upon the hardest hit, swinging their weapons in brutal arcs. As the blades Argrave conjured bit into their stone-like flesh, Argrave felt their life energy pass to Anneliese. She, in turn, replenished everyone’s supply of magic with the wellspring of power.

The dragon roared in the dead voice that everyone shared, and Argrave looked up at it. It soared through the air toward them.

“Archchief speaking,” he said, using his title instead of his name—perhaps arrogance, or perhaps it was because he genuinely preferred to go by that. “I’ll take to the skies. That thing, and other fliers, poses the greatest threat. I’ll keep it off us. Over.”

Without further ado, he clambered aboard his zombified wyvern and lifted off with tremendous speed.  Argrave decided to trust the confidence of the southern tribal, turning back to the three most vulnerable fronts. To call it vulnerable, though, implied they were at risk of being overrun. They cast S-rank spells recklessly, knowing Anneliese could replenish what was lost. The Shadowlanders, however, took the damage like they were arrows instead of great bombs. To end them, one needed exceptional firepower—and Argrave intended to provide.

S-rank blood magic was few and far between. Few casters had the desire, the talent in the field, or above all, the simple lifeforce to cast a sacrificial spell of that magnitude without dying. The few that did were not human. Vampires were the most common higher blood mages. They expected their supernatural body to regenerate any damage done. Argrave expected rather the same, but a pure S-rank blood magic spell was far different than an S-rank elemental spell infused with blood magic.

Still, Argrave declared a ceasefire to his allies and walked forth, bringing to the front of his mind the terrible spell known as [Apollyon]. He completed the spell with his right hand outstretched toward the approaching Shadowlanders.

Argrave felt the skin on his hand part, making holes for the beings born of his blood to free themselves. Locusts of black blood erupted out of his hand, leaving half a thousand holes for their fellows following soon after. Were they outside of this realm, Argrave could imagine the pain was unimaginable. Even here, Argrave could feel his vitality draining far faster than it could be replaced. The locusts began to burst free of his wrist, then his forearm, then his upper arm, and soon came near the neck…

When Argrave felt certain that he would soon feel locusts bursting out of his eyes, the spell met its mark, and Anneliese let loose a flood of vitality into his body to replenish what was vanishing. His wounds closed rapidly, and the locusts again began to emerge only from his hand. Argrave kept an intense focus, manipulating his hand about so it hit everything approaching.

The blood locusts, chittering in a dull tone mandated by this realm, were a scourge upon all that they touched. The first Shadowlander they fell upon was consumed, bursting into colorless fire for half a second before vanishing entirely beneath their biting teeth and cutting wings. They spread out mindlessly, seeking any movement in front of them.

A gargantuan four-legged whale creature swallowed the locusts, yet mere seconds later they burst out of it from eight directions. An octopus spat inky darkness at them, but it was all burnt away seconds before the bugs fell upon it and erased it from the world. An abyssal mole-man sought shelter inside the earth of the plateau, yet the locusts tore through the earth to remove him. Their reckless pursuit broke away a huge section of the plateau, sending some creatures tumbling. The locusts ate both them and the falling rocks, leaving only dust behind.

Countless Shadowlanders chose to jump off the plateau rather than meet this cloud of death, yet still the locust swarm followed. Argrave could feel his creations tearing through enemies that had not yet arrived at this summit. When nothing more came, they dispersed into the Shadowlands, eating away at the endless darkness so that Anneliese might rewrite what was there.

Argrave only realized what a toll that [Apollyon] had taken upon him when his knees buckled, and he fell to the grass. The spell finally finished, unleashing its hold on his vitality. His allies folded around him to guard him from any projectiles that might come, and Anneliese flooded him with the energy still pouring in from its aftermath.

The vampire that had created this spell did so with the intention they should eat away anything except blood. There was no blood here, so they destroyed without an end. If Argrave hadn’t the benefit of Anneliese, who could replenish him based off what he killed… that may well have wounded him badly enough he’d die. If it had taken any longer, the locusts would’ve been forged out of the blood in his brain—which, needless to say, wouldn’t have fared well for him.

“Elzbieta speaking,” said the founder of the Order of the Gray Owl. “We can handle the ground from here, but the Archchief seems overwhelmed holding back the dragon. If you could do some of the same up there, this battle is as good as… over.”

Argrave shakily rose to his feet, using his staff as a support. He looked up. The Archchief stood aback his wyvern, holding its reins tightly with one hand while the other cast spells that buffeted away the dragon that sought to descend on top of them. Against it, he held his own—but other flying enemies harried him, and the zombified wyvern already showed wounds. They moved fast enough that any attempts for a counter seemed futile.

Seeing that, Argrave thought it was time for good ol’ reliable.

“Argrave speaking,” he said, then looked at the former emperor of the southron elves. “Ghislain. I need you to hide a largescale attack. Those fliers seem maneuverable enough to dodge if they see it coming. Can you conceal over a thousand projectiles about the size of my arm? Over.”

“Ghislain speaking to say he can, over,” the man confirmed rapidly.

With that, Argrave needed no more convincing. He sent out blood echoes, and had each conjure [Electric Eels] infused with his blood. Meanwhile, he waited a few moments for his vitality to recover, then took a familiar stance. In it, he conjured [Bloodfeud Bow]. Its rate of consumption felt generous after the apocalyptic power of [Apollyon]. It built up that familiar devastating power in his hands.

“Ghislain speaking. Bring your projectiles above me, if you can, over,” he requested.

Argrave obliged. The man seemed to write in the air with his fingers, and soon enough, each of the malignant looking eels faded away until nothing but emptiness seemed to linger above. If Argrave couldn’t feel them with his will, he might think they had dissipated.

“Argrave speaking. Aurore, tell the Archchief to fall back to the ground if he doesn’t want to get killed, over,” he shouted.

Aurore looked at Argrave. She opened her mouth, then cast a spell inside. Then, she craned her neck. When she shouted, her words erupted with the force of a powerful wind spell.

“Archchief! Come down or Argrave will kill you!” she shouted brashly, foregoing their signal in the wake of her pure volume.

Argrave was worried personalities might clash from her commanding tone, but the Archchief’s wyvern bunched together its wings and plummeted like a rock. Only once it seemed liable to plant against the ground did it spread its wings and land, and then Argrave sent forth the cloud of invisible [Electric Eels]. The pursuers had nearly caught up with the Archchief, but they met with an invisible wall of bloodied eels, and the skies became a thunderstorm. The descending dragon hovered cautiously before it, and Argrave saw his shot.

[Bloodfeud Bow] exploded upward toward the dragon, and in only a moment, Argrave saw it pierce right through the dragon’s stomach and push through the back. Somehow, even with such a great hole in its body, it remained flying. It veered, heading back toward the shadows with its great wound making it appear drunk. Argrave sent what little remained of the [Electric Eels] after it, but it vanished into the unexplored area of the Shadowlands before he could finish it.

“Roland speaking. The horseman’s incoming!” he shouted, evidently noticing something through the mark he’d put upon their foe. Argrave looked around, then spotted what he referenced—the shadowy horseman galloped across the field, sword held to his side.

Argrave stepped ahead of everyone, casting high-ranked spells infused with blood recklessly. The horseman parried one after another, rushing in a clear path toward their group. When his attacks proved fruitless, Argrave channeled a powerful blood weapon into the scepter of Artur’s creation. A blade took shape, and Argrave held it like a spear as the horseman approached.

His practice with Orion ran through his mind as the horse sped faster and faster. Argrave thrust the spear forth. The rider brought his blade in, parrying it upward. The force was tremendous, and Argrave exerted all the strength he could to keep it in his hand. Due to the nature of this realm, he felt little pain—but he saw his elbows bend the wrong way, and knew this foe was powerful.

But what his foe didn’t know was that this weapon’s foundation was the Resonant Pillar. When struck on one point, the other side could return that power equally. Argrave twisted and thrust the opposite end of the scepter forth, and slammed it into the front of the horse. Mount and rider parted forcefully, but even along the way, the rider scored a great gash across Argrave’s chest.

The horse collapsed to the ground, dead. Peering down, Argrave knew that cut might’ve killed him had he not been changed by the Fruit of Being. It slowly healed, closing itself, and Argrave’s broken arms became functional once again. The knight held his blade aloft, gripped its edge with his hand, and cut himself. A puddle of blood took shape beneath his feet, and from it, a new horse jumped out. He clambered atop it and sped away into the darkness.

“It’s gone… and going fast,” Roland confirmed, his ability to track vitality proving its usefulness already.

Looking around… Bhaltair’s undead were killing the last of the Shadowlanders. They seemed to have temporary reprieve from this assault. But it was abundantly clear their long journey into this hellish place was just beginning—and they were hunted just as much as they were hunting.

Chapter 40

After they earned some reprieve from the initial assault, they took two actions. Argrave and Anneliese set to work charting out more of this land. Argrave used blood-infused electric eels to deliberately carve out areas of the Shadowlands, and Anneliese worked to replace what he burnt away. The terrain that took place before them was a land of vast canyons, mesas, and valleys with treacherous falls into places where Argrave was certain Shadowlanders lurked. It remained devoid of color.

According to Roland, who could mark lifeforms he saw and keep track of them, the horseman and the dragon both lingered on the outside edge of the shadow, retreating as necessary where Argrave revealed more. To that end, Argrave made it a point to clear out a near-perfect circle around them so they couldn’t be snuck up on as Argrave had with his life-or-death encounter with that rider.

The heroes of old, meanwhile, set to work fortifying this plateau that they’d found themselves stranded atop. It was slow-going at first, but eventually they all delegated their responsibilities efficiently and created a formidable perch that was closed off to the outside world. It wouldn’t last long against the Shadowlanders outright assault, but it was only meant to give them time—or at the very least, an advantage if another battle was soon to come.

Eventually, progress stalled at clearing away the surroundings. Something was pushing back against Argrave’s efforts to burn it away—replacing what shadows were lost. It was near the location where that tower had been, confirming it wasn’t mere coincidence that place had been reclaimed. It had been the only fragment of civilization Argrave could see from the Shadowlanders, and that likely meant it was important. Still, with a sizable area translated into something they could comprehend, Argrave and Anneliese joined the others inside of the fortress. Bhaltair used his undead to watch the ground, while the Archchief’s wyvern kept a handle on the skies. For now, threats came from neither.

“At present, we are troops cut off from our supply lines,” Anneliese explained to everyone, her amber eyes standing out in the darkness of this fortress. They had elected to forego their code inside this base, giving everyone’s voice equal weight. “Despite that tremendous show of prowess, we spent more energy than we absorbed from our foes. And I’m sure that you all can feel something rather acutely, being spellcasters.”

“There’s no magic here,” someone answered—hard to tell who. “The only way that we can recover magic is through Anneliese.”

“Anneliese and me,” Argrave added. His eyes were gray, and seemed part and parcel of this strange new world. “To recover, I have to kill—specifically, I have to kill with blood magic. And on the subject of our enemy… Anneliese has verified that they have a hierarchy binding them by some mysterious power. Thus far, we’ve determined only four strata. The lowest are those we killed. Higher up was the dragon. Above the dragon was that horseman. But the horseman had someone above him.”

“Assuming they do have a hierarchy, that means that they’re organized. And if they’re organized, great leagues of them will be arriving soon. During the age I fought Gerechtigkeit, Shadowlanders of similar strength appeared endlessly,” Felipe I said.

Voices clamored out in agreement—some expressed unease at the fact they were lingering for so long in this fortress when beings as powerful as the horseman roamed around. No one necessarily agreed, but most saw the benefit of planning.

“It is strange we didn’t see those ‘endless’ numbers immediately,” the Archchief said, his golden eyes flickering open and closed as he concentrated on what his undead wyvern saw as it flew above, scouting. “Back when they fell upon us, they erupted forth from their breaches as though the land was an overcrowded mess. I expected to meet walls of them, not a mere eighty-seven on the ground and a few dozen in the air.”

“Their numbers on the mortal realm could be explained by their haste to leave the area causing them to crowd,” Ghislain pointed out, his green gaze sharp. “Regardless, we waste time discussing the why of the matter. Whoever said that leagues of them may be coming had the best point—we are tested for time, here. We need to develop a strategy to hunt down Traugott now that we’ve assessed the lay of the land. If we don’t have a solid strategy, we’ll be nothing more than blind men fumbling about through the desert.”

Argrave thought of Durran. They had chosen to leave him behind because he hadn’t been able to develop the combat ability the Fruit of Being bestowed. Now, however, the hunting blessings bestowed by Stout Heart Swan might lend them the power they needed to track down the shadowy bastard even in this place. Argrave briefly considered if he might have made a mistake… but Durran’s life couldn’t be risked with it tied so closely to Garm’s power, and he might be needed to protect against enemies in Argrave’s absence.

Still, the problem remained—they lacked a way to easily track down Traugott in this abyssal realm. None of them had expected this place to be as strange as it was, nor to remain so wholly difficult to conquer—Argrave had thought Traugott would be easily found with the skillsets of those present, then perhaps he’d flee or be forced out of the Shadowlands where their proponents on the mortal realm could finish the job. Perhaps that had been endlessly naïve. As the situation was, they were humans hunting a lone dolphin in the ocean—namely, out of their environment, while hunting something in its environment.

Bhaltair proposed that his undead all be unleashed and equipped with blood magic to comb the place, but even with their added numbers it remained a difficult prospect to find the needle in the haystack. Mistislav and his considerable mastery over earth magic proposed clearing more and more land so he could then detect any and all living things wandering the surface. That remained in consideration, but it wasn’t foolproof.

“We’re all forgetting a rather key detail,” said Balzat, amber eyes looking between all. “That horseman spoke.”

People went silent for a few moments. Another interjected, “He spoke nonsense. None of what he said made any sense.”

“Not to us. Not yet. Maybe it is nonsense, or maybe it’s something more that we don’t understand. But he did speak,” Emperor Chu countered. “And he’s clearly intelligent. He thought of a plan of attack, and specifically targeted Argrave of everyone after seeing the style in which we fought.”

“Not to mention Anneliese’s claims of a hierarchy places him at the relative top. Failing attempts to communicate or pry information from him, we could use him merely to follow it up the chain,” Balzat expounded on his proposal.

“Follow up the chain? Given the trend, you want us to pursue greater enemies? That sounds utterly ridiculous,” Aurore disagreed harshly.

“We lack direction,” Argrave spoke loudly. “Everyone’s presented good ideas thus far, but they lack one thing in common—direction. Seeking the hierarchy solves that. Perhaps it helps us gain a better grasp on our enemy. Perhaps Traugott is the king of all things evil, sipping wine on his throne of skulls while his Shadowlander slaves hunt us all. Either way, it helps us learn more about this strange realm. Right now, that’s the most important thing. So, Balzat’s right—we chase after the horseman, dangerous though it might be.”

Argrave could tell there was a little bitterness left in the air, but they had all agreed to follow his lead. In the end, assent followed shortly after. The only complication remained how they might snare such a fearsome foe without killing him outright.

***

The abyss stared out at this scene so foreign to its realm. Its fabric was not repeated indefinitely, as it was supposed to—instead, there was a great tear in its being, a chasm in its foundation: light. The light spread more and more, bringing whites and grays that before had only been something the abyss would expel its detritus upon. There was land where it had never before existed, and there were mortal laws of existence dictated on that which was not mortal. It was wholly wrong, and needed to be remedied.

An individual that was part of the abyss stared upon this scene with especial disdain. Though he had discovered he was capable of restoring the abyss back to its rightful glory, the fact remained that they had been pushed back. Their strength was not what it could be. The cycle was not at its zenith, and the Hopeful could not embolden them as he often did. And worse yet, they fought on multiple fronts.

In this place, the individuals comprising the totality of the abyss could not speak as mortals did. But whether here or there, his authority and force of will remained strong. He called some of those beneath him, and they appeared as quickly as they were bound to. To them, he gave a command. In that command was a report to a superior. It bore a simple message.

The Manumitter may not be alone. The threat is more than existential. Communication is possible, but ill-advised. Advice: use extreme force.

Chapter 41

Argrave walked out into a wide-open valley, alone in spirit but not in fact. Excluding the thousands of blood-infused wind eels soaring above him as a cloud of death, he had the charming company of the Shadowlanders, playing the role of the lurking mountain lion ready to leap down upon him. In the back of his mind, he kept at close attention the blood echo positioned miles away. One of the good fortunes about being in an area where the enemy had no knowledge of him meant that he could call upon old tricks where necessary to gain an advantage.

And considering what he’d volunteered for, well… he would need every damned advantage.

Elenore’s blessing of connections didn’t function in this place, but they weren’t without methods to communicate long distance. There was a baby’s head on Argrave’s shoulder, and he was doing his best to ignore what it looked like as he listened to what it said—or rather, what its creator said, speaking through it.

“They’re just now starting to take the bait. You’re far enough away from us that they seem to be willing to try something. The horseman, though, isn’t getting any nearer,” Bhaltair said, conveying the details from the other members back at their base of operations.

Argrave’s gaze went upward, scanning the tall mesas cautiously. Their plan was rather simple—Argrave, alone, should poke out at the edge of the boundary, clearing the dark away to hide his true goal: baiting the enemy to attack. He told himself he was in no more risk here than he was back with allies. Well, perhaps a bit more. Or a lot. Regardless, Anneliese could heal his wounds no matter the distance, and if needed, he could still swap places with the blood echo.

“About ten… no, about a hundred… mmm…” the baby’s head trailed off.

Argrave looked at it, resenting the sight of the peach-colored thing tied to him with leg tendons. It looked like he had a twin brother absorbed in the womb on his shoulder. “What’s happening?” he asked Bhaltair.

“There’s about… it’s upward of about half a thousand, I’d say, and increasing. They’re approaching your position in groups of one hundred. It’s not like that first attack was. Anneliese’s scouting efforts with her bird say these could be considered full military squads, with leaders. They have fliers, some archers…”

“Archers?” Argrave repeated, feeling some fear. Charging beasts he could handle—he’d sparred with Orion enough to be confident in taking a close-quarters foe. Projectiles were another matter, doubly so projectiles coming from these freakishly strong opponents. One blind spot, and he could get a bolt through the back of the head.

“Yes. They’re taking a position on the plateaus, and—oh. You’re surrounded. But there is some good news. That horseman’s come back out. We don’t have a visual on him, but Roland’s confirmed it.”

“Alright. And what does that mean for the plan?”

“If you can hold out… we can cut off their escape back to the darkness, set up the ambush we’d planned,” Bhaltair said certainly. “We’ll help entrap the horseman. But at the end of the day, you’re likely the only one that can do any significant damage to him.

Argrave took a deep breath in this silent valley. “I’ll do it.”

“I’ll tell everyone.”

Argrave looked around wildly, searching for moving darkness amidst the shades of white and gray. But the darkness was always there right at the edge of his vision, and it was difficult to avoid mistaking the boundaries of what they’d carved out for a true problem.

“Up and left,” the head said, and Argrave looked. “Good luck. Now, I’m going silent.”

In one moment, there was nothing there. In the next, an entire squadron of tentacle-faced monstrosities stood on the edge of the mesa, with bows of shadow drawn far. When they all fired at once, Argrave figured this is what it must’ve been like to face a volley of [Bloodfeud Bows] from his blood echoes. Ordinarily, Argrave might’ve conjured a ward, or teleported away. Those two defensive strategies were his bread and butter.

With so much gained over the past months, Argrave wasn’t exactly lacking in options.

He called upon an S-rank spell he’d learned from Erlebnis’ vast hoard—[Perfect Movement]. Wind encircled him, and with will alone he spiraled upward in the air, dodging the attack. The projectiles pulverized the ground. He hovered just below his cloud of blood-infused wind eels, using them as shields. He took note of more opponents, but elected not to attack. Without allies to cover him, he’d have to be far more conservative. If he attacked without receiving energy returned, he could perish easily.

More and more archers took their place, looking down upon the valley. So long as Argrave stayed moving unpredictably, it seemed an impossibility for him to get hit. Then, Argrave heard a familiar roar and looked upward, peering past his constructs. Fully healed of the gaping wound Argrave had caused, the one-eyed dragon of shadow had brought with it several similarly draconic minions. All Argrave saw was a bunch of slow-moving, juicy targets.

He ascended upward with [Perfect Movement], minding his surroundings carefully. He had brought blood-infused wind eels in way of electric eels to use them as partial shields against attacks from blind spots, and he took full advantage of their protection to completely block any attack from the archers as he rose to meet the dragon. Its smaller minions fanned out, casting a wider net, and Argrave was considering which spell could deal the most damage to this huge thing when he spotted strange movement atop its ahead.

When recognition dawned, Argrave frantically stopped his rapid ascent and muttered, “Shit.”

The now-horseless black rider walked to the edge of the dragon’s gigantic red eye, and leapt downward with a spear of shadow held out to impale. Argrave moved to the side as quickly as possible, but in response the rider merely took aim and threw his weapon ferociously. Panicked, Argrave threw up a ward. It gave him just enough time to dodge.

The rider landed on one of the lesser dragons—which, now that they were near, were far faster than Argrave had ever imagined. The shadow knight didn’t hesitate a moment in leaping forth at Argrave again, conjuring a sword as if from thin air. Argrave used the A-rank [Devil’s Claw], and a black hand with sharp nails took form out of his blood, swiping. The warrior blocked it with his sword partially, but it proved a fundamental notion—in the air, Argrave had the advantage.

He felt one of the lesser dragons behind him and whirled, conjuring his staff with a blade of blood atop it to take a swipe at what came. The blade of blood magic met an open maw, slicing straight through the beast. Moments later, projectiles soared upward from down below, and Argrave cast a brief glance to see the archers had repositioned. In the valley where he’d been, a ravening horde had appeared, waiting for his fall.

Argrave chose to soar ever upward, where the giant dragon lurked above—now that he knew his opponent was in the sky with him, it made the decision simple. He’d go high enough their arrows couldn’t reach, stalling. Along the way, the shadow knight continued to hound him with his unrelenting precision and caution. The man rode the lesser dragons up, leaping out at Argrave with either spear or sword.

The knight’s assault was impressively unrelenting. His strength was such that Argrave couldn’t actually contest him without sufficient time to prepare, and his skill ensured he kept pace with Argrave as he ascended easily. The only reason why Argrave managed to get by without taking a wound as harsh as their first encounter was because they fought in the air.  Whether it was luck or a prudent choice on his part, Argrave was glad.

“WE’RE ALL SET UP!” Argrave heard the baby’s head shout above the wind, just barely.

Thinking of how amazing it was to have competent allies, Argrave took the time to look up at the gigantic dragon. On the low end, Argrave had his wind eels descend upon those that had occupied the valley. On the high end, Argrave diverted his attention to the black knight fully, this time—not to defend, but to begin his attack.

Argrave played the matador, dodging fearsome bull rushes as he looked for the proper opening. His slowed ascent gave the other dragons time to catch up. Above, the gigantic dragon put some distance between them. Argrave could feel a surge of vitality delivered expressly by Anneliese as his eels dug into the ground troops, yet kept his cool waiting for opportunity.

When the rider came at him with a stab of its sword, Argrave decided opportunity had reared its head. He called to his mind the rather disgusting spell he’d prepared, and then… well, he didn’t defend. It might be said that he tackled the rider, grasping him firmly. Then, he unleashed [Withering Gift] from both of his hands.

Argrave held onto the rider firmly, and bloody vines erupted from his fingers, seeking purchase in the knight’s steel-hard flesh. They dug in, bit by bit, pushing past that steel-like skin… but the rider took Argrave for a ride all the while. He slammed his fist into his face, time and time again. He kneed Argrave, and the spikes dug into his guts. He pulled on the sword like it was a joystick at an arcade machine, slicing up Argrave inside and out continuously. But vitality coming both from the troops on the ground and this knight he held gave Argrave just enough fuel to hang on, and the dulled pain of the Shadowlands allowed him to press past any discomfort to remember his role in this capture.

[Withering Gift] was an insidious spell that, much like [Bloodfeud Bow], grew stronger depending on how much magic and blood someone fed it. It was a parasitic entity that took root in whoever its caster touched, slowly disabling and killing them. Argrave created enough to kill just about anyone a thousand times over, but the knight continued to bash Argrave as they whirled through the air, locked.

It was only when the knight finally pulled his sword free of Argrave’s body, and thrust it toward his head that Argrave swapped place with the blood echo. He collapsed onto the ground in the fortress they’d made. There, a few people waited.

“Planted the seed?” questioned Balzat.

Argrave couldn’t speak, but he made a vague grunting noise that made him cough blood.

“If you did, we’ll handle the rest.” The man knelt. “Because together, no one is our match.”

***

In a few minutes, Argrave felt as right as rain. And in half an hour, Argrave realized that he’d pulled together one hell of a team. Why? The reason was lying right in front of them, crippled by the [Withering Gift]. Everyone had done far more than their part.

With the black knight weakened, marked by Roland, and all avenues of escape amply covered, the people he’d brought had been capable of snatching this man as he and his troops attempted to slink back into the shadows. [Withering Gift] had utterly incapacitated him, and Ghislain’s illusions and Bhaltair’s undead armed with blood magic weaponry mounted an ambush aback the Archchief’s wyvern. The combined efforts of several amazing fighters had allowed them to spirit this man away. Argrave hadn’t even possessed the time to offer help if he wanted to.

“Somehow, you look worse than him,” Felipe noted. “Elenore wouldn’t be pleased with you. Nor would the man who made your armor, I suspect.”

Argrave agreed—his coat, his armor, it was all in total tatters. He looked rather like Orion had after fighting the Plague Jester. Perhaps it ran in the family. But Argrave hadn’t felt much pain in that battle, fortunately. There were some nice aspects to the dullness of this place.

“Well, he’s the captive, and I’m the captor. It’s a victory,” Argrave said. He looked down at the silent knight, then kneeled. Black vines coiled in and out of the knight’s body, yet his white eyes stared ahead firmly. He reminded Argrave of Galamon, if going by eyes and temperament alone. “Hello there.”

“Will you try and liberate me?” the knight asked. “You had best kill me, Manumitter scum. Free, I’ll only finish what I started.”

Argrave smiled, then looked at everyone. They seemed to be having similar thoughts—that this might be a conversation worth having.

“You’re going to enlighten me about a few things,” Argrave said. “Does that sound fun?”

Chapter 42

Argrave walked out of the makeshift interrogation room a great deal later, his gray eyes looking somewhat darker after what he’d learned. Others, who’d not participated in the interrogation so as not to make it overbearing and overcrowded, walked up to him.

“Have we learned any useful information?” Bhaltair questioned.

Argrave stood, searching in his own head for how he might answer that question. After a long while of many waiting expectantly, he finally said, “I think we may have a new ally.”

“What?” People looked between each other. “You got that one to turn against his kind?”

“No,” Argrave shook his head. “But they’re fighting against someone they call the Manumitter at the same time as us. This person is apparently capable of liberating Shadowlanders from their hierarchy. Anneliese and I… after reviewing all the information, and making some admittedly big leaps in logic…”

She nodded to back up his point. “We think that it’s Traugott they’re fighting against.”

Argrave looked between everyone. “Guessing that, I proposed a collaboration. This Manumitter has amassed a sizable force of Shadowlanders, freed of the hierarchy. He’s apparently attempting to break the chains that bind them once and for all, bringing free will to everyone in the Shadowlands.” Argrave rubbed his chin.

“And?” Ghislain pressed.

“Our little dark knight friend with a flesh wound wanted me to meet his boss.” Argrave crossed his arms. “The big boss. The Hopeful, he called it. He’s physically incapable of breaking protocol and working with me independently. Only the big boss has free will. And the way he told it, it sounds like the Hopeful’s responsible for holding this whole realm together. If the Manumitter takes him down—and that’s not out of the realm of possibility—we might have bigger problems than a few stragglers coming to our world. The whole damned Shadowlands could leak out to our world.”

“If he can’t break protocol, why’s he talking to you?” Aurore asked prudently.

“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because the big boss never accounted for his little peons actually being able to speak. It seems like only the higher-ranking ones are, and only within the domain Anneliese establishes after I burn away the shadow.” Argrave shook his head. “But I’d only be guessing. Question is, I suppose… do we meet with big boss?” He raised a finger. “Speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

“That depends largely on what such a thing would entail,” they sought information.

Argrave nodded. “It would entail me letting the man go so he could deliver word, and then waiting for him to make good on his promise.”

Felipe looked at Anneliese. “Do you have any insight on his truthfulness?”

“None whatsoever,” she answered. “His eyes seemed truthful of his intent, but eyes can only say so much, and this realm is nothing like anything I’ve ever experienced before. Besides, if he is slave to a larger system, then it doesn’t particularly matter what he feels, no?”

“I say we don’t trust it. You all heard that cryptic talk he gave when first encountering us, about fate and death and all of that. He’s not someone that we can rely upon. He wants us dead, pure and simple.” The Archchief shook his head. “Only a fool lets an enemy go when they have them at their mercy. We should use him to send a message.”

“Hell, it doesn’t matter.” Balzat crossed his arms as he looked between everyone. “He’s only a small part of a larger picture; one part of a grand hierarchy. We’ve shown that we’re capable of subduing him. If he cooperates, we gain an in with their leader. If he doesn’t, then all we’ve done is let loose an enemy that may have a bit of knowledge about our forces. In reality, Argrave hasn’t shown all his cards at all.”

Argrave said nothing, grateful that Balzat had such a high opinion of him. In reality, he’d been on the backfoot the entire time that black knight had been fighting him in the sky. But others seemed to appreciate Balzat’s words much more than Argrave himself—they were persuasive. At the end of the day, it was only one enemy of many. Roland still had this horseman tracked.

“I’m going to see what more I can get out of the man. But once he’s all talked out, I’m going to let him go. You might think it’s foolish, all of you, but I’m the one that bled to get him in that dank little cave. I think I have the most authority when it comes to deciding when he goes.”

No protest was brooked, even from the Archchief who’d been most adamant. Argrave didn’t know much about this black knight. But from all he’d heard, the Shadowlanders never came to their realm out of malice. Rather, it was similar to a concept that Argrave had read about in the past: Hungry Ghosts.

There was a reason that, in their realm, the Shadowlanders had such a profound impact in their surroundings. They seemed to eat light, color, sensation, sounds, and smells. Why? It was because their very presence was a craving for existence that could never be fulfilled. Their entire life was that of hunger, of consumption, and of desire. They possessed an insatiable desire to exist, but were denied that sensation. Their body constantly imposed itself on the world around it, eating away at sensations of existence to fill a void that was not meant to be filled.

Argrave didn’t know if it was a tale woven by a captive, but apparently, the one called the Hopeful kept all of the Shadowlanders shrouded in the abyss. He deliberately cultivated an atmosphere where no sensations could be felt, and where all was different from the mortal world, to keep them from their suffering. He did all of this under the hope that one day, a cure for these sensations might one day present itself, allowing them to exist as they so desperately craved. It was only when Gerechtigkeit descended that this eternal peace was disturbed, and some were drawn from the shadows to bask in the light.

As for how such a painful existence could come to be… their captive knew as little as the average human knew about how the world was created. If the Hopeful was capable of sustaining such a realm, perhaps he could give the answers that Argrave wanted so dearly.

But there was something Argrave knew in his heart of hearts. Whatever cooperation arose, the Shadowlanders would never resolve things peaceably. Argrave and Anneliese had disturbed their territory, and now that they knew the possibility existed for it to be overwritten, the Hopeful would never allow that to lie for after the Manumitter was slain. They could collaborate with them to deal with the larger problem that was Traugott, but at the end of the road, there was a reckoning in store. Of what scale… well, perhaps he’d have to ask the Hopeful.

***

Argrave felt rather like a child releasing a wounded animal he’d found back into the wild after its injuries were tended to. Like a child, he secretly hoped the pet would come wandering back. Ultimately, it was a calculated risk. If nothing came of it, so be it. If something did, they’d gain. Either way, torture wasn’t truly on the table.

For the first few hours, Argrave’s company thought that nothing had come of it. Roland noted that the horseman was staying on the edge of the realm they’d carved out of the Shadowlands, doing nothing. Argrave coped by suggesting that he was having someone else send the message, but he secretly thought that he might’ve been played by the black knight after all.

That is, until Argragve realized just how wrong he was about how gloomy this place could become.

It all started off rather casually, as one might slowly turn up the heat on a frog in the water. The land all around seemed to become darker, as though the sun was setting in the Shadowlands. Soon enough, it became clear this was not a transitory thing. The white grass grew grayer and grayer, until eventually it turned black. The dirt darkened until it seemed like nothing remained of it. The mesas of varying shades started to shift to a solitary black.

Then, gaping holes opened miles above, and gigantic spouts of black shadows started to flood the world in a horrifying scene. Argrave thought this might be another attack on its way, and so sent out blood magic to chip away at what came. But soon enough, someone pointed out something.

“Something huge is coming this way,” said Bhaltair. “I… I can’t quite make out what it is.”

Not long after Bhaltair noticed its presence with his undead scouts, everyone started to feel it, too. It was an overwhelming presence that tugged at their very souls, threatening to spirit it away if they lost concentration for a moment. It was a constant thief, a constant desire, a constant hunger, that was so intense in its existence that it could swallow them if they didn’t resist.

Resist they did—Argrave spent copious amounts of his own blood fighting back against this changing world, and Anneliese struggled desperately to keep it maintained by rewriting it near as fast as it was destroyed. Eventually, this consumption of shadow became so utterly overwhelming that Argrave resorted to a spell he’d deemed a last resort—[Apollyon]. Bursting free of his skin, he had no lack of energy to replenish himself as the locusts raged against the collapse of this world brought about by the coming giant.

In this suffocating darkness, the gigantic form that intruded upon this world they’d carved loom large over them. It made the giant gods in the Bloodwoods seem miniscule by comparison. The heroes of the ages past crowded around Anneliese and Argrave for reprieve against this nightmarish creature. It was only darkness, but in that wreath of shadow, Argrave could barely make out a pair of brown eyes.

“It’s him,” Anneliese confirmed to Argrave, her breath heavy from the sheer pressure and fear of this scenario. “There’s no one higher in the hierarchy. He holds the reins.”

Argrave gazed into those oddly human brown eyes, gritting his teeth as locusts erupted from both of his hands in defiance of the coming of the abyss. This was, ostensibly, what they had decided to seek out. Now… how the hell was he supposed to have a civil conversation during all of this?

“If you’re here to talk… can you dial back the darkness?!” Argrave shouted up. “And if you’re not here to talk, well… talk to me anyway!”

Chapter 43

After Argrave gave his somewhat insistent request that the Hopeful should speak, the unceasing tide of darkness coming from all portions of the man’s body waned somewhat. In particular, the writhing shadows near his face started to lessen, revealing a teeth-revealing smile. Argrave thought the pressure might lessen in intensity once his features were revealed, but the strain upon his fighting locusts of blood felt all the denser as the shadows pressed them harder.

Argrave opened his mouth to speak and said something. Yet… every word that left his mouth was lost to him. When the Hopeful responded, he was only confused.

“You say that, yet you come here fighting so desperately against this realm that I have carved out to spare our kind the endless hunger.” His voice was the same affectless drone that all others possessed, yet that only made it seem all the more frightening. His lips never met, and he never ceased smiling. “Why should you be allowed to persist?”

Argrave’s eyes felt like they were bulging out of his head. What had he said? Why couldn’t he remember saying it? He certainly remembered talking, but the words that were spoken had been lost to him. He couldn’t even remember the question as it had been formed inside his head.

“Argrave.” Anneliese placed her hand on his shoulder, and he spared a glance even as he worked constantly to fight against the Hopeful’s suppression. “I saw it all—he consumed the thought you voiced, prying it free of your mind. I don’t think he can control it. You said that you and he made natural allies, and that you should collaborate.”

Even amidst the dull ache of pain brought about by the locusts, Argrave felt a terrible chill assail him. The Hopeful had done more than hear his thought—it had taken it within itself, stealing it from Argrave and responding. If that were true, this being’s hunger was so deep it possessed a power equal to Gerechtigkeit or the gods.

“I’ll repeat your questions back to you,” Anneliese said, trying to keep her breathing steady. “But you need to tell me to repeat them back, because I’ve said it aloud and I’ll forget it.”

Argrave’s lips moved and air flowed out, forming words that were lost to his mind like a river flowing into the sea. Anneliese nodded insistently but said nothing, and he was able to rethink what he said—he told her just as she’d instructed him.

Argrave looked back to the smiling Hopeful, with new recognition he was dealing with a monstrous opposition. That didn’t necessarily mean it was an enemy. He spoke again, then…

“Your word of neutrality alone is not enough. Something more is required to assuage my fears enough to allow you free passage.” The Hopeful leaned closer. “You must allow me to eat a memory sufficient enough to prove your intent.”

He didn’t quite know what he’d said, but Argrave felt a sheer terror at the notion of giving this thing free access to his mind.

“You said we didn’t come here to antagonize the Shadowlanders, only to bypass them seeking out Traugott. Just like the so-called Manumitter disrupts the Shadowlands, he intends to use the Shadowlands to disrupt our realm,” Anneliese repeated, then wiped sweat from her brow.

Argrave spoke again.

“I would only need to touch you with my bare flesh,” responded the Hopeful.

“You asked what that process entailed,” Anneliese said.

Argrave was immediately on edge. It was clear this big fellow needed an equivalently big diet to sustain his gargantuan body. One doesn’t stay big if one doesn’t eat big, and this man was hungry enough that he ate the thoughts directly from Argrave’s head. If he’d known the final chapters of this journey of his would have so much mind-interfering stuff—be it Erlebnis, the Alchemist, or Lindon—he might’ve put more focus on it at the very beginning.

If the Hopeful did touch Argrave, and did begin extracting thoughts, it was quite obvious that there was a blunt imprecision to the whole process. Anneliese herself had said it didn’t seem like he could control it. He kept himself doused in these shadows of his own making, and they ate everything around with such a fervor that the whole realm that Anneliese and Argrave had carved out fell apart. He was the guy that all-you-could-eat buffets feared the most. He was the man that bankrupted lobster restaurants around the world.

All in all, Argrave rather liked his memories. He wasn’t entirely eager to offer them up on a silver platter. As his hands spawned locust after locust to eat away the impending darkness, he did wonder if he shouldn’t just turn the bloody firehoses toward the Hopeful. This was the Big Bad. But the Big Bad seldom travelled alone, and Argrave expected that, if he did, they would be beset upon by his lieutenants. And there wasn’t any guarantee of winning the fight against the Hopeful alone, given his display of prowess here today.

But… perhaps there was another way out of this. He had managed to dispel Lindon after the ancient Gilderwatcher entered his mind. This had been at his instruction and direction, granted, but Argrave’s blood magic was proving similarly effective against the shadows that the Hopeful created. With the Fruit of Being empowering him, there had to be some way he could guide the crude instrument that the Hopeful intended to employ to extract memories.

Argrave first imagined something extremely brutal—using blood magic on his brain. He moderated that idea by considering using simple healing magic that had been infused with blood. But time and experience had demonstrated that physical prevention wasn’t the solution. Memories were something deeper than the mind alone, at least on this side of reality. There was an aspect of the soul alongside the mind in what made memories and existence. The two examples of mind-melding he’d dealt with came to mind—Lindon and Raven.

When conversing with them, he had existed within his own mind. He was a little projection of himself inside his own head. Nevertheless, he’d been capable of doing very real things to both of them. He’d ejected Lindon from his psyche, and he’d conjured a gun and shot Raven. The latter was very strange to think about, but it had been done.

Perhaps he could do the same thing here. But before allowing the glutton into the buffet, he ought to give him some food samples. To that end, he needed to see if he could prevent the lesser thefts—that which came during conversation.

Argrave retreated into his wiki slightly as he formulated the next question. He made sure to ask something that was reasonable enough to not draw suspicion, but irrelevant enough it merely stalled for time. Then, he tried something.

“That doesn’t matter to me.”

“You asked why you’d risk your life to come here if you weren’t seeking Traugott, considering that you had nothing to gain and everything to lose by fighting them.”

A failure. Argrave asked another question. The Hopeful gave another answer, and Anneliese another recitation of his question. Again and again he tried, seeking out that sensation of retreating within the mind that had been so familiar with Lindon and Raven. He scoured Erlebnis’ wiki for further answers, incorporating its vast data into his own attempts.

Eventually, as Argrave began to ask a question… he could feel, as clear as day, a black hound lunging out at his mind. The image was so vivid he paused mid-word, but then he recovered. In his mind’s eye, he conjured forth a sword of blood magic, then continued speaking.

“How should I fight Traugott if I can’t remember what he’s like?” Argrave heard himself say, and felt a sense of immeasurable triumph as he killed the hound of hunger seeking to pry his thoughts away. “No—don’t answer that.” Anneliese was about to repeat his question, but Argrave interrupted her. “No need to repeat. I heard what I said.” She looked quite surprised.

“…you stayed my hunger,” said the Hopeful in surprise, that smile on his face not diminishing in the slightest. “How?”

“The same way I stay these shadows. My own blood,” said Argrave determinedly, fighting a three-front war—one of conversation, one of the encroaching shadows, and one in his mind, versus the hounds of hunger.

“You were testing me. Probing,” said the Hopeful. “An interesting outcome. But my answer remains unchanged. I must eat a memory you possess of Traugott to even consider the notion of allowing you freedom of passage.”

“That’s fine. More than fine. Better than fine. It’s amazing,” Argrave rambled, testing his might against these hounds that came charging to rip the thoughts out of his head. He could feel his vitality drain away as he did so, and knew he was genuinely using the power the Fruit of Being had bestowed upon him.

After a long while of rambling, during which the Hopeful watched on with that eerie smile, Argrave finally came to something.

“It’s clear to me that we have a little dilemma in our hands,” Argrave said, having some difficulty thinking quickly while the hounds hunted the thoughts in his head. “You possess overwhelming power. I imagine that Traugott is genuinely no match for you, if you came upon him. Yet… somehow, he possesses the ability to break the hierarchy of subordination you’ve created. So… so, you can’t approach him recklessly,” Argrave guessed.

The Hopeful said nothing.

“You need us to kill Traugott. We might be the only ones who can here in this realm without being broken free of the chains you use to bind. It’s clear you aren’t the type to inspire robust loyalty,” Argrave’s monotonous speech quickened as he grew more skilled at beating back the hounds. “Meanwhile, it’s clear to me that we can’t travel through this realm much further than what we’ve already carved with you and your lieutenants shadowing us.”

“Even understanding this nuance, the situation remains unchanged,” the Hopeful answered. “You are as large a risk as he to the hope I’ve built. But you, I can kill. You are an inconvenience.”

Argrave grit his teeth, looking at the locusts of his blood fight against the encroaching shadow. For now, it seemed like the Hopeful wasn’t wrong. And he wasn’t disguising his intent to kill them, long-term. Once their usefulness was expired, he was certain the Hopeful and the Shadowlanders under his thrall would turn hostile, seeking to eliminate another threat to their Hopeful peace.

Even despite all of that…

“I’ll let you take a memory of Traugott,” Argrave decided. “But that’s all that you’re taking. Be sure of that. Don’t get your hopes up that you’ll take more than you’re asking for.”

The Hopeful raised his hand. His index finger shed darkness, revealing the abyssal black skin all the Shadowlanders possessed. While his smile loomed large above, he slowly brought his finger forth.

“Very well. Let us see if you can endure the hunger that we all have for any amount of time, invader. If you can, you will have earned a small amount of my respect. Only with the shadows embracing me can I cope with my hunger. And you… you’ll experience the hunger as I do. As we all do. Let it have new flesh to sup upon.”

As the gargantuan finger neared, Argrave felt his field of vision narrow, darken. Before long, it was all that existed—it was as if he and the Hopeful, that towering figure, existed alone in an endless void. And then Argrave was in his mind as himself. Behind him stood his memories—mostly whole, with some minor technical issues patched up with Raven tape. And in front of him…

The black hounds of hunger ran across the hills of his mindscape. White saliva spilled from their mouth as they saw a meal. Black malignance shined in their eyes. Pain reflected in their actions—pain brought about by starvation that could only be remedied by tearing into the juicy prey in front of them. These black hounds that seemed to come from hell stampeded across Argrave’s mindscape…

And Argrave stood alone, bloody sword in hand, ready to beat them all back. He reached behind himself, grabbing a throwaway memory of Traugott. He pulled it free, and it plucked free of his mind like a strand of cotton candy. He held it out like bait, grinning like a fool.

“This is all you’re getting!” Argrave shouted. “Be good boys, and you might get a treat.”

Chapter 44

As Argrave felt the stampede of the hounds of hunger come ever closer, it felt as though he was witnessed a stampede of wildebeests charging at him. Predators seldom worked in herds, but these cooperated to sate the hunger eating them from within. He began to see these blackened, indistinguishable creatures as hyenas—and like that, the image crystallized.

In his mind’s eye, color returned to this blackened world as a vast savanna took shape. Golden grass sprouted from the flat ground, and the black hyena-like hounds dodged the sparing few trees that disturbed the endless flatness. He was a lone hunter facing a riled stampede, and behind him, he had to protect the village of his mind. He sent out his blood echoes, preparing to rain hellish spells down upon them, until he thought of something.

He had never truly faced any fight alone, had he?

Then, manifesting his mind’s thoughts, his blood echoes became imitations of his closest allies. Anneliese, Elenore, Orion, Galamon, Durran, Melanie, the houses of Parbon and Monticci… all his echoes manifested as these people, taking up arms like it was natural to do so. Steeled by this, Argrave was able to step forward, all of his power at hand.

Orion rushed forth toward the hounds, confronting them with his brutal strength and insurmountable will. Galamon loosed steady arrows to catch those that broke away from the herd—then, at his command, Argrave’s royal guard erupted into the flank of the coming hounds, punching a great hole into the stampeding horde. Durran soared on his wyvern, casting S-rank spells that burnt away great sections of the hound army. Melanie and the noble houses coordinated closely to create skirmishes that brooked no retaliation.

As for Argrave and Anneliese… as they were in the Shadowlands versus its denizens, so too were they versus these hounds of hunger. His bloody magic raged against the tide, conjuring all manner of spells he knew and simultaneously inventing some with his imagination on the spot. She reenergized him with her brilliant white scepter forged of Veid’s heart, but was also a force unto herself. She carried herself with the same ferocity as she had in the battle against the tephramancers that earned her the alias Stormdancer.

Then, a voice cut into his head (despite the fact he was already in his head). Elenore told him, “Argrave. I’ve prepared a trap for our enemies. Have everyone fall back, following you so as to avoid the dangerous locations.”

Argrave ceased his relentless disassembly of the enemy, got some distance, and looked back. His mind filled in what would be there—beyond the savanna, there was the jungle. He could see his mind formulating the dense rainforests in real time. He’d never born witness to them, so they were surely altogether infinitely more foreboding than such places actually were.

He saw Elenore, aback Vasquer, head deep into the rainforests. Her words pierced his skull, guiding him. He echoed them to his allies, and they followed the safe path through the jungle. Galamon’s Veidimen covered their retreat, and they headed far into the jungle with their pursuers hot on their tail. But Argrave—a native to the jungle of his mind—walked unimpeded, rapidly making his way through. The hounds of hunger, meanwhile…

Argrave heard an explosion behind. When he looked back, he saw a fragmentation mine explode, tearing dozens of the hounds of hunger and the surrounded trees to bits. These mines continued to violently explode. Alongside it came artillery. Heavy bombardments of shells broke past the canopy, blowing the dogs to bits.

Realizing his uninspired American mind had conjured what little he knew of Vietnam as Elenore’s trap, Argrave continued back to their camp within the jungle. As he walked forward, his companions passed by him. They wore excellent camouflage and military gear, bringing with them rifles and grenades all with a peculiar logo—ARTUR. Then, Argrave heard a terrible noise, and whipped his head.

Huge machines bore through the rainforest. They were tanks, but not tanks as Argrave knew them. Instead, they looked to be made in the same fashion that the golems Dario had made were. Argrave could see enchantments shining along their surface, and even spotted golem cores powering them.  Instead of a cannon, they had strange mounted machine guns that took strips of ballista as ammunition.

These semi-modern instruments of war descended upon the coming hounds of hunger who’d just managed to brute-force their way past the mines. Now, gunfire, grenades, and ballistae shot from tanks rained down upon these vicious characterizations of the Shadowland’s endless hunger. Each of these weapons were born from Argrave’s blood, and they chewed through the opposition like nothing else. The battle was one-sided, yet it could be said their enemies were without an end.

Argrave felt his hair whip in the wind as something started to descend upon them. Looking up, he saw a helicopter coming to a stop, its blades slowing losing intensity even as the mounted machine gun continued to fire upon the hounds. Orion—in heavy-duty modern military gear, with a large rifle—jumped out of the chopper, then ran toward Argrave. Instead of his usual long hair and bushy beard, he had a very military haircut.

“Mr. President,” Orion shouted above the whirring of the helicopter. “We’re here to extract you.”

Argrave followed along with him, entering into the helicopter where the head of his secret service—Galamon—took him into safety. As the chopper lifted off, he saw Anneliese rush into a throng of hounds bearing a flamethrower, burning everything in front of her to bits with a blood-magic imbued flame. The blades gained enough momentum to take them off the ground yet when the door shut… it became a plane. A very high-class plane, so high in the sky they were almost in orbit.

“Mr. President.” Elenore sat in front of Argrave on his presidential private jet. “Llewellen has completed the Blackgard Project. If you give the go-ahead, we can drop the blood bomb.”

Argrave looked outside of the plane window. Only from here did he see the true scale of the Hopeful’s hunger. Far more than a herd, far more than a stampede—it was an entire universe of suffering unending.

“Drop the bomb,” Argrave declared.

Durran flew above their plane in a fighter wyvern, the thing clutching a stone imbued with Argrave’s blood magic. After moving miles away from them, the blood bomp dropped from its hand, falling delicately… then combusted with such ferocity he never even saw it burst. A brilliant blood red mushroom cloud of fire erupted into the air, vaporizing the hounds of hunger by the billions.

“President Prime Minster Supreme,” said Melanie, and Argrave turned his head. “The leader of the hunger has contacted us. He’d like to forge a peace.”

“Let’s meet,” Argrave decided.

The plane touched down, its engines slowly coming to a stop. Argrave walked down those majestic airplane stairs, and reporters snapped pictures of him as he descended. Galamon’s secret service herded them away forcefully. At the bottom of the stairs, a hound of hunger in a business-like suit stood waiting.

Argrave held a briefcase out. “If you can take this as a peace offering… we can put all of this behind us.”

The hound in a suit opened the briefcase. Within was the memory of Traugott that Argrave had plucked free. The dog shut the briefcase, then barked.

Argrave held out his hand. “Good boy. Give me your hand.”

The dog obediently performed the trick, and they shook hands. Then, Argrave gave him the treat; the briefcase. With it, the hound of hunger departed, not quite satisfied, but… cowed. And then…

***

Argrave opened his eyes just in time to see the Hopeful stagger away, falling back upon a mesa for support. He couldn’t deny he felt some extreme whiplash coming from that vibrant and ridiculous mindscape to this dreary, gray world. He again felt the pressure of the bearing shadows, but… it was only for a second.

He blinked, coming to terms with the fact his mind concocted a blood-nuke to bomb the hounds of hunger. He’d also made peace with the prime minister of hunger, who he’d had perform a doggy trick to get the memory the Hopeful been seeking from him. Argrave strongly considered there was something fundamentally wrong about his brain, but… he had won. He had fought back the hunger.

“Argrave. Did it… I mean, how much was lost? You look embarrassed, but…” Anneliese began uncertainly. It was unpleasant to hear her voice lose the dynamism it had in his mindscape.

“I’m fine. I didn’t lose anything, actually, except perhaps some self-respect. But him…”

All of them studied the Hopeful, who still leaned up against the mesa as if he couldn’t stand without it. The pressure of the darkness slowly waned until it wasn’t pressing down upon them so fiercely, so inexorably. Argrave did wonder if he hadn’t taken it too far, done some serious damage to this gargantuan fellow.

“…your world is sick and twisted,” said the Hopeful, straightening himself. “It is a world already amply damaged by the hunger I carry. Perhaps it was imprudent of me to assume so much about what burden you could handle.”

Argrave frowned at his judgmental tone. “That was self-defense,” he pointed out. “Nobody asked you to pursue us into the jungle. But enough of that. I assume you’re satisfied?”

Argrave couldn’t even remember what memory he had surrendered. But the Hopeful gave a certain nod, that fake teethy smile still across his face.

“My people will no longer impede your search. One of my own shall take you to Traugott.”

Argrave smiled. “Brilliant.”

It was rather wonderful what nukes could do for the diplomatic situation.

Chapter 45

“How were you actually born?” Anneliese asked the horseman on his steed of shadows as they walked through the lifeless Shadowlands.

Other than some mutterings between the ancient heroes—some of whom had become fast friends, after putting aside their desire to genocide the other—Anneliese’s incessant questions to their escort Shadowlander was the only sound permeating this endless dreary place. She was asking questions that Argrave himself wanted the answers to as they charted their course and remade this realm without further intervention.

“I don’t know how I was born,” the rider responded, trudging his steed across the mesas.

He created bridges of shadows to span the gaps between the separate grassy plateaus, allowing everyone present to walk freely toward where the so-called Manumitter awaited. It was there where Argrave would undoubtedly be used as a cudgel against Traugott, to be discarded when the time was right. Though he listened to the exchanges between Anneliese and the black knight, he also formulated ideas for how they could emerge from this all on top.

“You simply came to be, as you are now?” Anneliese pressed.

“No. We are all born as the creatures that you fought against—the lowest of the low. They are the detritus that is expelled upon your world when the Hopeful makes his millennial bargain with the Hopeless. Within our hierarchy, we fight ever upward. When a lesser defeats his better, they are promoted. This brutality maintains the iron will needed to resist the hunger, should the darkness ever fade away.”

They had already established that the Hopeless was Gerechtigkeit, yet this talk of bargains brought Argrave pause.

Anneliese asked the question in Argrave’s head. “Gerechtigkeit—the Hopeless—makes a bargain with your leader?”

“Yes. In exchange for releasing some of this millennia’s detritus—those who could not advance to a higher status in the one thousand years—the Hopeless gives the Hopeful the power to reassert his authority and bring new life into our abyssal realm. We possess a cycle, too. Ours is one where only the greatest rise upward, perpetually. This is all in preparation for the Final Fight, where we will do battle with the hounds of hunger and banish them from our bodies. We need only the best of the best when that day finally comes.”

Argrave agreed with an earlier statement: this was brutal. All of those people that they’d slain here were competing amongst each other to rise higher. Those that didn’t win the struggle were released upon Argrave’s world, where they were exposed to their hunger. Argrave had felt the hounds of hunger. It was only with the Fruit of Being allowing him to ward it away that he’d been able to suppress them. That, and his absurd mind.

Anneliese sounded fascinated as she inquired, “But where does this new life come from?”

“Only the Hopeful and his lieutenants are privy to that information.” A bridge of darkness stemmed out from the rider’s feet, and their party began to cross a valley.

“You’re being awfully forthcoming about that information,” the Rose’s founder, Bhaltair, commented.

“Any information could help you. You’re already dead. Your point of entry will be watched by the Hopeful himself, stopping any escape,” he answered simply. “And you released me.”

Argrave studied him. “You can feel gratitude?”

The rider stopped. Argrave did, too, half a step after. By the time Argrave was going to ask what was wrong, the rider resumed his route. “I must return to the shadows. I need updates on where the Manumitter hides. Continue to progress where I run to, and expect my return shortly.”

With that, the rider ran off ahead, and everyone obeyed his words and followed after while remaining cautious so they wouldn’t be ambushed. Argrave, meanwhile, wondered if their escort meant what he said, or if Argrave’s question of gratitude had scared away the man for some reason. He dismissed the thought, failing to see its relevance.

“I imagine you heard what he said?” Argrave asked Anneliese.

“He said quite a bit,” she pointed out.

Felipe I had the same thought Argrave did, and spoke up. “The Hopeful is going to be watching the point that we came in from. That monster… no disrespect to Argrave’s power—none of us could do a damn thing, after all—but even that monstrous [Apollyon] spell could barely suppress the darkness that thing emitted. I don’t have the highest of hopes about going through him once we’re no longer useful and need to escape.”

“Escape is different than a straight-out fight,” Argrave consoled. “And if you’ll remember, that thing staggered away from me in terror after I showed him the horrors I went through back in ‘Nam.”

“All I saw was a smile that never faded,” Emperor Balzat countered, completely ignorant of the joke Argrave was making—it was hard to show sarcasm in one’s voice when everyone was forced to use a monotonous voice not so dissimilar from some terrible text-to-speech programs.

Ghislain reasoned, “Traugott, for whatever reason, is attempting to manumit those the Hopeful has subjugated. That—”

“The hell does manumit even mean?” Aurore interrupted.

“Release from slavery,” the former Great Chu emperor said. From what Argrave knew, he had outlawed such a thing in his empire—it made sense that he would know.

Ghislain cleared his throat, then continued. “Given that Traugott is manumitting some of the Shadowlanders here, and he’s enough of a threat that that the tyrannical Hopeful would give us freedom in this empire he so zealously guards… there may be opportunity here amongst those freedom fighters he leads.”

“No. God no,” Argrave disagreed as vehemently as he could—he sounded neutral even in anger. “I’m not working alongside that damned snake. The moment that I lay eyes on his smug face, I’m using [Apollyon], and I’m ending his damnable life. He’s not going to live for another second the next time I lay eyes on him.”

“You’re wrong,” Anneliese disagreed. “I’m going to kill him, I’m afraid, long before you even cast a spell.”

Argrave was taken aback by her competitive confidence and only laughed.

“Whether he lives or dies, I think Ghislain is right,” the Archchief agreed—and Argrave knew he was being genuine, considering how much that the southern tribals hated the southron elves. “Traugott’s built a foundational movement that’s enough of a threat to the Hopeful’s regime that he sends us forth. Therein lies our opportunity to break his advantage. If possible, we should find a way to harness their burgeoning force to make our own escape.”

Argrave grunted in displeasure, but he couldn’t deny the good sense of the suggestion. The alternative was fighting the Hopeful and all of his lieutenants in open combat. The idea was immensely nauseating, even after Argrave had shown him the horrors of ‘Nam.

“Alright. We’ll act with discretion,” Argrave agreed. “But I don’t retract what I said. Traugott’s existence is too much of a threat to let him walk free for even a second after we get our kill shot.”

Anneliese nodded in agreement, then looked ahead. “Our escort is taking his time, is he not?”

***

The rider basked in the shadows and the abyss, reveling in the sense of nothingness that it gave him after his time enduring the harrowing hunger of the changed realm that Argrave had created. It took immense willpower to not become a mindless beast before the hounds of hunger, as those that were lesser than him so often became. That which Argrave and Anneliese created subjected him to the hunger the Hopeful spared them from.

The rider was not loyal due to the bonds of servitude alone. Protection from the hunger was immensely important to him. Before the hounds, he felt lesser—a shell of himself. It took immense willpower not to devolve into a slobbering beast, like those he commanded. Yet… even still, he couldn’t deny something that the human had pointed out to him. He’d felt gratitude. Gratitude.

When Argrave had pointed out he felt gratitude, he knew immediately why their reconstructed Shadowlands had felt so wrong yet so intoxicating. It brought with it more than light, more than sight and sound and smell. It brought with it other aspects of life that the rider had so long ago forgotten. Yet… this sense of forgetfulness… it said so much, yet too little. What had been forgotten? What was the rider remembering?

All of these strange sentiments only reinforced what he knew—the Manumitter, Argrave… both needed to die, right alongside the company they kept. This heresy had to be purged with a steady hand, and the Shadowlands had to become black once again. No other outcome could be tolerated. Dreams of liberation were just that—fanciful conjurations by those stepping out of the comforting purity of the darkness.

With his resolve reforged in the chill of the abyss, the rider felt it a fitting time to rejoin those he’d left. He would not again let trifling sentiments interfere with the purity of his servitude. Such things as gratitude were fostered by malignant presences that undermined the Hopeful’s Grand Dream. He trusted in the plan their master had laid out.

Not because he had to—because he wanted to. Without a doubt…

***

Orion stared at the sleeping adopted princess. Elenore stroked Sophia’s hair gently, then pulled up the covers of her blanket and left her there. Then, she walked out, shutting the door.

“You will be a good mother,” he told her.

Elenore stiffened, hearing that. “Pregnancy sounds inconvenient.”

Orion smiled. “I’m pleased you don’t deny it.”

Elenore shook her head, but then looked up at him. “What’s with you? You’ve been awfully reticent, awfully withdrawn. Is it still Vasquer?”

“No, it isn’t Vasquer.” He studied her with his gray eyes. “I never thought the day would come when you would express concern for me. It’s very pleasant.”

“Don’t make me regret it by saying ridiculous things,” she chastised. “What’s wrong, then?”

“I’ve had a feeling budding within. It’s only grown stronger since Argrave left.” Orion shook his head, then looked up to the stars. “I believe my time is coming.”

“What the hell nonsense are you spouting?” Elenore crossed her arms. “Is this about that Fruit of Being? Even without the damned thing, nothing’s ever gotten close to putting you out of our misery before. Stop being ridiculous. You’re in the heart of Blackgard, with gods and the best spellcasters the world over watching over it.”

“All I know is what I feel.” Orion looked at her. “And I feel that death is coming. My intuition is never wrong.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Shame that same intuition couldn’t lead you to the conclusion our father deserved to die before he crippled me.”

“I apologize, Elenore.” Orion dipped his head.

She planted her hand on his forehead to stop him from bowing. “No, no… I didn’t want you to apologize, damn it. I… I shouldn’t keep bringing that up.” She sighed in defeat, almost ashamed of herself. “Listen. I’m better at predicting these things than you, and I’m saying the probability of your death is incredibly low. The only way I see you dying is by doing something stupid. So—whatever comes, if anything… don’t do something stupid. Death can come, for all I care. Just step out of its damn way.”

“And if doing so ends in your death?” He gestured at the door. “In Sophia’s death?”

Elenore shook her head. “And what if a meteor crashed from the heavens and killed us all? Hypotheticals do nothing for us. Just… just act smart, Orion. Despite our differences, I no longer want you to die. I may go so far as to say that I’d like you to live a long time. I rarely hold such sentiments, but there it is.”

“That is heartening.” He nodded solemnly. “I will not compromise. But I will try and think.”

“I know thinking is hard for you, but that’s all I ask.” She smiled mischievously. “Look after Sophia. I have some work to do before I sleep.”

“I will.” Orion bowed his head. “Take care.”

“You as well,” she managed to say kindly, with some effort.

Chapter 46

Seven days passed after Argrave and his entourage entered into the Shadowlands, and a feeling of unease over all who knew this fact. But unease was something that could be overcome, and overcome it they did. The research team—now headed by Llewellen—marched boldly onward, progressing magic in a period of seven days more than had been done in several decades. Illusion magic, itself an incredibly young field, advanced in countless ways. Druidic magic, too, spread far beyond its source in the Veidimen, disseminating throughout the spellcasters of the world.

But on the eleventh day, there was finally some breakthrough into their target: psychic magic. As Llewellen had hypothesized, it came not in the form of illusion magic but druidic magic. The secret to it came from prodding into how druidic magic differentiated between something of lesser life—like plants, grass, trees, et cetera—and higher beings. Specifically, a spellcaster of the Great Chu managed to translate a spell that affected creatures of lesser intelligence into something that could affect that with higher intelligence. The first attempt was nothing more than a humble D-rank druidic spell that encouraged creatures to approach: [Beckon].

Yet with some significant modifications that made it far more complex and magic-intensive… it proved to function on humanoids.

Its first instance of function set an uproar throughout the entire research team. It had been used on a non-magically inclined individual, and did its task without leaving any sign of damage on its victim. When it was tested on people attuned with magic, a collective sigh of relief was breathed when they discovered that, like illusion magic, it could be resisted by those of higher rank in the magical world. Still, Llewellen cautioned them all that such a thing hardly exempted them from the influence of a greater force like Gerechtigkeit.

The realization that druidic magic could be transformed in such a way not only put ever more attention on the field of study, but also led to a fundamental reevaluation of what it was. If it was capable of affecting intelligent species like men or elves rather than unintelligent creatures alone, its label as ‘druidic’ didn’t suffice. It pertained to a more fundamental force—thus, it quickly turned from being called druidic magic to being called soul magic.

Though some Veidimen were displeased at the name change, that was quickly abated when they were recognized by all as the foundation for this new field. Their centuries of study for how the magic functioned in animals was called upon to relate that knowledge to mortalkind. Rowe, with his inherited generation of study, became the de facto authority in the team. Though some found his arrogance at his new importance a little troubling, none could deny the total mastery the aged snow elf had over his field. He had even tamed one of the indomitable dragons of the world, who themselves were known to have intelligence similar to mortalkind.

A great many rules and dictates of the magic were revealed, but many gravitated toward the simplest solution—and rightfully so. If an animal already had a druidic bond with someone else, it could not gain another. The principle thus arose that, to defend the soul from soul magic, one must either have their soul bound to another, or bind their soul to themselves.

As higher-ranked druidic spells were translated, that first theory was finally confirmed. Another well-paid non-magically inclined human guinea pig was bound to another, whereupon another caster attempted to exert control over his mind. It failed, utterly. Meanwhile, everyone was greatly unsettled by the slave-like state the victims of soul magic fell into immediately. On the bright side, as with druidic magic, the bond between souls was such that the caster felt an affinity with the person, and found it difficult to hurt them. That almost made it worse, in the eyes of most present—such a relationship could become a twisted possessiveness the likes of which would easily be the subject of poetic tragedies.

Elenore was incredibly thorough in keeping all of this under wraps. All involved were escorted by soldiers of the royal army, because rumors of this research spreading beyond its confines could be disastrous. The notion of this deprivation of free will was immensely unsettling, even to her. It took a great deal of skill to cast these spells, and they could be resisted by magic users, yet that was just the problem. It presented an opportunity for spellcasters to become dictators that could seize the very souls of their subjects. 

At once, Artur was called upon to implement a solution that could be distributed for normal people. His Hall of Enchantment was virtually nationalized in that Elenore was very controlling over this project. Artur chafed at first, but once he knew what he was dealing with, cooperated with Elenore. His only request was as it usually was—money and recognition, and much of them both. Elenore obliged in excess.

As quickly as it had been discovered, soul magic was worked to be suppressed. The goal of Artur’s project was simple—create an object that extended to the wearer the protections of being soul-bound. Ideally, it would bind the user’s soul to itself. The theory was that such a thing would create a closed loop, in essence, tying off any mental interference.

For three days and three nights, in close concert with the research team, the Hall of Enchantment ironed out prototypes and empowered enchantments. An ‘outside specialist’ was called in—Raven—to test the effectiveness of their procedures. With his unique constitution, he was suited to testing out whether or not this closed-looped system actually had any effect in preventing his meddling with their mind.

Results seemed discouraging at first. Initially, all attempts at creating a closed-loop bond failed. Additionally, Raven was able to interfere with the minds of those who had been soul-bound by another. With two major setbacks, some thought that all of their research had been invalidated. Llewellen, however, was not convinced.

Boldly subjecting himself to Raven’s mind-meddling for an entire twenty-four hours, Llewellen wrote extensive notes on the relation between the physical mind and the soul as he experienced it. He collaborated closely with Raven, even refusing visits from Onychinusa. Eventually, that forced her to get involved to visit with him. Her similarly unique constitution that was capable of vanishing into magic while retaining her thoughts and memories proved immensely valuable for finalizing his research.

On the sixteenth day, Llewellen withdrew from everyone, escaping even his guards (to Elenore’s panic). He showed up the next day bearing a theory he called the Formless Protocol, and in it, theorized about the function of the mind in relation to the laws of magic. Its ingenuity swept through the research team like fire through dry grass, setting their fervor aflame again.

After an exhausting session wherein the research team and the Hall of Enchantment worked tirelessly, it all seemed to come together like fitting in that final piece to a puzzle. A system to prevent Raven’s mental interference was discovered, effectively warding the soul from all mental interference. Within hours of this, Artur’s Hall of Enchantment created an enchanted ring bearing the spell that had been invented.

Everyone watched with bated breath as it was tested on the non-magically inclined victim. First, soul magic. The ring was worn, and then… it resisted the caster’s soul magic. A cheer spread through the team, but Llewellen and Artur were unanimous in silencing them as Raven stepped forth. People regarded the hulking giant with fearful deference, seeing well the vast reservoirs of magic bursting out of his body. He sunk his fingers into the victim’s head, then went silent for a few moments.

One could hear a pin drop as Raven made his evaluations. Then, he pulled free his hand, looking around.

“It worked,” he told them.

All of them erupted into exuberance.

***

Orion looked at the ring on his finger. Apparently, this could ward away mental attacks. The research team wasn’t fully disbanded as they considered more options, but this was the main product of their continual research into the subject of mental magic. It had not been as fast as he had expected from his conversation with Llewellen, yet not as slow as he had feared.

In the coming days, this ring would be mass-produced and distributed broadly, starting with the most important elements of the state all the way down to the common people. The spellcasters had such confidence in the items that they insisted to be among the first to receive the artifacts. Orion desperately hoped it did work.

Meanwhile, Orion’s feeling of impending doom had not faded in the slightest. Rather, it was magnifying far more rapidly. After his conversation with Elenore, he had told no one else. He also hadn’t updated her on the matter. She had her concerns, but this was his fate. He could not deny his fate, could not fight against it. Fate was inexorable. His punishment for his misdeeds was inevitable. It was only the way of the world.

For now, he merely guarded Sophia, sitting out front of her room while Vasilisa watched the inside.

He basked in the feeling of impending doom. It felt rather like he had become the bottom half of an hourglass. Above him, the sands of death slowly buried his consciousness. The sand kept falling at a steady pace, but it was not infinite. At some point, it would run out. At some point… the sands would stop.

As if by providence, Orion felt a terrible swell in his chest as the final grain of the sands of his time fell. If he was right, that meant his time had come. He touched his chest in alarm, but hardened his face. Meanwhile, the door in front of him opened, and Sophia ran out. Vasilisa hurried after her as the small girl fell to her knees in her sleeping clothes, breathing heavily.

“What’s wrong, Sophia?!” Vasilisa fell to her side, mothering intensely. “What’s wrong? Tell me!”

“The night… is here,” she said, barely able to catch her breath.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Vasilisa supported her delicately. “Come on, sweetie. Breathe deep. Calm down.”

Orion walked to her and knelt just alongside Vasilisa. Seeing him, Sophia reached out and gripped his armored leg.

“The night is here,” she repeated urgently.

“Yes, honey. It’s nighttime,” Vasilisa soothed. “It’s okay. You’re safe. We’re all here.”

“No! We’re not safe! He’s coming!” She insisted. “The knight!”

Orion realized what she’d been saying—knight, rather than night. It hardened that feeling he possessed not moments ago.

The sands of the hourglass had all reached the bottom. With it, death approached.

Orion stood, ready to face the punishment he deserved. He clenched his gauntleted fists tightly. As if responding to his resolve, there was a deep rumble in the ground. Moments later, Raven appeared beside Orion, teleporting urgently.

“I felt a great surge of power beneath the earth, where the Gilderwatchers had convened. Something is coming. Everyone must be alerted.”

“I know.” Orion smiled sadly. “And I am ready for it.”

Chapter 47

Elenore entered into Hause’s temple, escorting Sophia urgently yet gently. After Argrave’s fight with the Castellan of the Empty, this place had been rebuilt to be one of the strongest fortifications within Blackgard, acting as something of a bunker within the city. She felt a little terrified, but she held strong with Sophia to steel her resolve.

“The first wave of combatants sent after him have fallen,” she heard, Durran’s voice piercing her head. “It’s… it’s looking to be a difficult fight. I haven’t felt this since…”

“Since when, Durran?” she asked, trying to stay calm.

“Be safe,” he told her. “I’m going to be dedicating all of my attention to this.”

The connection ended. Elenore bit her lip when he told her to be safe, thinking that he was the one who deserved to heed those words. She looked to her left, where Vasilisa stood.

“Can you take care of Sophia? I need to coordinate things on my end with various figures.”

Vasilisa nodded intently, taking the cooperative Sophia deeper into the temple. Elenore wouldn’t be of any help when it came to protecting Sophia. Apparently, Sophia had reacted rather strongly to this attack. Now, she was mute sadness, like she expected some tragedy. To be truthful… Sophia wasn’t alone in feeling this.

All that she could think of was what Orion said. His talk about death coming for him—it bothered her the most. Durran was many things, but a sacrificial fool was not one of them. She trusted her husband would take care of himself. Orion, though… his idealized goals came long before self-preservation. She paced around the temple, knowing that she should contact others but lacking the focus amidst the whirlwind of her brain.

“What’s wrong, Princess Elenore?” She looked, and there Hause, goddess of potential, stood waiting with concern. “Can I do anything more to help than offering shelter?”

“No. No, you’re doing plenty.” Elenore shook her head quickly. “I just need to get my head in order.”

“I am capable of helping with that, too.”

Elenore took a deep breath, making sure no one else was around. “I simply have a deep feeling that something will go horribly wrong. Someone who’s usually right predicted as much.”

“Really?” Hause tilted her head, then walked in front of her. “Then it is truly nothing to worry about. Predictions are largely meaningless.”

“What?” Elenore narrowed her eyes. “False comforts don’t work on me.”

Hause shook her head. “No one has ever accurately predicted the future. I have seen beings with the potential of universes within them be snuffed out early. I have seen those with no innate potential rise to be the most powerful person in the world, for a time. If the future was predetermined, there would be no reason in playing out the present.”

Elenore closed her eyes, letting those soothing words reinforce her preconceived notions. Hause was right—Orion, regardless of what his intuition said, was no fortune teller. He was only a man, changed as he might’ve been by the false pantheon of Vasquer.

“Fate is a lie,” Elenore said with a nod. “Thank you for the reminder. Now… I believe it’s well past time for me to be master of the battlefield.”

Elenore walked over to a nearby bench placed in the serene temple, then sat. She was acutely aware of the pouch in her dress’ pocket—a pouch that contained a single golden fruit capable of changing the shape of everything. Though she seldom employed it, one of Lira’s blessings allowed her to transport small items over long distances. With proper coordination… surely, this trial could be overcome. And in coordination, Elenore of Vasquer was unmatched.

***

Vasilisa set Sophia down on the bed. This little girl—Argrave’s niece, officially, but she had red eyes and a strange power that made her question that fact. But there was no questioning she deserved to be called princess. Few were as gracious and kind as her, nor as unwavering in the face of adversity. She never strayed from a challenge, healing all those that she could.

But now… that indomitable little girl was trembling like a newborn in cold air.

Vasilisa had raised her younger nieces on her own, so she was well used to taking care of children. She didn’t like being sober, but it was in the presence of children that she was able to muster up the will to do it. Hence, she called upon that familiar protective drive as she knelt before the little girl.

“What’s wrong, Sophia?” Vasilisa brushed away some of her black hair. “Speak to me. It’s all going to be right, but it could be all right faster if you let me inside of your head.”

Sophia whispered, “I can’t stop it. I can’t stop it, auntie Vass.”

“You don’t need to stop it.” Vasilisa shook her head. “That’s what all the others are for. Whatever you think is coming—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I could stop it. I could go outside, and let him take me away. But… but I don’t want to go. I want to stay here. I want to stay with Anne and Argrave, and you, and Elenore, and uncle Orion…” She started to brush away tears. “But… I can’t do it.”

“Who is coming?” Vasilisa asked. “How do you know any of this?”

Sophia faced ahead. “The perfect knight. The one that no one can defeat. The one that never gives up, no matter the adversity. He’s coming to take me away, like I always wished… but now, I don’t want to leave.”

Vasilisa stared skeptically, wondering if this was merely the young girl’s paranoia or if there was some truth to it. She wasn’t entirely in the know… but she knew that Sophia was a subject of extreme concern to the king. And she knew that she needed to be protected, above all.

“Listen.” She grabbed Sophia’s shoulder. “Fuc—forget knights, princess. Having met everyone you have, who serves underneath Argrave… do you really thing that one knight could break past them all? It’s going to be fine.”

Vasilisa gave the girl a hug, and then looked around the area. If whatever was coming came for Sophia… she certainly wouldn’t give up without a fight.

***

A lone silver-armored knight walked along the river that led into the mountains outside Blackgard. He wore brilliant plate armor covered with an immaculate white surcoat. A greathelm with two rising horns that were adorned with brilliant red feathers concealed his face. He carried in his right hand a gleaming silver shield, and in his left a blade that seemed to shine with white sunlight itself.

All that was behind this knight was utter carnage. As he came, the bombardment of all the S-rank spellcasters gathered in Blackgard assailed this foe. In simple, efficient movements, he received every attack that came all with the same unassailability, like no attack truly had any bearing on him. His shield never faltered, never showed any sign of weakness. And then, whenever he swung his left hand…

The silver knight’s sword became light incarnate. It amplified his quick attacks a hundred—perhaps a thousandfold, as the light teaming within the blade projected out to enact his power. The landscape itself was transformed by his attacks. The mountains of Blackgard were barely spared by protective enchantments established around its outskirts. Defenders miles away perished in one quick slash.

Orion stood on the opposite end of that field, his own sword and shield held tightly in hand. His golden armor and black surcoat bearing Vasquer’s heraldry was at its best, personally enhanced by Artur to focus his strengths. His sword, a divine artifact enhanced by dwarven metal, could endure his tremendous strength without breaking indefinitely—and his similarly-crafted shield could hold its own against S-rank spells, easily. All around him stood the most powerful spellcasters in the world. Above, Durran, changed by the Fruit of Being, rode his wyvern, waiting for opportunity. Behind, Elenore called forth the gods of the Blackgard Union to honor their defense pact. Rook had already arrived—Law was soon to come.

But in that knight ahead, walking so steadily forth… Orion felt he saw a mirror. He saw a steady, righteous gait that would not falter no matter what obstacle arose. He saw no fear of death as attacks from the grandest in the world came to assail him, and no hesitation as the knight returned death in kind. In this knight, he saw the same man that had walked forth to fight the Plague Jester, all those years ago.

Like all mirrors, Orion’s own reflection revealed his inadequacies.

A man of equal temperament, yet superior strength? It was no wonder that this was to be his death. Confronting it so squarely, he could feel his hands trembling, and a feeling in the gut that was rather unfamiliar to him. He had heard it described enough to know what it was: fear. He had not felt fear fighting the Castellan of the Empty, nor the Plague Jester, nor storming the Palace of Heaven at Argrave’s side. Now, though, he feared his foe.

Perhaps it was because he had reason to fear. He had a wife whose presence he enjoyed. His mother was finally showing signs of breaking the hold of her mental illness. His whole family was in harmony. They were at the cusp of undoing that which never before had even been approached. Falling here, today, might mean that all would be lost. And if it was not lost… Orion would not be around to bear witness.

Rook appeared on the field, attacking his foe from afar with his possessed knives. They flew about the silver-armored knight like a petal swarm, but the knight swung his shield with force enough to generate a gale that banished every attacking projectile. The god himself leapt forward to attack, but Rook was blocked, and soon the knight countered. His blow cleaved another great gash in the landscape, and Rook only barely avoided serious injury.

Orion could feel the tremors of power made by his foe, and feel the wind stirred by his every attack. In the midst of his rising fear, Elenore’s words came to mind.

“Death can come, for all I care. Just step out of its damn way.”

Retreat flashed through his head, and his brain seized upon that, applying all manner of logical justification for why he was able to run, and why it would be the best outcome. But in the midst of all that… he gripped his shield and sword tightly, and stared through the slits of his helmet at the approaching knight.

Orion was the knight-commander of the Kingdom of Vasquer. Even in the face of fear, this was his duty. Bravery could not exist without the presence of fear—and for the first time, Orion walked forth bravely. He shouted a war cry as he crossed the field, shield held forward with sword held out.

The silver knight saw his approach, and swung its sword. Its attacks, though powerful, were not supernaturally fast—rather, it was the blade itself that amplified its power. Orion expertly dodged as a gash of ungodly white light tore apart the earth he’d been standing seconds before. The knight swung again, and again he dodged, coming ever closer. The solid plain became a crumbling sand dune all around in moments.

From his position on high, the knight took a steady step toward Orion and thrusted. The speed of the attack was unlike any previous blows, and Orion didn’t dodge fully—instead, he received some small portion of it with his shield. It held, though the force of the blast of light felt liable to break his arm. He kept his charge up, delivering a stab of his own. The silver knight brought his shield to bear, receiving it.

A sense of dread fell upon Orion as the tip of his purple blade touched the silver shield. It felt like stabbing a mountain. He’d put tremendous force into that thrust, yet the prospect of moving this foe seemed so distant as to be impossible. The silver knight stepped to the side and swung, and Orion twisted to dodge. He barely managed, but the attack cleaved through his helmet, his hair, and part of his head. Gritting through the pain, Orion lunged low, slamming his shield against his opponent’s. He feinted high, then thrust low, aiming right at the knight’s knee with a defiant roar. The feint succeeded, and Orion’s blade sung forth.

Chapter 48

Orion’s blade plunged between the gap in the silver armor’s knee. Unlike the indomitability he’d felt colliding with his foe’s shield, what he stabbed… he was certain it was flesh and bone, not metal and power. He was certain it was not skin—rather, it felt ominously like scales beneath that carapace of metal. Orion had no time to verify this, as his opponent raised his blade and thrust it down.

Rather than his head, Orion managed to swerve out of the way enough the resulting blast of light cut into the edge of his neck and shoulder. He felt his grip weaken as the interconnected parts of his body slackened. With fear overriding his distaste, he called upon that which he’d been suppressing; the blessings bestowed to him by the false pantheon of Vasquer. He froze his fingers around his shield and sword, tumbled down a pit created by the knight’s menacing attacks, then faced the silver knight once again.

The silver knight stood far above Orion, the two suns making him shine like a holy crusader. Down below, Orion’s breath was heavy, and his golden armor with its black surcoat had already lost much of its luster. He appeared naught more than a rabid dog before a king. The knight prepared a simple horizontal slash that seemed impossible to dodge… yet again, fear removed Orion’s inhibition. He conjured wind beneath him, launching himself above the slash of light to meet his opponent above.

The silver knight parried Orion’s swing with his shield as if he’d expected such a charge, and Orion’s blade flew wildly away, bringing his arm flailing with it. He knew he was exposed. When he thought the second swing was sure to come, the knight turned. Rook, god of deception and subterfuge, lunged again. The silver knight blocked him once, but it was only an illusion—his true form came from the side. In response to that attack, the knight responded with equal subtlety—he jutted the pommel of his blade out, and a quick burst of light nailed the deity in the chest. Spirits bursting from his wound, Rook backed away.

Orion lunged forth, wrapping both his arms around the silver knight’s blade arm. He tried to bend it, break it, using the full might of his body. He and the knight were of equal size, and seemingly equal strength. He sent lightning and fire coursing out of his body, damaging himself in the process… but this demon had to die, no matter the cost.

The knight’s shield repeatedly bashed into Orion’s body as he wrestled it. The shield, fortunately, was of far weaker prowess than that blade. Still, it was like a hammer wielded by his own hand pounding into him, wearing him down. No matter how hard he grappled the knight, his arm did not wield—indeed, as time passed, Orion found himself losing the contest of strength. Finally, the knight managed to get into an advantageous position, and twisted his body to pick Orion up off the ground. He slammed him down, and Orion felt his breath leave his lungs. Despite the pain, he clung stubbornly to that sword arm. After another failed attempt to get his arm free, the knight pulled his shield back, and slammed it straight into Orion’s visor.

The metal of Orion’s helmet folded inward, blinding him—or perhaps his eyes had been crushed. Orion still clung tightly until a terrible force slammed into the knight, pulling him free of Orion’s grip and sending both of them tumbling in some unknown direction.

When his world stopped spinning, Orion grasped his helmet awkwardly while still clinging to his sword and shield and wrenched the thing free. It brought him great pain, but sight returned to him when the metal came off his skin. His long black hair started to whip wildly about in this tempest of battle.

Durran and Raven fought in his stead, undoubtedly saving his life in that moment. Durran, in particular, stood his own against any attacks that came toward Orion, combatting it with strength and magic in equal measure. As his vision blurred, recovering from the blow to his eyes, he saw the mark of powerful magic on the knight’s breastplate—the first sign of genuine injury, it seemed.

Raven was a force of nature, gracefully combining powerful magics as he danced in to employ the ungodly strength of that unnatural body of his. His arms were like those of a mantis, compressing the strength of a hundred men down to a single sharp point to pierce that armor. No matter how strong the blows were, once they met that shield, each attack achieved nothing.

Durran, meanwhile, seemed to have changed. His golden tattoos, most oft concealed by clothes and armor, seemed to glow beyond his body, taking on an aspect beyond his form. His strength and speed were far beyond what they had ever been, and he fought in a strange style that seemed far different from what he usually did.

Orion looked around, feeling once more that fear that told him to run. He saw the corpses of hundreds of the greatest fighters of the present day. Even in the midst of what he’d thought was a personal fight, the silver knight had been fighting hundreds of others, each seeking to dismember him with their power. And still he held his ground, fighting ever onward toward Blackgard. It inspired the purest form of dread, and approaching defenders faltered.

Fear was meant to preserve the life—to give men good sense, allowing them to live another day. Orion felt fear the same as they did, but he ignored it. Finally feeling well enough to do so, he rose, and rushed back toward the carnage he felt was his destiny. This crumbling wasteland proved nightmarish to navigate, doubly so when Raven and Durran both struggled valiantly against this silver knight. He found himself dodging wayward gashes of light far too often, nearly losing limbs from their deadly battle. He could not blame them—to suppress this fighter was just like using one’s hands to block an explosion.

He found his opportunity to rejoin the fight not from a lull in the battle, but from a tragedy. Durra overextended, perhaps due to being unused to his newfound power. The silver knight managed to catch him in the leg. From the middle of his thigh downward, all below severed in less than half a second. Durran yelled in agony and collapsed. Just as Durran had done for him, Orion rushed to block the killing blow of the silver knight.

The silver knight thrust his blade at Durran’s head, but Orion slammed into his foe’s arm with a full-force tackle. The beam of light veered away, piercing the earth. Raven opportunistically attacked from behind, and when the knight tried to defend with his shield, Orion grappled his arm with all the strength he could. His interference succeeded—the spike jammed into the knight’s back, piercing through his chest right where the heart ought to be.

In response to the injury, the knight exploded with redoubled strength. He twisted about like a whirlwind, freeing himself of the spike to swing his sword in one smooth movement. A great crescent slash erupted toward Raven, but the ancient being was ready. He vanished, carried away by spirits, only to reappear next to Durran. Taking the wounded man, he left the battlefield in moments. Orion thought he was again alone, until…

“In this domain, time is slowed for me and my allies.”

Like a gavel appending that declaration, Orion felt a tremendous tempest pass him by as the golden greatsword of Law fell upon the silver knight. Their opponent dodged backward and raised that shield of his up, receiving an attack that had the weight of an ancient god freshly bolstered by a fight against Kirel Qircassia. Orion hoped to see a display of weakness, to see a sign of their foe faltering… yet just like any other, the blow stopped once it met that shield. It ended as meagerly as if it had been a child’s attack with a wooden sword. Then, the knight of silver swung his sword of light upward in retaliation. Law’s mighty weapon exploded backward, barely protecting him from harm. The god himself nearly lost his head.

That shield nullified all attacks with ease, that sword delivered attacks unmatched, and the knight himself possessed vigilance to such a degree he could never be ambushed. As Orion saw the silver knight move, slowed by Law’s domain, he realized this foe could only be dealt with up close. Metal and flesh folded around the wound Raven had made, mending it as blood flowed.

And yet… blood did flow.

With Law, Rook, Raven, and Durran all beaten back, Orion rushed forth with his heart screaming at him to flee. The knight possessed no such vigilance toward him—he took a stance, his shield held forward, sword held to the side, and thrust his blade again and again to skewer Orion. Each attack bore the strength and speed of a ballista crafted by Dario.

Even with time slowed slightly, Orion had to take every measure to avoid death. Wind echoed his steps to lend him the speed required to dodge those bolts of deadly light. Electricity coursed through his muscles to break the limit of what his body would allow. Fire and smoke wreathed from his entire body and obscured his form. Orion was utilizing the blessings the false pantheon had bestowed upon him the best he ever had.

When he was near close enough to strike, Orion’s visioned narrowed in defiance of the fear choking his guts. He knew what needed to be done to have any hope of victory, and he did it. When the next thrust came, he leapt toward it, his shield held out. It took the full brunt of those deadly javelins of light. The force was so intense that Orion only felt resistance for half a second—instead of the force transferring to his body and breaking his arm, it pierced through the shield, carrying onward. He slammed full-force into the silver knight, who—given the fact Orion was on the side his sword arm was—could not bring that nullifying shield to defend himself in time.

Orion had finally moved that mountain, and the two of them tumbled through the chaotic landscape he’d caused. Amidst the roll, either through luck or skill, Orion landed atop the silver knight, raised his sword, and plunged it straight through the knight’s visor. The silver knight spasmed once, and Orion pulled free his blade. He raised his blade horizontally as, despite all reason, the silver knight continued to live.

With one hand on his sword’s handle and the other on the blade, he slammed it down like a guillotine upon his foe’s neck. He sought the gap between helmet and breastplate to behead him. At the same time, the silver knight freed his sword arm, took aim at Orion, and thrust. In that split second, Orion felt pain unimaginable… and ceased to feel his legs at all. But he also felt his blade slip past helmet and breastplate both, meeting the flesh behind the armor. It cleaved through until it hit the dirt behind.

Then… sensations left him, one by one. The last thing he perceived were words, projected directly into his head.

“I won’t let you.”

Chapter 49

“I won’t let you.”

Orion blinked open his eyes. The pain that he’d been feeling moments before had all gone, replaced only with the pleasant and familiar sensation of wind gracing his cheek across windy plains. Remembering what he was doing, he sat up and looked around. Rather than a battlefield ravaged by his powerful foe, he saw a dreary landscape unfold before him.

As far as the eye could see, there was gray, dead grass. It somehow looked worse than when winter came—blacker, like it’d been burnt away with fire. There was the undeniable stench of corruption in the air, almost like rotting flesh. At the far end of his vision, he saw a golden tree that he’d visited once before.

The Tree of Being.

Fear and nervousness took hold of him as he realized what the implications of his vision were. Had he finally greeted death? Was this horrifying world the afterlife? Was there to be some sort of punishment for his sins? He had tried to outweigh what he’d done with virtue, protecting his family so ardently… but perhaps some things simply couldn’t be outweighed.

“You think too much,” said that voice he’d heard earlier. “It’s rather like how I speak too much.”

The voice was hoarse, almost as if it was an old man’s barely clinging to life. But there was something familiar about it, and Orion rose to his feet. He started to walk toward the tree, already having some inkling as to what he might be going to greet. When he crested the hill that the Tree of Being sprouted from, he saw a great serpent, divested of all that had made it glorious.

Lindon the silver serpent, god of minds, dreams, and consciousness. He laid there, descaled. He’d never had a solid body, but every apparition he’d shown them had been one of some considerable glory. This, by contrast, looked like it was dying. It looked far worse than Vasquer ever had, even when she’d been trapped underground for so long. Even when she’d actually died.

But those silver eyes trained themselves on his figure at the top of the hill, and that hoarse voice pierced his mind once again. “Hello, Orion.”

Orion braced himself uneasily. Given what he’d just fought, he couldn’t be sure that this wasn’t some further machination of Gerechtigkeit. Whether on the physical realm or the mental one, he would fight to the bitter end.

“If you’d like to punch me a few times to relieve your rage, feel free. But I’ve gone through great lengths to make sure that your end isn’t bitter, despite how hard you fought me.” He heard a great sigh from the wounded Lindon. “I had hoped you would react to my warning altogether differently than you did. But, given the limited resources I had at my disposal, it worked out as best as I could have hoped.”

“What do you speak of?” Orion called out, his voice echoing powerfully through this realm.

“That feeling of impending doom. The notion that death was coming. It wasn’t some supernatural intuition that your time for retribution was coming—it was my attempt at a warning.”

Orion’s face hardened in disbelief.

“Gerechtigkeit has a complete stranglehold on the Gilderwatchers, Orion. The past weeks, he’s spent refining my existence into what you fought. The power I had, existing within the Gilderwatchers… he brought them together, isolated my being, and used the Melding I’m capable of creating to birth the monster that you killed. It was a vast compression of my will into that single entity.”

“Killed? You claim I killed it?” Orion repeated.

“Oh, indeed. Killed,” Lindon confirmed. “Even snakes die when their head is cut off. They might writhe for a while, but they’re functionally dead. You killed that silver warrior, Orion. You needed no aid from the Fruit of Being. You saved Blackgard. You rallied against fear, and in so doing, became much stronger than you were.”

Orion touched his waist, where he recalled that final wound piercing his body. “Then… I must’ve died, in those final moments.”

“Of course not,” Lindon disagreed. “Do you think your sister would leave you dying idly? Even as we speak, I suspect she’s scooping you up and making sure you don’t expire. Your extraordinary constitution will take care of the rest. But we speak of things left to happen, and there are words I must impart before I fade.”

“You’re fading?” Orion questioned, still cautious.

“Indeed. I knew my death at Gerechtigkeit’s hand was inevitable. In strength, he has always been my superior. He’s spent countless millennia studying my technique to warp the mind, too, and it showed. I held out as long as I could, but when I realized death was inevitable, I succumbed so that I might deliver one last vestige of untainted will. It’s how we can still speak. I hope to offer some insight into what Gerechtigkeit will attempt.”

Orion nodded. He still felt some caution, especially after remembering what’d happened to Vasquer, but he said, “I will listen.”

“Gerechtigkeit will stop at nothing to retrieve Sophia,” Lindon said bluntly. “The knight that appeared today was a manifestation of the wish the two siblings shared, back when they were Griffin and Sophia, comrades in abuse at Sandelabara. The perfect knight, come to save them both. He dreamed of a poetic reunion with his lost sibling, where he ends the cycle his way and realizes the path laid out for both of them. Defeating it… I will not ever say that anything could suffice as vengeance for the death of Vasquer, but I will say that Gerechtigkeit surely rages at its death. You denied him his perfect future. He now surely hates you as much as you hate him.”

Orion said nothing, but he accepted that situation internally. It aligned with how Sophia had reacted as he’d been guarding her.

“He used me as the fodder for this perfect knight’s creation. In so doing, he has supplanted me within the Gilderwatchers. He exists in them as I existed in them. Simultaneously, he’s attempting to destroy the White Planes, which would unbind them from the treaty suppressing our abilities. If that were to happen, he could exert the same power I once did millennia ago. If that should happen, the minds of all on the planet are at risk. He could quite literally make slaves of everything capable of higher reasoning.”

Orion felt a deep sense of unease at that. “What of the rings we crafted?”

“I believe they’ll function, thank the gods,” Lindon said, relief flavoring his tone. “The only reason I was able to enter your mind is because your hand was cut off your body. Still, it would be entirely impractical to expect you to be able to distribute those rings worldwide. The logistics of such a thing… even with Elenore, it would be largely impossible. But there remain other ways to prevent this apocalypse.”

“Would you ask me to hunt Gilderwatchers?” Orion said, voice tight. Catching movement, his eyes danced to the side. There, very distantly, he saw the ground collapsing.

“…that would be my last suggestion,” Lindon said quietly. “I will never feel at ease suggesting that you should make something I spent lifetimes protecting simply… end. But given the danger to all others, I cannot dismiss it entirely. There are two other ways I would suggest you pursue, first. Neither can be called simple, but they are preferrable.”

“Tell me, then.” Orion gestured, keeping an easy eye on distant ground. It looked as though this world was collapsing.

“The first would be to prevent the destruction of the White Planes,” Lindon said. “Given how immensely formidable they are, it would be a near-impossible task. How do you reinforce that which is essentially impregnable? I use that word, yet the fact that it falls before Gerechtigkeit’s power suggests it does still have room for improvement. If it is possible, find it.

“The second would be the most ideal outcome, from my viewpoint. That would be harnessing your latent bloodline to a greater extent, giving yourself and your siblings the capacity to fight back against and neutralize Gerechtigkeit’s mental assaults over the people.”

Orion narrowed his eyes. “Is such a thing possible?”

“If I knew, I would simply give you the answer and send you on your merry way. But the family of Vasquer is a rather unique existence. I cannot honestly say if there is a route. Influencing the mind of others… it is a frightening power, indeed. Of everyone alive bearing descent from Vasquer, you are most similar to the Gilderwatchers. I believe you have the best potential of doing so.”

“I am?” Orion tilted his head.

“Of course you are. You have unending desires to protect and serve your family. You have notions of harmony, togetherness, and cooperation that defy conventional human standards. And yet… in that knight, Orion, was a message I believe you should hear. A symbolic one, that I hope will change your conduct throughout the rest of your life.”

Orion crossed his arms defensively, bracing himself as the total collapse of this plane came ever closer.

“That knight… though it bore my colors of white and silver, it was modelled after you, Orion. It was that idealistic version of yourself that you keep trying to mold yourself into being. It had perfect mentality, superior strength, and still you killed it. Why? Because, Orion, that ideal that you strive toward is fundamentally flawed. It will kill you, just as you killed it.”

He didn’t know what to say in response to that.

“You are not special. You haven’t been chosen by the universe to carry out a specific role. You do not possess some warped fate that dictates you must live to serve your family and people. You inherited that from us, but you are not a Gilderwatcher. I say so as much for your sake as those around you.”

“What are you advising?” Orion asked defensively.

“There must be more to life and love than duty to something greater.”

Those words stirred uncertainty in Orion’s heart. He’d heard similar statements in the past—most often from Argrave, come to think of it. He had paid them little mind, as he felt himself possessed of complete comprehension about who he was and the purpose he served. Yet… never before had he thought himself capable of something like fear.

“Kill the perfect knight,” Lindon urged. “You’ve done so in body. Now, do so in spirit. Grace those around you with your presence for as long as you can. Your sacrifice will never be worth as much as your existence.”

Leaving those words behind in the wake of his own sacrifice, the rapid collapse of this plane finally reached to where they stood. Lindon’s body crumbled away, and so too did the ground beneath Orion’s feet. He tumbled into an endless void. When he looked up, he saw the Tree of Being slowly eaten away… until it became nothing at all.

Then, Orion met solitude again.

Chapter 50

The casualties from the assault of the silver knight were staggering. Elenore reviewed the figures as she sat.

A great deal of the most prominent spellcasters in the world had been in Blackgard, and many went in its defense. As it turned out, their being clustered together so tightly was a hindrance rather than a boon. Great Chu and visiting Veiden scholars did not participate as much in the defense, so the bulk of the deaths were concentrated in Vasquer natives. Figures were of yet unclear, but one thing was certain: the Order of the Gray Owl’s upper echelon halved in size. Castro’s successor also perished, leaving a void of power at the top of the organization that brought her great unease.

The army, which had been mobilized to get the citizens to safety, had not been hit as hard… yet it was hit. Their numbers had swelled to twenty-three thousand before the attack, and preliminary reports suggested they had lost three to four thousand. It would put a huge strain on the kingdom’s treasury to pay out their families as was promised, but now more than ever, Elenore needed to show that enlistment in the army was a viable career option and that the government did value its soldiers.

The civilian population faced similar losses to the army. No attacks pierced their defenses directly, yet the silver knight’s reckless blows caused landslides, collapses, sinkholes, and other such tragedies. Beyond utterly wrecking the painstakingly-established infrastructure, deaths were also in the thousands. Blackgard had attracted such immigration because of its reputation of invulnerability—with such a devastating attack on it, the influx of immigrants might slow.

Rook had sustained a dire injury, apparently, and now considered his debt to Argrave, which had been incurred after treacherously killing Erlebnis, paid. Law had been humiliated, arriving yet achieving little—but more than that, Elenore felt the reputation of the Kingdom of Vasquer within the Blackgard Union might’ve been damaged by her calling such a dramatic mobilization. So much tragedy, and damage, and death… all spurred by one attacker.

But there was someone that hadn’t died.

Elenore lowered her reports, staring at Orion as he laid there. When she’d had some people rush in and retrieve him, he was in the worst condition imaginable. His orbital socket had been shattered—it was a wonder his eyes hadn’t popped out during battle. His hands were completely frozen, and needed to be amputated so they could regrow properly. A metal shard from his helmet had embedded itself in his head, and needed to be removed. Many of his internal organs had been cooked, both from electricity and fire.

As for his legs… he couldn’t use them, for now. The finishing blow from the silver knight had blown a great hole in his waist, completely eviscerating a huge section of his spine. That should have killed him. Had Elenore taken seconds longer to have her people go, it would have. Even if he could awake now, he wouldn’t be able to walk. Not just because the spinal injury—in the battle, he’d fractured his femur in countless places, and both of his lower legs had separated after a spiral fracture.

Beaten, broken, battered, and facing a foe that could strike down gods… and still Orion had charged forth, fighting desperately. It had been his righteous defense that had spurred other defenders to keep fighting still. And in the end, though she had been planning some grand stratagem wherein the Fruit of Being was used to wipe away this scourge… Orion, all but alone, had won that battle and defended Blackgard. And he would make a full recovery, ridiculous being that he was.

The damage of this battle would last years, maybe even decades. It could echo out into the infrastructure of the whole kingdom, spelling weakness. She would do her best to let it be known that this was the beginning of Gerechtigkeit’s wrath in efforts to unite all beneath their banner. Yet despite all of that, the whole ordeal had seemed a contravention against fate.

After talking to Sophia, who’d had a strange reaction to this event, it seemed Gerechtigkeit—now certainly confirmed to be Griffin—had weaponized that idealistic dream the siblings had once shared in Sandelabara. Raven’s observations suggested he’d used the Gilderwatcher’s strength of will to bring that dream into existence, sending it forth to ‘save’ Sophia.

Fortunately, Sophia’s dream of a perfect knight proved lacking before the real thing.

Elenore gently laid her hand atop Orion’s cheek as he slept. “Rest well, brother.”

Leaving that quiet whisper behind, Elenore gathered her papers and made to leave. There was work to do to ensure that this city he’d nearly spent his life protecting remained grand. She’d had her small moment of vulnerability with her brother—now, it was time to let the others that he’d fought so hard for have their time. His wife. His mother. Little Sophia, who still seemed in disbelief this was all over.

When Argrave came back, she’d have to be certain that Orion was given a proper reward. She owed him that much. Whatever he’d done, or not done, in the past, she had forgiven Orion. More than forgiven him, she might go so far as to say the role of favorite brother was a little less clearly distinguished than it once was.

***

Argrave, Anneliese, and their merry band of the semi-grateful dead managed to secure right of passage from the Hopeful. Now that they’d earned that right, they used and abused it as best they could. They spent an ample amount of time gaining a grasp on the rewritten white and black terrain. Once they’d carved out a significant territory around their foe’s base of operations, they spent an even more ample amount of time studying the Manumitter and his makeshift liberation army. They revealed how he fought, and what he was aiming for.

Apparently, the Manumitter could free someone of the hierarchy imposed by the Hopeful with touch alone. That made him a potent weapon, indeed—yet the fact he hadn’t been roaming about the place, indiscriminately groping Shadowlanders demonstrated a fundamental weakness: Traugott himself. They assumed he was weak. Perhaps it wasn’t exceptional that creatures capable of destroying entire cities were stronger than him. Or perhaps it wasn’t weakness. Perhaps his ability itself had fundamental flaws that he kept secret.

Regardless, Traugott had amassed a sizable fighting force. The crowning jewel of that was one of the Hopeful’s lieutenants. Rather troublingly, the black knight that had come with Argrave could provide neither name nor description. They had all, before Argrave’s arrival, existed in a formless void that lacked the same sensations their world did. Words could not describe what they were, excluding a notable exception.

“She is anger. Stubborn defiance. Iron will. Principled,” the rider described. “Descriptions of emotions and temperament, at least, are something we both share.”

Their purpose in spending so long formulating their plan wasn’t merely to develop a concrete plan of attack against Traugott. It was as much to plot how to fight against the yoke of the Hopeful once he no longer had any need for them. They spoke in hushed tones and euphemisms, only talking frankly when their escort returned to the shadows. He was frustrated by their slow progress, but neither side ever broke the status quo. Argrave and company were needed. The Manumitter was a threat the Hopeful could not easily kill—each and all he sent forth might turn their blades against him and strengthen the rebels.

Though exhaustion never found them in this colorless realm, even these ancient heroes were stretched to their mental limits in the sleepless weeks they spent seeking some grand strategy to achieve a flawless victory. Perfection was an impossible ideal to reach for, doubly so when it came to something so complex as a battle involving hundreds, perhaps thousands, of unimaginably fierce beings. But at the end of it all…

“I’m not pleased about it. Not pleased at all,” Argrave pointed out, his voice unable to express his indignance in light of the enforced monotony in this realm.

“Yet you can offer no opposing viewpoint, and our time here is not eternal,” Emperor Balzat outlined poignantly. “We have spent perhaps half the time that Garm allotted us.”

Argrave bit his lip, displeased yet with no suitable counterproposal. He had to admit it… after workshopping their strategy for a long, long while, it had come to an advanced point with contingencies atop contingencies. Anything further was summarized by the simple little phrase, ‘analysis paralysis.’ They had a solid plan.

The only problem was it involved Anneliese fighting Traugott, far apart from Argrave.

She wouldn’t be alone, naturally. But with her weapon forged of Veid’s heart, she could lock him into a duel from which he could not escape. Their basic plan was simple. Argrave would cause a brilliant distraction by rewriting the world those rebel Shadowlanders resided in, then beginning a straight-out attack. That sort of bombastic entrance was meant to give Anneliese ample time to sneak up, initiate the duel, and ideally assassinate Traugott right away.

From there, they veered into the complicated—getting away. They had ideas, but practice made perfect, and practice wars didn’t exist anyplace besides Argrave’s own head.

But even the first part—distracting the rebel leader—would be immensely difficult. The act of rewriting the Shadowlands would make any notion of surprise vanish. Traugott might simply flee before Anneliese ever found her opportunity. A small battalion serving beneath their rider escort was waiting, but given Traugott’s ability, they couldn’t be relied upon. Traugott, furthermore, was an unknown variable. How powerful was he really?

Still… with things as they are, they had no choice. It was do or die time.

“Alright then.” Argrave nodded. “Anneliese’s squad hunts down Traugott, ends him. Meanwhile, my squad… we take the liberation army, and try to start a revolution.”

Chapter 51

From birth, Traugott had always felt like his life was tied to the abyss. It consumed all he felt endlessly. There was little that inspired anything inside of him. Though he felt emotions like rage, sorrow, happiness, and all others, it was as though they existed outside of him, pouring into a hole that never ended. Nothing that affected others had ever affected him. Even the things that others called needs—the need to sate hunger or quench thirst, for instance—had little bearing on his life.

He neither liked nor disliked pain. At some points in his life, he had inflicted it on himself repeatedly to discover how it worked, because there was only one thing that truly stimulated him in any way: learning that which he did not know. Even that was fitting, as the very nature of the abyss was something that could never be known or understood. Curiosity was his first, true love that allowed him to visualize what the term even meant. He never grew bored of her.

To his parents, refugees from the Burnt Desert taken in by House Parbon, his inquisitiveness had been the sign of a precocious child who possessed a certain brightness. It had been enough to cultivate a thin veneer of normalcy that allowed him to operate in peace. They grew wealthy enough from selling out their former tribesmen to the present margrave of House Parbon that they could afford to send him to the Order of the Gray Owl. Their craftiness taught him much about the realities of the world. He didn’t enjoy doing the things that led to learning, but he did enjoy the learning itself. To that end, their callousness had aided him. He never forgot that.

He had gone through life learning so much. He was smart enough to know that he would need power to learn all he pleased to learn, and so he quietly advanced as they wanted him to in the Order of the Gray Owl. There, his parents were no longer of any use, so he cut ties with them. It had been easy to feel alive, back then—he was a dry sponge in an ocean, absorbing the vast stores of knowledge accumulated over the years.

Past a certain point… there were diminishing returns on well-travelled fields of study. Studying elemental magic, he would need to put forth ten times the effort for the same level of stimulation as exploring entirely new fields—necromancy, for instance. He had grown empty, hollow, adhering to the rules of the Order of the Gray Owl. Castro was an ever-watchful leader, ensuring none of the Magisters put a single toe into anything forbidden. It was restrictive, and many of Traugott’s days were spent existing in the empty void that was his life without stimulation.

Until, of course, all of this.

Argrave had broken him free of the period of blackness when he delivered a book to Castro. It spoke of many things, foremost among them Gerechtigkeit. Traugott followed the leads described therein and bore witness to the vast changes the world was about to undertake. That awakening had all culminated in the grand opening of the Shadowlands. Here, he explored the depths of something that simply could not be in their realms. If he’d had it his way, he would have simply spent his time wandering the Shadowlands, preparing all its denizens for his gambit against Argrave. Unfortunately, the power structure here was deeply entrenched. Fortunately, he was able to end it, aiding his long-term goal—moving beyond this cycle of judgment.

There was so much to look forward to. So many things that had never happened. There was Sophia—he was eager to discover her intricacies, doubly so after his experimentations with Norman. He had theories about how her power might be used to make more of Gerechtigkeit than the calamity ever made of himself. There was so much to learn, so much to see… and at the end of it all, Traugott saw a way into other places. Places beyond this one. The Heralds had spoken to him, and through their dialogue, he saw the ecstasy of learning repeated to infinity. They promised new realms, new existences. The idea enthralled him.

At present, however… another such fascinating thing had come to him.

Traugott stepped out into the changed world that his people were so rabidly fearing, curious to see what he would experience. At once, familiar yet muted sensations returned to him, most prevalently sight. It took him some time to adapt to the reality of what he saw, and he blinked his eyes rapidly in adjustment. For the first time, it would seem, his world had come to the Shadowlands rather than the Shadowlands coming to his world. Free of the abyss, he was once again in the form of Good King Norman in Shadowlander flesh.

In the far distance, he saw a locust plague tear through countless of his subordinates. The black clouds of destruction were far too dense of an attack to make any sense of what was coming. These bugs, which he identified as magical in nature, seemed to eat through the very shadows themselves. Thereafter, like drifting petals, a pleasant whiteness replaced all that was erased before settling down into the bleak gray world stretched out before him. 

He looked to his left, witnessing his lieutenant emerge from the abyssal Shadowlands of yet untouched by their attacker. Inside the abyss, such details weren’t clear, but here, she had genuine features his human mind could understand. The shadows still wreathed most of her, but he could distinguish white hair that looked like silk and deep red eyes. Only her eyes had color, bizarrely. A fascinating quirk that he would love to explore. The eyes were genuine windows to the soul, as his experiments had discovered. Would they retain that color, then, removed from the body?

“Is this another of the Hopeful’s machinations you’re aware of?” he questioned, his voice coming out in a fashion as he hadn’t expected it. Another fascination—was it his ears hearing incorrectly, his voice box malfunctioning, or a translation applied by this changed realm?

“No,” his lieutenant responded in the same voice. “This is something none of us have ever seen before. In power, I believe I am superior, and yet… there may be more to this attack, and so I would advise caution.” She peered out.

“Hmm.” Traugott rubbed his hands together, unconcerned. “What can you tell me about our attackers? Their appearance, that is. I cannot see so well.”

“They are a varied group. The one that causes the most damage is a tall human with black hair. He leads that plague of locusts—and I expect the rest of group, as well.”

Traugott started to smile, kneeling down and squinting hard. “Could it be? No…” he shook his head, not quite believing it. Yet a smile did rise to his face at the thought of it. When he saw a familiar coat through the haze of it all—though the coat was somewhat in tatters—his jubilation finally met its target. “It is.”

People spoke of the complexity of the higher species like elves or humans, but Traugott had always found them no different from any other animal. The only thing that made men better than mice was the fact they thought they were. Some select few had drawn his interest, but it was about the same level of interest he had seeing an unusually-colored animal. Smart, talented people with strange applications of magic or bizarre constitutions could not compare to the pleasure brought from exploring the depths of things untouched by human hands.

But Argrave… he was different.

He’d had countless theories about how Argrave had come to know so much about the world. In the end, one of them had been directly confirmed by the Heralds; Argrave was from another reality entirely. The Heralds said little more than that, playing upon Traugott’s sole desire to convince him to do their bidding. They wanted Argrave neutralized more than anything. They wished to use Traugott as the cudgel to achieve that. He was happy to play into their hands, because he was a rather simple person. He knew he could outmaneuver them in the long run. He had never met anyone he’d consider a peer, let alone a superior.

“You should capture him alive,” Traugott said as he stared. “Go. I look forward to results.”

His lieutenant looked at him. “When last we fought a devastating battle, I advised our retreat. You refused. I obeyed, then, despite my protests. My protests were correct, and we suffered great losses. After that incident, I see not the reason to repeat a mistake.”

Traugott looked at her. Like any others, the Shadowlanders could be manipulated. He’d done well so far in using this woman’s hope for herself and her people—and besides, the ability he possessed to free their people was too valuable for her to abandon him.

“If you can catch him alive, I have no more reason to be fearful of what lurks on the other side,” Traugott said. “He is the only one who poses a genuine threat to me on the mortal world. You can tell as much, because he’s come here, hunting me.” He smiled at her. “Bring him to me… and I’ll open the portal to my realm you so desperately desire, granting you freedom.”

Her red eyes focused on him for a long, long while. Then, she declared calmly, “If it is not so, our partnership will not be maintained. I will not be toyed with. A lying life cannot continue to persist in the Shadowlands.”

After threatening him, she left quickly. He wondered if she’d die. If she did win, she could probably enact her threat, but he was confident he could placate her without actually fulfilling her request. If she died, it didn’t matter. It was worth sacrificing all he’d built for a chance at capturing the man from another realm. Argrave had handled a great deal. It was a shame he had morals, elsewise they might’ve had a civilized conversation so long ago.

He heard a strange sound, and turned his head. There, a familiar face stood. Anneliese. She let out a sigh.

“I was so damned terrified. But… it worked,” she said.

Traugott saw her draw a blade out of a fancy-looking staff, and his eyes darted around the area. There, more figures revealed themselves—concealed by southron elf illusion magic, it seemed. Rather fascinating. Argrave, as ever, continued to impress. They had followed him here, and now, had set up an ambush for him. Fortunately, he’d prepared some contingencies for this, largely in case the people he’d collected turned on him. Perhaps it was time to leave.

The moment Traugott did move to leave, he felt a strange pressure on his chest. He grabbed at it, then attempted again. It grew stronger, straining against him proportionally. Yet when he advanced forth, it faded.

“I hate you a great deal, Traugott. There are a lot of reasons for anyone to hate you, but in my case, it’s unreasonably so,” Anneliese said. “The only thing I lament is that I’m forced to give you a quick death, because it’s most practical.”

Fear poured into the abyss of Traugott’s body, and as ever, he wasn’t affected by it. He considered what was occurring calmly, accepting that there was a force at work preventing his flight. He reasoned what would be the best course of action, and concluded that it would be best to fight as desperately as he could, calling all of his allies back to him.

Chapter 52

Anneliese had always felt a particularly strong loathing toward Traugott.

It was difficult for her to pinpoint why, exactly, which troubled her—she liked to consider herself as someone calm, objective, and rational. She found hate largely unproductive. Though Traugott had been behind the death of Castro, a man who she had deep respect for, she could tell that wasn’t the root of her feelings. Traugott had displayed wanton cruelty at every turn, and reckless disregard for the lives of others. Even that, she felt, was only a contributing factor affirming her hatred was justified rather than forming the foundation of that hate itself.

For Anneliese to hate something so deeply, she felt she had to understand it. She did understand why Traugott did what he did all too well. That drive of curiosity, the desire to learn—it existed in her, too, giving her greater satisfaction than most other activities in life. But Anneliese had come to the boundary of what was moral to learn, and she had stepped away. She hated Traugott, she suspected, because he came to that moral boundary and never stopped pressing forward.

Jealousy? Disappointment? Disgust? Some other emotion altogether? It didn’t matter what was fueling that hate, but it existed. Knowing that, for the first time in her life, she had been eager to take the fight to this man. She had spent a lot of time thinking about it, plotting what he might do and how she might respond.

Traugott, barred from escaping, rushed at her with the calm of a feline hunting prey. She met his composure in equal measure, stepping backward and letting her allies fold inward. Both of them knew that one’s emotions were no cause to get swept up in reckless attack, and she would heed that sensibility lest she be overrun by this notably cunning opponent. Unlike Dimocles, Traugott had an abundance of experience fighting. She knew this wouldn’t be easy.

Bhaltair’s undead, armed with weapons forged of Argrave’s blood, leapt from folded pockets of illusion crafted by Ghislain.By instinct, Traugott, so accustomed to traversing between realms, dipped back inside the mortal world for a brief moment before reappearing. Anneliese was pleased to note that Veid’s heart did not lose its grip on him for even when he left the Shadowlands in that brief moment. She did not want to let him retreat ever again.

Now that Traugott knew his restriction was no retreat, he made full use of his terribly powerful ability. He stepped between the realms so freely and unrestrictedly that it was alarming, leaving few opportunities for Bhaltair’s undead to score a blow. He demonstrated the terrible power of his new form, stepping back into the mortal realm to dodge a swing only to reappear behind his foe, crushing their skull with a single punch. But he was not infallible—one small cut landed on his shoulder. Anneliese observed it carefully, with her [Truesight]. She watched everything he did, learning and observing to pick out any details that might lend advantage.

“You have come unprepared for who I am,” Traugott taunted, dodging again and dispatching two more of Bhaltair’s minions.

She took those words for manipulations born of no conviction. He would say anything to chip away at her composure. But he was alone, and always would be—she, meanwhile, made far better use of allies than he ever could. In the corners of her eyes, blackness started to consume them. It wasn’t the blackness of the shadows—rather, Argrave’s part in this plan was coming to bear. He was blocking reinforcements from coming to protect Traugott as he fought.

The heroes of old emerged from Ghislain’s concealment, striking in tandem with fast, powerful spells. Anneliese had a ward prepared in advance, and absorbed the powerful waves of magic the resulting clash created. When the chaos settled, Anneliese felt a presence behind her as sure as day. She whipped her head, where Traugott emerged. He had bypassed her ward so easily by stepping between realms. Both his hands lunged at the back of her neck, pulsing with prepared magic. He knew she was the lynchpin.

But then… she’d rather been hoping he’d desperately hunt her.

The black rider emerged from another of Ghislain’s concealments right beside her, swinging a blade of blood given to him by Argrave in a cruel arc. It sunk straight into Traugott’s left hand, yet he managed to yank his right arm away before it too was severed and dodge back. The spell in his left hand fizzled out as it severed from his arm, while the right sent out a lance of electricity which she easily caught with a second ward. Traugott fell back into the mortal realm, then reappeared some distance away.

Anneliese picked up his severed, black hand. Traugott clutched his arm, closing the wound with magic before it bled while watching his surroundings cautiously. “It appears I can fall back,” he shouted. “Is it a matter of mentality, that ability of yours? I can do what is needed for the battle, yet I cannot retreat. What loopholes exist in that, I wonder? How long can you keep me here?”

He was trying to make her panicked, make her act rashly in order to force a mistake. While the rider shielded her, she calmly placed Traugott’s hand up against his leg to test if it still held power. The Shadowlander wasn’t freed of the hierarchy. She hadn’t seen this hand change in any way, energy-wise, once it’d left Traugott’s body—that meant it likely wasn’t his physical body alone that Traugott employed to free the Shadowlanders from the Hopeful’s hierarchy.

This was a battle in two dimensions, Anneliese realized. The first dimension was the battle of life and death, trying to gain victory over the other. The second dimension was the battle of their capability to gather information. Traugott was trying to discover how Veid’s heart could be exploited in order to get away from this fight or gain an advantage. She, meanwhile, was trying to discover how Traugott broke free Shadowlanders of the hierarchy.

The ‘why’ of her quest for discovery rested in her other half, doing battle with that far more intimidating opponent. It could be said her ability to learn how Traugott freed people from the hierarchy determined whether or not they left this place alive.

***

When they’d asked the rider escorting them for the character of the lieutenant that had betrayed the Hopeful, he’d offered some choice words for description.

Anger. Stubborn defiance. Iron will.

To say the least of it, Argrave saw those traits on full display as he rolled about in the mud, desperately preserving his life.

This white-haired woman with red eyes, her body wreathed in nightmarish shadows, chased him relentlessly. Argrave was forced to rely on his blood echoes ceaselessly, dodging attack after attack. Every time she raised her hand up, rather like that rider they’d fought, she had a weapon in hand. The troubling bit was that it seemed to be totally random.

Pike, sword, scythe, greataxe, glaive, bow, saber, cudgel, staff, javelin, sling, crossbow, bullwhip, shield—the types of weapons came without an end, each wielded expertly with the intent to kill. It was incredibly mentally exhausting constantly plotting new directions to flee. No one before had ever been this unrelentingly straightforward in their attempts to snuff him out. She didn’t think—she just hunted him wherever he appeared, and hit hard enough to level a building. The constant vigilance necessary to avoid death was made all the more stressful by the importance of his role.

Argrave was as much the primary attacker as he was the primary support. The locusts erupting from his arm their primary method to destroy Shadowlanders, and their method to control the battlefield. Doing damage to an enemy was just as important as retaining positional advantage. To that end, much of their time in preparation had been spent modifying the spell [Apollyon] to better function with Argrave’s non-vampiric body, and to fulfill a variety of functions.

In his right hand, the locusts bursting out were designated for combat—pivotal, because Argrave needed to kill things to ensure a steady stream of vitality coming back to him through Anneliese. She redirected all energy she received back to him without even thinking. To sustain that, his attacks killed both allied and hostile Shadowlanders, indiscriminately. They’d asked their escort where allies were stationed before the battle began, and thus far, that information held true—Argrave slayed thousands of Shadowlanders on their side with [Apollyon]. Underhanded, perhaps, to use allied forces as walking batteries. But they’d not bothered concealing their intentions to kill Argrave, so he wouldn’t bother preserving them, either.

In his left, this modified version of [Apollyon] was meant for controlling the battlefield. Ghislain, the southron elf, had employed the illusory magic of his people to great effect in both sneaking up on Traugott and completely hiding the effect the man was even under attack at all. Still, if reinforcements reached Anneliese, their opportunity might slip away. She was outmatched by Shadowlanders, unfortunately. To that end, Argrave’s left hand created locusts following his mental direction more clearly. He kept any Shadowlanders far from her fight with Traugott.

The spells were working fine. Vitality wasn’t in short supply, thus far—if it was, Argrave was capable of holding back far more than he had been the first usage. Considering that these spells had been modified in collaboration with some of the greatest geniuses of every age in the world, it would be stranger if they weren’t flawless.

The problem rested in the unpredictable element—this lieutenant, who was rather pivotal to further steps.

“Listen to me! Traugott is—” Argrave shouted, before being forced to use [Echo Step] to get away. Where he’d been moments before exploded into fragments of rock and dust as she slammed a mallet done and shattered the ground.

“Traugott’s—” Argrave tried to continue, only to frantically teleport away from a blackened arrow bursting out of that cloud of gray rubble.

Their intention had been to divide the liberation movement from the liberator—Traugott. If Argrave knew Traugott, he was certain this man inspired no loyalty from those he worked with. He had no friends in the Order of the Gray Owl before he’d gone rogue. He worked alone for the longest time, briefly collaborating with gods whom he held no loyalty to. He wasn’t a people person.

Argrave had been counting on his unsociability, but he couldn’t get a damn word in edgewise with this berserker woman chasing him about mindlessly. Though he wondered how the hell Traugott had managed to get someone this uncompromisingly relentless on his side, he steeled himself with the knowledge that, if that uncharismatic freak could win her over… so could Argrave, surely, with his tongue of silver and looks of gold.

“If you want freedom, then—” He looked up, where a hammer near the size of his body fell upon him with devastating force. Even when he teleported free, he could feel its quakes rattling his legs as the force travelled through the terrain.

Surely.

Chapter 53

Traugott assessed the situation objectively, plugging in a new variable to the equation to adjust its answer. From the outset, he’d thought a few dozen S-rank spellcasters to eliminate him was a dire miscalculation on Argrave’s side. It made more sense upon the reveal that there was a relatively high-ranking Shadowlander here—moreover, a Shadowlander still linked to the hierarchy imposed by the Hopeful. Its presence meant the Hopeful was aware of this fight.

With that alone, he saw victory in the gnashing teeth of these overwhelming odds.

The Hopeful’s design made no accommodations for any outside of his direct control. He could suffer no interlopers or allies in his realm—it was antithetical to his long-term goal. Argrave and company were, at best, mercenaries brought to dispose of Traugott with their betrayal planned long in advance. At worst, they were slaves doing his bidding. Given Argrave’s tenacity, Traugott suspected their best-case scenario was what he was dealing with.

With that in mind, they were likely seeking one of two things from him—perhaps both, come to think of it. They wanted a way to escape from the Shadowlands after Traugott’s death, or they wanted to co-opt his liberation force to fight back against the Hopeful. Given Argrave’s predisposition to sticking his nose in where he didn’t belong, Traugott bet it was the latter.

Whichever it was, it didn’t matter—they were one in the same, fundamentally. Shadowlanders were freed from the hierarchy when they were exposed to the mortal realm.

To escape with Traugott’s aid, Argrave’s company would need an opening to the mortal realm. To replenish the numbers of the liberating force, they’d need the same. Traugott’s own action was the bottleneck to all their plans, he was certain. As ever, his ability to shift between the realms would be the deciding factor in his life and death. To that end, he had spent much of his time in perfecting it. He could slip through perfectly enough that nothing besides himself passed.

Anneliese and Argrave were clever—they likely already guessed that Traugott needed to be able to touch the Shadowlander in question to free them. Upon seeing how he fought, what he did and didn’t do, Anneliese would likely be able to guess that his ability to bridge the two realms was the key to breaking the hierarchy.

It hardly mattered. Traugott’s success had never rested in outrageous victories. Instead, he merely avoided mistakes.

This was to be a battle in perfection. Traugott would slowly learn more and more about the ability Anneliese employed. He would learn the weakest links in their group, and exploit what mistakes they made. Whoever made fewer would be the victor. Even if he lost—if Anneliese discovered how to free the Shadowlanders, created an opportunity to do so, and killed him—Traugott still won.

After all, he’d long wondered what came after death. It was merely another thing to learn.

***

Anneliese felt rather like a starving hunter.

That wasn’t to say that she was overeager, but rather, she’d been tracking this quarry for a long while. Finally, she had it cornered—caught in a trap. The last thing that remained was dealing the finishing blow. Things were well at hand right now, but one small slip, and this crafty prey could slip free and avoid them all as it had countless times before. She would act slowly, act deliberately, and make no mistakes. Elsewise, she and the whole tribe would go hungry.

“Bhaltair, have your undead get distance. Send two to guard me,” she commanded. Hers was the only voice echoing in this place, as had been agreed long in advance. “Rider, advance. Suppress him. Do not overcommit.”

With her commands, the battlefield reshaped. The rider took the frontline, carefully holding the blade Argrave had created out in quiet standoff with the Manumitter. The undead formed what was effectively a ring around Traugott—not enough to attack, but enough to lash out at him if he was forced into a disadvantageous position.

Traugott played the part of cornered rat well enough, shuffling around carefully in consideration of all enemies around. He was no rat, though—in his red eyes she saw the growling tiger, waiting for opportunity to lunge forth. He fell into the mortal realm, and when he reappeared, had moved to the area his back had been facing. He probed at the undead with lunging attacks, retreating when their blades were ready to receive him. He changed targets back to the Shadowlander just as quickly, conjuring an S-rank spell of wind that slammed forth a mighty fist.

The rider swatted away the spell with the back of his hand in an unimaginable display of power, then thrust his blade at Traugott. The man had already dipped back into the mortal realm, and reappeared right beside the horse’s backside. Anneliese observed carefully as he thrust his stump of a left arm out, placing it against the horse’s haunches. When he pulled free his arm, he tore with it a new hand, pristine. The horse folded inward, much of its substance lost, and the rider fell to the ground.

Not only had Traugott gained a new body, he could restore it by mere contact with one of the Shadowlanders.

She stayed calm at this revelation, commanding, “Spellfire.”

The battlefield was immediately filled with blinding white light from lighting and flame both. She kept her eyes wide open despite the terrible brightness so as not to miss a single detail. When the chaos faded, Traugott had bypassed the undead, seeking some of the casters. Ghislain, though, had never once been idle since the battle began—every second, he created a weaving maze of illusions, hiding things and people in quiet recesses. Traugott sought to dispense with one aspect of this ambush, yet instead he found himself in another. 

Felipe I, founder of Vasquer, had an A-rank ascension uniquely suited for powerful attacks. He could compress magic to smaller sizes. The might of an S-rank wind spell contained in a knuckle-size ball—the penetrative power was amazing. He thrust his arm forth into Traugott’s shoulder blade, and it appeared almost like a martial attack when Traugott was sent tumbling forth, blackness leaking from his tattered back.

“Reform the previous position surrounding him,” Anneliese declared, not allowing herself to be swept up in what seemed an advantage.

She trusted the hyper-competent group she’d been assigned to follow her words to the letter, keeping her eye only on her prey. Traugott’s red eyes darted around not in panic, but in revelation. He held both arms to the ground, then Anneliese saw the mana ripple of higher ranking magic only a few seconds before quakes split the ground. Ghislain’s illusions required a physical medium to function, which was the ground in this case—to that end, with the ground disturbed they all shattered at once. Everyone was exposed.

“Beautiful,” she heard cut across the battlefield in that monotonous, bland tone all possessed.

After that, the tiger, which had previously been obediently shepherded by the prodding spears, came alive. Traugott fell back into the mortal world, yet she could tell at once this time was different. He wasn’t dodging an attack—instead, he was preparing his counterattack.

“Rider! To me!” She shouted urgently. “All casters, spread out! Group into pairs and watch the other’s back!”

As the Shadowlander horseman obeyed, conjuring a steed from his own blood, Traugott began to show the terrifying might of his A-rank ascension. By now, he had learned full well that retreat was the only condition Veid’s heart barred. Now that all were exposed, he didn’t need to dodge, wait, and observe. Instead, he became the vengeful specter in the heart of the enemy.

As the grouped pairs spread out on the uneven terrain, Traugott appeared silently in the heart of their formation with no warning or indication and rained attacks upon them. His first few attacks were clumsy, imprecise strikes—the pairs could respond in time to block, even counterattack. Even in his imprecision, his power was such only S-rank wards stood a chance of blocking them.

To sustain their magic, Anneliese was forced to divert some of the flood of vitality steadily coming from Argrave’s battle to replenish their magic supply, praying that it wouldn’t hinder Argrave’s fight if he was temporarily deprived. If she knew him, by now he was having a pleasant conversation with that lieutenant.

“Be ready,” she told the rider as he came to her side. “Any sound, any movement—react.”

Traugott’s clumsy attack soon became a whirlwind of a dance as the man learned how to fight in this style. Appearing above, behind, besides, and between them all, punching, kicking, casting spells… he was a menace. He was a sea creature biting at those floating on the surface. To their credit, the resurrected heroes could be likened to snapping turtles each and all, delivering sharp bites from within their impenetrable shell. 

But Anneliese knew Traugott was not one to be sidetracked.

Whether intuition or a simple deduction from her intense scrutiny, when Traugott vanished to the other side one time, she whispered, “He comes here.”

The rider beside her tensed… and when she heard a faint stirring behind her back, he leapt forth like lightning, swinging that blade of his. She heard nothing, but assumed the rider had missed. She prepared a spell in her left hand, and Traugott leapt out directly in front of her. She cast the spell. The blast of lightning hit nothing but air as Traugott vanished again. Despite the double-feint, Anneliese confidently clenched the blade of Veid’s heart, swinging it horizontally toward the right with all her might.

Traugott’s face appeared inches before the white blade of Veid’s heart. Her weapon struck right beside those gleaming red eyes of his. The blade was a divine artifact, forged from the heart of a powerful god, and tempered by the Fruit of Being—even a Shadowlander’s flesh couldn’t resist it. The force of Traugott’s charge railed against her arm, but so too did her blade. It sunk through skin and bone, cutting through his left eye, his nose, and then exiting his right eye.

When Traugott slammed into her, she was cast a great distance away, unable to keep her grip on her blade—but then, the weapon was a fundamental part of her. She slowed her roll and landed on her knees, then called her weapon back. It disappeared in one moment, then the next sprung forth from her hand. She watched where Traugott had ended up.

Traugott clutched his eyes, totally blinded—more than that, even. A great deal of his face had been destroyed. Even now, he made no signs that pain truly bothered him. He crammed his hand against his face, and Anneliese realized he was using his own flesh to reconstitute his eyes. Seeing how that power so similar to Sophia’s flowed through his body, a theory Anneliese had been developing felt completed.

As Traugott healed himself, without order from her, the rider leapt forth from his horse swinging his blade at Traugott’s skull. She had been expecting from the beginning the rider would, given the opportunity, act on his own initiative. His loyalty was to the Hopeful, first and foremost—the Hopeful wanted only the Manumitter’s death.

Traugott—without sight, but possessed of his other senses—stepped into the mortal realm. The rider tried to hunt him, thrusting his arm in the smallest crack. His act of recklessness finally confirmed something Anneliese had already been suspecting, given Traugott’s abundance of caution regarding his ability. Upon exposure to the light of the mortal realm, the Hopeful’s power faded, evaporating into nothingness. The rider was free of the hierarchy.

The Manumitter reappeared. He had a new wound in his chest from the Shadowlander’s desperate attack, yet his eyes had returned to him. The rider struggled to pull free his arm from the rapidly-closing portal, and while he did, Traugott walked up and slammed his foot upon his back. He pulled flesh free of the Shadowlander like a vulture might tear strips of meat free from a carcass, healing his wounds in seconds while the rider screamed. Anneliese thought the Shadowlander’s pain was more than physical—leaving the hierarchy had wounded him mentally, and he laid there helplessly as Traugott gorged himself to regenerate.

Once all his wounds were healed, Traugott turned his red-eyed gaze toward Anneliese. She rose calmly, holding the sword toward him. They both gave the other a silent appraisal of the other’s chance of victory, in that moment. Anneliese stood alone, her most physically powerful ally defeated. Even the undead were too far away to help her. The others couldn’t reach her in time.

Traugott stepped toward Anneliese, fading into the mortal realm, and she felt her heart pump quickly. She knew the shark was circling about, ready to take a bite. She called for no help, gave no command… instead, she merely went outside herself. She quietly sent her consciousness into an ally Traugott hadn’t seen—her Starsparrow.

The bird, its golden colors muted in this gloomy realm, flew above. She watched from above, scrutinizing the terrain with the utmost care for any movement. Traugott began to appear to her left, to her right, like the shark’s fin poking above the water. She could tell from his body language they were feints, one and all, and waited patiently for the true attack. To her, nothing existed in the battlefield beside the two of them.

Traugott appeared in front, casting two slow-moving S-rank fire spells. Anneliese stayed totally still as the inferno raged toward her. Even as it melted the ground and burnt her skin, she stayed in place. From above, she saw him appear slightly behind and to the left. He charged, intending to tackle her. In this moment of crisis, her next moves felt so intensely natural it felt like she’d done it a thousand times before.

She turned swiftly, tossing her blade and empowering her throw with a powerful wind spell. It rocketed forth faster than Traugott could react to, stabbing into his shoulder. He staggered, but kept charging. He’d not seen that Anneliese could call the blade back to her at a whim. Anneliese stepped to meet Traugott, then with one thought, had Veid’s heart back in her hand. Traugott, in a panic, abandoned his attack, fading away to the other side to dodge.

At the last moment Anneliese turned to confront the raging infernos, conjuring two S-rank wards. The firebombs exploded as a volcano might, concealing the whole area beneath flame and smoke. Amidst all of that, Anneliese’s eye was as steady as ever, watching from on high inside her Starsparrow. The next moments were a blur. A flash of movement, an instinctual duck and swing, and pain.

When next Anneliese could think clearly, she realized she was blind in one eye, and face-down on the ground. She rose to her feet, feeling a dull ache on the left side of her body. Her vision swam, but through the fading smoke, she saw Traugott desperately struggling to reattach his leg. With a primal yell, she again called her blade and sliced down into his shoulder.

Traugott, with only one leg and one arm, laid there unmoving. Anneliese called upon the flowing vitality coming from Argrave to heal her wounds and realized how close she’d come to death as her left eye and most of the left side of her face regained sensation. Once she was whole again, she walked up, pushing Traugott over with her sword. He grasped at it with his hand, but she merely called it back inside her body and his grip failed.

Just then, all of her allies caught back up to her. The undead placed their blades at his body, but did not kill him. The casters stood ready to attack at a moment’s notice, diligently hauling away body parts. In but a few seconds, Traugott was completely subdued. She raised her blade at his neck… yet even amidst this, he smiled.

“I think you know my secret,” Traugott said. “But you should also know that no amount of torture will make me cooperate. Just kill me. It would spare us both time, and the possibility of my escape.”

“All the genius in the world can’t help you if you’re arrogant,” she said. “You thought that no others were like you. That no one would be able to retrace your steps.”

“Yes. You came here, and you have me beaten. But every second you talk, you risk me getting away,” Traugott pushed. “My allies could return any moment. Will you take that risk? Come on. End me.”

“I’m not talking about following you here. I’m talking about all of it. Those husks you created?” Anneliese continued. “Those shells of Norman? Do you remember all of the people you killed? Likely not. But I remember. Despite the tragedy, knowledge is knowledge. I studied them. I studied the shell of Norman you imbued with the soul of a dog. I studied the Norman you sent to that actor’s troupe. I asked Argrave to tell me all he could of that workshop of yours, miles beneath the sea, working with Fellhorn.”

For once, Traugott couldn’t manage that calm in the face of her words.

“And you, so brazenly healing yourself using the Shadowlanders… exploiting that small fragment of Sophia’s power existing within Norman… it was like the final piece of the puzzle I was missing.” She dispelled the blade, then crouched down. “I thought this might be possible. But I didn’t dare dream you’d give me the final bit of inspiration I needed to enact it.”

Traugott began to struggle again, raging against the blades held close to his skin. He tried to fade into the mortal realm, but he was soon fixed into place by the spectators.

“You’re going to die, Traugott, but not in the way you want. I’m going to erase you. Everything you’ve learned… forgotten. I’m going to turn you into a blank shell, just like that message you sent us at the opera house. It’ll have all your powers, while all you’ve learned… I’ll erase it.”

“No. No, you won’t,” he said, gaining confidence. “You won’t know how to exploit Sophia’s power as I do. It took me weeks, months, to learn.”

“I know. I saw it all, your months of work,” she continued. “And lest you forget… I have [Truesight]. I’ve seen it all.”

“You’ll make a mistake,” he insisted, struggling fiercely. “Then I’ll die. I’ll pass away. You won’t get what you need from me.”

“Perhaps,” Anneliese admitted. “But that was the end result either way. You’ll die, one way or another.”

Anneliese reached out toward Traugott’s face, prepared to call upon the fragment of Sophia’s power within him to create something anew. Something with all of Traugott’s power, yet none of his essence. He raged against her touch as an animal against the butcher.

But the animal was already in the slaughterhouse, and there was no escape.

Chapter 54

After Anneliese declared her intent, she began the rigorous process of transforming Traugott. Ghislain concealed her utterly with his illusions, and the other casters all guarded her diligently as she worked. Nothing escaped—least of all Traugott, or the screams he made as she endeavored to erase him.

Though he pleaded, begged, and cried out in pain that was atypical of the Shadowlands, Anneliese showed him precisely the same level of mercy he had to those he’d experimented on: none at all. Rather, she demonstrated to him what it was to receive the attentions of one who only cared about the acquisition of knowledge regardless of the toll it took on the other person. She treated him as one might treat an object, a tool; a disposable one, at that, easily broken and replaced.

She was methodical, deliberate. Traugott had pointed out that she might make some mistakes, and she took his undoubtedly good-natured warning seriously. She avoided his brain, his soul, and the magical circuitry containing his A-rank ascension. Nothing else was spared her experimentation as he was turned inside and out repeatedly in the pursuit of answers. She unmade and remade his body parts repeatedly, using the severed scraps of his form lying about.

Anneliese asked questions of Traugott as she worked. He, unlike someone like Dimocles, was not devoid of emotions and tells—she could tell whether he was lying with her tried-and-true empathic abilities. Like so, he became her unwilling aide in his slow erasure. Even the heroes of old regarded Anneliese with some quiet unease as she worked.

Yet her theory soon became reality, and she felt a sense of triumph as she reverse-engineered what Traugott had concocted to create this form for himself. It could be said that his was a crude method, employing Sophia’s instinctive brilliance with slight tweaks to accommodate himself, his memories, and his powers. She found those changes, toying with them to see what was what. Once she understood it, she erased parts of them, bit by bit.

With her grand piece completed, and Traugott a subdued and blabbering wreck, Anneliese began the final metamorphosis. Traugott began to rage as she touched Sophia’s power within the core of his new, false body. He whimpered and cried like a dog caught in a bear trap. All that she could see in that pathetic display was the same misery he himself had inflicted on countless others. She had overspent her pity after seeing the tragedy he’d wrought—there was none left for him.

Traugott, former Magister of the Gray Owl, renegade S-rank spellcaster, died so that another could live. Anneliese was sure that any other would be a better use of the body than he possessed.

Traugott’s body shifted, cracked, and reset itself into the form of the Good King Norman, just as it had been before. But when the struggling ceased—the relentless attempts at liberation, the pleading cries… she could tell that something new laid before her. Something living, born from something dead.

Frightened red eyes peered up at Anneliese, totally silent as half a dozen blades of blood poked against his flesh. For the very first time, she saw some small resemblance between Sophia and Norman in their features. There was new life—and already, she felt it better than what came before.

Anneliese rose to her feet, looking at the new creation. “Can you understand me?” she said, expecting he could—she’d used that actor from the troupe as the baseline for this form.

The new man slowly nodded.

“Do you know who you are?”

The man opened his mouth, and in the same muted tone that the Shadowlands enforced, answered, “No.”

Anneliese could see no lies in those features. More than that, she could see magic pulsing through him, steadily as a heartbeat. A new being had been made. Something with all of Traugott’s power, but none of his character. The Shadowlanders had given him a name. She thought it fitting to make that name a reality.

“You’re known as the Manumitter,” Anneliese explained, then gestured at Bhaltair. The obese spellcaster commanded his undead to pull back their weapons, and the newly-created life sat up, looking around cautiously. “You’re called that because you embody a hope of a trapped people. Whether they’re worthy of realizing their hope, or whether you’re willing to give it to them… you’ll help decide that, now. I desperately hope you make better choices than the one that came before.”

The Manumitter looked up at her uneasily. “I don’t understand.”

“We have little time,” she continued. “Others beside myself can better explain it. I must be unfair to you, because I have to—but when all is said and done, I will give you the freedom to choose. For now… sleep.” She gestured at Emperor Balzat.

He used the only S-rank imperial spell, [Subjugate]. It employed its spirits to invade the Manumitter’s mind, and without the know-how to resist shamanic magic, he fell unconscious immediately.

“That was quite terrifying of you,” Felipe I commented. “You remind me of Vasquer, in many ways. Understanding, gentle… yet also capable of torturing something for hours if you think it’s necessary.”

Anneliese stared at the shell. “He deserved worse. Would that I had more time.” She shook her head, finding herself somewhat uneased by what Traugott had brought out in her. “What you saw of me, here, was what that man was at all times. Everything was just another tool, in his eyes. I imparted unto him only the standard he set with his own actions. The world is better with him erased.”

“Is he erased?” Emperor Balzat questioned, kneeling down to examine the body. “Is there no chance he can regain what he lost?”

“Well…” Anneliese closed her eyes. “Not on his own.”

In reconstructing his body, she had come to understand how to rebuild it again, returning the character of Traugott back to the shell. She was the only one with that knowledge, and she was quite confident even Raven couldn’t emulate it. Perhaps it might’ve been safest for her to ignore that knowledge. Yet Traugott knew things. He had learned countless secrets. With this, at least, she preserved the option to interrogate him, if necessary.

For better or for worse, she kept that knowledge.

“We’ve dawdled enough,” Anneliese said loudly, looking around at everyone. “Bhaltair—take the Manumitter. We’re going to support Argrave. Devise a foolproof method to display him as a hostage without risking him being recaptured.”

“And what of the Shadowlander?” asked Ghislain.

Anneliese looked at the rider, who laid there suitably subdued after both his fight with Traugott and his freedom from the hierarchy. Bhaltair prudently still had guards positioned with blades raised to pierce him, lest he sabotage their efforts at the last minute.

“Take him, too. Subdue him the same way,” Anneliese commanded. “I think it’d be best to have a somewhat impartial witness testify, too. He’ll suffice.”

“The Hopeful will likely know that the escort he sent with us had been freed of the hierarchy,” Felipe I pointed out. “He could be coming, even now.”

“Then let’s waste no more time. We reunite with Argrave. Displaying Traugott should, I think, stop the fighting. Even if only temporarily.”

“And beyond that?” Someone asked—she couldn’t see who.

“We could escape immediately if I instruct the Manumitter on how to use his power. But I want to consult with Argrave.” She rolled her shoulders, psyching herself up for one final push. “The Shadowlands still remain a threat to our realm. We might change that, somehow.”

Anneliese was beyond exhausted. But after this fight, she finally began to see some light in this dark realm. A hope of freedom.

***

Argrave had never before used this many blood echoes in a fight. Every single one of them was in the purpose of escaping, not attacking. It wasn’t by choice, either; he simply didn’t have the mental capacity to attack amidst this onslaught.

The time for talking never came despite his tremendous efforts to force the contrary. He’d hoped to rough this Shadowlander lieutenant up a little to force her to the table, but the only one ‘roughed up’ ended up being him—he was hit, twice, and both nearly killed him. She was unrelenting. She became so skilled at tracking where Argrave was going to end up that he often couldn’t even think about what to say—he had to desperately struggle to stay alive, valiantly struggling against feints and counter feints as he controlled the battlefield for Anneliese to work her magic.

The only way to get this woman to slow down, he was certain, involved taking significant risk to his own person. Given his importance in this operation, he couldn’t dare afford said risks. He’d been given a role, and he knew it was so delicately crafted that freestyling could get everyone killed. Argrave became Atlas, shouldering the whole damned world while a psychopath far stronger than Hercules tried to kill him with infinite weapons.

For a long while he was far too preoccupied avoiding imminent death, but all too suddenly that rapid and unceasing assault did what felt impossible—it ceased. Argrave breathed heavily, staring at this woman. He didn’t even have the fortitude left to conjure words. She was looking at something distant—he didn’t dare look away, in case this was some trick to make him put his guard down. Finally, he got some more distance from the woman, observing what she was.

Amidst the bloody locust clouds that protected Anneliese’s battlefield, he saw a group appear. He was beginning to dislike white hair, but seeing his favorite white-haired person there immediately reversed that perspective. And—bound in some intricate device—rested a limp and shadowy Good King Norman. Well, Traugott, in actuality, but it had all the familiar hallmarks. He’d expected a dead Traugott, but this one seemed alive and well. It was beyond expectations, but also made him worry some. That snake needed to be chopped to bits as soon as possible, to ensure he was dead. For now, he trusted Anneliese.

Argrave looked at the berserker Shadowlander woman, and finally closed his fists to end the spell. His fingers were stiff from their prolonged casting, and he flexed it again and again. He cast the last remaining locusts shrouding the whole arena adrift, revealing a devastated scene with tides of Shadowlanders crawling at the edge of it all. He was certain that the land had been a few meters higher up when the battle began, but now it was a wasteland of destruction—sheared flat in some places from locusts, and broken to bits in others from the Shadowlander lieutenant’s assault.

“Should’ve listened,” Argrave said. “Might’ve got a clue. Ready to talk?”

He could tell from looking at her the Shadowlander strongly considered leaping out with one more attack, and flinched instinctively. Beneath that unending rage, though, was someone smart enough to realize when bashing things couldn’t solve the problem. He sighed in relief.

Argrave sent a blood echo out to teleport to Anneliese’s group. In his heart, he could feel it. It was time to get the hell out of here, one way or another.

Chapter 55

Argrave stood proudly beside Anneliese as they walked toward the white-haired woman, taking their sweet time. There was a tacit understanding between berserker and non-berserker that they were to meet, amply far from Traugott, to negotiate on the fate of their burgeoning alliance. That ‘alliance’ bit wasn’t tacit—indeed, this might be misconstrued as ‘hostage negotiation.’ Argrave had talked his way out of worse.

Only Argrave and Anneliese went, as the others weren’t so readily capable of resisting the Shadowlander lieutenant. Following behind them, bound in chains of blood, was the rider. He would serve as a witness to the lieutenant, in case she needed someone of her own kind to offer some perspective into the battle Anneliese had with Traugott. Argrave had earned his own perspective on what Anneliese had done. It made him view his role a little more fondly.

“So… you’re telling me you erased him?” Argrave asked her as they walked. “Wiped the whiteboard clean? Sanitized his data? Degaussed his dome? I’m beyond impressed, Anne.”

“I got lucky,” she said simply.

“Oh yeah, sure,” he agreed sarcastically. “Really lucky, spending all that time reviewing the dark things that he’d done. Tons of good fortune in that act. Not deliberate at all. You accidentally studied what he’d done to figure out how to fight against him.”

“I was speaking of the battle,” she interrupted—at once, Argrave could tell she was in no mood for jokes about the subject and made his expression sterner. “My body felt like it moved on its own in that final clash. He might’ve crushed my skull… but he didn’t. I might’ve been forced to kill him outright, yet I subdued him. That was luck.”

“That’s talent,” Argrave disagreed. “Though I suppose you could argue talent is luck. Either way, I think you’re awesome.”

Anneliese nodded, then moved past the issue, questioning, “What do you want to tell that woman?”

“I want to call her mean things until she cries.” Argrave looked ahead. “But I can’t get what I want. I doubt there are words mean enough to break that heart of stone she has. But I imagine you’re asking what I want to achieve here, now that we have the key to it all.”

Argrave looked around the devastated landscape. He wasn’t fond of this place. Gray, grim, and gruesome—those gr words described it quite well. The people here were inhospitable. He couldn’t exactly blame them for being ornery; they had an affliction that caused them immense distress. Said distress caused them to recklessly consume everything around in a bid to sate the insatiable. It was like a world of violent addicts. It would certainly be easy enough to turn tail and run away. As he’d mentioned, they had the skeleton key at hand.

Argrave looked behind himself, eyeing the one they dragged along. “Our former escort mentioned that only the Hopeful and his lieutenants know how new life comes to the Shadowlands. Considering her revolt, I think there’s more to this situation that’s left unknown. I don’t think the Hopeful is entirely the benevolent dictator this man declares him as. And I think we can get some answers, at the very least.”

He looked upon the white-haired Shadowlander. When she wasn’t trying to kill him, she looked somewhat small. “Still… best be prepared for flight at any moment. This one’s a bit of a firebrand.”

***

“Tell me what you want, give me the useless one, then fuck off,” the woman declared, waving her hand at them mere moments after they gave introductions.

Argrave studied her, still feeling some instinctive need to dodge while confronting her so closely. Rather like the Hopeful, much of her body was wreathed in shadows. Only dark red eyes shone past them. That, and her short white hair.

“We could negotiate more amicably,” Argrave suggested.

“You killed thousands of my men,” she reminded him, staring stalwartly. “You won. Against my gut, I’m refraining from continuing my attempts to end you. But now that I’ll never again speak to many I called ally, this is as amicable as I can get.”

“And the man we captured has killed tens of thousands of our people,” Anneliese said, putting a hand to her heart. “Through him, we have the means of escape from this place. Yet despite all of that, we put down our arms for dialogue. This was a battle of necessity, but neither he nor I are unsympathetic to you of yet.”

“Of yet?” she repeated.

“Of yet,” Argrave confirmed. “But we need answers from you.”

“Answers? Answers, while the Hopeful may march toward this place even now?”

Argrave shook his head. “He’s too scared of what he built falling apart to try anything. He hasn’t attacked you yet—he definitely won’t now.”

The woman shifted on her feet, looking off to the distant abyss in quiet ponderance. She looked back and said only, “Ask.”

Argrave looked back at the bound Shadowlander—they’d brought him to help persuade her, but now he had become a rather depressing third wheel. Still, he focused back on the woman.

“Show us your face,” Argrave directed. “It’ll help us know if you lie.”

She looked irritated, but brought her shadow-wreathed hands up and seemed to draw something down. Her abyssal flesh revealed itself, and soon enough all her features were clear. She looked surprisingly human, in spite of it all.

Argrave started basically. “What are you fighting for?”

“Freedom,” she said, looking all around. “Freedom from the lies, the horrors. The option to choose to live or die, and be free of this cursed place. Free from the constant infighting, and the will pressing on the back of your neck to make you do that which you hate. I want all that shit to go away. It’s sickening. It’s worse than the hunger. Those under my banner are in agreement—we will not be the Hopeful’s slave any longer.”

In response to the Shadowlander’s openness, Anneliese asked intently, “What exactly is this place?”

“A gutter,” she answered at once. “What it was made for, I don’t know—gutter trash aren’t permitted to know the whims of those that build the gutters, you see. But it serves a purpose for someone. Perhaps it’s punishment. Whatever it is, the Hopeful knows. I intend to extract the answer from his bleeding body, or his corpse. I intend to eat him alive. Only then might I have my answers.”

Argrave looked at Anneliese to see if she noticed any lies, yet there were no indications from her. 

“What exactly are the Shadowlanders? How does new life come here?” Anneliese continued.

The lieutenant inhaled deeply. “The very question all of us ask. The answers to your questions made me harbor this resentment. It hints that we’re a part of the greater cycle outside of this place, outside of this realm. It hints that the Hopeful is not someone suffering the same affliction, but rather something placed here to keep us all in line.” She shook her head. “I’ll tell you clear. All of us are dead gods.”

Argrave didn’t know quite what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. Both he and Anneliese fell silent, chewing that with active minds. Anneliese clearly thought the woman wasn’t lying, and provided the Shadowlander wasn’t outright wrong… what could be the purpose behind this place?

“I can see you thinking. Don’t bother—it’s fruitless. All we have is guesswork. Gods, the best among mortals… and us Shadowlanders, the worst among the best. It’s why I call this place a gutter. With those questions, you have essentially all that I know that you couldn’t extract from your prisoner. Now, tell me—does this end in violence, or will you give me the cyst you stole?”

“You’re talking about Traugott?” He snorted when the woman nodded, but felt the need to remind her, “Don’t be overeager. You seem angered by your people being killed. Perhaps you’ll understand when I say that I fear the same thing might happen to us if we let you have the key to the Shadowlands. We can work something out, but we need to know your intentions for the mortal realm. Our concern lies, bluntly put, in the living and breathing, not long dead gods warped into cursed forms.”

She crossed her arms. “The Hopeful is the one that sends out the weakest among us to fight in the mortal realm. I have no reason to do the same.”

“…and if I were to say that it’s exposure to the mortal realm that breaks your shackles?” Argrave continued. “Would that change the circumstance?”

She exhaled loudly and lowered her head. “I should’ve known.” She lifted her head back up, fire in her eyes. “Consider this—with the Hopeful dead, all of us would be freed. Only in the shadows, however, is our hunger abated. What need would we have to go to your realm? Why would we invite pain onto ourselves?”

“I’m not sure. And neither are you. There are a lot of unknowns in this deal. My priority is my people.”

“As is mine,” she answered back. “I promise that I have no intention of unleashing Shadowlanders upon your land.”

“But this could become far bigger than you alone as more join you in freedom,” Argrave countered quickly. “That’s the nature of the word. Unless you intend to inherit the hierarchy, somehow—which I don’t think you want to, even if you could—you can’t control them all. You’d be giving free will to things that’ve killed my people for millennia uncountable.”

The lieutenant didn’t deny this fact, staring ahead with her red eyes in quiet consideration.

“We need some time to think,” Argrave said. “We’ll consult, then come back with your answer.”

Argrave was prepared to turn and leave, but saw the lieutenant’s stance shift subtly. Just as he was ready to take Anneliese and get away, his queen stepped forth and put her hand on the Shadowlander’s shoulder.

As the shadows wreathed around her hand, Anneliese said, “Alone, you couldn’t defeat Argrave. But he and I are together, now. Together, it’s different,” she lowered her voice in subtle threat. “To that end, I suggest you be careful. Freedom doesn’t mean you can act without consequence. Don’t make enemies where you don’t have them.”

Argrave’s gaze flitted between the two of them. Anneliese kept her amber eyes fixed against that berserker glare. The former lieutenant seemed to be strongly considering whether or not to fight them here and struggle to reclaim Traugott. In the end… her tenseness lessened, and she pulled her shoulder from Anneliese’s hand.

“I’ll wait for your answer, then. I hope you have the decency to give me one.”

Argrave thought they were strange words coming from someone who’d considered sucker-punching them, but he held his tongue. Together, Anneliese and Argrave went to find their answer. Was there something of value here? Would they leave this realm to languish in shadow, as it so often had?

Or, perhaps, as with Traugott… was there another way forward altogether?

Chapter 56

“Are all of you really sure that you want to do this?” Argrave asked, looking between the dead heroes of old.

“I can speak for myself alone, but I know that my time is running out,” Felipe I confirmed with a stoic nod of his head. “Garm could allot us only so much time. It’s bound to run out eventually. At least in this manner, we live on, in a way. Better to give yourself up in service of something greater than to die ingloriously protecting temporary interests. Of course, it’d be best not to die at all… but it’s my fault for doing it the first time, so I can’t complain.”

“We were never really alive to begin with,” Bhaltair reminded them all. “We are all but tools for an epoch beyond our own, of Argrave’s taming.”

As the Archchief of the Burnt Desert nodded in quiet agreement, an elven general chided, “A fitting attitude for a necromancer. But it’s not wrong. This is an excellent capstone to glorious service.” The elven warrior gave a salute. “It’s been an honor serving under you, commander. I never thought I could give honor to a human, besides the honor of dying at my hand. You’ve proven me wrong. Many of you have.”

“Mmhmm. And considering so much rests in your hands, Argrave, some of the more calculating among us think to indebt you to them so you’ll never dare violate that document we drafted together.” Emperor Balzat crossed his arms, scrutinizing some who didn’t meet his gaze. “As for myself, I hope only that you’ll take care of my granddaughter.”

Constant agreement came—a steady deluge of approval, one by one, without exception. These strong-willed men and women had long ago come to terms with what had been done to them, and what would happen to them once their time was up. Argrave questioned if he could so bravely accept an inevitable fate.

“Then it’s settled,” Argrave concluded. “Let’s take the offer to the scary woman. Be ready to pack your bags at a moment’s notice in case she’s unreceptive.”

“The empty shell can already replicate what Traugott could do,” Ghislain said. “He’s rather good at learning. We’ll be ready.”

“I only hope that’s not an ill omen,” Anneliese said with a sigh, then turned her amber eyes to Argrave. “I’m ready.”

Argrave clapped, already looking forward to being free of this place once and for all. “Let’s dance.”

***

The rebelling lieutenant studied the contrasting pair of lovers as they walked back to her. One with long white hair, the other with short black. One with eyes full of color, the other gray as the Shadowlands. There was a near palpable link between the two of them. The locust-bringer, who bled pain, was bad enough as an opponent… but with this woman alongside him, she could not recklessly attack. It was instinct alone telling her that these two could defeat her, but instinct had brought her far in the vicious Shadowlands.

They came to a stop a fair distance away from her. She waited for them to speak in silence.

“We’re willing to help you with your dream of liberation,” the man named Argrave said. “But there are conditions.”

“Conditions for liberation defeats the purpose,” she spat back in an ugly rage. “Freedom of choice, with only one option. Freedom to walk, with only one path. Freedom to think, with only one subject. Is that what you’re offering?”

“Before we offer anything, I hope you’ll exercise your freedom to shut up and listen,” Argrave said in irritation. “Too many lives are at stake for us to just hand you the Manumitter, give you a pat on the back, and send you on your unmerry way. You’ve amply proved in fighting me that there are dangerous people here. But!” He raised a finger. “We can offer you a compromise. Namely… we could create a permanent portal to your realm. There, you’d be able to baptize your Shadowlanders, so to speak, whenever you wanted. Same end result, one way or another, but it’s a place instead of a person.”

“That would be a strategic burden,” she said, considering it.

“Well… so was Traugott, before my lovely wife so expertly showed him precisely how useless he was before real genius.” He gestured to the elven woman at his side. “Despite his noncompliance, you seemed to be managing fine. I think you could manage even better with a single place you need to dunk your fellows inside.”

“Once the Hopeful learns how liberation works, he could strategize around it,” she argued.

“It sounds like you need a wonderful leader,” Argrave said with a smile, placing his arms behind his back. “Someone who could ensure that the Hopeful doesn’t manage to learn anything. Someone that could take the odds, stacked against you as they are, and overturn them completely. Well… I have over two dozen of such figures. Two dozen of the best leaders in the world. That brings me to the second of my two conditions.” Argrave brought his hand up, and pointed at his eyes. “Supervision.”

“Supervision?” She repeated. “You want to leave some of your allies here, in the Shadowlands? They won’t survive. They’ll be eaten, like everything else.”

“They’re aware of that. Each and all of them are living on borrowed time, anyway.” Argrave put his hand up to his chin. “Rather like you, the people that I brought with me are the greatest of their generation. They’re reincarnations of the greatest leaders our world has ever seen. Their leadership was perhaps the sole reason that I won here today.” He looked to Anneliese. “I think the both of us can attest to the fact that their expertise might give you victory.”

She was taken aback. “Supervision is one thing… strategy is another. We’re dead gods, lest you’ve forgotten. That means we’re among the best—”

“It means less than you might think,” Anneliese interrupted. “Deities are merely those unlucky enough to be born in the period in which Gerechtigkeit descended. But these people? They were chosen from the annals of all history. Bluntly put… I have no doubt they are your equals, and perhaps your superiors. They can give you victory.”

“I don’t see it.” She crossed her arms defiantly.

Argrave seemed disappointed as he said, “You haven’t caught on by now? If you’re that slow, then you’re definitely going to need the tremendous gift that I’m offering. What you need is a great leader—a destined leader that could fight back against the one that dictates all of your life and achieve a smashing victory. And we’re giving you leaders, plural.”

“Your people do this willingly?” She interrogated.

Argrave nodded. “None of them protested. Not a one.”

She pressed, “They know what they’re getting into?”

“They know of the hunger. They saw the Hopeful, and know you’re his enemy. They’re committed nonetheless.”

She flexed her hand uneasily, not quite sure what to make of this. “I fail to see what you get out of this.”

“The Manumitter, as you know him, can close portals to the Shadowlands as easily as he can make them. That’s what I get by keeping him—protection from your people. Beyond that, I merely want to do a good deed. I find that good deeds tend to be repaid in time. If they’re not, so be it. But I believe my allies will make for a more than adequate boon to your fight.”

She ground her feet against the stone beneath. The logic in her head ate at her gut, telling her that it was fundamentally foolish to let the Manumitter slip out of her grasp. He’d just said that the portal could close at any time, with him in their hands…

“You could’ve simply left,” she looked up. “But you came back, despite not needing to. You offered conditions, even aid, despite not needing to. I’ll…” She hesitated, nearly swallowing the words. “I’ll choose to trust you. All of my peers would mock me for that decision. I hope you’ll prove them wrong. I hope you’ll prove that what I’m fighting for is not a lie.”

He smiled. “See? I knew this could be amicable. I’m pleased to know there is something bright in that head of yours.”

She inhaled deeply. “I’m going to be charitable and assume you’re speaking of my character rather than my intelligence. Now… shall we?”

***

“We’ve been toying with the mind quite a lot, lately,” Argrave reminisced. All was done on their part—now, the former lieutenant would need to integrate her new volunteer troops. “It does make me wonder what our research team found. If we come back having learned more about the mind than they did… good lord. Still, I’d say this was a more-than-satisfactory conclusion. It was far better than I even hoped for. Thanks to you, largely.”

Anneliese nodded. “I… indulged some part of myself I find frightening, Argrave.”

“Okay…” Argrave studied her. “Are you feeling an urge to go kill babies or something?”

“Of course not.” She straightened her back, almost offended.

“I don’t see the problem, then.” Argrave shrugged. “I think it’s just this place, this… this muted melancholy. You’ll feel yourself again—and if you don’t, I’ll drag it out of you. I miss your voice. I miss mine, too. I often miss my voice, but this past while it’s been especially strong.”

“You mean… you miss your old voice, before you were Argrave?” She questioned seriously.

“No, I just mean I like to hear myself talk,” he said, and Anneliese laughed with a shake of her head. She should’ve known better.

“I do wonder if we’ve seen the last of this place.” Anneliese looked around at the land of whites, blacks, and grays. At the border, the shadows closed in, inch by inch. “I feel our foray was incomplete, somehow.”

“If we do see more…” Argrave looked upward. “We’re about to put some of the brightest minds the world’s ever seen to work, strengthening their loyalty to us. Hopefully they’ll be on our side. Though…”

“Though?” Anneliese pressed.

“That hunger…” he closed his eyes. “Those hounds… they’re quite the force, Anne. I think our friends can overcome them and lead this bunch to glory. But we’d best hope Traug—excuse me, the Manumitter. We’d better hope he doesn’t feel them.”

“Hounds…” Anneliese closed her eyes. “I saw them, then. Back when Castro gave his life to save ours. Back when he demonstrated [Arete].”

“I remember. You talked about it at that opera house in the Great Chu.” Argrave recalled his fight, feeling a chill even in this muted place. “I see why they haunted you, now.”

“As to your concern, I don’t think the Manumitter carries these hounds like the other Shadowlanders. Still, I can’t shake the memory of them. I worry about our world, should they pass through.”

“When the time comes, we might be able to turn that hunger against Gerechtigkeit. That’s the hope, anyway.” Argrave looked at her. “But if you have serious doubts, perhaps we could…”

“No. I helped conceive this plan. I believe in it.” She clasped her hands together. “But it’s frightening to believe, when you wish you could know.” She seemed to realize something, and laughed. “I’ve always been a little afraid of not knowing something.”

“That’s what the shadows are, Anneliese. Traugott tried to know everything.” Argrave shook his head. “But let’s not get existential. We’re at the end, and everything about me is ruined. These tatters can’t be called clothes anymore.” He looked down at himself. “I’m ready to get out of here.”

“As am I…” Anneliese agreed quietly.

Chapter 57

When Argrave again returned to the mortal realm, common sensations so long denied to him came rushing back in a wave that quickly translated into euphoria.

The location that Traugott had been using as his point of contact with the mortal world was an archipelago, evidently, deep out in the middle of nowhere. The sight of the sun and the clouds, far above, felt so pleasant and soothing. The sounds of the waves crashing against the rocks was robust, hearty—as was the smell of salt, lingering in the air so clearly. Never before had the sea smelled sweeter, nor its mists more pleasant.

Argrave and Anneliese walked about mutely while the Manumitter kneeled in stunned silence, taking it all in. This was the first time that he had seen this world. The other one had likely been frightening enough, but now this? It was like walking into the garden of Eden after being so long denied the basic realities of living. It might be said that he’d come out of the womb.

After a while, Argrave and Anneliese looked at each other, their eyes moving up and down. Their clothes were battered, torn, and broken—Argrave’s most of all. They were caked in blood in so many places, covered in dirt and dust in so many more. Their hair was greasy and matted, and even past the scent of the sea, an unpleasant stench came from them: death, and much else.

“You look utterly terrible,” she told him with a huge smile on her face. Argrave felt the deepest of joys simply from hearing her voice normal again. It was hoarse, ill-practiced, and cracked at multiple points… yet it sounded the sweetest it ever had. “You’re the worst I’ve ever seen you. It’s nauseating me.”

“So do you!” He countered, and they both began laughing like fools as they experienced yet another joy that had been lost to them—the simple pleasure of an embrace.

The melancholy of the Shadowlands had weighed heavily on them. It was a suppressing place, a weight constantly bearing down on them. But now they were free of it, and their largest issue had been more than captured alive—he’d been turned to the bright side, so to speak. Looking at him here, though… the Manumitter was a horror show, and looked ill-adapted to living in this world.

“This place…” he sputtered. “It’s… it’s terrifying. It’s so much,” he said, looking about in abject fear. “Do I have to leave that place? I think… I think I belong there,” he pleaded. “Take me back.”

Anneliese broke away from Argrave and kneeled down in front of the Manumitter sympathetically. “I told you that I would need to be rough with you for some time. That hasn’t changed, yet. Stay strong.”

He closed his eyes as if to block out sights and sounds.

“…Argrave?” came an uncertain voice in his head.

“Elenore!” he exploded back. “Good lord. I missed the sound of your voice so damn much. I missed all of you!”

“…alright, calm down,” she responded, but he could detect a tinge of flattered amusement on her tone. “Take your time. Collect yourself. When you’re ready, come back. There’s much to discuss.”

***

The Great Cleansing of the Shadowlands came first—that is to say, cleaning themselves of all the pounds of muck and filth they’d accumulated in that hellish place where they couldn’t even tell that they were filthy. They jumped into the sea at first—after feeling its chill, they went to a geothermal spring near Vysenn. With the cleansing done, they delivered the Manumitter to Raven, explaining things thoroughly.

“Our hope is that you could install the same some of mark you did on Durran,” Argrave laid out, fiddling with the new clothes that they’d donned to maintain some basic level of decency before returning to Blackgard. “A killswitch.”

“Hmm. His flesh is different.” Raven studied the sleeping Manumitter. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I may come by later. I want to see what information can be pried out from Traugott’s mind. I… I can restore him, you see.” Anneliese rubbed her hands together guiltily when Argrave looked at her in shock—she hadn’t mentioned that part. “I figured out how to imitate his methods.”

Raven studied her in some surprise. “You absorb information so quickly, so readily. It does always surprise me, to some extent. I will do as you ask. If I do not, then I will simply keep him in stasis until such a time as you need him. Have you spoken to the others about what happened at Blackgard?”

Argrave clapped his hands together—ultimately, Anneliese had only done something good by preserving Traugott’s mind, so he was content to ignore it. “Did something exciting happen back home? A solution to a pressing problem, perhaps?”

“Exciting in a sense.” Raven looked to his right, where something silver shone brilliantly. It looked like a knight, from Argrave’s quick look, but he didn’t have time to solidify that before Raven looked back. “I would advise you to return and speak to your sister immediately.”

Argrave felt a grim premonition, and looked to Anneliese to see similar thoughts writ on her face.

***

Argrave looked out across the devastated landscape beyond the mountains of Blackgard. By way of explaining things, Elenore had asked Argrave take them to the highest peak of the mountain. The wind whipped his face so high up, perched above it all. Elenore and Anneliese stood with him.

“How could this happen?” He asked, though he knew the answer.

“How? Rather suddenly,” Elenore shouted above the wind. “Orion was warned, but… it’s complicated. The Gilderwatchers? Gerechtigkeit’s mastery over them? This is the fruit of that, I’m afraid.”

Argrave looked at her in dread, and Anneliese conjured a ward to block off the wind. His voice suddenly sounded all too clear as he asked, “Do you mean to say that more of those knights in Raven’s laboratory could be coming?” He looked back at the city. “Good lord… look at the streets, the buildings. How many people did we lose?”

“We did the best we could, Argrave. Orion… what he did… it’s…”

“I’m not reprimanding anyone. This is my fault,” he said, shaking his head. “I should’ve known better. Should’ve planned better. Should’ve had gods stationed near here, but I was just too afraid of them finding out about Sophia in some way…” Argrave clenched his forehead. “God damn it.”

“This knight direly injured Rook with one attack, and swatted away Law like he was his better.” Elenore touched his arm. “We did plan. It wouldn’t have mattered.”

Argrave blinked in stunned silence. “How the hell did the thing get…?” He gathered his thoughts, thinking hard. “If even ancient gods were so handily beaten back…”

“Like I said.” Elenore looked back at the scene. “Orion killed it. He… he was legendary, Argrave. There’s no better word for it.”

Argrave exhaled in awe. “The Fruit of Being. Did you give it to him?”

“No.” Elenore shook her head. “I was too afraid to. But while everyone else was fleeing, he rushed in, alone, and dueled that knight. On that note… here.”

Elenore grabbed at his hand, and he resisted for half a second before surrendering meekly. She tried a ring on his different fingers until she found one that fit—the pinky. Argrave felt a strange stirring inside of his body.

“Your soul…” Anneliese said in surprise as she looked at him, evidently seeing something with [Truesight]. Elenore walked to her, too, and did the same ring-fitting maneuver.

Once they were on, Elenore stepped back and looked at the two of them, holding up her own hand. It had a ring as well. “The results of the research team. Druidic magic was expanded into soul magic, whatever that means… and as a result, Artur’s been hammering out these rings en masse. I’ve been distributing them to protect against mental attack, but it’s insufficient considering the scope of people we might need to protect. A larger solution will be needed, I’m certain.”

Argrave fiddled with the ring in wonder. “Meaning… the research team, Llewellen… they did it?”

“Weeks ago, yes.” Elenore nodded.

Argrave flexed his hand, admiring the simple craftsmanship of the ring containing such a complex enchantment. “It seems I have tons of commendations to give out, national heroes to name.”

“Orion is taking it easy, and I won’t let you overstrain him,” Elenore said firmly. “Llewellen is missing.”

“Missing?” Argrave repeated.

“That’s what I said. Your ears work.”

Argrave looked at Anneliese, then back at his sister. “Any more details?”

“Onychinusa may have kidnapped him,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m told she got into a very large fight with him. She wasn’t willing to accept his inevitable death, despite his relaxed attitude about the subject. The day after, he was simply gone. Her as well.”

Anneliese nodded. “It sounds… very like her.”

“Oh, and the Bloodwoods requested to be named a Vasquer protectorate,” Elenore said as if it was an off-hand remark, easily forgotten.

“What?” Argrave gaped.

“You know as much as I do,” Elenore sighed. “It came out of the blue. After this incident, I do wonder if they’re as stalwartly committed… but there’s been no retraction. Nor have I given an answer.” She looked at him. “And you? Was this expedition as important as you predicted?”

Argrave bowed. “The lady of honor shall report her triumph, I think. Anneliese?” He flourished.

“Traugott was gathering an army, attempting a coup on the Shadowlands. Long-term, I think he planned to take the fight to us. I erased his mind, and now we can use his powers to stop any Shadowlanders that may come. Raven is looking after him,” she summarized.

Elenore blinked for a few moments. “Oh.”

“Long-term, we may have allies there,” Argrave continued. “It’s a… shot in the dark, you might say… but the possibility exists. We do need to garrison a location. An island, out in the middle of nowhere. It’s a point of contact between the rebels and our forces.”

“Allies? With them? The same species of creature that ravaged Dirracha?” Elenore looked more than skeptical.

“It baffles me too, but I saw what I saw.” Argrave looked back to the scene of utter devastation. “After seeing this, I’m not sure if they’d even be sufficient.”

For the first time, he was getting a sense of the scale of the calamity he’d invoked pulling Sophia from her eternal prison in Sandelabara. Gerechtigkeit was not as he was. The ancient calamity that Argrave remembered seemed like a chihuahua by comparison—a lot of noise and barking, but not at all the same scale of devastation.

They were nearing the summit that many had tried to climb before, but none had ever succeeded in cresting.

“You’re mostly caught up,” Elenore said. “I’ve been trying to hold this place together as best I can. There is someone that I believe you need to speak to, however.” Argrave looked at her, seeing the seriousness in her face as she said, “Sophia.”

“Is she well?” Argrave stepped in. “Was she harmed, somehow?”

“Not harmed, no. But… she did have some more dreams. She’s clinging to Orion, fortunately, and he’s being very gentle with her… but she asks about you, often. I think she has something to say.” Elenore shook her head with a sigh. “I’m not sure. I worry for her. That knight was definitely coming for her. And I can’t help but think this won’t be the end of it.”

Argrave nodded. “I’ll speak to her right away.”

Chapter 58

When Argrave went to find Sophia, preparing himself for what he thought could be a serious and heart-wrenching conversation, he saw something that made him pause and watch. Orion was giving her a piggyback ride, and running around the courtyard very quickly as she screamed and laughed with pure joy. It was the closest thing to a rollercoaster that could be found in this world, he supposed. His brother seemed to be having just as much fun as she was, too.

When Argrave was finally spotted, their fun came to an early close—Orion hauled her from his back and set Sophia down, where she staggered uneasily. He moved her to a rock, said some words, then walked over to Argrave.

“Your Majesty,” Orion greeted, giving him a salute by putting his fist to his heart. He wore plainclothes, and evidence from the battle still persisted on his body at points. It must’ve been a tremendously close fight for even Orion to still bear scars long after its conclusion. “You’ve returned. I heard from Elenore what happened. Congratulations on your victory,” he said sincerely. “I apologize I was not better able to defend this place.”

Argrave narrowed his eyes. “You’re joking, right? You’re the only reason this place wasn’t entirely levelled.”

“Others like Durran contributed, but I won’t deny it as my proudest moment. I only wish I could have ended the battle earlier, before so many lives were lost.” He looked back to Sophia. “But enough of me. You came here to speak to Sophia, yes? I’ve been trying to keep her spirits up, in light of what she’s learned. Her spirits, and my own.”

Argrave watched Sophia as she regained her balance. She sat where Orion had left her, patiently waiting. “I came here to find you in equal measure. We have a lot to talk about. First, though… let me go talk to her. Elenore said it would best.”

“As she should. Sophia missed you dearly,” Orion agreed. “I will be nearby, should you need me.”

Orion walked away, and Argrave thought there was something that had changed about his brother’s demeanor. He seemed less… constricted, in a way. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Nevertheless, he turned and walked to Sophia, who still seemed dazed after travelling aback Orion.

Argrave came up just before Sophia and knelt down. “Hello, young lady.”

“Hello, Your Majesty,” she greeted, with an undeniable twinge of caution on her tone. Moreover, she used the formal address with him—was she taking cues from Orion, or was it something else?

“Are you alright, Sophia?” Argrave asked.

“I’m well. Annel—the queen. Is she…?”

“She’ll be coming in a moment—she just needs to resolve some matters before she does.” He scooted a little closer. “It seems like something’s bothering you, Sophia. Is anything wrong? Elenore said you wanted to speak to me about something.”

“I…” She looked down, closing her eyes. “I figured out some things. About who I am. About my brother.”

“I see.” Argrave nodded. He could tell that the revelations were weighing heavily on the girl’s mind. To finally connect the dots between this world-ending calamity that they’d been speaking of, and her own brother… he couldn’t imagine how a nine-year-old girl could cope with that especially easily. He said words he felt needed to be said. “I hope you know that it doesn’t change things between us, Sophia. And it certainly doesn’t change how much I missed you while I was gone. Did you not miss me?”

Sophia opened her eyes again and looked up at him, cautiously assessing his features. Then, Argrave got what he’d been hoping for—Sophia lunged out and hugged him, and he stood up with her hanging from his neck.

“I’m scared,” she confessed at once, her torrent of emotions pouring out now that she knew it would be safe to do so. “Griffin… he’s changed. He looks like… he looks like my father.” She tightened her arms around him, trembling. “He told me he was coming to get me. I told him I didn’t want to leave, and then…”

Argrave gently patted her back. “Everything’s going to be alright, Sophia.”

“I want my brother back,” she said. “I miss him. I don’t want him to die. I tried to tell him not to fight, but he…” she sniffled. “He said it wasn’t his choice. That he had to do this, that it was the only way for us to be happy…” She sniffled again, holding back tears as best she could. “I just… I just want my brother back. Why can’t he just come back? Why does this have to happen to us?”

Argrave couldn’t give her answers now. Perhaps he couldn’t ever. All he could do was hold her, and give words of comfort.

***

Anneliese came to join Argrave after she’d resolved the matter that required her attention—specifically, Elenore had need of her empathic and spellcasting abilities both. After a long while where both assuaged her guilts and fears, Sophia fell asleep in Argrave’s arms. They took her to her bed, set her there, then went outside. Orion waited for them both.

“I wouldn’t wish her life upon anyone. To grapple with the terrible notion that her brother is the very calamity that has ripped and torn through so many…” Orion shook his head. “Everyone has been telling tales of the monstrosities that Gerechtigkeit has wrought. Now, she can put a face to them all: her precious brother, the only one who protected her in that miscreant’s castle, the only other besides us who loved her. Her very definition of love and support was found through her brother… and now, she knows he’s killed billions, and promises to kill again.”

Argrave said nothing, but found his brother’s profound description tragically true.

“She wishes for us to show mercy upon him, even if she cannot bring herself to ask it of you as a favor,” Orion continued. “But even supposing we can… the question remains if we should. Can such destruction and cruelty be forgiven, under any circumstances? I am uncertain. Yet… it’s hardly my choice.” His brother studied him. “In the end, the fate of her brother may well rest in your hands.”

Argrave felt some enormous burden set upon him when Orion said that, but only shook his head and said, “We’re far from that goal.”

“We’re the closest we’ve been. Months remain, no more.” Anneliese crossed her arms in solemn contemplation. “You look as though you’ve something serious to say, Orion.”

“That knight I fought was Lindon.” Orion jumped right to the heart of it, stirring Argrave’s mind in the process. “It was his enslaved will made manifest. I suspect Gerechtigkeit has the same intentions for the other Gilderwatchers, though it’ll manifest in a different manner—influence over the masses. Lindon, in his ingenuity, hid a message to us in the knight. He suggested that we endeavor to embrace the latent potential within our bloodline to influence the mind.” Orion touched his head. “He claimed I’d the most affinity, but I’m skeptical. No matter how hard I try, nothing comes of my efforts.”

“Lindon said this?” Argrave raised a brow. “You’re sure of that?”

“Not entirely. The point does remain; Gerechtigkeit has the Gilderwatchers under thrall. The White Planes march toward collapse, unless we can do something. With these two variables, he may possess the means to bring the entire world under thrall. The rings, while giving us an edge, are insufficient for the world. We must find a way to combat his influence through our own means. The Vasquer bloodline may be one such mean. The other, however, would be a total extermination of their species.”

“That…” Argrave sighed deeply. “That does put it into perspective. Frankly, I’ve no idea where to start. There’s not a large body of literature regarding the Gilderwatchers, even in what Erlebnis had. Presumably he was blocked by the treaty that Lindon kept mentioning. I would call upon Llewellen, but…”

“On the matter of Llewellen, that was one of the things that kept me away for so long—investigating what happened to him,” Anneliese cut in. “I have a lead on where to search for Onychinusa. We have a lot to take care of here, but could I…?”

Argrave nodded. “If you can find the time.” He looked to Orion. “But you’re right. I’m back. All of our other enemies—save perhaps the Heralds, who can do nothing directly—are smoke and ashes. Gerechtigkeit is the only one that remains. We have to dedicate our full attention toward him, and all his machinations. He’s the last remaining opponent.”

“And a worthy opponent he is.” Orion nodded.

“Thank you for telling us this, Orion,” Anneliese said kindly.

“Thank you for everything,” Argrave cut in. “I won’t forget what you did. Everyone I speak to tells me about how damned brave you are. I won’t let you forget it. I won’t let anyone in the whole nation.”

Orion laughed. Argrave expected a rigorous protest, but his brother only said, “Do as you wish. I only did what I felt I wanted to.”

Argrave looked at him, marveling at his transformation of mentality. He brushed past his surprise for now, saying only, “We have much more to discuss, but I’d prefer Elenore and a few others to be with us before we do. I’m going to go speak to another—we can continue this tomorrow, I hope.”

***

With Orion and Sophia addressed, Argrave next headed to another that he wished to thank. When he’d heard that Garm would be picking out the souls that he resurrected, Argrave did have some doubts… but ultimately, the people that he brought proved to be the greatest of the great. It was in large part due to who he’d brought back that they’d won at all. He intended to thank Garm, to give him some commendation in person.

As it turns out, Argrave never had the chance.

Garm had died during the attack by the silver knight. It was frustratingly difficult to find the details of how, and after a while… Argrave simply gave up, defeated. He couldn’t tax his city’s already-thin resources to satisfy personal curiosity. In the end, he found himself visiting Durran, the man who was host to Garm’s mind.

“Don’t you knock?” Durran said in greeting when Argrave abruptly entered. He sat at a table by a window, resting his leg idly on a stool. “Elenore said you’d come back. Glad to see you’ve not forgotten about me.”

“Everyone said you did well in the battle.” Argrave walked within carrying a bitter smile.

“Not well enough.” Durran took a drink of something from a tankard, then set it down firmly. “But you’re not here for me, right? You want to know about Garm.”

Argrave was taken a little off-balance by the pointed remark, but he recovered quickly and said, “Can’t it be both?”

Durran sighed. “It could be, but I doubt it is.”

“You certainly sound like Garm right now, being so damned cynical.” Argrave sat in the chair across from him.

Durran chuckled. “I’m sorry. I’m… a little bitter, defeated. It’s why I’m staying here.”

“What’s that you’re drinking?” Argrave asked.

“A disgusting alcohol brewed by some pig farmer in this little city of yours,” Durran said, looking inside his tankard. “I remember, ages ago… I used to pity you for being unable to drink. Now, I’m the same, ever since that Fruit of Being. Not weeks ago, this could put me on the ground. Now? Nothing.” He set it down, looking Argrave square in the eye. “Garm is gone.”

“He… we probably wouldn’t have won without him,” Argrave said distantly. “Only wish… that I had the chance to say more. More than last time. Instead, it’s just the same.”

“You said your goodbyes before you left, and you gave him as much peace of mind as he could accept,” Durran insisted. “You helped him at every turn. Whereas I…” He trailed off.

Argrave looked into his golden eyes. Durran seldom acted this moody. Perhaps something needed to be done.

“Pour me a drink,” Argrave suggested. “We’ll drink to him. I think that’s something Garm might appreciate.”

Durran smiled bitterly. “If you’d like to drink pisswater without getting drunk… I’ll gladly join you.”

Chapter 59

Drinking alcohol was really just drinking scummy water for Argrave—his black blood, coupled with all the other myriad ways that his body had changed since using the Fruit of Being, made both water and rubbing alcohol equally intoxicating. Which is to say: not at all. As time went on, it became clear Durran had become much the same way. Nevertheless, both of them drank pisswater in honor of Garm. He’d be pleased.

Argrave spent the first while regaling the so-called King of the Scorched Sands on the merits of Garm’s choices in the Shadowlands. There were tales to tell that were good enough they seemed tall, but each and all were the truth of the matter and nothing more. They talked well into midnight, and Argrave appreciated the night far more now that he’d experienced total darkness. The night, at least, had some stars shining, and a large red moon overhead.   

Gradually, though, something loosened and mellowed Durran—it couldn’t be blamed on alcohol. His repartee slowed to a lull, before disappearing altogether in way of a more honest form of the man Argrave had come to know.

“I like your city, Argrave,” Durran admitted. “I don’t know if I’ll end up staying here—though, that depends a lot on Elenore. I can show her the desert, but I can’t make her like it.”

Argrave rested his arms on the table between them. “She’s a city rat, but she’s also tough. I think she could do both.”

“Yeah, but there’s no parliament in the Burnt Desert. And there’s no you.” Durran took another drink, grimacing at the taste. “She’s given herself fully to this cause of ours. She has a lot to offer. She can do things I can barely imagine. Sometimes… I struggle to see my place in things.”

“You’re important to us,” Argrave said in assurance. “Don’t doubt it for a second.”

“Please. I really only know how to fight—and as we’ve proven, Orion is infinitely more suited to that than I am.” Durran raised his tankard. “Not that I mind. To Orion, savior of the city.”

Argrave narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to goad me into playing the surrogate father that points out all your good qualities? This sounds like a ploy to get me to say nice things so you can make fun of me.”

Durran laughed. “No, I’m just… a little lost.” He looked at Argrave. “What do you need from me? What do you want from me? I want to do more. I want to do better. I want to pay you back for that golden meal you fed me, because you deserve it. Look at Garm. Man was more jaded than anyone I’ve ever met, and still, he… did that.”

Argrave leaned back in his chair. “I think… I think I get what the problem is.”

“Yeah?” Durran looked at him.

“Yeah, I do.” Argrave tapped the table. “I think I’ve been stifling you.”

“What?” Durran narrowed his eyes. “You’re not responsible for my failures. I’ve—”

“No, it’s true.” Argrave nodded. “You don’t work best being given orders. You work best given free rein, left to your own devices with an objective in mind.”

“Oh yeah?” Durran laughed. “Tell me more about me.”

“I need you to go back to the Burnt Desert,” Argrave continued. “And I need you to tie up all the loose ends that I’ve been putting on the backburner. I need you to deal with the automatons that the subterranean mountain people use, for starters. I need you to be the King of the Scorched Sands. I need an independent actor to get things done, without consulting anyone but their own judgment.”

“So… ‘go home, stop wasting my time,’ yeah?” Durran raised a brow.

“Yeah.” Argrave nodded, and Durran looked genuinely surprised he’d agreed. He leaned into the table. “Listen… if you wanted somebody to tell you sweet nothings and say they love you, you’d be hashing this out with my sister. But you’re talking to me. That says a lot about what you want to hear. Sometimes, someone wants someone to tell them to man up. Why? Because it works.”

“Hell…” Durran looked into his tankard. “Maybe you’re right. No—you are right,” he amended. “No ‘maybe’ about it. I just… lost a lot of confidence, having been given this gift only to have such a poor showing.”

“So go home, ruminate on things, and fix it,” Argrave ordered. “I trust you. I do. You’re capable. Make sure that your homeland is ready to receive the calamity. No one knows the Burnt Desert better than you.” Argrave paused, then added, “Actually, I probably do, but let’s ignore that. I’m cheating, what with the wiki and all. It can’t be helped.”

“Prick.” Durran laughed. “You know… I’ve been thinking. Garm said that he didn’t want you to name any of your children after him.”

“True.” Argrave nodded, then joked grimly, “He’s a little less say in the matter, now.”

“I was thinking… maybe Elenore and I could,” Durran suggested. “Respect his wishes, but carry on the name all the same.”

“And who knows? Maybe Garm will resurrect once more, possessing the body of your child just as I possessed Argrave. After all, he might’ve left his traces on you somewhere.” Argrave raised his tankard, enjoying the horrified expression Durran sported. “To Garm.”

***

When Durran and Argrave eventually parted ways, Argrave walked away with deeper knowledge about his role in the battle. As Durran said, his performance wasn’t exceptional, but he had still gained a newfound understanding of the powers offered by the Fruit of Being. During the battle, he’d exhibited exceptional strength, harnessing memories that weren’t entirely his own—rather, they seemed to come from the traditions that he’d inherited in the manner of golden tattoos lining his body. The ‘memories of dead people’ bit was a little similar to Garm’s, though far more limited in its scope. Argrave was glad to learn that they had another frontliner who could take the tremendously powerful battles that were soon to come.

After, he spoke with Anneliese, who’d been catching up on other fronts. She had been reviewing the results of the research into the new field of soul magic—or rather, the expansion of druidic magic into soul magic. Argrave was awed by its potential, and followed after Anneliese.

While Argrave caught up with what she’d read, Anneliese elected to search for Onychinusa. She returned in what felt like no time at all, and it was only then that he realized how engrossed he’d been in these developments. She delivered news of her journey without much prompting.

“I found Onychinusa. Lllewellen expired,” Anneliese said.

Argrave had been trying to organize sprawled out papers when she said that, but paused and looked at her. “Elenore said Onychinusa had grown rather close with him.” He scratched his cheek. “She must be… inconsolable.”

Anneliese considered that. “She would've been a few days ago, I suspect. She ‘kidnapped’ Llewellen to force him to research a way to preserve his life, to live on with her. Onychinusa tells me that he helped her accept it. So, they spent their last few days with one another peacefully. She’s sad. But at the same time, I think she’s… much more whole, if that makes sense. And Llewellen passed on knowing what all of his good work was in service of.”

“Llewellen was rather sage.” Argrave looked down at the documents before him. “Have you had a chance to look at this paper?”

“This one?” She walked up, laying eyes upon it, then carried on past him. “No. I was going through the daily reports in chronological order. I saw interesting illusion magics, but none this so-called ‘soul magic’ of yet.”

Argrave looked at her. “You mentioned you preserved Traugott’s psyche, right?”

“I can recreate it.” She nodded. “Why?”

“I was rather worried about how we were going to extract information out of him.” Argrave turned back to his papers, leafing through them. “But… I found… here.” He pulled one paper out, then walked briskly to her and delivered it. “I think we should bring Traugott back. Then… use that. An interrogator’s wet dream.”

She studied it for a moment, her head clicking as she went through the same considerations that Argrave did. With that spell, they could force Traugott to divulge any information they could imagine.

“The last thing I wanted was reason to actually bring him back. But with this… there’s no excuse, is there?” Anneliese sighed deeply.

“We need to know anything that he’s learned. It could be the Heralds. It could be related to Sophia’s power. It could be some measure he took to ruin the world before we beat him—whatever it is, let’s tie a bow on this bastard’s saga.”

“Alright.” Her fingers tightened around the page. “One last moment of his existence, until he’s snuffed out forevermore.”

***

Argrave looked upon the shell of Good King Norman. It was a testament to Traugott’s utter disregard for everything that he’d chosen to abandon his original body to inhabit something like this, all at some vague hope of playing some hand in the fate of the universe. He was a dangerous man—as such, Anneliese took no chances. The form she’d made for the psyche of Traugott had neither A-rank ascension nor magic at all. They were in Raven’s lab, closed off from the rest of the world. The body was crucified in stakes of Ebonice—extreme, perhaps, but they didn’t want Napoleon Bonaparte coming back from exile to pick up the torch of his revolution in the Shadowlands.

Anneliese withdrew her hand from the shell’s chest, stepping back. “Any mom—” she began, but a deep breath of air ahead cut her off.

The shell, now occupied with Traugott’s mind, looked about in curious panic before settling on the two of them. It opened its mouth to speak, but Argrave already had the spell prepared. He employed soul magic—the spell [Compulsion] blast out, entwining with Traugott’s soul. His head rocked back and he spasmed before growing still.

“Tell me your full name,” Argrave commanded.

“Traugott of Galrithium,” he answered, as pliable as any other druidic bond.

Argrave paused—that confirmed he was from the Burnt Desert, though Argrave knew that town had long ago fallen to ruin. He looked at Anneliese. He saw her trepidation, and it was surely mirroring his own. It was time for a conversation with the man that had caused so much damage to the world.

Chapter 60

Traugott gave them one last hex from beyond the grave—specifically, a headache. That was truly the only thing they gained from this interrogation. Anneliese had already cracked the code, so to speak, on his bid to use Sophia’s power contained within the shell of Good King Norman. Any information about the Heralds was precisely as they possessed—uncertain, imprecise, and further confirming that they were opposed to any finality to the cycle of judgment.

It did confirm, at least, that they were right to focus on Traugott before shifting gears to deal with Gerechtigkeit. His knowledge about their situation was frighteningly accurate, and even Anneliese had to concede that some of his plans for the tide of Shadowlanders he’d brought beneath his banner would probably be impossible to counter. With him gone, a threat to their safety, Vasquer’s safety, and Sophia’s safety were wiped, all in one.

Anneliese erased the shell once again. Given time, she would forget the precise intricacies, and the psyche of Traugott would be forever lost—not with the death that he’d wanted, but with a rational hand deciding his fate with the same compassion he’d shown all of his subjects of experimentation. It was a feat that deserved to be declared grandly to the mortal realm and the heavens both, but Anneliese was content with the deed itself as her reward.

With that final dragon slain, it had finally gone to the point where only the last enemy remained—the one who, in large part, might be considered responsible for it all. It promised to be a brutal struggle even after only the first skirmish—Orion versus the silver knight. More enemies of that caliber might join the fray in the final months cresting the horizon.

Argrave had taken away so many of Gerechtigkeit’s natural allies. The threat of the undead, brought about by the Order of the Rose on Berendar, had largely been culled—every day, the reports of attacks on travelers and rural villagers lessened. Beings like golems had been largely dismantled or subdued—and to that end, Durran collaborated with a large team to ensure the subterranean people of the Burnt Desert would not be turned on by their creations. Elsewhere, he actively worked to deprive Gerechtigkeit of minions, uprooting necromantic sects and lich enclaves.

Around the world, similar crusades carried on at the behest of one of the largest coalitions in the world. The Blackgard Union had seen the threat firsthand, now, and rumors abounded about Orion between the gods himself. Some people in the kingdom suggested that Orion himself should be king after his display of immense bravery while the king hid away. The knight-commander practically tripped over himself to correct the record and refuse kingship at the same time.

But it was not enough. With all other matters eliminated, Argrave could laser-focus upon perfecting the form with which they would face their enemy. He began this reformation with a series of robust communications. With the Blackgard Union, he clarified that he had established contact with the Shadowlands, and had a plan of action to prevent their incursions for this cycle. With the Kingdom of Vasquer and to a lesser extent that of the Great Chu, he made sure they knew he was present and able to defend all that was under his sphere of influence.

He issued proclamations of glory, outlining those who had worked to defend the kingdom. Orion was first among them, then came Garm and Llewellen, the last of whom was written down as a casualty in the battle for simplicity’s sake. He gave credit to the countless who deserved it, describing what each had sacrificed to keep the kingdom running, and what they had contributed to its safety.

Beyond the populace were the institutions. The nobles smelled blood in the water, but the sharks had long ago been purged—instead, the sight of blood only caused them fear. Elenore was instrumental in allaying that fear. They had been massing the army at Blackgard both to facilitate training and to centralize power, but this most recent demonstration clarified that the soldiers weren’t at their most effective so tightly grouped.

Using their fear as an excuse, Elenore distributed soldiers throughout the entire kingdom to maintain order, improve the infrastructure, and undermine the influence of regional gentry. Soon enough, their well-trained standing army had permeated the whole of the kingdom of Vasquer. They built roads, mitigated the effects of floods, assisted migration, and improved the garrison of the towns and cities. They were as much as a highly effective labor force as they were soldiers of the state.

Elenore was worried about corruption taking root in their ranks, as she deemed it ‘the biggest cancer of any nation.’ She tested the robustness of the Veidimen training with probes to try and deliberately corrupt soldiers. They proved largely fruitless, much to her satisfaction. They had a standing army that was loyal to the crown alone. Such a thing would prove invaluable in the times to come in the following months, and the following decades. Suffice it to say, the army was here to stay. It was a tremendous stabilizing force.

Regarding another stabilizer: the Order of the Gray Owl, after being devastated in the battle by loss of key personnel and leadership, was on its back foot. It would strain further under the enormity of what was to come. There was a large power vacuum, and those who remained might do something desperate to preserve their autonomy. They already felt threatened by the prospect of a constitution dictating how magic ought to be used. To calm them, Anneliese and Argrave both did something to give robust assurances that the crown would not undermine their existence—they applied for the title of Magister of the Gray Owl.

The application, of course, had to be reviewed by a tower master. Tarah, Castro’s successor, had died in the battle against the silver knight. Their application was merely a very subtle indication that the crown had no intention of taking overt advantage of the power vacuum, and that the living Magisters should get their Order in order quickly and peacefully. Covertly, however, Elenore had some angles. She intended to push Moriatran, a wizened elder and Castro’s self-proclaimed rival, as the next tower master. He’d proven very amenable to oversight by the crown, while his anti-Castro reputation might earn him supporters amongst those who doubtlessly intended to preserve the integrity of the order above all else.

Meanwhile, the merit of the knowledge unearthed by the research team headed by Anneliese and then Llewellen had set a fire in a great many—not just Vasquer natives, but those from abroad. Veidimen casters, and those of the Great Chu, were not so eager to return to their homelands despite the attack. It was partially due to their intellectual curiosity, partly due to incentives offered by both Artur and Elenore, and partly out of fear. They feared being left behind for another frightening innovation, as seen with soul magic. Argrave was especially gung-ho about cementing Blackgard as a center of scholarly research, as he knew the benefits of such a place in the world that he came from.

In a matter of weeks, their dynamic administration turned what was objectively the biggest disaster of its tenure into a neutral, perhaps even positive incident. The lives lost could not be replaced, but from their loss could spring a sweeping round of changes for the better. The parliament was especially agreeable, seeing the need for a strong, centralized power with the prospect of calamity above their heads.

There was silence from Gerechtigkeit, but all could tell that he was not idle. The phenomenon of the White Plane’s collapse was something noted by countless divinity who made journeys to the place seeking to establish contracts between one another. It was evident there was a malignant force battering against it, seeking to undermine and destroy it. This came alongside continued reports of a nexus of power coinciding with where the Gilderwatchers had met. The dwarves, closest to this power, loosened their isolationist policies further in case they needed aid.

The collapse of the White Planes was proper impetus to establish ties between deities that were not only enforced by its mysticism, but by the practicality of their reality. Argrave seized upon it ably, acting as figurehead in communications with countless other deities. Rumors had spread of his prowess in battle after the situation with Sataistador and Erlebnis, and now that the Fruit of Being had changed him, he was better able to make those falsehoods reality in person.

The Blackgard Union was made stronger—not weaker—by the prospect of the White Plane’s collapse, largely because its leadership was able to enforce more centralization. Gods, at the end of the day, were not so far removed from mortals in their needs and desires. They were guided by their domains, but not constrained to them. With the coming calamity, their priority to continue living combatted their desire for freedom. They relinquished the opportunity to betray one another, provided they themselves had similar assurances.

Gerechtigkeit had changed… but so had the world. Their reality had been tossed into the forge, and after being beaten and cooled, emerged as hardened steel. Only time would prove if they were equal to the opponent that they faced.

END

With the end of volume eleven, we move on to the final volume of Jackal Among Snakes. Volume twelve is going to conclude this long series. It's been a long time coming, and I'm pleased to finally put a nice bowtie on this story.  I'd be lying if I didn't say I was partially relieved.

If you're reading this right not long after this volume came out, this final release might take a little longer than the others, if only because it's still being actively uploaded on Royal Road. Once it's all done there, it'll start coming here, where it'll persist exclusively. If you're impatient, the whole thing is up in full on my Patreon, including the epilogue.

Stayed tuned, and don't die.