Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It ripped Asmodeus through the rift and he was gone.

The silence was thunderous in the vacuum that followed.

Cam stood stunned and hushed, cleaner and fiercer-looking than he’d ever been. He’d finally been ready to face them. Face her and then that bitch just turned around and walked away. Leaving him and Gregor—

Cam spun to his left and sprinted to the man, now lying on his back. “Greg? Gregor?” He went down on his knees, hesitating (because he suspected he knew what he was about to find) and then forcing himself forward anyway, pulling the helm from his brother’s face.

It was still Gregor and yet, it was not. His skin was swollen and purple, damp with sweat or puss and his eyes were bloodless white and runny. He smelled like rot. Gregor had once been proud and handsome and strong. But after the betrothal, well, shit went bad. It would have been easier if the man in the armor hadn’t been Gregor at all. I suppose he isn't. Just a rotten bag of meat, right? But now it was left to Cam and if his mother was going to be a bitch, than he would have to pick up the slack again.

Fuck, Cam fucking hated all these assholes. But he took out his dagger, tried one more time to see some sort of recognition in his brother’s face. But there was nothing, so Cam’s dark eyes flicked up to Gregor’s hairline and he slid his dagger under his brother’s ear, severing the artery. The bag of meat with his brother's mangled face gurgled as he bled out, quiet and quick. At least for that. Quiet and quick.

The young man stood, closing his eyes to breathe and steady himself before he turned to see Boone holding Cyrus to herself. All that remained were the tattered wings, coming apart in tufts and loose feathers all around her.

“Fuck, fuck,” Boone was muttering. “Fuck—this is—fuck! Fuck! I didn’t want this, I didn’t want it to be like this!”

Dagna, who was kneeling with Boone, looking weepy, connected her gaze to Cam’s. She looked down at Cyrus’ magnificent wings and shook her head.

“And fucking Kallas, why would he do that?!” Boone drug her fingers hard through her hair. “He should have told us what the contract was! We could have helped or planned ahead or maybe tricked them! He just threw his life away!”

“No, Boone,” Dagna managed softly. “That's not—“

“I was supposed to die! Twice—no, fucking three times! And now Kallas is…a prisoner of that devil? He’s going to be taken and tortured because of me! How the fuck do we even get him back! We have to get him back! We—!”

“Boone!” Dagna cut in, louder. “He made his choice. He clearly thought you were worth it.”

“But…b-but…if Cyrus had killed me. Or if Kallas had killed me…they both would be alive. I was so awful to them sometimes.” Boone looked down at her blue-tinted fingers, shaking. The teenager felt like she was collapsing in on herself. Every sharp, suspicious word flew back into her mind, staring down into the ash and his halberd. His sacrifice to protect her....

Cam took a knee next to the women. He looked down at the mangled wings of Cyrus. The young lord pulled his fingers through the white ash that dusted a five foot radius around Boone and curled it up into his palm. Maybe Cyrus had known? Maybe after the creepy painting of killing Boone, Cyrus had suspected that this would happen?

Of Kallas, nothing remained. Dagna went to stand where his boots had last rested on the mortal plane. Ripped away to be tortured because he refused to kill Boone. Presumably because she was inhabited by some kind of aspect of Jazirian? Seriously, what the hell was going on? They had to save Kallas. Cyrus might be lost forever to them but Kallas’ soul should still exist. Dagna curled her fists, digging her fingernails into her flesh.

“Let’s go,” Cam told them. “We can’t do anything more here.”

“What about your mother, Cam?” Dagna asked gently, eyes downcast as she took a steadying breath and returned to Boone. Cyrus’ halberd was lying next to her on the ground.

Cam picked up the weapon, flipping it under his arm. His gear was still resplendent and clean, looking every inch (for the first time, probably) the Lord Steward of House Macwell. He had absolutely intended for this to be a final showdown with his family. But then his mother ran off because apparently she had something to do with this shit too. “Bitch is gone for now. I imagine she’ll come find us again.” He scowled. “C’mon. Let’s go. Fuck this place. And fuck Jildos.”

Boone scooped up as many of the feathers as she could. Dagna unfurled the magic carpet and they boarded. They sped above the city, now mostly in smoking ruins. But the sounds of combat had stopped. It seemed that, for the moment, the devil was gone. Taken by whatever that big fucking elfspider was supposed to be. Boone felt a little nauseated as she just stared down at the carpet, bundling all the feathers to her in her cloak and realizing they smelled like canvas….

I was supposed to trust him. But I didn’t even try. All I did was argue with him.

“Can you drop me off where we came through with Kibs?” Boone said to the carpet, dark hair hanging over her face. The place he learned to paint. The place where he had killed her, supposedly. Had he also revived her? They hadn’t figured out enough to know. And now, she may never.

She felt Dagna look at her but it was Cam who managed a gruff: “Yeah.” And Boone felt the carpet redirect. When they stopped, the paladin got up and stepped away, heading for the cliff's edge. Cam turned away as well, hopping off the carpet and stalking the opposite direction into the woods like a caged wolf.

Dagna stayed, for it suddenly felt correct to dig around in her pack for incense while Boone knelt on that very cliff-side they’d come to barely a day before. Barely a—

(Flashes in the dark, blue light and stars so bright that everything was blurring together)

The feathers were taken by the wind. All but one. It stayed, precariously perched on the edge of the stone. Boone frowned at it and scowled. “I wasn’t worth this.” She barely knew anything about either of them but both had just given their lives for her without a moment's hesitation...

“Fuck…” This time the word choked on a sob and Boone sat down on the edge, balling her fists up in her eyes and shaking.

Dagna lit the incense and then walked away to let Boone mourn. The bard was still reeling from all the death, Kallas and Cyrus, and also Corvino’s sudden and very violent end. How did they find us? It doesn’t make any sense.

She could see Cam setting up a regular camp. He did not look at her. Part of Dagna wanted very much to just go to sleep, to just try and think, process everything that had happened on this horrible night. But she grabbed tinder and scrub to help build a fire. “No cabin tonight?”

Cam turned back to the now-crackling little blaze and hunkered down on a stump next to the bard. He pulled out the tiny cabin. “Every time we use this damn thing, someone finds us.” He offered it out to her. “If you want it, you can. But I don’t trust it anymore. I know your buddy Tribek gave it to us but still.”

Dagna shook her head at it. “I don’t know what to think anymore.” She cupped her elbows and looked at the fire. “I, uh….Corvino was….kind of silly sometimes. But he was my friend.”

“He was in love with you,” Cam said, narrowing his eyes at the fire, voice flat and hard. “And it seems like someone used him to find you. And who was it that knew Corvino loved you and that you were with us? Tribek.”

Dagna closed her eyes and squeezed them. She wanted to speak, to deny that. But the longer it hung between them, the more likely it seemed in her brain. No, Tribek was her friend. But if someone had used Corvino, than his death had been arbitrary. And her fault. She should have been more firm with him. If she’d been more direct, or if she’d even hurt his feelings more, tried to figure out how to make him understand—he might be alive right now.

Everything in Dagna shuddered like an earthquake, her shoulders curled in and she looked away from Cam. Her eyes were welling up, despite her best efforts. It—

And then the bard heard a sigh and an arm suddenly wrapped around her shoulders. She found her nose pulling in the scent of cherry pipe tobacco, crispy magic and wool from Cam’s starched sleeve. Dag was still for a moment, as if afraid he might suddenly change his mind. When he didn’t, she relaxed a little, turning into him just a touch. Her tears were mostly silent.

Cam did not look at her either. He had limited tears in him for his poor brother and had shed them twice over now. He mostly felt numb. Numb and angry. That smoldering anger made him want to shake someone, hurt someone. So instead he tightened his arm around Dagna and buried his eyes in her hair while she silently wept into his shirt.

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Chapter Text

The room was black. Perhaps a magical darkness because she definitely couldn’t perceive anything beyond the five foot glow of light in front of her. Just beyond the edge of that light, opposite of her chair, sat an easel.

Boone stared at it. There was a stretch of square canvas on the easel but it faced away from her. It was covered in a black sheet. She was sitting in a simple wooden chair, as if posing for a portrait. The paladin couldn’t move. Her legs and arms and head felt too heavy to shift, to move or even look.

Trust him.

And then Boone saw a shimmer from the dark and a glowing silver eye.

“Cyrus?” Boone whispered. But she couldn’t hear her own voice. The soldier was not looking at her. He came out of the dark in front of the easel. He stared at it, his silver eye and his blue eye both fixed on the sheet-covered canvas.

“Cyrus!” Boone tried again to speak but nothing happened. He did not appear to hear her. She watched Cyrus reach up and skim his fingers over the black silk. “Cyrus, don’t!” Something about the canvas. He shouldn’t look at the canvas. He shouldn’t even touch it. He shouldn’t even touch it! Boone felt this so deeply, so surely that she began to struggle. “Cyrus! Cyrus! Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it!”

Still, the soldier did not seem to hear her. He traced his callused fingers over the black fabric and then snatched it in his fist. Boone fought the heaviness in her limbs, fighting to breathe, to just get a word out, a warning, fucking anything!

And then Cyrus looked right at her. His silver eye turned red.

A sharp flash of heat marred her hand but his was spilling blood—

Boone tensed awake. She did not move an inch, just her eyes, glancing around quickly to ensure she was awake. Cyrus’ halberd was lying next to her bedroll. The paladin peered at it and then grabbed it. The heat zapped through her hand again and Boone froze but no damage was done. She sat up. The halberd had an odd sheen to the blade that Boone was not certain she’d ever noticed before.

“Funny how that thing remained, huh? I mean, it’s not a spirit weapon but he could summon it. Took all his damn gear but not the halberd.” Cam was sitting at the campfire, roasting a brace of rabbits and smoking from a long-stemmed wooden pipe.

Boone stood up and flipped the halberd to stand it up. “It looks different now. The blade is…I dunno…darkish?”

Cam glanced at her and then at the blade. “Well, maybe you should hang on to it. Just in case, y’know?”

“Tch, in case what? He’s not here in case I fucking die again.”

Cam snorted. “You never know.” He shrugged. “I mean, he ain’t here to kill you, right?”

Boone flinched, looking at the fire instead. “I’ve never used a halberd.”

“No time to learn like the present,” Cam replied, pulling the rabbits off the makeshift spit and laying them out on a large stone before standing up and walking around the fire to kneel by Dagna and put a hand on her arm for a careful nudge. “Hey, O’Leeroy, got some breakfast.” Cam gestured to Boone. “Get your cup out and eat something.”

“What are we going to do, Cam?” Boone asked instead. She studied the rabbit but she really didn’t want to eat.

“We’re gonna eat breakfast,” he told her.

“Fucking—I mean about Kallas and Cyrus!”

“Same answer. One thing at a time.” Cam took a deep breath, running his fingers through his tangled black hair before pulling it back into a tail and looping the leather throng around to hold it.

Dagna got up, rubbing her eyes. They were still red-rimmed and tired. “We probably won’t be wanted around Jildos for a while.”

“Fuck Jildos,” Boone muttered, almost reflexively.

“Where can we find a cleric? One powerful enough to try to contact him? Them? Either. Or help you for that matter. You got that whole Jazirian inside of you or something, right?” Cam bit down on the stem of his pipe.

“Didn’t do a whole lot of good,” Boone grumbled. And then she closed her eyes and sighed. “I mean, I don’t have any other ideas. I’m sorry.”

Cam waved a hand in dismissal. “But before we do that—we should talk about Tribek.”

“Tribek?” Boone looked at Dagna but the bard was just looking down miserably at the rabbits.

Cam followed her eyes to Dagna and, to his credit, looked apologetic. “Look, we don’t wanna consider that he might have betrayed us but at this point, we need to look at our options. Remember Ebreosea and how he just happened to send a letter, like, three hours after we left. Instead of right away. And then that assassin showed up in the damn cells and said he was there for all of us? Tribek was the only one who knew you went with us, Dag.”

“Unless Corvino faked his own death and it was him the whole damn time,” Boone grumbled.

Dagna stiffened and threw a glare at the girl. “Corvino did not betray me.”

Boone looked away.

“Someone betrayed us,” Cam reminded them. “Us includes Corvino.” Fucking hell, hopefully, anyway. He didn’t really want to think that Corvino had masterminded all this shit. Dagna seemed truly fond of him, despite his creepy behavior. Besides, really, it could have been any of them. This devil shit had made a hand come out of Cyrus’ mouth and kill a fucking drow. That had shaken all of them. (And probably left a bad taste in Cyrus’ mouth, not that Cam had asked.)

Impersonating people with magic wasn’t all that difficult either. Sure, it could have been Dagna too. But….somehow that was even harder to imagine than Corvino. Cam had actually come to respect the musical professor, maybe even liked how she stuck to her guts even if no one else was on her side. That stubbornness rather reminded him of himself, just a little bit different. Cam mentally shook such thoughts away.

“Ghost Butler was taken from the cabin that, supposedly, no one could enter. The only time we saw threads like that again, was in the drow city,” Boone said quietly.

“But then why take him? Why not attack us? We would never have expected it,” Cam mused. “Unless it was just to push us to go down there quicker.”

“And it only took Brenna after it killed her. It ripped her soul out. It likely could not have gotten all of us without one of us figuring out how it got in,” Boone added. For no reason at all, she got a creepy chill up her spine that made her glance around the camp. That silk-covered easel flashed through her mind and then she felt a tug.

It was as if her inside pocket on her right hip gave a sudden lurch. Boone froze, stiffening up and looking down at her pocket.

“What?” Dagna asked, studying her face and standing up.

“Boone?” Cam pressed, circling the girl’s other side.

“Something is in my pocket that wasn’t there just now,” Boone said it in a rush and then pushed her cloak back before sliding her fingers into the pocket of her trousers. But there was nothing heavy or solid, just what felt like a slender stick. Boone drew it out.

A magnificent feather followed, leaving shimmers of sparkling dust in the early morning sunlight. All three of them stared at it. Dagna got as close as she could while Boone held it up but did not quite dare to touch it. “Is that…”

“Cyrus…” Boone murmured, using her thumb to cascade the silken fibers.

“Didn’t you lose those feathers over the cliff last night?” Cam asked her pointedly, eyeing the feather with suspicion.

The paladin looked reflexively to that edge, where the wind had definitely taken even the lonely last one. Boone looked back at Dagna and Cam. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. She felt like she were trembling inside and out. Cam reached her before her legs collapsed and he gently supported her as he knelt down on the grass with her. Dagna knelt next to them, sliding an arm around Boone. She clutched at the feather, bowing her head over it.

Cyrus stared down at the sleeping girl. What am I doing here?

Everything felt strange, slow and surreal. Like he were dreaming and yet, Cyrus was fairly certain he wasn’t. The girl was beautiful. Dark raven hair and pale snowy skin, like the Raven Queen in the flesh. Cyrus did not know her and for the life of him, he could not recall why he was here. Certainly, she hadn’t invited him to the Macwell estate. How the hell had he even gotten in here, now that he was thinking about it—

And then he drew his dagger. Cyrus stiffened and tried to speak, to either wake her or stop himself. But he couldn’t seem to, he was—what was—

Cyrus pulled her blanket back. No, wait—what was happening? Why was he moving the sheet—he shouldn’t be in here. She was betrothed to one of the Macwell sons. He’d heard the rumors. Her death would incite war for certain. He should not be in the guest quarters of such a mighty house, what was he doing here—

Cyrus wanted to struggle, to fight, but he felt like he were moving through molasses. Yet, he also moved with such certainty, just as he’d been trained. When he saw her lovely eyes flutter open, Cyrus pushed down on her collarbones to hold her and ripped the dagger across—

Cyrus kept trying, kept trying to pull away, to struggle, to yell—someone! Couldn’t someone appear and stop him! Please, someone! Anyone! Stop! Stop him!

Stop me! Please!

But no one did. Cyrus drug the knife across her throat and watched her eyes, first fierce and angry…and then become indigo dim. Methodically, he saw himself wrapping her in her soaked sheets. Blood was slathered on his hands by the time he put the bundle over his shoulder. And all he could think was—What the fuck is going on! No! No! No! Someone! Anyone! Kill me! Stop me!

Sure, alerting any of the Macwells would get him immediately killed but the girl was no one to him! She was innocent! What the fuck was—

And then he was standing on the cliffs where he learned to paint. When he looked up, there were no stars at all, no visible moon to see. It felt unnatural to him. The blackness of the sky and air was more oppressive than a storm on a hot summer night. A dim red glow was radiating from somewhere above him, though Cyrus could not identify the source. There were bodies here, the remains of a battle. All the quieting corpses were tinged in red light. Cyrus could not recall how he’d gotten there. What am I doing out here?

Something important, the warlock was certain. But the harder he racked his brain to remember, the more it seemed to slip away. There was a….a fight, correct? A battle? He ran. He ran? A tiny voice seemed to echo the question in him, after all—could he truly have dishonored his house so easily? He'd been on much fiercer fighting fields at the Academy and had never broken to fear. But he had gone mad with confusion and fear, with no memory of the event. He had lost four days of time. The officers told him before they branded him. I am a coward and a traitor. And at the same time: But I've never just lost days of time before!

Cyrus absently touched the raw brand, and let the pain tear through him. And I might be losing my mind.

Chapter Text

The tavern was called the Gravity Hearth. The outside was brightly painted with swirls of color and a knobby sign was limping back and forth in the wind on a post. The three of them were water-logged and tired. Worn down brittle-thin and feeling very small and alone, when Dagna saw the lanterns she pointed and the other two nodded. They all needed time, perhaps.

Boone was wrapped up in her cloak like a beggar, hiding the enchanted sword. The feather now resided in an inner pocket of Boone’s cloak. It still shimmered when waved about and cast a faint pale light in the dark. Otherwise, it seemed an ordinary white feather. It was odd all the same and no one really trusted enchanted objects after that awful dagger had apparently possessed poor Cyrus. That had been when their friend, Brenna, was still alive.

Dagna had felt that empty place as soon as she arrived. The first time in the Cabin, they’d all looked at the gnome’s pile of furs and Dagna felt every bit the outsider. Whoever Brenna was, she was important, kind and fierce and beloved to her friends. She had been with Kallas from the beginning. Oh, poor Kallas. His last words to Boone, save Brenna, and he had simply accepted his fate. No pleading, no running. Kallas had stood his ground and looked his death in the eye. Dagna had known a great many warriors in her time and not many could have done what Kallas had done. And with such stalwart calm nobility. It encapsulated him in every way, she supposed. He would make a good song. After all, what was sung, lived forever, right? A brave and lordly teifling, determined to save his halfling friend, meets his fate with fisted hands to beat the king of death, at last. Or something.

Dagna led the way into the tavern, resolving to workshop the ballad. Boone still didn’t seem to want to talk much. Her eyes were downcast under her hood, hiding behind her hair. That was all right, each of them had to cope in their own way. Dagna touched her shoulder and nodded for Boone to follow Cam as he staked their claim on a back table with long benches. The young man pulled down his hood and glanced around the room: the shadowy back wall was about ten paces behind them, with some barrels and sacks likely belonging to the tavern as well as two closed windows. The second floor above them was a railed mezzanine, where there were rooms and fewer, more private tables. Boone pulled a candle from an empty place next to them.

Dagna ordered them food, hot spiced wine and rooms, then meandered among the smaller tables to reach her friends. Boone was sitting at the short edge of the table in a separate chair so that she would not have her neck to the common room or to the back windows. Cam sat on the back bench and was in the process of packing his pipe when he noticed Dagna snaking her way towards them. He stood up, taking the mugs for her as Dagna put the urn of wine down and tapped the table in front of Boone. "Everyone try a little. Might help warm us up, right?"

Boone nodded, silently accepting her mug with downcast eyes. Cam gestured to help the serving girl who approached with bowls of stew and chunks of bread. "There we go. Good for rainy nights. Thank you, miss. And, when you have a moment, we'll probably need a second urn of this wine, if you have more." Cam flipped the girl a coin and then pulled the hearty bowl in front of Boone. "C'mon, waste not or whatever. You're obligated to eat this because Dagna just bought it."

Boone knew she should eat. It made sense. Her body just felt...grieved. Everything heavy, rigid and tense and trembling like the rumbles after an earthquake. Her throat still had a lump in it and she did not trust her voice. She kept replaying those moments in her head: Kallas slipping up on her like a shadow, like only rogues could. The tiefling might have ended it right there. Kallas might not have been as broad as Cyrus or as flashy as Cam but when he found his puzzle, Kallas placed his piece. One stab...but he didn't. And when the hands latched onto him, she could only cry out in stunned horror. But his eyes narrowed and he braced himself, as if to prepare for some feat of will and then the emptiness when his neck snapped. And I couldn't do anything to help him. And then so immediately after, the acceptance in Cyrus' mismatched eyes...

Boone nodded again, sitting up and taking a deep breath to steady herself.

Dagna and Cam exchanged somber looks as the bard took out her travel journal and a charcoal pencil. She sat down on the bench to Cam's left. Dagna did have to idly wonder again, how long had these two known each other? Both had been scanty on details and the topic seemed to be the start of a lot of terrible events. The bard still wasn’t entirely certain what the age difference was between the Macwell sons. But the implication had been of a betrothal and Boone had very stubbornly refused to talk about her family at all. Dagna looked back at the parchment and sighed. It seemed like the more they hid from each other, the worse things got.

Cam went back to his pipe and contemplated the thick urn of hot wine sitting on the table. His head was throbbing. His dreams last night had been bad. Very very bad. It might be beneficial to just try to sleep somewhere safe. If he didn’t see Gregor’s face melt off or constantly hear sounds that were reminiscent of pigs being butchered, or hands pulling him down into the floor maybe he’d be all right.

There was someone playing a sitar by a massive hearth that took up almost one entire wall. A brown-haired blind woman, who looked to be human, brown as a nut, was sitting on a tall chair with her bare toes just skimming the wooden planks of the floor. Her eyes were green at one time, perhaps, but now they were cloudy pale. She wore some sort of brocade green robe, tied with a wide, golden sash embroidered with green leaves. She looked ghostly in front of the fire. A lot of people sitting at the tables looked like they might have come from a battle or a destroyed city, Cam noticed. A lot of people with injuries, who looked tired, sad and dirty, rather like them. The crowd was not as boisterous as it might normally be. So the player soothingly strummed her sitar, staring around the tavern with her empty eyes. Always listening, right? That’s what blind people were creepy at, right? “So, how do blind bards learn to play music?”

“With their fingers and ears,” Boone replied, tone flat. She took a nibble of her bread though.

Dagna, sitting next to Cam on the bench, marked out a word on her parchment and wrote another before glancing around the tavern. “Was that a set-up for a joke or an actual question?”

Cam got a crooked smile—

But Dagna’s face contorted to alarm. “Cam!” And the bard was throwing the bench back, grabbing the edge of the table and flipping it up—

Two crossbow bolts slammed into the tabletop instead of Cam’s neck and chest. He threw himself backwards and off the bench. Boone was on her feet, her sword flashed out in an arc of glimmering silver and another arrow shattered about ten inches from her face. Two bolts slammed into the barkeep. The bard by the fireplace was suddenly gone, her sitar lying on the floor. Three other patrons dropped, two more suddenly went into convulsions. The candles situated along the bar went out and then—

“There! It’s a damn drow!” Boone pointed with her shimmering sword. A shadow flickered out from behind the bar, illuminated by flames for a bare moment. The drow appeared male. He roared out when he made eye contact with Boone. But in her head, the paladin heard:

(“We require Mortal God blood!”)

And then an arrow slammed into the drow’s temple, chunks of bone spattering from the opposite side. The cook was leaning in the kitchen doorway with a crossbow. Cam dodged out from behind the table, grabbed the chair next to him and flung it at a second drow that had materialized by the sideboard. It clobbered him and Dagna sprung out at nearly the same instant. She snatched the drow with her magic. She clenched her fist tightly in the air to hold it and then Boone bolted, dashing to the drow. It was poetic, in gruesome sort of way, watching Boone raise her sword and slam down. The skull caved instantly. Boone kicked the body off her sword, blood licked the ceiling rafters.

Cam heard a yell and whirled around, tensing for another attack. But the sound came from above, a scuffle on the mezzanine was audible for just a moment and then there was a heavy thump and another drow fell lifeless over the banister railing.

“What the hell was that?! Is everyone all right?” Boone was looking around the tavern at large. “How many were there total—“

Apparently, one more. This drow suddenly dropped from the shadows, directly behind Dagna and stabbed with his right hand, raising a hand-crossbow in his left and pointing it a hairsbreadth from Cam’s eye. He looked down the arrowhead, perfectly straight lines of black steel. No, not again.

Dagna cried out, spine stiffening like a bow and blood spreading in a heavy stain from her lower back. The poison gripped the bard instantly and she tottered, cursing and disoriented. Dagna collapsed to her knees, trying to use her rapier to hold herself up.

Cam had no clear thoughts after that. He simply moved. He grabbed the drow’s bow arm, yanked the man into him and punched into the drow's ribs with his dagger. Cam felt it enter heavy flesh four or five times before the drow dodged back, the dagger now sticking out of his gut. Trying to get away? Oh no, no. No getting away this time.

The drow almost slipped through his fingers before Cam drove his fist into one of the knife wounds. He felt the drow shudder, locking up around him. Gotcha. Cam grabbed the assassin by the throat, slammed him into the tavern floor and snatched up the toppled wine urn. Cam smashed it into the drow’s face, once, twice, before it shattered, grinding ceramic through his cheek. But he didn’t stop. Cam just acted. And something bottled up, perhaps, flashed out when he grabbed onto the drow’s face. Not them too. No one gets away. Kneeling on his chest, glaring down into the dark elf's blood-red eyes, the sorcerer inflicted upon him.

It shrieked piteously. Still, Cam did not stop. He didn’t even seem to hear it. The entire tavern had gone totally silent but all the blood was roaring passed Cam’s ears. The eyes decomposed to liquid and the drow struggled, howling in agonized screaming. The tissue of its face rotted and the flesh split around the cheekbones, the blood blistered.

(”Cam!”)

His hands clamped around the throat instead, squeezing, watching the blackening mold spread from his fingers to the drow. It wailed again, ("A screaming bag of meat.") or tried to. Cam didn’t really hear it. He…couldn’t really hear anything. All he could feel was the drow’s flesh corroding inward the harder his fingers dug into the throat, the more the necrosis ate him

Boone raced back to Dagna, skidding to her knees and turning the human towards her. She laid her hand on the wound to close it, digging out the potion that Dagna herself had given Boone. All at once, the mercenary princess stopped spitting and struggling, gasping for breath as her body recovered. The bard struggled to her knees, Boone slid an arm around her.

The drow gurgled. But Cam paid it no mind until the windpipe tore itself out. The weight of the skull made it flop back, pulling apart the weakened flesh of its neck as the head detached completely. It fell to the tavern floor with a soft, but clearly audible thunk. Cam's amber-hazel eyes were wide and empty, breathing quick and shaky.

“Cam?” Dagna said, reaching for his arm. He flinched away when she touched him, eyes darting up at her under his blood-spattered black hair.

For a weird moment, Dagna and Boone disappeared. Cam didn’t see them. He saw an old man, spitting and cursing, who looked like he’d been poisoned as well. He saw a blue woman, but not like Boone was blue. Different. She was dressed in silks and gems and leathers like a pirate, screaming with incoherent rage—

Boone grabbed his other arm and shook him. “Cam!”

And then the world slammed back into focus. The old man and the pirate were gone. He dropped the dead drow on the floor and slumped back against one of the support posts. His hands were icy cold and he felt like he was shaking inside. Cam rubbed his hand down his face. Boone and Dagna were both kneeling in on the floor in front of him, just staring at him.

“Cam…are you okay?” Dagna managed softly.

The disheveled young man looked at his hands, which were covered in brackish blood and bits of tissue from the drow's pulped throat. He felt a little disconnected, dizzy, even. Like he wasn’t entirely certain what had just occurred. He’d not reacted with such rage before. It was….

Dagna took his hand, trying to look into his eyes. “Cam?”

“Hallo.”

The three of them all looked up to see the blind player. Her cloudy eyes drifted over the trio before she smiled faintly. “And hallo to you too,” she added, reaching out a spindly finger over Boone’s shoulder and skimming it along the shiny darksilver flat of the halberd and the dulled gem affixed to it.

Boone jerked back from the woman, reflexively touching the halberd’s grip.

Dagna’s eyes flashed, darkening with suspicion. She dropped Cam’s hand and got up, stepping between him and the woman. She appeared human, smallish, clearly acquainted with magic. Perhaps, she was some sort of halfling? “Who are you?”

The girl’s blind eyes made their way to the silver panflute pin on Dagna’s collar. “I am Thioni. Those people were here to kill you.”

“You got something to do with that?” Cam growled and pushed himself to his feet, idly brushing his hands on his gear.

“They listened to my songs but cannot feel them anymore. Their heads are already too full inside,” Thioni told them.

Cam furrowed an eyebrow but did not look convinced. So instead he grabbed Dagna’s shoulder to look at her back, running his palm down her spine. “I totally fucking missed that guy, Dag. You okay?” Like when his mother had spell-trapped that sword. Fuck. He’d felt a similar rage right then but this time was…more. Just more. With the sword, he’d run to Dagna and dumped that potion down her throat, held her until she came around again. Thank fuck he'd given it to her. But this time…it hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d attacked first, instead. Granted, there was no one he could attack when the spell-trapped sword almost killed her but he still felt a little weird about it.

“I healed her,” Boone told him, still eyeing Thioni.

An entirely unintentional shiver went up Dagna's spine when Cam touched her but she kept peering at the sitar player. “Where did you train? Are you a bard?”

The blind player appeared thoughtful. “No. I don’t think I ever was.” The strange woman’s smile turned gentler. “You are though. You know so many songs. In your head and out.”

Boone blinked hard at the young woman, pulling back to examine the player like she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. There was definitely magic all around her. But not a bound spirit or demon. Not the cold creeping sense of the Undead (Cyrus), not the fiery stony soot of the Fiend (Kallas), nor the buzzing, vibrant warmth of a celestial. And yet...something that Boone was almost certain she had sensed before, a tangible sort of feeling, like an elemental but not. It made her mouth taste like damp stone, the air during a storm, electric, earthy. She racked her brain, anything that the Temple might have mentioned, even in passing...

Someone was sobbing at the bar counter as patrons and wait staff began to check on each other. Boone helped to stabilize the barkeep before he died in a frothing mess. A wily wizard cast a barrier inside the tavern to seal it and the whole building was searched top to bottom. No other drow were discovered and all the food and drink had to be checked for poison, the drows’ weapon of choice. Four casks of the Hearth's best wine had to be dumped. Thankfully, it hadn't been theirs. The tables were pushed against the walls and the barkeep let those without rooms throw down bedrolls to recover their nerves.

Part of Cam wanted very much to leave. He definitely didn’t trust the place. He wanted to sleep outside again. Fuck, people problems were literally the worst. But that would also mean exposing Boone and Dagna, either out in the forests with drow combing the area for them, or leaving them in the tavern to possibly be attacked. Not that his presence was likely to ward off hired knives but three had better chances than two (or one, if he were attacked outside instead, which seemed very likely). They were all exhausted and brittle from battle, from grief, from loss. Kallas and Cyrus, Corvino, Gregor and his mother, and they were no closer to figuring out how to get Brenna’s soul back.

(“Save Brenna.”)

Boone looked through her spell notes before she and the wizard warded the inside of the building to wake them and the barkeep if someone entered the establishment. The odd player went back to her chair by the fire, gently checking her sitar before plucking a few chords. “A noble tiefling lad with a quick thief’s cant, traveled to and fro to find a halfling’s hat, and when he put it on, old Asmodeus cried, Sacrifice for your friend, so I take what’s mine!” Thioni seemed to think on the verse. “Lots of people here were in Jildos recently,” she said, seeming to feel Boone’s icy glare. “It makes the deep-dark, darker. Like Jildos.”

“Fuck Jildos,” one of the patrons spit in the fire.

Boone and Dagna exchanged a suspicious glance. Cam looked away, stooping to loot the pockets of the fallen drow.

The three decided to camp out in the largest of their rooms, only using one, a corner room with one window on the far wall. Boone stood the halberd up by the door. The silver curve of the blade reflected their candles. She studied it, as if checking to see if the player had left fingerprints on it. But the surface was glassy smooth, still oddly matte grey and darker than when Cyrus had carried it. The gem was cloudy. Weird. Absently, Boone touched the feather through her cloak.

Cam drug the bed out of line of sight from the window and jammed it in front of the door so no one could enter. “You or Boone take the bed,” he told Dagna. “I’d be sleeping outside if it were just me. So I’ll sleep by the window. Someone comes in that way, they’re gonna be in for more than they bargained for.”

“C’mon Boone, it’s big enough for both of us.”

Something tickled his nose. That was what woke him. Otherwise, Kallas was not entirely certain he would even be awake. He should be dead, right? He remembered looking at Boone, telling her to save Brenna. He remembered Cam's horrified expression, Dagna's rage, Cyrus crying out, when the hands wrapped around him. Grabbing into him, laying ownership upon him, dragging him down into the deep. But now? Kallas seemed to be lying on a slab made of stone, like a bench.

"You are dead, my friend."

The tiefling tensed and there, at the foot of the stone slab, was a tall, dark woman. Luminescent dark skin, black hair, blacker feathers, glowing eyes. Ravens clustered around the woman, who wore layered black leathers and gauzy black lace. A white, emotionless mask guarded her features.

"You know me, friend."

Kallas peered at her. “The Queen of Memories,” he heard himself say. Though he was not actually sure how he knew that. Wasn’t that another name for the Raven Queen? The Lady of the Dead?

"Do you realize where you are?"

Kallas glanced around, seeing only stone walls, ceilings and floors, and hundreds of identical stone slabs like the one he was sitting on now. The light was very dim, almost non-existent, the reflection of flame from somewhere else. The teifling could also hear distant screaming. He reached up gingerly and touched the side of his neck where he'd felt those hands. The skin felt unmarred. It sent a chill down his spine. Somewhere between life and death, then? “The Shadowfell.”

"There is another I met like you. Souls stolen by the hungry god. But you are different still, aren’t you?" The woman still did not physically move but somehow Kallas became aware that she was looking at his chest.

A small white feather was lying on the rotted remains of his armor, tucked under a belt strap across his chest. Kallas stopped still, reaching for it, sliding his thumb through the fibers. He wasn't sure how he knew then, just the bitter wave of finality that came over him when he touched the feather. “Cyrus is dead?”

Kallas got the impression that the woman was giving him a little smile. "And I was his patron. Death is a funny thing. How many times did Cyrus die? Once for me. Once for you. Once within."

The tiefling’s amber-gold eyes peered into the dark. The woman was still quietly observing him when he looked back. “I thought I would be going somewhere else."

"As did He. You signed the contract and yet, you are here. Perhaps, there was something you had to do first?"

Kallas studied the mask on the person. "I want to save my friend, Brenna.”

"She is known to me."

Kallas swung his legs over the stone slab. “Was she here?!”

"She and many others. Find your memories of her. Avoid the hungry god. I could only disrupt His process. But I cannot hide you. The memories they have of you are too strong. Should He remember your name, He will find you."

Kallas furrowed his eyebrows. “My name?”

"A closely guarded secret to those wise enough. Names have power." The woman inclined her creepy mask in a short bow. "Find Brenna."

And then, the woman seemed to compress inward before bursting into shadowy feathers. And she was gone, leaving Kallas alone.

Chapter Text

Leopold fiddled with his ceramic cup, walking it across the serving tray before eyeing his elder brother. “So,” he said, attempting a casual air, “what do you think of her?”

Gregor was pretending to wipe some dust off the mantle over the fireplace. “Oh, well, I mean—she’s pretty.” He shrugged. “A little grouchy, I guess, but I can’t blame her. I mean, she’s even younger than you, Mac, probably more your speed. Though I imagine that three inch height difference would get to you eventually.” He gave Leopold a teasing grin. His younger brother flipped him off. “But she knows she’s basically being sold off by her parents. I’d be pissed off too, I guess.”

Leopold snorted. “You mean to think that Mother isn’t selling you off?”

“Harder for her to get rid of the heir to the household. Father will be hounding for you to marry some pretty rich girl if I don’t have children by her quick enough. Choose wisely, there are only so many daughters among the other noble houses and you're about to become the most eligible bachelor in Jildos.”

Leo sneered at him. “So are you gonna have to do the pretend-date thing? Need me to make you a list of topics? Maybe steer away from: how do you feel about indiscriminate murder if the price is right? You know, puts a damper on the romance.”

Gregor raised his eyebrows at him. “Hey, I don’t like it either, but it’s the foundation of the city. We can’t just destroy it overnight or we’ll end up getting taken over. Either by other houses or by Ebreosea or Cin Amon.”

The younger brother scowled down into his wine, so dark it was almost purple. “So what, we have to wait for our parents to die?”

Gregor sighed heavily. “Mac, I know you don’t like the direction of Jildos ("Fuck Jildos," Mac muttered.) but it’s all these people know. It’s how they know to survive. You call it slavery but plenty of the people among the noble houses would gladly fight to defend this system.”

“That’s because they don’t know shit else. It’s called indoctrination.” He waved an imaginary banner through the air with his palm, stretching like a lanky cat in the cushioned oak chair in his brother's study.

“But if we’re going to show them—we can either introduce it gradually or fucking burn everything to the ground. Now which one do you think is more productive?”

Leopold rolled his eyes over the rim of his wine cup.

“You could try to get to know her too, you know,” Gregor told him pointedly.

“Oh no, no. I don’t want anything to do with that. She’s your problem. You agreed to get married. Not me. I want nothing to do with it.”

Gregor sighed again. “I know the politics and shit is frustrating but we have to work within to get any real change, Mac.”

“You know that if Father has his way, I’ll probably be at a front line somewhere by the end of the year. Father will be paid a lot of gold to make sure I get fucking killed for nothing. And he’ll say it was to protect you.”

“Would you rather be killed for something?”

Leopold did a double-take at his brother as he turned from the fireplace. “What? You mean besides money?”

Gregor peered at him intently. “Magic, sorcery, demons?”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “So a ritual?”

Gregor shifted, suddenly looking uncomfortable. The glow of the fireplace threw all the doubt in his eyes to contrast, hazel-amber, like his own. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be sacrificed?”

Leopold put his wine down, peering at the odd turn of his brother’s words. “Uh, not until right now, I guess. Why, have you?”

Gregor glanced back at him from the fire, eyes suddenly looking hollow. “My dreams have been dark lately, Mac. Spiders and demons and a darkness that stretches so far that it blots out the stars and moon.”

Leopold shifted in his chair, sitting up straight and studying his brother's posture, his strange expression. “….and did you go to the diviners? Have them interpret it for you?”

“No,” Gregor answered, walking away from the mantle and sitting down at the small circular table across from his brother. He did not seem to notice Leopold observing him. “I described it to Mother. She didn’t seem concerned. Father wasn’t either. But something about it still bothers me.” Gregor tapped the saucer of his teacup with his finger.

Leopold had not noticed the feather sitting on the saucer until right this moment. He peered at it. “Where did that come from?”

Gregor looked politely puzzled. “What?”

“That feather?”

Gregor laid his palm over the feather, obscuring it from view. “There’s nothing there you need to see, Cam.”

Leopold wrinkled his nose. Cam? Who is that?

“You know who that is, little brother,” Gregor told him.

Leo shifted, leaning back in his chair. To his knowledge, his brother couldn't read thoughts. “What are you talking about?”

Gregor opened his mouth. But then….he….he kept opening his mouth. Like a snake, like he’d unhinged his fucking jaw, as a black void split Gregor’s face open. Leopold jerked, crying out in horrified surprise and tried to get up.

He couldn’t. His hands were lashed down with some kind of blackened, slimy rope. How hadn’t he noticed that? Leopold twisted and writhed against the bindings and his brother’s mouth continued to widen, a disgusting gaping maw of darkness. “Gregor! What the fuck—?! ”

A hand crawled out, fingers blackened and slimy, half-rotted and streaked as the fingers used his brother's teeth to anchor itself. Leopold swore, fighting and cursing, yelling at his brother, yelling at Gregor to—

But the hand flashed out, grabbing his black hair and yanking. Leopold’s nose hit his wine cup, he heard it shatter and felt the slivers of ceramic grind into his face. The grip on his hair tightened, another hand latched onto his neck.

“It is inevitable, Leopold,” Gregor said, calmly watching his younger brother struggle against the slimy black clawed hands dragging Leopold across the small table, spilling cups and a platter of cheese, close enough so Gregor could stand over him. “Your fate is already decided.”

Leopold roared helplessly, trying to grab onto the table to pull back. He felt two hands on either side of his head, felt them grab in, pull up and snap—

Cam jumped against the corner, opening his eyes to the silent inn. He shuddered, relieved to find himself awake. A dream. Just another bad dream. Another dream. He still couldn’t help but palm his throat, somehow still feeling the slimy black shadow hands. It was still night and the room was dark. Moonlight peaked through the parts of the cloak Cam had hung over the window.

Boone was in bed, curled up in an anxious knot on one side. Dagna was not there. Cam started to get up when her head popped into view on the other side, apparently having been looking through her belongings. When she saw him, Dagna didn’t say anything. She grabbed her pack and walked over to him.

“Can’t sleep?” Cam asked her quietly.

Dagna shrugged. “Bad dreams?” She asked him instead.

Cam wrinkled his nose at her.

That made her smile. “So, I was thinking—do you remember those gems we all got that supposedly link us to….those other people? Not really sure if they are other versions of us or just adventurers that are somewhere else. But if we died, they died and vice versa.”

Cam nodded. “Yeah, I do. Boone’s was black, Cyrus’ was clear, Kallas had green, I have blue and yours was yellow?”

“So Kallas and Cyrus, their alternates must be dead too somehow. Tinker could switch back and forth when he crushed it. I didn’t realize it would reform. But we could probably use them the same way, I would think. Unless you have to enter into a knowing contract?” Dagna mused.

“So if Kallas and Cyrus’ gemstones were destroyed, maybe they went to the other world?” Cam shrugged.

“Seems possible. Unlikely, but possible. And maybe since their bodies were destroyed, they can’t get back? Or, at least, Cyrus' body was destroyed. No way of knowing for Kallas, I suppose.” Dagna pulled out her little travel journal and paged through it but didn’t appear to see anything relevant. “Did you guys ever meet with Cadron? I heard he spoke to you about the cursed paintings that Cyrus was making?”

Cam shook his head. “The first time we saw him was…after the first night we used the cabin, actually.” He scowled a little when he recalled that detail. Another third or fourth strike against the tiny cabin, a second strike against Cadron. “He just happened to show up on the road where we were, saying he was drawn to the place. That was suspicious to us, so yeah, we were initially saying, meh, fuck that guy. But then when more of Cyrus’ drawings went bad—we got sidetracked with the drow thing. And then Cadron ended up dead. Ha, I mean, unless he faked his own death.”

“Him, I could see imitating Tribek,” Dagna grumbled.

“Or they are working together. Tribek tried to suggest Cadron go to Ebreosea instead of you. Didn’t he know that you hated the guy?”

Dagna frowned and nodded. “Could have been for his connections, like he said.”

“Or a ruse to make sure you went instead of anyone else.” Cam rubbed his hand down his face.

Dagna stared down at her knees. Her red hair was like the embers of a fire in the dim moonlight.

Cam had, for all intents and purposes, been bred a warlord prince of Jildos. From the age of five, Leopold and his elder brother trained to use the sword, mace, lance and bow. Cam was riding horses by six, introduced to strategy games by seven and saw his first execution at eight, all the while being told of all the glorious victories he was sure to have on the battlefield one day. He had been surrounded by beautiful women and glamorous men his whole life. Nobles and their finery were as commonplace, and as utterly dull to him, as tumbled river stones. It was all a veneer.

But even they would have been envious of the shade of Dagna’s hair. Thick and fiery red, contained in the thirty or so warrior braids with beads and tiny bells. The bard, a princess of barbarians, she had no finery. She had bagpipes and leathers. She carried weapons. Dagna had made him laugh. She had scars and freckles. It might not have been her day-to-day but on Dagna, she could have made noble finery glitter. Though that had more to do with her than with the finery itself. Not that that was her style. Or even his. Not that his mattered. Cam looked away, feeling clumsy in his head and grateful he hadn’t said that out loud, at least. Maybe it was just how close they’d all come to death. Some of them more than once.

Ha, that was true, he supposed. Even Boone had died, what, twice now that she knew of? First via Cyrus, then again in the temple when she turned blue like an asamar. Jazirian sure seemed intent on keeping her in his service.

“Cam,” Dagna said softly. “Earlier when you killed that drow, you seemed…“

Cam shifted a little awkwardly. “Hadn’t intended to get so carried away. I just got,” he tried to find another word and failed, “….carried away.”

This time, when Dagna touched his hand, Cam chanced a look at her. “I know,” she replied. “I mean, I think I do. It was like you were seeing something else when you looked at me. It was kind of unsettling.”

Cam suddenly remembered the old man and the pirate. He shrugged, almost to himself. “I just….I saw different…..” And Cam shook himself. “I did see something else. Or something. I don’t know. I saw people that weren’t us, that were in a tavern, but not this tavern. They weren’t our alternates from the gems either. An old man who’d been poisoned like you were and a really angry pirate. But I didn’t recognize them or the tavern they were in.”

“We should start writing this stuff down when we see weird things like that,” Dagna suggested. “Who knows, maybe it will come back around later.”

“Ha, we might have to trick Boone or she’ll refuse just on principal.”

Dagna snorted and sighed. “I might have to. The more we hide things, the more we die, it seems like.”

“I can hear you, you know!” Boone suddenly called over from the bed.

“Good!” Cam shot back. “It will save us some time if you just lay your cards out.”

“I imagine that anything I know is nothing that you don’t already know.” Boone was sitting up now, arms crossed.

“Yeah, but that’s just your perspective,” Dagna pointed out. “You might have seen something important to one of us and not known it, Boone. And it seems pretty obvious at this point that more of this is connected than we might have originally suspected. You and Cam knew each other before Bryce’s Landing, right? Or, at least, your families did? But you didn’t know that you’d met Cyrus before you worked together in Bryce's Landing, right?”

Boone sat up against the headboard, frowning. “Fine. But not here. Once we’re on the road. But not here. There are ears everywhere in this place.”

Cam chuckled. “Yeah, did we check the closet to make sure that creepy sitar player isn’t in here?”

“Seriously, though,” Dagna grumbled. “She literally sang a verse about Kallas. Literally. There’s no way she could know that about him specifically unless she can read thoughts. It wasn't even very good.” She crossed her arms, as if that settled the matter.

“I mean, there is a spell for reading thoughts,” Cam reminded her. “Pretty sure that’s divination, though I imagine a bard could get the job done.”

“Yeah, she touched the halberd too,” Boone threw in. “And she greeted it. Like it was a damn person.”

“Well, she did say she wasn’t a bard, probably just someone who likes playing. But still….” Dagna rubbed her jaw.

The trio all looked by the door, where the footboard of the bed was still blocking the entrance. The halberd was leaning against the wall, silent like a sentry. The blade was still oddly matte darksilver but otherwise, appeared a normal weapon. Boone absently touched the feather through her cloak again.

Dagna drew out a topaz-shaded gem from her pack. It seemed duller than before. “These gems are kind of the only leads we have to getting Kallas back, right? Tinker disappeared after the fight.”

“Not surprising. That little fuck was not worth Kallas dying,” Cam grumbled. “I knew it was going to go bad when he signed that contract.”

Boone stiffened. “Contract—oh, shit—during the fight! The drow said something to me. Or I heard him? I think, anyway? Anyway, I heard them say something about them ’requiring mortal god blood’ like during a ritual or something.”

Cam rubbed at his beard growing in thick across his cheeks. “Mortal gods, huh?” He looked at Boone, pointedly examined the white dragon mark that was sparkling across her blue skin. “Is there any kind of place that’s special to Jazirian? Or a library where we could find out? You are becoming a....celestial? I would guess?”

Boone took out her waterskin for a few sips. “Likely not on this island. We’ll probably have to go to the mainland. Jildos doesn’t have much use for academics, it seems like.”

Cam chuckled. “Not for anything besides war. So, don't worry. You didn't miss anything by not becoming my sister.”

“Sister?” She wrinkled her blue nose at him. It made the scales on her cheek shimmer like snow.

“You were supposed to marry my brother. You would basically be my sister if shit hadn’t gone to hell.” Cam chuckled again. “Of course, my mother probably would have imprisoned or murdered you if it hadn’t, so, you know. Small favors.”

Boone rolled her eyes, grumbling and turned over in bed to lie down with a huff.

Dagna crooked half a smile before she looked to Cam. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep?”

The pariah shrugged. “Bad dreams,” he answered cheerfully.

“Me too. So I’ll wake you, if you wake me,” Dagna told him, allowing a small, tired smile.

Cam studied her green eyes in the pale light. “Y-yeah,” he managed, somehow clumsy again and then offered out his hand to shake for some reason.

That made her chuckle and she shook it, gripping firm and warm before leaning back against the wall next to him. Surprisingly, he dozed off first and when his head tipped over to her braids, she just said, “Raggabrash,” fondly and didn’t move.

The young man sat still, cross-legged. His eye hurt. It throbbed and pulsed behind the patch. He did not know where he was. He was seated on a tiny black sandy island in the middle of a large lake. But the water was strange, thick and almost oily black. All he could do was look around. His spine and legs felt stiff and unmovable as he gazed around the landscape. It was dark, the only light seemed to come from the lava flats that appeared to be far to the north east of his location. There was no sky that he could really discern, just a dusty greyish haze.

"Greetings, young one."

The young soldier found his gaze settling on a strange figure. Like a raven but huge, at least the size of an orc. Its shoulders were bulky with feathers. On its face, there was a blank white mask with a long beak, like a plague mask, the young man would recall.

It seemed that this figure watched him for a long time, simply standing before him, staring. "Who are you?"

The young man stared at the pointed beak. His eye was throbbing. "I don’t know."

Everything seemed to shift and speed around him, shadows and figures running in circles, dissipating like sand and then reforming. The only stationary thing was the Raven. The mask had dark holes for eyes. "If you lose your name, then He will take it from you. He remembers when you forget."

The young man leaned back a hair to examine the massive bird creature. “My name?”

"No more pretending. Who are you?"

The young man looked at his hands, calloused and dotted with small scars and cuts from knifework. Knifework? Like slicing a bare, slender throat, like he’d trained for his whole life. For the honor and glory of his House! Something in him wanted to pull away.

"No, young one. Face your actions, even if they are not your choice. You must remember."

“My choice was never,” he heard himself say to the Raven. “I never wanted it.” Wanted what?

The Raven leaned in, seeming to expand before him. "Many things in this world are never wanted. To only desire change when it is convenient is not change at all."

“I didn’t want to do it!” He screamed it at the Raven. It echoed across the still lake, fracturing the vacuum of silence. The smaller birds around the Raven scattered and then flew back.

The creepy plague mask did not shift in the slightest. "What did you want to do?"

A sandy shadow formed, running towards him across the lake, small, with misty eyes and tattoos

“Save Brenna.” It tumbled from his lips before he really registered what he was saying. A ring of red light pulsed underneath the lake in a bright, blood-colored circle and then it vanished. He had heard that somewhere before. Those two words together. Spoken by….by…someone important to him, he was sure.

A misty shadow tried to form itself at the edge of the island but was swept away by the wind.

Again, the Raven did not seem to move but the young man sensed its focus on him. "You cannot help her until you help yourself."

The man tried to raise his hands, to try and appeal to the Raven but it just felt so heavy. “I did everything I could…I tried to stop it.” Right? Hadn’t he? The young man was having a hard time remembering the circumstances of his arrival. Fuck, just like arriving in the Devonshire girl’s room. How did I get here? “But I still killed her.”

"Who did you kill?"

He looked up at the Raven again. Black feathers and pale white mask, like her in the flesh. Like someone he met in the port city-- “Boone!” he suddenly spat. “Raven Queen. Devonshire. I killed her.” For a moment, a black, sandy shadow formed by the lake's edge. Tall, long-legged, with inky dark hair. And those piercing glacier-blue eyes

The ring of red light flashed under the water again and faded. It was closer this time, the man observed. The shadow of the woman disappeared.

"Who are you?" The Raven seemed to peer into him.

“I’m dead! What does it matter!”

"You gave your death to me, young one. And now the pact will be fulfilled."

A clear gem appeared, blinking into existence on the young man’s left knee. It perched precariously in the dingy light.

"Now, young one, look into your eye."

The young man gingerly picked up the gem. With his other hand, he slid the patch up and his silver eye whorled, peering into it.

----------------------------------

Chapter Text

The landscape of the Shadowfell was beautiful, in a stark sort of way. Perhaps he was better suited to appreciate it, as a tiefling? Joking aside, Kallas did not know because he’d never known of anyone to travel to the Shadowfell and return. He had trecked through many cities and talked to people of all walks of life, and it was a wizard that had told him about the shadowplanes.

A dangerous, miserable place, between life and death, souls trapped there could writhe for an eternity. There were apparently physical buildings somewhere and, supposedly, a largish city but Kallas had not yet seen one or the other, besides the vast cavern he'd woken up in. He had slipped out like a wisp in the dark, as he suspected being in any populated area might be a very bad idea. Just in case.

He wouldn't claim to know enough about this plane to say whether the denizens might be friend or foe to a tiefling but he felt that, as he was basically unarmed and alone, this was not the proper juncture to find out. Same as many places he had been. Though comments about his infernal heritage tended not to reach his ears now that he was an adult, and typically it was nothing more than snide cowardice.

As a child, he’d had every insult from humans and elves and dwarves, and the most important thing he learned from this degradation, was patience. To react in anger tended to cause more very immediate issues. It was better to step back, observe, analyze and then act with knowledge, confidence and determination. Knowledge, Kallas had found, was the most useful resource one could acquire.

This did tend to make him curious, though. In that, he and Brenna had shared a sometimes-dangerous attribute. (She always insisted it was not a flaw.) He would blame this trait when he heard the blast of sound about a hundred feet off to his left. Kallas had heard wailing and shrieks of the lost (those without any memories left, was his working theory) and the calls of the strange denizen animals or monsters of the rocky lava flats and harsh terrain. But this was different.

It sounded like a horn, like a war horn.

Kallas hesitated and cast around but no other denizens were in sight. So Kallas did a swift turn and stepped lightly through the ash to the rocky outcropping shaped like a crescent moon, carefully slipping around the lowest point of rock.

At first, Kallas didn’t see anyone but what he did see stopped him.

A wide, thick circle of mushrooms outlined an ash-blanketed area of about twenty feet across. Some fae were known to build circles of mushrooms or flowers, supposedly to trick unknowing mortals to crossing into the fae realm. But hardly anything grew here in the Shadowfell, seeing any plantlife was strange. But as Kallas got closer, he realized someone was lying in the middle of it, with two people standing next to him. They were shadows, sandy shades of what Kallas had to presume were people. Someone’s memories, perhaps?

“Ooooh shit, you gave him one of those?” A tricky sort of voice cringed, “That was a special spore.” An accent similar to his own, Kallas noticed.

“Well! I thought he was going to die!” A woman shouted back angrily. “You were too busy being drilled, darling! You didn’t think that blasting horn was important?!”

Kallas slowed his approach, automatically trying to touch the grip of his rapier. Unfortunately, along with his armor, his sword had rusted almost to uselessness. He kept it anyway, for it felt very, very wrong to throw away anything that might help him remember himself. The Shadowfell seemed to drain the energy out of the lost ones here, to tire them so much that they no longer cared who they were, to make their names easier to take. If he threw his rapier away, this place would absorb it, take it away and it would know something. And then Kallas might forget. It lurked in him: Do not forget.

Regardless, neither the shadows of the two people, nor the third, seemed to notice him. The two standing turned to ash and blew away but the one sitting, now stood. It did not move or turn to look around. The dusty shade was featureless but for its dragon-like head.

Kallas looked at the figure, then the circle of mushrooms. He noticed there were two different kinds: one looked to be a normal mushroom, pale mauve and white. But the other was different, matte black, streaked with green.

Kallas stepped into the circle.

And all at once, the shade and mushrooms turned to ash and the tiefling fell into darkness.

The drow fell on top of Brenna. Kallas grabbed the dead mage by her hair and ripped her off of the gnome, throwing the corpse down the steps of the massive altar. “Brenna!” Kallas knelt to her. “Brenna?”

Brenna did not stir. Her eyes were wide and empty, face streaked in blood.

Kallas felt like he couldn’t breathe, eyes skittering over her still face, smearing blood away from her eye. “Brenna….”

The teifling felt Cam come up behind him, gently touching his shoulder. “Kallas…..”

“Can’t you do something?” Kallas demanded, coming to his feet in one fluid movement, whirling on the sorcerer. Cam drew his hand back but did not look at Brenna. “You have magic, yes? Can you bring her back?”

Cam opened his mouth soundlessly, seeming to try and think of something to say and then shook his head. “I…can’t, Kallas. I—she’s gone. I knew people who could have….in another life. But….but I can’t. There’s nothing I can do.”

“I don’t think there’s anything we can do.” Cyrus ghosted up to Cam’s other side, frowning. His blue eye was hard on the gnome. “That thing, it sucked the souls of Ghost Butler and Brenna….we may not be able to bring her back at all.”

Cam stiffened, shooting a stricken look at him. “But—we, well, we have to….try.”

The rogue felt like his gut was splitting apart. He knelt again, gently brushing Brenna’s hair from her face. “Brenna….” He whispered once more, the reality settling in his stomach the longer the gnome did not respond.

“Kallas….” He heard Cam again, gently.

“What about Boone?” Kallas asked gruffly instead. He still did not look at the humans, just at the gnome. Just at Brenna, who had helped him, defended him, and protected him. Brenna, whom he had promised to help. He had watched her ancestors come to her, watched her risk life and limb for them all. Sometimes, it felt like only she truly saw him out of all the people he had worked with over the years.

Cyrus knelt by the paladin. “She’s still breathing, just unconscious. And still blue. I can’t heal her.”

“Neither can I. I got nothing left,” Cam breathed, sounding tired and raw. “Let’s get them on the carpet.”

Cyrus scooped Boone onto the magic rug. Kallas picked up the little gnome, cradling her like a toddler as he went to the carpet and knelt on it. Her tattoos were no longer glowing. He traced the memory of one with his thumb, down her cheek and over her jaw.

A massive stone came thundering out of the ceiling and smashed a city block to cinders.

“We should go,” Cyrus urged again. “We still have intel to retrieve and I would like to get paid.”

Kallas’ shoulders stiffened like a snapping tree branch, almost imperceptive. He resisted the urge to turn around and punch Cyrus right in the mouth. The hapless painter was even less socially evolved than Boone, the tiefling reminded himself. A common problem among humans. Cyrus likely had not even thought before he said it. That was the ‘mindless soldier’ part of Cyrus’ upbringing, no doubt. As a soldier, as a person, he had no value but what someone else decided he was worth. No identity but what another allowed him to have. Indoctrination.

Besides, clocking Cyrus might make him feel better right now but who knew if it would actually do anything. Certainly, Kallas had noticed that Cyrus did appear to be alive, but definitely greyer. He appeared Undead. He appeared really Undead. The tiefling took a deep breath but couldn’t keep the terse bite out of his tone. “Yes, I would like to get something out of this.”

If anyone heard the tremor in his voice, no one spoke of it. Cam simply walked beside him, saying nothing, but he could feel the human’s hazel eyes on him. When he offered out the dimensional bag, Kallas understood. It was awful to think of Brenna as some thing but the bag was safe and airtight. Her body would be…better preserved, protected. Less chance of being damaged.

Another crash took Kallas’ attention as they rounded a corner to reach the estate where this information was supposedly held.

And then another human, a female named Dagna, was running towards them. Kallas felt like everything was speeding around him while he slogged through quicksand, trying to suppress everything down so he could function. Like Boone was when she jumped back into awareness. When she demanded to know what had happened, Kallas couldn’t answer. His words stoppered up in his throat. Cam did it instead.

The woman, Dagna, at least, jumped right in to the fray. She touched everyone, using her magic to heal their bodies. Too little too late for Brenna. All they could do now was press onward.

Press onward.

Kallas now stood on a large stone altar. It looked exactly like the altar from the drow city, as if it had been plucked up and placed here in the Shadowfell. He watched sandy shadows of his memories: the drow woman died and he watched Brenna take a single step back when the tendril snaked around her. Watched the jolt as she was shocked from her body and torn away, struggling and fighting and yelling.

Kallas had not heard or seen her struggles when he’d actually been in the drow city. But here, he saw her soul, lunging away, trying to fight and scrap. How her ancestors howled in fury when this beast pulled her away from them. How they tried to cluster around her, to slow her, tried to pull her back. But nothing worked.

The spirit Kallas recognized as Leon had then jumped out of the throng, latched on to Brenna’s axe—and then both had disappeared. The ancestors turned as one to look directly at the tiefling and thundered in dozens of ethereal voices: ”Save Brenna!”

“I will.” He didn’t know how yet but Kallas was now certain he was on the right track. He clenched his fist, brought it to his chest in salute and then bowed to her ancestors.

And then they too, turned to ash.

Kallas found himself back on the path, where he’d heard the original blast of sound. The feather was now tucked in his breast pocket, still faintly illuminating when he took it out. He was not sure what to do with it but he did not dare toss it away. This must connect him to something. He had felt Cyrus' death with such certainty the first time he touched it that he could not help but logic that it must have something to do with the human.

Perhaps the Raven Queen was the ‘other’ presence that Cyrus had once mentioned (rather than Bahamut?). One seemed to be evil and vile, the one that had killed the drow in the cabin. (“Well, that did not go as expected.”) But there was another too, that seemed good. Though good and evil often seemed beholden to perspective, the ‘better’ of the two presences had fought for Cyrus’ soul, had equipped him somehow to specifically help Boone.

And the Raven Queen, Cyrus' patron for the pact with his halberd? Kallas suspected that she was the reason that he was in the Shadowfell and not currently being tormented by Asmodeus. So he was willing to take her words to heart. Be careful with one’s name and memories and if Brenna were here, he would find her.

Kallas touched the pocket where his feather was safely stowed. What if Cyrus had somehow ended up here? This place would be very dangerous for someone like Cyrus. The luckless noble would have nothing to remember himself by if he had only ever learned to obey. Hapless, unlucky, formerly Undead, and probably cursed, Cyrus was definitely all those things, but evil? Vindictive? Hateful? No.

Kallas steeled his resolve. If Cyrus were here, he'd find him too.

(“Boone!”)

Boone jumped in her chair. She was sitting down in the tavern at the same bench they’d been attacked at last night. The table had been cleaned but still beheld two crossbolt marks. She nearly knocked over her tin cup.

Cam looked up from shoveling fried potatoes in his mouth, lifting his eyebrows. Dagna full-stopped, mug of tea half-raised.

“I…sorry.” Boone shook herself. “I thought I heard…something. I mean. A voice, fuck that sounds worse. I thought I heard Cyrus say my name. Which is stupid, yes, I already know. He’s dead. I’m not. I know.”

Dagna lifted her fingers in a placating gesture. “It’s all right. Sometimes that happens, you hear or see people who meant a lot to you in some way, in places they could never be after they're gone or outta your life. It happens.”

“Uh,” Cam managed, slack-jawed, pointing over Boone’s shoulder with his fork as the chunk of potato fell off.

Dagna saw, eyes widening. “Boone, the halberd!”

The paladin leapt up and whirled around where it was leaning against the support pillar of the tavern. The grip felt the same as Boone took it and moved the weapon into the light. It was the blade that had changed. The dark matte grey that had clouded it after Cyrus' death was gone. It was now a crystalline silver. The blade was like a shimmering prism. “What the….”

Cam put his fork down and looked around the tavern. “Okay, that's different. Let’s get out of here. Take the food to go." The sorcerer lurched up, donning his cloak and jamming biscuits into his pockets. "Too much spooky shit for one tavern. Let’s go.”

-----------------------

Chapter Text

Cyrus staggered in the tunnels, his hands went cold. Cam froze, reaching out as if to grab onto to him. “Hey, you all right?”

The soldier looked around the sewers and he could feel the sack. Roughly the size of a body, bloody. Bloody copper in his nose. He could feel the stoop that had been in his step. I didn’t want to! I didn’t mean to! I don’t even know her! The terrible helplessness as he could only watch, a passenger in his own body—

“Cyrus? What’s wrong?”

He felt his stomach lurch but he braced his left palm against the wall and kept walking. “I…I don’t know.”

Cam peered at him. “Maybe the smell, huh?”

No, Cyrus could not seem to help the thoughts, no, not this smell. The heady stench of blood was so tangible it was almost thick. Cyrus’ words failed him, breaking out in a cold sweat and a lump tightening his throat, but he managed to shake his head.

When they passed a tunnel that Cam was definitely not interested in going down, he saw Cyrus suddenly swerve, staggering. “Hey, whoa whoa whoa, not that way, Cyrus. We definitely don't want to go that way.”

“I….I know….” Cyrus snapped, turning his face to the wall, putting his back to Cam. His breathing seemed shaky.

Goddammit Cyrus don’t choose right now to get taken over by a fucking devil or whatever. He shoulda just taken Kallas. Seriously. The most reasonable, clear-headed guy was…all right, yes, it was better for him to be in on these talks. Even if he only were to observe, Cam did not argue that the tiefling had a better head for pretty much everything that required any kind of detail. The human stopped still now, squaring his shoulders, tensing to spring. “What’s going on, Cyrus?”

In the flickering torchlight, Cyrus looked down the tunnel. “I….know this place.” He swayed again but Cam did not move closer, watching. There was an uncanny sort of twitch to Cyrus that seemed both familiar and repulsive. The halberd was burning gold in the flame of his torch.

Cam shifted his stance, circling and letting his left hand trace down to his sword, fingers remembering the grip. Just in case. “You know this place? Down there? Seems unlikely, Cyrus.”

“I didn’t want to go! I don’t want to go!” Cyrus cried out and then took a shuddering breath. He leaned heavily against the brick and then his blue eye finally raised up to Cam. In the dim light it was…hollow.

Like Gregor’s eyes…

That hollow blue eye closed and Cyrus drug his fingers down his face. “I know this place.” He stood up and looked down the hall where the Macwell estate connected to the tunnels. “I’ve been here before. It smells like blood.”

Cam grimaced at him among the flickering shadows as he took an extra sniff of the stale, stagnant air. It didn't smell coppery to him. “What do you mean you’ve been here before? I’m the only one that’s been here before. Your family apparently didn’t tell you about the tunnels, right?”

“No….” he mused uneasily. “I was never….good enough….never...” Cyrus again looked like he might be ill but he stayed on his feet. His bright blue eye flickered around him uneasily. "Something happened here. I can still feel it. Something bad happened...but I can't place it. I've never been here before. There would be no reason for me to have come here. Sabals wouldn't have been able to use the tunnels for ages. Maybe my father did not even know of them. But down there... ” And Cyrus hesitated, turning his eerie blue eye on Cam, "....that's where you lived. The Macwell Estate. But that doesn't make sense. Why would I know that....?" Cyrus gazed into the shadows.

Well, Cam could agree, Cyrus definitely shouldn't know that. Something didn't fit. Something was jarring apart. Deserted a battle that didn’t happen…

Cam gripped his sword, dread was creeping up his spine like a choking weed. “Why do you, Cyrus?”

The man did not appear to notice, surveying the details of the walls, trying to logic out something that Cam was not certain even Cyrus understood. It was what made the warlock more dangerous than any of them, that unpredictability. Cam could give the man that, definitely. Cyrus had been raised into a very efficient tool.

Long days ago when young Leopold watched troops and formations and learned the call signs and standard-bearers and House flags, he would recognize the military precision with which Cyrus fought. And halberds were long and ungainly weapons to the unskilled. Sure, Cam had learned how to use several basic styles but, as a fighter, he preferred the sword. Versatile and consistent, as both tool and weapon.

Halberds were typically a different style of fighting, of living, really. Ideally, in small groups, such fighters were like a needles, whipping in and around friend and foe. So one had to be on their fucking game or would end up slicing their friends or getting their weapon broken. They had to move fast to account for the distance and root themselves quickly to strike with any power. Not to mention, they had to constantly be aware of its length. There had to be some thinking ahead just to make sure you didn’t ride under a bridge and knock yourself off your horse. Less flexible for Cam.

But in the hands of Cyrus, it was fluid death. And apparently, his was a family relic? With a gem on it that changed color like his cursed eye, from what Cam had observed. Oh yeah, the cursed eye he doesn’t remember getting, just the friendly fire from his brothers that knocked him out. I’m sure that’s not connected at all.

But what made Cyrus truly dangerous was that unknown piece of him. Every other person, even Boone-turned-celestial, were pretty consistent in their words and actions. But Cyrus, well….Cam still had dreams of that hand killing the drow. That moment was going to be seared into his brain for the rest of his life. Not Cyrus’ fault. But something inside of Cyrus was definitely wrong.

Who am I kidding? It’s probably Asmodeus. And the more insistent Cyrus was that there was nothing wrong, the more apparent it became that something definitely was. Just like with the damn cursed kris knife.

Cyrus shuddered again, like he were shaking off a chill. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. Let us move on.”

Cam stared at him as the other noble composed himself. Cyrus: unaware of anything but his immediate self, his immediate surroundings and had been raised an efficient weapon. And Kallas, clear-headed and logical, able to step back and observe the big picture, and somehow both of them had problems with Asmodeus, King of Nine Hells! We are so fucked.

Maybe he should have insisted on taking Boone after all. Or, fuck it, just go with Dagna and settle up with Governor-General Lumeris and all the rest right now. Just unleash Cyrus first and then he'd follow and a bloodbath would ensue and he'd probably get killed. Cam closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself but he kept his grip on his sword.

Cyrus seemed nearly back to normal until they got under the grating. Cam heard an unfortunately familiar voice saying: “Perhaps it would behoove us to listen to what they have to say?”

Cyrus’ blue eye glazed over and his face went chalk white. That voice. Buvgai Aboken. His knees sagged and Cam almost tripped right over him. “Buvgai Aboken….”

Cam circled just out of reach, eyeing the other spellcaster. “Yeah, he’s a snake.” And then: “Wait, how do you know him?"

Cyrus' gaze stayed on the brick. "He....cast...he cast a spell on me. He...."

Cam felt that choking weed touch his neck. "What did he do to you, Cyrus?”

“It was me.” His halberd clattered to the ground.

Cam let go of his sword's grip, watching the soldier curl in on himself. “What was you?”

Cyrus stared at his hands, shaking inside and out. “It was my fault. I—Boone. I killed Boone. I cut her throat.”

Cam's eyes went wide, stunned. “Uh. What?”

“That man, his voice—I know his voice! Buvgai Aboken. He cast a spell on me, altered my memory. He used a magical command and made me kill her!”

Oh fuck, I was not ready for today. “Okay, wow, okay. Uh. Cyrus.” Cam raised his hands in a calming gesture. Right, maybe he wouldn't unleash the warlock after all.

“There was never a battle! I was never a deserter!” The soldier was getting up, his eye turned hard like blue ice. “I will take off his head! I was exiled for nothing! I was branded as a coward! He is the reason—“

“Okay, Cyrus, I need you to listen—“ Cam looked back and forth in the tunnels, in case he had to tackle the man.

“—that my family was finally banished from the city! I will take--”

“Keep your voice down, first! Sound travels in these tunnels. We need to go meet Kallas, Dag and Boone, remember?”

”I killed Boone!” The torch in Cam’s hand flickered. It was as if, for a moment, Cyrus pulled all the light to himself, his palpable despair smothering it down as the shadows seemed to manifest, to lengthen, to reach for him. The gem on his halberd flickered black as obsidian.

Cam, against his own better judgment, took a step towards his friend. Very lightly, he laid his palm on his shoulder. “Cyrus, look, you cannot walk in there with a weapon and expect to make it out. They will kill you. And better that Buvgai doesn’t know that you’re here at all. It's a good thing you came with me because they probably would have arrested or killed you as soon as Aboken recognized you.”

Cyrus shuddered and seemed to come back to himself. The darkness relented and the torch burned brightly again. “Cam, I know we do not always see eye to eye--"

"Nope, I'd have to get a cursed eye and lose my depth perception."

"--but please don’t tell Boone about this yet.”

Cam almost burst out laughing at the absurdity of that idea. “Oh no. You are telling Boone about this. I’m not telling Boone about this. Are you kidding me? I’m not stupid.”

That made Cyrus smile, just a faint, tired little twitch at the corners of his mouth. He straightened up, leaning against the brick wall for a moment. “I feel like I have lost control of my life.”

Nothing ever said by this exiled-formally Undead-cursed warlock-turned-dragon guardian aspect-of-Bahamut, had made more fucking sense than that. “You and me both, so let’s just do this shit one step at a time. First step, out of these tunnels. Because I hate them.”

And all three of us somehow ended up in Bryce’s Landing.

Devonshire De'Boon, Boone to her companions, had been alone for most of her childhood. She and her brother were practically strangers. He hadn't even been at the manor the day the invitation came.

She had grown up the child of a family with only moderate wealth, which had made her invitation to the Macwell estate all the more remarkable. No one had expected the summons. It had come as a letter, gilded in gold and written in glimmering calligraphy ink by Lady Talisa Macwell herself. What an incredible honor to have the Lady of Jildos invite them!

Boone hadn't really felt it. Her parents certainly had. They were eager for their tall, somewhat awkward daughter to be suitably matched. They would never have expected the Macwells. They were the most powerful House in Jildos. How the Macwells had learned about their daughter, no one seemed to know. But everyone knew that they had two sons and the elder was the implied suitor. No one knew much about the younger son.

There had been a flurry of activity, almost a month of travel by carriage and ship, and a grand reception when they had arrived at the Macwell estate. Lord and Lady De'Boon were already mostly convinced before they even saw the city gates but afterwards….well, it took only one meeting with Lady Macwell. A modest supper the night of their arrival, held in a smaller, more intimate dining room in the Macwell’s wing of their estate.

Talisa Macwell swept back her shining dark hair, rings winking in the candlelight. “I am so happy to see how eager you are to ally with us in this matter.”

“We had not expected such an offer, Lady Macwell, and we are honored to meet your son,” Lady De'Boon replied, giving her daughter a sidelong glance.

Lord De'Boon, on Boone’s right side, said, “Our daughter has studied at the Temple from the time she was six. She is a brilliant swordswoman and has excelled in paladin magics.”

Boone looked at her wine, hated the feeling she got when they spoke about her like she wasn’t there.

But then Lady Macwell leaned forward and gently touched the girl’s long fingers. “My sweetling,” she said gently, “I know how it feels to be given to a family, to be gone from your home and all you know to wed a strange man for the duty of your House. After all, very rarely does it happen the other way.”

Lady De'Boon tittered. Devonshire met Lady Macwell’s dark hazel eyes for a moment, trying to squash the hopeful flutter that went through her chest. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if the Lady understood that, at least.

The graceful Lady then took her hand, cupping it and her smile was warm and lovely. “Yes, it is perfectly normal to be nervous, my dear. And my sons, I do say, have learned from a very early age that disrespect will get them nowhere. Not with a wife and certainly not with me. That is why I was so pleased to hear about you. If all I wanted were a woman to bear them children, I could have asked anyone. But not all Houses train their daughters for strength. And my son requires a strong woman.”

Devonshire felt a flush of embarrassment, glancing down at the table again.

Lady Macwell gave her an indulgent smile, full of kindness and empathy. “Gregor is my eldest. He is preparing to assume Stewardship of our great House at the turn of the season. It is customary that Stewards marry before this acquisition of power.”

Lord De'Boon folded his fingers together. “What about your younger son?”

Lady Macwell paused for just a split-second and then said, “Gregor is my pride and joy. Leopold is my tumultuous starling. I love him, I adore him, as any mother loves her child. But I admit, he is more willful than his brother. No less charming, no less intelligent, but absolutely more willful. He also is a carrier of our sorcerer line and that can cause unpredictability in a person's temperament.”

“As mages and boys can be,” Lord De'Boon agreed, chuckling good-naturedly.

Lady Macwell’s smile became more fixed, icy. “Indeed. Now,” and here she looked back at Boone, hazel eyes turning gentle and warm again, “there are a few formalities that I must see to. An entire wing has been opened for you, sweetling. You’ll spend a month among us, as our honored guest and at the end of that month, I would like you to meet with one of my advisers to discuss the transition in making Jildos your home, if you so choose.”

“We shall appoint members of our household to transition with her,” Lady De'Boon offered.

But Talisa Macwell raised a hand. “While that would be normal among other houses, it won’t be necessary here. Jildos is loyal to Macwell and Macwell is loyal to Jildos. We have an abundance of staff to look after your daughter’s every need. Tomorrow, you all will meet Gregor at a lunch I have already arranged. If my Lord and Lady De'Boon are satisfied with his conduct, then we will negotiate the financial matters. Providing that is satisfactory to both sides, the young lady will meet with my adviser, to account for her progress in fighting and magic and what steps we need to take to ensure she continues to improve.”

Her parents seemed momentarily taken aback by this. Her mother recovered first. “I see, of course, Lady Macwell. This adviser, do we know him? Is he a member of your court?”

“Yes, mine specifically and, as a tiefling, well acquainted with such matters: Buvgai Aboken.“

Cam crossed his arms. “So that is how you met him.” He frowned up at the crow’s nest. They had chartered a small ship to run them across the Straits of War to the south. They would be able to take on supplies in Avargard. Hopefully, get enough ahead of hired knives to disappear into obscurity. Of course, now that he thought about it, there was the timeless tower, a library that Cam had heard ghost stories about from the time he was a boy. It was also not far from where the Duergar would occasionally come to the surface. But farther to the north was also Etherforge, a city of half-magic, half-metal. Cam tapped the railing. “Do you remember what you talked about?”

Boone signed. “Magic, where I had trained to fight, what I knew about differences between devils and demons, he had all kinds of questions about mundane and magical things.”

“So we have to suppose that your death was planned, Boone,” Dagna mused aloud. “And seriously Cam, your ma is a bitch.”

Cam rubbed his eyes, turning to look out over the sparkling sea. “And Asmodeus pointed you out specifically,” Cam said, bracing his elbows on the railing and looking sidelong at Boone. “So it’s very fair to say that my mother probably wanted you dead before you even arrived.”

“But my family is no one to her—“

Cam waved his hand. “That doesn’t matter. I’m not talking about your family, Boone! I’m talking about you.” He gestured pointedly to her blue skin and shimmering cheek. “She seemed to be in charge, remember? So depending on how long ago my mother betrayed us….this could have been in the planning for months. Years, even. You gotta understand here, my mother was never a warrior. Ever. That she is rolling in armor and some kind of necromancy is not how I knew her. So if she is serving some fucking devil-god, well, guess what happens when an aspect of Jazirian crosses her path?”

Boone put her forehead in her palm, staring at the waves. “But if she allied with Cin Amon, that would mean…”

“A conspiracy,” Dagna finished. “A large one, with several players. If she and her adviser were in on it, maybe they disgraced Cyrus to drive his family out of the city for good. Sabal was an important house in the old days, right? Maybe she didn't want to risk any Sabals who might use that old name to start a political movement against her. Permanently culling Houses that might oppose her. I mean, if you thin out a Council, and you own the largest military, then guess who owns that Council?”

“I’m gonna guess that my mother heard about you from one of her connections and she invited your family as a front to get to you.”

Boone rubbed her eyes. The day had been short but already, the paladin felt tired. “Cam…do you know what happened to my parents?”

The sorcerer looked away. “My mother came to Gregor and I and told us that your parents went home right after financial negotiations on the fifth night. Since you didn’t know that, I’m going to guess that that isn’t what happened?” Fuck, if I had tried to get to know her then, I might have noticed something was wrong….

Boone closed her eyes. “Lady Macwell told me the same thing. I knew they were preparing to leave but I thought they would, at least, say goodbye. They liked Gregor. And they had never been ones to question authority, especially with the thousands in gold the estate offered them. But they did not say farewell or anything. She said that they left to make arrangements back home and would return with my brother for the wedding.” Boone closed her eyes at the railing.

“So, for all we actually know, they’re sitting in a dungeon somewhere because I can’t imagine that they would have been quiet about their daughter being murdered during a visit, official or otherwise.” Cam rubbed his jaw.

Boone swayed next to the railing. “I think I need to sit down.” And with that, the paladin turned away from the two of them, heading belowdecks to the hold.

A tall shadow appeared, walking next to Kallas on the path of ash. The tiefling almost tripped over his own boots. He was now somewhat accustomed to the misty shadows that seemed to be memories playing out among the wastes of the Shadowfell but the tall one reminded him of someone. He slowed his step, peering at the shade. It looked to be a half-elf, with somber eyes, pale hair and heavy-looking armor. He said nothing to Kallas and did not look at the tiefling.

Two smaller, sandy shades who might be human or elven children, raced ahead of the taller, bouncing in excitement. One of them cried out: ”Taralee is going to be so jealous! We are going on a real adventure with the King of Irulan!”

”King Stark the Brave! Just like everyone says! I hope you become king all the time!”

This shadowy King walked away from Kallas, reaching out a hand to each child.

The tiefling stood on the path, rooted in place, for he could not recall who the man reminded him of and he was suddenly afraid he had forgotten something important. Also, where or what was Eerulan? Arrowlawn?

A sandy shadow of what seemed to be a halfling materialized next to Kallas, holding out a gem. “Goes to some place called Irulan when you crush it?”

“I have never known any kings,” Kallas said to himself, quietly. Saying it out loud seemed to help solidify that idea. Kallas had traveled far and wide and met many people but he was certain he did not know any kings. Perhaps like the mushroom circle, these were just other memories, not necessarily anything related to his own.

"And yet, all memories connect."

Kallas managed not to jump when the dark woman, his perception of the avatar of the Raven Queen, he suspected, appeared at his side. Sandy black birds clustered around her shoulders. The tiefling frowned. “Do they?”

"You have met many people in your travels, have you not?"

“I have,” Kallas answered truthfully.

"And meeting all of these many different people, what did it show you?"

Kallas thought about that for a moment. He had met many people but had never had many friends. He had solved puzzles, cases, crimes and met the people behind many of them. He'd spoken with clerics, traded dice with thieves, negotiated to businessfolk and questioned witches and hedge knights. What did they have in common? And then it came to him: “Many people I met reminded me of others I had already met. Mortals are not as individual as we might like to think. Personalities tend to cover a rather small spectrum.”

"And whose did not?"

“Brenna, at first, reminded me of many other fighters I’ve met but she was…different. She stuck out to me in a way that most people do not.” She'd been so fierce, and yet, very kindhearted but not arrogant. And now that he thought about it, perhaps that had separated Cyrus, Cam and Boone.

Sometimes, they had been frustratingly similar to other humans he had met. But Cyrus had his cursed eye and despite his occasional grumbling about money, it didn't actually take much convincing for the man to do the right thing. As if he thought he needed to act selfish before he could express his actual feelings on what they ought to do. That dreadful severity he'd been raised with versus the kinder bit of him that he'd always had to squash down.

Dagna had helped bring that out. She seemed genuinely good. And when Cyrus followed Dagna, he tended to try to help. The cursed eye and whatever the aspects were inside of him: Jazirian or Bahamut or Kri'zakath or whoever--likely caused a great deal of interference with his decision-making. And the people he surrounded himself with would be important in helping to influence what aspects got a greater hold on him. I should have asked Cyrus more. If I had realized that then, perhaps I could have helped him...

Boone had had her throat cut and seemed to half-suspect her own family (parents, a brother?) though she never elaborated on why. She, like Cyrus, struggled to find her own identity in both the world at large and their small circle. She had clearly been selected by some form of deity before her death at Cyrus' hands, the druids at the Scarlet Forest had basically told her as much. But a girl who'd spent her short life training at a temple had likely not experienced enough to even know what kinds of questions she might have asked. Kallas had supposed that as she was acquainted with her god, that she would know what she needed to do. Perhaps, he had been too hasty.

Grifto's bottle, that's when things began to shift. At the time, he saw her struggling to decide if she wanted to follow Dagna or Cam. And while both were capable, they had different priorities and both were sometimes prone to recklessness. The young paladin was drawn to Cam, that was obvious and, as she was only seventeen, not really that surprising. But Kallas certainly hadn't wanted anything to do with that. She would have to learn to develop her own set of morals, not simply latch on to a stronger personality. Perhaps I could have tried to show her those tools, though. I could have tried to teach her. So she could learn answers for herself.

And Cam, well, Leopold Macwell, was the heir to a Grand Stewardship of the most powerful military state in the known world. Charming and funny, easy-going and clever but with that backbone of stubbornness that reminded Kallas of Brenna. He was someone who didn't always do what other people wanted, he did what he felt was right. And what would help him maintain his freedom, no matter how illogical, at times. (As soon as they got out of Grifto's and he pulled the cork again, they all could have slapped him.)

Cam had fought against all ties to his Fate. Sometimes, the young man was selfish in that. Only Dagna had been able to convince him to tell them about the tunnels into Jildos. And she'd used their wish from the jinn for him. But overall, Kallas hadn't had to worry as much about Cam, the sorcerer was clearly capable of looking after himself. He made his decisions with purpose, sometimes to his own detriment. In the druid forest, he allowed Kibs to hurt him so badly simply because he wanted to make his point. I wonder, if I had discussed with him, all that we knew--if he might have had insight I would not have thought of myself?

Each of the humans had been exiled, slightly different circumstances that ended up being connected. Cyrus had literally had his memory altered to believe he had committed an act of cowardice, was branded and expelled from the military and then disowned from his family. Boone had woken in her own grave outside of Jildos and simply fled. And Cam had walked away from all that power, though whether that had happened before or after the supposed death of his elder brother, Kallas did not know.

"Which is preferable: Coincidence or fate?"

Kallas studied the emotionless white mask. “It would depend on the individual’s perception.”

"And why is that a problem?"

Kallas thought again. “Because…one person’s perspective is usually not the complete truth.” Investigating crime had shown him that. The best way to get the truth was to question as many people as possible about the topic in question (a murder, a coup, a war) and draw lines where the stories lined up. And then parse out the falsities from there.

Ahead of him, Kallas saw a shadow of himself opening up the lungs of the dead woman in Bryce’s Landing. Lungs full of sand. Lungs full of sand. Her death must have been terrible. Full of sand. Had it been dark sand like the sand of the Shadowfell? Like the sand in the temple that Brenna had advised them all not to touch.

Not to touch. And a curved knife winked through Kallas’ mind. A knife like a glistening silver ribbon. Something about the knife…but when he looked up to question the Raven Queen, her aspect was gone. He was alone again.

Up ahead, there now appeared to be a massive black lake. Something was shining in the middle but he could not make it out.

And then he heard a thunderous boom!

Sand and water pulsed across the black lake and Kallas crossed his arms over his face and braced himself. Ash swirled around the tiefling and then, across the lake, he saw a set of wings and then a blast of purple light.

The strange voice of the Raven Queen echoed in his mind: "Our friend is out of time."

Kallas felt something in his chest clench. He had always ignored the loneliness. Odd that he would suddenly recall it now.

“Cyrus!” And abruptly, the tiefling forgot his plans, forgot his focus, forgot everything—he saw the wings across the lake and he ran.

Chapter Text

Kallas sprinted across the ash but had to skid to a stop at the shore, eyes roaming over the black, oily lake and the small island in the center. A terrible ripping sound cut the air, making all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Sparks flared on the little island. No way to tell the depth and it could be acidic or magical in nature. But he might not have any choice--

The Raven Queen sifted up from the sand at his side. She raised a black leather gauntlet, fingers wrapped in gauzy lace, and clenched her ash-dusted fist. A red ring of light pulsed under the water. Then the emotionless white mask turned to Kallas. "Go. He is out of time."

Kallas took off and to his surprise, did not slog through water at all. It was suddenly shallow as a birdbath. The detective sprinted on top of it towards the shimmers of light but when he reached the other shore he hit something. Kallas was thrown back from it, crashing into the shallows. Some sort of magical barrier or shield? Cam's shields had looked like a sheet of stars to him but this was more physical. He scrambled back up.

Beyond it, he could see his friend. Poor Cyrus, the wings were gone, but his silver eye was transfixed on his knee. He did not seem to notice the hands and purple light and a shadow filling in some kind of portal behind him.

“Cyrus!” Kallas screamed it at the barrier. “CYRUS!”

The human was still and silent. He did not seem to hear. Kallas gritted his teeth and put his palm on the barrier, fully expecting something terrible to happen. It felt like dense air, he was unable to push through it and it burned against his skin, searing his palm. Kallas jerked back, inky shadows clinging to his flesh, to his arm, as he tried to shake it off. The shadow flickered black and purple and tendrils began to creep out. Kallas heard a chill voice boom all around him, shaking into his bones, like all the air were being pressed down on top of him:

Ah, the tiefling. How interesting that I find you here. The closer you come, the more your memories sing to me. To whisper your name in my ear. Just like this one.

“Leave him alone!” Kallas commanded, shouting felt useless but he couldn’t seem to help it. “Cyrus!”

The tendrils were snaking over him, heading for his cursed eye, open and staring into his knee.

What were the words you imparted to that girl? Save Brenna? It’s too late. You’re too late.

When the devil mockingly uttered those words, save Brenna, the tiefling felt a flash of something. A rage more intense than he had ever known. A hatred more clear to him than he had ever felt. Kallas drew his rapier. It was rusted and useless but he was beyond that thought now. This was the monster, the creature that took him from the others, that tormented Cyrus, that stalked Boone, that extorted Tinker, that allied with Cam’s traitorous mother.

This devil was connected to the beast of Kri’zakth that took Brenna.

Kallas whipped his blade up and did a lunge at the barrier. It had seared his hand so he had little expectation for his sword but it still jarred him when the slender blade shattered apart against it in a burst of purple blackened sparks. He could only watch in frustration, in horror as slivers of rusted metal rained around his feet.

Oh, how noble of you to try so hard to protect your friend. Each failure more significant than the last.

Tendrils wrapped around Cyrus’ arms and still, the human did not seem to notice. He sat cross-legged on the sandy island as if he were a puppet with cut strings.

Kallas heard the amusement in the devil's voice, a skimming over his thoughts. A puppet, what an accurate comparison.

A tendril slithered up to Cyrus’ silver eye and pushed inward from the corner. That was when Cyrus reacted, only to stiffen, arresting in what looked like pain. His eye turned red.

Kallas roared in helplessness, in fury and he threw the ravaged hilt of his rapier to the ash. But it did not go to the ground. He threw it but it jerked back mid-air and levitated in front of him. The feather suddenly burned warm and flipped itself from his front pocket, shimmering before him. Kallas stopped cold, watching as the hilt spun, the feather touched it and then the weapon began to glow.

The shards of his blade jumped from the ash, radiant silvery gold, reforming together. Kallas did not question it. He grabbed the hilt and it flashed and sang into his blood like a blasting typhoon, like a raging thunderstorm. The tiefling took his rapier and struck—

A sound cascaded over him, like a breaking stained-glass window. Arcane, radiant lightning webbed out at the point of contact, striking the barrier in multiple locations at once and the shield shattered.

The Raven Queen was suddenly beside him again, spiriting in a wave of sand across the broken shield and raising a hand—

You have no domain over me! Asmodeus' voice echoed, baleful and furious, reached a clawed hand towards her.

"Their names are mine." And then the dark woman flicked her thumb and forefinger at the robed shadow and the portal. There was a blast of silver light so bright and fierce in the dim of the Shadowfell that Kallas had to cover his face. When he looked again, the tendrils were gone, the menacing shadow was gone and only Cyrus remained. He was lying on his back.

“Cyrus!” Kallas scrambled to him, grabbing the warlock by the shoulders. “Cyrus!”

The human looked dizzy when his eyes crept open. He flinched away, tensing up.

“Cyrus?” The tiefling pulled him by his armor so he was sitting up.

The human peered at him. “Cyrus…” he murmured to himself. “Cyrus…” His blue eye was brighter and his cursed eye was silver again, rather than red. He turned his hands over, looking at his palms. “Cyrus is...me. My name.”

Kallas felt an unexpected shudder of relief, or gratitude, or something that was hard to pin down. “Yes, your name is Cyrus.” Kallas, still kneeling next to him, looked him over. “Are you hurt?”

Cyrus still seemed uncertain but he checked himself over anyway, absently touching his chest with his hands. “I don’t think so.” He peered at Kallas again. “I know you....”

Kallas’ throat almost seemed to zip shut but he offered the human his palm and when he took it, the tiefling helped him stand. “What do you remember?”

“I killed Boone,” he said it automatically, with a despairing sort of resignation.

“She is still alive, Cyrus. We were going to save Brenna, do you remember that?”

Save Brenna. And it clicked together in Cyrus’ head. The person he was sure had said it, sure was important to him in some way, was now standing in front of him. “Save Brenna,” Cyrus murmured. “Yes, I have to do that.” The warlock picked up a clear, diamond-like gem from the sand and looked back at the rogue. “You are missing.”

Kallas got the strange feeling he’d seen that gem before. “We died protecting Boone. Do you remember that?”

Flashes of light, fire, death, the contract appearing in front of this tiefling and the calm with which he had refused to be the pawn to Asmodeus. Sheer bravery in the face of a horrific death and after-suffering. Cyrus raised the clear gem. “Yes, I saw her sleeping when I looked through this.”

"You saw her through the gem?" Wait, the gem! Kallas suddenly scrambled to his pockets, searching all of them until his fingers found a hard stone. When he drew it out, the tiefling saw a cloudy, darkened emerald. The gems, yes. Somehow, in this place, Kallas had forgotten about them.

Cyrus seemed as surprised by its existence as Kallas and when he reached for it, the tiefling didn’t stop him. So Cyrus looked through it.

The quiet tiefling. A rogue. Met him in Bryce’s Landing with Brenna. Turned to ash by Grifto and brought back as a kobold. They hadn’t been as helpful to him as they could have been. They kept forgetting that he had been smaller than a halfling. Jazirian had changed him back.

Cyrus pulled away from the gem and looked to his new rapier, still faintly glowing silvery-gold. The warlock raised his mismatched eyes: “...Kallas?"

“Yes.” The word had a slight tremble on it and he clasped Cyrus’ whole arm.

The young man smiled and it almost made him look younger, more at peace, but then it fell, along with his gaze. “I…almost forgot you,” Cyrus told him, voice soft and faint.

“I know, my friend. It’s all right.”

Their arms clasped and neither of them felt any shame in a sudden, awkward embrace of sheer relief in the middle of the dark desolation of the Shadowfell. Amidst all the pain, loneliness and tragedy, each was now all the other had. Cyrus was still shaking, clapping Kallas’ back as if he were afraid the man might abruptly vanish. He grabbed onto Kallas’ shoulders and looked into his pale face.

“Kallas…” Cyrus seemed to struggle for words for a moment. “How are you…here? You…you saved my life, I think.”

Kallas felt a strange sense of calm come over him. It all fit into place, now. “I had to help you remember your name.”

Cyrus looked stunned for a moment, just staring at Kallas in numb silence. “I-I don't….”

Kallas shook his head, grip tightening on Cyrus’ arm. “Those people, your family, they are not important. If they said you had no worth, than they did not know you, Cyrus. They do not get to decide who you are.”

The spellcaster took a deep breath, feeling an overwhelming surge of gratitude for Kallas. “I am…very glad to see you…my…my friend.” He tried a smile on the last word.

Kallas clapped him on the shoulders. “To the death. In this world, or any other.”

The forgotten library wasn’t really forgotten at all. Curious adventurers, scholars and treasure seekers had explored so much of it that maps of its location existed. Though, apparently nothing could be taken out, as far as Cam had always heard. The ghost stories always concerned people being stuck inside forever, lost and confused. But the stories also mentioned bounds and bounds of knowledge. It was this tidbit that turned them from Avargard to head east instead.

Boone shouldered her pack, touched the diamond-bladed halberd and, satisfied that it was in place, headed down the boardwalk. People gave her curious glances at the tiny port village. Not even big enough to buy proper supplies, just oats and salt pork. They did not stay long, either. That was good, according to Boone. She still occasionally forgot that she was now blue and found herself getting more and more irate the more the villagers stared at her.

Was she a celestial now? It abruptly reminded her of trying to detect on Cadron, who was an asamar but had only very trace amounts of celestial to him. As if he were, perhaps, a Fallen celestial—if that were even a thing. Boone couldn’t be sure, of course, but she hadn’t started off as a celestial and now, apparently she was becoming one. So certainly the reverse must also be possible.

“Dagna,” Boone said quietly, as they left the village and took a walking path to the northeast. “That man that you didn’t like, Cadron. He was an asamar at one time, right?”

The bard scowled. “Apparently. But he gives praise to Asmodeus.”

Boone did a double-take. “And Tribek wasn’t bothered by that?”

Dagna shrugged. “That’s something we did not see eye to eye on.”

“Didn’t you say that Cadron threatened you, as well?” Cam asked, eyes constantly traveling over the treeline.

He and Dagna flanked Boone, the youngest of them walking in the middle of a barely-traveled path. It was marked by an uneven, dried-out set of sunken wagon tracks that mostly just made the earth treacherous to walk on. Hardly anyone used this path, from what the merchant at the port had told him, because the entrance to the Duergar city was so close to the Forgotten Tower. It made the area too dangerous for regular folk.

That in mind, he and Dagna had made this decision, silently exchanging glances and moving to bodyguard positions around Boone. Drow had not been all they'd seen in the Underdark, after all. Plenty of the darken-dwarves were likely to have connections to Asmodeus. Boone would sell for a pretty penny if they didn't simply execute her first. And now they were down two sets of eyes to look after the girl. Well, one and a half, I guess.

Boone furrowed her eyebrows. “You told Tribek about that, right?”

“I did,” Dagna said it somewhat stiffly. “But Tribek was my friend and he was in a tough spot. He had to make decisions—“

“You tell me that someone threatened you twice and I will find them and settle it. But Tribek heard that he threatened you and he didn’t do anything?” Boone demanded.

Dagna glared away from both of her companions. “Tribek ran the bard college. He had to make tough decisions.”

“You know what I did notice is that, despite Silver Strings being a brand new upstart community with its own Circle, the Bard College was the biggest and most well-financed building,” Cam said, still looking at the treeline as they walked. “Not any city buildings, the Bard College.”

“He was entrusted to build up the city. He obviously had some worth to Cadron—“

“Dagna,” Boone cut her off, eyes narrowing, “do you hear yourself? Cadron threatened to hurt you and he worships Asmodeus. And Tribek didn’t see any problem with all that?”

The bard glared at the walking path. “I have known Tribek for a long time. Before we went to Ebreosea, he played his fiddle for me. I was one of his professors! He sent me on that mission because he trusted me!”

Boone and Cam exchanged looks over Dagna’s head.

“Unless it was just a way to get you out of Silver Strings. Then we were held in the dungeons for hours, when Tribek couldn’t be bothered to send a message right when we left,” Boone said, “And then the assassin showed up, oh and then an airship crashed into the city itself—“

“Yeah and who went out into the city when that happened!” Dagna snapped, eyes like green flame. “And who decided to stay in the house and complain that the burning ship and thousands of dead were inconvenient? That was all of you! You ever consider that maybe things like that is why civilians don’t want to help you?”

“Whoa, Dag, hey, look,” Cam started. “We know—“

“You, I get,” Dagna cut him off. “We talked about it, remember? You stuck to what you believed was correct, that we would only get in the way. That we shouldn't choose sides to help these people or those people because of politics, which was kinda ironic coming from you, all things considered. I respected that you could at least tell me that. But acting like Tribek is guilty just because of Cadron--”

“Dagna,” Boone tried again, raising a placating hand. “It is more than that, you know that. Cam’s mother has threatened all of us and works with Asmodeus. If Cam was saying: well, I’m sure it’s fine. I would be suspicious of him too. Friends would not just let someone threaten people they cared about.”

“And I’m definitely not saying that, by the way,” Cam threw in. “She might not even be my actual mother. Could just be someone sporting her form. But even if it is, fuck her. She threatens you guys, then she’s threatening me.”

“What would you have done if someone had threatened Tribek? You would have done something, right? So either Tribek is in on it, or he’s a fucking coward,” Boone told her. “So, not a great friend either way.”

Dagna looked away from both of them, tense and prickly.

“Dagna—“

“I heard you!”

Boone tried again. “I just want you to understand that we are bringing this up because we care about you. And you deserve friends who would actually defend you anytime, not just when it’s convenient.”

Dagna’s shoulders were stiff and awkward. She said nothing to that, just scowled down at the ground as they walked, looking very troubled.

They camped that night under the stars. They could see the tower from a small cave they’d sniffed out in a nearby hillside. The stars were bright, clustered in the sky like wreathes of diamonds. Cam looked out as Dagna took her turn prepping rations and heating water in their shared kettle for Boone’s tea. One bottle of liquor remained in the dimensional bag that Cam carried but he didn’t drink. He sat at the mouth of the cave and packed his long-stemmed pipe, lighting it with a press of his finger. The pale smoke wisped around him.

The moon was bright and orange, a harvest moon. Soon the weather would begin to turn.

Boone sat close to the fire, cleaning and sharpening her sword. She had thought that Cyrus and Kallas were too quiet to make an impression but the truth was that, now that they were gone….the girl felt empty without them. Perhaps she had disliked Cyrus secretly because of how much he reminded her of herself. Raised to be a tool, a weapon, discarded by his family, maybe he didn’t know who he was. Like Boone was starting to feel that maybe she didn’t know herself at all. She’d thought acting aggressive towards Cyrus, in particular, would establish some sort of control over her situation. She had been told two or three times to trust Cyrus. But she hadn't. The harder she tried to control everything, everyone, the tighter the net seemed to close around her. When she looked to the mouth of the cave to where Cam was sitting, half of her wanted very much to just not care what anyone else wanted.

She had perceived that as his attitude for months. But that wasn’t it, was it? She’d felt so certain about who he was because she had met him when he was Leopold, failing to realize that her perception of Leopold was not reality. Leopold had been playing his role that night. Best behavior for his brother’s sake. They’d exchanged a few smiles. But Leopold kept mostly quiet, save for a spare couple of witty remarks but very tame compared to how Cam functioned during his day-to-day. Boone hadn’t actually known him, after all. She just met his mask.

Do I have a mask?

Maybe she couldn’t actually hide her emotions that well. Maybe she had no mask at all and had just convinced herself that she needed one. As if unconsciously convinced that no one would approve of her if she was only herself.

Boone glanced at Dagna. The bard was not looking at anyone. She concentrated on warming up water. Maybe that was what bothered her about Dagna too. Dagna had a strong sense of her morals. She had things she believed in. She'd insisted on going down into Ebreosea after the airship crash to help people because the people were civilians, therefore non-combatants, therefore innocent. Boone frowned to herself, cycling through the events in Ebreosea again. There was no denying it, though. That was exactly what had happened.

What do I believe in? Did I simply go along with the others? The temple paladins probably would have helped but I didn't.

How did someone believe in anything if they’d never been forced to doubt? Boone had trained at the temple every day as a tiny girl, not even tall enough to lift the sword she now owned. But she had not been treated with suspicion and snide remarks like Kallas. Boone’s father saw her as just a girl to eventually get rid of but Cam’s father saw him as a loose end to cut as soon as his line through Gregor was secured. Brenna had been disowned by her family, though Boone did not know why.

A sharp ache went through the girl when she thought about Brenna. If I had just….gotten to know her instead of being so standoffish…I had the chance to make real friends and I threw it away. And then Brenna had died trying to protect them.

”Better him than me!” Boone had laughed in Grifto’s bottle at Kallas’ transformation. Better him than me. How cruel that must have sounded to them all. But the tiefling had never complained. Not once.

And now he’s dead because of me.

Boone drug her fingers into her hair, trying to contain that feeling, something flooding up, trying to burst out. She pressed it down. Sometimes, she still felt like a little girl. A selfish, stupid little girl. Cam and Dagna both seemed aware of their morals. It was Cam who urged the child in the drow city to escape. It was Cam who endured a hug from Hunk when he could have shied away. It was Cam who told the literal King of Hell:"Well, if you wanna fight my friend, then you'll have to murder me first."

Boone barely knew anything about Dagna at all. In fact, she couldn’t think of anything except that Corvino had somehow convinced her father that he was a reborn hero or prophet or something. (Pity they hadn’t asked Corvino where he had come across this story.) But of Dagna personally, Boone knew nothing. But she had observed her actions and the bard always tried to help them, bought them each a healing potion that had ended up saving their necks. Dagna had made more than a few astute remarks to not just Boone ("You're so young. Why are you here?") but also to Cam and Cyrus. Dagna was patient and thoughtful (she hadn't gotten outwardly angry when Boone was acting out in Grifto's bottle or in the Sanctuary) but could also be sarcastic and funny, rather what Boone had imagined an elder sister might be like.

Boone peeked above her knees, observing Dagna. Maybe she should try and understand the two of them and why they made the decisions they made. After all, her Temple instructors certainly hadn’t told her what to do if an ancient devil-God stole the souls of your friends. Well, nothing except, “Do the right thing, child.” Lot of good that did. What the hell was the right thing? How could she know what the right thing was when she wasn't even sure what the hell she was anymore!

Maybe she should have asked Kallas. He had been good at asking questions. The detective was insightful and perceptive. Boone wondered if he and Dagna had ever spoken privately. Kallas was clever, more observant than most. He would have known what questions to ask. It—

Cam suddenly stood up in the mouth of the cave, positioning himself in the middle of the opening. “Well, well, well. Hallo again,” Cam intoned loudly, still looking out of the cave, pipe left lightly smoking on the ground. He waved a hand back at the women.

Dagna jumped up, striding for the entrance, and Boone followed, taking her sword drawn to the cave opening. The paladin got that feeling in her mouth again, like stones and moss and the electric air during a storm. “Hey, it’s that sitar-player.”

The sitar-player did not seem to have a sitar anymore. At least, there wasn’t one in sight. Dagna furrowed her eyebrows. “What are you doing here, Thioni?”

Thioni smiled at them in the moonlight and displayed her unarmed hands to them. A bit of dust scattered from her gloves. “I followed you.”

Boone glanced at Cam and Dagna, both looked more suspicious by that statement. Dagna’s eyes darkened and she palmed her rapier. Cam shifted his weight, stretching his fingers as if to prepare them for spells. But Boone fought the urge to spring to the ready, for she knew she had no plan from there. Maybe instead of waiting to follow, she could try asking questions. Information was just as important as combat, right? Kallas was the one who'd observed the other Council members when Boone froze, having suddenly realized she was staring at the tiefling adviser she'd spoken with before her death.

So basic questions first, right? Sure, the woman must have snuck on board or something but....sometimes Kallas had asked very basic-seeming questions that ended up shifting their plans for the better. The little details could make a big difference. And Cam and Dagna seemed so tense. Likely to escalate if either sensed any threat. Boone had never really paid much attention until now. Kallas was the cooler head, typically, and Dagna and Cam had both taken council from him when he spoke. Don't overthink it. “How did you follow us across the sea?”

“I made myself hard to see,” Thioni answered, still standing quietly in front of the cave in her green and gold robe and sash. She appeared to still be barefoot and had no visible weapons, pack or instruments.

“How would you know what we can see?” Cam asked her. “You’re blind.”

“For a very long time. But now I can see with the dirt.”

The three of them, as one, looked at the player’s bare nut-brown feet. They were dusty and her toenails looked like chips of obsidian. Boone got that strange pull again, like an elemental but not. Something almost familiar though she couldn’t explain why.

“Oh,” Thioni said, as if suddenly surprised. “You found him!” Her sightless eyes went behind them all, to the halberd lying by the fire. “Or rather, he found you.”

Boone stiffened and she found herself stepping forward, raising her sword. “What do you know about Cyrus!”

“I didn't know his name,” Thioni answered. She simply stayed in place with her hands displayed, eyes cloudy in the reflection of Boone's glittering sword.

“Enough games!” Dagna took a step forward and her rapier danced into the moonlight. ”Why are you here!”

Thioni looked at the stone, brown hair hanging in her face over her cloudy eyes. “A long time ago, I wandered into a place I should not have been, not safe for mortals to be in, for a solution that I did not need. Now I see with my feet. My Lady sent me. She told me about a memory. And it brought me to you.”

“Who is your lady?” Boone asked, drawing back a step. She observed how still and ready Cam was to move, how Dagna had a heavy glare in her eyes and the rapier was loose and fluid in her fist.

“The Raven Queen.”

All three of them paused.

“And who is that?” Boone pressed.

“Wait,” Cam interrupted, raising a hand, “you went somewhere not safe for mortals? So, somewhere like a fey forest?”

“Very not safe,” Thioni told them. “I explored and fell through the planes of this world and into another. And I met the Queen of Memories.”

“And who the hell is that?” Dagna demanded, circling a little behind her.

“You fell into another plane and found something you shouldn't have? So you then became blind? Or were you blind from birth?" Cam went right on with his own questions, peering at the blind woman.

"Fever took my eyes in my fourth year, the Fighters of the guild told me. My parents left me with them, presuming I would die. But I did not, just my eyes did. So they taught me to fight. One day, when I grew up, I left the guild to try and find a way to see."

Cam rubbed his jaw, raising a warding hand to Boone and stepped forward. "And I would guess that you found a way...but it wasn't what you were hoping for?"

Her eyes were ghostly in the moonlight when she raised them, seeming to look directly at Cam. "My Lady saved me from the elemental plane, the Great Shaking, and so I did not destroy myself. For that, I serve her."

Ah, the Elemental Plane. A large tome opened in Cam's brain, from his days as a child, first coming into his magic and forced to study under Aboken. He had looked at this book, and others like it, hundreds, thousands of times, marked hundreds of pages that all came to life until it reached an ornate inking of a humanoid figure wreathed in flame. Elemental humanoids were fairly rare, typically the product of a union between genie and mortal. But in certain instances, mortals coming into contact with lethal surges of elemental power could also create such creatures. "Are you an earth genasi?” Cam inquired.

Thioni’s face brightened and she pulled off her gloves before displaying her palms to them. The lines of her hands had tiny fissures of light coming through. “I can move with the earth! It’s how My Lady taught me to see.”

Cam relaxed, looking more curious now, though his palm stayed on the pommel of his sword. “Ahhh, so that’s how you followed us. Earth genasi can make themselves undetectable. Just like the Pass without a Trace spell,” he explained, nodding to Boone and Dagna. “I had to study a few things about genasi. Some of them become really amazing mercenaries. My mother arranged for Gregor and I to actually meet a fire genasi merc-leader when I was sixteen, I think? Oof, she was something else.”

Boone rolled her eyes. But Dagna finally cracked a smile and seemed to ease back a little.

“They thought you would advise Gregor but your father planned to have you killed.”

Cam did a double-take at the earth genasi, making a disgruntled face. “So…the Lady of Memories saved you from the Great Shaking, huh? I don't think I know who that is.”

Thioni nodded. “She said you should remember your stones.”

“Why did this person send you to us?” Boone wanted to know.

Thioni turned her back to them, pointing with one spindly finger at the Forgotten Tower, dark and ominous in the moonlight. “My Lady needs me to find something for her. She said I would know it when I came upon it. And then she showed me you. I heard your voices in the darkness.” The genasi turned back, gesturing to the three of them.

“Only us?” Dagna pressed. “Not two others?”

Thioni nodded. “She has already met them.”

All three of them jumped a little. “Met them?” Dagna repeated.

“What do you mean? Where?” Boone asked. “When they were alive?”

The blind woman turned her eyes to the stone floor. “No. They are with her now.” And then she gazed blankly back into their cave, seeming to look right at Cyrus’ halberd. “But he found you.”

Boone took a step back, sheathing her sword and then turned, walking over to the halberd and picking it up. She gazed at the prism-like cuts in the halberd's blade, the shimmering silver metalwork, the glittering diamond gem affixed to it.

“That is my Lady’s pact to this world,” Thioni told them.

Cam stepped back and gestured for the genasi to come in before he recalled she was blind. “All right, you’ve got our attention. Come to the fire. Tell us about your Lady.”

“Some parts are short but others are very, very long.”

Dagna waited for the genasi to pass her before she followed, rapier still out. “Well, if this tower is as haunted as the ghost stories say, maybe we’ll have time.”

------------------------------

Chapter Text

The decisions were made.

There was nothing else to be done. Cam meant it when he said he hoped he’d see her again. She could read it in his eyes. Hopefully soon. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, closing her fingers around the doorknob. Hopefully soon. Please let it be soon.

“C’mon Cyrus, we’ll get to know each other better, right? If I’m gonna write some songs and shit, I gotta ask you a bunch of personal questions. Only for the songs, I promise. Have you ever played Wed, Bed, Behead?”

"I am not very good at games but I will try." Cyrus shook Kallas' hand and gave a nod to Boone.

“He’s a great artist,” Cam threw in. The others laughed but Cam felt like there was a sack of bricks on his chest, watching her collect her meager belongings. I can’t go back. I can’t. They’ll try to use me to kill people. He wished he could will her to understand. But then, she probably did and that was….something….something sharper. “Cyrus,” he heard himself say instead, “hey, you know. All that stuff I said to Dagna about being welcome back, you know? That’s, uh, that goes for you too. You know? We don’t always see eye to eye. Ha? But you’re a good guy. Take care of yourself. Both of you.”

They’re going to use me to kill even more people. I can’t walk back in to Jildos.

He had to harden his heart, like he had every other time. It was never a good idea to get attached. It was against every instinct he’d grafted into himself. And still, he could not seem to help it: “But find us afterwards.”

And then Dagna opened the door. The stench of rot and blood hit her like a brick wall.

Her face went white as muslin. “Oh no. Oh no. No. No!” She ran out.

Cyrus, right behind her, saw it second. “Oh shit. Someone found us.” His halberd appeared in his grip as he strode out the door. Fires were burning, the tents were burning and copper was thick in the air. Five bodies torn to shreds and….

“Corvino! No! Hey! No-no-no!” She threw herself to her knees and grabbed him. “Corvino!”

“Oh fuck,” Cam muttered and he barged out the door, sprinting to the bard and taking a breath to steady himself as he went to his knees and laid his hands upon Corvino’s chest. The pulse went through him but the halfling did not respond. Fuck, this was Dagna’s friend. Nevermind how Cam felt about the guy personally. He tried again, another pulse, but nothing stirred in the halfling.

Kallas’ eye was caught by the flames. He peered through the trees and pulled his crossbow to his arm. “There’s a rider coming this way!”

Cyrus saw the banners. “Those flags, Cin Amon and House Macwell….”

Boone stiffened. “What?” She went to Cyrus, following where he pointed with his halberd.

"House Macwell does not typically fly its own banners in war. When a House leads troops to war, they fly the flag of Jildos. This is....odd. Strange. Unless House Macwell made an independent alliance with Cin Amon....?" And the idea of that was even stranger.

Dagna whirled up like a snake as the rider slowed his horse. Smoke was rolling down through the trees and an orange light was flaring from the south. Her eyes were hot green flames as she stared down the single rider as he primly pulled out a scroll to read. About half a mile back, a dozen more riders were approaching. She ignored all of it and drew her rapier.

Cam stood up, peering into the hazy smoke and in the glinting lights, he saw the familiar sigil. “Oh no, that’s not good. Hey, uh, guys, I need to leave—“

“By order of Cin Amon and House Macwell, Leopold Macwell shall accompany us to the first garrison to meet with your Lady Mother, where you will be placed in power as Grand Steward of House Macwell. By your choice or ours, you will be coming with us on this day.” The rider gave a significant glance to everyone around Cam. "What say you?"

Cam mimed looking puzzled. “Who is Leopold? Sounds like some dead guy to me.”

“My Lord Macwell, I would respectfully advise you to comply. There is no need for the rest of your friends to meet a bitter fate.”

Cam locked up. Fuckfuckfuck. No doubt that meant they’d kill everyone else if they had to. And there was a fucking army headed by his mother back there. He couldn’t fight them all and every fucking one of them would die and the only way to stop it would be to go—

Dagna turned around and looked him right in the eye, as if she heard his doubt. “You're not going.” She pivoted neatly and pointed her rapier at the messenger’s kneecap. Suddenly all the adrenaline and rage and sadness were bubbling up at once. The one thing Cam couldn’t do was return to Jildos. Like a death sentence, a mask with spikes in the eyes. The one thing Cam wouldn’t do was the one thing this rider demanded of them: Turn him over, or we will take him by force. “He’s not going with you!”

At her words, Kallas raised his crossbow at the rider. Cyrus raised his halberd and let frosting ice sharpen the edge to a razor. Boone drew her daggers, prepping to throw.

The rider let his eye trace them all before going back to Cam. “My Lord Macwell, I beseech you again to reconsider. No one need die for the inevitable.”

“It’s cute that that’s what you think is going to happen,” Dagna snarled.

The one thing Cam wouldn’t give up was his freedom. She respected that about him. He would make a great bard. He might have been stubborn on certain things, just like she could be, but there was little cruelty to him. He was a fighter. He was a survivor, a sorcerer, a negotiator. He was inventive and creative and kind and so much more than the warlord prince that his parents wanted!

Maybe that was what made her suddenly pull out the bottle. She might have saved such an incredible wish for any detrimental circumstance. She even heard Kibs whispering about a way to help but Dagna looked at Cam and saw her friend’s stricken expression. The one thing he feared, having to face his family, to be forced into a gilded cage, a puppet. A mask with spikes in the eyes. And now they were here to take him from her. Like they had already taken Corvino. No. Not again.

Dagna uncorked the bottle holding the jinn. “Ishtox, I call upon you!” The fire flashed in her eyes. “Rain destruction upon this army! Wreak havoc on them all!”

Dagna took her last turn on watch just before dawn, thinking of those events. Barely a week ago, now. And still, the timing felt odd, just a few days or a lifetime ago? She wasn’t sure why exactly. Like she were looking at the sky but the sky was wrong too. But Dagna was not sure how to explain that feeling. Likely, it was just reactionary because of everything that had happened in the last few days. But something just seemed...out of place. There was no sign of Talisa Macwell or devils. They’d run into no other drow, save for the ones at the Gravity Hearth. And that seemed odd too.

It’s probably just grief. We are all grieving. We just didn’t notice, with our luck.

Boone was taking the loss the hardest. Dagna suspected that the young paladin had not expected to lose both Kallas and Cyrus. Perhaps she’d thought her god would step in. But, well, like Kallas had said, the Jazirian aspect of Boone certainly hadn’t done much for Cyrus and so he expected no supernatural aid. And he got none. Asmodeus and the horrible hands, reaching out and snapping Kallas’ neck and then dragging him beneath….

If he had crushed his gem though? I mean, Boone’s alternate had a different name, surely? If Kallas and his alternate had switched places instead then maybe they both would have been safe from the contract….

Dagna tried not to think about that. There was no way of knowing if it would have worked, after all. It had all happened so fast. Absently, she reached for her satchel, touching the topaz gem through the fabric. Maybe we should try one? I wonder if Tinker only got to switch back and forth because his alternate was dead?

Where was that little bastard now? Godfuckingdamn fucking Tinker. Right, he’d had to flee, before Asmodeus found another way to murder him. One minute with Kallas, the next, leaving. He could have at least given one of them that fancy dagger he used to try and murder Boone.

Dagna looked out the cave again. The moment had been so sudden, so fast, Tinker had appeared in the air above the teenager:

And then Cyrus was suddenly phasing in front of her. His eye flashed silver and his skin lit up like snowy scales. In that moment, he’d looked like a literal angel on the warpath. Oh, Cyrus, the Angel of Vengeance. That would be a good song too. Oh, or of Dreams? He’d been so breath-taking, so incredibly beautiful, like flashing, carved ice, like something achingly ethereal.

Oh Cyrus, all he’d seemed to want from his life….was a place in it. That was the saddest part about him. That no matter where he was, he seemed to feel out of place with himself. He wanted to serve. There was nothing wrong with that. He was a soldier and he certainly wasn’t stupid. Boone had thrown all kinds of accusations at him over these last months but he had never struck her. He never reprimanded. Cyrus had only minimal energy to waste on fighting with the paladin. Maybe if they’d somehow worked together better….

Dagna rubbed her forehead. I’m sorry, Cyrus. I wish I could have helped you both.

The dawn seemed more purple, more bruised, than any other shade.

“Did you meet a woman in a white mask in this place?” Kallas asked Cyrus as the two made their way from the lake.

Cyrus frowned. “A woman, no. A white mask, yes. It was long, as you see on the doctors sometimes.” He made a beak with his hand in front of his nose.

Kallas thought about that for a minute, stepping deftly through the ash. “I was not brought to you by accident, Cyrus. I have been wandering the shadowplanes for…well,” and the tiefling gave an annoyed glance to the non-sky, “I cannot know the time. I feel as though time has little meaning here. I saw shadows of memories in the ash and sand. Did you also see this?”

Cyrus nodded. His mismatched eyes were stark against the dim of the Shadowfell. “I was trying to….remember. And sometimes things would form in the ash but I couldn’t….remember enough.”

“But as far as you know, you only saw things related to you? Not anyone else?”

Cyrus frowned at the sand. “As far as I remember.” The warlock sighed, “Though you might want to take that with a grain of salt.”

“Or sand,” Kallas offered.

Cyrus cracked a smile.

“What else did you see? You mentioned a mask?”

The human nodded, fidgeting a little, like one who was accustomed to having a weapon, suddenly being without. “It was like a raven but big. Very big. Like an orc. And it had a mask with a beak, which I guess makes sense.”

“Did you know who or what this creature was?” Kallas kept his eyes moving ahead and around them, fingers on the grip of his rapier. It was no longer glowing and the blade was shining silver with no hint of rust at all. The feather, however, appeared to be gone.

Cyrus’ gaze fell. “I am….not certain. I think it was the Raven Queen but….she was different than I imagined.” He reached back as if to touch his halberd and remembered that it was gone. “My halberd, it’s a family heirloom, the gem on it was cursed like my dragon eye.” He slid his fingers around the bone of his eyesocket. The patch was in his pocket.

Before, he’d had to wear it because, of course, his eye was cursed. And sometimes the changes were unpredictable and his eye would somehow take on the….aspect of whatever the curse turned out to be. It was dangerous for him to even look at a family member full on. They had likely enjoyed that, grinding him down like that. Cyrus was the youngest of all his brothers, last in line to inherit and content to fight and perhaps learn to support his brothers. They made sure to remind him that he had killed their mother whenever Cyrus annoyed them. He was the expendable brother.

But after that fateful day, fourteen years old and being invited along with his brothers to defend their lands for meager coin. The arrow that came streaking out and buried itself in his eye, everything blurred and then nothing. Darkness.

Darkness.

And when he woke weeks later, his eye had burned and he accidentally set the nurse alight. It felt like his skull were splitting open for months following. The different shades of color had taught him what to expect from the day. Orange would be the crackling, fiery burning itch underneath the eyepatch and if he got to actually use it, then it would be seared afterwards and would likely water all night. The green eye would be constantly seeping, the acidic pool gleamed and boiled. His eye would feel raw as a blister if he got to use it. Actually attempting to see through the eye was basically impossible. It was like trying to see through embers. So his eyepatch had been very necessary.

But this silver eye was different. He’d felt the eye shift, different from every other color, and he seemed to have control over it. It made him feel stronger somehow. There was no weeping, no throbbing pain, no headaches, no pulsing veins like the necrotic-black eye. And his sight was basically unhindered, as if he had his own eye back but for a very faint silvery sheen that his right eye detected that his mortal left eye couldn’t seem to make sense of.

“I always wondered if the gem and my eye were connected somehow. I didn't even notice that the gem was changing colors, at first. I was presented with the weapon when I turned fifteen.”

Three months after the initial accident, his father had taken him to the shabby Grand Hall with his brothers. There, the man had brought out a long wooden case and laid it down upon the table. This case had formally resided over the mantle of the Hall’s massive fireplace.

“Cyrus,” the man intoned, gesturing his youngest son forward. “I believe we may finally have a place for you. Once every generation, someone is chosen to carry our family weapon. We believe you are best suited to wield it. And you are more than adequate with a lance. So I have decided that you will enter formal training at the Academy at the end of the month.”

Those words from his father’s mouth were all wrong. His brothers hadn’t looked angry to not be chosen. They even seemed….happy for him. Even his father had seemed pleased and had thrown a feast to celebrate. It was the only time his father had ever celebrated him.

“The timing of that is very interesting,” Kallas said, looking thoughtful. “The weapon was bound to you, you could summon it and the gem changed colors like your eye. Did they tell you how you got a cursed eye? You remember being hit with an arrow but that was it?”

Cyrus shrugged. “The maester told me that my eye had festered with some sort of magical ailment that had already begun by the time I was brought to him by my brothers. But the halberd seemed bound to it. And then I was sent away for training. That was when they tapped me to be a warcaster. I’d never studied much magic until then.”

“And none of your instructors ever asked about the weapon or your eye?” Kallas inquired.

Cyrus shook his head. “Not particularly. I tried to keep it hidden and wrapped because people become very, eh, superstitious when you tell them you have a cursed eye.”

Kallas frowned. “The Raven you spoke about. I met something similar, a dark woman that I think was the Raven Queen. I believe she would be most closely related to Zuletha, among Naluri’s common gods, and her Shadows and Memories. She knew who I was. And she knew who you were. She told me that you had died once for us, as in Boone, I assumed, and once for this raven creature. If the cursed eye and the halberd were connected, then it would be logical to think that it might be through the same deity.”

Cyrus stilled, for just a moment, closing his eyes before he forced himself to walk again. “Every generation they chose someone to carry the halberd because they said it was blessed but none of them had cursed eyes. Most of them died in battle. I could not hope for more honor than that.”

“Unless your brothers bound your death to a god so that none of them would have to make that sacrifice,” Kallas added. “But I imagine something like that would depend on the details of this curse and the strength of the magic. And if this tradition your father spoke of has any partial-truth to it.”

Cyrus rubbed his hands down his face. He had never wanted to look at that possibility. It had always lingered in the back of his mind that perhaps the friendly fire hadn't been as friendly as they'd claimed. He had tried to banish that but now it crept back. “Well, this silver eye doesn’t hurt at all, so whether it is from Jazirian, Bahamut or the Raven Queen, it is a step in the right direction. And I seem to have perfect depth perception again.”

A sandy shadow formed for just a flash behind them, the familiar slope of the shoulder, the shabby armor, told him it was Cam. The grubby shade was turning to Kallas to say: ”I dunno what they were expecting. I mean, it’s basically an obstacle course and the poor bastard has no depth perception.”

Kallas laughed.

“I don’t remember that,” Cyrus objected.

The shadow of their friend vanished like smoke and Kallas had to quickly get hold of himself, grinning. “That was in the Sanctuary in the Scarlet Forest. Dagna and Boone went and then you went through the pounding pillars and spikes and—“

“—and then remembered I could just step through it. Right.” Cyrus sighed and then managed a chuckle at himself. “I would ask how I could have forgotten but, well.”

"Eh, Boone didn't do it either." Kallas saw creatures, denizens, on the path about a half-mile ahead and so he led Cyrus away from what served as a road, off into a rocky outcropping, ducking behind some massive boulders.

“Hallo, friends!” A voice sang out, startling in the quiet. “Wait up, I see you! Hallo!”

They both jumped. Kallas drew his rapier and from around the rock appeared a grey-skinned tiefling. Her horns were eight inches long and followed the curve of her skull. One of them had a chip at the tip. She had black hair bound up in gold scarf and she wore several layers of colorful fabrics. It all appeared grayer in the dim of the Shadowfell but the tiny bells sewn into the scarf sang happy, if muted, little vibrations. She had bangles on her wrists, upper arms and four sewn into her gear above her rapier hilt like a ring of keys. (Three of the bangles had single small talismans. One had an hourglass attached to it, another, a tiny door, one had a miniature bottle and the fourth was bare.)

“Hallo, my friends! I am Velicia! Don’t attack, it’s all right!” She was waving her empty hands about at them. “I am here to help you!”

Cyrus’ silver eye glittered but he only shifted his stance, a half-step to the side of Kallas and raised his fists to prepare for a spell. “Who are you?”

“Do not worry, my friends! I am a messenger! The Queen sent me to help you until I can remember my name.”

“You just told us your name,” Kallas reminded her. His sword was quiet, no shimmering colors.

“Oh, this is a name I choose for now,” the tiefling dismissed, waving her hand and chuckling. “I have another one somewhere but I don’t remember it yet. So for now, I am Velicia. Hallo! The Lady doesn’t want you wandering into any Shadar-kai and the domains of the dreaded ones are not as far from each other as they might seem!” She seemed to slow down enough to take a real look at Kallas. “Oh! You are a tiefling! You are so pale! Does this help you with humans? Or are you very sick, my friend?”

“This is….my skin,” Kallas told her, crossing his arms.

“Very luminous, my friend! Don’t worry, I won’t say your names. My Lady advised me not to say your names. Big ears are listening. So do not worry! You are safe with Velicia! How lucky I am! You both are so handsome!”

Kallas grimaced. Cyrus stared at her before glancing at Kallas and, well, the detective didn’t seem ready to escalate, so he held back.

The tiefling opened up a bag at her hip. “You need a weapon for now, yes? The mismatched eyes are very stylish, for a human!” She winked at his silver eye and then pulled a spear out of her satchel. It was eight feet long with a ten inch blade and a shining cross-section of some glittering silver metal shaped like wings. “My Lady tells me that this one is not as nice as your last one but for now, better than nothing, yes?”

“Ah, thank you,” Cyrus managed, surprised but, well, it was supposedly from the Raven Queen and he did need a weapon. So he took the spear to test the heft and weight of it. It was lighter than it looked. He gave it a few practice spins, before tapping the ground with the butt.

“You thank the Queen, yes? No need to thank Velicia, I am just a messenger! The Lady does not usually entreat with those she watches.” And here, Velicia seemed to settle to herself and looked at them with her coal-dark eyes. “But things are now in motion that cannot be undone.”

As one, Kallas and Cyrus both looked at her instead of the spear. “What do you mean?” Kallas asked.

Velicia rubbed her hands together, it made the bangles on her wrists jingle. “So, have you ever heard of very angry sort of guy called a whole lot of things, one of them being King of the Nine Hells?”

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Chapter Text

That morning, Thioni stepped out of the cave first, going to a mound down the path and moving the earth to reveal a set of shortswords. They were gleaming steel, tipped in obsidian and she hooked them to her belt on her left side.

“Where’s your sitar?” Cam asked her.

“Oh, in my bag,” she told him, tugging out a simple-looking brown leather sack and looping the straps around her belt. Then she reached inside of it but rather than the sitar, she pulled out a plate of bacon. “Do you want some?

“Where did you get that?” Cam felt compelled to ask.

“A pig, I think,” she said, offering the wooden platter. There were about a dozen slices, cooked but not hot.

Cam eyed it and then shrugged and took three slices. Dagna laughed but took two. Boone held up a warding hand and shook her head. Thioni ate three. The platter instantly refilled with cooked bacon as soon as the slices were picked up.

"Oh, I kinda like that," Cam mused, rubbing his jaw.

The grounds of the library were empty of life, though the sprawling compound was big enough for quite a bit of it. Two small watch towers guarded a moated entrance. The trenches were dry and empty of any pikes, however. The bridge was also folded up into its door.

“Well, shit.” Cam examined the ropes and chains from the stone platform but it all appeared to be in excellent condition.

“Damn, right? Where’s Kallas when you need him? I don’t think my little handbow will get a bolt deep enough in the wood to tug it.”

“Didn’t we steal some crossbows from the drow? Check the bag,” Boone reminded them.

Dagna pointed at the genasi. “Can you go through walls? Or climb up stone? Earth is your element, right?”

“Wait a second,” Boone amended and pointed to the bottom of the dry moat. Something was shimmering in the sunlight. “What is that?”

Dagna, Cam and Thioni all appeared to try and follow her gaze. “What is what, Boone?” Cam asked.

Boone sat on the stone platform and hopped down into the moat. “There’s something down here, hold on.” The paladin scrambled up and went to the shining runes on the bottom of the stones in the moat. “There’s something written on the stone. I think it might be in celestial.” She knelt down and brushed off the dirt and pebbles over a glimmering mark. “It’s celestial for water.”

Suddenly, the dried out mud in the moat cracked apart. Water began to flood up through it.

“Boone! Get up here!” Cam commanded, kneeling down and reaching his hand down into the moat.

Boone didn’t hesitate, whirling around and sprinting up to snag Cam’s broad hand and he pulled her up. The moat filled far faster than it should have. The water was perfectly crystal blue, like aquamarines. But the door still did not come down.

Dagna studied it. “Maybe we have to actually pull the door down? Or maybe there’s a password?”

“Or, do you remember the pool in the temple in the drow city?” Boone said. “We went through it and underneath, there was a room. Maybe we need to jump in the water?”

“Oh, good point, magic water,” Cam mused. “All right, let’s do it.”

Boone started to step forward but Dagna reached her hand out. “Maybe you should let one of us go first, Boone. You know, just in case.”

The paladin scowled. “I can handle some magic water.”

“Yeah, last time you went in magical water, you came out blue,” Cam reminded her.

“I will do it,” Thioni piped up. And before anyone could argue, the genasi bounded up to the platform and jumped right off. She hit the water with a splash that seemed disproportionately large to her relative size, and then vanished. A few seconds later, they heard her shout: “I made it! I am behind the drawbridge door!” She stuck her arm out of an arrow slot and waved.

“Good,” Dagna huffed and then she held out her hand to Boone. The paladin took it and then offered her free hand to Cam.

“On three?” The sorcerer suggested as he took it.

“Three!” Dagna immediately shouted and she jumped. The others tumbled after her and they went through the water and were hitting the stone floor behind the drawbridge.

“All right,” Cam said, pushing himself up and shaking his arms out. “Good work, Boone. Thioni, nice work jumping into imminent death, you’re going to do really well with us for a really short amount of time, I imagine.”

“Just ask Cyrus,” Dagna said with a wan sort of sigh.

“Ha, he was pretty good at that ‘jumping into imminent death' business. Almost as good as Kallas.”

Boone smiled, softer. “None of us were as good as Kallas.”

Dagna looked up at the paladin. Something about the girl’s expression was gentler. Dagna gave her forearm a squeeze. “Ha, you're not wrong."

Boone glanced aside, looking a little awkward at being caught with expressions.

“Not one of us would have traded him for Tinker, that’s for damn sure,” Cam added but he reached over and clapped Boone on the shoulder. “Brenna’s gonna be pissed when she finds out. She’s gonna end up kicking the shit out of Asmodeus just so she can kick the shit out of Kallas for being such a good goddamn idiot.” He started walking away from the drawbridge towards a set of massive double-doors. “Also, I dunno what kind of traps and shit might be in this place so we should probably keep on top of that.”

Thioni whispered along beside them. Her bare feet made no sound on the cold stone. “Save Brenna. Isn’t that what he told you?” The genasi tilted her ear at Boone.

“Look, I don’t like that you do that, okay?” Boone told her, scowling. “Yes, that’s what he told me but it’s not making me trust you more so you should stop.”

“That was how the other remembered you. The Raven Queen in the flesh.”

“I don’t think you’re on the same page, Boone,” Cam told her flippantly, gesturing to the genasi. “If she serves the Queen of the Dead than she probably knows all kinds of random, weird shit. Out of context, nothing she says will make sense.” He directed his gaze to the genasi. “And, hey, no offense, but it sounds like maybe you got your brain addled while you were in the Elemental Plane? Or was it the Raven Queen taking your memories that did that?”

She simply shrugged, not looking bothered. “I think I died? I don’t really remember.”

“Join the club,” Boone groused.

Dagna walked up to the first set of double-doors, wooden and, at least, fifteen feet across. She saw no pins, wires or other physical traps.

Cam followed, laying his palm on the wood to feel for magic but there was no answering touch back. “Seems mundane,” he shrugged and he grabbed on to one of the pull rings. The bard grabbed the other and they jerked on the doors.

The heavy doors ground against the rough stone and then swung open. A stone hallway, dotted with torches, stretched about eighty feet from them before it seemed to open.

It was very quiet, eerily undisturbed as they slipped through the ghostly hall.

The room at the end was, perhaps, forty feet across but in the center stood a chest-high pedestal. On it was a music box, open, with two figurines posed as if dancing. One in a trim-cut, military uniform, the other in a flowing gown made of iridescent feathers.

Behind this pedestal was a curiously wide staircase. It was more of a platform, ten feet wide and it spiraled up to the ceiling like a lighthouse, at least a hundred feet above them. It was all in pristine condition, not a speck of dust. Boone went to the ramp, peering around with her torch. The railings of the stairs were also made of a white stone and had been expertly carved with scenes of couples dancing in various garb.

Dagna went to the music box, looking all over it before she gingerly touched it. Nothing happened but she could not remove it from the pedestal. The tiny emerald-encrusted gold feet of the box were secured to the stone. “Hey, Cam—what’s the magic feeling like in here?”

The sorcerer was examining the chamber at large. There were no obvious exits, no windows and no other doors. But there was definitely magic. Though it felt…..dispersed.

“Like…maybe it needs a command of some kind? Or an action, in order to manifest.” He wandered up the ramp but at the top the platform ended at a bare wall. The ceiling was a pointed roof made of painted glass panels. It illuminated Dagna and Boone down below.

Thioni whispered up beside him and reached out to touch the smooth stone. This wall had no carvings at all. “I can’t feel any open chambers beyond. This is solid stone for a long way.”

“Oh, looks like I can wind this thing!” Dagna called up to them.

“Hey, these carvings on the railings go all the way up, right?” Boone was halfway up the ramp but she had no problem seeing him above her.

“Yep, they’re up here too!” He called down to her. “Okay, hold on, before you wind that thing, just in case this is some horrible trap or whatever.” Cam waved to the genasi and strode down the wide platforms.

When all four were back at the stone pedestal, Dagna lightly touched the brass knob and gave it three turns. The two figures spun on their little posts. The music was grinding, smokey, strange but with a consistent, heavy beat. It was likely stored in some kind of magical way, as the music box seemed devoid of any actual functional pieces.

It was Boone that saw the shimmers of light on the stone carvings. “Hey, look!”

The light was iridescent, a pearly blue and as the music played, the shimmer danced over the carvings, coming all the way to the bottom, nearly at their feet. The floor tried to light up, but couldn’t. When the music stopped, the blue shimmers on the railings faded.

Dagna wound it again, five turns this time. They approached the platforms carefully to watch the shimmers of blue light illuminate the carvings. Thioni raced up the stone ramp to check the blank, smooth wall at the top. But it was still bare. The lights definitely traveled from the top to the bottom though.

“All right, I might be wrong here,” Dagna began, “but maybe we need to….dance?”

Cam grimaced. “Down the platforms?”

“Like the carvings,” Boone said, pointing at the railings. “Yeah? You said it needed some kind of activation?”

“The magic feels dispersed,” Cam agreed. “There’s tons of magic in this place, in this room, but there’s no focus to the energy. It’s just there. Like it’s waiting for something. So, yeah, I mean, you could use motions as activations for spells. It could be dancing. Just kind of a weird way to lock your foyer.”

Dagna looked amused by that. “Hmmm, well, we don’t have any other ideas, right? I’m in. Judging from the carvings and the music box, I probably need someone to help me with this. I learned a lot of dances at the Bard College so I can help you guys.”

Cam pointed at Thioni and Boone. “One of you can dance, right?”

“I don’t dance,” Boone huffed. She glanced at Thioni. “What about you?”

The blind girl shook her head. “Never with another person.”

“Fuckin hell, where’s Cyrus when I need him. All right.” Cam heaved a big sigh and got up, beginning to uncoil his belt. “I’ll do it.” He removed his sword and shield and held them out to Boone. “Hold onto this stuff for a sec, eh?”

Dagna took the hint and quickly did the same. She wrapped her belt around her rapier and handed it to Boone for safekeeping. Cam stretched in his gear and headed for the platform. Dagna followed him, shaking the sudden pins and needles from her fingertips.

“Are you sure you can dance?” Boone called at him, clearly skeptical as she bowled the shields together and put Cam’s broadsword and Dagna’s slender rapier in the crook of her arm.

“Can’t be any worse than you,” Cam shot back. He waved to the bard. “C’mon Dag, let’s just do it. What’d’ya think is best? Ballroom tango? Elven waltz? What?”

"Chicken Dance only, sorry, my friend." Dagna couldn't completely quell the sudden and ridiculous urge to laugh as she examined the room again as they wound up the staircase. “It’s pretty wide, vaguely circular. Basic waltz would probably be simplest so long as one of us doesn’t tumble over the rail. Do you actually know any waltzes?” At the top, they both stood a little awkwardly for a moment in the middle of the platform.

“Not specifically,” Cam said flippantly and closed the distance, taking her hand in his own.

Dagna suddenly did not quite meet his eyes when she chuckled a bit to herself. “So if massive blades come slicing out, I’ll try and teleport us back to that blank wall.” And then Dagna leaned towards the railing to call out: “All right, Boone! Wind the music box!” Dagna heard the crank, even up this far away.

“Relax, I trust you.” Cam’s tone was airy and dismissive. He stepped into her, sliding his palm to her waist and the music began.

Barely three steps and Dagna blinked, seeming pleased. The ease of his rhythm and the surety of his step as they seamlessly moved together down the platform was practiced. “You’ve actually done this before, eh?”

Cam rolled his eyes, grumbling, “Yeah, well, nobles, you know? Gregor and I both had to learn as soon as we turned twelve.”

“Not bad. You coulda just said so but not bad,” Dagna laughed and relaxed a little, letting him guide her, perfectly in sync to the heavy beat and grainy violins of the music box. It was a little heady, still. Fighting together was one thing but this abruptly felt different. Her heart was beating a little quicker than she felt was strictly necessary and his palm at her waist was warm as a brand.

When they reached the bottom, for just a moment, Dagna felt Cam press his fingers up against her own, just a split-second of extra pressure and she automatically pressed back. Just a moment and then he pulled away.

The stone pedestal in the middle of the floor lifted, spun and then dropped out. They all felt the tower tremble and then the stone Cam was standing on vanished. Dagna lunged for him, grabbing onto his armor. She hit the floor and he dangled in open air for just a moment and then all the stones in the floor turned to blackened ash.

They fell fifty feet but were cushioned by several more feet of ash. Dagna found when she accidentally kicked one, that apparently stone pillars were underneath the ash. It was a miracle they hadn’t hit the pillars and broken their damn necks.

“Boone?” Cam was casting around for the paladin as he tried to hold himself still so he wouldn’t sink. “Boone! Where are you!”

Dagna pulled herself on top of the pillar she’d kicked and saw a hollow of ash start to seep downward. “Oh! Oh! Oh! There! Boone! Boone?!”

The paladin was struggling to surface in her heavy armor but Cam struck out furiously to reach her, grabbing the teenager and hauling her up to the surface. She broke through with a gasp, dusted in grey over the blue luster of her face. She still had their shields and swords, clutched in her arm in a deathgrip. Dagna leaned out from her pillar to take Cam’s free hand and pull them in to her. “Real hero for keeping hold of these, I tell you what.” Dagna beamed at Boone, accepting her rapier and shield.

Thioni was standing on a pillar as well. “There are two more pillars under the ash.”

There appeared to be no doors or windows. One torch was lit about ten feet above them, casting long shadows over the four. Thioni pointed out the locations of the stone columns under the ash and Cam and Boone each went to one. Barely four inches under the top layer, Boone found hers and scrambled on top of it. Cam then separated from her to go to the last. As soon as his weight settled upon it, they all felt the floor beneath them shift and then the ash was sifting away? Draining, perhaps?

They watched it sift like an hourglass for nearly fifteen feet before Thioni saw the top of a circular door. It was a bright emerald green with a glowing mark in the center of it. As soon as this mark was exposed to the air, the circular door seemed to shudder and then actually crinkled inward, as if it were made of metal and that metal were being bent by a large, invisible hand.

“That’s probably not good,” Thioni told them, pointing.

“Oh shit, oh shit,” Dagna fluttered. “I got it!” She shot her handbow and the shaft hit the glowing mark but it had no effect.

"I had to touch the last one!" Boone yelled out.

The circular edges of the door curled inward, like great large fingers pressing and twisting it like an apple dumpling. There seemed to be no separation from the stone either, so definitely a magical door.

“Motherfuck,” Dagna said and then scrambled off her pillar. She landed in three feet of ash, slogging through it. The ash stopped sifting away. The room rumbled again and started to turn, the entire tower began to swivel. “Oh come on!” Well, there was no way for her to climb back up now. She crashed over the ash, trying to keep in line with the door, which was now turning away from her.

Ash began to fall in from above.

The earth genasi leapt off her pillar next to Dagna and clenched her fists. Thioni slammed her bare foot onto the stone. The door rippled for a moment, as if the stone walls were trying to pull it back to a circle, and the ash seemed to become somehow more solid, allowing Dagna to run forward unimpeded. She darted her fingers into the twisted metal and touched the glowing mark.

The room stopped turning, the ash stopped falling on them and the door flattened back out against its wall. Cam and Boone climbed down their pillars and joined them at the door.

“Okay, are we ready to get suffocated?” Dagna dusted off her gear. “Why does this ash look purple? Just the bad lighting?”

“I’ll try this door.” Cam rubbed his hands together and stepped forward. The middle of the door had a tiny ship’s wheel underneath the glowing mark (which Boone recognized as celestial for: stop) and so he spun it. The door clicked and unlatched.

Cam opened it slowly but to their collective surprise, a modest library greeted them. Just one tower, from the looks of it. Shelves lined the walls, all heavy with tomes and books chained to pedestals and reading tables.

But one object on the back wall caught Cam’s attention immediately. It caught all of them, even Thioni.

It was a large portrait of a young man’s profile. He had brown hair and a blue eye. He had on his studded plate and a wicked-looking halberd. A single canary was sitting on his shoulder as the young man appeared to be observing a blank canvas and easel in the background.

“It’s Cyrus,” Boone said, sounding about as stunned as Cam felt.

Dagna looked sidelong at Thioni, suspicious, but the genasi looked troubled too. “How could a painting of Cyrus be here?” The bard professor slipped into the room, looking at all the very ordinary-seeming shelves and books as she approached the portrait. It was an extraordinary likeness. “I don’t suppose it’s a painting that changes depending on who’s looking at it?”

Cam and Boone followed Dagna, examining the painting. Behind them all, the door slammed shut. Boone whirled around and made a soft sound, grabbing onto Dagna and pointing.

On the inside of the door, there was another portrait. A young man in profile with brown hair and a silver eye, a skeletal canary with a blood-flecked beak was sitting on his shoulder. Six other skeletal canaries feasted on corpses in the background. His armor was shredded, they could see his deserter brand, stark and angry on his flesh. He was holding his weapon, but it didn’t appear to be the same halberd. It appeared to be a smoking, blackened spear.

Boone made a pained sound, unable to help stumbling over to this alternate painting. “How the fuck…this is…this is wrong,” Boone declared. She could suddenly feel it, gut deep. Something was wrong. Something that had been lingering since the battle. Not just this painting but something more. “This shouldn’t be here.”

Thioni also approached the other painting but Cam suddenly snatched her by the arm. “Hey! Did you know this would be here?”

“My Lady told me to find yellow birds,” the genasi said, making no attempt to break free or fight against Cam. “I did not know they would be in a painting. But I can feel magic from it. A lot of it.”

“This is fucked up,” Dagna grumbled.

Moreso when the eyes of all seven canaries lit up and all the torches on the walls went out.

(“Time to wake up, my love.”)

“This rod he was bound to,” Kallas repeated. “It controls the contracts. You are certain?”

Velicia nodded. "But, according to My Lady, she believes that the Devil King is possibly...trapped."

"Trapped?" Kallas blinked.

"Doesn't he have the Ninth Hell to be in?" Cyrus asked.

"Typically, yes. But...you know when I said that things have happened? Well, one of those things was the Devil King disappearing from the Nine Hells. My Lady believes he is on one of the material planes."

“A material plane?” Cyrus asked. “So in the living world?”

“In a matter of speaking, friend,” Velicia told him. “Not the one you know but another called Irulan.”

Both men started a little. “Like Tinker said,” Kallas murmured.

“Jazirian told us about Irulan, when he spoke to us in the Sanctuary,” Cyrus remembered.

“It is a reflection of your world, Naluri but not the same,” Velicia confirmed.

Kallas frowned, puzzling on these bits of information, flying around his brain like origami swans. “If the Devil King has been....somehow removed from the Nine Hells, am I to presume that he does not have this ruby rod on his physical person?" When Velicia nodded, Kallas went on, "Then where is this ruby rod?”

Velicia shrugged. “Well, that is the funny part of all this, my friends. There is no one left who remembers the Trial, where the Devil King was judged for stealing souls. The ruby rod was presented as a means of binding him to a process, so he did not take souls as he pleased but was still permitted to make shady bargains with silly mortals.”

“So he has been separated from this ruby rod that controls the contracts. Does the Raven Queen believe he went to the material plane for some purpose?” Kallas asked.

“She believes he went...somewhat unwillingly? Though I am not certain how she ascertained that. Gods are strange creatures. But, given the cults that surround the Devil King--"

"Wait! What about Kriza--oh. Uh," Cyrus put a hand over his mouth. "I mean, eh--"

"With a 'K'?" Velicia confirmed. "I know who you mean."

Cyrus nodded. "Oh good. He tried to take my soul, I think. Like he took Brenna's. But the Devil King refused to allow it." Cyrus still got a chill when he recalled the horrible voice: ("He is mine!")

Velicia nodded, pointing at Cyrus. "Yes, that was the other thing My Lady wished for me to discuss. She believes he has something to do with this too. But the first step, will be the ruby rod."

"How will we find this relic?" Kallas inquired. "I cannot imagine the Devil King would keep it on display somewhere in the Nine Hells."

"The Raven Queen knows of a memory of a man who found a book, supposedly written by the Devil King himself, which the Raven Queen believes may shed light on where the rod can be found.”

Cyrus frowned. “So why not just ask him?”

“Because he was already taken,” Velicia informed him.

“Let us say," Kallas began, "that this is successful. We find the rod and take control of the contracts. What will stop him from simply murdering me to take it back?”

And here Velicia nodded. “The ruby rod is a relic and very powerful. It could likely be used to diminish or destroy the Devil King's power. But there would be no reason for him to suspect that you would know of such a thing. And My Lady recalls that you,” she gestured to Kallas, “were rather clever and brave enough to make a deal with the King of the Nine Hells once.”

“Not a very good deal,” Kallas told her, shaking his head.

“But not many would even have attempted such a thing, especially to save someone who had already betrayed them. The Devil King is a god, yes? You, me, we are mortals. Most of us avoid non-mortals when we can help it. But now, you understand the consequences of pacts with such beings, yes?”

“So that should tell you not to do it,” Cyrus concluded, “since we have been trying to avoid the Devil King.”

Kallas frowned. “He is right. The Raven Queen pointedly helped me find him when the Devil King came for him.”

“Eh, that is the Shadowfell, that is this place. The Remembering is very important,” Velicia told them, rocking back and forth in the ash. “The idea is for you to remember who you are on your own so you know that no one forced another name upon you. But sometimes we need help from friends.” She put a hand on her chest. “After all, I don’t remember my name either but I did not have my soul claimed by a devil king.”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes. “And now we have something he wants.”

“Our names.” Kallas frowned.

“Yes, your delicious names, especially you,” Velicia said, nodding to Kallas to avoid saying his name. “You know who you are. You’ve known it since you arrived. There was no Remembering of your name, just other things. It will be more difficult, it will take much longer, for you to forget your name. The Devil King is an impatient god, a hungry god. He does not like to wait.”

“What about me?” Cyrus asked.

Velicia gave him a gentler smile. “You and I are more alike, my friend. You could not remember your name and he almost took you. My Lady believes it would be extremely dangerous for you to enter a contract with him, since he already has a hold on you.”

Kallas rubbed his jaw. “And if we are separated, he may believe that it will be to his advantage.”

Cyrus looked down at the ash. “What kind of deal would you even make?”

Kallas was looking at the rock, mind racing. “Say I were to offer him my name, then, in exchange for another deal.”

Cyrus jerked up, looking at him in alarm. ”Give him your name?”

“In exchange,” Kallas emphasized. “When I made the deal with him for Tinker, it was not a spectral few seconds. I appeared in a room of his creation with wine, a fire, and documents. He created a stage for our agreement. He adheres to the lawful nature of a contract.”

“Because he must,” Velicia added, throwing ash back and forth between her palms.

“Because he must….” Kallas mused, “….and if he believes that this ruby rod would free him and I could somehow find it….”

“Then he might be convinced to make a deal, say your freedom for his. Or he will think it very, very funny, watching you try. Then once you get the rod, fuck him over.”

“You think he’s really going to believe that you think your freedom is equal to a devil king’s freedom?” Cyrus inquired.

Kallas shrugged. “Freedom is worth freedom, like life is life and death is death. It simply is. There’s not really a way to quantify it. Mortals are not capable of comprehending the enormity of gods. And it seems like he counts on that when he makes his deals.”

Velicia smirked and clapped Kallas on the shoulder. “Clever tiefling, you know more about gods than you realize. Pretentious bunch of twats.”

Cyrus drug his fingers through his hair. “So, if he accepts and he sends you to the material plane….” And here, Cyrus hesitated, as if wavering on his words, “….how, uh….how will I find you again?”

“Ah, kind and noble human! Do not worry! Velicia is here to help still! I will stay by your side and help protect you and when it is all over, you might see your friends again.”

Kallas did not look comforted by that. “There are no guarantees that I will survive. But I imagine if I do not do this, the other option is to be trapped here until one of us forgets our name.”

“What about Brenna?” Cyrus asked.

Kallas peered up at Velicia. “Given the Devil King said her name to me before I managed to break his shield, I wondered if Brenna is even in this realm. I believe that, perhaps, she has already been taken.”

Velicia inclined her head to them in a respectful sort of way. “She does not seem to be in the Shadowfell any longer.”

Cyrus’ eyes hardened at those words. “Then the man who found this book in Irulan, what is his name?”

“Markus Landor.”

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Chapter Text

He saw the fireplace first. As his eyes adjusted, Cam became aware of flickering flames and the scent of candles, parchment and spiced wine. He stirred in the cushioned chair. What happened?

“Don’t worry, my love, you are with me.” Talisa Macwell was bringing over a small bowl of candied nuts. “You are perfectly safe.”

Cam shot up in the chair, recoiling from his mother. He drug his hands over himself but it all felt real. How had she found them?! “Where are we? What happened!”

“Now, now, calm down,” Talisa raised an elegant hand and Cam suddenly was jerked back to sit in the chair and blackened ropes whipped around his wrists like snakes. “You are perfectly safe here. I have gone to great lengths to ensure we would be able to speak.”

“Where’s Dagna! Where’s Boone!”

“Not far. Now, please, Leopold, take a breath. You may have some nuts or wine, or perhaps you might wish to smoke? You cannot know how happy I am that you somehow survived. I expected Asmodeus would kill you and your friends.”

“You seemed perfectly happy to try and kill me with a trapped sword! Seems like a devil king isn't that far outside the realm of possibility!"

Talisa smiled, motherly and warm, at first. “Imagine my surprise when the bard picked up that sword. And how you ran to her afterwards.” The smile turned into a sly smirk.

Cam’s shoulders stiffened and his glare turned cold, sneering, darkening like thunderheads.

“And Devonshire, I didn’t even realize it was her, at first. She’s quite blue, apparently a celestial now. How did this come to be?”

Cam sat up straight in his chair and looked down his nose at her like he smelled something foul.

But his mother only smiled. “And to think you used to drive me mad with your stubbornness. You reminded me so much of myself, I just couldn’t bear to let your father send you to the front.” His eyes sharpened and she definitely seemed to notice from her cunning little smile. “Does it make sense why Lady Devonshire had to die? It was to protect you, my love.” She stood up, sweeping over to pose elegantly by the fireplace. “That was how it started, anyway. There is so much more to the world than Jildos.”

Cam’s eyes were hot with anger and he was fighting through the static of it, trying to process. “You would think that, wouldn’t you? Instead of just stopping it, you murdered an innocent girl and used another to do it. Couldn’t even dirty your own hands, huh?”

"If I had, it might have gone better," she admitted, knitting her fingers together as she turned to him. "I would have made sure she stayed dead." Her dress was black brocade, lace and reinforced leathers. It was still so foreign seeing her in any kind of armor. “You traveled to many different places, didn’t you, Leopold?”

“Leopold is dead.”

The smile on Talisa’s face gave an odd sort of twitch. “Closer than you seem to think.”

Cam narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

But his mother turned away, sweeping over to the door, turning the lock and opening it. “Come in,” she said to the hallway.

And Gregor followed her to the fireplace.

Cam arrested. What the…no, no, I pierced his throat myself in Jildos. Right? He got an uneasy flicker through his mind of Cyrus in the tunnels, that choking sense of dread.

“Oh yes, this is your actual brother, Leopold. Don’t worry, you simply needed a very convincing memory for the three of you to wallow in. Say hallo to your younger brother, Gregor.”

He wore no helm now and seemed less rotted than whatever Cam remembered stabbing in the neck in Jildos. His eyes were just as bloodshot, though. There was just a slight narrowing and it gave Cam’s stomach a sickening lurch at the recognition that went through Gregor’s hazel eyes. But his elder brother couldn’t seem to speak, he simply gave Cam a short bow.

Cam stared at him. “What…I—how is—“

Talisa tittered. “Seeing your friend, Sabal, no longer Undead, gave me an idea. I was curious as to how he accomplished that. With my magic, I have been able to preserve and protect his physical body." She gestured to his elder brother like he were some lumbering statue. "But I would like to know more about how Sabal reversed his Undeath."

Cam tried to wrench up against his bindings but they held strong and he breathed out roughly between his grinding teeth. "Ha, maybe you should ask Jazirian." He saw the grimace that clouded her expression when he said the name.

But it was only a flicker and that sly smile upturned her features. "You know, I'm sure you didn't intend to give me an idea. You and the bard were trying so hard to keep an eye on Boone. So much guilt for the death of the tiefling and Sabal. And it all could have been avoided."

Cam tried to gather energy in his hands, tried to tear up at his bindings so he could inflict upon her--but nothing happened.

Talisa merely watched him, looking amused. "I don't blame you for trying, Leopold. But come now, you know the steps to analyzing unknown magic. Do you really not realize where you are?”

Cam sat back in the chair, sneering. He shut his eyes. Concentrate. Smother the anger, calm down. Some of this has got to be an illusion. Some part or all of it. Either she is an illusion or I’m having a nightmare or something. I remember walking into the tower. I remember dancing with Dagna. Pulling Boone from the ash. The portrait of Cyrus and those yellow birds. Ignore everything else. If it’s not real, let it fall away.

“I’m afraid that’s not going to work, my love.” And he felt Talisa’s warm hand touch his cheek, familiar. Her scent was the same, cinnamon and rose. Cam stiffened like a wooden post and opened his eyes. His mother was still there.

“Come with me. Join me at the window.” And when she reached out her hand, the coil of snaking rope loosened and fell away. Cam was compelled to take his mother's hand, standing up by her whim, rather than his own. “Gregor, open the curtains, let him see.”

His brother lumbered over to the window and drew back the floor-to-ceiling curtains. The glass displayed a crystal clear rectangle into a dark, hazy sky. There was ash and sand everywhere, spires of black rock like jagged teeth outlined the horizon.

“Perhaps this will aid in your understanding, my starling.”

Cam touched the glass. It felt cold and very very real. Far in the distance there were lights, perhaps torches, but almost nothing indicating life. Lava flats stretched far to the northeast and mighty sand dunes rolled over endless desolation to the west. Oh shit, this is not our plane. “What is this place?”

“The Shadowfell. The realm between realms, if you will.”

Cam whirled away from the window and tried to take a step towards her, fighting against her compulsion that he be still. That he simply obey. He couldn't seem to reach his magic. “Where are Dagna and Boone!”

But Gregor stepped between the two, putting a palm on Cam’s shoulder to hold him.

That sickly sweet smile came back and Talisa stepped around her elder son. “Fear not, Gregor. I will answer him.” She gestured to a dark mirror in the corner. “Go ahead, I think it will help you realize your new reality. And what you need to do to correct it.”

Cam felt her compulsion over him vanish and Gregor released him, like a docile dog. He suddenly very much did not want to look in the mirror but he stepped towards it anyway. His heart was pounding but he stood up straight, determined not to show fear before his mother as he stepped in front of the shimmering glass.

Three faces appeared before him, bound in ropes or some kind of blackened webs. Dagna was on the left, eyes shut, twitching in pain, exposed flesh scarred and seeping. Boone was beside her, eyes shut like she were sleeping, bluer than ever in the dim light. She looked to be in the throes of a nightmare, trembling just slightly. And beside Boone was…himself. His own body, his own face but his eyes were open and glowing white. His arms and legs, torso and throat were bound in slimy webs. They seemed to shift, raising his face with a grotesque roll of his neck.

As soon as he made eye contact, he heard his mother say, “We’ll speak again soon.”

And then he felt a vicious yank and the mirror flew by him. No! Fight it! Fight it! NO! But he couldn’t. He was back in his body, aware of only pain, dim light, struggling. Snared.

We never left the city. We never left. Trapped.

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Chapter Text

Boone opened her eyes to a canopy made of purple silks and amber-colored oak. That was strange, as the last thing she remembered was the painting in the tower. Had something happened? The room was comfortable, handsome, with heavy quilts and a warm fireplace and Gregor Macwell in plate armor sitting next to her.

Boone full stopped, staring at him and shook herself. Is this an illusion? But he was still there when she opened her eyes.

Gregor was sitting in a heavy wooden chair beside the bed. He looked ill, rather like Cyrus had when he’d been Undead. Gregor appeared haggard and his cheeks had thinned out but his resemblance to the man who’d so patiently tried to dance with her at their second meeting was unquestioning. He’d been kind to her. Boone was also fairly certain that Gregor was dead. Twice now.

That snapped her back, unfogging her brain in a flash and she sat up but Gregor did not move except to lift a hand and put a finger in front of his lips.

“Gregor?” Boone asked, her voice sounded small.

Cam’s elder brother gave her a single nod. His eyes were bloodshot, resigned, and dim but could clearly understand her. He had comprehension, like Cyrus had. And like Cyrus, Gregor had that odd presence tied to him. Something dark that wasn’t the human at all, something else. And just like the warlock, some piece of Gregor was still there.

We were in the tower. What happened? Did Thioni trick us?

Because if she was with Gregor, that meant that one other Macwell family member was probably nearby. Lady Macwell was more dangerous than her own parents had ever suspected. Than any of them had suspected. If she had somehow captured her, than no doubt she had Dagna and Cam too.

Boone turned to face the man, moving her boots off the bed. “Gregor….do you know where Cam is?”

The man’s eyes went to the floor, something painful wincing over his expression as he gave a single nod.

But when she started to get up, Gregor did too, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. He shook his head.

And then the door to the room opened and Talisa Macwell herself entered. She examined the two of them. “Thank you, Gregor, for keeping an eye on our guest. She’s still so lovely, isn’t she?”

Gregor faced his mother and simply nodded once in agreement, eyes downcast.

“Please go to the mirror and inform me should any changes occur.”

Like a gollum, Gregor turned away from Boone, lumbering out the door.

“Hello, my dear,” Talisa Macwell said, staring into her face as she approached.

Boone scowled at her. “What happened? Where is Dagna? And Cam?”

“They are safe. As are you. Wine, Lady Devonshire?” Lady Macwell went to the fireplace to pour from an urn of wine.

Boone stayed standing beside the bed, even reached out to touch it, trying to see if it was really real. But it seemed to be. No illusions fell away, nothing shimmered in other languages. Lady Macwell looked exactly as she had during their last meeting, albeit less blood-spatter from Cam’s sacrificed father. Darkness seemed to trail after her, like wispy little shadows.

Lady Macwell looked over at her from the fireplace and tittered like Boone were a shy girl in a library. “Come, my dear, you’ve nothing to fear from me.”

“Considering you tried to have me murdered, I doubt that.” Boone circled to the edge of the bed and put about six feet of space between herself and Lady Macwell.

“Yes, your friend Sabal was involved in that unfortunate business, wasn’t he?”

Boone glared at her, taking a breath around the rage that wanted to flood up through her teeth.

“Oh, I understand that you came to appreciate him later—but there’s no doubt that, circumstances given what they were, you were wise to mistrust him.”

“I don’t trust you either.”

Talisa tittered. “I wouldn’t expect you’d be silly enough to trust me. I acted before to protect my son but now there are much larger forces at play.”

“Where am I? This isn’t the tower I remember being in.”

Talisa sipped her wine. “It isn’t, my dear, because there was no tower.”

Boone glared. “Then what happened to Thioni?”

And there, Talisa paused. “Thioni?”

“The blind earth genasi?”

Talisa peered at Boone for a long, searching moment. Long enough that Boone got an odd feeling, that perhaps something was….out of place. Jarred. But then Talisa turned to the fireplace. “I would assume she was part of someone’s memory, Lady Devonshire. Currently, you are now in the Shadowfell, which is still preferable to where your physical body now resides.”

Boone abruptly became aware that the feather hidden deep in her pocket was gone, as were her weapons and Cyrus’ halberd. And she suddenly remembered the blast of opaque darkness. There was the wave that had locked every other person in time. Armies and chaos surrounding them on all sides and in the middle, in a courtyard of a fortress, Kallas taken and Cyrus’ body destroyed…and then had come the second wave. The darkness had fallen, the silence chilling and final.

How did I forget?

It made her think of poor Cyrus, blaming himself for her death when he’d been as much an unwilling participant as she’d been. It must have been worse for him, aware the entire time but unable to stop himself, unable to act. And then they’d probably snatched him in the city and branded him, throwing him out, betrayed.

“Where is my….body?” Boone asked, looking down at her hands.

“With Asmodeus, King of the Nine Hells,” Macwell said and then simply paused, peering at Boone as it sunk in.

The girl shuddered. “And Cam? Dagna?”

“They, as well. I am arranging for us to speak, to attempt to bargain. But you know how Leopold can be, by now, I assume? Stubborn to the last.”

That was true. His stubbornness could be infuriating to Boone. Sometimes, it seemed like he only did things in order to spite what everyone else was doing. The decisions he made could seem so arbitrary, at times. It made him…harder to get to know, in some ways. Or maybe just harder for her to understand.

Talisa Macwell was still watching her. “But you know, things can always change.”

Boone circled around the big wooden chairs in front of the fireplace, watching the other woman.

“The future is not always written in stone,” Talisa went on, seeming unperturbed by Boone’s movements. She simply followed the girl with her eyes. “In fact, I sometimes wonder how it could have been if you’d been mine from the beginning.”

Boone wrinkled her nose. “From the beginning?”

Lady Macwell smiled. “If you’d been my daughter. The things I could have taught you, shown you. Your parents didn’t see your potential. Even you suspected they had a hand in your death.”

“That was planned by you.”

“What would you do to protect someone you loved, Lady Devonshire?” Lady Macwell’s eyes became far away. “I found that I would do whatever I could to protect my son.”

“Which was killing me.”

“Would you die to protect him now?”

Boone stiffened, instinctively recoiling from the question.

Talisa smiled gently at her. “It’s all right. There’s no need to be ashamed. He and Gregor both are charismatic, intelligent, handsome, everything a mother could want from her sons. I would kill to protect them. I already have. But,” and here, Lady Macwell turned to fully face Boone, stepping around the chairs so to clear the furniture between them, “that was before I really understood the power, the knowledge that we could gain. And where I once saw an obstacle, I now see an asset.” She gestured to Boone. “I could teach you incredible things, Lady Devonshire.”

Boone stared at her and tried to shake her head. “I…you couldn’t—I’m…”

“I don’t mean paltry temple magics,” Talisa scoffed, waving a hand in dismissal. “I could teach you magic that would have saved Sabal.” She raised her dark eyebrows. “I could have saved the tiefling: Kallas, was his name?”

Boone glanced towards the door. “I think you just want to hurt people, hurt me, hurt Cam and Dagna.”

“Hurt Leopold?” Talisa looked surprised for a moment. “No. I have no desire to harm my son. Leopold is stubborn but he isn’t stupid. Time will change his mind.”

Boone snorted. “Or you’ll change it for him, like you did to Gregor?”

Talisa’s mouth thinned. “I saved Gregor. And you could help me restore him completely.”

Boone glared at her. “I’m not a cleric. I can’t restore him. He’s dead, or Undead. Or something.”

“Sabal was also Undead and yet, when I saw him, he was no longer of that state. Do you know how that came to be?”

Boone remembered watching him peer into the pool of still water in the Sanctuary, saw him observe his alternate, the dwarf. Saw him suddenly get a sweep of color back in his face. But it seemed like it might be a bad idea to tell her about the Sanctuary.

“No. Jazirian chose to do it. That’s all I know.”

“Did he also gift Sabal with seven golden dragons?”

Boone paused and shook her head. “No. I mean, I don’t know exactly. They were canaries, at first.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Talisa told her, voice more brisk, terse. “They disappeared after the warlock’s death, yes? Apparently, your god was not so interested in saving him when it mattered.”

Boone stiffened, glaring at the woman.

(“Look after your friends….”)

“Is his death still haunting you, child?” Lady Macwell inquired. “Perhaps, you should ask your god what you should do? Would you like to meditate in this room?”

Boone took a step back from her. “Why would you tell me to do that?”

Lady Macwell gave her a coy little smile. “So that you understand for yourself that your god can’t help you now.”

“How do we do this?” Kallas looked to Velicia. “I imagine I have to get his attention.”

“He is always listening, yes? Wanting to try and pinpoint your names, your presences.”

“So I would just need to call for him,” Kallas muttered and nodded to himself before he unhooked his shining rapier and held out the sheath to Cyrus. “You should hold onto this. I imagine he will not be keen to let me keep it. There is some sort of magic attuned to it.”

Cyrus took it, but clearly with reservations. “Kallas…” He looked at the rapier and then back at the tiefling. “If something happens to you—“

“If something happens to me, then you will endure. One of us has to carry on.”

Velicia looked between the two and bowed her head to them. “I will give you a moment.”

Cyrus glanced at the woman and then looked back to Kallas as she stepped about fifteen paces away, keeping lookout. “I am trying to think of some way to help you. I don’t know what I—”

Kallas suddenly grabbed him by the front of his rotted and rusted armor. “Do not surrender, Cyrus. That is what you must do.”

“But I—“

“You must not surrender who you are and if you do not know who you are, than this is the time to figure it out. If you forget, he will come for you and you will die. Or be taken for something worse. Those are your only choices now.”

Cyrus searched Kallas’ fiery amber eyes and then nodded, securing Kallas’ rapier at his hip. “I will hold onto this for you. You better come back for it.”

They clasped arms, hard, for an extra moment. Cyrus felt like he was splitting apart, helpless, watching his friend about to cast himself to the fire. To a fucking devil god. And I can’t do anything! Fuck…

And then Kallas walked over to Velicia. “I will call to him. You should go with Cyrus, far away from here, just in case.”

“I will help keep the human safe, my friend. Do not worry, Velicia will—“

Kallas grabbed the other tiefling by her armor, jerked her close and looked her right in the eye. “If something happens to him, I will come for you.”

Velicia’s night-black eyes steadied on Kallas and she nodded. “I would expect nothing less from a man who makes deals with gods.” She nodded to him. “I will protect him or I will die trying.”

Kallas released her and when he looked back at Cyrus, he clenched his fist and thumped it to his chest in salute. It was suddenly hard to see and Kallas made himself take a deep breath as he turned away from both of them. His hands were cold and his heart was racing as he walked into the desolate ashlands.

Velicia went swiftly to Cyrus. “We must go from here before the Devil King is called to him.”

Cyrus gritted his teeth, eyes trained on the tiefling, standing straight and tall and so very alone. But he managed a nod when Velicia put a hand on his shoulder to guide him away. Raven Queen, Bahamut, Jazirian, whoever is there….let him survive.

Velicia took off her ring of bangles. One of them had a tiny talisman of a door on it. She spun it on the bangle three times and a spectral door appeared in front of the two of them. Cyrus looked back at Kallas again before he walked through, eyes downcast. Velicia thumped her fist to her chest in salute to Kallas' pale form and then followed the human.

When the door closed, the detective looked back to ensure they were gone. Be safe, my friend. And then he centered himself there, alone, in the blackened ash. Kallas had to block out everything else, thinking only of the name, Asmodeus, and the presence of the devil king, the feeling of desolation, submission and pain, the terror and loneliness he inspired.

The longer he stood there, remembering the baleful echoes of the voice, concentrating on the memory of glowing eyes, he felt how sound seemed to suppress around him. The air became heavy and smelled of sulfur.

A shadow sparked, there was a pulse and a purple doorway buzzed into existence, a mirror, a portal and a tall darkness was filling in before him. The devil was huge with night-black skin and hair, red eyes and horns. The voice was quieter this time, not booming so loud but still with deep reverberations in Kallas’ bones. “Well, well, well, the ambitious tiefling. I wondered if I might hear from you.”

“I want to make a deal,” Kallas spit the words and made himself look right up at Asmodeus, glaring at this shadowy devil-king.

“A man who gets straight down to business.” He approached, looming over Kallas, smirking down at him. “I appreciate that.”
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Chapter Text

(“Show me. Who is Cam the sorcerer?”)

It was happening again.

The flash through the dark and Cyrus suddenly turning, grabbing onto Boone. The strike was blinding, Dagna and Cam could only stagger back and then the feathers burst—

There was screaming, a rending in the world and there was roaring. But desperate sobs were the last thing that reached her ears before time stopped for them too.

Time stopped for us. For all of us.

That moment, frozen around her. Boone desperately clinging to Cyrus, sobbing into the feathers that were scattered in the air like frozen snowflakes. Everything perfectly still. Boone’s grief was etched onto her face, the terrible helplessness

Cam’s eyes, locked in horror, realization. The lights were frozen before them as well and it lit Cam’s face up, eyes wide, hair blown back. His armor was clean and bright, his sword a gleaming band of silver in that exact moment. He would not make it to Boone and Cyrus. He couldn’t protect them. He couldn’t. It was just like Brenna: just like he couldn’t bring them up in the drow city! He couldn’t help Brenna in time and now again, helpless—

And Dagna stepped back from her own body and still saw it there. She saw the rage and distress, the shock of realization, another stab after the sudden loss of Kallas and her body wanted to curl up and sob but she couldn’t because they were all going to die and she wanted to scream her rage—

The Dagna that could move did so, stepping back from herself. The courtyard was perfectly still. It all was eerily still. And so incredibly quiet.

No animals, no battle, nothing. Silence. Dagna turned a slow circle. What is happening?

And then suddenly, everything reversed, speeding back in jerks to Kallas’ neck being snapped and Dagna’s adrenaline pulsed with rage and grief and she kissed Cam on the cheek when she said, “For Kallas!”

They were stepping back again, everything was turning to ash and shifting around her, moving into place in Silver Strings.

She saw herself staggering to the ground, holding Corvino and crying. The others were following through the door before it vanished into the air. Kallas watched them, silent. Corvino’s soul had probably been taken, like Brenna’s. Cam was looking uncomfortable, cursing softly to himself.

Dagna took in a shaky breath and then looked up at the Macwell heir. “Do you still think standing on the sidelines is going to be good for everyone now? You see what happens to everyone that isn’t you?”

Cam looked away, frowning.

The ash sifted her up, to stand in front of Cam, looking fiercely up into his face and saying, “If you had the chance to help these people, to change something, wouldn’t you take it, even if it meant doing something terrifying?”

“It’s not terror that keeps me away—“

“Are you sure?” Dagna cut him off. “Because that’s what it sounds like!”

Cam did a double-take at her and froze, staring. He opened his mouth to speak and then didn’t, couldn’t, feeling very abruptly like she had just seen passed his mask. Something in his eyes cracked a little.

Cyrus leaned a little into his halberd, examining the sorcerer. “And I have never heard of a Macwell backing down from a fight as much as you. Even though you don’t claim the name."

Cam scowled. “I don’t want—“

“I’m not saying you claim the name!” Dagna raised her hands between the men. “As far as I know, Leopold Macwell is dead. Okay. Great. I stand by that. But you,” and she pointed at sorcerer, “are Cam. You are not Leopold. But couldn’t Cam do something? Anything. To make a difference? Wouldn’t Cam want to take that chance? Sometimes we gotta do the shitty thing! Sometimes we gotta face our damn fears. And saying you’re just going to do nothing when the only reason you get to say that is because you grew up protected from it? How far is that bullshit going to get you?”

“I was hoping just a little further.” But his voice was cowed, quiet.

“Well, you can either go hide or you can just take my hand and face it.” She held her hand out to him.

Cam felt his resolve crumbling, the longer he was in front of her, the longer her green gaze seared all the arrogance and pride from him. He felt exposed. Typically, people did not get to know him that well. Typically, his friendships, his personal relationships, were short-lived. And then came Dagna. This damn bard from nowhere, who had somehow gotten under his skin. Who gave his gut some mixture of elation and terror, just from being around her. Creative, kind, brave, fierce and good, that was Dagna. And somehow, she had peeled back the pieces of him that he’d tried so hard to nail down and hide. She’d seen through him, despite all his efforts.

I will never be able to face her again if I refuse now.

And in that split-second: just like that, a finger-snap and his decision was made:

“The thing most don’t know about House Macwell…..” And then he took a deep breath to steady himself and he finally looked Dagna in the eye, “…..is that there’s a tunnel system underneath the city.”

“Uh, what?” Dagna stopped cold.

“Oh shit, really?” Cyrus asked. “That explains so much. You have no idea.” Kallas and Boone both frowned curiously at him.

“In fact, they can move the entire troop garrison, in and out, underground without anyone knowing. But, the thing about not anyone knowing, ha,” and here, Cam broke eye contact with her and said, in a stage whisper, “is that there’s probably not that many people guarding it.”

Dagna just stared at him like a traveler in a desert in sight of an oasis. “And where would you say the entrance is at?”

“Well….if I had a map….” And Cam gave them all an apologetic sort of eyeroll as he pulled a map from his pack, “I would say that it’s…..here.” He opened up a weathered map on a well-worn roll of leather for Dagna to see. “I, uh, I kept a few of Leopold’s things, uh, when he passed—“

Dagna threw herself into his arms. She kissed his cheek and squeezed him tight to her. He felt her curl her fingers into his hair and his back. “Thank you, thank you so much! This is going to help—thank you!”

“This….seems like a really bad idea,” he managed, not resisting holding her as he looked down into her face. “I mean, I’m gonna do it. But, oh fuck, I really don’t want to.” A dizzy laugh transferred from his chest to his arms to her. He felt her shift to steady him.

“You know, they say that sometimes the worst ideas are the most fun,” Cyrus informed them. The warlock had a small smile on his face, just watching.

“I don’t think anyone says that,” Cam said, trying out a tepid laugh.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re very brave,” Dagna said as she released him, pressing her palm to his chest before she pulled away.

Cam snorted. “Oh no, no, I’m just really fucking stupid.”

“They go hand in hand.” She grinned, wiping tears from her eyes as she took a moment to compose herself.

Cam couldn’t help but smile faintly back at her and suddenly was aware of everyone staring at them. “How about it, Boone? You wanna follow us on our big dumb adventure?” He pointed at Kallas. “We’ll get to Tinker next, I promise.”

“I bet he’s going to follow us,” Dagna said, rolling her shoulders as she busied herself making sure all her gear was in place.

Boone sighed. “All right. Why not? I mean, what do we have to lose?”

“Our lives,” Cyrus said, matter-of-factly.

“A lot,” Cam echoed. “But I mean, to be fair, that’s what we have to lose every time we do something dumb together. We, uh….” And then he seemed to remember Boone, Cyrus and Brenna had already hit that milestone. “Well. Anyway. It might work?”

Dagna opened her eyes. She was sitting in a cushioned wooden chair in front of a fireplace. There was a table to her right. It had two goblets of wine, a bowl of candied nuts and three candles sitting on it.

Across that table, sitting in another chair, a familiar voice said, “You are the bard, correct? Dagna O’Leeroy?”

Dagna stiffened and when she laid eyes on Cam’s mother, she instantly grabbed the nearest thing to her on the table. It was the bowl of nuts. She threw the whole mess at Lady Macwell. The hard rounds of candied ammunition scattered over the House matriarch, who sat still and regal as a statue.

But Dagna ignored that, jumping up to flip the table—

Talisa stood as well, raising her hand and Dagna choked, fingers underneath the edge but somehow unable to throw.

“I would advise you to calm yourself,” Lady Macwell commanded, voice hard and flat.

“Fuck you!” Dagna snapped.

Talisa’s eyebrows went up and she snorted. “Yes, I see why he’s fond of you now.”

Dagna suddenly remembered that they had been in a tower before this but she dismissed it. “He? Cam? Where is he! What did you do to him!”

“I attempted to reason with him.” Talisa closed her fist and Dagna was yanked back into the wooden chair and in a wink, her hands were bound with slimy blackened ropes. “As I am attempting to do with you.”

”You would have let him die!”

“Leopold is stubborn but he isn’t stupid. I gave him multiple chances to take his rightful place as heir to House Macwell.”

“Fuck you! You killed Corvino! Jildos destroyed my clan! You got Kallas and Cyrus killed!”

“I believe the tiefling did that on his own,” Lady Macwell said with a coy little smirk. “And as for Sabal, well, Lady Boone certainly did not trust him. He killed her, after all.”

“Because of you, you fucking cunt!”

“So vulgar,” Talisa said airily, waving a hand in dismissal. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. My son drinks with common killers and consorts with thieves.”

“He’s worth more than anything you could have trapped him into being!”

“Trapped? Is that how you saw it? It is his right, my dear. His birthright. You wouldn’t understand our perspective, sweetling.”

“You don’t even understand him! You care about what you want! You don’t care about Cam at all!”

Talisa’s hazel eyes narrowed at the bard and the woman stood. She stalked around the table like a spider, looming over Dagna. “I’m tempted to take your scalp and show it to him. That would certainly make an impression, wouldn’t it?”

“You can eat a dick!” Dagna snarled at her and then spit on her dress.

Talisa clapped her backhanded across the face with her leather gauntlet. The studs split her lip and her nose swelled with blood.

Dagna tongued at the wound on her mouth and grinned. “What else you got?”

The Lady took a deep breath, as if to regain her composure before she turned away. “Gregor.” She gestured to the mirror in the corner that he was still dutifully watching. “Stay with the bard until she’s more agreeable. I am going to speak to our other guest.” She slammed the door on her way out.

“Does she mean Boone?!” Dagna demanded, glaring at Gregor as the man automatically approached once the door closed. “Hey! Yeah, I’m talking to you! Where’s Cam!”

Gregor looked up and his hollow hazel eyes met her own. He glanced back at the mirror, nodding towards it.

“He’s in the mirror?”

Gregor’s mouth creased into a thin line, checking the door with his eyes before meeting her face again.

“What happened? Why are we here?!”

Gregor put a finger up over his mouth and stared at her. This was the only time Dagna had ever seen the elder Macwell son up close. The hulking helmed man from Jildos seemed different from this young man. He seemed less….rotted. He was taller than Cam but the resemblance between them was obvious: handsome, olive-toned, dark hair and the amber-hazel eyes. But his pallor was off and Dagna suddenly realized he was Undead but not decomposed, just as Cyrus had been. Across his throat, there was a horrible-looking scar that reminded Dagna of Boone’s gruesome scar where her head had nearly been severed.

Gregor put a palm on the blackened ropes and they loosened.

“You’re Cam’s older brother, aren’t you?” Dagna said softly, peering up into those eyes. There was intelligence there. He wasn’t a mindless zombie. He still seemed aware. Something sharp cracked through his eyes before he allowed a single nod.

Dagna took a shuddering breath. “Is this an illusion?” It definitely felt real but she was no wizard.

Gregor shook his head.

Dagna pointed her finger at him and tried to cast a message: What happened to you? But she felt the little spell fail, or rather—nothing happened. Nothing at all. She looked down at her hands.

Suddenly, the dark mirror in the corner flared red and a voice filtered from the glass. ”Kallastin Sallerov.”

“Kallas?!” Dagna leapt up from the chair, dashing across the room to the mirror. And for just a split-second, she saw him.

She saw Kallas. The tiefling standing in a desolate-looking black desert, staring down Asmodeus again. The devil’s red eyes gleamed.

The mirror flashed bright hot red, and then went dark.

She saw Gregor behind her in the smoky glass before it changed. She saw herself, coiled up in blackened, slimy ropes, almost like webs. Her eyes were open but glowing white. Boone was next to her, eyes also glowing pale. But Cam’s eyes were dark and his body was limp. He twitched, as if in the cage of a nightmare.

Her heart fell, everything fell. Oh. Oh no. The bard spun away from the mirror, looking right up at Gregor. “You still love your brother, right? We have to do something!”

He pulled away. He could not. He could never. The presence, that power over him, he couldn't fight it. He'd already tried. Gregor's eyes were downcast as he shook his head and reached out. When he laid his hand on her shoulder, she felt something yank her through the mirror.

The elder Macwell watched the white glow to Dagna’s eyes dim dark, like his poor little brother. Any changes. Any. He turned away to find Lady Macwell. He should inform her that the tiefling had been found.

Now, only the human, Sabal, remained.
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Chapter Text

Leopold was eight years old on that grand spring morning that found him outside, dressed smartly in a new tunic and leggings. His fine black hair had been neatly trimmed the night before and he was wearing new boots that click-clacked up the steps of the grand battlements. These mighty stone walls could fit four wagons abreast at once and there were stands set up for the mighty families of Jildos, while the Freemen and poor watched from the grand square or nearby rooftops.

It was a festive air, though Leopold was not certain what, exactly, was being celebrated but there were singers, scribes, officials, players, and servants with food and drink. His Lord Father was there, as well, so it must be an important occasion. His mother swept up to him and put a gentle, gloved hand on his shoulder. She was a stately, beautiful woman. Her dark lustrous hair elegantly pinned, sparkling hazel eyes and olive-skin were complemented by her green samite gown. To ward off the spring chill, she wore a fine cloak, lined with white fox fur and pinned with a broach of the Macwell coat-of-arms.

“We’ll start soon, my love. Best go and sit with your brother.”

Gregor was already seated and he waved Leopold down. “Are you ready for today?” He said it quietly, leaning in.

Leopold looked blankly at him. “Yeah! What are we celebrating?”

Gregor frowned. “Today’s the execution, Leopold. Father told us a week ago.”

Leopold still did not seem to understand. “Yeah, he did.”

“You know what that means, ‘execution’?”

“Yeah, of course!” Leopold snorted. “It means to kill someone.” In a very somber and important way, he'd always heard.

Gregor peered at him. “Leopold, you understand that someone is being executed today?”

Leopold made a face and looked around at the festival air. That didn't make any sense. “Here?”

“Of course, here. Where else?”

“Why would they do this party if it’s an execution?”

Gregor stared at him for a solid five seconds of silence before he managed, “…..I…I dunno. It’s how they’ve always done it. I’ve been to a few of these, Leo. They’re all like this.”

That made his younger brother scrunch up his eyes. “You’re lying,” he accused. Surely they wouldn't execute people at a festival. In stories and paintings, they always happened in the Grand Council chamber or a deserted cliff somewhere. Certainly not a crowded arena. To do otherwise would be disrespectful, Leopold concluded. "You're just trying to trick me!"

“I am not!”

His mother was just making her way to them. The Macwells would be seated up front, just behind the Council chairs. His father, Lord Macwell, was chatting with the other lords in front of the fancier Council seat he would take as soon as the event was underway.

When Lady Macwell perched beside them, Leopold crossed his arms and said, “Are they going to kill someone today?”

Lady Macwell stiffened and grabbed his arm. “Leopold,” she shushed, drawing him in swiftly. “Don’t be rude. Yes, today is the execution. We told you about this a week ago.”

“I know, I remember!” Leopold sniffed reproachfully. “Gregor said it means they’re going to kill someone here.”

His mother sighed, shooting Gregor a raised eyebrow before she said, “Jildos is enacting justice, my love. Those who lose their lives today are criminals, nothing more. The guilty and the wicked, Leopold.”

Suddenly, the air didn’t feel as festive. Leopold felt odd, curious, but anxious too. His belly felt heavy. He sat down quietly beside Gregor after that. Uncertainty made his mouth dry up when the horns blasted beneath the battlements.

Grand Steward Macwell then rose from his Grand Council chair and made a speech about new beginnings and cleansing the filth from their great city. He spoke about a battle taking place somewhere far from Jildos and how brave their men and women were. And in order to honor those soldiers, Jildos would enact justice at home, while the fighters represented them abroad. “Blood is the springtime, for Jildos. And we must keep it strong.”

They brought out prisoners one at a time from underneath the battlements, so that their names might be read and their crimes outlined for the observing masses. A herald hurried up to the edge of the battlements and announced: “Stephano Derleese!”

The man the guards led into the field was composed. He hands were bound and he had knitted his fingers together. He wore a ragged shift that looked filthy and he was barefoot. The man was middle-aged, dark-haired and he stayed quiet. He did not look around when the jeers began as his crimes were reported.

“The Grand Council finds Stephano Derleese guilty of the crimes of theft, arson, mutiny, and striking an officer. He has been sentenced to death!”

“How do they know that he’s guilty?” Leopold asked quietly.

Gregor shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable. “They have a trial or something, right?” He looked to their mother.

“Yes, of course,” their mother told them but did not break her gaze from the field.

The man was taken to the middle of the field and put on his knees in front of a large, heavy block of oak. Two guards stayed at the man’s back with swords drawn. The headsman took his greatsword and struck.

Just like that, the man’s head was off and his body slumped to the dirt. Leopold couldn’t seem to help but watch the head roll off the block. The wood was dark and sticky with old blood and new. And then the guards hauled the body away like a sack of bloody potatoes. The executioner grabbed the head by the hair and gave it to another guard to take.

“Fensino Marlock! Guilty of theft, racketeering, arson, and striking an officer! He has been sentenced to death!”

This man sauntered out with the guards and brazenly glared at the crowd. He turned his bound hands over and flipped off the Council. The guards gave him a shove to get him in position.

“Were they military, Mother?” Gregor asked quietly.

“Yes, unfortunately,” Talisa replied quietly, glancing at her sons. “There are always some men who can’t adhere to honor. Now they die shamed, stripped of their ranks and citizenship.”

The second head came off.

The spring air didn’t feel cool and pleasant anymore. The sun was hot on the back of Leopold’s neck as the third man (Davan Yalovic) was brought forward, then the fourth (Berian Plum).

The fifth, however, had to be drug out. Matthias Jeidman was desperate, wide-eyed and shouting: “There is no justice in Jildos! No better than thugs and butchers!”

The observers in the square hissed and jeered.

But the man pointed at the Council. “YOU are the mummers with blood on your hands! We’re only bags of meat to all of you! Send the poor to fight a rich man’s war! The only traitors here are all of you! We are innocent!”

One of the guards tried to wrangle him to the ground.

“There is always one,” one of the lords behind Leopold tittered and waved down a servant for more wine.

Leopold looked sidelong at Gregor, eyebrows furrowed anxiously. His older brother put a steadying hand on his shoulder and leaned in as they both looked back to the field. “Sometimes, people panic when faced with death.”

And then the headsman pushed one of the guards back and simply cut the shouting man’s throat.

“But…what if he was innocent?” Leopold murmured, unable to tear his eyes away as the body was hauled off.

“He wasn’t,” Gregor said with a shrug. “They have a trial. They would know, right?”

Leopold finally broke his eyes away. “Are you sure?” But when he turned to face his elder brother, no one was there.

The stands were suddenly empty. The battlements, the square, the field, it was all empty. And Leopold was no longer standing on the stone but down on the dirt. But there were no guards anymore, no executioner, no prisoners.

“Gregor?” He said, turning in a circle on the field. But it was still empty and his voice suddenly seemed too loud. Every single person was gone. The streamers and flower petals and the scent of food was still in the air but it was all mingled with blood now.

When the child turned to face the middle of the field, that’s when he saw someone.

A young man with long, dark hair and a sword. He wore grubby-looking armor, like what a hedge knight or one of the Freemen might wear. There was no insignia to his gear, nothing that identified him, just black, plain. But something about him seemed familiar. But before Leopold could figure it out, this young man drew a shining sword and walked towards the executioner’s block.

Leopold had not seen anyone at the block just a second ago, he was sure. But now, along with the young man, there was someone else. Another familiar person, the slope of his shoulder, the clothing was the same:

“Father?” Leopold raced towards them, touching the dagger Gregor had given him for his eighth birthday. But as he approached, he saw his mother standing between them. A large man was at her side, silent.

“I’ve brought you a gift, Leopold,” his mother said but she didn’t look at him. She looked at the young man, while gesturing to his father, who was bound and kneeling.

The young man’s glare was cold and unflinching.

“You should kill Lord Macwell,” his mother proposed to the young man.

Some colorful paper streamers blew across the blood-soaked dirt. A feather was among them, seeming to catch itself on Leopold’s new boot. The child seemed to find his voice, “Mother!”

That was when the young man seemed to notice him, the slightest of double-takes and then an open stare. His eyes are like mine.

“You should kill him, Leopold,” Talisa suggested again, glaring hard at the young man.

“Mother! What are you doing!” But she completely ignored him, staring at the young man.

The young man looked at Lady and Lord Macwell, the silent man at his mother’s side and then down at young Leopold himself. He sheathed his sword and took a deep breath. “This is a dream.”

Lady Macwell’s eyes narrowed and she stepped towards the young man, reaching up to touch his arm. “A long, long dream.”

And then she stabbed him in the gut and the world around them dissolved.

Lady Macwell brought Boone to a room that appeared to be a study. Bookshelves stuffed to bursting with tomes, manuscripts, rare spells and several large and very old volumes of various magic. Their covers were heavily warded and spelled, such books at the temple, at any Temple, would have been incredibly rare, worth a small fortune and guarded day-and-night. Lady Macwell had, at least, a dozen such volumes.

But the centerpiece of the small library was this large orb, either crystal or some sort of glass, Boone wasn’t sure which. It was about ten inches in diameter and mounted at elbow height in an ornately carved wooden base.

“I’m going to show you something, Lady Devonshire.” Talisa gestured to the orb, which was currently black as night. “This is a Dreaming Eye. Have you ever seen one?”

Boone shook her head.

“They're very rare, so I'd have been surprised if you had. This is the only one I've ever found. With this, I can influence the dreams of any person that is currently being held by Asmodeus. It is subtle work but,” and the lady held up a knowing finger, “it is very effective. Come, look with me.” She placed her fingertips on the glass orb and looked expectantly at Boone.

The girl glanced around the study, to Gregor standing guard silent by the door. He nodded once to her. So Boone held her breath and touched the glass.

Nothing happened.

Talisa tittered. “Don’t worry, I have to direct it.”

Boone felt the Eye swirl with power, with presence, with a flood of despair and suffering screams. This was some kind of divination magic, enormously powerful, far beyond what Boone could hope to control. Yet Lady Macwell seemed to direct it effortlessly and a face appeared in the black crystal.

“Cam,” Boone said it reflexively and instantly clamped her mouth shut but Lady Macwell did not look at her. He looked bad. The sorcerer seemed to be unconscious, tied up and limp as a corpse.

“Yes, Leopold. Don't forget, my dear. Leopold. I had hoped to teach him about this but, the fates have a strange way of coming around, don’t they?”

“What are you going to do?” Boone demanded, straightening up.

“I’m going to show you his dreams.”

Boone hadn’t understood until she noticed the surface of the orb shift again to a little boy, excited to go to the battlements instead of his lessons. A dream that was based in a memory. Boone watched his anxious face as the men were executed and knew instinctively that this moment had been important to him. Something he became aware of on this day that he hadn’t been aware of previously. The possibility of an unjust world. And that Jildos, his home, might be unjust. And that no one seemed to care that much.

“Now,” Talisa said, suddenly, “we will change something. We place his subconscious like so.” Lady Macwell flexed her will over the Eye and the adult, Cam, appeared. “Because once you can command them in their dreams, the rest is much easier. But it takes time, depending on the strength of will.”

Boone shuddered inwardly. Is that what she did to you, Gregor? She invaded your dreams, first...

No one could protect their unconscious minds at every moment. Eventually, a person would relax and that would be all it would take. She might already be in my head…

“What do you think of this object, Lady Boone?” Talisa inquired, watching her very, very closely.

Boone looked back at the woman and then down at the orb, expression guarded and neutral. Careful. “It is…an interesting tool.”

“A wise observation. A very interesting tool, indeed, my dear. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Cyrus was not much of one for small talk, even when he’d been alive. He thought himself a better fighter than speaker. Watching Kallas go to certain doom made him want to chat even less and so, he was silently grateful when Velicia took the lead in finding them shelter.

She seemed to navigate the desolate shadowlands as if she had traveled it many times. Perhaps she had? Her gear and aesthetic led him to suppose she was some sort of mercenary, perhaps a traveler or sailor? Unlike his own armor, which had rusted and worn away, hers had some wear but appeared to still be in good shape. There was studded leather underneath the colorful fabrics. Her satchel had several brooches and pins, medals and medallions of various designs and styles all affixed to the front flap like a chunk of dragon scale. The tiefling stayed ahead of him, scouting up to a cave and tossing her torch inside. No animals, denizens or monsters ran out so they ducked in.

She waved him back from their supplies. “I will make a small fire. You should rest, my friend.”

So the warlock sat at the mouth of the cave, against the wall and kept lookout. There was no day or night, just the haze of grey. I have to think of some way to help or I will forget.

He had always taken commands from his brothers, then from his instructors, then from his superior officers. Exile had been terrible on him but, there had also been that tiny sliver of him that had felt liberated for the first time in his life.

It had surprised him because it was the same feeling he got when he would sneak away to paint the skyline. No need to take Leave. He could paint all damn day if he wanted to, if he had the supplies. And if he didn’t, he could go to a town and find work, surely? Or he could hunt and fish. So long as no one recognized him. So long as no one knew his name. The shame that gave him was like a heavy cloak, at the time. But Cyrus let it himself feel it, remember it. Good and bad, the remembering was important. For the alternative was to be ripped away for torture, or to be used in some way, by Asmodeus.

And, in any case, he now recalled the truth. There was no need for shame and even if there were, he must accept it and move on. This place was overwhelming, the visions it could raise in the ash were unsettling, frightening sometimes. His grief and shame and regret would become literal chains in this place, dragging him down to make him want to forget.

It is a weight of the mind, not the body.

“But do not be alone with your thoughts for too long, my friend!” Velicia called to him as she coaxed a small, warm fire to life.

Cyrus looked back at her and, for a moment, couldn’t reply. Not alone. Right. Just like working in small teams at the Academy. Work together, accomplish mission. Like when he had met Boone, Brenna and Kallas in Bryce's Landing. Work together, make money, buy paint. So the young man stood, walking his spear to the fire to sit across from the tiefling. “Where are you from?”

For a moment, the tiefling looked surprised that he’d asked. “Oh, I do not remember, my friend. That was in the Before This time,” Velicia answered, sitting on her knees and warming her hands. “I believe there might have been water?”

“Well, you do look like a traveler. Hmm. Or a bard?”

“I believe that this is all I had with me when I arrived here. But I have no way to know for certain so it doesn’t matter.” She waved a hand dismissively.

“Doesn’t matter?” Given everything that had happened since Kallas had found him, Cyrus was surprised. It reminded him again, like a tightening in his gut: Don’t forget.

Velicia shrugged. “Eh, for now I make my own name. Velicia is a good name.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

Velicia’s coal dark eyes flickered up, glittering in the firelight. “Names are just…things other people know. Just ideas. Those ideas can change.” Velicia gestured around the cave. “That was the past. This is my present. Right now, none of those past things can help me.”

Cyrus studied her. “But wouldn’t you rather be searching for your name right now?”

“No. The Raven Queen told me to help you until I found my name. She saved me from death, I assume. I don't know why. So this must all be part of the journey to reach it.”

“That’s quite a leap of faith. I mean, how do you know?”

“I don’t,” she answered simply. “But there’s nothing I could do about it, even if I did. I cannot simply leave, after all.” The tiefling shifted and then she looked at him, seeming to examine the human. “Where do you come from?”

“Jildos,” he answered, looking to the fire. He absently reached up, touching the scarred brand through his clothes.

“And you love this place? Jildos? It is not a city I know.”

“You’ve never heard of it?” Cyrus replied, surprised. “It’s the most powerful military state in Naluri.”

“Well, to be fair, I might have but Velicia, unfortunately, doesn’t remember it. The shadows have talked about a place called Shield Peaks? Do you know this place?”

Cyrus had to shake his head. “….so then you might even be from Irulan?”

“Very possible. I was on the mortal plane at one time, at least. Though I can’t say for certain. All I remember is water, sand and this.” She touched the grip of her rapier, turning it into the firelight so he could see it.

Cyrus realized he hadn't looked that closely before. The guard of the hilt resembled raven wings. Something about it seemed almost nostalgic, familiar. The craftsmanship was superb and the blade still rust-free and perfect. Cyrus glanced at his spear with the raven wings on the cross-piece. “Was that a gift from the Raven Queen?”

Velicia shook her head. “No. She told me it would help me because it came here with me. Apparently.”

That made Cyrus glance down at Kallas’ rapier, still belted to his hip. Don’t forget.

“Well, I suppose I will not know until the time is right, yes? Until then, we must hope for our friend. That he is clever enough to trick a devil king.”

Cyrus gripped the rapier hilt and frowned. “Do you think he can?”

The tiefling shrugged. “I do not know. I hope so. The Raven Queen believes we face planar collapse, if not.”

Cyrus started. "Planar collapse?"

She looked him in the eye when she nodded. "I am not very good at explaining--very complex magic and stealing enough souls to rip through the Material Planes? But, suffice to say, very bad. On a scale of one to ten, this is probably a fifteen."

“No pressure. Shit.” He snorted softly. “But I suppose if any of us could, it would be him.” Cyrus frowned at the dim fire. Planar collapse, for fuck's sake. He was going to need to take a moment to think about that. “I have another question.” He glanced up at her until she made eye contact with him. “I cannot summon my halberd. Do you know why that would be?”

Velicia pondered, rubbing her chin. “You died with it, yes? And you are bound to it by the Lady?” When Cyrus nodded, she shrugged. “Well, I don’t know. Certainly, you have your own sort of weirdness going on, yes? You have many…things inside of you, my friend.”

The warlock made sure his eyepatch was secured before he drew out the clear gem. “When I looked through this, I saw my friend, Boone. She was asleep. I saw flashes from my own life, and bits and pieces of others too. But it was disjointed.”

“How many times have you looked?” Velicia wanted to know.

“Just once because when I did…something happened.” He frowned to himself. “The Devil King found me almost immediately. Only Kal—my friend, he saved me. But when I looked into the gem that my friend had, his was green…but nothing happened. I just saw….him. Pieces of who he was. But the Devil King did not suddenly find us again. So I am wary of looking into my gem but it is the only way I might be able to find Boone. My friend said she was still alive but…it made me uneasy. I only saw her face but something seemed….just off. But if I look again, he may somehow find us.”

“No, it makes sense to be wary, friend,” Velicia agreed, nodding vehemently. “That’s dangerous magic and the farther you stay from the Devil King, the better. I don’t think he can actually take you until you forget—but best to be on the safe side, my friend.”

Suddenly, a shadow sifted up from the ash. A man with dark hair, dressed for traveling and armed, raced into the cave. ”Oh no. No! NO!”

Cyrus and Velicia both jumped up but the shade ignored them, racing over the fire towards the back of the cave. Another memory, perhaps, but it was no one that Cyrus recognized.

”Liesel! Liesel!” The human was shouting, throwing himself to his knees next to a sandy figure of a woman. There was a falchion sticking out of her back, brutally pinned to the stone through her dress. They heard him tremble when he realized she was dead: a desperate, tiny, fractured cry. He pulled the sword from the woman, almost threw it down—and then stopped. The man stared at the falchion, clearly recognizing it. ”…Morgan?”

And then he and the woman’s body blew away, though no wind entered the cave. Cyrus and Velicia looked at each other. “I don’t suppose he looked familiar to you?” Cyrus asked her.

The tiefling seemed intrigued and drew her rapier again to examine it. “No, my friend. But the sword at his hip did.”
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Chapter Text

(Flashes in the dark, blue light and stars so bright that everything was blurring together)

Her eyes opened but it was pitch darkness. Her eyes could not register anything around her but an oppressive sense of tightness, difficult to move. I can’t see. She smelled fresh turned earth. There was dirt above her, beside her, beneath her, she could feel the grains on her skin. Boone cast her hands around her, realizing she was underground, as if in a grave—

The shadow standing over her bed in the Guest Wing, the icy bite into her flesh—

Her fingers went to her throat and she felt molted tissue. A panicked sound quaked out of her. Boone jerked her fingers away, scrambling at the earth, digging up into the soft dirt and sobbing as she escaped into the moonlight. The girl drug herself away, frantically checking the dark. But it was empty, a ravine below a set of cliffs. She was alone. She was covered in blood.

Her cry was strangled, horrified, staggering up to flee. Run! Run! To the docks! To the port! Anywhere! Whoever had tried to….to dump her in the woods could be nearby. That was all her brain could process as she sprinted through the trees. Her feet were bare, and her nightdress stiff with blood. The wind went right through it but she couldn’t feel it. Boone didn’t feel anything.

She avoided the seaside villages and shanties, and instead raced out to one of the old lighthouses. There were several that dotted the coast of Jildos. She had no concept of time passing, just running, concentrating on breathing, steady and focused because what the fuck happened but she couldn’t fucking deal with that right now. Her vision had tunneled to one lonely lighthouse, smaller and disused.

She staggered in and collapsed, sobbing.

An old woman found her the next morning, still in her blood-soaked nightdress and covered in cuts and bruises. She appeared to be some sort of caretaker, as she had on a belt of tools. Boone had jumped awake very abruptly to the old woman standing a careful distance back.

“You look like you been through it.” The keeper had a craggy, sun-browned face, intelligent brown eyes and she was looking at her like maybe Boone wasn’t the first wayward soul to take refuge there.

Boone pushed herself up against the wall. She automatically touched her throat before she recoiled with a jerk. The bloody clothing was stiff against her skin. The girl shuddered as she tried to nod.

“Don’t worry. I won’t ask the why, don’t need no name. You need to get out of the city?”

Boone took a deep, gasping breath and nodded again.

“Well, jus’ so happens I’m a fisherman. I’ll get you some clothes and I’ll take you to the port nearest Avargard. You stay put one minute?” The old woman held up a gnarled finger. The girl nodded. It looked like the child had taken some sort of beating. There was heavy bruising around her neck and face and that new, raw looking scar on her throat told of a very violent attack.

So the old woman backed out and left the child. She was a magnificent, tall girl, and strong-looking, so the old woman grabbed some clothes she kept aside for ship hands and a scrap of sailcloth. When she returned, the girl had not moved, still pressed up against the wall of the lighthouse like a cornered animal.

The old woman held out the clothes and dropped them on the floor about two feet from the girl. “Nothing fancy but should fit you enough to get you outta that slip. Step outside when you’re ready, child.”

Boone watched the old woman back out and gently shut the door. The clothing was simple, roughspun but clean and dry. Slowly, she uncurled her limbs. Her toenails were in bloody shape and there were cuts and slashes from her flight through the woods all over her legs and feet. Everything stung and burned as she shakily stood, shivering.

Her nightdress crackled from the blood and she had to strangle a whimper as she forced the garment over her head. It fluttered to the floor. Swiftly, she grabbed the muslin shirt and pulled it on. Boone tied a yellow sash around the trousers for a belt and pulled on the old pair of boots. Boone stuffed the nightdress into her pocket.

She winced out of the lighthouse to a crystal clear morning. Gulls called over the tide as the mist began to burn away from the glittering sun. Boone covered her eyes and took another shaking breath of the salt air.

The old woman was waiting with some sailcloth. “Here, pin this over your shoulders.”

Boone took the heavy sailcloth and did so. It covered her neck to ankle and would keep the rain off. The old woman led her to a rickety pier with an old seaworn boat tied to it. The lady was nimble as a mouse as she got the single sail down and tied. “Untie us from the pier, if you would.”

Boone went, automatically, fingers stumbling over the knots before she furiously wiped her eyes and then forced her fingers to it properly. She pulled the rope into the little sailboat.

“Sit here, child,” the old woman directed her to a plank in the middle of the boat. “No sudden jumping about once we get into the Straits. The sea is calm this morning but you don’t want to overturn in the middle.”

The old woman took the rudder and the wind caught them. She stayed sitting and asked nothing of Boone. For two hours there was a soothing sort of quiet as the old woman minded the sailboat.

Boone wiped her eyes on her makeshift cloak. Someone tried to kill me. I can’t return to Jildos but I can’t go home. What would I say? Who would believe me? Who could have gotten into the guest wing but someone among the Macwells or my own parents? Why would someone try to kill me?

Her fingers found their way to her throat again, this time she was ready when she touched the scarring. It was wide and traced almost the whole stump of her neck. So perhaps the better question was: How did I survive?

The wind was making her eyes water. Boone ducked her face into her cloak and if she shook a little, the old woman didn’t say anything. By the time they reached a tiny dock at a fishing inlet out of sight of the nearby villages, the sun was rolling into afternoon.

Boone took a deep breath before she stepped onto the pier. The old woman stepped off too. “Child, you got grave times ahead of you. Good luck.” She offered out a small mundane dagger, hilt-first.

Boone shuddered. “….th-thank you.” Her voice sounded raw and husky. She accepted the dagger and shook the old woman’s hand.

And there, they separated. I wonder what happened to her?

But when Boone turned away, there was someone standing in front of her. A smallish humanoid with dark brown hair and cloudy, blind eyes. She wore the garb of a peasant farmer in green and yellow roughspun. “The Lady cannot observe me, my friend. I am part of a memory that she cannot perceive.”

Boone stared at the blind girl, perplexed, for she had the strangest feeling she’d seen this girl before. “Part of a memory?”

“Don’t forget!” The girl pointed to Boone’s hip.

When the paladin’s hand followed to her pocket, the bloody nightdress was gone, instead she found a feather. The name shot to the front of her brain: ”Thioni!”

“I can go where you cannot, my friend.”

Boone closed her eyes and everything from the pier to the sea to the old woman, turned to ash around her. Only Thioni stood about five feet from Boone, on the edge of the glowing light. Beyond that edge was a thick, inky darkness.

Boone’s mind raced: Dagna would not have the magical power or the ability to use the dreaming sphere nor to kill Gregor and Lady Macwell on her own. Cam probably wouldn’t either. He was pretty strong, certainly and he was a decent sorcerer but Lady Macwell was willing to do terrible things. Not to mention, they were family and there was always the chance he might hesitate. And Lady Macwell had indicated that she’d intended to teach her younger son about her craft, so there was also a likely scenario in which the woman had created certain triggers or spell effects specifically with him in mind. Like with that damn sword she’d given to Cam after cutting off his father’s head. What a fucked up family.

As far as Boone had learned about the Macwell brothers, Leopold was of a sorcerer line (a temperamental sort, the temple paladins had always told her) but Gregor seemed to have no affinity for magics at all. But here, following around Lady Macwell like a beaten dog, he had performed certain small spells. He could loosen ropes, unlock doors and presumably, could use the mirror to draw souls from wherever Asmodeus was to this plane. Who knew what Lady Macwell had done to him, after all? He was some sort of deathlock now, perhaps? Bound to his mother, rather than Asmodeus? So they would always be linked? She was always listening.

Boone was certain she herself might be able to kill Lady Macwell or Gregor separately, but definitely not together. And it would be safe to assume that Lady Macwell could force Cam’s elder brother to fight on her behalf. But if Gregor was the support stone, maybe Boone could be the chisel to break it loose.

"Gregor. Help Gregor."
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Chapter Text

“Did you spend the whole night in meditation, dear?” Lady Macwell asked, entering the bedroom with her hands clasped.

Boone was seated in front of the fireplace, facing the bedroom door and at her question, the paladin eyed her. “I have no sense of time here. Day and night look the same,” she answered, voice flat and terse.

“I see, my dear. And there was no response, I take it?” Lady Macwell asked sweetly.

Boone scowled and looked back at the hearth. There had been none. For hours, she sat, she paced, she talked to herself and to the walls. She prayed and finally begged but nothing happened. No whispers, no visions, no sudden bursts of inspiration. Nothing.

Just a single moment with Thioni after she’d finally dozed off. Somehow, the blind genasi had appeared in her dreams. Boone had no idea how the genasi expected to help them from their dreams but she wasn’t even sure how Thioni had gotten there in the first place. Talisa apparently couldn’t perceive her? How did that work? Wouldn’t all three of them have memories of Thioni?

If it hadn’t been for the feather being in the place of the nightdress, Boone would have been seriously considering that Lady Macwell might have done it to trick her. But the feather was different. There had been a feather in Cam’s dream too, next to the little boy’s foot. And the feather that she’d found in her pocket after Jildos. At the time, she was sure it was, somehow, from Cyrus. Maybe it still is. Maybe our memories connect. But if they had been trapped in an illusion since the island battle, maybe that had been an attempt to get her attention? Boone sighed, internally because, well, they’d still ended up here.

She was truly alone now, in the Shadowfell, with an extremely powerful necromancer who was connected to the Devil King. Cam and Dagna were trapped. Cyrus and Kallas were dead. I have to make a decision. I have to do something. I can’t rely on Thioni to get out of this.

Boone took a deep breath. “No. There was no response.”

“I hope you understand that I simply want you to recognize your new reality. I am not going to lie to you, Boone. Gods typically don’t act on our behalf. We have to engage the world ourselves, not wait for them to give us a list on a platter. We can make our own power if we but learn our tools and then master them.”

Boone glowered at the fire. What would Kallas do? The tiny voice deep in her gut answered: He would try and use their tools against them. Just like the contract that snapped his neck.

Lady Macwell sat in the armchair opposite Boone in front of the fire. “No one wants to think that they didn’t do everything they could have, after they lose someone. But you had time to work with Sabal and chose not to. And yet, both of you had your bodies restored after death. I have to wonder what might have been if you had been willing to cooperate with him. You might have killed me outright. Or perhaps you would have died and the warlock would now be in front of me? But who knows how other fates in other worlds might have fared. We have the tools of our present available to us, should you wish to continue your studies.”

Boone looked up at Talisa. “And if I don’t?”

That chilling smile crossed the necromancer’s lovely face. “Then you will be returned to your body permanently. And you will be trapped and tortured for all eternity by Asmodeus, King of the Nine Hells. Either way, my dear, I benefit.”

Boone looked down into her lap. Steady now. Hidden thoughts, hidden mind. And then she straightened up in the chair, back ramrod stiff and she lifted her chin. The paladin looked the necromancer in the eye: “All right. What can you show me?”

The shadow mastiffs howled.

Velicia whirled around. Their path had taken them north when the warlock had asked about the cities of the shadowplanes. The nearest such city was Belantheer so she led him up jagged black rock cliffs on the south edge of the city so they might remain unobserved. But the mighty beasts of the Shadar-kai still had an amazing sense of smell for wandering entities.

Cyrus turned as well, his spear swooping out, making the pack lead jump back and growl. Velicia bounded forward, giving one of the dogs a kick. There were six of them, circling and growling. And then four humanoid figures approached, three males and one female.

“I would back off, if I were you, friends. We want no issue with you,” Velicia called to them, quickening a spell in her left hand. Cyrus could sense the faint glow and aura of an evocation from her, which was interesting, as she'd not shown any magic yet.

One of the males lifted a bow. They appeared to be shadar-kai, the grey skin and the black hair were like camouflage in the dim of the Shadowfell. One of the shadow elves drew a sword and said, in heavily accented Common: “Unfortunately, others have noticed your arrival.”

The archer drew and Velicia threw down her Forcecage, trapping the dogs. Cyrus stepped, misting through them and whirling on their backs. Velicia sprinted around the cage and her fist began to spark. The archer loosed his arrow. The tiefling punched out and the very air seemed to implode around her, a wave of electrical discharge blasted the animals and two of the shadar-kai. The arrow burst into splinters when the wave of sparks hit it. The fourth shadow elf was turning to cast on Cyrus.

The warlock bounced close, thrusting with the spear. The shadar-kai, a male, dodged, dancing from the lethal edge and slamming into Cyrus. They rolled on the rock, throwing up a wave of ash.

Velicia dashed up on the archer, slashing with her rapier. The two shadow elves she’d blasted back were lumbering up. One drew a sword, the other, the female, cast a bolt of fire at her. The bright flame was searing in the darkness, blasting the tiefling off her feet.

The spear from the Raven Queen clattered to the stone and the shadow elf punched Cyrus squarely in the nose once, before snatching a dagger and pulling back to stab. Cyrus lunged up, grabbed the man’s throat and the moisture, the fluids, seemed to drain right out of him. The shadar-kai choked in surprise and tried to pry the human's fingers from his neck but it was too late. Cyrus leeched the life from him, blighted and rotted from the inside. The tongue shriveled up, skin crackled, the eyes collapsed and then Cyrus threw the body aside, feeling his dragon eye pulse. He drew Kallas’ rapier as he sprinted towards Velicia.

The messenger was staggering up, beating at the liquid fire on her gear, when she felt the unrelenting grip of a holding spell clamp down over her. It trapped her fast and the fire flared hotter, feasting to reach flesh. The shadar-kai with the sword raced towards her but before he hit, they both heard a loud crack.

The mage suddenly screeched as she was jolted by a blackened bolt of necrotic magic. The hold on Velicia instantly failed and she threw her arms out to cast Thunderwave. The shadow elf swinging his sword at her was slammed back, cursing as his sword burst apart. When he tried to regain his feet, Cyrus ran Kallas’ rapier through his throat.

The warlock examined the blade after he drew it out, flicking the blood off. He hadn’t noticed the inscription on it before: Justice, Truth, Judgement.

It was also magical, which he might have guessed from what Kallas had told him but this sword allowed him to cast Finger of Death on the elf woman. And it definitely seemed like it might be capable of other spells. He glanced back at the mage, who was just starting to rise as an Undead servant, and then sheathed the weapon.

Velicia was pulling a glob of something fleshy off of her unchipped horn. “Nice work, my friend. And you have a zombie now?”

“You, as well. And I guess so. This sword has a lot of magic attuned to it.” The zombie shadar-kai lumbered up to them. Cyrus summoned his spear, it flipped into his hand with a satisfying thmmmp and then he pointed up the hill. “The cliffs over the city are here, yes?” He waved to the zombie to get her attention. “Keep about fifteen paces behind us. Don’t let anyone sneak up on us, all right?” The Undead elf nodded and dutifully did so.

Velicia led the way, hiking up the steep hill to mount the cliffs that overlooked Belantheer. She knelt down, as there were guards on the city walls below and pointed. “See there, my friend. This is it, the city of Belantheer. The shadows have told me that it is an echo of that same city you mentioned, Ebreosea.”

“Are there a lot of these dark cities?” Cyrus asked, keeping low to the rock as they peered over the cliffs.

“I have not been to all but there are a few,” Velicia told him. “Everwinter is a place of Undead and slaves. A terrible, terrible place for a mortal. There is also Gloomwrought. Apparently, it is an echo of a floating city called Thultanthar in one of the material planes. It has humanoids, like us—but they are those that have adapted to this realm.”

“How is this place, for mortals?”

Velicia looked away from the city, searching his eyes to detect how serious he was and her lips thinned. “Likely not very safe. Velicia would not advise it. But if you want to enter the city, we should wear hoods and not draw attention to ourselves.”

Cyrus peered again into the grey haze. The layout of the city looked similar to when they had visited Ebreosea. The temple was probably in the same place, where he’d wandered after the horrific crash in the middle of the city.

A shadow of ash sifted next to the human, forming a child lifting her little hands towards Cyrus. ”You look sad, mister.” A little paper bird sifted into her hands from the ash.

“Thank you,” Cyrus muttered automatically, sitting up and reaching out for it. He had actually assumed it would collapse in his fingers but a yellow paper bird was now sitting in his hand. Cyrus leaned in, examining the folds. It appeared to be real paper, no longer dull grey but bright yellow. The shadow of the girl vanished. Yellow birds…

Then a cleric sifted up from the ash, took the bird from him, placed it back in his fingers, twice over and each time: “Very interesting.” When the cleric turned to dust, the yellow paper bird still remained in Cyrus’ hand.

That was the cleric who told me about the Scarlet Coast forest. The Order of the Bloodfern druids. That was how we got to the Sanctuary. Could it be possible that the Sanctuary might exist here?

Velicia was staring at him, wide-eyed. “…..are you all right, my friend? I have never seen a shade leave something behind.” She nodded towards the paper bird.

"I believe it is real." Cyrus offered it out for examination.

She gingerly took it by one wing. “That is very peculiar, friend. Unsettling. Does this mean something to you?” The tiefling sat up, away from the cliff edge, peering at him with those dark, glittering eyes.

The warlock frowned. “I was in Ebreosea when it was attacked, an airship crashed into the city. A little girl gave me this when I went to the clerics there, because I was Undead, at the time.”

Velicia started. “You were Undead?!”

“I was, for a time.”

“Your life has been very strange, my friend.” Velicia gently put the bird back in Cyrus’ hand.

“Tell me about it.” Yellow birds…

“But, friend, keep hold of that. I’ve never seen a shade leave a physical object behind.”

“I’m trying to remember….something about yellow birds. Something important, I think.” With his luck, it was probably crucial. It was recent, he was sure. Something that happened after the Sanctuary but before the battle in Jildos.

“Do you still want to enter the city?”

Cyrus looked thoughtful. “How close is the geography of this place compared to the material plane?”

“All worlds cross here, friend. All of them are possible. The landscape shifts and changes.”

“Do you know how these changes are influenced?”

Velicia shrugged her shoulders. “Magic, powerful memories, spirits: from what I understand, they all can.”

Cyrus backed away from the edge of the cliffs. “On my plane, to the northeast of Ebreosea was the Cerise Sanctuary. That is where my body was restored. But it was a thousand miles, at least. We took a ship to get to the Bloodfern druids there.” He pulled out the diamond-like gem. “That’s where I got this.”

“Well, without knowing it would actually be there, we cannot simply teleport.” Velicia took off her ring of bangles and went to the one that had no talisman at all. She unhooked it from the others. It appeared to be an etched piece of glass. Velicia raised it in front of them. “My Lady, our friend believes something important might exist in a place called the Cerise Sanctuary. Does that place exist in the Shadowfell?”

The etchings shimmered and they both heard an unfamiliar but friendly voice answer: ”Ah, yes, I can help with this. Allow me.”

It was not the Raven Queen that appeared next to them but a young man in non-descript weather-worn clothes, a cloak and a traveling pack. He had a walking stick in one hand and appeared human with shaggy brown hair and bright blue eyes. He smiled cheerfully at them and reached out his hands. “Come, my friends. If only that we could have met on the road, we would have such tales to trade. But I know that haste is of more import, for now.”

Cyrus glanced at Velicia but the tiefling was stepping ahead of him. “Who are you? You are not the Raven Queen.”

“No, but I was with her. I am a friend. And as it turns out, this task is my specialty. I owe her a favor. You want to find the Sanctuary, a temple of a god, but here in the Shadowfell? There is one that might have what you are looking for.”

Cyrus and Velicia in their minds both heard, in the Raven Queen’s echoing whispers: ”He is a friend. He will take you where you need to go. The next step is nearly in place. Follow the bird.”

They exchanged glances before taking the man’s hands. There was a pop! And they reappeared outside of a dark woods that spread for miles to the north.

The kindly man tapped the dark earth with his walking stick. "Head north into the forest. There are ruins there. Sometimes, when mortals end up in the Shadowfell, they try to reach out to other gods. And there are times and spaces and places, where and when the gods can reach back. I believe that this will be one of those times. You are not forgotten, friends. Remember that, no matter what you find or fight there."

"Can you tell us what we can expect?" Cyrus pressed, watching the strange human carefully. Everything about the man was nondescript, like a simple traveler in any crossroads tavern. He just felt a bit odd. But at the same time, trustworthy. Like making an unexpected friend on the road.

"Just danger, friends. This place is still very treacherous. And you will likely see visions and shadows, if you haven't already." The young man offered out his hand to Cyrus and when the warlock took it, he said: “Our paths will cross again, friend.” His blue eyes were warm but his smile was sad. He squeezed Cyrus’ hand, bowed to Velicia and then he vanished.

Cyrus furrowed his eyebrows. “Do you know who that was?”

“No, but he felt strange. Like the Lady does.” Velicia shrugged. “He said you’d see him again?”

Cyrus groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I am a little bit sick of gods right now.”

The tiefling burst out laughing. “That’s the spirit, my friend!”

The paper bird suddenly flapped its wings and flew out of Cyrus’ hand, sailing in front of the two of them. It made a small, musical sound, like chimes, and then flew to the forest edge. It was packed with dead and rotting trees, so close and gloomy that the darkness was almost absolute passed the tree line. The paper bird made another chiming sound.

Cyrus sighed again. “Well, I guess we follow, probably to certain death. Whatever that means here.”

“Come now! Nothing worth having is ever easily had, my friend!” She squinted into the trees as she approached the paper bird, which was now emanating a faint golden light. "Though, I admit, even I haven't ventured much in these forests."

“Gods always speak in riddles and half-truths, it would be simpler if they just said what they wanted!”

“You’ll have to take that up with them. You’re an interesting human, and I like you, but not that much.”

Gregor had worn his formal dress armor when he met Lady Devonshire at the lunch attended by his mother and her parents. For the second meeting (just Lady De'Boon and the Macwells, this time) he wore a formal dark red doublet, fine trousers and his boots. Leopold was coming to this dinner, at their mother’s insistence. He was dressed in subdued navy blue and he already looked bored as he lounged in a cushioned chair against the wall.

There was a soft knock on the door and Gregor turned away from the looking glass as his mother entered the room. She knitted her fingers together. “Are you ready, my love?”

Gregor nodded and gave a bracing smile to his brother. “Save me if I do something stupid?”

“Damn, I was gonna tell you the same thing.” But Leopold grinned at him.

“Try not to. She seems lovely, just awkward and alone a lot, from what I understand,” Talisa Macwell told them as she led the way out of the room. “So keep the sarcasm to a minimum, Leopold.” She shot him a warning glance. Leopold returned a mockingly flourished bow.

A servant opened the dining room doors for them. A bard was in a shadowy corner, strumming a lute quietly.

The girl was standing in front of the fireplace in a black gown. Her shoulders were bare and her sleeves cuffed. Her black hair fell artfully around her neck and when she turned to face them, she offered a curtsy. “Lady Macwell, Lord Gregor, good evening.”

“Lady Devonshire,” Gregor took the cue flawlessly, stepping forward. “Allow me to introduce my younger brother, Leopold Macwell. He will be joining us this evening.”

Dutifully, the younger Macwell bowed over his arm. “Good evening, Lady De'Boon.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Lord Leopold,” Lady Devonshire replied politely. She was very pale as they sat at the table. Around her throat she wore a stark black chain with a serpentine dragon pendant on it.

Gregor sat at the head of the table, his mother to his right and Leopold next to her. Devonshire sat at Gregor’s left. She didn’t quite seem to know what to talk about, or what to do with her hands. She reminded him of some of the younger soldiers Gregor had trained with. He was to be Grand Steward, after all, so while he had learned to fight from their master-at-arms, he didn’t enter formal military training until he turned fourteen.

He had an early edge on most of his class, but the days were still long and full of tactics, leadership, survival, combat, history, mathematics, anatomy and navigation. Gregor had begun like every other academy student. At the bottom. And slowly but surely, he worked his way up. At sixteen, he spent two years on a ship, learning to sail as every other soldier for Jildos learned.

Leadership had come naturally to Gregor. It had been pushed upon him his entire life. It became more real as he faced constant challenges from his instructors and peers. A young man with a famous name, attached to such wealth and power, Gregor could see where strangers might perceive only a spoiled princeling. So the Macwell heir was determined to prove them wrong. If he were to lead the strong arm of his city one day, then he must be adaptable and knowledgeable. And the only way to get good at something, was to be really bad at it for a while. His ego never seemed to get in the way and this endeared him to the men and women he served with. And even as he gained rank and authority, Gregor never commanded another to do something that he was unwilling to do himself.

Gregor had been commissioned as an officer when he reached the rank of sergeant. Then had come the real test, to see what he truly knew and if he could teach it to others. Fresh-faced village boys and rowdy street thugs all must learn to obey in some way or another. But Gregor almost always won them over with his sincerity and fairness. Younger soldiers were a bit nervous sometimes without a task to fulfill. That was what Devonshire made him think of. She wanted to have a weapon or do something constructive. And now that Gregor was looking at her, the girl was as tall and as strong as a young tree. He might even be able to practice with her. That would be something. Alluring in a way he hadn’t really considered before, given that the vast majority of human women were not nearly his height.

I wonder how my mother learned of this girl? “I have heard that you’ve trained at length to use a sword,” Gregor began, smiling encouragingly at the young Lady.

Her eyes darted around for a moment, as if surprised that he was speaking to her, and then she managed a little smile. “The broadsword, short sword, and long sword but I liked the greatsword best.”

“Me too!” Gregor beamed enthusiastically. “More momentum, yeah? You swing that around and you feel like you could crash the battlements yourself.”

That seemed to help her relax a little. Her conversation was a mite stilted, like she wasn’t accustomed to speaking for long periods of time but she wasn’t stupid. Lady Devonshire kept right up as they discussed weapons and preferred styles of gear.

“I am a little uncomfortable in gowns,” she admitted, giving another shy smile. “I much prefer trousers.”

Gregor chuckled. “Well, next time, skip it. If my mother and your mother keep scheduling us like this, then you should be comfortable. Besides, I imagine that you look just as lovely in your gear as you do in a gown.”

She looked taken aback, surprised for a moment and her cheeks burned with a flush of pink. “Oh, I—well, thank you. I mean, you too. I mean—ugh, I’m sorry.”

Gregor laughed, booming and warm. “I don’t know if I could wear it as well as you.”

“You might have to let the seams out a little bit,” Leopold threw in, smirking. He had finished the first course, a thick beef stew and was sipping mulled wine as servants came to exchange plates for roasted duck in garlic sauce and scallops.

Lady De'Boon finally managed a small laugh, covering her mouth with her hand.

It was sometime after the dessert course (glazed fruit tarts, candied nuts, lemon cakes) and they had moved to comfy chairs by the fireplace that Leopold quietly excused himself. That had likely been a compromise. Gregor assumed his mother would then come up with some excuse to give him a few minutes alone with Lady Devonshire. And that was exactly what happened, once a last pitcher of wine was placed on a warming stone on the sideboard and plates were cleared away. Lady Macwell cited a need to check on Lord Macwell and excused herself.

The lute player was still in the corner, so they were not totally alone. Gregor clapped his hands on his knees before he announced, “Well, my lady, would you like to dance a little?”

Devonshire made an expression that reminded him of every single time Leopold had let his face say something that he hadn’t intended to communicate and Gregor fought the urge to laugh. But De'Boon said: “I…I can’t dance.”

“You can’t?” Gregor inquired. “You never learned?”

She shrugged one pale shoulder, glowing warm gold in the fire light. “The Temple didn’t really teach dance.”

“Hey, now, if you can fight, you can dance. This is a fact. C’mon.” Gregor held out a hand to her.

“I don’t know if that’s true….”

“Well, you’ll never find out if you don’t try.”

Those sky blue eyes flickered up to him, searching his face anxiously and then she slowly reached up and took his hand.

Gregor bowed to her and gently urged her up with him. She seemed so tense and guarded, so the Macwell heir made sure his movements were open and inviting. He was a gentleman, after all, his mother insisted he had been so from seven years old. “I will take your hand, my lady, and we shall try. If you can fight, you can dance. I’m sure of it.”

It was not exactly a graceful lesson. Gregor found it a little bit surprising, really. Lady Devonshire became very self-conscious. Maybe that had something to do with her unusual height? Or perhaps it was the difference in age? Or maybe it was her social class, or the paladin order? Could she have taken vows of some kind? Slow down, Gregor. Don’t overthink it. Just be respectful.

“Now, I’ll take a step forward with my left and you step back, ebb and flow, you see?”

When they managed a dozen steps without tripping, Gregor teased her with a smile, sweeping out in a flourish with one hand. They were in front of the sideboard, and the mirror above it reflected his earnest grin.

Devonshire smiled as she met his gaze in the glass. That was when Gregor noticed that her necklace had changed. It was no longer a serpent pendant but some sort of white feather. He stopped, peering at it in the mirror. Had it always been a feather? He was sure it had been a dragon earlier. Gregor looked away from the mirror.

Devonshire was looking back at him, curiously. Her necklace was the serpent pendent again. Gregor furrowed his eyebrows. “That’s so weird. For a moment, I saw….” But when he looked into the mirror, the pendant was a feather. Gregor rubbed his eyes. He examined the reflection for a moment and then reached out to touch it—

He felt a sensation like lifting and a heady blast of cool air. And suddenly, he was standing in darkness. The only light was coming in through the mirror that now hung behind him in the void of blackness like a creepy painting.

”Peace, friend. You need a place in your head that you can go to remember. So that you can see out again.”

Gregor frowned, examining the blackness of his surroundings, how large and empty this space felt, whatever it was. And the mirror where he saw himself, still standing next to Devonshire. He could see her necklace was the serpent pendant.

“Gregor.” A pair of eyes were peering out of the dark. Gregor put a hand on the dagger at his thigh. A brown-haired, blind girl stepped into the very edge of the light. She wore servants’ clothing and appeared unarmed. He had not noticed her before around the castle. "There’s something you need to do. You have to wake up.”

Gregor stared at her, wrinkling his nose. “Wake up? I am awake.”

”Gregor. Your brother is in danger. You know that already.”

Gregor started, brow pinched, because he…did know that. Didn’t he. Yes, his little brother was tied up with black, slimy ropes—

“Leopold,” Gregor muttered. Like a match being struck, awareness flared in him.

”Gregor, you can be awake but the Lady cannot know that you are awake.”

Gregor shuddered, taking a gulping breath, as if his time unawares had suffocated him. “How? She is always listening.”

“Devonshire told me to help you. So I will help you learn to hide.”

Gregor furrowed his eyebrows. “Devonshire…” His dream still existed on the other side of the mirror. He could see himself, still frozen and Lady De'Boon, still standing next to him. But where he was, where he really was…Devonshire was there. Trapped. Yes, that was correct. She was trapped, along with Leopold and the bard. Their tiefling friend had been found later in the Shadowfell. And the last, Sabal, was still unaccounted for, hidden.

Sabal…that name was familiar too. The young man that Talisa had done something to. Gregor did not know the exact details. His mother had not been keen to expel the finer points of whatever terrible things she had done. And when he had woken from death, Gregor hadn’t felt quite…right. He was disoriented, he began to hear voices or faint music that he couldn’t find the source of. His dreams were terrible. He lived his death a thousand times. And his mother had…done something to him with magic…

The darkness sifted like ash and suddenly, Gregor was standing next to his mother in the courtyard, looming over Jildos. He could not move or speak but he was looking up when the streak of glinting gold flashed across the sky.

“Sabal,” Talisa muttered, scowling, following the dragon with her eyes as it razed flame upon the ground forces. “I wonder how he came upon a dragon.”

Leo, you have made some amazing friends.

The dragon flashed by again, much closer this time. Gregor watched Sabal point at them with his halberd and then dart off.

The images collapsed.

Gregor stood again, in darkness, and the mirror was glowing in the empty air beside him. “Who are you?”

”I am here to help. A boon, from a Boone.”
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Chapter Text

“Do you understand why your paladins told you that sorcerers are temperamental magic users?”

Boone was sitting in a drawing room, scattered with fine rugs and woven carpets. There was a harpsichord by the single window. But it, like all other windows, had a thick curtain over it. These were dark emerald green, hung to match the green marble inlay of the fireplace. All light was muted in the Shadowfell, Boone was learning, and though the fire burned large, the room was still cloaked in darkness.

Gregor was at his post by the door, standing guard. He stared ahead, eyes blank. If Thioni had somehow reached him, he showed no sign of it when Boone had searched his eyes for just a moment as he’d escorted her to the drawing room.

“They said it was because the magic is innate and requires a willful personality to control it.”

“Correct. What that means is, since you are not a sorcerer, some raw necromancy will be beyond you. However, the next best thing is a pact with a devil, very similar to a paladin’s relationship to her patron. Similar to Sabal and his bound weapon to the Raven Queen. I believe he was familiar with warlock magics?”

Boone looked at the floor and nodded.

“Asmodeus would, of course, be the preferred choice, in your situation. The ritual requires a willing participant and for that participant to make the choice.”

“Bound to a devil….” Boone repeated it softly, to make it more real, examining what she knew about warlocks. But for Cyrus, the Raven Queen wasn’t a devil. She was a neutral entity of some kind. The devil inside of him was something connected to his eye? Boone again regretted not asking him more questions. She had actually learned a few things about warlocks from the Temple, but only that most of them were bound to devils or the Great Elders but some were also bound to archfey. And fey were neutral entities too, for the most part.

“The power of a warlock depends a great deal on the strength of the devil behind her. Asmodeus is the Devil King, the power you could gain is very significant. Thus, you cannot progress here without making the pact.”

“Aren’t you afraid that if I am bound to Asmodeus, I’ll end up being more powerful than you?”

Talisa smiled. “I am not bound to Asmodeus but something much more powerful. But, if you did have that much potential, I would prefer it. Honestly, it wouldn’t be any fun if you weren’t. The nature of our work requires skill and strength. I expect you to use these tools against me sooner or later. Such is the nature of mortals.”

“So why would you allow it?” Boone peered at Lady Macwell, searching for any hint of a lie.

“Because Kri'zakth feels great potential in you. And a need to drive any aspects of the gods back to their planes.” She eyed the shimmering scales on Boone’s cheek. “And I, for my part, relish the idea of watching you try to plot against me.” The lady tittered, clearly not worried. “But that is for after. We can go no further until you agree to a pact with Asmodeus.”

“I don’t suppose you’d settle for the Raven Queen?”

Talisa leaned in, placing her elbows on the table. “The ritual requires a willing participant who can make a willing choice. But do remember, Lady De'Boon, that choices have consequences.”

Boone heard that unspoken threat, loud and clear as thunder. So she dropped her gaze a little and nodded. “I see. Is there a lot of blood-letting to being bound to Asmodeus?”

“Less than you might think.” Talisa leaned back and smiled warmly again. “We can prepare the ritual now, if you are amiable?”

Boone stared down at a fine silken rug and nodded to it. “Yes. Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

So Talisa Macwell oversaw the servants as Boone took a purifying bath (which Boone had to wonder at the point of, since her physical body was in another plane) and changed into robes.

Afterwards, the Lady led her to a chamber somewhere below the keep. It was a massive circular cavity, dotted with torches, and off to the left side was a large pool, at least forty feet across, of black fluid. It seemed too oily and thick to be water and it had a faint sulfuric smell. Dissecting the magical water was a five foot path of stone that went out to the center of the pool. At the end was a low, bench-like altar.

Lady Macwell cut each of Boone’s palms with an obsidian knife and placed her bleeding hands down on the altar. “Now, sit back and I will prepare the summoning. You have made your choice, yes?”

Boone perched on the low, wide altar and let her eyes glaze over as she nodded. “Asmodeus or I am tortured forever. I got it.”

“The benefits will be worth the sacrifice, my dear,” Talisa assured her, sweeping down the bridge to stand before a fiery burner. She threw in something that made the fire spark purple and then began to chant. The shadowy shimmers that always seemed to follow the sorceress began to lengthen, reaching out into the room.

Boone took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She didn’t know what to expect but Lady Macwell planned to open some sort of portal and somehow, Boone would be expected to call to Asmodeus? Were there other, more neutral deities she might try and call instead? Boone desperately wracked her brain. The pool of liquid began to fog and smoke, billowing darkness all around the platform. It smelled cold, musty, enveloping the altar in clinging darkness.

The blood on her hands began to glow. And then something flashed white-hot and bright. Boone vanished from the altar. Talisa stuttered to a stop.

And then a cheery voice boomed inside the chamber: ”So sorry to interrupt, Lady Macwell. Favors being called in, you know. I’ll bring her right back, mostly the same! We’ll see!”

Boone found herself seated at a massive table in the middle of a colorful, perfect grove. Soft singing was coming from somewhere but it was no one that Boone could see. There didn’t actually seem to be any other people at this long table.

It was crammed with all manner of food and drink and pumpkins were sitting in all the chairs save three. The throne-like chair at the head of the table was empty, as was the chair to the right. Boone’s chair, which was to the left, currently had her in it. Her robes were gone and she appeared to be wearing her armor again. She touched the familiar grip of the enchanted sword. Fuck, now what?

And then a halfling man the paladin had never expected (wanted) to see again, abruptly walked out behind the piles of food. “Let your eyes adjust! Sip some tea if you must! The Shadowfell is so choked with dust!” And he bowed with a flourish.

Boone stared at him, dumbfounded. “….Grifto?”

“I thought I recognized you! You were with that band of adventurers who found that tune for me! Your friend, the clever one, got turned into a kobold! How is he, by the way?”

“He’s dead,” Boone answered, grimly.

“Oh, that’s a shame. I guess he should have stayed in that gem with me." He picked up a strawberry and examined it with a jeweler's glass. "Anyway, I’m here to fulfill a favor for a dear friend. You need a pact with a patron and I think I have a better one than Asmodeus. That Lady was trying to bind you to him regardless, you know. She hasn’t been able to read your thoughts, lucky for you. I believe she tried to charm you three times! I don’t think you even noticed. But don’t feel bad for it, senses are dulled in the Shadowfell. So I talked the Queen of the Witches into volunteering.” He dotted his cheek with a handkerchief and then sang out: “Come meet her, I’m ready!”

“Wait, what? The Queen of Witches—?”

And suddenly, on the other side of the table, a woman flashed into existence. Her eyes were pupil-less and green. She wore fine green robes and had a mass of curly red hair. She was very tall and raw power radiated from both her and the giant silver ring attached to her belt.

“Nicnevin! See! I found you an assistant! A mortal, even! This human should serve you quite stupendously. I’ve worked with her before! It seems Jazirian is hiding inside of her as well, but you can work around him, right?”

Nicnevin, the apparent Queen of Witches, looked at Grifto and then back at Boone, lifting an eyebrow as she openly examined the human. “I can.”

“Yes, do see to it,” Grifto told her, waving them away as he bustled around the table. “Now, best be off. The Prince of Plenty is coming by today so I must be ready! All these pumpkins won’t carve themselves. Ha, actually, they will.” He tittered. “And Lady Macwell will be eager for you to return. We’ll see each other again.”

Boone started to get up. “Wait, Grifto, I—“

There was a pop!

Boone reappeared in the study with the Dreaming Eye, fingers on the black glass. She started, jerking her hand away. The divination magic was residual, it lingered on her fingertips, buzzing and warm. A strange little voice in her ear whispered: ”Oh, now that is very interesting bauble, isn’t it?”

The little library was empty, thankfully, but Boone took no chances. She crept up to the door to listen, back in the plain robes again. No doubt Lady Macwell would be looking for her? Trying to figure out what had happened. The sorceress definitely wouldn’t be happy about fey getting involved. And Boone was in no mood to try and deal with necromancy. She wasn’t going to be able to fight her way out, so she needed to try to hide.

"Just make yourself invisible, little one," that odd voice whispered in her head again.

Boone touched her temple, trying to will her thoughts to that voice. ”….who are you?”

”We were already introduced. I am your patron now. You are in a very dangerous place, little mortal. How interesting. But you need to leave. I can help with this. Do you know the spells to blend with the veil?”

Boone felt a strange, shuddering wave come over her, like a jolt of ice up her spine, and suddenly she did know. ”How do I even get out of here?”

“It appears you must go back the way you entered. Through the mirror.” It flashed through her mind, a small room somewhere with a fireplace and a tall, dark mirror in one corner, guarded by a folding screen. She knew instinctively that this must be the mirror that Lady Macwell had told Gregor to guard.

Boone took a deep breath and cast the invisibility spell, cloaking herself entirely. The girl opened the door and slipped into the hallway like a specter. It was dimly lit with oil lamps. She had only been to a few of the rooms in this keep. The bedroom she’d awoken in, the library with the sphere, the study, the drawing room, and a dining room and so it took her a moment to get her bearings. Boone went to the first unfamiliar door, listening carefully before cracking it. It looked to be a tea room but it was empty. No dark mirrors.

Another room was full of odd items, knick-knacks and discarded books but no people. She hid there for a moment to calm her nerves, refocus and examine a few of the assorted objects. Most were magical in nature. Boone eyed a wide shelf that held a ring, a cloak, a dolphin statue and a leather bag. Maybe it was the sudden engagement with the fey or maybe just impulse but Boone grabbed several items at random, stuffing them in her pockets. She renewed her spell and slipped out into the hallway again. Two servants passed her but Boone simply pressed herself tight against the wall and held her breath until they were gone.

The fourth door she opened immediately felt familiar. This is it. This is the one! She hurried in, closing the heavy wooden door as quietly as possible so she could dismiss the invisibility and headed across the room. There, in the back, was a folding screen depicting a blue mountain with a dragon flying over it. Boone rounded the corner.

Gregor was standing there, looking at the mirror. They saw each other at the same time. He stiffened, instantly putting a finger to his mouth as he strode forward and grabbed her shoulder.

Straightaway, Boone heard Thioni’s voice in her head: ”You have been gone for six hours, my friend. The Lady is in the ritual chamber, furiously scrying for you. She will sense you soon if she hasn’t already. If you are to escape, it has to be now!”

Gregor looked around the screen to check the door and then hurried over to the mirror and pointed. Boone followed him and saw her body, as well as Cam’s and Dagna’s. Gregor took her hand. ”He will send you through,” Thioni’s voice echoed in her head.

This time Boone grabbed onto Gregor, looking into his eyes. ”What about you?”

When Cam’s older brother looked at her, she saw the awareness in his gaze, the resignation. He urged her in front of the mirror. This time, it was his voice that answered in her head, steady and quiet: ”You have to go. Save Leopold.”

Boone grabbed tighter at Gregor’s calloused hand but then she was falling, falling, falling—

When the glow in Boone’s eyes faded, Gregor placed his palm flat on the mirror and directed a pinpoint pulse. His nose started to bleed and the world was spinning but the webs around Boone broke away.

The mirror went dark and then, from the tips of his fingers, shattered.
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Chapter Text

“Look,” Cam said, “I know we are in a terrible place and were just threatened with disintegration sharks but I also feel like people will not find us here.”

“Should we take anything from the ship?” Boone asked them as a group. “Anything we might need to equip?”

Cam shrugged. “I usually carry all my shit with me.”

Boone grimaced. “All right, I just wanted to make sure because you never know what we might need for the journey and also fuck that bitch.” Her face contorted and her mouth zipped shut in an expression that clearly indicated: Oh fuck, did not mean to say that out loud!

Dagna almost choked as she burst out laughing.

“You should kick her ass, Boone,” Cyrus told her, grinning.

“Become the new captain,” Cam immediately agreed, nodding reasonably. “We need a ship, right? You become the new captain, we get a ship.”

“Can any of us actually sail?” Kallas inquired.

“I grew up on an island!" Cam scoffed. “Of course I can sail!” He pointed to Cyrus. “Him too! We can sail. We know how to sail.” He looked back at Cyrus. “Right?”

“I can sail—though never anything this big,” Cyrus agreed.

A seagull veered above them and a pure, crystalline bolt of light came firing out of the sea. The sound cracked through the air, stunning everyone into silence. The bird managed a pitiful shriek and then fell apart in a fine, glittering dust of ash.

Cyrus broke the silence first. “Well. So the letter wasn’t lying about the sharks.”

Dagna grimaced. “You know, in this situation, just to be safe, we should probably take everything here at face value.”

“A question, for those of you with magic,” Kallas inquired, raising an interrupting hand. “I don’t suppose any of you can use spells to become friends with animals. Specifically, ones with disintegration rays.”

Cam laughed. “Oh, I wish.”

In his head, Kallas heard an amused little laugh. ”Oh, you seem like an ingenius one!” And the tiefling felt something click into place around his chest. His duster now had a trenchcoat over it. Kallas scrambled to pull it back, swiftly looking at the strange, flat device that was now affixed over his shirt.

Cyrus did a double-take at him. “What the—new style? Where did that come from?”

Kallas’ fingers traced over the flat piece of some sort of grainy metal. “I don't know. This is…new."

Dagna smirked a little. “Got a friend back home that would find that very fashionable.”

“Is that a help or a hindrance to you?” Cam ducked his head, trying to examine the strange flat metal square now attached to the tiefling.

Kallas’ fingers found a small catch and then something clicked and a gloved fist suddenly fired out of the device.

“Whoa!” Cam ducked as the fist sailed over his head and then retracted back into the device.

“What the hell?” Cyrus stared at him.

Kallas had gone still as a post, arms raised. “Eh…sorry?” The trenchcoat suddenly rebuttoned itself. “Oh, that is….unsettling.”

“That is amazing! Holy shit!” Dagna had her hands thrown up. “I love it!”

“Okay, guys,” Boone waved her hands around to get their attention. “If we don’t need anything else, we should just go. I don’t want to deal with sharks, I don’t want to deal with these pirates, so we need to just go.”

Cam was still staring at Kallas and now he looked at Boone. “So. He has a gigantic fist that comes out of his chest now.”

“Isn’t that awesome!” Dagna was still beaming.

“Are we not gonna talk about that?” Cam wanted to know, going to Kallas and examining the coat. “It doesn’t seem like it’s enchanted. So where the hell is is the fist? Is this some artificer bullshit?”

Boone sighed and passed them, getting down into the little boat. “Who should hold onto this thing?”

“Probably someone strong,” Dagna said, swinging down over the side.

“Boone?” Cyrus suggested, hopping down from the rope.

“Hey, I’m pretty strong,” Cam interjected, pivoting from his musings about Kallas’ new chest accessory. “I can hold the rope!”

“One of us holds it on the carpet, the other end just tied to the boat?” Boone went on, ignoring the sorcerer.

“Who is the strongest here?” Dagna opened her hands to the group. “Cause it isn’t me.”

Boone sized up Cam, wrinkling her nose. “Probably you,” she said, scowling, “or me. So one of us should go on the carpet and the other stays in the boat. Which do you want?

“Yeah, all right!” Cam grinned, perking up. “Fuck it, I want to fly the carpet!”

“Flying through disintegration sharks on a magic carpet, towing a boat, to go and find treasure,” Cyrus mused as they got themselves situated. “What could go wrong?”

“That would make a really killer song, just saying,” Dagna told them as Cyrus roped the tiny boat to the magic carpet.

“Have you written any songs about us yet?” Kallas asked.

“Yeah, you’re a bard!” Cam told her, bracing a knee before hauling himself up onto the carpet and checking the ropes for the warlock. “I wanna be part of your curriculum.”

Dagna laughed. “Oh yeah, definitely! Check it out, just this very second I wrote an epic bard poem for you.” Dagna suddenly straightened up like she were about to recite something in a classroom. Cam paused, doing a double-take back at her.

Cam the sorcerer was quite stinky
The layer of his filth was a bit inky!
But when we needed him in a clutch
He’s there to fuck shit up!
We love our sorcerer, even though he’s stinky.

Everyone burst out laughing. Cam was grinning wide as he adopted a snooty look down his nose at Dagna and said, “I am inspired to remind you that I am very cautious of my stink. Thank you very much. I might be a little shabby but I wash, at least, twice as often as that one,” and here he pointed at Cyrus, “and he is literally dead.”

“All my body parts are intact, thank you!”

“But how are they feeling?”

That made them all laugh again (even Cyrus laughed as he flipped him off) and Cam seemed cheered as he wound the rope around his strong arm to help him stay on the carpet. They were nearly to the island when there was a pop! And a scrolled map fell into the boat.

Cyrus and Dagna both leaned away so Boone picked it up and spread out the map, holding the edges as the others leaned in to look at it. “Looks like a map through one of these buildings on the island.”

“It looks like we could follow this stream and just float to where we’re going.” Dagna traced it with her finger. “And probably die in the process, ha. Wait, am I reading this right?”

“Dagna, what are you talking about?” Boone said, sounding exasperated, crossing her arms.

“Sorry, I’m learning to read maps, apparently,” Dagna laughed.

“You are not very good at it, my dear.”

“I never claimed I was good at it,” Dagna tittered back.

“Then just let the adults have the map,” Boone sneered.

Dagna looked at the teenager, furrowing her eyebrows at the acid in her tone. “Hey—“

“Boone, no need to be rude,” Cyrus said, raising his hands between them.

Boone huffed and rolled her eyes.

Dagna sighed and explained to the others: “See, they open up into a stream. If you follow the stream it plops down into another cavern and then you float on down through a creepy skull and plop down the waterfall that—holy shit, there’s a dead guy on a throne down there.”

“Are you saying we have to go through the sewers?” Cam grimaced.

Dagna shrugged. “We’re going to have to go through pipes, there’s no other way down to the cavern with the ship, according to this map. I mean, I’m not a fan of going through sewage—”

“See, that’s what you get for singing about my stink.” Cam looked back at her from the carpet. “Now we have to go into sewers and we’ll all stink.”

“Hey, we’ll do baths later and we’ll just—it’ll be bonding for later, okay?”

Cam opened his mouth to speak but then did not, eyes widening just a little. He took a quick breath before his brain seemed to internally redirected: “All right. So.”

That was the moment, Dagna would reflect later. As soon as the words left her lips, she realized what she had said. The implication of fighting, baths, and bonding. What dirty and bonding with Cam would be. In a bath would be. Well. Dagna felt her ears heat up and there was an awkward beat of silence. She hadn’t meant….well. Thinking about it was making her heart beat louder. This was definitely not the time or place—

Thankfully, Kallas spoke about the map and the conversation moved on to the building that sat hunched over these sewage pipes.

Grifto’s world, contained within this magical bottle, was unpredictable, inconsistent, and unfair, even moreso than the regular world. It had been a changing tide among them. And it had brought out the core of each of them in some ways. It definitely brought their flaws as a group to sharp contrast. The lack of cohesion, the lack of understanding of their weaknesses, had almost permanently killed Kallas but the strength of their compassion had also helped in freeing Hunk, the abused ogre.

None of them would have thought to actually try and pretend to be plumbers. Only Cam would have come up with that and it was so unexpected that it was certain to be brilliant and Dagna jumped onboard. As a bard, that was just her style. Make things up and roll with everything else. Real life often seemed stranger than fiction and in Grifto’s world, the rules could be bent even further.

This was also when Boone’s attitude shifted. The girl was still a teenager, though she carried a weapon and armor. The paladin stumbled through her spells, hesitated when faced with decisions and seemed bothered by everything.

The insecurity was not so surprising from a young adventurer but where Cam told jokes to deflect, Boone just became standoffish. She was only seventeen, after all. But perhaps that Captain Mythail had simply bothered her more than she let on? Dagna did not think she’d done anything to warrant dislike from the paladin.

Cyrus and Kallas were different. When they entered the basement of house in question, they had both helped her free the poor ogre. Cam had played right along too, stepping in front of her when Dagna found the passage under the fireplace.

It had honestly gone far better than she could have ever expected. Even the last time the horrible woman of the house lumbered down the basement steps and asked: “Well, well, well, what do we have here!”

And Dagna cried out: “Uh, chaos!” And she cast a spell. The woman flailed, trying to shake it off and then the ogre burst out, barreling into the three people. Dagna and Kallas exchanged a single look and then had run to escape down under the fireplace.

“I literally cannot believe that mostly worked,” Kallas admitted as they all staggered and scampered down the cramped tunnels.

“Should we go ahead and actually fix the pipes?” Cyrus asked. Cam, Kallas and Dagna snorted.

“We’re not real plumbers, Cyrus!” Boone snapped.

“I was joking!” Cyrus exclaimed, looking bewildered at her condescending tone.

Boone sneered and rolled her eyes.

Dagna frowned at Boone. She was surly for a paladin. The bard looked to the warlock. “Cyrus, you aren’t half-bad, you know. You’re all right.”

“That was actually a pretty good joke,” Cam agreed, allowing a half-smirk.

“You take yourself too seriously, Boone,” Cyrus told her.

Boone just huffed and glared. Everyone else was riding the high of their deception mostly working. Only Boone seemed annoyed. Even dodging through the acid pipes, Boone couldn’t seem to help herself. She had to try and mockingly imitate what Cam had done and then dismissed them all, misting through the air and passed them instead. The paladin stalked forward and so she saw the webs first. “…..so this doesn’t look great, guys,” Boone called back, batting at some thick webs.

The reverberations caught her off-guard, watching them cascade like dominoes through the tunnels. Like some sort of warning system. Oh….

And then a sound sifted from the dark ahead, a chittering sort of sound.

Dagna reached her first and seemed to understand immediately. “Does anyone have any fire? Asking for a friend. These webs just pinpointed us.”

“Fire?” Cam perked up. “Oh yeah, I can do fire.”

“Should we probably set—well, I guess it it’d be bad if there was smoke filling the cavern.” Dagna tapped her chin.

Kallas slipped around them all, peering into the dark. “Cam, why don’t you go in front here?”

“All right. Kallas approved! Light that shit up!” Dagna shrugged, grinning.

“I THINK THEY WENT THIS WAY!” A rough voice rang out far back from the tunnels.

“How did they get down here so quickly?” Cyrus grumbled.

Cam shuffled to the front. “Ignore them, let’s keep moving.” The sorcerer examined the thickness of the webbing and then held out his hand. “Okay, fuck it, here we go. Spider webs burn.”

“Uh, Cam—don’t you think that’s a little hasty!” Boone raised her eyebrows at him.

“Well, you already hit the webs, Boone, so yeah. Doing it. If you were concerned about that than you probably should have waited before you stuck your hand in there.” While Cam’s flash of fire torched the webs, smoke billowed thick and trapped in the tunnels. That was when the high tumbled to a stop. Right. Grifto’s it might be, but there was still very real danger here.

The webbing went up in a flash, fire razing a split-second wall through the tunnels and into a larger cavern ahead. But with the flash of fire, came thick, greasy smoke, billowing into the tunnels. Boone swore as she was blinded, Cam and Dagna reeled back as well, trying to turn away.

An ominous screeching echoed in the tunnel almost immediately afterwards and Kallas heard the chittering of many legs clicking against stone. The tiefling stopped, automatically holding out an arm to keep his friends from wandering ahead of him. “This is not a good sound I am hearing.”

And then a wave of bats blasted passed them like a hurricane wind. They all felt fluttery little wings, brushing against them in the darkness and thousands of tiny squeaks. Kallas edged forward and the tunnel opened into another chamber.

A corpse dropped from the ceiling, webbing seared from it in the flash. Kallas grimaced. “Well. There are definitely some kind of large spiders down here.”

“Disgusting creatures. You’d think he would have eaten that by now.” Cyrus wrinkled his nose at the mummified body.

“I really don’t like spiders,” Cam admitted, wiping at his eyes as the smoke fogged the chamber around them.

“Me neither,” Dagna lamented, touching at the stones in the walls as she coughed.

“They are very hairy,” Cyrus added for some masochistic reason, standing fore with Kallas to keep the other three behind them.

“I still can’t see anything because of this smoke. Can we please do something about this?” Boone grumbled, eyes screwed shut.

“Ah, that is why you are fine,” Kallas said, looking at Cyrus with a very slight smirk. “You are accustomed to having smoke in your eye.”

The other three snorted.

“Ha-ha.” The warlock narrowed his blue eye at him, reflexively touching his eyepatch. “You are hilarious, Kallas.”

“Legitimately, that was funny,” Boone answered. “But seriously, how can we fix this?”

“I do not have magic,” Kallas reminded her. “Do you have Lesser Restoration?”

Boone did not answer, which was answer enough.

“Guess what we don’t have,” Dagna singsonged and then sighed heavily.

“There are a lot of things we don’t have,” Cyrus reminded them all, tone loud and flat.

“Fact,” Cam told them, right hand on the wall as he tried to figure out where the horrible chittering was coming from? Northeastly from his position? “Everyone else can hear that, right? It’s not just me?”

Kallas lightly tapped Boone’s arm and then Cam’s shoulder. “Stay with my voice. There is definitely something in here with us.”

“I think I’m almost good,” Cam muttered, exposing his eyes to the dark and staring hard to make them stay open. No use, his vision was still a blur.

Cyrus approached Dagna and gently took the bard’s hand to lead her. "It is just me," he warned her quietly. Dagna wiped at her streaming eyes as she felt his presence next to her.

It was easy to forget how broad the warlock knight was. Dagna always did until he was right next to her. The painter took the bard’s hand as if he were afraid it might fall off but he tucked Dagna close to him, trying to shield her from the smoke and possible arachnidan threats. He stepped ahead of her into the gloom, keeping a somehow perfectly respectful hold on her hand. “I think I am hearing that clicking again? Dagna, stay behind--”

Dagna felt the warlock jolt as something struck him and then he was ripped away. “Cyrus!” Dagna yelled it, casting around blindly in the smoke. “Something just grabbed Cyrus!”

They all heard a whump and the warlock cried out.

Cam took off towards the sounds of a human-sized caster struggling against the stonework and tried not to see the blur of a huge, awful spider. “Ohfuck—yep! GIANT SPIDERS!” He yelled it in the gloom for the others and then swept to the left.

But by the time he shouted, it was too late. The shadow crept up and Kallas saw a glint off the eyes behind Boone. He whirled around, right as the acid sprayed over them.

Cyrus flipped himself away from the tunnel wall, rolling to scramble out of the thick webs. He ducked crosswise, blundering into a side half-wall instead of Cam’s sword. “You can see this thing, yes! I’m right here!”

“Uh, am I pointed in the right direction?” Cam dodged in to strike. "I promise I can see much better now!"

“Dammit! “ Cyrus ducked under the blade, dodging around one of the clicking legs as it swiped for him. “Easy, Cam! I’m right here!” And then he was swallowed by the smoke, dodging another jab from a spear-like leg.

Down the tunnels, Kallas held his arm to himself, acid eating through his gear as it worked for his flesh. “Boone! It’s directly behind you!”

Boone tried to breathe, tried to think but it was all happening so fast and her brain felt like it was stuck in mud. I need to….need to strike. I need to act….I….

“Cyrus!” Cam shouted, struggling to see the other human in the smoke and darkness, even as his sight cleared. If he could find the man and grab him somehow—

“Fuck him up, Boone!” They heard Dagna sing out.

Boone took a breath. Right. She nodded to herself. Yes. Fuck him up. And she flickered her greatsword and charged. When she struck, there was a boom that shook the stone and a thunderous blast of sound hit the beast.

The deathlock rolled away and up into the tunnel walkway, whirling his halberd around. Cam tried to scramble back but then the both of them felt burning black acid. Cyrus yelled, whirling back and leaping to the side as his gear hissed. He tore his eyepatch off, revealing his cursed gaze. He saw Cam attempt to dodge in and inflict but he slipped on the wet stone and then a leg whacked at him: “Oh fuck fuck fuck!”

Kallas got blasted again by the other spider. The tiefling took the acid and sagged to the floor like a sack of sand. Dagna cried out, reaching with her magic to take the damage, to mend and rework it, to redirect it, to reform the flesh—

The first spider screeched and stabbed—

Cam took the first strike, struggling to stay coherent, flinging out his hand to cast Shield. It went up in an airy wall of light and stars—and then failed immediately when the sorcerer was hit again. His body was wrenched back, smashing into the sidewall and seizing up—

“Ohshit, CAM IS DOWN!” Cyrus roared it into the dark tunnels, knowing the others couldn’t see them through the smoke and gloom. I have no way to help him. Please hear me! I have no way to help!

Boone choked, about to attack and then distracted, hesitating but with what? The paladin tried to look inward, tried to pinpoint what it was, exactly. I have to do something—whatdoIdo?! There was a still a gargantuan spider in front of her, in front of Kallas and Dagna but Cam—!

Kallas whirled around. “Boone! You are a paladin! Use your spells! I will go to Cam!” He hadn’t been able to hit the damn thing anyway. Its spider-hide was armored. Figures. He went full-sprint towards the sounds of Cyrus yelling and burst out of the gloom. His sharp tiefling eyes saw the warlock without the eyepatch and then spotted the sorcerer. Kallas went skidding into Cam’s prone form, already digging for his potion. “Cam!?”

He grabbed him, jerked him up, leaning over the human to protect him as he uncorked the bottle with a pop! Dagna had given them all a potion, excellent foresight on her part. And a good way of ingratiating herself with her new traveling companions, Kallas could also say.

Not that he would complain, Dagna was patient and kind-hearted but also clever enough to know when to buy expensive potions and give them away. Kallas supported Cam’s head and pressed the bottle to his lips. There was a blackening stab wound in the human’s chest. It had ripped right into the plate.

The potion was thick and Cam made a pitiful gurgling noise. Kallas clamped his palm over Cam’s mouth to make him swallow. He watched the wound hiss and shrink as the flesh reformed, the wounds older, healed. They would have to repair the sorcerer’s gear later.

Cam shuddered in his grip, eyes glazed and the disheveled human automatically tried to grip his sword. “Am I alive?”

“Yes, my friend.” Kallas grabbed Cam’s weapon from the floor and pressed the hilt into his fingers. “Can you stand?”

And behind them, in the gloom, among the shadows and webs and fading smoke, there was a blinding flash of radiant light. The spider attacking Boone and Dagna gave a wretched howling screech and the tunnel was flooded with a rotten stench.

The remaining spider screamed and acid sprayed, Kallas leapt up to protect Cam but it coated both of them with burning acid once again. As quickly as he'd come back around, Cam slipped away again. Kallas swore right before everything went dark.

“Motherfuck!” Dagna came racing towards them, firing with her crossbow and then winding up with her right hand, first two fingers straight as arrows as she honed in on Cam with her magic. The acid was burning. She could smell the sizzling flesh as Cam’s body gave another jolt. The sorcerer swore softly and waved a hand to show he was coherent (sort of). He and Kallas were covered in acid, the poor guys. "Could you guys try not to die, please!"

Boone appeared like a wraith from the smoke, going to the men. She grabbed onto Kallas, imbuing him with holy light, reviving energy. “I’m doing this too much, buddy!” She told him, glaring.

Kallas sputtered back into awareness. His amber eyes flickered, guarded and unreadable, at the paladin for a moment. “Then by all means, I will gladly take Dagna with me next time.” And then he was up in one fluid motion, grabbing his crossbow, shifting his feet to brace, aim and then smoothly pulled the trigger. He stalked away from Boone.

And then Cyrus swept up, rooting himself like a tree and slamming the halberd up, cracking the armored hide, splitting up into the arachnid, ripping through its head. They all watched the warcaster’s eye absorb the energy from the spider.

“Whoa,” Dagna said, in the silence that followed, “that’s a pretty cool trick. Have I seen you do that before? That’s awesome. It heals you or something?”

“It’s real creepish,” Cam managed. He was trying to stretch out his rigid muscles, stiffly flopping over so he could get on his knees. “Fuck. Everything hurts.”

Cyrus sunk down against the sidewall for a moment, nodding as he caught his breath. He let his halberd clink onto the stone next to him. The immediate aftermath of fighting was always so intense. “Agreed. Fucking spiders.”

Dagna helped Cam sit up against the wall. The sorcerer snorted softly. “Hey, now. We are not here to fuck spiders.”

“They were definitely fucking us there for a minute,” Boone said, sighing heavily.

“I think they went this way!” The horrible woman and her sons were apparently following them.

Cyrus groaned. “Oh, shit.”

“Are you kidding me! Fuck off!” Dagna whirled away from Cam and yelled down the dark tunnels.

“You fuck off! You’re supposed to fix the pipes! They’re back there!”

“Well, you’re supposed to be upstairs! Now we’re both disappointed!” Dagna jeered back.

“WHEN I GET THROUGH THESE PIPES I WILL HAVE WORDS WITH YOU, YOUNG LADY!”

Dagna drew herself up to her full height. “BRING IT, BITCH.”

Cam was sniggering as he steadied himself against the wall. “Let’s keep moving. Actually, let’s get the hell outta here. Hopefully those idiots will get eaten by spiders.”

The next room had a few bodies wrapped up in webs and Cyrus made Kallas, Boone and Cam all snort when he pointedly refused the mundane dagger that Cam found on one of the bodies. The next room had an acid pool and some armor dangling over a tiny island in the center. Boone pointed to it, examining it from her vantage on the stone.

“Hey,” Dagna nudged. “We could fly up there? Check it out?”

Boone looked down at the bard and suddenly felt a bit guilty about her harsh words earlier. Maybe it was just how easily the others had all taken to the bard? Whereas Boone found herself constantly struggling to get along with the guys.

Dagna was very pretty and had a voice like a bird. She was quick to jump into action too. Boone tended to hang back. (She’d never had experience fighting in groups before all this shit had happened, after all.) But….Dagna hadn’t reacted as Boone had expected. The bard was a few years older than her and instead of getting angry, Dagna just…continued trying to help.

Even after I was being shitty about the map. She still helped me with the spider.

Even as Boone had struggled to think, tried to do something besides just wave her sword around. They were going to fucking die if she didn’t. And then, of all people, Kallas had reminded her. Use your spells! Reflexively, had it made her angry that the rogue tiefling with no arcane anything had had to remind her? Perhaps.

On the road from Avargard to Bryce’s Landing, Boone had resisted using any of her paladin abilities. The girl had no idea if there was any kind of search being conducted for her (either from Jildos or her own House) and definitely hadn’t wanted to be recognized. They would be looking for a paladin. So when Boone joined up with a caravan to skirt the northern Rainbow Wastes, heading west, she claimed only to be proficient with a sword.

Boone touched at her gear, where it hid the scar at her throat. Maybe she had been a little wary too. Using her divine abilities after somehow surviving decapitation was a paralyzing thought. What if she died a second time? Would she be revived again? How had she survived? Would Jazirian still answer?

Well, now she had her answer. There was a giant dead spider in the other room to prove it. And Dagna had helped her accomplish it. What happened in Jildos made me suspicious….and scared. When Cyrus yelled that Cam was down, I almost abandoned them, a bard and the rogue. They might have died if I had. Boone had been struck with indecision and then Kallas had stepped in and prevented it with his usual forethought. Maybe there was more to the tiefling than she’d originally suspected.

Boone gave Dagna a grateful smile. “I like your jam. Let’s go.”

So Dagna unfurled the carpet and hopped on, patting the space next to her. Boone clambered on and the two went zooming over the pool of acid. It bubbled and boiled below, shooting up hissing geysers of burning acid. But Dagna showed no fear, whooping as she and the carpet moved as one, like a crossbow bolt, dodging and weaving like a rabbit.

They circled the leather armor once they reached the tiny island.

“Okay, uh, this stuff isn’t evil right?” Boone held out a warding hand to the gear just in case.

“Oh, there’s a note,” Dagna exclaimed, grabbing Boone’s arm and pointing. The carpet drifted closer.

Boone reached out and snatched the paper. “A gift for a job well done,” she read and then examined the sheet, turning it over and saw more: “You never fixed the pipes though.”

Dagna furrowed her eyebrows and sighed heavily. “Can we fix it later?”

In response, the note shook in Boone’s hand. The paper quivered and then jumped up from her glove, folding itself into a paper bird and darting away.

“What is happening over there!” Kallas called to them from the walkway.

“Are you all right!” Cyrus waved his halberd. “You aren’t dead, yes!”

“They’re not you,” Cam said, snickering.

Dagna waved back to them and called: “No, we’re good! We’ll meet you over there!”

“Lookit them, walking,” Boone said, smiling a little as the men continued on foot.

“They’re doing such a good job,” Dagna agreed, mock-proudly grinning, and held up the chest piece as they got close. “Magical leather armor! Kallas, this would look fantastic on you, buddy!”

While Kallas unbuckled and opened the piece to shift his belt and weapons (except for the strange trenchcoat, which suddenly loosened and slid off of him like a paralyzed octopus), Cyrus looked a short way down the hall. “There’s a pit with a chain here and then the tunnel keeps going. Should we check out the end first?”

Cam went to Kallas to help him tighten the straps on his shoulders and checked over the seals for him. And then had to fight with the trenchcoat when it whipped up and was clearly intent on wrestling itself back onto Kallas.

“Just let it!” The tiefling advised, holding his arms out. “I don’t know that it won’t hit you if you try to stop it.” The coat slithered over his arms and rebuttoned itself. “That is still very unsettling.”

“That is so weird,” Cam said, giving it a leery eye.

They followed behind the other three as they rounded the corner and saw a massive, ornate carving of a face.

“Oh, nose goes,” Dagna said, pressing her finger to her nose when they realize the ornate carving had an actual tunnel going through the mouth. “Nope.”

Boone shifted. “Okay, Dagna is the little one but—does anyone else feel like going in there?”

Certainly, none of them trusted it. But Cyrus was first to break the silence. “I will do it.”

“You definitely got this,” Boone said, backing up a few steps.

“Don’t die!” Dagna commanded.

“I’ll avenge you!” Boone added.

But all Cyrus saw was a dark tunnel. He went inside, crawled around in a straight line for a minute and then emerged from the mouth again. The others all stared at him with baited breath.

“You all right?” Dagna ventured.

Cyrus suddenly jolted. “Wait, wait a second.” He threw off his backpack, scrambling through it with a sudden ferocity that made them all pause.

“Cyrus, what are you doing?” Boone asked, watching the warlock upend his bag.

“I can’t find the…” Cyrus searched the pockets again. “It’s…gone. It’s—“

“What’d you lose? I mean, besides your life. Did you die again?”

“Cam.” Dagna raised her eyebrows at him.

“No, I had a necklace here. A keepsake. It’s gone. It’s just vanished.”

“Did you drop it?” Dagna frowned then.

“When’d you see it last?” Cam inquired.

“A couple days ago. It was in my pack.”

“You’re probably just mistaken, Cyrus,” Boone told him. “It has to be there.”

“It clearly isn’t!” Cyrus gestured to his tossed bag. “That necklace is all I have left of her!"

“Who?” Dagna inquired.

“My mother!” Cyrus suddenly pulled back, realizing how his voice had risen to a thundering shout. He grimaced as he looked away from them all, feeling sharply raw, exposed. “I’m sorry,” he said, quiet and stiff. The warlock took a deep breath to compose himself.

“Cyrus, we’ve been through a lot today,” Boone told him. “Maybe it’s fallen down into a seam or something. We can check once we’re back in the day light. Down in these tunnels, we can’t see anything.”

“Perhaps, you dropped it back by the spiders somewhere,” Kallas suggested. “We can look on the way back.”

“We’ll find it. We’ll comb through that pack and we can check our stuff too, just to make sure,” Dagna told him, patting him on the arm. She knelt to help him repack his bag.

Kallas led them back to the hole in the floor with the chain leading down into the dark, which had Dagna tapping her nose again.

“Does your nose itch, Dagna?” Cyrus asked her.

“Nose Goes rule? You don’t know Nose Goes? Okay, we might have to talk about that later.” She was pulling out a torch and giving it to her mage hand. “Oh shit, lookit those spikes down there. Don’t want none of that. Don’t fall down here.”

“What do you mean don’t fall!” Boone huffed.

Dagna resisted grinding her teeth and, instead, yanked on Boone’s arm and pointed down at the very obvious torch. “Spikes. Will suck ass if you fall on them.”

The teenager sheepishly shrugged. “Right, right, I see. Sorry. Yeah, listen to Dagna. Don’t fall in.”

“Look, I was planning to.” Cam gestured out at the pit. “But now, foiled again. Disappointed, every time.”

Kallas peered down the hole. “So, who is going first?”

Cyrus looked right at him. So did everyone else. “You. Because you’re the one who asked.”

The tiefling lifted his chin, dusting imaginary dirt from his new gear. “Well, I do need to test this new armor.” So, agile and nimble, Kallas grabbed the chain, tested it and then began to climb down.

“I’ll follow him, in case there’s spiders or something,” Boone said, gripping onto the chain and beginning to lower herself, hand over hand. The others waited anxiously around the hole.

They suddenly heard a voice: “Whoopsies!”

Then the chain snapped.

Dagna and Cyrus both dove for it, fumbling for the cascading metal and Dagna finally latched in and gave a mighty heave. Somehow she held on. Cam had been ready to spring, to latch onto her but then Cyrus was suddenly pulling out the goat statuette. He placed it down and it grew into a live goat in just a few seconds. Cyrus took one of the horns and rammed it into one of the large eyes of the chain.

Dagna released the chain and when it didn’t collapse, she threw her hands up. “Short but strong! Holy shit!”

“Godsbefuckingdamned, woman,” Cam told her, laughing as Kallas and Boone scampered off the chain, out of the way of the spikes.

The goat stood before them, seeming to examine all of them as it chewed on its grass. It bleated and its one wonky eye rolled back. The head was a little off-tilt as well, now that it was missing one horn.

“That’s a good goat,” Cam told it.

“Yes, you are a good goat!” Dagna agreed, petting it on the head.

Cyrus went down last, holding the goat around its middle as he slid down the chain. “You are a good goat,” he told it absently. “I should create some kind of sling for you, I think, yes?”

Then they reached the huge skull, winding through the dark, dank path that began in the mouth. Behind them, their three tails were bickering around the horn sword.

“A thirty foot drop onto spikes should help get rid of them, right?” Cyrus said. “They don’t seem very bright.”

“Yeah, I don’t think we have much to fear from them. This cave will definitely kill us but probably not them.” Dagna sighed.

“Though now we cannot go back up the chain,” Kallas grimaced.

“Eh, we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it,” Dagna waved a hand.

They found a bridge barely fifty paces later, winding up through the skull-armored tunnel to a grotto with a massive waterfall. It wasn’t even a proper bridge, but a decrepit log, straddling the banks of the roaring water.

Kallas peered around the old log. “We should probably only go one at a time on this.”

“As it were, nose goes,” Cyrus clucked and smooshed his gloved finger into the perfect tip of his nose.

Dagna burst out laughing. “Good job, Cyrus! Caught on fast!”

“Can we just use the carpet?” Cam proposed.

“Oh yes, I take it back. I like that idea better,” Cyrus amended. The warlock kept hold of the little goat when they crossed on the magic carpet but on the other side, he walked over to Dagna and set the goat next to her. “We should knock the log off so those idiots can’t follow us.”

“Oh, good call,” Cam agreed and he stepped forward to help.

So he and Cam splashed down into the shallows and together, they heaved up on their end. Cyrus nearly lost his footing in the fast-moving water but Cam braced him and the two tossed it over the edge.

Strange, in a way, that a Sabal and a Macwell were in the same place, working together, but not in a war or for Jildos. If both had stayed in their places, they might even have met, but likely would never have worked together directly.

Cam would have been Grand Steward, someone who planned battles, who led battles. Cyrus might have been a warlock knight, a warmage, someone who fought the battles. Cyrus had always wondered, if he showed his valor for Jildos, if he could have restored his family name. That would surely earn the respect of his father and brothers. He shook himself, there was no chance of that now. He wondered how Cam had walked away from all that power. That would be difficult for anyone to pass up, let alone the cocky spellsword who’d been groomed for it for most of his life.

The next room had a massive set of pipes, like a large organ and a proportionate skeleton, ominous and aged. There were bats fluttering above them, hundreds of them. Dagna would regret not taking the carpet herself to get the bat with the note tied to it. Kallas had done it. And of course, this was the one thing that Dagna could have easily accomplished. She could read music, play the harpsichord and woodwinds, sing and perform and dance.

But as soon as Kallas grabbed the bat and the musical score leeched into his skin like a tattoo and they were all locked in place…

Oh shit.

And Kallas tried, he really did. But he wasn’t familiar with the instrument and while Dagna was able to, at least, interpret the score for him, he couldn’t be expected to play it perfectly. And after the first mistake and Dagna went plummeting through the floor, it only became more difficult. She’d slipped right through his fingers when Kallas had sprinted over to snatch her.

They heard no sound after she vanished through the floor. Boone yelled for her but there was no response. Kallas had to refocus himself and lift his hand to play again.

This time, it was Cam who fell through the floor. Kallas cringed and swore.

“You failed twice, I know, but keep going, Kallas!” Cyrus called to him. “Third time is the charm, yes?”

Kallas was looking more and more unconvinced. And even Cyrus’ silent prayer went unanswered as the tiefling fumbled again and Cyrus vanished.

“Kallas! What is wrong with you!” Boone screamed angrily, struggling against the invisible bindings.

The tiefling didn’t look at her, staring down at the keyboard. His heart was racing. I just killed everyone.

And then Boone seemed to reconsider her harsh words. Oh shit. Dammit. After all, Kallas had had no choice. “I…I mean, you have to keep trying! Keep trying, Kallas!”

But only Dagna knew where the notes were and she was gone. The fumbling again was like breaking glass in a church, jarring and off-tune. Boone fell, shouting: “JUST JUMP IN WITH US!”

Kallas stared at the glowing eyes of the skeleton, looming over the piano. I just killed all of them. He studied the musical notes on his hand, trying to will his brain to comprehend it. He’d studied all kinds of things, seen all manner of strangeness and that musical notes were going to be his undoing was infuriating.

But he lifted his hand to try again. It was all he could do.

And that was the last thing he remembered.

When Dagna broke the surface of the water, she gasped for breath.

“Friend? Friend!”

That voice! It was the ogre! The ogre! “Oh my god, all the gods, oh fuck, yes! Yes! Friend! Oh god, friend!” Dagna squeezed the ogre’s arm like a leech as she was dumped into a tiny boat. Cam was dumped in next to her. They helped each other sit up as the ogre dove back and then brought up Boone and Cyrus and the little goat, which struggled madly until dumped into the hull.

But there was no Kallas. The ogre even dove down again but he found nothing. They could see nothing above them, there was no platform with holes where stones had been. The ceiling appeared to be solid stone again.

“Kallas!” Dagna yelled it out, heard it echo in the cavern. But there was no response.

“He’s a detective, he figures things out all the time. I’m sure he’s fine,” Boone said.

“Yep, I bet he nailed it on the fifth try,” Cam said, frowning and not feeling very hopeful. First Brenna, now Kallas. Great.

Cyrus frowned up at the ceiling as well.

“Boat!” The ogre told them, putting a paper hat on his head. “Look! Boat!”

The pirate ship looked ragged, probably haunted but for the moment, Cam ignored it. He turned to the ogre with his hand outstretched. “Friend? Friend.”

“Friend!” The ogre declared and opened his arms happily.

Cam hesitated for just a moment and then tried to one-arm the ogre—but the creature grabbed him in a bear hug and ruffled Cam’s long hair. The sorcerer endured that (“Yep, this is great. I love it so much.") before he managed to extract himself and pointed to his own chest. “Cam,” he told the ogre and then pointed at him.

The ogre looked at his finger, then at Cam and then slowly pointed to himself. “Hunk!”

“Hunk?” Cam repeated and somehow quelled the totally misplaced urge to laugh. “Hunk. I see why they call you that.”

The three horrible people fell into the pool. Dagna waved to the ogre urgently. “C’mon, Hunk!”

“You aren’t plumbers!” The old woman howled at them, shaking her fist.

“What was your first clue!” Cyrus shouted back.

“We can be plumbers and adventurers, thank you very much!” Cam yelled.

“Look at the Mario brothers,” Cyrus added, and then put his hand in the water to send an electric shock zapping through the pool.

Boone frowned, looking sidelong at him. “Who?”

They bumped into the pirate ship and Dagna hopped to scamper up the netting. “C’mon, Hunk!”

That was when the ogre paused. “Hunk? Hunk go,” he pointed to where the people were swimming towards them like little dogs in a massive bath. “Go stop family?”

“No, they’re mean to you! They'll try to trick you!” Dagna cried out.

“Hunk,” Cam spoke up, waving a hand in front of the ogre to get his attention before the sorcerer pointed to himself again. “New family?” And then he pointed at horrible people in the water. “Do you want them? No, right? But us?” And he pointed to himself again. “New family.”

Hunk stared at him for a long moment. “Hunk….new family?”

“Yeah, Hunk. See….sometimes the family you’re given? Not the best option.”

Cyrus clapped the ogre on his beefy arm. “Welcome to our family.”

The ogre began to weep as he went to the netting to start hauling it up. “New Hunk family!” He sobbed happily.

Boone rolled her eyes and followed Dagna when the bard, now sure of Hunk’s safety, went belowdecks to find the Captain’s quarters.

“Aramel’s Cabin,” Boone quietly read the words painted in an arch over the trap door. “I wonder who Aramel was?”

Dagna and Cyrus knelt by the trapdoor but neither saw any pins, wires or poisons, so Cam walked up and bashed the door in with his boot. The hinges snapped off and the chunk of wood went clattering below into a golden-lit hold.

That was when Kallas saw them. The darkness suddenly pierced and he saw Cam duck down into the hold. What happened? Where am I?

Kallas watched Dagna and Boone search the treasure while Cam and Cyrus filled their pockets. They seemed much bigger than usual. Or perhaps Kallas was smaller? He wasn’t entirely certain until Dagna held up the music box triumphantly and wound it.

And then suddenly, like he were being ushered out of the shadows, Kallas found himself moving into the light and realized: Oh. Yes. I am very small somehow?

“Oh, I could not remember that tune for the life of me!” Grifto cried. “Though it seems to have had consequences.” Grifto pulled the gem from his hat.

That was when Boone pointed. “He’s in the gem!”

I’m in the gem? Kallas peered around. Oh yes, he was in a crystalline room. And there was a large hand wrapped around it.

“Can you bring him back? What will he be?” Cam asked warily. Kallas could barely hear Cam’s voice, muffled from the gem.

“We want him the way he was,” Boone added.

“Oh, I can’t do that! But I can put him in a vessel. So, the gold, the treasure, or your friend?”

“But he’ll either be something or nothing?” Cam wanted to know, already dumping out the gold he’d taken.

“Oh, he won’t be nothing! He could keep me company!” Grifto fondly looked into the gem with his giant face. “He could always chat with me! Tea parties are always good with another person!”

Kallas took a step back from the halfling’s face, inside the gem.

“I feel like he would hate that,” Boone said, snorting.

“So Kallas then?” Cyrus sighed and began emptying out the gold they’d taken.

Cam shot a glare at warlock. “Yes, we want Kallas. And the mystery treasure box. Fuck the gold.”

The Prince of Mischief lowered the gem and put it between a set of giant-looking teeth. The skeleton warped and suddenly Kallas felt like he were shrinking and yet, the air felt different too. Less still. More open. And he was suddenly opening his eyes again. His body felt weird.

“Kallas?” Boone asked tentatively.

He staggered, suddenly disoriented. “What happened—what, where am I?”

”Kallas?” Cyrus gaped.

“So he’s a kobold now?” Cam lifted his eyebrows.

“Oh, you are so cute!” Dagna declared.

Boone barked out a laugh. “But he is alive? Great. Better him than me. Holy shit.”

Kallas seemed to ignore her, sitting up. He was very pale, his albino tiefling skin appeared to have followed him and he was now a white kobold. The rogue tried to stagger up again and his wings unfurled awkwardly.

Dagna knelt beside him to steady him. “We’ll, here…..do you want me to take your pack for now?”

Kallas shook his little kobold head. “I…I will manage. Allow me a moment.”

Cyrus, Cam and Boone all circled him, observing and examining their friend in his new body.

“Well, with that, I bid you adieu!” Grifto bowed, the enormous feather poking at Cyrus.

Dagna stood to face the trickster. “Wait! Grifto, what will happen to Hunk?”

Grifto paused, peering at the human woman for a long moment. “He is a captain now, and his family—oh. Oh. I see.”

“His family was a piece of shit,” Cyrus informed the god, bluntly.

“We did kinda tell him that he was one of us now,” Cam threw in.

That made Grifto smile an odd, curious smile. “If he desires, he can go with you.” He looked over the five of them, seeming intrigued by their request.

“Thank you, Grifto.” Dagna made sure to stay polite, bowing to him.

“You’re the best,” Cyrus echoed.

Cam’s expression couldn’t seem to help but twist but Dagna suddenly pointed severely at him behind Grifto’s back and Cam wisely kept his silence.

Boone raised a hand—

—and slashed her enchanted sword through the webs on Cam’s neck and feet. Her friends first, she could try and figure out Grifto later. When the sorcerer’s boots hit the floor, he jolted, shuddering. Boone cut his wrists free and stepped into him, lowering the human to the floor.

“Cam?” Boone leaned him against the wall. He muttered something incomprehensible. She pushed his hair from his face and then scrambled up and went to Dagna, cutting the bard free. Both times she cut the webs, Boone got an odd feeling, like some kind of connection being severed. Like cutting some kind of leash. But they were still in this plane, surrounded by darkness and spider webs.

Boone pulled her two friends next to each other, pulling their packs off to create a little wall around the three of them. They both felt feverish, at first, then went cold. Cam opened his eyes first, shuddering through a chill.

“Cam?” Boone shifted to him, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

The sorcerer jumped. “Boone? Boone!” Cam lurched forward, grabbing her arms. “Are you all right? What happened?”

Dagna groaned softly as she rolled her neck. “What the fuck happened?” The bard touched her throbbing skull as she looked up and stopped cold. “Where the fuck are we?”

“Okay, weird story,” Boone began and then suddenly remembered the feather in her pocket. She reached for it immediately but there was no feather. In her pocket there was, instead, a yellow paper bird. Boone froze, staring at it as she drew it from her pocket. The bird Cyrus gave me…

She automatically checked her other pocket but there was no feather in that one either, just a folded piece of parchment. That surprised her, so the paladin opened it and began to read. Her face fell, stricken.

“What?” Dagna asked wearily.

“……it’s…..it’s from Kallas.”

“What!” Dagna and Cam both exclaimed.

Boone took a deep breath before she read:

To my friends: Boone, Dagna, Cam, Cyrus and Brenna

I have a feeling that my deal with Asmodeus is going to come up soon. Which means that I will probably not survive the battle at Jildos. I do not know what he will ask of me but I know that I could not betray any of you. Even to save myself from an eternity of torment in the Nine Hells.

And for that, I would like to thank you.

Thank you for being my friends. For showing me that not everyone will judge me for being a tiefling. For giving me the chance to do something good in the world. And to have fun while doing so.

I do have one regret though. I promised that I would save Brenna from whatever monster stole her soul. But it looks like I won’t be able to keep that promise. So I ask of you, my friends, to keep that promise for me. And save Brenna from whatever nightmare she is trapped in.

Your friend
Kallastin Sallerov

P.S. Please let my family know what happened.
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Chapter Text

Cyrus didn’t have darkvision, so he stayed in the lead with the paper bird and Velicia stayed behind him, watching his back. The zombie was, presumably, a thousand miles away. So he and the tiefling woman ventured through the murky forest alone, heading north.

“I notice that you use some fairly advanced magic,” Cyrus told her, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“Do I?” Velicia asked. “I must have known the spells before but I don’t remember much else about them.”

”Forcecage, in particular, was known by the more advanced warlocks that I trained among. Is your magic inbound like a sorcerer?”

“No, I don’t think so. Though, I suppose I cannot say for certain,” Velicia mused. “I must have learned it somewhere.”

Cyrus automatically touched Kallas’ rapier. “It’s not your sword, right?”

Velicia looked intrigued and so she drew the one at her side. “I do not think so.” She offered it out to him.

Cyrus took the hilt. He felt a sweep of buzzing warmth through his arm and then—

—the human looked out the window and breathed in crisp, cold air.

The Warmage College founded by the eccentric researcher, Markus Landor, was situated high up in a majestic set of jagged peaks. Snow blanketed the ground most of the year up here. But Caldious had never really minded the cold. He had come to the school as a young boy and soaked up all there was to learn like a sponge. Back then, the towering cliffs and harsh stone had excited and impressed him and here, more than twenty years later, it still did. The dawn washed the whole mountain in pinks and purples and the snow glittered.

But he could not be late. Best to go down to the dining hall now. A tankard of hot mulled cider would do him well during his first class of the day. He had volunteered to teach an advanced set of students some of the more complex paired forms of warmage magics (a blanket concept covering a blend of the sorcery, warlock, cleric and wizard-focused programs of magic and study). His half-elf apprentice, Morgan, was in this class, as well as a handful of others. She was a ridiculously talented mage and fighter. They would likely be sent together the next time he were called upon to fight.

The man touched the grip of his rapier as he reluctantly turned from the window and headed down a set of spiraling stairs to a large hall. Instructors were already up and about, as were several of their older students. Some were breakfasting in the dining hall, including Morgan. Charismatic and pretty, the half-elf was smiling as she chatted with her group of friends. Caldious lifted a hand to her as he moved through the echoing hall.

Hot cider acquired, he headed to his practice room, a large gymnasium-like room with a lot of space for his students to move around and not hit each other with errant spellwork.

Two of his students were already there.

One was a male human called Aatrin, who was musically enamored and was incorporating his impressive fiddle abilities into his fighting. He was around twenty-four or so, making him one of the eldest among his advanced students, and he was apprenticed to one of the sorcery instructors. He would soon join the College itself as an assistant to the bards that were faculty to the wizard-focused program. Morgan talked about this handsome human sometimes. He was playing crisp and fast, pulsing waves of energy across the room at the second student, a female tiefling, who was zipping and dodging across the mats.

Her name was Zephira. She had come from a rougher edge of the world, as many tieflings did, and thought herself to be about twenty. Her skin was dark grey, almost soot and her eyes were night-black. She had shown to be particularly adept with warlock magic and was pacted to the Raven Queen (naturally) and preferred the trident when she fought. Zephira had not apprenticed to any of the instructors yet, as she was more prone to looking for adventure in the mountains in her spare time. At some point within the next year, she would likely decide.

She spied him first and lifted a hand to stop Aatrin. “Good morning, Master Argonaut.”

(“Velicia!”)

The tiefling stared at Cyrus. “What?”

Cyrus started a little bit, looking automatically for the glowing paper bird and then down at the sword’s glimmering raven wings. He offered it back as he looked at her. The dark-eyed tiefling from the practice hall was standing right in front of him. “Zephira.”

Velicia started badly, eyes going wide. “Wh-what?”

“That is your name,” Cyrus said and then clapped a hand over his mouth. “I should not say it, yes?”

Velicia was still staring at him. “What did you….how—“

“When I touched that sword,” Cyrus nodded down to it, “I saw something. I was someone else. I believe it was the man we saw in the cave. There was a large keep in the mountains and you were there. You called him Master Argonaut.”

Velicia gaped, open-mouthed at him and staggered a little. Cyrus stepped into her, gently touching her arm to steady her. “I…I’m sorry,” she managed, eyes scattering to her boots for a moment. “I did not expect…that.”

“I know how you feel,” Cyrus told her and meant it, remembering the tunnels under Jildos when he stepped closer, peering into the dark trees around them. I have to remember to thank Cam for not letting me get myself killed, if I ever see him again.

“You should still call me Velicia, just in case someone is listening,” the tiefling said, still looking off-footed and unsettled. And then she shook herself. “I do not understand. I have had this sword since I arrived. Why were you able to see something different? Why is it more focused for you?”

Cyrus shrugged. “I do not know. Maybe we are all connected through the Raven Queen. She was your patron and you were a warlock.”

Velicia’s dark eyes scattered again, over Cyrus’ degraded armor and took a few deep breathes, swaying slightly. She looked a little ill. “I…went with Aatrin to find…find Morgan after we heard the story of her killing his family.”

A ghostly figure of ash emerged next to them. Cyrus instantly recognized the man from the vision. Caldious, he recalled, as the man ran a few steps, crying out in horror. There were two small figures on the ground, a boy and a girl. The man collapsed to his knees, examining their poor little broken bodies, the blood on their faces. He was crying.

Velicia shuddered, staring as the shades were scattered by the wind. Others replaced it. Two others, specifically, walking out of a manor that was decrepit and empty.

”Do you think Morgan really joined a cult?” Aatrin asked, glancing back at the dark house. “This just seems so…off for her. I know her sword was there but…maybe someone took it from her?”

Zephira shrugged. “I would not have thought it but Argonaut was here and now he isn’t. So he must still be looking. The merchants said he definitely came home but he didn’t stay. His poor family. It was a monster who did that to those people. They were defenseless.”

”Let’s go into the town. Maybe the stablehands might have heard where he was going.”

Velicia still looked a bit stunned as she sheathed the rapier. “If...this is his weapon, then perhaps we found him?” But even as she wracked her brain, Velicia could not seem to recall.

“Don’t worry,” Cyrus told her, gently putting his hand on her spine so he could walk next to her. “I have the same problem. I can’t quite remember everything yet. Perhaps when we camp, I will show you the sword or some of the spells I know. It might help trigger a memory for you.”

The tiefling looked up at him, surprised. “Oh. I…I would a-appreciate that, my friend,” she managed, a little awkwardly. “I am sorry—uh, I was not expecting this. I’m not sure how I feel about it. But I would appreciate that.”

So when they stopped a few hours later, in a small hollowed out system of roots under a massive, dead tree, both agreed to not build a fire. The fog was thick in this forest and everything rotting but damp. Also, neither were keen to deal with shadow forest monsters if they didn’t have to. But the golden paper bird dimmed to a warm glow and made a soothing chiming sound before settling into the roots of the dead tree.

It cast just enough light that Cyrus could see to draw Kallas’ rapier. The inscription glinted in the warm golden light and he offered the hilt to Velicia. “This sword can cast some sort of lightning spell that was able to destroy Asmodeus’ barrier. I can sense its presence but it doesn’t feel familiar to anything I know—like a blend of dispelling magic or force magic with an attack. But I was also able to cast Finger of Death with it, or something so similar that it manifested the same way.”

Velicia took Kallas' weapon.

She and Aatrin reached the beach around nightfall. Zephira was wearing a half-cloak, studded leathers and boots and a set of gauntlets with hooks attached to the outer shell. Her hair was bound back and she was crouched low in the boat for a moment, surveying the sand.

Aatrin had a clever sort of holster for his musical weapon, his violin. The instrument was spelled to not break, so that the human wouldn’t rip the strings off if he had to get it out in a hurry. The warmage bard still drew it to his side with care and respect as they got out of the boat. “Eyes peeled. There is some real evil stuff here. I don’t know much about pirate legends, but this place feels bad, Zeph. There are a lot of Undead here.”

The tiefling unhooked her trident, taking the front as the night enveloped everything around them. The stars winked out like shimmering crystal over the black maw of the sea. They didn’t actually have to go far. The beach was littered with bodies and among them was a familiar-looking sigil on a cloak.

“Oh no….” Aatrin could see well enough to recognize his professor. Zephira trailed behind him, wincing away to light a torch and stick it in the sand. Aatrin knelt next to the man and gently touched his cloak. There was a strange-looking elf next to him, with several fatal wounds. They were freshest of all the corpses on the beach. “This must be the other man they mentioned. Annungilon?”

“We should take the cloaks off all these dead.” Zephira stared down at her professor, trying to focus passed the anger that was trying to crawl up her throat. “That way we can wrap his body. We need to take him back to the College.”

“What could be on this island that would cause the dead to become bound to it?” Aatrin mused. “Percy said it physically pulled him out of the rowboat.”

“Some kind of bullshit pirate necromancy, probably,” Zephira grumbled. “Some asshole sorcerer hiding here somewhere, perhaps? Or maybe some kind of curse could probably do it, anyone who dies here is doomed to protect it as Undead.”

One of the bodies started to stir. As did Caldious and the elf. The two were definitely better armored than any of the other corpses and, from the sounds of what the pirates had told them about the incident, definitely more dangerous. Their eyes, black and dead, flipped open at the same time.

“We have to be quick!” Aatrin sang out. “Remember, they’re Undead now, Zeph!”

“Oh, fuck me.” Zephira jumped up and pointed with her trident. She'd found the magical weapon during an excursion last summer and it was a very advantageous prize. The weapon allowed her to throw down a Forcecage. It trapped five of the other Undead.

Aatrin raised his violin and played notes that sparked along his bow. His violin was not standard in several ways, besides just being unbreakable.

The bow was not just horse hair but sparkling unicorn hair and the ash wood shaft was partially dipped in silver. The core strings of the instrument were made of dragon gut and wrapped in electrum. The body of the instrument was enchanted willow wood, bathed in twelve full moons, and all its edges were tipped in silver. It could be played normally, though the music from it was richer, somehow. Sweeter and fuller and more pleasing than any Zephira had ever heard. Its primary purpose though, was combat. I should ask how he found that fiddle sometime.

Aatrin was of the cleric track of the warbards' college and it showed when a pulse blasted two of the Undead off their feet and then four threads of lightning, one for each string, arced out. They each struck one of the Undead, including Annungilon and Caldious. The extra blast of radiant light and sound sealed their fates a second time.

Aatrin had invented this spell himself and called it the Sanctus Martelé, the Hammering of Spirit, as a matter of fact, on the College's very official Spell Review/Acquisition Request form.

Privately, he just referred to it as his musical Holy Hammer, slamming opponents off their feet and doing triple the pain to Undead. The remaining undead were trapped in the Forcecage and would be for an hour. They'd be long gone by then.

“This will be all we need, right?” Zephira asked him, as she knelt beside Argonaut. “Once the connection is severed as Undead, they won’t get up again?”

“Right. Are you going to do Speak with Dead?”

Zephira nodded, already digging in her pack for incense and lighting it with a pinch of her fingers before sticking it into the sand. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes to focus, murmuring: “Caldious Argonaut.” She reached out and touched his shoulder.

The felled warmage animated. His soul wasn’t in his body, but more of an echo or a memory of what he was until the moment of death. Those sharp green eyes opened.

“Master Argonaut,” Zephira said, as he turned over and sat up.

The man moved stiffly, and then his gaze steadied on her. “Ms Darloch.” His tone was too even, emotionless, but the voice was his.

“What happened to you, sir?” Aatrin asked, kneeling down beside them.

"Mister Hallowwood." The warlock looked at Aatrin, calm and a little unsettling before his eyes drifted to the beach. They glittered in the flickering torchlight. “We came here for an artifact. My…friends,” Argonaut said quietly. “They tried to take me with them but I was pulled back.” He touched his beard and then his chest. “Skrag tried to take me with them but the island pulled me back.”

“Did you find out anything about Morgan?” Zephira pressed.

“No, nothing. Just that it seems like she may be in a cult.” Argonaut looked at Annungilon but did not seem to comprehend the body. “They tried to take me with them.”

“Do you know why or how the island pulled you back?” Aatrin asked.

“I do not. I told Annungilon to go.”

Zephira tapped the ground and looked up at Aatrin. “Since we killed him when he was Undead, would we be able to take his body with us now?”

Aatrin pondered that for a moment. “Maybe? We can try it. Master Argonaut, who is Annungilon?”

Caldious looked up from the elf’s body. “My friend. A noble druid elf I met in the forest.”

“Do you know how he died?” Aatrin went on.

“I do not.” Caldious’ green eyes were still and solemn, looking back down at the corpse. "I told him to go."

“We will take his body too then,” Zephira said, shifting over to the fur-clad elf. The tiefling examined him for a moment and then stood. She went to the other corpses on the beach, cutting off cloaks and belts and searching pockets for anything of interest. She came back with a mound of ragged fabric and wrapped Annungilon first, belting the cloaks around the elf.

While she did that, Aatrin came up with another question. “Master, did you take Morgan’s sword with you? We might be able to scry on it.”

“Yes.” The warmage reached under his cloak, pushing it back and unhooking a strap from his back. It was a long, cylindrical bundle, wrapped in fabric. Aatrin took it and put it in the dimensional bag he’d borrowed from the College. Zephira then added the elf corpse as respectfully as possible.

Aatrin chewed on his lip. “Do you remember where you were heading next?"

"Rhayada," the poor man's voice rattled. And that was the last answer they were afforded as the warlock’s spell timed out. The light faded from Caldious’ eyes and he fell back to the sand. The tiefling didn’t quite look at her instructor when he was still again.

Aatrin removed the warmage’s rapier, and for an instant, got a metallic tang between his lips. Noticeable enough to him that he studied the hilt in his bare hand for a breath or two, fancying perhaps that it was the last remnant of their beloved professor leaving them. Aatrin sighed, shaking away the indulgence of such thinking and furtively observed how additionally dismayed his tiefling friend seemed. He offered the hilt to her. “Here.”

Zephira started, surprised. "....you are his senior student, Aatrin."

"Eh, you might need something with a shorter reach."

Zephira looked down at the elegant blade for a moment before she silently took the weapon, though she looked troubled, reluctant. “I wish we could have reached him sooner. I always wanted to ask if I could apprentice to him but I was too late. And probably not clever enough.” She knelt again, not making eye contact as she began to arrange the rest of the cloaks around the warmage.

“We’ll make sure to give him a proper send-off at the College.” Aatrin helped her tighten the straps. “He mentioned they were going to Rhayada but I didn't get to ask why.”

Zephira sighed softly. “I guess, at least, he died fighting.” She thumped her fist over her chest in salute. "All things die," she recited and bowed her head to Master Caldious.

"Only memories can remain," Aatrin finished and inclined his head as well.

Fortunately, they were able to take the bodies with them off the island. Both would have preferred to stay and figure out what the hell was causing the dead to be bound to the island but with only two of them, it would likely be suicidal. The pirates claimed the island had always been that way, guarded by Undead and not friendly to fellow corsairs. So perhaps it would be pointless to investigate but at least they were able to retrieve Argonaut's body (and that of his elven bodyguard).

Back on the ship they had chartered, the two bartered with the captain for passage to Rhayada to try and find out more.

(“...they were going to Rhayada...”)

But Velicia took a startled breath and found herself back in the dark forest. Cyrus had a steadying hand on her arm. “Could you see it too? I didn't see what you saw earlier.”

“Only that…” Cyrus pointed over her shoulder and when she turned, Velicia saw a shadow of herself (no, of Zephira) standing on the ship, Argonaut’s rapier drawn as she examined the blade.

The tiefling looked down at the rapier in her grip. Kallas’ blade glinted in the dim light from the paper bird. Justice, Truth, Judgement, the blade read and then Velicia felt a warm jolt up her arm. “This sword is very magical,” she finally said and offered it back to Cyrus. “I think it learned a spell from me. Now, the spell you described, that our friend used to free you, do you know if it was radiant in nature?”

Cyrus took and felt it instantly. She was right. The lightning spell, Finger of Death, and now Speak with Dead. Perhaps the sword was collecting spells relevant to its inscription? Or maybe it picked up a spell every time it attuned to someone? But Cyrus couldn't normally cast Finger of Death. Interesting. If he ever saw Kallas again, maybe he'd get to talk with him about it. He sheathed the weapon. "I believe it was. He said it struck the barrier like arcs of lightning."

Velicia studied Argonaut’s rapier again. It had no inscription but the pommel was winking like an obsidian eye. "That spell, my, uh, human friend could do something that sounds similar. He invented it but he only did it with a violin. He was a warbard cleric. He called it the...." And suddenly, Velicia looked aside as memory, no doubt, barreled in, "...the Holy Hammer." She couldn't seem to help but smile a little at that but when her gaze lifted, there was a deep unease in the shadows of her midnight-dark eyes.

Cyrus studied the muted expression on her face. "I will talk to our friend when I see him. Apparently, it surprised him, how it shattered Asm--his shield. But for now, perhaps we should rest?"

“Yes,” the tiefling agreed, absently, still distracted. “I will take first watch.”

The eccentric researcher, Markus Landor, had not been difficult to find information on. And it helped that Kallas had been somehow permitted to have the flying carpet when Asmodeus threw him back into the material plane. And while this world was very similar to Naluri, Kallas began to notice that there were significant differences. None of the maps were familiar. None of the names were known to him. There were a great many ‘awakened’, which Kallas had learned referred to animalfolk that had been magically made sentient by an extraordinary event called The Shock. There also didn’t seem to be any dwarves around.

It appeared to be night but there were no constellations and no moon in sight. Even if I arrived during a new moon, where are the stars? There was no cloudcover either. Strange. The first city he came to after wandering east was Rathe. The prejudice about tieflings seemed relatively similar to Naluri, so there were no surprises there. His clothing did not appear to stand out either. He appeared to be a traveler, which suited him just fine.

In the tavern, a run-down saltworn place called Shot Down, he could blend right in with the other vagabonds. The barkeep gave the gold piece he offered a curious glance but once he bit it and seemed convinced of its authenticity, the man just shrugged and got him an ale and food. Kallas sat in a shadowy corner, simply observing for most of the evening. Their common languages seemed very similar. When Kallas finally managed to speak with a few mercenaries, he was surprised when all of them knew the name of Markus Landor.

“Famous researcher,” said one man, an orc with a mace.

“He started the Warmage College up in the Shield Peaks,” said another, a male elf in heavy plate armor.

“Landor appeared in Haven with Stark and Torrin, the demigods, you know?” A halfling woman added, sipping at her ale. “The Fey turned time in Haven, Alenia was a God. It was crazy.”

Stark. I've heard that name before.

“Nova was there,” the elf threw in, pointing at the halfling. “Saw everything.”

“I was with the Burning Arrow, at the time,” the spry little woman said, shrugging. Her palm rested on the hilt of a glittering sword with a rainbow-casted blade. “I don’t know where he went after that though. He didn’t stay in Haven very long. Stark and Lux died in the battle. I heard Landor became a traveler. You might be able to find out in old Avisac though? There’s still a port there. Rhayada might be an even better bet, but it’s back to the northwest from here.”

“There was some kind of crazy attacks happening in Rhayada too, fortnight or so back,” the orc added.

And so Kallas bought a map and a common rapier and had planned to fly the next night but, well, it seemed it was night here all the time. Daylight never came at all. Apparently, this had not always been the case but a fairly recent development that no one had been able to puzzle out yet. He went directly east towards the coast. Though, to the distant south towards the city called Haven, he saw plumes of blackened smoke, shadowy against the muted sky.

In Avisac, he found the ruins of a massive city. Several years previous, it had apparently been destroyed during The Shock. It was populated now but it was skeletal in comparison to the sheer size of the place. The port still functioned as well. His careful questions (not wanting to seem too ignorant about some of these cataclysmic events that had taken place here) led him to the abandoned shell of an enormous library. It was there, among the tomes and dust, that he found several books about Markus Landor and his companions. The professor had a research tower north of a settlement called Blackrock.

It was hours of solid flight to the northeast from there. Luckily, the carpet did not get tired, so as long as Kallas paid attention to any threats from the air, he could keep flying. He cat-napped when he could, curled up in the middle of the rug so he wouldn’t roll off. At least, since it was always dark, he did not have to worry so much about civilians seeing him.

The tower itself was an impressive sight. Ominous in the dark, but impressive. It appeared to be completely empty, at the moment.

So Kallas finally rolled up the carpet, stretched his legs, checked his gear and headed inside. He did quite well, considering he was alone. At least, until he picked up a book called, The Trial of Asmodeus. As soon as the slender volume left its pedestal, the floor opened beneath him and he fell down into another room, tangled in the trapwire around his ankle. His hat fell to the stonework.

That was when he saw the group of people now staring back at him. Oh. There are people here. His duster fell over his face. “Well, this is awkward.”
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Chapter Text

The rain was drenching in the late afternoon, sticking his hair to his face and eyepatch. It was his second day. The day after he’d been ushered to the gates and expelled. That was Before. Now was the After. The only thing colder than the rain was the icy sweat on his hands.

“You dare to come back here, boy?!” His father sneered down at him from the doorway, throwing the heavy wooden slab back.

Cyrus blinked water from his eye. He was shaking with dread. “F-Father—“

“We received a letter from the Council, telling us that they spared your pathetic life! It would have been a greater honor for you to face execution than to be sent back like a common vagrant!”

Cyrus opened his mouth to speak and then didn’t. His belly, his lungs, his body were heavy with the shame. The blistered wound under his cloak had burst the day before. He could not explain what he’d done. After all his training, after creating the pact with the family heirloom, he had….

I ran from battle.

He felt sick, staring up into his father’s face as he stood on the lowest step up to the rambling old manor. “Father, I—“

“You are not my son! Your mother is dead because of you. Our family is shamed because of your cowardice! Your brothers can never be knights for the lords of Jildos!” The man took a single step out onto the stone, pointing down at Cyrus. “You were never going to amount to much, I knew that. But this? I did not raise cowards.” The man straightened up and took a stiff breath. “Now, get out of here.”

No. Please don’t. Cyrus tried to breathe. “But I—“

“Keep the halberd. It’s bound to you until you die, unfortunately. And to be honest, I don’t want any remnant of you in this house ever again.” He raised his hand into the rain, pointing to the west. “Go. I don’t care where but don’t come back, boy.”

Cyrus stared at him, trying to force his brain to comprehend.

“GO!” His father commanded.

Cyrus recoiled and then turned away, swallowing hard as he slowly staggered back. He reached out and touched the black iron gate as he stepped through it the last time. When he looked back, his father was gone and the door was shut. He felt a wave of dizziness crest over him and then the damp, biting cold settled into his bones.

He wandered west. That night was a blur. He didn’t really make a camp. Cyrus slept against a massive tree in the thick of the forest, wrapped in his cloak. A week ago, everything had been fine. Normal. And now he was expelled and disowned. His life was abruptly falling apart around him. Did I panic? What happened? How could I have run? A failure and a coward!

There, silent and alone in the rain, he wept.

Cyrus had had many bad days since then but when he thought about the worst day, that one stuck out to him. The emptiness, the rejection, the shame and the suffocating loneliness, tossed out by everything that had given him meaning. Cyrus had been cut adrift and the sense of loss had almost drowned him for two days. His dragon eye had changed to the green shade, of course, the most painful and the most tedious to tend. He finally just took his eyepatch off completely and let the rain wash the burning eye. It hurt a lot. It made him feel something. Reminded him that he was still alive.

The only good thing about that situation was how it had shown him the truth of his father’s animosity towards him. Better to know than not.

It had also brought him into contact with Cam. They might have been brothers-in-arms in name only, had Cyrus stayed with the military. But when he found himself in Bryce’s Landing and met the unruly sorcerer, a strange sort of friendship had developed there. They had their conflicts, of course, but it became rather more….brotherly than Cyrus had ever anticipated.

Before, when I was going to leave with Dagna, he told me I was a good person. He frowned to himself. Even though I told Dagna I would abandon her if her father couldn’t help me.

Maybe he just hadn’t realized how big all this was. Or maybe it was selfishness, a desire to depose his father directly. Dagna had implied offering him a place in her own House. But I refused…

He could not change the past and it was continually painful, this constant self-awareness that existed in the Shadowfell. He knitted his fingers together and took a deep, steadying breath. Guilt. His other constant companion. Pride. Shame. Guilt.

He must accept his choices, his decisions, and his words and grow from them. They were like arrows, once they fly, they can’t be taken back. But he could do better. Kallas was honorable. Cam and Dagna were sometimes reckless and they teased a lot but they were good. Boone had Jazirian inside of her. There were other ways he could gage and learn about the meaning of honor, not just Jildos’ definition. Their definition is money.

Perhaps, Cam had been right all along. It were as if—

And then something jumped out of the trees. It had one large eye but stood about as tall as a human, with clawed hands, spines and gnashing teeth. Cyrus jumped up. “Velicia!”

The tiefling snapped awake and flipped herself onto her front. “Oh shit—it’s a nothic!”

Cyrus bounded forward with his dark spear, slashing up and around, spinning like a top. The beast was forced back and the warlock dodged in, stabbing straight and true. He hit the creature’s massive eye and it shrieked. Velicia came sprinting up from behind Cyrus, slamming herself into the creature and bowling it over. It slashed wildly at her face.

Cyrus dashed forward as she rolled off but something happened when the creature looked at him. It felt like he were being frozen, paralyzed and then his dragon eye flared, hot and painful. A creeping sense of cold rot on his skin—

Velicia slashed at the nothic with Caldious’ rapier and opened her palm to throw acid on it.

And then a second nothic came barreling out of the trees, smashing into Cyrus. The warlock rolled, jolted out of the weird spell-induced stupor. The nothic dug its claws into his chest, Cyrus grabbed his dagger and stabbed it in the ribs.

Velicia turned away from her nothic when it dropped, about to run to Cyrus when a third nothic appeared at the edge of the trees. Then a fourth and fifth. The tiefling jumped on the second nothic, grabbing at its eye so she could slash its throat. She drug the body off, so it wouldn’t gush blood onto Cyrus.

The golden paper bird chimed loudly at them and darted towards the trees to the north.

A sixth nothic came running at them.

“We should go,” Cyrus decided.

“Yup,” Velicia agreed.

They sprinted side-by-side through the dark trees. It was difficult to see. Velicia stayed behind him, urging him close to the paper bird that zipped and dashed through the dead limbs and rot. Behind them, the nothics were screaming as they gave chase. Something big hit some of the trees nearby, spraying a shrapnel of sticks and splinters.

The paper bird chirped at them but Cyrus and Velicia were moving too fast. They both ran right off the edge of a ravine, tumbling down about twenty feet. Cyrus scrambled to get up, grabbing for Velicia’s arm and helping to pull her up as he started to run again.

Then they heard a resounding roar, shattering the silence of the forest and something very large flew over the tree tops.

“Do you know what that is?!” Cyrus cried out to her. “It sounds very big!”

“About dragon-sized, really!” Velicia agreed, frantically searching the sky as they desperately raced after the glowing paper bird.

Behind them, the nothics were still chasing, screeching, blood-curdling shrieks as at least a dozen crashed through the underbrush. An arrow came streaking out of the dark, Cyrus felt it brush against his hair but he did not turn around. He dodged and weaved opposite of Velicia. He caught glints of her yellow scarf in the dark. When another arrow flashed through the trees and struck her between the shoulder blades though, he heard the strangled cry from her. The tiefling staggered into the brush.

Cyrus skidded as he pivoted sharply to sprint to her.

“GO!” Velicia commanded, throwing out her hand. Cyrus felt the warmth, the glow of some form of Shield, as it cloaked him, like a shimmering silk made of tiny stars.

But then the paper bird suddenly darted back, its usual chime rose to a crescendo, a deafening cathedral bell, and then began to glow, a pulse of radiant light lit up the trees.

Cyrus grabbed Velicia, snapped the arrow at the puncture and helped her up. He kept her hand, keeping pace with her. She shuddered only that first step and then she seemed to block it out, running as fast as she could push. Without the paper bird, the tiefling took the lead. Somewhere behind them, they heard a boom! and a flash of light and shadows.

And then they broke through the treeline.

It happened so suddenly that Velicia staggered to a stop. But there was no sudden drop off. The land was simply cleared here. The ruins of a large stone and wood structure filled up the space like child's blocks left in the rain.

They both hesitated for only a moment before each moved at the same time, sprinting forward, tightening their respective grips on the other. The ruins were dark and desolate, dusted in ash and black sand. Cyrus pulled the tiefling behind a battered wall and stopped her there. He felt no Undead in the immediate area, so he turned Velicia to the wall. “Let me get this out.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, voice tight and choked but controlled.

“I am certain no one means to get hit with arrows,” Cyrus told her sternly, as he braced her and then pried the arrowhead out of her leathers. The head was tipped in blood. He threw it to the ground and began to search his pockets for something to use as a bandage. “Stay still—“

And then something swooped over them. Cyrus instinctively stepped into Velicia, hands braced on the wall aside her shoulders to block her from sight.

It was a large dragon, gleaming and dark like obsidian but with warm, glowing eyes. It stopped above and then landed on the grounds of the ruins. At that same instant, the paper bird suddenly came flying out of the trees. The dragon reared back and blasted a white-hot bout of flame into the forest.

Cyrus watched a remaining nothic collapse as the paper bird flew to them. It landed on Velicia’s yellow scarf and made a musical sound at her. The wound began to button itself shut, leaving a scar behind on her back.

The dragon brightened, its eyes flashed and then it was gone. In its place, and now approaching Cyrus, was a man. He looked older, distinguished with a majestic salt-and-pepper beard, with a pack and a walking stick, and a canary on his shoulder.

“Mut?” Cyrus’ mouth fell open. Mut. The night before the battle. Yellow birds. Canaries. Golden dragons. Look after your friends.

“We meet again, my friend.” And the man reached out, squeezing Cyrus’ shoulder.

The warlock leaned up from the wall, allowing the man to see Velicia. The paper bird flapped over to Mut, chiming at him.

“Yes, many things have happened,” Mut said to the paper bird, nodding to it. It flew back over to Cyrus and waited until the young man put out his hand. The bird settled into it, the glow faded, and it seemed to be simple paper, once again. “Strange things are ahead but now the pieces are set. It is time for you to go, Cyrus.”

“Go?” Cyrus asked.

“Yes,” Mut answered. “For both of you.” He nodded to Velicia.

The tiefling was staring at Mut, wide-eyed. Belatedly, she seemed to realize he was including her and so swiftly bowed her head to him. “Sir?”

“The past is the past, the present is the present, but they are always affected by one another,” Mut said gently. The end of his walking stick had a warm glow around it and they could see the magnificent golden dragon eyes of his humanoid form. “You cannot change what happened to Caldious Argonaut or Aatrin Hallowwood. But you can change what Zephira can do about it.”

Velicia started. “What happened to Aatrin?”

Mut frowned gently. “Injustice,” he said. “You will remember soon enough, child.” And then the old man looked back to Cyrus. “As for you, you also have things to do, don’t you?”

“Is Boone still alive?” Cyrus couldn’t seem to help but ask.

“Yes, she is. You are bound to her and she to you. It won’t be immediate, but you will see her again. The connections have been severed for all, save you. And now, that too must change, if we are to bring all of you back to your planes.” Mut opened his palm. “Take my hand and you will leave the Shadowfell.”

Velicia looked at Cyrus and then seemed to hesitate, drawing back to herself.

Mut smiled a little. “Zephira, you may ask him before you go.”

The tiefling looked caught, guilty for a moment and then made pointed eye contact with the dark stone. “Uh, my friend, I never got to say your name. Do you mind if I do?”

The old man looked amused. Cyrus was surprised. “Oh…yes. Of course. Go ahead.”

“Sorry, ha. That seems strange, I imagine. Cyrus. Cyrus Sabal. Cyrus and Kallas. Kallas told me to watch out for you. I hope you find him again and, when you do, tell him I did my best. Except for the arrow thing.”

Cyrus’ expression broke into a grin. “I will. Except for the arrow thing. And here,” Cyrus removed the spear from the Raven Queen. “Take this. I saw that you used to fight with a trident. This might help you remember.”

“That is a gift from the Raven Queen,” Velicia reminded him, wide-eyed. “Are you sure?”

“Like she said, I have a nicer one at home.” He winked.

That made Velicia smile, looking grateful and a little shy, and she took it. “Thank you, Cyrus. I am glad I got to meet you.” She offered out her free hand to him.

The human took it, grip firm and warm. “Until we meet again, Zephira.”

And then both of them looked to Mut and, at the same time, reached for his hand.

There was a brilliant flash of light and they were gone.

“I don’t know where we are,” Cam said quietly.

They had not yet moved, trying to absorb the reality of their surroundings. The bound up, webbed bundles. Slimy black webs. (Ropes.)

“How did you get free?” Dagna asked, looking to Boone.

Boone had tucked the note from Kallas back in her bag. She wiped her nose on her kerchief and took a deep breath. “Gregor helped me escape. He sent me through the mirror. And he…stayed. He must have done something to free me.”

Cam peered at her. “Did she speak with you?”

Boone looked at the ground. It appeared to be some sort of carved stone but unevenly cut, treacherous in the dim, violet light. “Yes, she did.”

“How many times?” Cam pressed.

“Several times. I was there for…days, probably.”

Cam eyes flickered for just a moment. “She only spoke with me once and then she sent me back through the mirror. I wasn’t there even twenty minutes after I woke up in front of a fireplace.” He looked at Dagna.

The bard nodded. “Same. We had a not-great conversation. And then—oh my fucking shit—Kallas! I heard Kallas in the mirror.” Dagna narrowed her eyes, trying to think. Her mind felt fuzzy, slow and thick in this oppressive place. “He was with a devil and it said his name.”

“Like his contract?” Cam asked.

Dagna winced. “Oh yeah, that. I guess it could have been. No way to know for certain. And…well, I mean, it might have been….some trick….” Dagna’s voice suddenly trembled a little and she scrubbed at her eyes before she buried her face in her knees and took some deep breaths.

“So everything we thought we did. Leaving Jildos, taking a fucking ship across the Straits. We all remember that, right?” Boone asked them.

“It was an illusion. A construct of a memory,” Cam said grimly. “She told me. I remember cutting Gregor’s throat. But there he was.”

“How was Gregor able to help you escape?” Dagna asked, rubbing her forehead.

Boone frowned. “Well, I had a dream and Thioni was in it. We all remember Thioni, right?” When the other two nodded, she continued: “She said she could help. So I asked her to break Talisa’s hold on Gregor. I guess, somehow, she did it. She said that Talisa couldn’t…perceive her. But I don’t really understand what she meant. I mean—did Lady Macwell show you the dreaming sphere?”

“No. What is that?” Cam was studying Boone closely.

“It was this black orb with a ton of Divination magic. She said it could influence the dreams of anyone connected to Asmodeus. She showed me your dream of the execution.”

Cam went still as glass, staring at her. He opened his mouth to speak and then didn’t, looking away. He took a slow, deep breath. Finally, he said: “I see. So the earth genasi claimed my mother couldn’t see her in our dreams and memories?"

“Somehow, no.” Boone shrugged. “Did she ask you guys about Cyrus?”

“About how he reversed his Undeath? Cause that’s what she seemed interested in for me.”

Dagna shook her head. “No. She did threaten to scalp me though.” The bard chuckled as she began to stretch her legs. Her eyes betrayed her nervous energy. “And I feel like we’re being watched. I don’t like these bundles. I think they’re moving.”

“They are,” Cam confirmed, darkly.

“Can we free them? I mean, they are wrapped up way worse than we were….” Dagna did not want to get too close but she leaned in to the creepy, doll-like bundle, roughly the size of a humanoid. It was writhing and twitching, unnerving, grotesque.

Boone drew her sword. “I cut you guys free. Maybe I can free them?” The paladin swept up to Dagna’s side. Cam stood but did not get too close, preparing to cast a spell if the thing attacked. Boone raised her sword and tried to slice through the top tether of the cocoon.

And like a horrible flashblack, déjà vu in Grifto’s bottle, watching the web rattle and reverberate as the line didn’t sever at all. Boone’s sword bowed the whole tether.

Something above them screeched.

The three moved instantly, grabbing gear. Cam took the lead, zipping away from the body and into the webs and shadows. They could see the giant bundles of eyes, sweeping the area for movement as five of the grotesque creatures converged at the spot where they had tried to cut the webs.

“Okay, so, nevermind on that one,” Dagna muttered. “Fuck. This plane is bullshit, my dudes.”

“I can barely see,” Cam murmured. “And it’s so damn quiet.” He stretched his shoulders to battle the chill that tried to sweep through him. It was cold here. Enough to be uncomfortable, to be always aware of it. Fire was probably a bad idea, considering there seemed to be a lot of giant spiders patrolling or something in the webs above. Absently, he touched his throat where the blackened webs had left welts on his skin.

There was no day or night. Just dim purple. The webs were close and thick and every brush against them sent those ominous vibrations. And the bundles, the cocoons…they never stopped writhing.

The air felt heavy, thick, musty. And the stench of thousands of bodies packed tightly in their webs was rotting, sickly sweet. When they found what looked to be the remains of a stone wall, the three packed into one corner. One would keep watch while the other two slept. Cam and Boone sandwiched Dagna between them, as she was the smallest. And they layered their cloaks so they could all share heat and keep warm. Dagna burrowed into him a little during his watch and he hesitated for barely a moment before he put an arm around her.

No one slept well.

Up above, Cam could see the shadows of criss-crossing webs, hazes of cobbing, and then the lumps of people. Could this be where Kallas had gone? One of these poor bundles might be him. The sorcerer took a deep breath. Even if Kallas were here, they’d have no way of identifying him among all these bundles. His horns, there were four of them, but they were small.

Huh. I wonder if anyone else in his family was albino.

It seemed like there could have been something interesting there. The albino skin was uncommon to most tieflings. Most albino, no matter the species, seemed similar in not being able to produce their own pigment. But tieflings were not most species. Maybe when I die I can ask him.

Speaking of dying, Cam looked sidelong at Boone. She was dozing, probably just barely sleeping. She had been trapped with his mother for days, from the sounds of it. He could sense magic all over the girl, more concentrated than before, it seemed like. He couldn’t detect anything evil, just….more.

Cam rubbed his forehead, as if to ward against the screams and moans they heard from all the bodies around them. It was too loud, in his brain. He couldn’t block it out. Don’t suppose any gods might be listening? He scowled up towards the sky full of webs.

Endure. Endure. Have to endure. He looked sidelong at Dagna and Boone again. For them and for me. Fuck.
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Chapter Text

Dagna felt silly later for not paying any attention to the swell of voices outside. She and her cousin, Alex, were setting the table for her aunt, Rowan. The tiefling sorceress was at the stove, calling commands as she finished up her cooking. Dagna’s uncle, Jac O’Leeroy, was studying one of the maps he had tacked to the wall.

That was when the door flew open. A purple-clad halfling fluttered into the front room.

Dagna looked up and stiffened. “Corvino! What are you doing here?”

“I’ve brought you something, my sweet Dagna!”

“Who are you?” Uncle Jac demanded, half-drawing his sword.

And then Rowan let out a gasp as two people walked into the house. Everyone froze.

“May I present, Delvin and Asha O’Leeroy, recently returned to the land of the living!” Corvino bowed low over his arm.

Uncle Jac went pale and grabbed onto the writing desk sitting beneath the map. “Delvin…”

Corvino beamed at Dagna. “Yes, for you, my sweet! I brought them back for you! Your mother and father!”

Dagna looked to her uncle, who was still as a statue, frozen in shock.

The man he’d called Delvin turned to him and nodded slowly. “….it is not a trick.”

Dagna looked to her aunt. The tiefling was wide-eyed but when she noticed Dagna’s gaze, she pointed imperceptibly at her. And Dagna heard, in her mind: They are not Undead. They feel like your parents. They’ve been gone for over twenty years…

Dagna staggered, letting the bouquet of spoons she was holding clatter to the tabletop. Alex reached out to steady her, though he was staring too, mouth agape.

“Dagna?” Asha managed, breaking the silence with a wrenching swell of emotion.

She lurched around the table. “Ma….Da? I….h-how….”

“I don’t….know,” Delvin choked as he reached out, pulling Dagna to him. “You’re taller, girl.”

Dagna threw her arms around him. And for that moment, everything else stopped. She couldn’t hear anything except muffled sobs. Theirs and her own.

And then she felt the blood, warm and sticky. It slid down her hair, the side of her face, dripping onto her throat. Dagna pulled back and cried out. Her parents still stood there but they were dead. Delvin had an arrow in his eye and another in his back. Asha’s skull was bashed in on the side and her throat was cut. Their skin was now grey and rotting but their hands were bony, grabbing into her—

Dagna jerked back from their claw-like hands, looking for her aunt. But Rowan was gone. Cyrus was standing in her place, approaching. His cursed eye had been torn out, lower jaw ripped away. Her Uncle Jac was gone too. Kallas in his place, neck still broken, eyes empty and dead. Her cousin Alex, gone. A dark-skinned gnome was in his place, armed to the teeth but dead, veins black with necrotic corruption, eyes red and empty.

They surrounded her, grabbing at Dagna, pulling her every which way. The bard felt like she couldn’t breathe, struggling to break free, fighting against them. But the five corpses were clutching and swiping and clawing, pulling her down to the floor. Dagna tried to struggle, yelling as her arms were held down but all five of their mouths opened into black pits. They all began to scream and hands came out from behind their teeth and—

Dagna cried out, thrashing.

“Dagna!” Boone’s voice. She could hear Boone. Dagna opened her eyes, breathing hard. A dream. A bad dream.

“Dagna, hey? You okay?” Boone had a hand on her shoulder, leaning into her. “Bad dream?”

The bard looked up, seeing the wretched plane they were still trapped in. “Yeah….” She managed quietly. “I…I’m sorry if I woke you—“

“Nope. It’s my turn for watch. Cam is still out.” Boone nodded to the sorcerer. He was curled up in a lump, small as possible and appeared to be asleep.

Dagna studied the handsome sorcerer for a moment and then leaned back against the wall. “I was kind of hoping the bad dreams would stop now that we were away from Lady Fuckface.”

Boone sighed, leaning back as well. “I don’t think she’s the one influencing them anymore—I think the webs connected her to us. So, hopefully it’s just regular nightmares?”

Dagna chuckled softly, putting her forehead in her hand. “All the gods,” she managed faintly. And then Boone softly said her name. When she looked to the paladin, Boone said:

“Dagna…while I was with Cam’s mother…uh…she tried to bind me to Asmodeus.”

”What!” And then Dagna slapped her hand over her mouth but Cam did not stir, brow furrowed but his eyes closed.

“It didn’t work,” Boone said swiftly. “It didn’t work. Because….well, Grifto, I think, intervened?”

Dagna’s mouth fell open. “What happened?”

And so Boone, in stops and starts, told her about the binding Talisa had wanted to do, how Boone had planned to call to another god, not knowing Talisa planned to try and bind her regardless. But she had reappeared in Grifto’s realm and met Nicnevin, apparently a Queen of Witches who was now apparently her other patron.

“And then Grifto sent me back, anchored me to the dreaming sphere or something, probably because of the powerful divination magic to it. I stole some stuff and then Gregor got me out.” Boone looked away when she mentioned Cam’s brother, eyes dimming a little.

Dagna watched her closely. “Gregor doesn’t seem bad, just undead.”

“Like how Cyrus was. Undead but not rotted,” Boone agreed. “Talisa had made him….almost like a thrall. She could listen to what he was listening to or something.”

“Oooh,” Dagna realized, rubbing her chin. “So that’s why he kept making the ‘shush’ motion, finger to his mouth. I don’t know about the rest of that place but in that room, I couldn’t use my magic. I tried to cast a message but nothing happened. So she could listen in on him.” Dagna mused on that for a moment and then went on: “Okay, so Grifto interrupted the ritual and you were bound to the Queen of Witches—we’re going to have to look that one up. Um, so…can you hear her? Or what?”

“Well,” Boone began, taking a deep breath. “When I reappeared in the keep, I heard her in my head. She told me where the mirror was and I was able to make myself invisible. So I guess I’ve added some fey magic to….me. Or something.”

“Can you hear her now? Like, will she answer?”

Boone shifted and closed her eyes. Hello? She willed the thought out, listening for that strange, powerful, somehow metallic, woman’s voice.

Nothing answered.

Boone opened her eyes and shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to be right now. But…I couldn’t always hear Jazirian when I asked either. But I can feel how the spells are different. The difference in the energy, divine versus fey, I mean.”

Dagna suddenly looked thoughtful. “Huh, so you have two patrons now.” The bard gave Boone a sidelong glance. “Most people don’t get more than one patron, right?”

Boone nodded, brow creased with uncertainty.

“Cyrus had more than one patron too, right? The Raven Queen, Bahamut, and then….Asmodeus? Or something? That one seemed to be unwilling.”

“Neutral, good and evil.” Boone mused on that. “The fey are neutral, Jazirian is good…..” her belly tightened. No evil patron yet. So the worst could be yet to come.

“That might not be a thing,” Dagna said loudly, seeing how Boone looked paler blue at that thought. “But it’s just a small possibility. You made an impression on Grifto, clearly.”

“He asked me how Kallas was doing,” Boone snorted.

Dagna’s eyes dropped, that pang of hurt when she thought about Kallas and Cyrus. The hurt felt new and fresh in her physical body. The bard missed them. She missed them a lot. Kallas’ stalwart pragmatism and dry sense of humor. Cyrus figuring out who he was underneath all the indoctrination and training. He was so kind to Hunk and he’d tried with Boone—or at least hadn’t succumbed to mistrusting her for no reason. Dagna rubbed her icy cold hands together. “Well….Grifto doesn’t seem known for his tact, I guess.”

“He ended up saving me, from the sounds of it. Grifto said she couldn’t read my thoughts for some reason.” Boone didn’t meet her gaze when she pulled some objects from her pockets. “I also took these.”

A ring, a bag, a dolphin statue and a cloak.

Dagna almost reached out to the statue and then paused. “You know, given where you got this stuff…I am a little hesitant to touch anything.”

“I grabbed everything but I haven’t tried to wear or use any of it yet. I thought the bag might be safer to open?”

Dagna leaned back into the wall again. “Let’s wait until Cam is awake. I don’t want to start fucking with magical objects in this place. If it does something terrible or insta-kills one of us, or it will make some horrible sound and then ten spiders will come rip us apart…” Dagna shook her head as she trailed off.

Boone nodded, quietly stuffing the items into her satchel.

“Hey, Boone, do me a favor though?” Dagna was still leaning back against the wall, eyes half-closed. “If you start hearing voices or seeing visions or, you know, painting devil pictures—just tell one of us. Okay? Just promise that for me. All right?”

Boone nodded and silently wondered if she’d be able to. Cyrus lost control sometimes. The hand that killed the drow…

“Please say it out loud, Boone.”

Boone grimaced at the stone ground. “I promise I’ll tell you guys if I start doing bad devil art.”

Dagna bristled, eyes narrowing for a moment and then she took a deep breath, shaking her head as she leaned back against the wall.

The lizardfolk suddenly raised his noble head. “The Blood Wars, I have heard of this. A great conflict among celestials and devils that turned the sky red as blood.”

The water genasi, who was dressed like a pirate, Raquel, she looked at them all blearily over the lip of her bottle. “Bloody devils,” she echoed, halfheartedly raising the bottle.

The strange old man, Irpaks, snapped the book shut. “All right, interesting read. But I don’t need it.” He offered it back to Kallas.

“Asmodeus’ evil diary,” Raquel chuckled to her bottle.

Wait, I’ve heard her voice before. Kallas glanced at the woman. The blue woman. She fit the silhouette he’d seen in the Shadowfell. And the tiefling. His amber eyes went to Lisan. And the one who nearly died with a lizard-like head. The lizardfolk who had been with the shades. Kallas was certain he was now looking at that man, Throden. The lizardfolk had several mushrooms growing on his back. Mauve and white, and then the green and glossy black.

Kallas looked back to Irpaks. He was a strange old man, likely not what he seemed, but he didn't seem familiar. In any case, the old man and the lizardfolk seemed the calmest here. “You said you were here because a god sent you?”

“Well, you know how it goes when you get visions. One person thinks a god sent them, the other thinks I’m outta my goddamn mind. But I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be here,” Irpaks told him.

“Well, I suppose that is better than the alternative,” Kallas could not help but muse. After all, these folks were still alive. He studied them all for a moment. Sent by gods. Just like me. “Perhaps it is fate, perhaps not. But, perhaps, you could assist me? I must—“

“Find the ruby rod?” Irpaks finished.

Kallas gave the old man a nod. “Yes. I believe I know where Asmodeus kept it. He is not the primary concern, however—“

“If I was going to find a ruby rod, I think I’d know where it would go,” Lisan threw in.

Fanel sighed heavily. Irpaks rolled his eyes and said, “Didn’t you get this figured out, like, ten minutes ago, man?” He looked back to Kallas. “Anyway, we still need to talk to Markus too.”

Fanel frowned. “Do you think he’s been captured at this Zigazig—“

“Zurigazar—“ Lisan started.

“It’s Ziragzar,” Raquel told them loudly.

“Yes,” Kallas interjected before more bickering could start. “I am confident that he is there. I have been to these mountains before. I know the path to reach them. I aim to change this.” He pointed up at the dark sky.

“But it has already happened,” Fanel reminded him.

“No. I believe that this is just the beginning.” Kallas looked closely at these faces. They reminded him of the others in some ways. “I don’t know what Kri'zakth has planned, exactly. But given the problems from where I come from, this is just the beginning.” He showed the book to them. “The ruby rod might be able to help put an end to this.”

Irpaks eyed him. “But he’s still Asmodeus and still evil as shit.”

“My plan is to kill two birds with one…rod, as it were. To get rid of Asmodeus or to reduce his power.”

“So we’re not going to just give the godly powerful artifact to the most lawful evil being in existence?”

“No, no, no!” Kallas said quickly.

“Oh, perfect, okay, so we can do this then.” The old man clapped his palms together, seeming satisfied.

“But listen! He thinks I am going to give it to him but I am not. However, he must continue to think I will.”

Irpaks eyed the tiefling. “So, look, you can’t protect your thoughts.”

Kallas sighed. “I have no magic so no, I cannot. But I have found myself in...a predicament.”

“Well…” Lisan started slowly. “What happened to you?”

“I would prefer not to discuss—“

“Wait, wait, wait, let me introduce myself!” Lisan threw his arms out expansively. “I am Anders Chillwind!”

"His name is Lisan," Fanel said, shaking his head.

“Anders Chillwind Lisan, got it,” Kallas replied dryly.

Suddenly, a rumble shook the tower and they all heard a yell from the trap door. All six sets of eyes looked to it but it was the lizardfolk that went to the hatch and opened it. A drow with white tattoos looked up at him. Next to her was a suit of armor that didn’t appear to be occupied, but was still moving.

“Oh, that is not good.” Kallas waved to Throden.

The druid needed no encouraging to shut the hatch in her face. They heard something strike it a moment later. “How did you get in here?” The lizardfolk asked in his deep, mellow voice.

Kallas nodded and put down his pack, carefully removing the carpet and shaking it out. He said the command word and it jumped into the air. “Come. We should go outside to continue.”

Irpaks whirled around first, pulling out a tiny harp. “Little firestarter…” he murmured. And then around the trap door, a ring of red flashed into existence. Then the old man spryly dodged across the room to the carpet.

Lisan leaned in to Raquel. “Are we sure this Kallas guy is worth keeping around? I mean, we could just cut his throat and take the carpet.”

Raquel tittered. “Yes, yes, but if he’s telling the truth about the daylight, we may want to keep him about for a hot moment.” She studied the tiefling’s tricorn hat and duster as they all loaded up on the carpet.

"As I'm sure you saw, Markus Landor had many traps in this place but, it turns out, nothing on the windows." Kallas zoomed them out on the carpet. This other group kept a respectful foot or so away from him. Throden seemed to be watching him but it was hard to tell with the lizardman.

Irpaks, the strange old bard, was looking into the darkness, muted, starless, black. When his gaze came back to Kallas, it was peering and intent, purposeful, stubborn. The old man said, "What do you know about Landor?"

"Only what I have read. I appeared at the Spire with our carpet and I traveled east to a ruined city, Avisac. There, I found an abandoned library. I collected many books."

Not just about Landor but his companions: Torrin, a dragonborn, and Stark, a half-elf paladin. For a time, even an insane mage who called himself the Prince of Plenty, haunted along their trails. Kallas now had an account of notes written about the alternate timeline these people had experienced: The Good King Stark, an Account of Timescape and Multi-Planar Travel which had shed some interesting light on the vision he'd seen of a half-elf paladin in the Shadowfell. "One of them contained a reference to his tower, here, north of Blackrock. "

Irpaks studied him with those sharp eyes, searching his face for something. Whether or not the old man found it, Kallas wasn't sure. He just nodded, seeming thoughtful.

“But what if someone was to see us on this very not-that-cool, ugly carpet?” Lisan said, loud and haughty. “I could dispose of this—“

Kallas turned around, narrowing his eyes. “I could simply drop you off back in the tower, if you would prefer? You can walk if you wish, after fighting the drow woman?”

Lisan went quiet, sharing a bottle of wine with Raquel, sullenly.

“Where are we flying to?” Throden asked.

“To the ground, far enough away to not be bothered by that woman and her suit of armor.”

“Just don’t let anyone see us on this bad carpet,” Lisan whined.

Raquel nodded along, huffing and rolling her eyes.

They flew about a half hour, Kallas staring forward and reminding himself to be calm, patient. These people didn’t know what was really going on. Hell, Kallas felt he only knew bits and pieces at this point. He took them to the ground and, when everyone piled off, rolled it back up.

“Is this where you abandon us?” Lisan sniped at him.

Just be patient. Kallas sighed. “No.”

“Why would he take us with him if he were just going to abandon us?” Throden looked at Lisan with that logical, cool stare.

“Because it has provisions—“

“Did you forget about the murder lady? The drow? With the bugs? And her sentient suit of armor?” Irpaks threw his hands up. “You forgot already?”

This must be how Cyrus felt every time Boone accused him of something, deflected onto him.

Kallas sighed. At least Throden and Irpaks seemed reasonable. Fanel seemed very kind. Raquel and Lisan would clearly whack him for a chicken egg. So Kallas took out the diagram Asmodeus had given him and began to draw the circle in the dirt.

“Oh great, it’s art hour.”

Just ignore him. He clearly just wants a reaction out of you. Kallas did not look at the other tiefling, just continued drawing the magic circle. “It’s teleportation magic. Now, we have a deal, yes? You help me get the ruby rod and I will take you to your friends at the Ziragzar Spire.”

“Before we go,” the bard tiefling suddenly said. The ground around them flashed white. “I want to know if you are really telling the truth.”

Everyone else groaned and cursed, except for Irpaks, who just happened to be outside the range of it. The old man gave a little whoop.

“Don’t worry, Irpaks. I’m sure you’re just a boring old man with nothing to hide,” Lisan waved a hand at him.

“Yep, that is correct.”

“You’re pretty much an open book,” Lisan went on.

“You’re the best,” the old man said, smirking a little, pointing finger daggers at Lisan.

The tiefling turned back to Kallas. “Now, what is your real name?”

Mages and their damn truth spells. “My real name is Kallas Sallerov.”

“What is your intention with us?”

“To survive going to the Nine Hells and getting rid of this darkness.”

“Well, I am looking for a husband or wife! Someone I can bring back to my mother!”

Kallas opened his mouth and then closed it again. Somehow, that wasn’t what he’d been expecting.

“And I’m just looking for a good drink and some good sex along the way! You know what I’m saying?”

Kallas raised his eyebrows, watching the other tiefling shoot finger crossbows at him, almost playfully. “Perhaps, you will find one at the Ziragzar Spires.”

“That is possible, sure. One last thing. Are you a good guy or a bad guy?”

“I’m trying to do the right thing,” Kallas grimaced, staring hard at Lisan.

The fortuneteller chuckled. “Perfect. Also, I want to steal your carpet. I will attempt to do so throughout this, just so you’re aware.”

“Lisan!” Fanel, objected. “You should be ashamed—“

“I’m just being honest! Do you not want a carpet like that, Fanel?” Lisan exclaimed.

“No! I like traveling with my own two feet!”

There was a beat of silence as Lisan drug his hands down his face. Then Irpaks crowed, “That’s some dumb shit!”

Kallas suppressed a small smile, thinking of Cam suddenly—how he had teased Cyrus during their travels. The sorcerer’s way of trying to reach out.

“You are stupid and craggy!” Fanel jeered, hands on his hips.

“I’ll take craggy,” Irpaks allowed, shrugging good-naturedly.

“Look, you’re not going to try to kill us?” Lisan said over the others.

“No,” Kallas said again. “I’m not. So long as we can work together.”

The glow around them all faded as the truth spell subsided and Lisan stared intently at him, peering. And then, all at once, he threw his hands up, shrugging: “Then I promise I will also not kill you unless I have to or it is in my best interest.”

Kallas sighed. “Please don’t kill me. I’d rather not another round of all—”

“Wait! Wait wait wait!” The elf waved his hands around, peering at Kallas. “You were killed before?”

Kallas pulled back to himself, closing his eyes to take a deep breath. He could still feel that horrid icy grip around his throat. “I would rather not discuss that.”

“But were—“ And then Fanel suddenly jerked, the lanky monk looking around as a silver disk suddenly jumped out of his pack. It hovered by his elbow and then zipped over to Kallas.

The tiefling stiffened but the strange little disk just fluttered all around him, up to his face, around his horns, at his side to his common rapier. “What is that?” He jerked his nose back instinctively when it zipped up to his face, batting it lightly.

It dropped like a stone.

Kallas peered at it. “...what happened?”

“I honestly don’t know what it does but a friend of ours—“

“I know what it does, it flies around,” Lisan interjected.

“It also finds hags,” Throden intoned, voice deep and even.

“And it’s shiny too!” Irpaks threw in.

“Has it ever flown around like that?” Raquel asked.

Fanel shrugged. Kallas knelt and picked up the little mirror. He couldn’t sense or feel anything from it—but he didn’t have any magical abilities either. He handed it to the monk.

The elf took it and started. “Uh, oh. It. It has a dragon head now,” Fanel said and he turned the disk so everyone could see it. “Did you do something? The etchings and the gems are new.”

Kallas’ eyebrows shot up and then narrowed in. Dragons are used for a lot of things. We all had gems but these are just fragments. “No.” He shrugged.

“It’s just a stupid disk with some conjuration and transmutation magic—well.” Lisan suddenly paused. “Unless it has a soul bound to it. In which case, you are now keeping a prisoner on your person.”

Fanel looked mortified. “Do you know how to get them out?”

“No, Mister I’m-so-good-I-live-in-trees! I do better at killing and disposing of corpses. I don’t know what happens to them after they die. That seems to be your forte now, my friend.”

“I’d argue that you’re not that good at disposing of corpses,” Irpaks drawled.

“It is the thought that counts, my friend!” Lisan told him, beaming, before he swiveled to look at Kallas. “What about you? Do you know anything about freeing people from eternal prisons that cruel people keep them in?”

Kallas' gaze became hooded and flat. “No. If I did, I wouldn't need the ruby rod at all.”

Lisan just smirked, handing the mirror back to Fanel. “Well, I guess we can couch this and discuss it later. Here, you keep your prisoner.”

Fanel rolled his eyes and turned to Raquel. “What about you? Do you know any unsavory types that could help get the soul out?”

The brothel mistress lurched away from her bottle, looking offended for some reason. “I do not know what you think of me, darling—“

“You’re a pirate!” Fanel reminded her, exasperated.

“Well, yes, but you don’t need to describe it so harshly!” The genasi swayed. “But yes, I might know some people.”

Lisan waved a hand. “Fanel, I will not judge you. I’ve kept many a prisoner in my time—”

“We should help whoever is in here!” Fanel pulled the disk to himself, protective.

“Okay,” Lisan creaked, as if about to be interrupted by a laugh or a breathless wave of euphoria from the mushrooms. “So, we need to climb a mountain, yes! What is the plan?!”

“If you are going to help me, we need to make one stop and then we can go to the Zirigzar Spires,” Kallas told them.

“Walk us through this stop,” Irpaks urged him.

Kallas turned to Irpaks and Throden. “We have to go to Asmodeus’ castle, Nessus, get the ruby rod, get out, go to the spires and free all the trapped souls and finally, destroying the darkness.”

“You are taking us to literal Hell?” Throden asked, studying Kallas with those guarded, sharp eyes.

“Briefly.”

“Being on fire briefly is still bad,” Irpaks grouched, folding his arms.

Lisan waved his hands around. “Look. It sounds scarier than it is. There are people who have gone to the Nine Hells before and come back. Not all of them. But most of them. So we may lose one or two but, you know, what is there to gain? Are we going that hard for daytime or are we okay never having suntans again?”

Fanel stared at this odd, pale tiefling. “How do you have this information?”

Kallas froze, eyes going among the five of them, and then to the ground, at the teleportation circle.

Lisan waved his hand again and the dirt flashed white. “Yes, do tell us this, my friend.” The tiefling didn’t even bother to fight the effect. “I still want to steal your carpet.”

“Please do not take this,” Kallas impressed. And then, seemingly before he could stop himself: “It has sentimental value.” Brenna was so excited about the carpet. She and Cam had spent hours playing on it, learning how to use it. Dagna flying off into the night as Ebreosea burned. Tinker and the lamp, the carpet had saved them more than once. Kallas grimaced and looked away.

“I cannot promise that! That carpet will be mine before we see daylight again!”

Kallas sized up the other tiefling. “We shall see.”

“But seriously, answer the question. How do you know where Asmodeus’ castle is?”

Kallas took a deep breath. “Asmodeus made a bargain with me. My freedom for his. However, he is incredibly dangerous—“

“Wait, wait, pause there, quick question: you have a deal with him to free the devil?”

“Yes, but—“

“Your freedom for his? So we are assisting you in freeing the devil?”

“It is much more than that. And as I said, I am not going to free him.”

This bard was certainly melodramatic. He gestured to the others with a flourish. “We are helping this guy free the devil.”

Kallas narrowed his eyes. “You really think—“

“Yes, I really think!”

“I am in your Zone of Truth!” Kallas finally snapped, pointing at the fortune teller. "If you do not trust your own magic, why cast it!"

“What are you freeing him from?” Throden asked, quiet and calm.

“He thinks I am freeing him from Kri'zakth’s power. But I’m not. I’m going to free my friends, get rid of the darkness in this plane and then I’m going to take his power away.”

“You know, breaking a deal with a being like that is a bad idea,” Lisan jeered at him. “I’ve heard.”

“I’m aware. I’ve already paid that price.”

“And it killed you?” Fanel piped up. “Didn’t it?”

Kallas pretended not to hear. “My friends were captured too! And if I can retrieve the rod then I can free them and myself. I could nullify my own contract because the rod controls the contracts!”

“Oh shit,” and his fellow tiefling’s face dropped open like a sack of flour. “Is that true? Oh shit. I still want to steal your carpet but now I want the rod too. Dammit!”

“You said this plane, as in more than one, does that mean you are not from this plane?” Fanel asked.

“Correct. I’m not from Irulan. I am from Naluri.”

“What a stupid name,” Lisan scoffed. “Why is it Irulan backwards? Not creative, friend. Not creative at all. Whoever came up with that is not a great namesmith.”

“They mighta gone with something a little longer,” Irpaks allowed, shrugging.

“We ought to be careful about insulting gods,” Fanel said, crossing his arms.

“Have you never angered a god before?" Lisan rolled his eyes at the elf. "You have really not lived. Let’s go anger another god. I’m in!”
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Chapter Text

Brenna was drinking from a mug of ale, kicking her heels against the barstool. She and Kallas were taking a few days to recoup after a pretty punishing adventure. It didn’t even feel right to call it an adventure. Go up the coast, sack a pirate camp. But of the seven that went, only three returned, including Brenna and Kallas, and the last was still recovering. But the money had been split far fewer ways, corpses looted of all the pirates and the ship searched top to bottom. It had gotten them both better gear, at least. Not to mention, paid up their tavern tab at the Captain’s Cat.

She didn’t really notice when the young man entered. Kallas did. But then, Kallas noticed everyone that regularly patroned the tavern. They were there all the time, after all, and had been for about three weeks. Still waiting on word of Tinker’s death.

This man had a bent look to him, exhausted and cold. He had just stepped in from a chill spring rain, brown hair plastered to his face and an eyepatch. The young man didn’t look at anyone, just slunk over to a warm corner. He took a hot mug of wine when the barmaid offered it to him, sliding a coin in return. His lips barely moved, a murmur of thanks and then his single blue eye went back to the tabletop.

By then, Brenna had noticed Kallas’ gaze and followed it. “Another traveler, yeah? He looks tired.”

“I imagine he came with the rain, like many others,” Kallas agreed.

“You think he’s a merc? Lookit the axe. Maybe he’s looking for work.”

“Brenna, a lot of people are looking for work. We do not have to jump in until we are fully healed.”

Brenna blew a strand of hair out of her face. “I wasn’t hurt that bad. I could still walk, you know.”

“Speaking of walking, we could go into town and restock supplies. We can think about what we might like to take ahead of time, providing we are still here.”

Brenna’s eyes slid over to her friend. “I’m sure we’ll hear about Tinker soon, Kallas. They’re bound to find something. It’s weird as hell that you can’t see him.”

So they finished their lunch and went. By the time they returned, several hours had passed. The man with the halberd was still sitting in the corner. His eyepatch was off and he had a cloth pressed over the eye.

“Ha, he somehow looks worse,” Brenna said, stretching out on the bar stool and then tapped the counter. “Hey, how’s that guy been all day? He’s not a leftover pirate, is he?”

The barkeep shrugged. “Been quiet, polite, paid for wine but nothing else. He asked for a cloth for his eye and he’s just been tending it.”

Kallas leaned in. “Is it a fever?”

“No, no, I don’t think so,” the barkeep said, raising a hand to waylay that idea. “Doesn’t look like it, anyway. No yellowed skin or eyes, not flushed or anything, still drinking mulled wine.”

“You think the weapon is his?” Brenna said, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“Well, I will say—he holds himself like a soldier. You know military types, they carry themselves a certain way. But he hasn’t threatened anyone, not belligerent.” The barkeep shrugged again.

Kallas wrinkled his nose and glanced across the tavern. The young human had circles under his eye, the other was buried in the cloth and he was just slightly rocking back and forth in the corner. Kallas had seen that before. Some did it when they were enduring great pain. Maybe that was what grabbed Kallas’ attention. Sure, humans had a lot of advantages over tieflings like him and gnomes like Brenna, but the human seemed to be in pain. That was universal.

Now that it was pointed out, Brenna openly looked across the tavern at the human. “Hey! Hey!”

The human took a slight glance up from the tabletop, trying to see if she was talking to someone else.

“Yeah, friend, you! I’m Brenna. What’s wrong with your eye! Are you hurt?”

The human stiffened. Kallas exhaled heavily and turned on his barstool. “I apologize, friend. She means no harm.”

The human looked uncertain and that was all it took for Brenna to jump up with all her gnomish energy. “Not yet, amirite! I’m Brenna!” She practically bounced across the tavern to the human. “We have a potion if you need one?” She offered out her little hand to shake.

The young human took it gently. “I don’t need one, but thank you. I have issues with my eye, that is all.”

“Well, why are you sitting back here in the dark! Come sit with us! Come on! That is Kallas! He’s a tiefling and he’s real quiet and sneaky-like.”

“Brenna,” Kallas sighed again.

She tapped her foot, gesturing to the human. “Well, c’mon. Get up. Come sit with us. Have you eaten? Do you have a room?”

The human glanced up at Kallas and the tiefling shrugged. “She is very stubborn. So you might as well, friend.”

“He’s right, I’m very stubborn. And strong. And if you call me small I’ll punch you in the dick!”

So, bemused and a little wary, the human stood and walked with Brenna to the better-lit counter. He sat a bit stiffly and did not quite make eye contact with either of them.

“I am Kallas,” Kallas said, nodding to him and gestured to the platter of fried fish he and Brenna were in the process of demolishing. “Eat something, if you wish. You look as though you have had better days, friend.”

“Warmer ones, certainly.” The young human inclined his head to the both of them. “Thank you. Uh. My name is Cyrus.”

“Hey, we were looking at the job board today and we were eyeing some easy-sounding stuff to make some money. Are you looking to make some money? I see you gotta big axe there.”

Kallas couldn’t seem to help but smile, rolling his eyes. “Pardon Brenna’s enthusiasm, friend. She is eager to get back to work—“

“My enthusiasm is part of my charm!”

The human looked back and forth between them with his single blue eye and then he gestured to his weapon. “This is actually called a halberd. It just has the axe head.”

“You use it for swinging though, right?” Brenna urged, grinning at him.

“Well, yes—“

“See! We just lost most of our little band so we need new meat!”

Cyrus’ brows furrowed, looking alarmed.

“Pirates,” Kallas explained, shrugging. “Brenna, myself and one other survived, but I imagine he won’t be up for some time yet.”

“Do you think they’ll have to amputate?” Brenna asked, leaning in as if their former companion were in a sickbed nearby listening.

A barmaid, Sandra, sauntered over to the human. “Hey, sugarbee, you want some more wine? Another hot rag for your eye?”

Kallas watched the human jerk a little awkwardly, not making eye contact with her either. Cyrus nodded and screwed his bad eye shut before he pulled the cloth away. He made to slide a coin to her but she gave him a saucy little wink and got him a hot, damp cloth from their stove and then a mug of mulled wine. The young man looked surprised and stuttered out his thanks.

Kallas watched Cyrus replace the cloth, leaning into the warmth. “Was this a recent injury?” Kallas asked, nodding towards his eye.

“Uh, no,” the human said, looking a little self-conscious again. “It’s an old one but the, uh, changes in the weather and such, causes issues.”

“Can’t you just go to a healer?” Brenna asked, now studying his eyepatch on the counter but not touching it.

“I have. But magic can only do so much, at times.”

“Oooo, maybe we could find a way to fix your eye!” Brenna exclaimed, gulping her ale.

“No need for that,” Cyrus said quickly. He seemed to waver for a moment and then said, “I can actually use it in combat, so it works out.”

Kallas peered at him. “In combat?”

“Like, you take it out and throw it?” Brenna made a popping noise with her mouth and mimed pulling out an eye.

“No, no, uh…” The human seemed to waver again. “…it was afflicted magically. So sometimes I can use it to inflict curses.”

“Whoa, that’s pretty killer,” Brenna said, beaming.

“So you are a mercenary of some sort then?” Kallas asked him, studying the human.

Cyrus nodded but he looked at his drink. “Uh…yes. Yes. I...am a mercenary.” He took a deep breath, as if to steady himself.

Brenna gasped. “So you do need work!”

The human looked at them, uncertain again. “I, uh, I am a warlock—if that is a problem for either of you.”

Kallas snorted and pointed to the four small horns on his forehead, shrugging. “Tiefling. I’m fine.”

“Barbarian!” Brenna declared. “I’m also fine!”

“I don’t think those things correlate—“

Kallas raised a hand to Cyrus. “Best not to think on it too much. Needless to say, we do not mind warlocks. And despite Brenna’s harassment, you do not have to join us but if you are looking for work, we will likely be around.”

Cyrus nodded and this time, made flickering eye contact with Kallas. “Thank you. I, uh…I appreciate that.”

“That’s fantastic!” Brenna sang out. “Because I totally pulled this job off the board when Kallas wasn’t looking, just in case we ran into someone who could take a job with us!” She pulled a slip of paper out of her pocket and waved it around triumphantly.

Cyrus snorted and, when he saw Kallas also grinning as he shook his head, the warlock laughed properly. “Good thinking,” he told the gnome.

“See!” Brenna cried out, throwing her hands out to Cyrus. “I love this guy already! Let’s do it! How about tomorrow?!”

The young human didn’t have enough money for a room so, of course, Brenna offered him a spot on the floor of their own room. Cyrus gratefully tried to offer the coppers he had left but the gnome refused. Kallas hung up a curtain for him so that he could change his clothes in front of the fireplace. The human was taller than Kallas and definitely broader, so they didn’t have anything that could fit Cyrus but he seemed more than happy enough to curl up next to the fireplace in some wrinkled, plain loose linens while his gear dried. His eyepatch was still tied on when he dozed off.

Kallas watched the gem on the halberd change from blue to black. Like a patch of sky, menaced with storms at high noon, blue as an aquamarine, to black as tar.

It took the tiefling a moment to process the change. Did I see that? He resolved to keep an eye on it the next day, providing the human didn’t suddenly try to kill them in the night. Brenna had grabbed a simple hunting job. Spiders, probably. Brenna liked the animal jobs. Hopefully, just a small infestation that they could take care of quickly.

That was always the hope. It ended up being a giant. Just one, thankfully. But not exactly what they’d been prepared for. Fortunately, Cyrus had a weapon with reach and some spells up his sleeve. When Kallas got sideswiped by the giant’s mace, the warlock had torn off his eyepatch. The tiefling was dazed, trying to orient himself but he saw the young man’s eye flare with magic.

The eye was spooky, pulsing black with no pupil. Just a thin rim of white drowning in a soot-black darkness. It was strange next to his normal blue eye. The veins around it were pulsing. When he struck the final blow, a strange wisp of mist or fog or something was leashed, snapped out of the giant and into the young man.

“Did you just drink him?” Brenna asked, reaching down a hand to Kallas.

“My eye is…has strange abilities. Are you all right?”

Kallas stood, brushing down his duster. “Yes. Well done. Not what I expected but we didn’t die.”

Brenna kicked open a rickety chest. “All right! This is enough gold to split three ways. Good, we wouldn’t wanna have to boot Cyrus—we just met you! You should be able to get outfitted properly now. We should look for some fancy eye patches. Do you only have the one?”

Cyrus laughed a little. “Yes, I only have the one patch.”

“We gotta get you one with colors and seashells! Oooh, with electrum!”

That night found them back in the tavern, where the warlock asked for another warm cloth. Kallas watched the young man gently hold it. “Does the magic cause you…pain?”

Cyrus nodded. “Changes depending on the effect the eye takes. The black is necrotic.”

“Can we help you in some way?” Brenna asked.

Cyrus shook his head. “No, no, I just have to make sure I don’t miss my step on staircases.”

“Ah, no depth perception,” Kallas said sagely.

Sandra leaned over the counter and touched Cyrus' hand. Her eyes made a sort of promise on their own. "Oh, sugarbee, I'd feel bad if you bumped your head. You just say the word if you need a place to sleep tonight."

Cyrus startled at her touch but was saved from having to answer when the barkeep looked up, as the rattle of horses and wagons rumbled by the door. “Oh, sounds like a caravan is coming in.”

Lady Macwell entered the room.

The fire was still crackling warm. The floor was no longer peppered with candied nuts from Leopold’s little bard. Suddenly sensing Boone again had sent the sorceress running up the stairs but the entire wing was silent and by the time she arrived, the feeling was gone.

Gregor was on the floor, unconscious. His nose and ears were bleeding. The folding screen had been knocked over and the mirror lay in shattered fragments all over the floor. All traces of Boone were gone.

“That little bitch,” Talisa muttered, narrowing her eyes as she approached her eldest son. She knelt, examining the mirror shards. The girl should not have been able to get by him. Nevermind break the damn mirror.

Gregor was still alive, Talisa could see. She put her palm on his forehead, peering into his thoughts, skimming his memories. Could the paladin have somehow altered his mind? The summoning had been interrupted but perhaps there had been some sort of magical interference. Talisa knew Asmodeus could no longer take a form while he was being held at the Spire but could still reach out to minds that existed on his current plane. That was an additional reason she had gone to the Shadowfell, so that Asmodeus could not attempt to interfere.

Kri'zakth, of course, could not yet interact with either plane so it was incredibly unlikely that he might have done something. All the sorceress had heard was that strange, booming voice, that sounded like some sort of simpleton or puppet show character.

She hadn’t heard anything through Gregor either. So somehow, Boone had escaped the chamber, disappeared from this plane, reappeared and somehow got through the mirror back to her body. Lady Macwell had been very careful to not let Boone see this room, in case of exactly this scenario.

The Lady took a deep breath and rubbed her forehead. Then she cast on Gregor. He didn’t appear to be physically injured, despite the blood in his nose and ears, but when he opened his eyes, he seemed…dazed.

“Gregor?” Lady Macwell said, helping him sit up. His eyes were unfocused and he seemed disoriented. “What happened?”

Her son looked up at her and then he flinched, screwing his eyes shut. He put a hand to his face, making a soft, pained sound, as if suddenly racked with a migraine.

“Gregor, what happened?” Talisa pressed again.

He swayed and she heard his thoughts, directed towards her: I don’t know.

Lady Macwell peeled back her son’s walls, peering into his mind, trying to discern if his memory had been altered. But nothing appeared amiss. It seemed extremely unlikely that Boone would have attacked him. The girl wasn’t very bright, had little experience, and was prone to indecision. Surely, Gregor would have had no problem subduing her?

Then again, Talisa had had trouble reading her thoughts too. That should not have happened either. She’d tried to charm the creature, just to make things easier, but it hadn’t taken. Not once. When she tried to read her thoughts, all Talisa could seem to comprehend was…lights in the dark, burning stars that were searing bright. And that was it. The girl didn’t really seem to notice Talisa’s efforts, either.

Who could the paladin have contacted that might have helped her escape? Lady Macwell had had her younger son trailed as much as possible, of course. But there were stretches of time that she couldn’t account for. Leopold had been to several places with the child and their friends. How can he not see how beneath him these wretches are?

They had somehow even come in contact with a jinn. It had destroyed her ground troops out on the Rainbow Wastes. Lady Macwell assumed it was from a wish. Could they have had more wishes? Likely not, as they’d left the jinn behind (the bottle had then instantly dug into the sand and burrowed away like a rabbit. It had escaped her soldiers. Unfortunate, as that could have been very useful to her.)

The voice she’d heard in the summoning chamber, though. It wasn’t angry or righteous. It was teasing, even jovial. Had they come into contact with any fey? Perhaps, that. There was a forest near Silver Strings…

As she mused, Lady Macwell summoned two servants to help Gregor to his bedchamber. When they were gone, then she picked up one of the mirror shards.

Something white hot flashed through her eyes—

The same vision. But different. Sabal standing up from the dirt, armor shredded, bloody. Both of his eyes open, one blue and one silver. The blackened spear was gone though and the halberd in its place. The light burned out through the gem affixed to the weapon.

But instead of the yellow canaries feasting on corpses in the background, there were six golden serpentine dragons forming a ring over the blood-soaked earth. And then that silver eye flickered over to Lady Macwell. A searing, pinpoint pain stabbed into her mind—

The sorceress went very still, dropping the shard of mirror from her hand. Her head was throbbing, stomach turning, and her hands were icy with sweat. She scowled, for she knew what that meant. His connection was severed but not by her or Asmodeus. He was no longer in the Shadowfell. Instantly, Talisa felt that fury want to rise inside of her. Her shadow flared, darkening the room and fattening the shadows but then the elegant Lady took a deep breath. Fucking Sabal.

“You all somehow slipped right through my fingers.”

Fine. If they somehow managed to get back to their material plane, Talisa could, at least, be a step ahead of them. Cadron.
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Chapter Text

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Kallas’ eyes flickered up first when the tavern door opened and a dozen people walked in. About half seemed familiar with one another, joking and chatting, the other six did not congregate. They all had weapons. So it was likely a band of caravaneers and mercenaries.

“Ah! Oo!” Brenna perked up on her bench. “Another caravan? You think they have anything awesome?”

“Let’s try not to burn through the money we have, Brenna.”

“Kallas,” the gnome said, suddenly turning to him very seriously. “What if they have silverleaf?”

“What is that?” Cyrus asked, chomping into a slice of buttered toast.

The gnome and the tiefling looked sidelong at the human. Kallas answered: “It is something one smokes. Somewhat…difficult to get ahold of in some places.” Kallas waved a hand. “Regardless, we do not need it.”

“Speak for yourself!” Brenna snorted.

The caravaneers were now taking seats, holding drinks and ordering food. It was all loud chatter and removing heavy packs until the caravan lead stomped in and waved the group to him. He appeared to be passing out small bundles of coins, wrapped in rags and twine. A few of the mercenaries filed out afterwards and the caravaneers all sat together, relaxing after their long journey.

Only one woman did not. She appeared quite young but she sat alone, wrapped in a ragged sailcloth. There was a battered, mundane greatsword strapped to her back. She took her little roll of coins, carefully unwrapped the twine and counted.

Kallas let his sharp eye take in the details. She looked different from the other travelers. Maybe it was the exhaustion on her face. Certainly the rest looked tired but for the girl, it seemed more than physical. Also, she was very tall for a human woman. If she was human, of course. She appeared to be but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. A scrap of a sash was wrapped around her neck and shoulders. It was currently soaked in rain but she made no move to unwrap it. The woman stayed for only a short time before going to the counter and requesting a room. After that, she disappeared, taking her meal with her. Unlike even the other mercenaries, the girl appeared to be alone.

The next day, the girl was still at the tavern. She emerged for food and looked at the job board. Only once did Kallas see her glance over at the three of them before she swiftly turned away. But it wasn’t until her third day, when she came down to look at the job board again, that she spoke.

Kallas, Brenna and Cyrus were all studying the slips of paper, recounting various details of remaining work in the area. The port was a decent place for that, after all. The girl approached, tried to look around them without any success and took a breath.

“Excuse me,” the girl said in a low, gravely sort of voice.

Cyrus and Kallas turned and looked up a little, Brenna craned her neck. “Hey!” The gnome called up, “You’re that girl that came in a few days ago! Are you looking for work?!”

The young woman seemed to inwardly choke a little, making fleeting eye contact with the men before she allowed a nod. “I can use a sword,” she managed, voice a little shaky.

“Are you all right, friend?” Kallas asked, looking the tall human over. She was raggedly dressed, head to toe, in scraps. She had limp black hair but very vibrant blue eyes. She was pretty, as humans went. Like the barmaid thought Cyrus was handsome. But her eyes and face had the same sort of hunted look to it that the warlock’s had a week ago.

The young woman straightened up. “Yes, I am. My name is, uh, Boone.”

“Welcome aboard, Boone! It’s nice to have another girl around! Woop! Come to our table, you can help us pick a job! This is Cyrus! He eats ghosts! We just met him a week ago! And this is Kallas, he’s a sneaky devil boy! And I’m Brenna!” She threw her hands out. “I am the strongest gnome in this tavern, at least!”

Cyrus smirked a little. “Please note, there are no other gnomes here.”

“Hey!” Brenna pointed at him in warning. “That makes me the strongest!”

Kallas took their bundle of slips back to their table and spread them out and the others took a seat on the benches. The young woman, Boone, sat at the short edge of the table in a chair.

“Is this your first time in Bryce’s Landing?” Kallas asked the girl, just quietly observing her.

“Yes,” Boone responded, voice still low and raspy. “I, uh, was hoping I could ask where you all got outfitted. Uh—now that I finally have a little money to work with.”

“Oh yeah! Absolutely!” Brenna beamed. “When Cyrus showed up, he looked like shit too!”

“Hey! C’mon!” Cyrus exclaimed, throwing his hands up as Brenna laughed.

“Thanks,” Boone said dryly.

“Brenna is only teasing, of course,” Kallas interjected. “But yes, we got Cyrus outfitted in town. We can take you there today, if you like. It appears as though your gear has seen better days.”

Boone opened her mouth to answer and then physically hesitated before she managed: “Yeah. Ran into some bad luck.”

“With you on that one,” Cyrus told her in a commiserating sort of way.

The girl wrinkled her nose but said nothing to that.

Boone rubbed her throat, keeping watch in the awful quiet. Looking up into the webs and shadows was worse, the spindly legs of the spiders cast massive dark claws over the twisting bundles of bodies. It was oppressive. Suffocating. None of them dared to speak above a whisper. And the bodies…

The writhing bundles without faces, like the blankness in Kallas’ eyes when his neck snapped—

Boone shuddered, curling into herself a little. She drug her hand down her face, biting down on her lip to try and quell the quaking fear that was trying to rise from her gut.

“What’s wrong?"

Boone jumped, unable to smother a small strangled breath. The paladin had thought her companions were asleep. She held a hand to her breast when she looked sidelong at Cam. “N-nothing.”

The sorcerer sighed softly, rolling his eyes. “You know, if you just admit it and accept it, makes that shit easier to come to terms with.”

“We’re all tired and we’re all scared, Cam,” Boone snapped, glaring at him.

“Yeah, I’d hope so,” Cam snorted in reply. “You’d have to be stupid not to be.” He glanced up at the webs, scowling.

“Well, I’ve done plenty of that too!” Boone growled, shoulders hunching up.

Cam lifted an eyebrow. “……been stupid?”

Boone scowled at him and crossed her arms tighter.

But Cam continued to look at her, gaze becoming peering, more intent. “Like what?”

The paladin drew back into herself. Yes, Boone. Like what?

“You didn’t kill Cyrus—“

“I know!” Boone snapped. “It’s all these stupid fucking gods, using us like their little pets!”

“You know,” Cam went on, casually, “that actually reminds me.” His eyes were still on her over the top of Dagna’s sleeping head. “When we all saw your scar, you originally suspected your own parents, right?”

Boone suddenly very much wanted to slap the sorcerer. “Yes,” she answered stiffly.

“Why?”

Boone sighed. “Proximity! I mean, who else could have gotten in to the guest quarters—that I fucking knew of.”

“I mean, it was my house. Seems like you would have been more suspicious of me.”

“I didn’t think your family would have any reason to kill me,” Boone grumbled, glaring at her knees.

“But you thought your family would?”

Boone opened her mouth to object but nothing came out. She closed her lips, looking away from him.

“Were they like Cyrus’ family? Bunch of assholes? I mean, my mother did tell Gregor and I about why you had an odd name. They expected boys, right?”

“Yes,” Boone answered, still not looking at Cam.

“So they were really sexist? Didn’t allow you freedom or anything?”

Boone hesitated again. “……I…I was allowed to train.”

“But?” Cam persisted, the lift in his tone suggesting the question.

Boone’s shoulders were hunched again. “I was the second child. Their focus was on my older brother.”

“Heir and a spare? I get that,” Cam snorted a little. “My father would have sent me to die in a battle somewhere though. I doubt he’d go through the trouble of arranging a marriage, just to murder me in the middle of the night and then disappear my body.”

“Well, you’re a boy. You can carry on your family name. I won’t.”

“Yeah, and that family name was Macwell. Very wealthy, very powerful. Seems like if they were on the verge of getting you into a richer family, they wouldn’t be upset enough to kill you. Especially since Gregor seemed to like you.”

Boone took some shaky breaths.

“Is your brother married?”

Boone shook her head.

Both Cam’s eyebrows went up. “So they marry the youngest off first in your family?”

“No….” Boone managed. She couldn’t look up now. She felt like she was suffocating. Boone didn’t want to talk about this. She didn’t want to remember. Boone didn’t want to remember the look of betrayal on Helene’s face. She’d always focused on the angry satisfaction she took from her brother’s shock, of her parents’ fury and disgust. How, for just a moment, Boone felt like she had some effect on them, some control over them.

“Not close with him, I take it?”

“Not all of us can have a brother like Gregor,” Boone sneered at him.

“Apparently not.” Cam still had not looked away. His amber-hazel eyes were dark in the dim violet light but they were fixed on the paladin. “So you two didn’t get along?”

“He hates me,” Boone grumbled.

“Why?”

Boone looked down, searching the stone ground. She rubbed at the scar over her throat, rocking back and forth a little.

“I mean, my father hated me but he wasn’t dumb enough to try and kill me at home, or rude enough to kill me in someone else’s house. And your brother wasn’t even at the estate that night—though, of course, apparently Cyrus wasn’t either. There’s that. So your parents hate you as well?”

“Yes, they’re assholes.”

“Why?”

Boone could feel the pressure in her chest, the guilt, and the anger. Her hands went cold. Shame. Pride. Guilt. Helene had wanted to be touched. She would have been miserable with her brother anyway. The noble twit likely thought it would remain between the two of them. But Boone had gone downstairs the next day, smirking and bragging about it. Boone remembered the little smile she’d worn, watching the guards escort the weeping girl off the property. And what do you suppose happened when she got home?

“What does it matter to you anyway!” Boone retorted.

Cam snorted and gestured up with both hands, to indicate the horrible webbed darkness. “At this rate, we’re probably gonna die here. I feel like lies are kind of pointless now.”

Inexplicably, Boone found herself starting to tear up. She held her breath, trying to force it down. She could still feel Cam’s sharp eyes on her.

“Not to mention, we’ve all had to air our dirty laundry. You’ve hinted a couple times that you have a bad relationship with your parents. If you had just said it was sexism right from the beginning, we probably would have accepted that. But your hesitance tells me there’s more to it.”

Boone jammed her fist into her eyes, rubbing them so she wouldn’t have to look at him. “I’ve done bad things, okay! Shit.”

Cam shrugged. “I mean, we’ve all done shit we’re not proud of.”

“I bet Kallas hasn’t.”

The sorcerer had to nod. “Well, can’t argue with that. I mean, well, except for the whole 'entering-into-a-contract-with-Asmodeus' thing. But seriously. If Gregor saved you, then he’s done stuff that my mother would consider ‘bad’. Doesn’t mean it is.”

“I was,” Boone replied sharply. “Bad, I mean.”

“Did you try to kill your brother? That seems to be a theme around here—“

“I fucked his fiancé!”

“Oh,” Cam said, quiet for a moment as he took it in. “Yikes. And I take it they weren’t happy about it.”

“No.” Boone looked as far away from Cam as she could, raw and exposed.

“What happened?”

Boone took another deep breath to control her voice. “They kicked her off our property and she went home, I assume.”

Cam didn’t seem perturbed by this. He examined her another moment and then said, “I take it that isn’t your usual method of introducing yourself to your brother’s friends?”

Boone scowled sidelong at him. “Oh, shut the fuck up!”

His eyebrows went up. “So it was?”

“NO!” Boone lashed at him, wanted to fucking hit him in his stupid, antagonizing face. “They did nothing but fucking ignore me! I was invisible to them! But when that happened, it changed. I affected them. I fucked up their perfect bullshit!”

Cam’s neutral expression didn’t change. He seemed to be simply studying her, peering at her. “Huh. Well. I guess that makes sense then.”

“Yeah, I know, I did dumb shit.” Boone glared.

“It's not like you beheaded a bunch of children or something, geez. Have you ever considered becoming a bard?” Cam smiled, muted but cheerful. “Sounds like you’d have that down.”

“Why can’t you ever—“

Dagna suddenly startled awake. “What’s wrong? Attack?” She managed, automatically, eyes bleary.

Cam put a hand on the mercenary’s shoulder. “Boone’s thinking of becoming a bard. You should give her some pointers.”

Boone almost objected and then reconsidered, very much not wanting to repeat their conversation. She sighed, looking down at her knees. “It’s nothing,” she murmured.

“I can take a turn on watch,” Cam offered.

“Are you okay, Boone?” Dagna asked, more gently, looking up at the other human and touching her elbow.

“I’m fine. I’ll get some sleep.” And Boone turned away, curling her arms around herself.
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Chapter Text

The morning Lady De’Boon’s room was discovered empty and her bed soaked in blood was strangely subdued. The servants initially panicked, of course, but by the time Gregor and Leopold arrived, their mother was already there.

His elder brother strode into the room. “What happened!” He demanded, going right up to the bed and touching the blood-soaked sheets. The blanket and topsheet were gone.

Leopold followed inside, peering around the room. His mother glanced up at Gregor and shook her head sadly.

“I don’t know, my love,” she told him faintly, covering her mouth with her hand. “The poor dear. It looks as though she was attacked. There’s so much blood….”

Gregor took a breath and seemed to ease a little. “Why don’t you go to Father in his chambers,” he said, more gently, putting a consoling hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Maester Tanfey and Captain Harrison should be informing him now. Leo and I will take a look.”

The Macwell heir looked out the door and pointed to the guards. Two lieutenants had escorted Gregor and Leopold to the guest wing. They both came to attention as Gregor commanded: “Go down to the Lock Gate within the keep and inform the Chief Sergeant to lock down the estate and sweep the grounds and every building. As soon as Captain Harrison has finished counsel with my father, I want to speak to him. And please, send Huntmaster Blink up here so we can make sure the blood is humanoid. This whole thing feels wrong. Staged, somehow. We need to confirm everything we can. Do you understand?”

Lieutenant Reynolds repeated the instructions back to Leopold's elder brother. The crown prince was calm in a time when others panic. Focusing on what needed to be done, versus however he felt about whatever the hell had happened here. The younger prince watched his elder brother's easy manner with the lieutenants. The Lord Gregor(Jr) issued his commands with the face of a proper father. Not Leo's own Lord Father, of course (the very thought), but ones that existed in old stories that were the epitome of respect and grace. Just and fair and honorable. He directed and guided and did not allow his ego to influence the interaction. Strong but also kind.

In the doorway, lieutenants saluted and hurried off.

Though sometimes, too trusting. But fuck, Leopold thought to himself, he's gonna be such an amazing Lord Commander. Better than Father ever was. Better than I ever could have been. Leopold hated the whole clusterfuck of the politics. Being the son of a warlord had become the bane of his existence. Of being expected to be complicit to all this useless posturing and dick waving? Just to let the younger generations be wiped out? And for what? What glory? Endless deaths of good men and women?

And this poor, dead child. Who was somehow whisked out of here, apparently without a fight. Which seems unlikely, if she'd been taken alive or aware. She felt more comfortable in armor than silk.

The only reason Jildos disdained mercenaries is because they wanted a monopoly on the market. Leopold's first thought was that this murder/kidnapping was somehow connected to them politically. And I don't know anything about her, besides her armor preferences. But everything here feels targeted.

Leopold stood by the fireplace. The hearth was cool and filled with ash. It had burned completely down. The room smelled like blood but there was no trail from the bed. Lady De’Boon’s clothes and belongings were all still here. None of it had been disturbed. In fact, nothing in the room seemed disturbed, except for the bed.

His mother dabbed at her eyes as she left the room. She was immediately flanked by a guard and two handmaidens as she went to her husband’s quarters. Now only Leopold and Gregor were left. His elder brother turned to look at him, hands on his hips. “I don’t suppose you sense anything strange? I’d rather not rely on Aboken. ”

“That makes both of us,” said Leopold but he sighed as he peered around the room. “But unfortunately, I don’t. I don’t sense any magic, which is a little weird considering.” He gestured around the room. “Nothing is disturbed, nothing is stolen, door wasn’t bashed down, and the hearth is cold.”

Gregor walked over to the windows. “All of the windows are locked from the inside. And even if they weren’t, you’d need a damn grappling hook just to reach it. Or magic, I assume?” He looked to his brother.

Leo wandered over to the windows. “The blood is, at least, six hours old. But guards should have been touring the entire wing all night, yet none of them heard or saw anything. It seems like someone carrying off a body would have been fairly noticeable. So my first thought is that someone used magic but I don’t have the spells to find the traces of it.”

Gregor grimaced. “I suppose we’ll have to ask Aboken then.” He turned and looked at the bloody sheets, touching the heavy stains. “….it’s a lot of blood.”

Leopold folded his arms and nodded. It was. And if Lady De’Boon had lost it all then she, this unknowing teenager, was probably dead. The sorcerer frowned deeper. “Something is weird about this….” Leopold met his brother’s eyes before he continued: “There’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing is broken or stolen. No blood trail or spatter. No sign of forced entry.”

“I guess with magic, a lot of things are possible,” Gregor murmured, still staring down at the blood stains.

Leopold studied him, watching his brother age five years right before his eyes. “….you all right?”

Gregor shook his head. “She was….” He sighed. “She didn’t deserve this.”

A captain appeared at the door. “My Lord Gregor, Lord Leopold, Lord Macwell requests your presence in the private dining hall.”

Gregor nodded a little, still studying the crusted blood. “Make sure the servants leave this for the Huntmaster, Lieutenant. I’ll be back later.” He glanced to Leopold and raised his eyebrows.

The sorcerer nodded and they left together, escorted by the guard. The hallway was also clean, no tracks, prints or marks. No trails of blood or scuffs of boots. Leopold leaned in to his brother. “I don’t suppose there are any passageways in this wing?”

“Not that I know of,” Gregor murmured to him. “I believe that’s mostly our wing.”

“Wouldn’t want any guests escaping, I suppose,” Leopold muttered, rubbing his chin.

The brothers walked down the red carpeted guest wing and it opened up into a wide hallway. Cases of pristine family heirlooms, uniforms, and gems lined the entire passage. It was platted with purpleheart wood. Every year it was exposed to air, the floor turned a richer purple. A few generations back, an aunt had found the beautiful wood in some distant war in the southern jungles and had whole trees cut down and shipped back.

It seemed indulgent but one of Leopold’s grandfathers had done something similar about two centuries ago when he came upon rainbow eucalyptus in the tropics. The wood wasn’t suitable to work with but the bark shed off in vivid colors. So he had several of them uprooted and shipped home. Some other Macwell had built a special greenhouse specifically for exotic trees and plants they collected during their exhibitions.

It was very beautiful but Leopold could only scowl. It was all bloodwood to him. After all, how many helpless peasants had they probably murdered so they could harvest them?

Leopold ran his fingers through his hair as two guards swiftly opened the double doors and Gregor swept inside. The classic white marble, trimmed in gold leaf, tiled the fireplace where Lady De’Boon had stood barely a week ago.

Lord Macwell was sitting at the head of the table. “Close the doors, Leopold.” His tone was low and somehow resigned as he rubbed his temple.

“Do we know anything? Has anyone seen anything?” Gregor asked, striding to the chair on his father’s right.

Leopold followed more slowly after he closed the doors. His mother was not here, nor was anyone else. It was just the three of them. The back of his neck prickled.

“Nothing,” the lord replied, sighing again. “And given how much blood Harrison said was lost, she’s likely dead.”

Gregor stiffened in the chair, just staring at his father. “And?”

Where Leopold, Gregor and their mother were olive-skinned, Lord Macwell was fair. He was deeply tanned and calloused and every inch a war general, stern of face and hard. He raised his cool blue eyes to his elder son. “And we move on. It’s unfortunate but the girl is dead.”

Even Leopold was a little taken aback, eyebrows shooting up.

Gregor’s eyes narrowed, fiery. “She’s gone. She disappeared from our estate. What are we going to tell—“

“Your mother will handle Lord and Lady De’Boon,” he snapped, interrupting Gregor to stand up and face the mirror over the sideboard. He poured a cup of mulled wine and turned to face them again. “We no longer have time to waste on these trivialities anyway. It is time—“

”Trivialities?!” Gregor stood as well.

“It is time,” Lord Macwell repeated, raising his voice now, staring up at Gregor, “that we move on. The outside world continues to turn whether you marry or not. Cin Amon’s forces are moving on the continent. I need you to lead our men to victory there.”

Gregor stopped cold, staring at him, eyes swirling like hazel hurricanes. Oh, goddammit.

Leopold had circled around to the left side of the table but now he stepped forward. “Didn’t we already have this discussion? We don’t have the men. You’ve said so yourself. You only have ten thousand—“

“Don’t try to tell me my battle plans, boy,” Lord Macwell snapped, shooting a glare at Leopold before looking back to Gregor. “I’ve summoned one of the fleets back, they’ll escort you over the straits to the mainland. They will provide support and an additional three thousand men. I want to secure Thistlepot Junction and Marisport.”

“Cin Amon has twenty-five thousand men between the shore and Thistlepot,” Leopold recited back at their father. “Thirteen thousand is still less than twenty-five, you know that, right?”

Lord Macwell ignored him, looking to his elder son. “Gregor, I need someone I can rely on to go there and lead these men. You're the only one I trust to bring me back a victory.”

Gregor took a deep breath, looking at the mirror behind his father for a moment, trying to collect himself. Poor Lady De’Boon and her tremulous smile. I would have taught her to dance.

“I need you to leave in a week’s time, Gregor. I need to stay and deal with the bureaucracy and I can’t send your brother.” And here Lord Macwell glared sidelong at Leopold. “He’s already shown he can’t be trusted to lead.”

“That’s because you’re going to send him to fucking die!” Leopold burst out. “The numbers are against you but what? It’s more important for your pride?”

“Leo….” Gregor finally spoke, more softly. “It’s all right. It’s what I—“

“It’s not all right! He wants to send you to a fight that he told us himself we can’t win! We had a meeting in the war room and everything right before the De’Boons arrived, remember?”

“Your brother understands duty, Leopold. Something you continue to struggle with.”

Gregor still seemed to be in shock. “Don’t….don’t fight, both of you.” He drug a hand down his face. “I understand that life…continues on no matter what. And we have to move with it.”

Leopold’s mouth fell open. “Gregor! That is bullshit! We—“

“Leopold!” Gregor cut him off, voice rising hard and loud like a wave and then falling again. “I still have responsibilities to the city.” He nodded to his father, then his brother, and lumbered out of the dining room like he'd been struck with a bat.

Lord Macwell went back to his chair and gave his younger son a cool look. “Was there something more from you, Leopold?”

He sneered at his father and gave him a mocking bow. “You, my lord, are a piece of shit.” And the young man turned away, slamming the door on his way out. His mind was made up now. Always one decision away from changing your life.

Gregor spent the days leading up to his departure in preparations, partially to keep himself from dwelling on whatever had happened to Lady De’Boon (his mother was currently overseeing that investigation) and partially because if he ran into Leopold, they would certainly argue. Not that he disagreed with his brother’s assessment.

A week before Lady De’Boon and her family arrived, Gregor, Leopold and their father had a meeting about troop movements on the mainland. In regards to combat fronts, it was important for Jildos to remain a step ahead of the competition. But they were stretched thin and had a mere ten thousand men available in the area versus the twenty-five thousand from Cin Amon, rolling over the land like lions.

His father wanted to send him because he trusted Gregor. He had already been in command of military forces three times and fought under their flag a few dozen more. Hell, it was basically extra credit at the Academy, to take bounties for the city in four-person teams.

But doesn’t it always come back to the Academy between Leo and Father?

From an early age, Leopold had shown a streak of stubbornness and independence that their father was baffled by. And the more Lord Macwell tried to exert control over Leopold, the harder his younger brother fought against him. Leo didn’t do as well working or playing with other children. He was more prone to fighting and using his latent magic to cause trouble. He excelled at what he was interested in and blew off that which he wasn’t.

Later on, Gregor could have analyzed his brother and known that, while he might not have done well in groups, he’d be an excellent independent agent. But at the time, he had been serving his tenure at sea, learning to man ships and fighting pirates. His father had not been so understanding.

When Leopold was fourteen, he defied tradition and refused to enter the Academy. Lord Macwell agreed (“Yes, you clearly lack the discipline and intelligence.”) and so Leopold was put under Aboken’s private instruction. And, Gregor could admit, that hadn’t really helped. Leopold didn't trust Aboken (and neither did Gregor, for that matter). Within the year, his mother arranged for Leopold to serve his time at sea early, to help “calm him, a little”.

By the time both were at home again, Leopold was sixteen and Gregor, twenty. Sailing had agreed with Leopold. He came off the ships tanned, lean and strong, with a mouth for stories and a taste for ale. Leadership came much easier to him now. And Leo had such a cajoling way with troops put under his command during drills. Or, at least, he had learned the motions. And honestly, that was half the battle. But Gregor swelled with pride when he saw how much more sure of himself his little brother seemed. A sense of figuring out who he was, learning some things about himself.

I don’t want to leave him here with Father. The two come closer to blows every time they argue.

Gregor sighed. He could try talking to his mother about it, at least. He nodded to the guards posted at her chambers and they let him inside. He would come see her after dinner, usually, to discuss the day's events. Though the last three days it had been to ask about the investigation.

Talisa Macwell inclined her head to him as he entered. “My love, have some mulled wine with us. I know your mind is turning.”

“Us?” Gregor asked, coming a few steps into the room. He had an instant thought that maybe the De'Boons were here too. Here to talk about their daughter and demand answers. They had left five days prior, his Lady Mother had said. So word had been passed via Sending spell, apparently. But so far, they had not reappeared or replied. The silence in return felt somehow ominous.

But it was Leopold who perched there this time, cup of wine in hand, eyeing him from an overstuffed leather chair next to the fire place.

“Your brother tells me you’ve made yourself somewhat scarce.” She offered out the wine cup.

Gregor sighed and took it. Suddenly, he was twice as tired. “Preparations have to be made.”

Talisa nodded, glancing at her younger son. “Your father is correct, in that, life goes on. But Leopold assumed you would come to speak to me about the investigation.”

Gregor resisted looking at Leopold to wrinkle his nose at him. “Have you found anything?”

“Nothing new, I’m afraid,” Lady Talisa told him. “I will keep you updated as I can while you’re gone. I want to find her just as much as you, my dear. Hopefully alive. Huntmaster Blink did find the blood to be humanoid.”

“You really aren’t going to reconsider this? Either of you? I thought you, at least, would try and talk sense into him,” Leopold said, looking to his mother. “Father is sending him to a battle he can’t win—“

“Leopold,” his mother said, suddenly dark and sharp. “The world cannot revolve around our whims.”

The sorcerer made a frustrated growl. “I’m not saying it should! I’m saying this is stupid and pointless!”

“Father trusts me,” Gregor sounded tired when he spoke down into his wine cup. Then he looked at his mother. “If you find the people who hurt her, I want them.”

“Of course, Gregor,” she assured him, touching his arm. “I’ll see to it that they live long enough for you to meet them.”

Leopold was looking back and forth between the two of them. “Mother, you’re going to let this happen—“

“We all have our duties to this city,” Talisa replied, looking down her nose at Leopold for a moment. “If we cannot lead then how can we expect our troops to fight?”

Leopold drug his hand through his hair. “Gregor, this is exactly the kind of bullshit our family does! They want to guilt you into a battle for his fucking pride!”

“Leopold,” Gregor cut him off, gently this time. “Stop. Just stop.”

His brother stood up, shaking his head. “I can’t fucking believe this.” And with that, he simply walked out.

Gregor watched him go, mournfully, but his mother touched his arm again.

“He will come around one day, Gregor.”

Gregor frowned and looked down at the floor. “I don’t think he will.”

Leopold didn’t go to the ceremony when Gregor left. He stayed in his rooms, making his own preparations. The Macwell colors bled out of his tabards and the black soot took its place. He packed up maps, pipe weed, his sword and a dagger. A few hundred gold and rations, hidden in different pouches and pockets. Leopold mussed his hair out of place and drew up his thickest cloak with the deepest pockets.

Before he opened the passageway, he pulled off his signet ring and placed it down on his desk. The sorcerer grimaced at it for a long moment and then he turned to his hearth and pressed in the trick tile. A stone clicked in the wall and the passage grated open. A draft of cold, musty air flooded into his bedroom.

He would have to avoid the primary port in the city. Too many captains knew him. But he could go to the north side of the island and hook up with trader vessels heading back out to sea. That was safer than trying to go to the mainland directly north of Jildos. The Sharpfleece plains had orcs and meat-eating sheep. But if he worked on a ship, he could eventually get off at a port somewhere.

Leopold closed the door, nodding when he heard the locking mechanism click. He felt blindly in the darkness for a moment until his hand found the sconce he'd left a torch in.

Lighting it with a wave of his hand, Leopold set off down into the sewer tunnels. It took most of the night to navigate the incredible maze underneath the city. The layout of Jildos was massive, as cities went. The tunnels underneath stretched even farther and had outlets in every direction. The farthest tunnel north being twenty miles outside the city. It also was not well-maintenanced and Leopold had to wade through walls of spider webs and animal bones to finally slip into an underground outpost. This was also stone, damp and dank and thankfully, empty. Leopold was able to emerge into a rickety hunting shack in the middle of a wooded glen.

When Leopold slipped out into the late afternoon shadows, he headed into the trees. He camped alone for two days, always keeping an ear out for running guards or any shouting. He had no way of knowing if his mother had sent people after him so he traveled always with an eye looking back. His vigilance paid off and he was able to get into a much smaller port at the north end of the island, simply called Highport.

It was a bustling little city, as it was the first stop for trading ships from the north. All were required to be inspected before heading downriver to the capital. Several taverns popped up all around the port and so the nighttime alehounds and sailors either coming in or preparing to leave all gathered for talk and drink.

Leopold found the largest tavern and searched out a merchant captain to appeal to.

He found a barrel-chested human in his early forties with a close-shaven beard and tiny ash-blond warrior braids. He had a longsword and a scimitar at his hip. This large human leaned back in his chair when Leopold approached with a smile and asked who the captain of their merchant crew might be. He looked Leopold up and down. "That'd be me. What do you want?"

"Looking to work my way across the water, Captain," Leopold told him, keeping eye contact with the human.

That made the man's eyebrows raise up, and he sat up straighter to get a better look at him. “You ever sailed, boy?”

“I have, sir,” Leopold answered him, carefully polite but still keeping eye contact. “I can work for passage, if that’d fit?”

“Where you lookin to go, son?”

Leopold shrugged. “Anywhere that ain’t here, sir.”

That made the captain crack a smile. “Well said, boy. I can understand that. Go to the port, find my ship. It’s called the Humming Depths. My cargo-master is there. His name is Ollier. Tell him Captain Vrosstan sent you to sign on.”

“All right. Humming Depths. Find the cargo-master, his name is Ollier. Tell him the boss sent me to sign on.”

“What’s your name, boy,” Captain Vrosstan asked, peering at him.

Leopold took a silent breath and then said: “Cam. Just Cam.”
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Chapter Text

“Tell me, Lady Talisa, what sort of magic interests you?” Lord Buvgai Aboken, the tiefling mage, asked, inclining his head to her politely.

The Lady’s study was warm woods and rich red carpets. And now that she had produced an heir for Lord Macwell, she seemed suddenly encumbered with unoccupied time. She took care of Gregor herself, of course, but matters of state were no longer brought to her.

But Aboken had noticed that this young lady, originally an outsider of Jildos, showed no insecurity at that. Talisa had a silver tongue and was quick to fill her husband’s insecurities with bricks of gentle smiles and encouragement. There was just something about her. And so the tiefling had come, pleased that she had requested his input about magic social circles within the city. To his knowledge, Talisa knew very little magic.

Or, well, that’s what he’d been told. Standing in her study and permitted to examine her, the woman definitely had a spicy linger of magic about her. But, more interesting, it was necrotic magic and raw sorcery.

The lovely young mother, olive-toned and graceful, bowed to him. “Is there a limit on what I might study?”

“Oh no, my lady, I only ask so that I may better direct your inquiries. I can tell that you have already had some study in necromancy, though, to your credit, it is difficult to tell.” That was the only time Aboken saw just a minute flicker in her hazel eyes.

Talisa studied his expression carefully. “Is that something that offends you, Lord Aboken?”

The tiefling placed a hand over his heart and bowed to her. “In fact it does not, my lady. Necromancy is a specialty of mine. It is not often I find another practitioner. But I had heard, my lady, that you knew no magic?”

Talisa’s shoulders were straight and proud and she lifted her nose when she said, “I believe a young lady is due a few secrets. My family understood that much can be used against a woman, if it is known.”

“Given my heritage as a tiefling, I understand that better than most, my lady.” Aboken smiled. “I can give you some materials that might be relevant to your interests and see what you think, with discretion, of course.” He bowed again.

Her eyes sharpened but then she bowed back. Aboken kept his word. Over time, he found that Talisa was far beyond basic level necromancy. That she had already traveled to other planes. Among her own family, it was a considered a rite of passage at thirteen to be escorted to the Shadowfell and back by a trusted relative (traditionally a grandparent).

She was so talented and so discrete at hiding it that Aboken eventually would sit with her to ask what she knew about Kri'zakth.

Talisa sipped her wine. Gregor was sitting on the floor in front of the fire. The toddling little thing had a toy he was swinging around. “Nothing. Some sort of demon or devil?”

“Beyond that, my Lady. A being from the Far Realms. Kri'zakth wishes to return to the material plane. Myself and others act as his hands in this plane.”

Her eyes narrowed, watching him closely again. “….in exchange for what? In my experience, no one would do something like that for free.”

“For power, my lady. For a great deal of power.”

Talisa seemed to think on that quietly, eyes turning to her son.

“If you would like, my lady, I can give you an invitation to our next gathering? We have been in need of a mage of your caliber for some time.

And so he did. Talisa handled herself perfectly, of course. And she was fascinated by her new social circle, eager to learn from them. After a year among them, on the winter solstice, the time came to finally attempt another communing with Kri'zakth. It was Lady Talisa, selected by her peers, that was to be their representative. She had never been to the Far Realm but she knew it was full of insanity-inflicting horrors. But, the tantalizing magic, the knowledge, could be worth it. She was, second only to Aboken, the strongest sorceress among them but virtually unknown. They all agreed to continue to façade. Lady Macwell, the gentle, dignified wife, made it much easier for Talisa to hide in plain sight.

Aboken had been hesitant, for the first time since he’d initially spoken about magic. She was Lady Macwell, after all. If something happened to her, it might expose all of them. Talisa considered that only long enough to get a few arrangements made. For it seemed obvious to her cunning mind. She was confident, sure of herself, sure of her willpower. Those others who failed? Probably fearful and weak. People fear what they don’t understand.

Her husband, Lord Macwell, was away at another battle ground. There was an heir for the position, little Gregor, who watched her hidden magical studies with a child’s innocence. Gregor could simply stay here in her apartments with her handmaidens. They were all combat-trained, after all. (All handmaidens of Jildos were, making them excellent bodyguards and, occasionally, assassins. There was a special sect at the Academy for them.) And she had made a point to earn their trust since her arrival three years previous. They would believe whatever excuse she gave them. (“Just for the night, my dears. My Lord Husband wrote to me, urging me to keep busy while he is away. So I am going to speak with Lord Aboken about our political affairs. Perhaps I can assist him.”)

She planned her trip carefully, showing up to the council building in her gown and then changing into armor, with weapons and magic at the ready. Even warlocks that made deals with their patrons could not always expect to be protected by them. Or from them, for that matter. The gathering of a dozen or so people had lost others in the past when doing exactly this. They prayed and worshiped and communed with Kri’zakth but none of them had ever seen him. None of them had even heard the name until they came to Jildos, just like Talisa.

The ritual required to send her there was also extensive. There were no known portals to the Far Realms, after all. It required ten lives. And there was no certainty that she would return. The spell outlined only that people before her had gone there. The few who returned had almost nothing coherent to tell the others. Two even seemed to have reached Kri’zakth but were so damaged they could not communicate how they had come back.

That was the turning point for Talisa. This was different from going to the Shadowfell. Like going to the Nine Hells, souls were required to pay the toll. When she was ready, Aboken met her in his office and then took her into one of the many secret passages that spiderwebbed through Jildos.

They both knew the route by now but Talisa was content to follow, breathing slow and even. She was ruminating how to prepare herself for a realm that was basically insanity but concluded that doing so was ultimately pointless. She would have to adapt or die.

“The prisoners you sent us definitely speeded up this process, my lady,” Aboken told her quietly. “Gathering ten souls without anyone noticing can be difficult.”

“Yes, I imagine it would be,” she answered, hands folded together. They were passing through a cell corridor. “They’re sentenced to death anyway. I assume Kri’zakth doesn’t care if they’re willing or not.”

“That is true,” Aboken agreed as he finally opened a gate and led her into a ritual chamber. Five of the others were already there, cleaning and lighting candles. The other five were preparing a sort of station with food, water and blankets, to be used if Talisa returned. I will return.

The ten prisoners were hauled in, gagged, bound and dumped around the chamber in blood-stained spots. Some of them were struggling. One was cursing around her gag. Their throats were cut in short order and Talisa entered the carved circle. The others chanted, sharing their own blood, offering their power to propel their chosen traveler to the Far Realm.

The torches and fires all pulled in, light dimming, shadows reaching with branching fingers to brush against her own. Talisa felt a rush of adrenaline. She’d expected fear but the stab was of excitement. The cool touch was stable, soothing, dark—

And the ritual chamber was gone.

Deep down, Talisa had, perhaps, hoped that the Far Realm would just have a lot of talk associated with it. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. She’d been terrified as a girl to go to the Shadowfell but afterwards, wondered at why she’d been so scared. But that was not to be here.

The sorceress had no way of knowing if she had reached her destination. It was difficult to focus her eyes on any one object. But her mind was clear. And yet, nothing felt right. Her whole body hurt, everything ached down to the nerve endings. Even the heavy air was uncomfortable. There was no gravity and she began to move almost instinctively.

But she could think. Her mind hadn’t immediately snapped. The sky was heavy and silent. Lady Talisa took some moments there, adjusting herself. And finally, she was able to look up and see.

Everything was glossy, ethereal blue. There were milky-white rivers in the air. Nodes of stone hung like baubles. Some emanated light, others were flowing with water, one with a syrupy-looking redness that she stepped away from swiftly. Formations of stone were littered on the ground. They seemed almost like statues but malformed. Figures of wretched-looking birds, massive in scale and twisted. Talisa summoned a spectral horse to herself. It trotted over an ominous pit hidden by a long, narrow crack in the ground. A giant pulsing eye stared down at her from a coiling tendril or vine, Talisa wasn’t sure which. She felt its gaze lance into her. It sent an icy cold bolt into her belly.

Her mind was filled up with screaming, shrieking, moans of pain or ecstasy, death rattles, drowning and combat. Talisa hung onto her spectral horse. Her nose and ears began to bleed. Her vision was blurring, stinging. The horse jolted, tumbling and then whisking through the lack of gravity.

Everything was pressing down on her as she raced across the strange realm. It was hard to remember which way was up when there was no gravity. Images were cramming themselves into her brain.

Her first venture into the Shadowfell alone. Her first time fighting a nothic. A handsome young man in grubby armor. Her mother explaining the logic behind her wedding into the Macwell family. A set of mismatched eyes (one blue, the other acid green).

(“I’ve brought you a gift—“)

Talisa’s eyes were closed but somehow, she could see ahead. Far ahead. Twisting pits of bubbling acid, screaming bodies, shrieking monsters but no matter how she tried to wrench back from the sight, she couldn’t. So she opened her eyes.

(“What do we know about the De’Boons?”)

It was still hard to breathe. Outlines of ruined buildings blurred passed her. Something sobbed in one of them. But now that Talisa’s eyes were open, she found it still was strange to see. To look around her. To…to….look down at her arm and realize there was a large purple eye looking back at her. Wired into her flesh with pulsing veins. She jerked back from her own limb.

(“Look for a young man with mismatched eyes.”)

“Don’t forget where you are,” she muttered to herself. Talisa did not understand the words she heard in her own voice but this was the Far Realm. Madness. Best not to take anything as it is. As if her surroundings knew her thoughts, she heard her mother’s voice:

(“Sweet Tali, courtesy is armor. When you control yourself, you can control what others perceive you to be. And that is a very, very important skill.”)

But there were so many voices. So many memories and stories trying to stuff themselves in and crawl out her eye sockets. There were too many, ringing in her skull. Some didn’t even seem to be her own.

(“If you can fight, you can dance. I’m sure of it.”)

The eye on her arm was burning and seeping pus and blood—

(“Yes, my dear, you will marry this man and bear his children. But he does not own you.”)

Talisa broke out in a cold sweat, her stomach heaved and the purple eye rooted into her arm bloomed with blackened spots of corruption. And then abruptly, her horse stopped. She was dumped onto the ground. The sorceress pushed herself up, swaying, struggling to keep from fainting.

There was a breath of quiet in her mind and then a blaring drone of noise. It forced her to her knees. There were eyes on the ground and up in the air, staring at her, into her. The great layers of the multiverse were like a film in the sky above. Like an open book with pages made of glossy webbing and taffy. They stretched and waved, absorbing light, wind, magic and creatures.

The droning sound peeled open her mind and looked in. It asked nothing, though she could detect it was observing and making judgment. Sweat dripped from her brow, scattering on the dark stone ground. Her eyes throbbed and began to bleed. Do not panic. Keep control.

A place of fire and torment flashed through her brain and suddenly, she heard a voice growling something. The language was gnarled and dark. A devil flashed through her brain, and she knew somehow that this was a vision of Asmodeus, king of the devils, and ruler of the Nine Hells.

(”BIND TO ME.”)

Talisa suddenly realized that her eyes were still open (including the one on her arm) but she couldn’t see. She could only hear that language thunder in her mind. Everything around her was burning away, disappearing. Her thoughts were raw, not her own, invaded and intruding and ripped apart. Then placed back together. The devil king, godly stones, a halfling signing his name and a strange gem appearing in his hand. A woman with lungs full of sand. Full of sand. Full of—

When Talisa opened her eyes, she was on the floor of the ritual chamber. Aboken was kneeling at her side. “I’m checking the whites of your eyes for corruption, Lady Talisa.”

“Check the one on my arm,” Talisa muttered, automatically moving her hand to the spot. There was no eye anymore, but a mangled, bloody wound of some kind.

“What do you remember?” One of the warlocks asked, peering at her eagerly.

And so, as Aboken tended to her bleeding nose and ears, she told them.

Years later, she still had dreams about the experience. The Far Realm had left an imprint that Talisa tried to ignore. Like a little seed that she couldn’t help but think about once a day, watering it into a sapling in her mind. Talisa didn’t enjoy that thought, of the Far Realms taking root in the back of her mind. But it was too late now.

She didn’t have a Dream, capital D, until Leopold was born. Literally, right after his birth, she passed out and dreamed of that terrible feeling, pressing her down into the birthing bed, draining all the remaining blood from her. And she felt more than heard the command, the feeling, the influence that Kri’zakth radiated.

Like an impression of a shifting, rotating shadows and sandy darkness swirled around Leopold. As if his birth had altered whatever course was foreseen. Perhaps that made sense. If something happened to Gregor, after all, Leopold would be next in line.

And then the shadows were swallowing and spinning around her and she heard that droning presence, that same voice, deep in her gut:

(”WAR TO ME.”)

When she’d awoken, an entire day had passed and the maester feared the worst but Talisa found she actually felt stronger than before. And, even better, she could sense that tiny flame in Leopold. The babe was a sorcerer, Talisa was sure of it. It would be, at least, ten or eleven years until it could be confirmed but she was so certain of it that she began to tweak her plans to the idea.

When Talisa had discussed the second vision of Kri’zakth Aboken was, understandably, stunned. And then excitement took over. Their lord had never spoken so directly to one of them before.

“Perhaps, when the flow of the universe shifts, our lord will send you other visions. My lady, I cannot express how happy I am that you have joined with us. Your power has grown significantly. I will continue to research how we might bind Asmodeus. The devil-king will not be an easy task. He must not become aware of our true intentions for him.”

“If security is a concern, then perhaps we can make our plans in the Shadowfell.”

Her keep among the black shadowlands had taken some months to complete. Talisa constructed it with magic to make it permanent over time and connected it via a portal. The key to it was actually a prism, a simple-looking bauble that, once the codeword was said, would instantly teleport her to the foyer of the keep. Talisa kept it on a simple chain around her neck, stowed beneath her gown.

And so no one at the Macwell Estate was the wiser as their lady lived far beyond the confines of Jildos. Her husband was away for long stretches of time and she stepped into command with practiced confidence. But at the same time, she began to communicate with drow who identified themselves as being followers of Kri’zakth. She established a personal spy network that stretched over the mainland and the Underdark.

The dreams from the consuming lord were few and far between. At least at first. But once Leopold turned fourteen, there was another Dream after he was sent out to sea. But strangely, it was a flash of a young man Talisa did not recognize. This boy had one blue eye and one bleeding red eye, haggard, and carrying a halberd. A skeletal canary and a raven perched on the walls of a ruin somewhere that Talisa did not recognize.

(“THE DREAMING DEATH.”)

Each dream was so intense that she would wake dizzy. But as her mind cleared, Talisa could feel that her power was manifesting more intensely. It became easier to simply control the weaker willed. But Gregor, while not as combative as Leopold, was still stubborn and willful. Bringing her elder son under her command had taken a great deal of time. Another one of Kri’zakth’s visions led her to the Dreaming Eye which assisted in taking control of, not just Gregor, but also Asmodeus. Anyone connected to him would be connected to the Eye. When she eventually would present it to the devil-king, he would have no way of knowing it had been touched by Kri’zakth.

When Talisa had made contact, she approached the devil-king fearlessly and presented the Dreaming Eye as a gift. It would connect souls to him, storing them for himself. Talisa had already placed about a hundred inside of it.

While the devil-king examined it, seeming interested, he said, “And what do you want in exchange for such a bauble? It seems a necromancer of your caliber would have a lot of use for something like this.”

“A favor, my king,” Talisa answered, feeling the devil peer into her. She held his gaze. “I commune with a Far Realm being called Kri’zakth. This is very difficult for a number of reasons. And I hope that perhaps, in the future, if I need magical aid, I might call upon you.”

His handsome features turned up, smirking a little as he openly examined her up and down. “Aren’t you a confident one?”

“I am sure you could detect if I were lying, my king,” Talisa answered, voice measured and even. “The ancient lord Kri’zakth bestowed a vision upon me that led me to his Dreaming Eye. I have no interest in giving my soul to you but I respect your great power, as I am merely mortal. This Eye can store thousands of souls and it will connect you to them. In exchange, when the time comes for me to commune with our lord Kri’zakth again, I would respectfully ask for your assistance. Just that one time, as a show of power, no more than that.”

Again, Talisa could feel Asmodeus staring into her. But nothing she had said was a lie (technically).

And so, after some thought, the devil-king agreed. Amused and curious about, what he assumed, were petty human cultist affairs. A sideshow. And in return, he got an object that would let him use thousands of souls and easily torment them, if he wished. Mortals were so silly sometimes.

Talisa took her leave afterwards. And that night had another vision, feeling great Kri’zakth’s acknowledgement. And when she awoke, her magic was expanded. And she could now scry in on the King of the Nine Hells. Truly incredible, as an experience.

At present, Talisa Macwell was sipping wine, studying a fresh page of her private journal. Oh, if only Leopold had come with them. Gregor couldn’t speak so it was always so quiet here. He seemed back to normal after suffering whatever had happened to him but Talisa no longer wanted to leave him alone when he guarded something. The poor thing still cried out and wept in his sleep.

Speaking of guards, she heard the shuffle of feet and armor before the knock came to her door. One of her servants announced herself before she cracked open Talisa's door. “My lady, a scout has arrived who says they located your prisoners in the Ninth Hell.”

Instantly, Talisa hurried downstairs to where the scout, a bearded devil, was waiting in the foyer. “You found Leopold?”

“Yes, my lady, in the Nine Hells. What do you want us to do with him and the other two?” The devil squinted at the human. He had wicked looking swords and studded metal armor, rusted with blood on the spiked shoulders.

“Catch them and take them to Kri'zakth. Keep them alive until I come for them.”

The captain seemed to fight a smirk. “Am I take that to mean you're leavin ‘em with us, my lady?”

Talisa sighed at him and nodded. “Yes. Their choices are made. Take them to Kri'zakth and do as you will with them. But again, keep them alive until I come for them. Make sure they do not slip away again.”

It was impossible to tell night from day in the horrorscape of wherever they were in the Ninth Hell. The bound up, writhing bodies were endless, the purple shadows and blackened, slimy webs stretched for miles in every direction.

So when Dagna spotted a large, looming shadow in the near distance, she put out her hand to stop the other two. “That shadow looks more solid. Might be a building or just a particularly thick clump of bodies.” She used her hand to point to the northeast of their position.

“Let’s swing northwest then,” Cam murmured, narrowing his eyes at the shadow. He checked around him reflexively, scanning the horizon.

But as the three of them approached it wasn’t a building at all. It was a mighty, dead tree. Its girth was gargantuan. It would take five hundred sets of hands just to encircle the trunk. But there were no leaves and the bark was battered, stripped bare in some places. Massive roots uncoiled like pythons around the base of the dead tree. Mist clung to them like silk.

There was no real earth for the tree to anchor itself in, though. It appeared to be growing atop a massive pit in the rock. The sight of the open air under the many roots gave all of them a twinge of unease. Everything around the tree was still velvet dark. There was no sign of spiders here, though some of the branches had writhing bundles hung on them like holiday garland on a lord’s chandelier.

“Oh, I hate every part of this,” Cam muttered as they continued their slow trek.

Boone brought up the rear, eyes constantly moving around them. “There are no bodies down here, just up in the branches—“

Cam and Dagna whirled around as Boone was suddenly whipped up into the air and tossed by one of the massive roots. The paladin slammed into the trunk of the huge tree.

“Motherfuck!” Dagna yelled and the two were off, sprinting over the uneven stone. She threw herself to one side when another root tried to swipe her. A whipping root as big around as a horse bashed at Cam but the sorcerer threw up his shield. It barely held and they both kept running.

Boone was struggling to stand, swaying and rattled. Her nose was bleeding and her whole body hurt.

“This human looks lost.” The voice was raspy, growling, as a barbazu, a bearded devil, appeared before her. Immediately recognizable by their beard-like tendrils, Boone had seen drawings of them at the Temple. It seemed a fairly close approximation. His skin was thick, muscled and tinted purple. The barbazu's hair was summer green but the tendrils on his face were a sickly bright shade of the same color. The devil had a hand on his sword and was holding up a torch. “Most of you don’t walk around.”

“Boone!” Cam came sprinting up.

“And here are the other two, yeah?” The barbazu said, looking sidelong at the bard and sorcerer as they slowed. “There’s a delicious bounty up for you three.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Dagna demanded.

“Doesn’t matter. No one likes it when the meat gets away!” The devil threw the torch between the roots and it fell into the pit below.

“Oh fuck you—“ Dagna started but another root whipped up and tried to smash into her.

Cam rushed the devil, driving his sword into his gut and inflicting upon him. At the same time, Boone seemed to regain her balance and slashed at the devil’s back. Holy fire ripped up the seam of his spine while the necrotic ate into his belly.

And then orange light flared beneath them, under the roots of the tree.

Boone recoiled, looking down.

“Unfortunate for you, lovely.” The bearded devil smirked and all the roots of the tree flipped up.

Boone and Cam fell, plummeting into the dark. They both heard Dagna cursing, screaming something and then she was thrown in after them. The sorcerer grabbed onto Boone, yanking her into him and protecting her head when they shattered the surface of some kind of black, oily water.

Instantly, barbazu were on them, fishing them out of the water and dragging them both to a sort of boardwalk built into stone deep beneath the massive tree. Cam flipped around and came up swinging, slashing the nearest devil. Boone roared, scrambling up, grappling with another.

Dagna was swarmed by five devils. She threw out Shatter and blasted them back before another group threw a weighted net over her. The bard fought, firing her handbow with abandon into the group of barbazu before her. She could see Cam and Boone, fighting. She clenched her fist and cast Dimension Door, warping over to the other two. Dagna jabbed her rapier into the devil clawing at Boone, like a flashing needle.

Six more barbazu appeared with crossbows. Another four circled with swords and hammers.

"Dag, get Boone out—!“ And then two bolts struck Cam in the chest. The sorcerer staggered and three devils jumped on him, bashing Cam into the ground, crushing the crossbow bolts deeper into his chest.

“No, no, no!” Boone bellowed, charging forward. Two more crossbow bolts hit her, one in the thigh and one to the ribs and then an oozing longbow arrow punched through the plate and into her spine.

“Fuck! No! Fucking stop! I’ll kill you!” Dagna dodged an axe, sprinting up on the devils scuffling with Cam. She smashed herself into one, stabbing with her sword. But Cam was hauled up, blood drenching the front of his gear. He looked pale, faint and there was blood on his lips. He was struggling to breathe.

“Cam!” Dagna screamed it when he was tossed to another barbazu like a sack of grain. She whirled, slashing at the next devil and saw Boone with four crossbow bolts and an acid arrow sticking out of her like flagposts.

The paladin was still fighting, slashing with her sword. The pain was just a buzzing in the back of her brain now. Boone couldn't even feel it. It seemed surreal when Dagna raced up, bashing into another devil near her. But then one was popping up behind the bard. Boone opened her mouth to yell: “DAGNA!”

But it was too late. The wicked, curved dagger stabbed down into her back like a furious hornet and the bard seized. Boone heard more than felt two more arrows burst through her chestplate. Each delivered a thunderous shock that sent her reeling back onto the ground. The arrow in her back snapped, jolting the half still inside of her and pain seared down every nerve ending. For a moment, she couldn't see, glacier blue eyes glassy and bloodshot.

“Don’t worry, human,” said the barbazu captain, smirking. “We don’t get to kill you. We’ll have you back up soon enough.” He winked and punched the teenager in the face.

Everything went dark.

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Chapter Text

In Leopold’s experience sailing with the Navy, he had learned much about the different kinds of sailors out on the water. As a teenager, he and some fresh recruits from the Academy (two years his senior), were excited and a little nervous. With good reason. The seas were dangerous, full of pirates and enemies. Not to mention the monsters that were said to roam the deep waters of the world.

Pirates seemed to be made up of all classes of people. If someone seeking adventure thought military sailing was too structured, they might go for a pirate ship instead (like Cam had briefly considered). But typically, as the veteran sailors would tell them, pirates were usually made out of poverty and misery. Desperation. Which meant killing for the means to survive. Dressing it in the glamour of the raucous pirate allowed them to cope with such a chaotic lifestyle. Some were better than others. But there were heartless pirates too that were basically nothing more than slavers.

Traders also had a blend of people among their decks. Some were pirates trying to go straight, mercenaries and merchants, navy veterans and the restless. And some seemed a little more daring than others and might be prone to a bit of theft if no one was around to catch them.

So Cam felt like he was able to integrate with the rough and tumble crew fairly well. But, they were still a trading vessel, albiet a heavily armed one. And when a crew is at least half-inclined towards occasional piracy, they must be ready to answer when full-time pirates come knocking.

And there was no mistake, the Humming Depths rowed loud. North and east, circling the jungle and sandy palm beaches on the mainland. It was a week of sailing around the northernmost landmass to get to Etherforge on the western side.

Leopold had visited the magnificent city but Cam did not quite dare to show his face, although the city was extraordinarily beautiful in its blend of metal and magic. Instead, he stayed on the ship, learning from Ollier and generally keeping himself busy. Only once, in the late evening, did he go out and buy some sailing gear so he wouldn’t stick out among the crew. His once-neat appearance had been flicked away days ago now, dismissed and unneeded. Cam let his stubble grow in and pulled his hair into a shaggy tail.

Etherforge was their first major stop after Jildos. Then would be Marisport. Cam was contemplating getting off there to try and find his brother, perhaps. Or he could continue with the ship to Ebreosea. He couldn’t be entirely certain that Gregor would be happy to see him, after all, considering their last conversation. But his brother was more important than pride. Unless Gregor tried to send him home. Leopold was not too keen on that idea. He could only imagine how furious his mother was going to be.

Cam put it from his mind. It was another couple weeks of sailing before he had to make that decision. Right now, he needed to focus on blending in, gathering information and making himself useful. He even got to show off a little fire when a pirate ship started following them a little too closely. He set their black sails alight, much to the crew’s amusement.

That night, Cam plotted the constellations. By morning, they should be rounding the straight shot west, following the northern coast. There were tiny lights in the distance and thick cloud cover as the Depths climbed the waves and flew over the foam of the monolithic pits of the sea.

The next morning, the bells were ringing. Cam started awake in his bunk to fellow sailors, Chipper and Jon the Fish, grumbling. Hati, a half-orc, called, "All hands, chucklefucks!" before she disappeared to the top deck.

“What the fuck?” grumbled Jon the Fish. He was the best swimmer among the crew, grizzled by age and survival, probably a former pirate, heavily tattooed and brown as leather.

There was scrambling above them on the deck. Chipper got up. He was older than Cam by at least a dozen years and looked more than weathered for it. His brow was heavy and his eyes dark blue like a hurricane. “That’s the warning bells. Let’s go. Mayhap there’s a storm.”

“Smell the air, boy. That's smoke, not salt!” Jon the Fish swore (he called everyone younger than him 'boy'), turning to glare at Cam. “Get up, harpie. That’s the call bell.”

“My hair is better kept than a harpie, at least.” Cam was up, tying his shaggy black hair in a tail as they headed up to the deck. Despite the brusque nature of Jon the Fish, or maybe because of it, Cam liked him. He was refreshingly blunt. He called Cam a harpie because of his handsome features and smart mouth but had also looked out for him.

Once Jon, with a hard, discerning eye, had even deigned to give him advice. Down in the hold on a night of rest, most everyone else was either exploring the local village and its unnamed dock, or had duties above. But Cam and Jon were sitting at a table together with plates of roasted vegetables and salmon, seeing if each had enough playing cards to make a full deck. Their pipes made the room hazy and warm in the flicker of two lanterns hung from the ceiling.

The old pirate had unwrapped some pipe weed from Etherforge that was green as summer grass and potent as rum. "You ever seen this, harpie?"

Cam had, in both the city proper and in undercity market, but he knew it was harder to obtain outside of Etherforge. "Looks like some kind of cactus flower. I think it was sold at some of the port shops in Jildos. I assumed alchemists use it?"

That was the moment when Jon's eyes narrowed and he suddenly peered at Cam. "Z'at so, harpie. Good apothecary can get you all kinds of things. You fight, boy?"

Cam had looked him in the eye and Jon didn't look away, except to raise his bushy eyebrows and use them to point to Cam's own hands. They were dotted with small scars from combat practice from the time he was eight. Cam had brushed them off as being from fishing hooks and the like but the sorcerer could see it in Jon's expression. He can tell.

"Don't panic, boy. It's in the way you carry yourself. You got a sword all wrapped up and hidden away instead of out and on you. But yer still confident that you can protect yourself and you know your way around a ship." Jon held up a grizzled hand, missing a chunk from his middle finger, because Cam had visibly stiffened a little when the pirate revealed the knowledge of his hidden sword. "So I don't give a toss why or where you're running. But keep your wits about yeh, you're clearly trained. Not a poor fisherman's son down on 'is luck. Be a mercenary, harpie. Jildos don't like to say it, but they're just a pack of the same."

This pack of ocean-mercenaries passed around a cigarette and Jon the Fish drank right from an urn of mulled wine as they mounted the stairs and ladders.

But on deck, they all slowed, staring at the massive clouds gathering to their immediate south on the mainland and rolling over the whole stretch of sea before them. At this coordinate, the Great Chain should practically be in sight. The gargantuan, metal links branching out of a massive slab of granite and tethered somewhere in the sky. No one had ever reached the end of it or discerned its purpose but it was so massive that one could easily see it from nearby ships. But this morning was not the case. Over the mainland and rolling down the coast was a haze of smoke, black and heavy.

Captain Vrosstran was at the helm, peering into the darkness, mouth set in a deep frown. “Take the sails in and pull out the oars. Smells like a battle. We’ll veer northerly. But not too far, we don’t want to run into the Isle of Storms.” His First Mate, a male goliath, thundered off to give orders.

The Humming Depths rolled through another wall of smoke and soot, blotting out the clear morning sky. There were no birds, even as they cleared the blackness. But Cam gripped the railing hard.

There were ten ships flying Jildosi flags. Ten ships that were all blazing, flames licking up their masts. Along the coast and farther inland, a scar of fires was roasting the nearby forests.

“Who’s Jildos playin war with now?” Chipper asked, frowning as he scanned the sea ahead. Debris was starting to float their way on the currents.

“Cin Amon,” Cam muttered and pointed when he saw one of their flags. The burning Jildosi ships were being boarded. The din of fighting and screams rattled over the sea. No doubt there were fresh-faced teenagers among them, getting their first and last taste of battle, probably.

“Man off starboard deck!” One of the lookouts howled. It seemed loud somehow, despite the screams of dying sailors and burning forests.

“Bring him up!” The captain ordered, turning away from the carnage to go to the other side of his ship while the sailors scurried around and threw a rope down, pulling up a ragged and water-logged half-elf wearing the Circle City’s white on gold. He cringed back from them.

“No fear from us, boy. We’re just traders. We don’t care whose side you’re on. What’s your name, lad?”

“Roothen,” the boy managed.

“What happened?” Vrosstran asked him.

The boy, who might have been nineteen, pulled off his sword and belt, breathing raggedly. “There’s a battle.”

“We saw. Between who?” The captain asked him, gesturing to the ship’s cleric as the man brought forward a blanket, towels and some fresh water.

The boy drank furiously before he breathed again. “Jildos and Cin Amon.”

“Eh, yeah, mercenary city versus the warmonger city,” Chipper muttered.

But Cam felt his gut seize, his heart skipped. This was the battle.

“Those are Cin Amon’s colors, yeah?” The Captain was examining the boy’s sword.

“Yeah,” Roothen answered, muted and tired. “We won but two of our ships went down too and the current pulled me out to sea. We sunk all of theirs. The higher ups found out that Jildos sent one of their princes with more men.” He gestured weakly to the burning ships.

“One of the Macwells?” The Captain asked, eyebrows shooting up.

Roothen shrugged. “I guess so. The line fell near the Junction. Lord Macwell was taken prisoner. He’ll be dead by now.”

It took every fiber of control to mask his expression when Cam processed those words. Everything seemed to grey out around him, staring into the bellowing fires.

“Shit,” the trader captain announced. “Well, that’s probably gonna change some things. I was just in Jildos. Hadn’t heard shit about it.”

The boy shakily got to his feet. “The commanders all know the Macwell’s reputation, I guess. They weren’t sure which son it would be. But I guess the younger one has been missing for over a fortnight.”

That seemed to give the captain a start. “What! So both of them are gone?”

Roothen shrugged again. “I guess so. I didn’t see it. Just heard about it. They took Gregor Macwell prisoner. He’s the commander so.” Roothen grimaced and traced the stump of his neck with his thumb.

“Royals and all their damn problems,” Jon the Fish grumbled, rolling his eyes.

“They ain’t royals,” Chipper said, crossing his arms. “Though they might as well be, I guess.”

“You’re from Jildos, right?” Hati said, nudging Cam in the shoulder with her elbow.

The sorcerer shook himself and took a breath. His fingers had pins and needles running through them. “Yeah—and yeah, pretty much. Council members are treated like royals though they technically aren’t. Rich assholes being rich assholes.”

“That’s the fuckin truth,” Chipper agreed quietly, pulling out another homerolled cigarette and lighting it.

“You won’t be able to dock at Marisport,” Roothen continued. “It’s all on fire. It’ll be locked down by the time you get there.”

Gregor is dead. Cam had to steady himself again, like the world was falling out of focus. His lungs wanted to seize, his stomach hurt. Gregor is dead. Father sent him to his fucking death.

“You understand that if I can’t dock at Marisport, the closest you’re getting to a proper dock is Eberosea, lad? I mean, unless you wanna swim to shore and get back to your people?”

The boy looked out to sea and then back to Captain Vrosstan. “…I can sail if you take me with you?”

“Ah yeah, you’re a sailor, aren’t you? Good lad. Welcome aboard.”

Cam was no longer listening. He went back to the other railing, watching the coils of black smoke obscure the entire coast. I will never go back. Ever. Fuck them and fuck Jildos.

Thankfully, Cam was sent to the oars for the day. He didn’t have to talk to anyone when he was on oars. He could just row, wrapping his hands in rags. It let him bring everything down, simmering in to just focusing on doing strong, deep pulls with the other rowers so he wouldn’t focus on Gregor. Why did you have to listen to him, Gregor? Fucking idiot.

It wasn’t until he took a turn up in the crow’s nest that evening, as the smoke was now fading into the distance, that he silently wept.

Gregor was dreaming.

He hadn’t realized it until just this moment, standing on bare, black stone in the middle of an empty wasteland. The sky was bright orange-red, casting the plain of dark rock in faint, tawny light. There were no living creatures around him. The flat rock stretched before him for thousands of miles, far off to the horizon, unable to make out anything at all.

(“Dreaming is another form of living. Sleeping is another bit of death. If gods lie dreaming of the material plane, what evidence is there that they draw breath?”)

Gregor slowly turned around. Behind him was not the expansive field of black rock but a forest of dead trees. Gregor felt himself pulled forward, unable to help himself. Dread was sinking in, heavy and dark, as he began to hear the whispers among the rotting bark:

(“No, Lisan, Trenton was totally destroyed. There’s literally nothing left.”)

He felt the cold bite of metal striking into the back of his neck and shuddered, fighting the reflexive nausea that tried to sweep over him. Gregor palmed at his throat, feeling the scarred and molted flesh at the base of his neck. It made the dread deepen, harder to breathe.

(“My friend here, ha, she’s a little too much like you. And, uh, she can’t trade her life but…can I trade mine to rid her of the evil she carries?”)

The sky above was bloody-red and the stars were burning shards of silver but he kept moving into the trees. The dirt was black and matted with red.

(“This is the end, Lord Macwell. But do not worry. I imagine you’ll be waking again soon enough. Your mother has arranged for us to return your body to her very promptly.”)

Gregor found a small clearing in the trees. He saw himself, after the battle, beaten and bloody, taken by Cin Amon officers. He had only really remembered the moment of death. Not the minutes before. That had all been a haze.

(“You seem surprised by that, Lord Macwell.”)

The shadow of himself was, indeed, surprised by that. The shades of the officers seemed to share a round of chuckles at Gregor’s expense but when they moved to behead him, Gregor saw another shade watching from behind.

This one was different. This shadow was tall and wore a white, winged half-mask that had no eye holes where they should have been. But the rest of the figure was mist and darkness, wrapped in a silken black cloak. The other shades turned to sand and this tall one came forward, gliding over the matted, red earth. The voice Gregor heard then was echoing, full of whispers and shadows:

”We have not met. Yet I know you. Through all the connecting memories of those who love you, I know you. By the memories of those who hate you, I know you. And the memories of those to whom, you were only a face in the crowd, I know you. To guard a young aspect of Jazirian, to nurture the good in her.”

A few feet away, mist and shadows flooded up from the rotted earth, lovely Lady Devonshire, Boone, in the gown she’d worn at dinner that night so long ago. The stark dragon pendant seemed to wink at him in the dusky light.

”To help another, a young man, find his place.”

The sandy form of Cyrus Sabal whisked together next to this tall creature. His mismatched eyes were glowing and his halberd was shining like a prism.

”You know my messenger.”

A swirl of sand coalesced beside the masked figure. The name came to him in an instant. “Thioni.”

And just like that, Thioni seemed to step out of her sand figure, shaking dark dust from her brown mop of hair. Her sightless eyes were glowing. “Your mother watched you so closely that I had to step away from you. I am sorry for the pain it caused you.”

Gregor raised his eyes to the masked figure. “Are you the Lady of the Dead?”

The tall figure, who Gregor now realized must be the Raven Queen, bowed to him. ”My power is nearly spent and there is still much to do. The one who bore you is always listening. Her hold on your soul remains strong. My messenger is one who, despite the millions of souls the hungry god has trapped, is not connected to the memories of any of them. Thus, she is a ghost to the Dreaming Eye. But not to detection, entirely.”

Gregor rubbed his forehead, checking his surroundings again. “What do we do from here? I only know that Leopold is gone. I don’t know where they are. My mother is still watching me.”

”She has peeled back the layers of your mind, invaded your thoughts, your privacy, your sense of self. She loved you once, but now you are a tool to her. Do you understand this?”

Gregor winced at the ground, following a centipede with his eyes before he closed them and nodded. “Yes. I do. But I don’t know if I can kill her in the state I’m in. The magic she has is…incredible.”

”No. You cannot. But there are other steps you might take. Other pacts you might make, if you make them with me. For though my power is nearly spent, I can bestow the tool you will need. Soon, your mother will return to the material plane. You must go with her, still playing the part of her thrall. When you see your brother again, you’ll know that it is time. ”

Gregor felt a wave of dizziness come over him. He put a hand to his chest as it registered. Leo is alive. Thank fuck for that. “Where is he?”

”He will return to the material plane soon. The pieces are now in place. But for the moment, like many others, he is suffering.”

Gregor took a deep breath and nodded to the specter. “All right. Let’s make this pact.”

Boone came around, dazed and groggy. A devil tossed a small vial in a bucket and smirked at her. “Morning, human.”

Boone stiffened, realizing that her gear was gone. The rags of a prisoner had replaced her armor and the bite of a chain kept her throat leashed to the chair. Her hands were locked down with runed cuffs, no doubt to restrain her from using magic. She bared her teeth. “Where are my friends!”

“Don’t worry. We got each of ‘em a potion. The Lady doesn’t want you dead.”

Boone bristled, twisting against the cuffs and the armrest. “Is she on her way?”

“Eventually.” The devil winked. “But for now, you get to stay here with us. She lets us break some of the livelier ones sometimes.”

Boone surged against the chains coiled around her chest and throat, spitting and growling.

“Oh, well, ain’t you a feisty girl!” The devil picked up a hammer and slammed it into Boone’s sword hand.

Boone shouted, trying to recoil away. Her hand instantly throbbed, the middle knuckle was definitely crushed and the skin was turning purple and black.

“Yeah, that’s how it’s going to be, human,” the devil told her, putting his hands on his hips. “You just keep quiet now, eh?” He brought the hammer down on her left hand.

Boone felt the blunted head smash her first two fingers into the armrest. The nails split and blood spurted from them. The girl groaned, trying to smother it as much as she could, eyes flashing with rage. The pain was sharp, throbbing, burning the nerves.

“You feisty ones calm right down when I give you a dose of that, eh? Best part is, even if you die, we can bring you right back with potions. You want to see? Lady Macwell got us a very good supply chain from the Underdark.”

Boone was sweating now, still furious and she spit at the devil.

That seemed to amuse him. “Need a demonstration, eh?”

He brought the hammer down on her face. Again and again, smashing in her lovely eyes and bludgeoning her skull to mush. Or at least, that was how it felt.

Boone couldn’t remember much of it. Just horrific pain. And then waking up again with the devil shaking another little vial at her. “See. We have so many of these.”

“What do you wanna know so bad!” Boone spit.

He snorted. “Know? I aint tryin to know anything. You’re just here on our time, human.” The devil slid the tip of his knife along her scarred throat. “Looks like you’ve had fun already. Should we open it up again for you?”

“Fuck you,” Boone managed, teeth gritted, eyes flashing in fury.

A flick of silver, and he stabbed her in the left eye. That horrible feeling of rigid, cold metal inside of her skull, unable to jerk back or close her eye or protect it. The devil simply left it there, snickering. He pulled a chair up to her and sat down before her, leaning on his elbow to look into her face. “Oh yes, big bitch like you must be quite accustomed to others getting out of her way. God-touched, eh?” The devil nodded towards the mark on her face.

Blood was streaked over it from her ruined eye, matting her black hair to her skin. The pain was horrendous and Boone was only now just getting her breathing under some semblance of control.

“You want to talk about something, though? All right. Let’s talk about how Sabal reversed his undeath, yeah? The Lady seems very interested in that.”

“Fuck her. I’m not telling you shit!”

The devil chuckled. “That’s fine. Believe me. That’s just fine by me. The asking is the boring part anyway.”
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Chapter Text

The first thing Cam registered was that his head hurt. His eyes were burning, like they were being pierced by sunlight. But there was very little light, just the pain.

“Oh yeah,” a voice said, somewhere above him, sounding amused, “this one is the son.” It was the devil, Abilsin, who Cam had become quite unfortunately acquainted with since their recapture.

“The stupid one, I assume.”

“Yeah, the sorcerer. So we gotta make sure we break his fingers every time he comes around after the potion. Just like with the bard.”

Ah, yes, Cam remembered that now, as his eyes adjusted to the dismal, torch-lit room around him. His hands felt like pins and needles were sticking in them but he knew, without looking, that it was the shattered bone fragments sticking out of them. The pain was still there, raw and burning.

One of his malefactors suddenly chuckled. “Oh, he’s awake. Just in time to hear your rant, Abilsin.”

Cam felt his stomach turn as he broke out in a cold sweat. His hands and arms were lashed to a chair and his prisoner’s clothing was in tatters. He’d been beaten several times now. The sorcerer no longer remembered how many times he’d woken up with the taste of another potion tainting his palette. And then one of these fuckers would break his fingers. The first time, the one called Abilsin, had stared him right in the face as he snapped them with his bare-goddamn-hands, just waiting to revel in his suffering.

It was infuriating, humiliating, but there was nothing he could do. That was the worst part of it. And that was the point, of course. These were devils. This was exactly their game. Demons would have just slaughtered them.

All around Cam, sounds were coming back into his ears. He could hear horrible echoes like a piercing glass, agonized whimpering and sobbing, the dragging of metal and the rumble of this strange realm's red sun. Other prisoners were somewhere in this place. Cam had heard them, as they had no doubt heard him, by now.

“Devils are smart, yeah,” Abilsin obliged. He grabbed Cam by his hair and jerked him around. “But humans. Humans are truly amazing in their capacity for doing terrible shit to each other. I mean, a devil sees torture as beating you to eventual death, yeah? Physical. Very hands-on, as you’ve experienced. But not humans, oh no. I see why they was probably among the first of us.”

The second devil, one Cam didn’t recognize, came into view when Abilsin threw the sorcerer’s head aside. This one was grinning, tonguing a fang as he watched. These two both seemed to be sergeants, perhaps (or whatever the equivalent would be), and took a lot of pleasure from governing their little fiefdom here in the dungeons of wherever the fuck they were now.

“Mortals take almost as much pleasure from it as us, really,” Abilsin said, sounding thoughtful. “They built a metal bull. You put a person inside and slowly roast them to death. That’s impressive, you know.” The devil scraped a rusty metal chair across the stone in front of him and sat down, staring. "Elves did similar shit with magic. Torture is sort of a subjective idea, depending on your species."

Cam felt the devil's yellow and black eyes like the sting of a hornet on his forehead. He shuddered and managed, quietly, “If you’re waiting for me to disagree, you’re gonna be here awhile, pal.”

The second devil chuckled. “Well, at least, he’s realistic.”

“The only thing that does it better,” Abilsin said, leaning on his knee to stare at Cam, “is tugging at the heartstrings a little, yeah?” He looked up to the other devil and nodded towards the door. “Thought you might like to see how your friend is doing. So my friend, Belesis here, is gonna oblige you.”

Cam knew what the meant instantly. Deep in his gut, everything went cold and numb. There was only one real reason they’d bring Dagna or Boone in here: torture, obviously. Group torture because watching suffering is also torture. He looked at the floor, stared at the floor, made himself desperately search for every nook and cranny in the stone. Dag and Boone would both know this was coming too. They'd have to know, right?

“Not the mouse?” asked the second devil, Belesis, sounding rather hopeful.

“No, they got the mouse in the other wing,” Abilsin said, pointing vaguely. “The mouthy human bard with the red hair, dumbfuck.”

Everything was dim here, the walls and floor were dark stone, shadowed in red lights from fires. It smelled like smoke and burnt flesh. Cam could see that he was still inside of a larger cell. One where the devils could walk around him on a raised stone platform in the center of the room. And was big enough to have another, smaller cell, within. They had very much delighted in working over the delinquent son of Lady Macwell. And he had borne it because that was basically all he could do. Wait for an opportunity. Wait for them to get complacent.

So long as Cam didn’t forget who he was, didn’t become too numb, he could survive. This was about power for them. Let them think they had it on the outside and he would draw inward. He would hold himself close in a tight little knot.

And then he heard the shuffling at the entrance. Abilsin gave a throaty chuckle and left Cam’s ear, throwing the door open and stepping out into the hall. A body was tossed in. But Cam heard no other footsteps for a few moments and so he managed a shaking breath and glanced up.

It was Dagna. She had endured a savage beating and one of her hands had been chopped off, her wrist bound with a wrap of leather scrap.

You cannot. But Cam felt his whole being shudder, seeing her like that. Fear and rage blended together. He’d known it was coming but he couldn’t seem to help the faint sound in his chest that escaped through his gritted teeth. Finally, he managed, “Dag…”

The bard listed onto her side and started. “Cam…” She pushed herself, leaning hard on her remaining left hand. Her stagger was weak, nearly falling onto the raised platform the chair was bolted to. “Looks like you pissed them off too, eh…”

“Don’t, Dagna.” Cam started to shake his head when she fumbled at his cuffs. “Sit down. You’re either gonna pass out or bleed out.”

“I don’t think they’ll let me.” Her green eyes were red and glassy, framed with terrible bruises that were purple as thunderheads. But Dagna reached out her remaining hand to gently pull his hair out of his eyes for him. "You look great," she told him, eyeing the variety of wounds, bruises and scrapes on him.

Cam sputtered a little chuckle and muttered to her, in the cockiest voice he could manage in his current state of exhaustion, "I'd say you've lowered your standards but I always look great, c'mon."

Dagna smiled at him, gently gathering up his long, black hair, matted with blood, and twisted it back into a loose knot for him. It seemed silly but Cam suddenly felt a little steadier. But then the door opened again. Abilsin and Belesis walked in with three more devils. The former pointed at her. “Get her hand back on but only after she’s locked down.”

“You can fuck yourself,” Dagna panted, turning to face them, glaring at the devils.

“Actually a third of us have no physical gender at all,” one of the others informed her.

“Maybe Lady Macwell will let the other third of us keep you as a breeder,” Belesis suggested. He lunged for Dagna and the bard was too weak to react in time. The four devils dragged her into the smaller cell.

Abilsin was leaning on the chair again, watching through the bars as they secured the bard. Cam could clearly see her as they locked her down with short chains that ended with cuffs at the wrists and throat. They were now facing each other. She looked exhausted, numb, resigned.

The devils leered at her when they dumped a potion down her throat and held her bloody stump to her hand to reattach it. Then one of them immediately smashed her fingers to splinters, to deter her using magic, of course. The bard curled inward, gritting her teeth and shuddering through the sharp, white-hot waves of pain.

Abilsin gestured to Dagna. “See, cause Lady M only actually needs the paladin bitch. She doesn’t need the bard and, well, you made yourself expendable. But if it’s any consolation, she probably wants to kill you herself.” Abilsin grinned at him. “A mother’s love, eh?"

“Not all it’s cracked up to be, clearly,” Cam replied, gruff and low, letting some of his filthy hair fall back in his face.

“I can’t help but agree,” Abilsin agreed, still smirking. “I mean, it doesn’t change anything but I do agree with you.” And then he drew a dagger and punched it into Cam’s left lung. The devil openly laughed when the sorcerer stiffened. “Hold on, human. Stop squirming. Let me even you out.”

Cam was aware again of Dagna being forced to watch and so he kept his expression to himself, staring down at the stone floor again. He was starting to feel the pressure in his chest, building like a wave, the liquid-sound to his breath. He could already taste copper on the back of his tongue.

Abelsin stood in front of him again so Cam stared at his gnarled red feet. The devil said, softly, “Can you hear her? She’s scuffling with ‘em. This first one will be the longest for you, probably. Until she just accepts that there’s nothing she can do.” He stabbed Cam again, in the opposite lung this time. “There we go, princeling.”

And the devil turned away, chuckling and walked out the door.

“Cam!” Dagna shouted, suddenly taunt against the chains holding her to the wall. “Look at me!”

He couldn’t quell the sudden cough, the sputter as oily blood coated the inside of his mouth. But Cam shook his head, trying not to let her see the red running down his chin and nose. He knew his lungs had collapsed and were now taking in blood. It would be a drowning death.

“Cam!” Dagna repeated, sounding angrier this time: ”Look at me, you son of a bitch!”

That did catch him, he couldn’t help it. He loved having that kind of rapport with her. The sorcerer drug his eyes up, head feeling heavy as a watermelon. Her green-fire gaze caught him, held him tighter than the cuffs ever could.

“We don’t die alone!” Dagna yelled at him, glaring and matter-of-fact.

Belesis frowned and another devil clapped her across the face, hard. But when her eyes came back up, nose bloodied, she met Cam’s gaze again.

The bard could see he understood. He was struggling to stay coherent now. She could see from the blood that the devil had popped a lung. But his sharp eyes stayed with her. He said nothing and made as little sound as possible but his eyes stayed with her.

Even when Abilsin entered again, Cam ignored him. He now only had eyes for Dagna, locking his gaze to hers, even as he sputtered and coughed.

The devil sat on the rusty chair again, smirking. “What would you like to watch us do to her?”

This time, Cam did not reply. His expression was stony, blank and cold, and his eyes were steady on Dagna, focusing on just keeping present with her.

The devil grimaced and struck the sorcerer across the face. Cam’s head listed to the side, limp, and his breathing wheezed and blood came up with a horrible coughing wretch. But when his eyes were forced back up, he stared right through Abilsin to where he knew Dagna was.

“You wanna watch us skin her to death? How about that, boy?”

Cam gurgled, blood flowing freely from his mouth now. His hard eyes were like leaves and tree trunks, now red and bloodshot, glassy. He was fading, he could feel it. The cold settling in as his lungs filled up with blood. Helpless again.

But, somehow, he kept right with Dagna, not wavering, as if he hadn’t heard the devil at all. Or maybe it was the pain, everything was blurring together. When the sorcerer finally passed out, his warden ripped him out of the chair and threw Cam’s corpse against the wall.

One of the others hurried in to give him a potion. Dagna knew it would be her own turn next. And it was, predictably, terrible. She was drug out and strapped down onto a table just as Cam began to rouse again. Abilsin smashed Cam’s hands with a hammer but the two kept eye contact until Belesis forced her gaze away with a leather strap over her forehead. One of the others laid a small piece of sheetmetal, like a scrap, over Dagna’s eyes.

The table was the size of a gurney and Dagna was lying flat on her back, strapped down. Cam watched, helpless, again, but now determined. If they would be forced to watch each other’s deaths then they would not die alone.

Abilsin glared at him before he cast Heat Metal on the scrap. Dagna could do nothing as the metal became red hot, melting into her eye sockets. Cam could hear how she struggled, how she bravely muffled the instinct to scream before the liquid metal reached her brain. Her body seized and then she was dead.

It was a relief, really, that it didn’t take very long. But just as quickly, Cam had to prepare himself for the next round.

And the next. And the next.

Until the devils got bored with them for the day (or night, not that it mattered much here) and they were all drug off, bar-cuffed to a wall. All three with broken fingers and Dagna with a crushed kneecap. They all suffered this despair quietly, saying nothing to betray their emotions or each other.

They endured, knowing that when Lady Macwell arrived, they would all likely be separated. And Cam imagined it would be just as the devils described. She probably wanted to kill him herself, wrap up Leopold’s loose end in a way his father had just never managed to. And she’d probably kill Dagna too. And then Talisa would take Boone away…

And fuck, the shit his mother would do to Boone. Fuck, Boone didn’t deserve whatever fucked up shit his mother had in store for her. The certainty of that was so heavy, so tangible, he felt sick with more than pain.

Though Cam, Dagna, and Boone had no way of knowing, of course, that Kallas had just arrived.
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Chapter Text

“Gregor,” Talisa Macwell said, folding her hands together as she examined his face. Her elder son seemed to blink away the webs from his eyes and look at her. “How do you feel?”

Gregor’s face seemed blank and yet, she couldn’t hear his thoughts clearly. His mind was strangely quiet. Just like she hadn’t been able to hear Boone’s thoughts. It rankled.

“I am well.” She heard Gregor’s low voice in her mind. His eyes were a little bloodshot, a little wide. But he likely felt lost without her direction. As her thrall, he had been bound to her. And he was still bound to her but it seemed…somehow different now.

In retrospect, arranging Devonshire’s death so soon had been hasty—Talisa had known that—but when Buvgai came to her with that name, plans had changed overnight. Cyrus Sabal. A lowly son of a disgraced noble family. Formerly very wealthy and respectable but now just a shadow of what it had been.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about him, Talisa had thought, when she read every scrap Buvgai had brought her. He entered the Academy around fifteen years old and done two years at sea at sixteen. He’d trained with a spear and warmagic. His marks were average. His instructors had him pinned as a follower, not leadership material but he was plenty brave. He was a warlock, bound to the Raven Queen.

But he did have an eye that was supposedly cursed and it would change color and effect. And there was a picture of him. The sorceress would never forget that feeling of uncovering that picture and seeing the boy. A young man with mismatched eyes. And Talisa had immediately known that this was the one.

If Devonshire and Gregor married, Lord Macwell would try to force Leopold to go to the front. But Talisa had absolutely no illusions about how Leopold would feel about that. He might even try to bolt instead. The boy was….well….young. Hateful towards the yoke of politics and structure. Leopold had been very vocal about it.

And if Leopold ran and disappeared, then Gregor would be sent and she might lose both of them. Lady Macwell certainly didn’t hate Devonshire but she knew what the girl was carrying. She could almost feel the divine presence. It was what had taken her attention. The visions of Sabal had contained an element of a devil in the boy, as well as the Raven Queen, which was odd on its own.

But there had also been a feeling of someone else. Something to do with Leopold, yes, but also others. Over the years, it had become clearer in bits and flashes. And perhaps two years before the events that drove their family apart, Talisa had felt that presence.

From the Far Realms, the words came, making her head buzz and her eyes hurt:

(“No other gods are necessary.”)

She knew that meant that the girl would have to die eventually. But for now, she could keep an eye on her until it became necessary. Keeping her under control shouldn’t be difficult. She was a child. But with the correct grooming, the girl might be a competent tool one day.

So long as Jazirian remained quiet, Talisa had intended to allow Devonshire to marry Gregor. If Leopold was sent to the front, she could arrange to go as well, to advise him and to make sure he didn’t run. In the meantime, Gregor would get a child on Devonshire and secure an heir for Lord Macwell.

And, at some point afterwards, if the girl didn’t show any kind of use or talent, Lady Macwell could easily arrange an accident of some kind. Or she could attempt to convene with Kri'zakth, perhaps give the girl to him. She didn’t seem the political type, putting it politely.

But finding out about Sabal had changed everything. Her visions of him foretold some kind of huge battle, the outcome of which would be influenced by the warlock and aspects of other gods.

Lady Macwell had spies in temples across the land, thus finding Devonshire had been easier than she would have expected. So by the day they’d met in person at the Macwell estate, she’d already known about Devonshire dabbling with her brother’s fiancé and being the only girl born to them in generations of boys. Her stupid parents had even given her a boy’s name, as if that would somehow change her physical sex. All it did was give the poor thing a complex. The girl was trying to get their attention but didn’t know how. It was sad, really. Being surrounded by incompetence was murder on a girl’s self-esteem.

But none of it mattered compared to hosting an aspect of Jazirian.

Sabal could be twisted to her ends through whatever this curse was. So she didn’t necessarily need to kill him. The feeling she gleaned was that he might be of use to Kri'zakth, whereas Devonshire would only be a threat to him.

So, it was important to get Sabal out of the city and away from his family to cut their influence over him. But he was currently in the military. She could not simply pull him herself. That would be too suspicious. It had actually been Buvgai who came up with the idea of his powerful memory magic.

Take care of two items with one stroke. Kill the girl and get rid of her by using Sabal. If the girl was dead, Gregor might be sent to the front instead of Leopold. But he would be more likely to, one: actually go there and, two: survive the battle. Gregor simply had more experience than Leopold. If he died, she could revive him, as she already had a private channel open with Cin Amon. And she’d preferred to keep Leopold closer to her.

She could adjust to whatever came after. But none of it had been ideal. Too hasty. But something had to be done and Talisa had made her choices. None of that could be remedied now.

Gregor was still standing quietly in front of her. Talisa took a deep breath. It’s almost done. Very soon now. “We will be returning to the material plane. I want you to prepare to join me.”

“I will pack what you need.”

Talisa smiled and took one of Gregor’s calloused palms. “What we will need, my love. It’s going to be just us now. You and I, my love.” She searched her son’s face but saw very little reaction. That wasn’t a surprise, she just didn’t like not being able to hear his thoughts better. She could only seem to catch snatches of words or phrases, outside of what he said to her through their link. Strange. She could only assume that Devonshire had done something to him. It made her scowl. Oh, I underestimated that little bitch, yes. I won’t make that mistake a second time.

Right. Devonshire, Leopold, the bard—she had reports every day about their torture. All three were still in custody. Still contained. And while they were being held, she would go to the material plane to finish her work. Cadron should already be prepared. Her three prisoners would be moved to the material plane as well.

It really was a shame about Leopold. Talisa tried not to dwell on it but…she’d always felt more connected to Leopold. The magic was something they shared. Perhaps, I should have told him. Taught him myself. But I didn't want to break my cover as the gentle, dignified, magic-less Lady. Word would have gotten out if I had.

Talisa sighed again. Time to go. There was certainly no turning back. I have gone too far to look back. Talisa had never considered herself a quitter.

It was actually quite quick for Talisa to return. She and Gregor simply teleported to the material plane. Though, it was not Naluri. This was Irulan, a world not so different from their own. Well, save for the total darkness and the lack of dwarves. (And that had a very interesting story behind it. A swift, cruel, genocide beneath the earth.)

The keep was in the Ziragzar Spire. An imposing monster of thick walls, lined with all manner of guards and unseen servants. They were met at the door by two devils who immediately showed them to a luxurious wing of apartments for them.

Talisa arranged for a bath and then changed into her armor. “Gregor, you may clean up and rest here for now. I am going to see to our affairs.”

And so, once she had left, Gregor went to clean up and rest. Bathing and caring for his undead body was automatic by now. It was still difficult to look at his own greyish skin. The hard muscle the prince had worked so hard for, had emaciated. Gregor tried not to think on it, however, just letting his mind automatically go through the motions.

Afterwards, the fighter sat down on the huge bed and gazed around at the dozens of tiny candles around the room. Gregor tried to feel for his mother’s presence, but he couldn’t detect her. So, finally, he closed his eyes and drifted away.

And he found himself, once again, in the dark chamber with Thioni. He sat down on the floor and the earth genasi copied him.

“I want to help them,” he said quietly, looking at his hands. This feeling of helplessness was horrible, choking.

Thioni’s empty eyes drifted over him. “I might be able to send you to her. If you concentrate hard. I’ll cast the spell.” She offered her hands out to him.

Gregor looked up at the genasi and then nodded. He took her hands and closed his eyes.

Thioni’s fingers twisted and a small pile of sand sprinkled the ground next to them as she cast Dream.

The disk was a strange object. Cyrus was not entirely certain what it was when he…came to be…in it? The warlock had rather been expecting to be on his feet, at least, when he returned to the material plane. But his soul had been folded inside of a little mirror and kept by hags. Figuring out that he could control it came later.

Cyrus had no sense of his physical body, which was disorienting. He first became aware of sound and then a strange feeling of pressure all around him. Awareness was a strange thing, Cyrus decided. To be aware of himself but not be able to use his senses to understand it, was very confusing.

The young mousefolk, Clover, had kept the disk safe. Cyrus was grateful for that, at least. Clover seemed very kind, naïve, certainly. But kind. Eventually, his little window to the outside was handed off to Fanel. Cyrus liked the elf or, at least, could relate to him. Socially clumsy, better at punching.

But he couldn’t help but wish he could say something when Fanel told Irpaks about his dream of the Spire and then, the next day, mentioned it again—and then they got angry at him, like the monk had kept that information back. But he’d literally mentioned it the day before! But it was a commentary for one—no one seemed to hear him, of course.

Lisan was pretty funny but also very passive aggressive and selfish. And the entire time they were in Nessus, he kept threatening Kallas. At least, Irpaks and Throden seemed sensible. Raquel was outgoing and liked a party. Not his scene personally but she seemed all right. Very drunk though. Low impulse control. Alcoholics tended to only be fun from a distance. His second and third eldest brothers had shown him that.

But Cyrus was also trying to puzzle a way out. If these people turned on Kallas, he abso-damn-lutely did not want to just sit and listen to him die. But he had no way of knowing what sort of enchantment the disk was. If it was abjuration, then perhaps his soul was bound to the mirror and, if it were broken, would his soul simply be released to Asmodeus (presumably)? But if it was transmutation, if the mirror were broken, could it release him to this plane without a body at all? But without any way to tell…he could not dare take that chance. But if they murdered Kallas, he would definitely come back for them himself.

When they had finally found the rod, hidden in the damn multi-armed statue and Kallas had vanished, Cyrus would have steadied himself if he could feel his legs. He could only hope his friend would survive. He could hear Lisan cursing him as they grabbed the coin that had dropped afterwards.

He had never wanted his fucking body more than when this group had been confronted with five gods. Cyrus heard Mut and got a flash of hope. The elf monk took his disk out and Cyrus was able to jump into the air, soaring over to Bahamut. But the god did not change him back, or release him.

“Hello, my little friend,” the old man said, kindly. Just a little longer, Cyrus. A little more.

The warlock tried not to be disappointed. But it was startling too, when he realized he recognized the Traveler’s voice. Well. So we did meet again. In a way. Cyrus suddenly wondered if Velicia was all right. I wonder where she ended up…

“So will it involve someone special for me?" Lisan was chattering about his love life again. "Like I’ve been asking?”

The Traveler smiled and clapped Lisan on the shoulder. “You cannot rely on someone else to be your happiness. It will happen at the right time.”

Jazirian wound himself forward. “There is a great evil that has crossed these planes. Kri’zakth.”

“Ugh, I hate that guy,” Lisan grumbled.

“Those we worked with in Naluri were captured.” Jazirian continued. And Cyrus jolted like he’d been given an electric shock. He listened harder than ever now.

Their gems. Perhaps, inspired by Tinker’s gem from Asmodeus. They had destroyed cities, caused this darkness….and yet, the stones had only been quiet for them. They had assumed an ability like Tinker’s, to transfer from one plane to another, an alternate. Presumably, those they saw at the Sanctuary. Cyrus scanned as he absorbed this information.

“And how much can we murder Kri’zakth’s little pet, Kallas?” Lisan wanted to know.

“Not at all,” the Raven Queen stepped forward. “He was working for me. I saved him—“

“So you know he’s working with Asmodeus now then,” Lisan interrupted her, crossing his arms like an angry patron not getting sufficient service at a shop. “So we should stab him—maybe poison?”

Cyrus felt his hackles rise. He heard Fanel and Throden sigh.

“A temporary assignment,” and the Raven Queen’s voice rang out, booming and authoritative now. “Kallas has sacrificed more than many ever have. He did not betray you. He did not expect to be teleported away.”

Lisan stiffened a little. “Oh. He. He didn’t. Wait, so—where is he now? Ah, I feel bad now.”

“Oh, now you feel bad,” Fanel sighed.

“Look, he seemed like an asshole!”

Cyrus scoffed. Just like how petty you became when Fanel wasn’t interested in you.

“You literally kept threatening him for no reason!” Fanel shot back.

“I’m sorry,” and the pure changeling form of Irpaks finally spoke, voice measured but terse. “Can we talk about the gems, please?”

The god, Milil, dark-haired, handsome with golden-lined eyelids stepped forward, patting Irpaks. “Yes. I imagine there are questions.”

“Where?” Irpaks simply said.

“Currently, the Ziragzar Spires. Kri’zakth has created a lair there and has been brought from the Far Realms to reside there by a powerful necromancer.”

“Oh, fucking Lady Macwell,” Cyrus swore, out loud, but no one heard.

“How will we ever get in?”

Jazirian flapped his wings and the glossy dark stone beneath them shimmered like a window, showing a vast sky and then descending upon an army. Haven, New Doledon, and Rhayatta banners fluttered in the wind.

“Now, wait a moment! Some of these people here are not the biggest fans of ol’ Lisan Al-Ghaib—“

Cyrus stopped listening to the tiefling. He just needs to be the center of attention. Maybe Lisan and Raquel really would be good together. Well, maybe not Raquel. She seemed to be pretty in love with some elf pirate called Aramel. And though Cyrus couldn’t pin it down, he was certain he’d heard that name somewhere before his death.

And then Throden asked, “If you are so powerful, why don’t you do something about this?”

“Hey, yeah, that’s a really good question, actually,” Lisan agreed.

“Our powers dwindle,” the Raven Queen rasped, her whispers filling the space again. “The Hungry One works through his spies, through death, through the gathering of souls and subjugation of Asmodeus. We all dwindle and the Elder Kri'zakth grows.”

Cyrus felt like he’d have crossed his arms if he had any sense of his body, as he listened to Lisan’s apology to Fanel and then the arguing over who would sacrifice themselves to the leave the Hells.

“Are you ready for your next adventure, friend?” The Traveler finally said.

“All right, yes!” Lisan declared. “Let’s do this!”

Cyrus wrinkled his nose, but had to respect the choice Lisan had made.

Boone found herself, once again, sitting in a pitch black room.

There was an easel sitting in front of her with a black silk scrap of cloth hanging over a square of canvas. Once again, she was sitting in a wooden chair as if posed for a portrait and she couldn’t move.

Cyrus?

Some part of her recognized that she was dreaming. A strange sense of sudden awareness that she was paralyzed within the dream and could not wake herself. She recognized this dream. The dark, wooden floor, the indomitable blackness of the shadows, the dusty, stuffy smell in the air. And last time, Cyrus had appeared. But the stillness was like a blanket of fog, the very silence was heavy.

Boone tried to look around, but her body was slow, molasses-thick in the way of dreams. The girl only noticed the first difference right then. The light that illuminated the easel wasn’t golden but grey. Cyrus? She tried peering into the darkness.

But then the black silk on the canvas fluttered. Boone’s belly went cold. The canvas looked almost wet. Something was dripping from it, as if water were pressing against it behind the silk. The paladin honed in on it, part of her still waiting, hoping, that Cyrus was about to step out of the dark and stop it. Whatever was behind the silk, it was…bad. It felt bad.

The black silk rolled again and another little wave of…something seemed to make the silk sputter. And then….

Boone heard a slap against the canvas and she suddenly saw fingers. She froze. Oh no. No. No.

And then a horrible, primordial moan rattled, scraping out of the canvas. And then an entire hand came through, slimy, black and rotted. An arm followed, and then another, pulling and twisting its way out of the canvas. The silk fell, sopped in blood.

Boone still couldn’t speak, fighting to move, to open her mouth. But the dark figure opened its maw and a sickening creak came from it. Blood flooded out of the canvas. It was Cyrus. She could see his handsome features, degraded and rotted. He climbed out of the canvas. His mismatched eyes steadied on her. The only part of him that wasn’t slimy and rotted. His burning eyes. One red, one blue and no pupils at all. The whites of his eyes were blackened.

“You didn’t deserve Jazirian. Selfish. Spiteful.”

A stinging pain tightened her throat, still struggling to move. The rotted man walked towards her, stopped right in front of her.

No! No-no-no! But Boone couldn’t seem to move. Couldn’t pull away as Cyrus raised his hand towards her. The black floor seemed to ripple under her feet and Boone felt fingers on her ankles. She tried to wiggle, shift, move, anything! But the hands coming out of the floor latched onto her legs.

She could feel the slimy fingers crawling up her knees. Boone continued to struggle, trying to scream, to wake herself. But the hands! More of them now, grabbing her arms, her shoulders and then one snatched her hair and wrenched her head backwards. Slimy, rotted fingers clamped down over her eyes. That sent her into a full panic and then—

A strange wave of warmth flooded over her. Like a gentle breeze, early autumn wind and the loss of revolting sensations. The hands fell away from her eyes, dissolving into ash that turned into snowflakes. Poor misremembered Cyrus was gone and Gregor was standing in front of her, looking tall and strong and handsome in a warm blue tunic and doeskin trousers. His eyes were warm as honey, with flecks of vibrant green. They shone at her, warm, protecting, and comforting.

The black room changed to a sitting room with tall windows, looking over a snow-blanketed forest. They were in front of a large hearth, a warm fire crackling beside them. Boone was sitting on a squashy armchair now, rather than a rickety, nail-ridden wooden one.

The paladin felt her throat loosen and she could breathe again, deeply. Her voice came out, desperate and despairing: “Gregor?”

The Macwell heir touched her hand and her body relaxed as well, able to move again. “Yes. It’s me. You understand that this part is not a dream?”

“You’re…here?”

“With magic. Now, Boone. You have to wake up. Do you understand? You can wake up and get free. My mother is busy with preparations and we have returned to the material plane.”

“Gregor….we were captured. Everything is so…heavy. We—“

“I know.” And Gregor knelt in front of her armchair, reaching up to take her hand, folding it between his own larger ones. Strength flooded into her, warm and tingling down her arm. “This will be difficult, Boone. But you all have been moved to a material plane called Irulan. My mother will be coming for you soon. So you have to fight their magic and wake up.”

And just like that, she did.
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Chapter Text

Cam had never been to Bryce’s Landing. He found a bustling port town, extra-crowded probably because of the issues at…at Thistlepot. Cam shook himself as he headed down the gangplank.

Leopold didn’t have any connections in this busy port town but sailing had taught Cam plenty about such cities. He already had a pack of plainclothes and his dyed gear. He donned both as soon as they docked. Part of him wanted to say a goodbye to Jon the Fish, Hati, and Chipper but, it was really better not to give some kind of last impression. It might come back to bite him. There was certainly no reason to expect any of them not to sell him out, if any other than Jon eventually realized that Cam was a missing lord (and who was he kidding? Probably better to be suspicious of Jon the Fish too, which he felt the old sailor would approve of). But still, he left them a bottle of excellent wine and then slipped away from the ship.

He spent the first day exploring the port and getting a feel for the layout. Bryce’s Landing was a structured city and well-organized. The ports were as raucous as any but there was a solid guard presence here. And an actual copper house, too, with detectives. A city that was big enough to have detectives would definitely have informants. And surely a thieves guild would probably be operating somewhere in the city.

Not to mention that a teleportation Circle had just opened. That was unfortunate news because, of course, Jildos had one, as well. That meant his father’s spies might be looking for him.

That made him put his hood up and go to the market at the end of the first day. He stocked up on supplies and then took a room in one of the many taverns down at the port. But Cam did not go down to socialize. He stayed in his room and cleaned up, had a hot bath and hung his clothes by the hearth.

The shock of Gregor’s death had passed. It still rocked him to his core: the grief, the rage, but nothing could be done now. Except to keep away from Jildos. His father may not have liked him, but Cam knew Lord Macwell would not throw away his legacy so easily. He had no other heirs. The hunt would be on. He'd spent the rest of his time on the ship belowdecks, on the oars, to make sure he stayed out of sight. The captain didn't seem bothered by this change. He had only examined Cam for a long, piercing moment and then agreed.

So taking a room at the port would just look natural if anyone had been following him throughout the day. Tomorrow, in the daylight, after some rest, Cam could get a better feel for the city. After some rest. The sorcerer was exhausted, honestly. And in this noisy tavern, if he spoke in his sleep or cried, no one would care. There were lots of sad drunks in the wide world.

Everything just felt so heavy. He was only presently starting to get his appetite back, only now getting back to being polite but forgettable to every person he met. A serving girl brought him a slab of fish and a hunk of bread. He made himself choke down the fish but he wrapped the bread in wax paper and put it in his pack for later.

Cam slept hard, almost twelve hours and well into the next day. But he felt better. Depending on how the day went, maybe he’d even stay in the city tonight—though, at a different tavern, of course. He didn’t have endless money so if he was going to get work before moving on…this port was probably a good place for it.

So, he gathered his meager belongings and headed onto the docks, scoping out the surrounding districts before heading back to eat something. He found a stall called Spicy Times, which sold a variety of peppers deep fried, sauced, marinated and stuffed. And the food was good enough that he asked the patron where he might find a job board.

And, perhaps fatefully, in retrospect, the pepper salesman had directed him to the Captain’s Cat.

When he first walked in, he noticed nothing in particular, except that it smelled heavily of oyster chowder but that wasn’t so strange on a port, after all.

He saw a young man with an eyepatch, a woman, and a gnome were seated together, a couple mercenaries were by the window, but otherwise, the place was empty. The human woman was silent and sipping tea. The man with the eye-patch had some toast between his teeth and was idly sketching on the napkins.

The gnome was actually pretty funny. She got into some kind of disagreement with the mercenaries by the window and she literally punched the guy in the dick, which was pretty goddamn impressive (scary). And when the barbarian re-entered the tavern, after literally throwing the two offenders out the door, another man followed her inside. He had more angular features than a human but his skin was a light, sandy tone, so Cam couldn't be certain from far away. In any case, this man joined the group at the table.

Cam thought to examine the board while no one was standing at it, hoping to find something he could handle by himself. He wasn't keen on having to be too chummy with anyone, given anyone could be his father's spies. But then Simjasa entered the Captain's Cat and, while he presented himself as an obvious candidate for her offer, the gnome definitely had something to say when they found themselves competing for it.

“Heh, I’m worth, at least, three fighters,” Cam told the lovely, older tiefling woman who had ventured from the Deep Black.

And then he got a very sudden jerk on his beard and the spellsword nearly fell over. He had to actually look the gnome in the face. Her dark skin and bright eyes, the tattoos on her: she was lovely, really. In a mad sort of way.

“HEY!” She roared, literally, in his face. “I’m talking to you! Clear the fuck outta your ears, fuck-ears!”

Cam looked up at Simjasa and grinned. “All right, no lie, this one seems pretty worthy.” Hell, no one had spoken to him like that since his days training on navy ships. It was strange to realize, he’d rather missed it. It was very direct. Straightforward.

That first day of travel was awkward, as his stubbornness and suspicion battled their mutual suspicion.

But when he saw Devonshire, really registered that it was her, Cam was actually rather impressed. So she hadn’t died, after all. Maybe she’d just run from an arranged marriage. That wasn’t so bad. And honestly, Cam couldn’t blame her. He might have done the same in her situation.

But he wasn’t about to bring it up when he was presenting himself as someone completely different and he certainly didn’t want to break her cover. She’d be hiding too, probably. She was covered head to foot, not an inch of her alabaster skin showing. But Devonshire was alive.

Fuck, though. Her ‘death’ had led to a lot of shit and here she was, introducing herself to him as ‘Boone’. The name change was good, though. Her given name was so unwieldy. But best not to point it out. She did a good job of not letting on that she knew him. Or maybe she didn't recognize him. That was the idea, of course, behind being so dirty and looking like a lost hedge knight. Though, his hair was just longer and disheveled (not dirty).

The man who introduced himself as Cyrus Sabal seemed confident and, of course, Cam recognized the family name. But Sabal didn’t recognize him, so all the better. And, as far as, Kallas; well, Cam didn’t mind tieflings. They were like orcs, treated like shit by a lot of other people. So they tended to make interesting friends, if you could earn their trust.

And Brenna, of course. Sweet, loud, proud and strong, she stuck to her gut. She was good in a way that wasn’t self-serving. (Even his mother’s acts of charity were beneficial to either herself or the family.) A genuine want to help others that she defended as stubbornly as he defended his freedom. Remembering the proud gnome’s empty eyes in the underdark was still painful.

But then when Boone had to remove her armor in Eberosea and Cam had seen the horrific scarring around her throat: well, fuck, that added another layer of weirdness. Of what the fuck was going on. He remembered her that night at dinner so many weeks back now. It felt like a different life but he could still recall the cuffed sleeves of her black gown, the serpent pendant and her smooth, pale skin. Not scarred up. So maybe she was attacked?

And then everything with Gregor, finding out he was still alive, in a way. His heart still hurt when he thought about it. Fuck, if he could just wake up!

If he could just fucking wake up!

Lady Macwell stood in her dungeons, gesturing an arm out to her latest experiment. “Powerful souls attached to the gems allow them to be focused for extraordinary power. The ones possessed by Leopold and his friends, they never used. If they were gifts from gods, then it did no good. They weren’t reckless enough to use them. Which, given what unknown magic might do, was wise. But the gems I’ve created are connected to their hosts in a similar way to how the Eye connects those who possess it to Kri’zakth. I then grafted the gems into the green dragon, linking their souls like nerve endings in a tooth.” Talisa stared at the captive dragon.

It was known, in this world, as Toad. It was a guardian of some kind and used mushrooms and other fungi. Talisa chose him as the most likely dragon to be able to adapt and survive the process. It was really a nod to the steady, expert hands of the drow who had done the actual implanting process.

She was speaking out loud, though no one else was around but Gregor. He did not respond either.

Gregor stood beside her, dead-eyed. There was a horrible pit in his stomach. But his face was blank, almost detached from himself. Numb. They stood together on a platform of a circular tower. Chained down and struggling, was the majestic green dragon.

All over it, were implanted gems. The sites of stitching all pulsed and throbbed with power. The dragon made a piteous sound, in constant agony from the raw, seeping sites. When Gregor had first seen it, the emerald elder was achingly beautiful but now…well. It made him think of himself, honestly. The stump of his neck itched. Gregor did not scratch it.

“Now, when the dragon can engage the gems, they have specific power associated with them, giving the dragon a much wider repertoire of abilities. And the mushrooms should be able to heal it and, over time, become stronger.” She pointed to the pulsing fungi. “Those are small sites where the mushrooms were able to integrate the linked-gems as part of themselves.”

Gregor knew that below them, also chained down, was the devil-king, Asmodeus. The knight supposed he might have been surprised but, well, his mother wasn’t stupid. And she had used the devil-king’s inherent arrogance to trap him here with the Dreaming Eye. Incredible, really. Using all the souls he had poured into it, to power his own cage.

And all she’d had to do was fulfill her favor. To summon him and have him come when she called. Gregor had been standing on guard in the wings, watching and assuming they were all about to die at any moment.

But as soon as the devil appeared, his mother had triggered the great chain and binding spells from the Eye. The enchanted metal sapped the great devil’s strength and he screamed curses at the necromancer, realizing he had been duped. He was now trapped by the gift she had given him.

Talisa hadn’t even given the devil a second glance. She was preparing for the bigger casting, though that would be elsewhere. For now, just trapping Asmodeus was enough for one day.

So they were preparing to leave when one of her handmaiden guards intercepted a drow scout, who quickly thumped his fist to his chest and informed them that a group of adventurers had snuck inside the castle.

Talisa sighed, dismissive. “Do what must be done. That’s why we have this dragon.”

Gregor heard the beast roaring, blind in rage and pain, but then they disappeared, teleporting back to her keep in the Shadowfell so they could now prepare to move on to Naluri.

Boone startled awake, the purple tendrils holding her now snapping apart. She slid down the wall. Her legs were like jelly and their surroundings had changed again. There were a lot of people chained up in this room—with the gross tendrils. Gregor….

“Holy shit,” she muttered and lurched up. Cam and Dagna were held to the wall by the tendrils. They looked about as bad as she felt. So many endured deaths. She’d watched theirs too and them, her own. Boone shuddered, pushing the thoughts aside, so she could keep her shit together. The paladin reached up to pull a tendril away from Cam—

There was a pop!

Boone reappeared in another room with people but these ones were on their feet and well-armored. She stared at them. This didn’t seem like Grifto’s. And Boone was still wearing her prisoner’s rags. “What the fuck…“

She spotted another blue woman, an elf, a lizardfolk and—pop! She reappeared in the dungeon again. Her stomach lurched and Boone took another deep, steadying breath and put her hand on the stone wall to regain her bearings. “The fuck is going on…”

Boone reached up again to Cam but this time, he disappeared. The girl cried out. “No, no-no-no! Cam!” She cast around helplessly.

And then the blue woman she’d just seen appeared next to her. And Boone got that odd feeling in her mouth, similar to what she’d had around Thioni, but not quite the same. More water, sunken stone, wind and rain and the deep seas. A genasi. A water genasi.

Boone was still shaking. But the water genasi was silent and so the paladin lurched up to try and pull Dagna down. The tendrils burned and blistered her fingers but now the pain had been so constant, Boone powered through it.

“Oh dear! Darling, here, I can help you with that!”

Boone stiffened, pausing on the tendrils to look at her. The visions and dreams here had been so powerful and full of tricks but this seemed…more real than some of the other horrible images. “Who are you?”

The genasi waved a hand. “Oh my goodness, darling, don’t worry about a thing! I’m not here to hurt you. Just let me handle this, all right! You look like you’ve been through it!”

Boone tensed. There had been other visions of people showing up to help. Her own brother, Gregor, Cam—and each had been a trap, a drow or devil in disguise. Something intended to break her spirit, she knew. But she had known the other visions in some way. She didn’t recognize this other blue woman. Boone could feel how she was similar in some ways to Thioni but her voice and attitude were totally different.

But, in a twinkling, the genasi slashed the tendrils apart. The paladin stepped forward to grab Dagna, gently easing her to the floor and keeping herself between the bard and the water genasi. “I really don't need any of your help,” she managed gruffly, keeping a sharp eye between them.

“Well, darling, I would disagree!” The woman tittered and walked away to look around.

Boone scowled, Dagna curled up in her arms protectively. “Dagna? Dagna, please wake up. Dagna?” She swallowed hard. I don’t know where Cam went. He was just here and now he’s gone! What if this is Lady Macwell separating us—

The water genasi started messing with bodies in another room, calling to them repeatedly and then she came sprinting back to her. “Darling, dear girl, where are we! What is this place! My dear friends are here!”

Boone stopped, still holding Dagna and peered at the genasi. “I don’t know.” The paladin felt her throat tighten.

“What do you mean you don’t know?!” The woman cried out. “You have no idea at all?”

Boone felt a wave of anger bubble up inside of her. “No! I don’t know! I don’t know how long I’ve been here! It’s been fucking terrible. What are you doing here? Where did you come from?! Are you even a real person! How do I know you aren’t in disguise!”

The genasi waved her hand. “I was fighting with a dragon before this! And then I grabbed a stone and I was here! Aren’t you the girl that just appeared and disappeared?” She showed the black gem to her.

Boone started, gasping. Remember the stones… “Those gems…they take you inbetween planes, I think.”

Immediately, the water genasi’s lovely brow lifted, she crushed one and vanished.

I just want to wake up!

One moment, another nightmare, another sickening vision and then—Cam was suddenly standing on his feet.

He swayed, not knowing where he was, of course, and looking around at the people in this room. There was also a fucking dragon and the people were well-armored. A slender elf suddenly cried out and a blinding flash took them all.

Cam closed his eyes, trying to steady himself and get grips on reality. I just saw that old man from the tavern.

But when he opened his eyes again and let them adjust, he forgot all about the old man. Because Cyrus Sabal was standing in front of him. If any of the strangers said anything to them, Cam couldn’t hear it. He knew his mouth was hanging open. We all saw him die before the pulse that locked us in time.

He’d had so many nightmares about the deaths of his friends, was this just another dream?

Another stranger, a bald elf, slashed the throats of the cultists near the altar. And at the same time, there was another whorl of magic and the dragon was compacting, shriveling in on itself.

But Cyrus looked remarkably real, not undead at all, and incredibly stunned. The warlock opened his mouth. “Ca—“

They disappeared.

At the same moment, Kallas appeared next to Asmodeus. Very interesting to see the devil-king from this perspective. The Ruby Rod was a remarkable artifact and Kallas could feel the insane power in it. What he might do with such an object would have very few limits.

But to do so would be off the table, of course. He broke every contract. And he’d been testing out the magic, the power, in case he had to fight all the cultists himself. But then, well, a kenku shot one of the sorcerers straight dead.

Kallas made his move, swift and certain. First Asmodeus: banished, diminished, dead, gone. And then the Dreaming Eye, the tiefling shot a beam into it and it split apart. Thousands of wisps and shadows escaped.

Kallas quaked in relief. And then one of the wisps held back, spiriting up to him and forming the gnome he’d come to befriend months ago. Another wave of intense relief. No matter what happens now, I did it. Brenna is free. Thank all the gods.

“What just happened?” Kallas heard Fanel’s voice. He looked around and somehow, wasn’t surprised to see the other group there. All together, except for Lisan.

And then the sky parted and sunlight cascaded into the ravaged stone hall.

A faint rumbling began in the distance.

Boone patted Dagna’s cheek, still trying to revive the bard. “Dagna? Seriously, I—“

They disappeared, together, at least. Boone held on tightly to Dagna, and cried out in despair when they reappeared. This was not the room with the dragon and the other people. This was back in the spider webs! In the horrible, death-crossed plane. Boone started to tremble and shake, any moment now, Lady Macwell would snatch her away—

The rumbling was getting louder, fuller. Cam was lost to them and any moment, the spiders would descend and rip Dagna apart—

But suddenly, Cam reappeared. And so did a figure who looked remarkably like Cyrus, just in time to half-catch Cam when he staggered. And, finally, so did Kallas, a rod or some kind of stick in his hand. The ground began to shake.

Boone froze, screwing her eyes shut, then opening them again to stare. In her arms, Dagna stirred and the paladin helped the bard stand. When Dagna caught sight of the three men, she stiffened as well.

But they had no time to contemplate it, as the rumbling became a thunderous cacophony. Cyrus planted his halberd into the ground to steady himself but then Dagna grabbed for them all, desperate to keep them together.

Above, streaks of light began to cross the webs like shooting stars. All five of them looked up as more lights, double, then triple, like a shower of meteors, burning through the webs and releasing the trapped souls.

Twin glowing lights flashed down, colliding into Cyrus and Kallas at the chest. Each grabbed onto the other’s arm automatically, but neither seemed to be harmed. It was a glorious cascade around them as the webs were burned away by the lightstorm.

And for a long moment, amidst the incredible display, they all stared at one another, dumbfounded and mouths agape.

Cam approached Kallas, a little shakily, and poked him in the arm. “A-are you…real?”

The tiefling’s eyes warmed. “Really? You’re just going to poke me—“

Dagna threw herself into Kallas’ arms and burst into tears.

”Cyrus!” And, unlike the genasi, there was no question in her mind. This was him. Boone lunged for the warlock, grabbing him and yanking him into her. “Oh my—holy fuck—you died for me—you are mine! And you are never allowed to die again!”

Cyrus’ whole being seemed to compress with the strength. “Boone—I can’t breathe, Boone!”

“This is the worst place ever,” Dagna was sobbing into Kallas’ shirt. “And we thought you guys were dead! And we got fucking tortured and the dreams are awful—”

“Holy fuck, what happened? This place is terrible, how are you two here?” Cam wanted to know. “We saw you both get murdered!" He pointed at Kallas. "Your neck got snapped and hands pulled you into the ground."

Boone had released Cyrus with a sisterly sort of punch on the shoulder. Cyrus gasped for air and rubbed the spot as he answered: “I did die. It was excruciating but, eh. That’s the way it goes. I ran into Kallas in the Shadowfel—"

"Saved him from Asmodeus," Kallas said, entirely too calm and smirking a little. "Well, with help from the Raven Queen."

"—but then we got separated. He was sent to Irulan. And I ended up in a silver disk for a while on that plane—“

Kallas jolted. “That was you?”

Cyrus chuckled. “Yes. I couldn’t control the disk very well. And I couldn’t get out of it.”

Cam, Dagna, and Boone all looked at each other, then back at them.

“Oh!” Cyrus suddenly started and reached to his side. “I brought this back for you, my friend.” He offered out the graceful rapier Kallas had received. “It has a few new spells now.”

The sheath was dark silver and matched to an obsidian inlay, and as soon as Kallas saw it, he could almost feel the blade. He drew it out and saw the inscription, still glimmering in the glow of the falling lights: Justice, Truth, Judgment

The tiefling smiled a little. “You know, I did not really think I would see it again.” He looked up at Cyrus as he sheathed it. “Did Velicia survive?”

“Yes. She took a single arrow when we were running through the woods. She wanted to apologize for it but I told her it wasn’t necessary. I think she may have ended up back in her plane, which I think is the same one we were on before we appeared in…” The warlock gestured around. “…in whatever this is.”

Cam felt like he was about to start coming apart at the seams. “Which is what the fuck is happening? This place sucks, guys. Can we leave, please?” The sorcerer was starting to sound a little more manic, his usual cool cracking a bit. The lights were beautiful but they were still out in the open in the horrid pocket realm or whatever the fuck this place was. “I don’t know if my mother is here somewhere and I’d rather not be here when she does show up.”

"It is all right," Kallas told them, raising the stick in his hand. "I have the Ruby Rod. I have just released the imprisoned souls. Don't worry. While I have this, none here can touch us."

"Does this make you the King of Hell now?" Cyrus asked him, smirking a little.

"They do have an opening," Kallas answered, chuckling. "But we will go back to our own plane once all the souls are free. Then I will get rid of it, I suppose. Perhaps, I just have to will it away? It is far too dangerous to keep, of course."

“Wait. Right. So, you guys ran into each other after you died?” Boone suddenly realized. And Thioni’s strange voice came back to her: ”She has already met them.”

Dagna felt a little weak in the knees but she waved her hand. “Okay, wait, right—let’s get the fuck out of this shithouse and then, explain. Because, holy shit. Did you two meet Thioni?”

Cyrus and Kallas exchanged glances but each shook his head.

“Clearly, we have much to discuss,” Cyrus told them all. He stayed standing next to Boone, eyes going back to the lightstorm. “Oh, Kallas, you know, we found out that Velicia’s real name was Zephira.”

“Really?” Kallas answered. “I imagine that was not by accident.”

“It definitely wasn’t,” Cyrus agreed, taking a deep breath as his mind brought the images of the nothics, bobbing eyes in the dead trees. Almost losing his guide when Zephira took that arrow...

Boone rubbed her forehead. “How did you—“

Suddenly, the stone ground gave way beneath them. They all latched onto each other as they began to fall. Cam searched around desperately, raising his hand to cast but then…

The sorcerer realized he was looking at the layers of the planes. It was an incredible waterfall of sound and colors, cascading like stardust all around them. But none of them were harmed, they could all breathe and, one by one, they began to watch (though, they still kept tight hold on each other).

The streaks of light, going back to one of the thousands of material planes. Like pages of a book, cast around and skewed but leading to millions of other worlds. How would they ever know which was their own?

Boone gazed around, eyes wide in awe, and she suddenly heard that powerful, almost metallic voice in her head of Nicnevin. (“At ease, child. You are going back to your plane.”)

Boone started. “Why couldn’t I hear you before this!”

The others glanced at her statement, curiously.

(“There are places where I cannot help you.”)

Boone sighed, not really satisfied with that answer but there wasn’t much she could do about it now. “Sorry, guys. Talisa tried to bind me to Dick-modeus and Grifto intervened and bound me to a Queen of Witches instead.”

Cyrus and Kallas stared at her.

Then abruptly, like a hood being pulled down over them, their vision went black.
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Chapter Text

Dagna slowy became aware of light. Something glowing in front of her that warmed her to the core. Her faculties restored slowly. A glowing, white feather was in front of her, lifted as if by a steady, minute wind. But as the feather warmed, glowing brighter, the bard saw that there was a figure in front of her.

She got an impression of black samite, an enrobed figure from head to foot, with a crown of thorns on its head. From this wreath draped a sparkling white veil that obscured the face. Dagna jumped a little when it spoke:

”My friend, many challenges await your return. Before you were trapped, your clan came to the city.”

Suddenly, Dagna jolted with the memory. “Ma and Da, oh no, no, they—“

A bony hand raised to quiet her. “Yes, friend. Yes. What you suspect is true, they are locked in time, in stone. But all is not lost for them. I know they were brought back to you once before.”

Dagna shuddered down a sob. Not again. Not again. “Don’t suppose,” she managed, voice thick as she fought to regain control, “you might be able to help with that?”

”No. Its resolution relies on two lives now. A hungry god from the Far Realms and his clever servant, the Lady of Jildos. Her own servant will be awaiting your return.”

In the ash beside them, a silhouette formed that Dagna was furious to recognize. Fucking Cadron?! Her reflexive anger helped to dry her tears. “That fuckhead isn’t dead?!”

”He waits, preparing for you.”

Dagna swore and tried to remember to breathe, greatly agitated. The Raven Lady reached out with a gloved hand. The grip was strange. Light but firm, as if the god might hold the bard in place with nothing but a pinch on the sleeve hem.

Honestly, at this point, the Raven Queen probably could have. Dagna had been through such emotional whiplash in the last few hours after weeks of enduring torture, her mind was tottering. The bard was practically trembling and so the touch from the Raven Queen was strangely comforting.

“Cry your pain and breathe deep to seep the wound.”

Dagna stared around helplessly at the darkness around her. This helplessness was the worst. It made her want to sob in anger. “Is any of this real?! Is this all a dream from that bitch?!”

Shadows and ravens silently flocked in around them and Dagna felt a warmth come over her, as if being solidly, firmly embraced by the softest brush of wings. It steadied her. Memories of mothers and fathers who loved their children, embraces like friends surviving together, like siblings reunited after bloodshed and struggle. A firm, orc of a hug, wrapping her in feathery trees.

That whispering voice in her mind replied: ”Yes, an unfortunate amount is very real. But there is still time if we act with purpose and fortitude.”

Dagna felt a rush of warm air breathe passed her, making all her braids fly up for a moment. It was soothing, easing her mind down.

”Rest, friend. Rest.”

When she awoke, they were definitely, well, somewhere. The room was stone and there was moss and mold in the corners of the ceiling, along with mounds of dust and dirt, as if the room were not properly sealed from outer contaminants.

Dagna rubbed at her eyes, trying to clear the muddled confusion from them. They were all lying on stone slabs, connected to a stone wall. The height from the floor and width suggested that a mattress might have dressed each slab at one point but, as of now, they were bare.

“Where are we now?” Cyrus asked aloud. He noted that they seemed to be in some kind of barracks.

Cam sat up and then jumped a little. “This is part of the tunnel system from Jildos.” He pointed to the tattered scroll of crests on the wall. “I came through these passages when I originally left the city.”

Kallas rubbed his head as he sat up. “I thought to teleport us with the Rod but it disappeared. I imagine that, with Asmodeus' threads cut, the magic was cut along with it. The last thing I remember is falling through the planes.”

Boone started up a little abruptly. “Whoa, hey, my stuff is different.”

It was true. The others all looked and could see, in the dim sunlight from a large crack in the ceiling, that Boone’s gear, which had been flayed off of her, seemed to be shining like new. It was an adamantine plate of truly remarkable craftmanship, melded with mythril to keep it light. The combination made the pieces glimmer like amethysts. The paladin drew her sword and found it humming with power. A solid, almost metallic power that she could taste.

The others reexamined themselves and found the same. Their gear was fresh and new, made each of them feel sturdier on their feet. All their weapons and tools gleamed as if tended by a master crasftsman, strengthened and honed.

“Oh shit, Boone. You’re not blue!” Cyrus suddenly exclaimed, pointing at her.

“Oh shit, Cyrus, you’re not dead,” Boone returned, flatly.

“I’m not dead!” Cyrus retorted, this time with more emphasis.

Boone snorted, raised her hands and realized…she wasn’t blue. And Cyrus wasn’t dead, yes, and he wasn’t Undead, either! “Oh, oh! Holy shit! Our bodies!” The paladin seemed to forget herself, grabbing onto the warlock and embracing him again.

This time Cyrus seemed more ready for the sudden bestowance of emotion and he returned it, carefully patting her on the back. “They must have reformed our bodies when our souls were returned,” he mused quietly.

Boone met his eyes and examined his face. “Whoa, you have that silver eye all the time now.”

“I guess so.” He shrugged a little self-consciously. “Your eyes are a pinch different too, even lighter than before. The scarring around your neck is gone.”

Boone turned herself to the others. “What about you guys? Is anything different?”

“We’re not being tortured so that’s a step to the correct,” Cam sighed, leaning against the dirty stone wall, still sitting on his stone cot. The sorcerer looked at his hands and seemed to contemplate them. His gear seemed to have been repaired and improved, mythril and two coverplates of adamantine, delicately scrolled with a five-stringed harp over his sternum. His weapon seemed different too but it was still a longsword. He could examine it more closely later.

Cyrus frowned at him. “Torture?”

Kallas observed that Dagna was silent, feet drawn up on the cot to herself as she sat against the wall. Her head was resting forward, hidden in her arms, just breathing. “Dagna…? Are you all right?”

The bard shuddered and nodded. Her half-plate was gleaming mythril, light as air and the adamantine buckles and leather were scrolled to make each look like a compass. “Just…processing. Sorry. We. It was. Not great.”

The tiefling sat himself beside her and gently touched her shoulder. “You mentioned torture?”

In stops and starts, it fell out of her, like a waterfall broken by boulders. First Dagna, then Boone and Cam joined in, each telling their part to create the larger story for their two friends.

“And just now, the Raven Queen told me everyone in Jildos was turned to stone,” Dagna finished.

Realization hit them at the same moment as Dagna rubbed her eyes. Losing her parents all over again. Hell, losing her whole family, her clan, all over again (not to mention everyone in the immediate vicinity of the city). Kallas stayed sitting beside her, gently laying a hand on her shoulder.

Boone went to the crack in the ceiling. “There’s a trap door in the corner here,” she said, voice subdued and quiet while Kallas comforted Dagna. The paladin found the latch and the door fell down into the room on squeaky, dirty hinges.

Cam unfolded his arms and drug over the remains of a chair so he could stand and poke his head out of the trap door. “All forests around us. The tunnels out of Jildos weren’t maintained very well the farther away from the city they went. This must have been a rest stop for soldiers either on the move, or who had just returned. So there’s this room and down the hall,” and here the sorcerer pointed to the far corner of the room, where it disappeared into a dark hallway, “is probably a couple supply rooms and the main tunnel.”

Cam got off the chair. “This isn’t the exit that I used, though. This is more to the west.”

“Are we going to stay the night here?” Cyrus asked the group at large. “This seems like a place we could defend and it is hidden from sight.”

The others were too exhausted to put any better ideas forward. So Kallas stayed with Dagna while Boone peeked around the surrounding empty trees before she shut the trapdoor, and Cyrus and Cam lit torches. The two spellcasters went to the dark tunnel and searched its creepy depths.

A couple of squirrels were now living in the rudimentary armory. There were almost no weapons left but a quiver of plain arrows. The only other room they found seemed to be storage. Cam found matches, some rotten grain, and a lantern. Cyrus found a length of rope and a small sealed cask of ritual wine from Etherforge's best vinyard for ice grapes. It fit neatly under the warlock's elbow.

Beyond that, the dark hallway intersected into a much larger passage, at least forty feet wide. This was the main passage, Cam concluded, and the both of them headed back to the others. There, they cracked the trapdoor and lit a small fire in the little, dusty hearth. Cyrus tapped the cask and shared the very fine wine, Aurora of Mountains, Gold Edition, while everyone searched their gear to see what they still had.

Within an hour, night was falling. They all gathered around the fire to reacquaint themselves again, to share the details of their separate struggles and the strange people they had met.

Kallas took first watch, seeing he was the least exhausted and the least distressed. Cam, Dagna, and Boone slept uneasily. He watched them toss and turn, restless and edgy. Cyrus quietly dozed off. It was an hour before the tiefling felt his rapier begin to hum. Like a minute vibration, escalating in intensity, as if warning him of an approach.

Kallas stood up, drifting silently across the room to stand before the dark hallway, gripping the hilt of his rapier. “If someone is there, show yourself!”

Cyrus and Cam jumped awake at the same moment, both instantly alert. Cyrus got up, raising a hand to keep Cam on his bunk as he went to stand a diagonal step behind Kallas.

From the dark, a robed figure lifted a hand and said, in Common that was heavily accented, “Please, friends, we come peacefully.”

Dagna and Boone were coming awake now, sitting up and touching weapons reflexively.

“Come out!” Kallas commanded and drew his rapier. It sent a faint, silvery glow into the hall as the figure lowered its hood and approached.

It was a drow, a woman, who bowed to them and gestured behind her to indicate there were others. “We were told you would be here by Our Lady. We have come to offer aid.”

Kallas glanced at Cyrus and they took a step back, allowing the drow to enter the room. She was followed by two others, all robed and hooded. “Who’s your lady?”

The beautiful drow woman bowed again. “We are the followers of Lolth.”

From his slab, Cam barked out a laugh and covered his eyes with his hand.

Cyrus’ face twisted. “……Oooouuioh,” he said, with a cringe of distaste that Boone reflected in her expression. “Lolth is still evil, yes? Or has that flipped as well?”

“Good and evil is largely subjective but Our Lady,” the drow continued, seeming (or choosing) not to notice, “is aware of yours.” And here she paused and looked significantly to Cyrus. “So Lolth brought us to you. We offer you food, tools, and magic.”

Boone peered at them suspiciously. “Why, though? Why would you help us? Lady Macwell had direct ties to the drow. A lot of them have turned to her.”

“We are the few who remain loyal to Lolth. We were ejected and cast out of our cities in the Underdark.” The drow woman touched a broach at her cloak of an opal spiderweb. Her companions, also drow women with frosty-white hair, produced packs. “They are no longer safe places for us. Also, I don’t know how much you already know but Asmodeus is dead.”

Cyrus snorted and looked at Kallas. The tiefling smirked and said, “Yes, we know.”

The warlock snickered out loud and mouthed: ”He did it,” while pointing at Kallas.

“That’s fucking crazy,” Cam muttered to himself, half-smiling.

“So you must then be aware of Kri’zakth,” she said, examining their expressions soberly.

Cam and Cyrus snorted at the same time, both of them grumbling an ascent.

Dagna held up a hand. “What is your name?”

“El’lathra,” she answered, placing a palm over her chest and inclining her head. “Lolth knew of the battle at Jildos and the only ones missing were all of you. Presumably, the only survivors. Lolth brought us to you now, in return of a favor. And to ask a question.”

They all grimly heard the confirmation of the Raven Queen’s words.

“A question?” Kallas prompted, as a flicker of uncertainty came and went from her face.

“Is your plan to engage Kri’zakth? And his servant, the deathknight, Lady Macwell.”

Cam did not look around the room to check expressions. He nodded, still sitting on the edge of his bunk, simply eyeing her. “Yeah, it’s on my list.”

“They’re sort of a threat to planar existence, so, yes. We are going to go out of our way for this one, I believe,” Cyrus said, almost serenely.

All three of the drow women bowed to them. El’lathra spoke again: “Thank you. This threat could very well consume us all.”

Boone looked at the trio for a long moment before she asked: “You guys knew that Asmodeus is dead. Is it common knowledge?”

“No,” El’lathra said quickly, “we merely have a few eyes and ears in certain places. But in the Nine Hells, it will be war among his generals until a new king emerges. We have our own stakes but our objectives are the same. We know the location of Lady Macwell’s servant, Cadron. We will give you the means to reach him as soon as you are ready.”

Dagna squinted. “What does that mean?”

El’lathra stepped to the side and allowed one of the other two women forward. This one drew a slender chain from her neck and presented them with a silver pipe, like what a boatswain might use. “Notice that the pipe itself is scoured. The magic is embedded, ripped into the metal. When you blow it, it will take you to him.”

The bard bristled and took the slender instrument in her hand. “Oh, I’m looking forward to getting to him once and for all. Thanks.”

The second drow woman inclined her head and then stepped back behind El’lathra. The third placed down a pack by the wall and said, “This is a holding bag. There are supplies, tools, food and blankets for you.”

“So are you going to be tracking us for when we go do this?” Cam said, tone meandering and curious.

“There is no need, I believe,” El’lathra said, bowing her head. “I considered the man to be part of your current objectives. We have our eyes and ears, for our part.”

“Where are you going to go if you’ve been cast out of the Underdark?” Dagna asked quietly.

El’lathra’s face barely flickered before her hand touched her spider broach again. “We have some connections here on the surface but the distaste many have for Our Lady is known to us. We have safe places. I hope, if we meet again, we might show you our hospitality in a much grander way.”

And with a last bow, the three drow exited into the main tunnel structure and walked away, following the sloping curve of the wall.

As soon as they were gone, Cam pulled out the tiny cabin. “All right. I’m willing to take the bet if I can get a proper fucking bath.”

“We smell like death and cobwebs,” Boone agreed.

Cam placed the little door into the stone wall, threw it open and strolled in. At this point, he was ready for something terrible but something far different greeted him instead.

The cabin door opened into a lodge, rather than a shack. There now existed a proper hall, with beautifully carved pillars and stained-glass windows, frosted with snow. A roaring fireplace took up the back wall, surrounded by couches and sofas, all stacked with cozy quilts and pillows.

But in the middle of the airy hall, there also appeared the shimmering face of Ghost Butler, Eeee. He bowed deeply to them, beaming his delight.

“Holy shit! Eeee!” Cam cried and instantly tried to embrace the apparition.

Eeee smiled gently at him and made patting motions over the sorcerer’s gear. When the butler found a hole, he looked regally at Cam and nodded, seemingly to himself.

A dozen servants appeared at once, gesturing for packs and gear and offering wine as they were separately led to their own rooms.

Except for Cam, of course. The sorcerer was led by a robed servant to a wonderful wooden latch door that opened to a garden. There was a perfect spot to sleep under a gorgeous weeping cherry tree and a hot spring pool big enough for an elephant within convenient diving distance.

A robe and set of clean loose linens were laid out on the grass for him. The servant waited patiently for Cam’s gear, for it to be washed and repaired. A campfire was built with sturdy stones and a comfy chair, a stump, and a long log grouped around it, all piled with quilts and cushions.

Next to it, was a solid, oak, magical ice chest. One part of it held all varieties of meat, vegetables, cheeses, and marshmallows. Folded into the other, much larger side were skewers, a stewpot, grates, a pot for boiling coffee and another for simmering wine. And held into the top of the chest by fine leather straps was a long-stemmed pipe, a jar of smoke, and a mug for his drink.

Cam smoked while he changed clothes and took a deep, bracing breath of the too-perfect air. Honestly, he was just glad to be here. No torture, no spider webs, just a nice illusion. A nice illusion.

Boone’s room had obsidian flooring, depthless black, and sweeping warm rugs of deep plum from Etherforge. The walls were dark plum as well, with accents of tree limbs and leaves done in gold leaf. The hearth was grated and burning warm for her. A table was set up near it, where there were honey sticks in a ceramic pot, raw honeycomb in another, and several blends of fragrant teas and coffees. There were three kinds of hot cocoa, all in their own, neat little ceramic jars, daintily labeled in spidery handwriting. On this table was also an urn of always-simmering water and a platter of muffins, cookies, crackers, and biscuits.

There was a wrap-around window that took up a corner. Three stands for her heavy gear guarded the deep purple curtains, awaiting the chance to hold the shining glitter of Boone’s armor. There were plain candles in the room but also metallic pendulum lights, inlaid with stained glass. In the opposite corner was a complete training area, a bowl of fresh fruit sitting on a weapon rack, as well as a book about paladin magic entitled: The Divine and You: What the Heck Does God Want, Anyway?

The girl was eager to change clothes and check out her reflection. She truly wasn’t blue anymore! She’d become rather accustomed to it, at least, in the mirror. The scarring on her throat was gone but in the candlelight, Boone could just detect the faintest of shimmers around her collarbones, as if she’d been sprinkled with diamond dust.

Kallas was led to an octagonal room with a matching section of skylights taking up the ceiling. And like rivers of ribbon, black and green tapestries rolled under the windows, softening and tinting the light. More self-warming carpets from Etherforge hugged the stone floor. A stately sleigh bed was built into the corner, across from the expansive fireplace, which was also black obsidian. The hearth was framed by bookshelves that spanned the rest of the wall, crammed to bursting with tomes. This included, but wasn't limited to such titles as: Fish Are People Too, Y'all Like Souls?, and Weaving Shadows: Memories from the Nightlands, all of which he noted to investigate later. Sconces lined the walls, all warmly burning with fresh candles.

Ten feet from the foot of the bed, there was a dividing screen of black silk, painted with a glittering mountain snowscape. In front of it, there was a large table, laden with sweetcakes, meat kababs, fresh fruit, cheese and mulled wine. When Kallas looked around the room divider, he saw a few mannequins in a training area, along with a rack of simple weapons and squashy mats. There was also one additional door that turned out to be a steam room with a circular tub for soaking.

The rogue sat down at the dressing table and looked at himself in the mirror. There were circles under his eyes and he looked thinner. At least, it seemed so to his own gaze. But still, what an insane few weeks. I used the Ruby Rod and killed Asmodeus, he thought again, still rather surprised he was alive to contemplate the circumstance, honestly.

Dagna was taken to a tower, on the door of which, was a lyre. The most ideal definition of a bard tower, if Dagna had ever seen one. All the windows showed different environments and gorgeous locations. The three floors were platted with warm woods and there was a smaller hearth on every floor on the spire.

The walls were lined with various instruments and in the center, a massive tree was growing up through all the floors. The bed on the second level was large and circular, big enough for five, definitely. The hearth wrapped half-way around the circular room and the mantle was stocked with powders to change the color and intensity of the flame. A dressing room full of clothes, costumes, fancy dresses and basic armor was begging to be thrown open and explored. At a large piano, stacks of music books waited to be consulted and a tower of musical score lay ready to receive flowing bardic ideas.

Dagna laughed joyfully at it. Definitely a step to the correct. And she let herself fall, face-first, into a veritable mountain of pillows near the bed.

Cyrus was led down the wing to a magnificent bedroom with marble floors and warmed with woven carpets. It held a four-poster bed, walled around by shelves and books, such as: Battle Tactics from Still-Alive People, the inspiringly-thick, Art of Doing Research, and one that made him do a double-take called, When Paintings Try to Capture Us, Beware of Sheep: And Other Curses Associated with Magically-Adapted Objects. The hearth was burning merrily, big enough for three people to stand before it comfortably. The curtains and bedspreads were all a deep indigo blue, accented with silver.

The high, lofted ceiling was spelled to mirror the sky. Since it was nighttime, it was awash with stars. But this could also be changed to mirror different environments, perhaps to give inspiration, like Dagna’s tower. The room also contained a loft, where a sturdy easel sat with ready canvas and paints. One wall of the loft was all perfect glass, hidden with its curtains, currently. And next to the rich, blue curtains, in the corner, was a creepy sort of mannequin, seven feet tall, that could be moved and shifted at all its joints to mirror a humanoid’s movement and basic shape.

When the servant left, Cyrus let his eyes drink in the lavish details of the room, running his hand along the soft armchair in front of the fireplace. He took a seat and examined the tray arranged on the small side table. There was a short tumbler of smoky-smelling bourbon, with a little boulder of ice and a slice of orange in it. Beside it, a long-stemmed wooden pipe with herb lay out for his convenience. And on a wooden platter was a lump of medium-rare steak and a baked potato stuffed with cheese and bacon.

But for a moment, in the quiet, Cyrus shuddered and put his forehead in his hand.
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Chapter Text

The next morning, Cam awoke in the perfect garden. He wasn’t covered in dirt, brush or bugs, like he might have on mornings in natural air but not being so was pretty good, he decided. But the sorcerer still got up and stripped to his skin to take a dip in the hot spring.

When he got out, he saw one of the robed servants, preparing bacon over his little fire. Cam waved a hand to get its attention: “Hey, no worries. I’ll go out to the dining room for breakfast.”

The silent servant did not seem perturbed. It bowed to him and the bacon shimmered out of existence. Then the servant vanished, fading away into the air like sun rays. Near his sleeping spot, Cam found all his linens repaired and washed. His platemail, like Boone’s, had changed to some sort of shimmering mythril that was incredibly light but harder than steel. I’m still not entirely sure if we were dead or not but, hey, when gods give you nice shit, you use it.

His longsword now had a sparkling sapphire in the pommel, it and the hilt formed a slender harp inlay. The brushed steel seemed to have been traded for a black metal, swept with waves of iridescent color. The blade flickered with silvery, radiant magic. Which led to his discovery that his blue gem was gone.

Maybe crossing planes had made him stronger somehow. Maybe the gods had melded the gems and their gear together in some way? Either damn way, it felt good to hold his weapon again. It didn’t feel as heavy as it had in the Nine Hells. Everything felt heavy there. Or maybe that was the torture, ha.

Cam sighed, shook himself and headed inside the main house area where he could presently smell the heavenly scent of more bacon, hashed browns and sausage gravy. One of the ghostly servants was just taking a tray of fresh biscuits from the stoneware oven. Crisp on top, soft in the middle and perfect for melting butter.

The sorcerer went to the table eagerly, keeping an eye out for the others while trying not to look like he was rather anxiously awaiting them.

Kallas appeared first, circles still under his eyes. They were more pronounced on his pale face. Cam had wondered if the making and breaking of Asmodeus—holy shit—would have any kind of residual effect on the tiefling. But at that first glance, the sorcerer couldn’t detect much. Kallas kept a better poker face than the others though.

“Good morning,” Kallas said, smiling a little as he sat down to the table. “I am very glad that yesterday was not a dream. To see you alive still, helps the reality set in.”

“Yep, not an illusion. I will gladly eat some bacon every time you need to check. I will also take other things.”

“Ha! Then I imagine I need it to settle in or you will have a heart attack. Which would not be deserved, really, and it would be a strange end after everything else.”

Cam laughed. Kallas’ dry sense of humor, with that dash of dark in it, was something the sorcerer had always appreciated about him. “It really would. Fuck’s sake.” He pulled his fingers through his hair, quite long now and then brightened. “Oh yeah, I was gonna ask about your sword.”

Cam gestured with his cup of wine towards the tiefling. “If that’s all right?”

“Of course,” Kallas said, graciously inclining his head as he stood up and unsheathed the weapon.

Cam peered curiously over the rapier and read the glinting inscription: “Justice. Truth. Judgment? Uh oh. This was just on there? That’s ominous.”

And then his eyes flicked over the claw-shaped pommel, talons gripped around a pristine green gem. “Ah, hey, mine disappeared too.” He showed Kallas the pommel of his longsword. "And the inlay on the hilt is new too. Like a harp. But still pretty comfortable."

Kallas turned the silver hilt out to his friend. “Ah, I wondered but had not yet asked the others. We were all exhausted last night.” Kallas took a sigh. “But anyway, about the sword. It seems to collect spells, at times. I’m not certain how it works. But it might be some aspect of the Raven Queen and her connection to countless memories.”

“No shit?” Cam asked and he was already reaching, talking the hilt in his grip—

But only Kallas saw it when the blue gem in Cam’s sword flashed and then the air felt strange, almost thick and heavy. He could see one of the ghostly servants, frozen in place over an urn of mulled wine. And not just the servant but also the wine itself. Kallas full-turned and stared at the liquid, still and levitating in the air.

“Cam, what is happening—“ But when Kallas turned back to the sorcerer, he saw that Cam was still standing at ease exactly as before.

Cam’s hand was still curled around the hilt, face thoughtful and curious but his eyes were unblinking. Seconds passed this way.

And then, after about half a minute, Cam moved again. He didn’t seem to notice anything wrong as he tested the heft of the rapier. “Well!” The sorcerer exclaimed, “Didn’t feel anything. Maybe only you can tell?”

Kallas stared at him. “….Cam?”

The sorcerer paused, taking in his expression. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Did you notice anything strange just now, when you took the weapon?”

The spellsword’s gaze sharpened and he offered out the rapier. “No, can’t say I did.”

Kallas took the sword back and he felt the bursting energy of Transmutation magic. “I don’t know how it is doing this. Cyrus said it allowed him to cast Finger of Death, which it did not seem imbued with until that moment. I thought it might be our gems but Velicia was struck by intense memories when she held it and afterwards, it could cast Speak with Dead. And as far as I know, she did not have a gem like ours.”

“Zombietalk is Necromancy,” Cam pondered. “Though, so is Finger of Death. So….”

“Cam, time just stopped.”

The princeling started a little. “What?”

Kallas furrowed his eyebrows. “Holy shit, this sword is powerful.”

Dagna and Cyrus entered the room together, Boone following behind them. “It sounds pretty serious in here,” Dagna said breezily and then was distracted instantly by the silvery rapier. “Oooh my, comparing swords?”

Cam snorted and laughed. Kallas just smiled and shook his head. “Why don’t you take it next, Dagna? See if it learns a spell from you?”

“Whut?” Dagna drawled, eyebrows perking up at Cam. “What’d it learn from you?”

“Apparently, I stopped time. Which is bullshit, I can’t even cast that fucking spell.”

Boone almost choked. “Stopped time!?”

“I can’t cast Finger of Death either,” Cyrus agreed with a shrug. “I was surprised when it happened. It was in combat.”

“Yeah, you gotta watch those fingers,” Cam smirked back at him.

“I pulled it out—oh for fuck’s safe, Cam!” Cyrus snapped, ears reddening.

Eeeee swept into the room. There was more distinction to his features now. It was strange as, initially, they thought the cabin had somehow upgraded just to give each of them a room. But they’d been escorted here by a multitude of luminous servants, all cowled and faceless, except for Eeeee.

Cam would note that while all the servants were quick to attend to every need, they all deferred to the Ghost Butler. That was interesting to the sorcerer, as his family was the only one wealthy enough to have used such magic when they traveled, he’d been around these servants before. So he knew from personal experience that the spectral servants operated in more of a hive mind, like bees. There was no need for a head of servants. To direct one was to inform the others, that was the point of the magic.

So to see them show deference to Eeeee was, well…something. Cam wasn’t sure what it meant, exactly. Just that it meant…something.

There was no real color to the entity, exactly. Eeeee was ghostly pale, a slender humanoid wearing robes that were reminiscent to peoples of both sandy deserts and snowy tundras. Layered for utility, styled with dignity, and with countless pockets containing any menagerie of useful items. His eyes were almond-shaped, glittering like a dark sky. He did not seem to have the pointed ears of an elf and his hair was thick, black and very straight, held in a low tail.

But his definition of facial features (though no skin, hair, or eye tones), not to mention his abduction when the Reaping occurred, led them to wonder if he might be a real soul rather than a fabrication of one.

Their exhausted stupor had been collective last night. Observing him now, after a full night’s rest, it was more apparent. None of them could help but pause when Eeeee entered the room. The apparition looked down at the table imperiously. He gestured to the food in mock-surprise and glared at them all.

“He’s right, let’s eat first,” Cyrus agreed and sat down to heap hashed browns on his plate.

Eeeee came around another two times to silently urge them to take more. And secretly managing to warp a huge cinnamon roll onto each of their plates somehow, when they glanced away to drink or talk.

Afterwards, they all retired to a large sitting room, stocked with couches, mulled wine and pipe weed. Dagna showed them her own rapier, which now had an elaborate handguard and an inlay of bones crossed together to make eight points, always glowing with tiny runes. They formed a circle in the middle of the bones, where her topaz now lay. Boone showed how her hilt was now wrapped by a serpent and they could just see the black stone amid the slender coils. On the very top, a dragon head lay quiet and watchful.

Then Dagna took the rapier, reading the elegant inscription. Her eyebrow went up at Kallas. “Shit, this sword is asking for this kind of commitment? Are you ready for that?”

“Apparently, glowing magical feathers choose who they like,” Kallas replied, chuckling.

“So, do I need to give it some blood or anything? Did time just stop again?” Dagna asked, flicking the rapier like a silver needle in front of the fireplace. “Oh, or maybe we need to duel for it?”

But then, underneath the bard’s feet, the floor lit up with a tawny, golden light in what would definitely be recognized as a magical circle of some kind. She instantly froze. Everyone else jumped up from the couch and armchairs. Cam swore and cast Dispel Magic. The circle went out.

Dagna held up the sword in a surrendering gesture. “Was that me or was that something else?”

“That was a Teleportation circle of some kind,” Cam said, glaring around the room, as if searching for hidden eyes. “I’d say it shouldn’t be possible for someone to teleport in here but Eeeee should not have been able to be torn away from here either.”

"Well," Cyrus mused, suddenly recalling the conversation, "according to Velicia—er, rather, Zephira—the Reaping was a planar event. So even if the Cabin is in some pocket dimension, he would have been taken, I think."

"Can we not have crazy magic time in here?" Boone growled. "I've had just about enough of it to last a lifetime!" In her head, Boone heard Nicnever: ("Oh, you sweet summer child.") Boone snorted. "Shut up, Nicnevin!"

Everyone looked at the paladin, curiously. Except for Kallas.

“Calm down,” the tiefling told them, reaching for his weapon. “I understand we have all been through a lot but sometimes a sword is just a sword. Albeit, a very magical sword.” He held it and, there it was: “Ah, yes, I can feel it. It learned the Teleport spell from you, Dagna.”

“All right Boone, your turn, just get it over with,” Dagna pressed. “I hope it learns something awesome. Those spells that make you dance or laugh until you die are so scary.”

Boone rolled her eyes. “This is bullshit. Why are you getting all these spells?” But she took it and then heard Nicnevin’s metallic voice again: (“He has no one to look out for him. You’ve had a couple gods protect you, child.”)

Before Boone could respond, she felt her greatsword begin to vibrate. It was akin to that moment in Jildos, the fight with Talisa Macwell when that first terrifying wave was roaring towards them. Her sword was rattling in its sheath.

So they were all looking at it when the black stone in the pommel of Boone’s weapon seemed to swirl and then the pommel of Kallas’ rapier responded. The silver went red-hot, bright as a fire. Runes danced and ran up and down the hilt and crossguard. They flooded down the slender blade, into the inscription, and vanished.

Boone recognized the Celestial runes swirling around the emerald in its clawed, silver confine. She read it out loud: “I dreamt I saw an endless plain, with twelve great and terrible stars around me.”

Kallas started in surprise, going to examine his rapier for himself. He watched the Celestial melt into Infernal, though it bore the same meaning. “Check your weapons. Cyrus, summon your halberd.”

The warlock did so, the blade of the axe-head smoking with frost. The gem was his faceted diamond, reflecting the red-hot words glowing in Celestial that now ran like a river down the shaft. He read aloud: “I saw an open maw of darkness, gaping wide to devour.”

Boone was looking right at her own greatsword and watched the words materialize next: “I saw good and evil in their eternal dance, spiraling to no truth.”

Cam frowned as runes burst into light and seemed to shift like sand into the Common script. “Except that which was to destroy all things.”

And finally Dagna read, on the hand guard of her own rapier, circling the topaz stone with its warm glow: “I saw a gathering of five points of light.”

They all looked at each other. Boone grimaced.

“Creepy,” Cyrus said, “though the fire-letters are quite flashy. At this point, we are either ready or we are simply not.”

“Well,” Cam said, finally. “Are we gonna go kill this jerkoff now or wait til after lunch?”

“Oh yeah, let’s fucking go.” Dagna resheathed her weapon and went to collect her gear. By the time she returned, the others had all gathered and were waiting for her. She showed them the slender pipe.

Eeeee pointed out a board where they might assign what sorts of rooms they might like in addition to their own. He bowed deeply to them all. And then gleefully clapped his spectral hands when Cyrus wrote, in his blunt script: “Art Gallery”.

Boone opened the door and peered out. But the stone cellar was still cold and empty, if just damp from the mists or rain. So the paladin led the others out and Cam pocketed the tiny cabin house.

“All right,” Dagna said. “Ready?”

When Dagna blew the whistle, the stone cellar vanished and they popped into existence on the mezzanine of a large ballroom. Above their heads, a massive crystal chandelier was still and dusty. But it was the grand staircase, laid out like an octopus’ arms, coiling to the floor, which really confirmed their current location to Dagna.

“Hmm, a bit dustier than the last time I was here,” Dagna murmured, glaring through the dim torchlight. Verlassain Manor had hosted a magnificent party every month, at least, but Dagna had attended her last long before she’d met her new friends. The bard still got the creeps when she thought of the spell, Dominate Person, how it had clamped down on her mind and tried to take control.

Horrible. Invaded. Sickening. Terrifying. Dagna could admit that she’d spied a little on Cadron and openly mocked him but the bard thought that was hardly even. That was overkill. That was confirming every suspicion she’d had about him. It was—

A lilting piano seemed to fade into the room, pulling the bard from her thoughts. Dagna approached the railing of the mezzanine and looked down. And there, at the piano, was a thing who was wearing Cadron’s clothes. He seemed to have the same stature and piano style, even though the asamar should have been dead.

As if it sensed their gazes, the notes quivered and went out. When the face turned upwards, they saw a sunken skull, stretched skin and glowing, gem-like eyes. “Professor O’Leeroy, I’ve been wondering when you would arrive.”

The man heaved himself up from the piano and closed the lid before standing by the instrument with his hands clasped behind his back. “Please, come. I have a table set, if you are hungry. No doubt, you’re here for the artifact but we can put a few pleasantries first.”

Boone checked the expressions of her companions to verify that she wasn’t the only one lost. Artifact? But the closer the man got, Boone noticed that her sword was pulsing a faint, silver light.

(“It detects the presence of Undead,” Nicnevin muttered.)

“Yeah, I noticed,” Boone whispered back to herself, annoyed. Beside her, Cyrus’ eyes flicked over to her, brows furrowed.

(“Then why are you waiting, child?”)

“It’s nothing,” Boone snapped aloud to Cyrus when she noticed his gaze.

The warlock sighed and turned away from them all, heading for the massive staircase to take him down to the ground level, where he could see Cadron pulling out a chair at the head of the table but not yet sitting.

It was a large feasting table, though only set for an intimate gathering of a few, rather than a full house. Places were set for each of them at the other end of the table. Cadron’s place was bare.

He gestured out to them as the rest of the group caught up to Cyrus. “Please, again. Sit and relax. There is plenty of food.”

“Mead or ale?” Cyrus asked. His silver eye whorled when he focused in on Cadron. Definitely undead, definitely evil as fuck.

“Plenty. Please, begin. Do not wait for me. I’m not hungry myself.”

Kallas was sticking close to Dagna. He could see, for all her bravado and grave-graffiti, this man clearly frightened her. “Do you know how suspicious it sounds for a host to invite his guests to eat but takes none himself?”

Cam boldly sat at the other end of the table and slapped his boots into a platter of mashed potatoes. “Look, we’re kind of on a schedule here, so I’d really prefer the abbreviated version of whatever speech you’re going to give us.”

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Cadron informed him, eyebrows arching at Cam. “We have plenty of time.”

”You might,” Cam replied, looking his skeletal form up and down.

The creature ignored him. “Dagna, come, sit next to me! I’m so eager to hear about your adventures.”

“I gotta agree, Cadron,” Dagna said, meandering by one of the windows. Outside appeared to be Silver Strings but it looked deserted. “You seem a little, eh, different. You think about seeing a doctor?”

“I don’t think even my doctor could help him,” Cyrus chuckled to himself. “I mean, I thought he was dead, wasn’t he?”

Cadron stiffened, cold gem-like gaze fixing on Cyrus. “Death is a fabrication. Something you ought to know by now, Mister Sabal.”

Kallas put a gentle hand on Dagna’s shoulder. They were still standing back at the bottom of the staircase. The tiefling murmured: “It’s all right. We can Teleport out if we have to, but I believe we have decent odds.”

The bard looked up at him, examining Kallas’ calm, steady expression and nodded. She took a deep breath. “Right. Yeah. Exactly. Fuck this guy. Right? Yeah. Fuck this guy.”

And with that, Dagna marched right over to Cadron, rudely kicked out the chair and sat beside him on his end of the table. “What do you want? I don’t have much time for your shit.” Dagna stared at his sunken face for a second before she continued: “Seriously, what the fuck happened to you? Is this an upgrade or a downgrade?”

“One might say, I did some soul searching, my dear.”

Cam slid up from the table, not wanting to be sitting if Cadron attacked Dagna. The sorcerer circled around widely, crossing over to the extremely fancy piano.

Dagna snorted. “I bet. What’d you trade for it? A blood vat and a dairy cow? You’re going to need the calcium.”

“I didn’t sell my soul,” Cadron sniffed, looking offended. “I’m my own man.”

“Eh oh, did you loan it to Lady Macwell? She has this uncanny ability to make arrogant lords into her toys.”

“No!” He spat again. “I have my soul. I’m as much a man as I can be now.”

Cam suddenly struck the piano’s lilting upper octave, spine-tingling and creepy. Not to mention, very well timed.

Cadron looked down the table. “Leopold, your mother tells me you are quite talented.”

“Alas!” Cam cried theatrically, at the piano, “I’m one of the few people alive who does not have a mother!”

“One would beg to differ but that’s hardly polite dinner conversation.”

“I didn’t take you as the type to beg,” Cam smirked over the deck of the piano.

“Hey Cam, are you taking requests?” Cyrus chuckled, plopping his halberd into a side of roast pork.

“Not from you!” Cam sang back.

Cyrus rolled his eyes. He muttered to Kallas. “Eh, you see? Perhaps, they think I’m going to kill one of them again.”

“I feel like that would be silly at this point,” the tiefling replied. “You’ve died for Boone and protected her. They know you were being controlled. Don’t take it personally. Cam gets louder and cockier when he gets excited.”

"Well, yes, I suppose that's true," Cyrus sighed, rubbing his chin.

Dagna, meanwhile, had continued: “Hey, where is Lady Macwell, by the way? Because she’s on our list after you.”

“Oh, here and there. She is very busy,” Cadron answered. “But she knew to send word to me as soon as you escaped.”

“Oh, she’ll be in a few more places after we find her,” Cam sang, climbing octaves on the piano again.

“You are very confident. How long have you had the artifact?” Cadron’s unsettling emerald gaze fixed hard on Dagna.

“Artifact?” Boone announced, lifting a hand to further gesture her confusion.

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific,” Dagna told him contemptuously, crossing her arms.

“I’m starting to get bored,” Cam informed the room. And then looked up as the room began to darken and the floor and walls trembled.

“Then come here, Leopold.” Cadron jerked his head and the piano bench lurched, dumping the sorcerer onto the ground.

Cam languidly flipped onto his side like he were about to pose for a racy painting. “I’m afraid I don’t know a Leopold.”

“What is this about an artifact?” Dagna demanded. “What are you talking about?”

Cadron did a double-take, then stared at her. Slowly, he peered at each of them. “You really don’t know. Perfect. Then I can simply keep you here.”

Dagna burst into manic laughter. “Oh no. Not a chance. We’ve done imprisonment. Not a fan.”

“Yeah, hard pass,” Cam called out, rolling up to his feet.

Cadron balled his fist and the room pulsed. All the torches went out. A blast bloomed from the skeletal form, throwing Dagna, Cyrus and Boone to the ground. Cam tried to cast but both he and Kallas were struck by the second wave. Cam felt the horrible cold start in his feet and flood up his body before everything went dark.

Kallas’ whole body jolted but Dagna was there to snatch him, letting him down gently. Her eyes flickered over the rogue, then to Cam: “Oh motherfuck, not again!”

Dagna invoked, flooding her friends with a breath of life, like water in the desert or shelter in the tundra, saturating Cam and Kallas with her healing magic.

“Shit, shit, time to pick up the pace!” Boone cast Haste on Cam.

Cyrus was on his feet, halberd flipping into his hand. The diamond fixed to it was shimmering, just as his silver eye was shimmering, like the strand of silver running down the halberd’s staff. There was a pulse from all of it. From whatever side of him was Bahamut, in any case, and it struck Cadron. A piercing javelin of silver, glittering through the air and impacting, disappearing into the creature's chest.

Cadron's clothes fell to rags on the floor until only the floating head remained. The glowing gem-eyes were also intact, gleaming and winking at them in the shadows. He roared at Cyrus: “Oh, you insolent whelp—!”

And then a longsword, identical to Cam’s, bashed Cadron aside the head. The matching sorcerer skidded into place with his own longsword, stabbing twice and then slashing down from skull to cape? Or whatever its essence was made up of. The magic around the floating skull was almost tangible, weaving around it.

“You wretched—“ and blackness purged from his mouth. In was like a vomit of insects, choking smoke and ash. Cam gasped, eyes fighting to focus, but then he was overcome again as the noxious fog withered at him. Dagna staggered, grabbing for her friend.

“I think I’m dying,” Cam told her, grabbing onto her upper arms. As his eyes lost focus, the strength in his rough hands faded.

“I know, hon, I know.” Dagna watched him slip away. “I’ve gotcha.” She held him to her, brushing his blood-soaked hair from his eyes (again) before she bowed her head over his shoulder and invoked her magic.

Cam choked and coughed, only then did she lean up and look at him.

“Fuck, Dagna,” the sorcerer croaked, putting his bloody hand on the side of her face, brushing over her ear. “You’re a goddamn angel.”

Kallas drew his rapier, gripped the hilt and cast the Holy Hammer, blasting four radiant beams into the undead creature that nearly rocked Cadron off his chin. Then the rogue sprinted to get some cover. He was really taking some heavy hits here. The tiefling just made it when the creature howled, like a shattering window pane. A horrible wave swept over his friends and they seemed somehow greyer.

Boone swore and screamed in frustration, jumping up on the table. She kicked a salad bowl, sent it flying passed Cadron’s stupid skull-face body. And when the undead turned to face her, her sword flashed.

The skull shrieked again. Just in time for Cyrus to jump up, teleport down the table and whack the skull upside its temporal lobe. As radiant magic had lit up in Boone, eldritch power hummed through Cyrus, a poetic balance of light and dark.

And then an extra whack from Cyrus when the skull seemed to hesitate in dying.

Dagna helped Cam up, insisting he lean on her. “You were a great meat-distraction, Cam. You did great.”

“I am a distraction. I can stop traffic,” the sorcerer agreed, chuckling.

“That’s what happens when you run out in front of horses, yes,” Cyrus told him sardonically.

“Only if you don’t know them!” Cam replied. And now that they were all back in a circle, he studied his hands, laid them on his own chest and healed himself. Interesting power boosts come from being maybe-dead, I guess.

“That was close,” Boone whistled as the skull turned to ash. "Fucking skeleton-head bullshit."

“All right, Dagna. I’ve gotta say it,” Cam said gravely and then spit on the ashes before continuing: “I'm sorry that I was suspicious of Tribek but do remember that I said, unless Cadron faked his own death. And it turns out, he did. In a way. So I think I am still technically correct.”

Dagna laughed. “All the more reason to draw more dicks on his piece-of-shit grave. You’re forgiven.”
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Chapter Text

They searched Cadron’s manor, or rather: Dagna tossed Cadron’s office and personal apartments, uncovering a constellation of various documents. Cam became so agitated that he practically picked Dagna up to carry her out into the hallway.

But it was an exercise in futility, as they bashed at the windows and tried to burn the outer doors. Nothing budged. It seemed this entire house was intended to be a prison.

“We should still be able to teleport out,” Kallas reminded them, touching the hilt of his rapier. “So it would be good to search as thoroughly as we can.”

“I really don’t want to be here,” Cam emphasized. “Seriously, if Lady Macwell shows up here, we are fucked. We need to leave.”

“But what if we miss something!” Dagna lamented. “He was babbling about artifacts or something!”

(“Look through the veil, child.”) Boone heard Nicnevin in her head again. The girl groused, “All right, hold on.” And she looked around the dining hall, while Cam impatiently stomped over to the piano and banged every key.

Boone felt a tingling sensation sweep up her hands, warming her shoulders and back, and then her eyes shimmered. In the immediate vicinity around them all, Boone saw nothing but when she looked down….

Below them somewhere, Boone could feel it: there was someone else here. She felt no depth of magical power, nor any evil, but rather, something small. Something more like them. “Guys, we are not the only ones here, I think.”

“Besides…Cadron?” Cyrus prompted.

“Obviously!” Boone snapped. “I meant more like us! Someone is downstairs. I can sense them. Or well, Nicnevin can sense them. I think. I’m not sure. Whatever. Anyway, let’s go see who else was being held prisoner.”

“Do we know they’re a prisoner and not someone who will try to kill us?” Kallas inquired, peering at Boone curiously. “Did you know of Nicnevin before all this?”

“No, I’d never heard of her. She’s some sort of powerful fae, I guess,” Boone said grumpily.

“And thanks to her, you weren’t bound to Asmodeus,” Dagna supplied but cocking her eyebrows at Boone rather reproachfully.

“I know, I know,” Boone said, looking away and scratching her hair. “…I know. I’m just…”

“Patrons can be tricky,” Cyrus agreed, good-naturedly and headed to find any staircases going down.

Boone heard a soft, amused sound in her head. (“Ah, that one understands.”) That only made Boone scowl but she said nothing.

Cyrus and Kallas took the lead when they found a wide, sloping staircase. Dagna stepped up with them. “I remember this place. This staircase goes down two floors and then a cellar. There’s a gymnasium, an exotic greenhouse and then the old dungeon foundations.”

“Ah, so the dungeons is what we want, yes?” Cyrus asked, good-naturedly again.

“Probably,” Dagna sighed.

“Do we really need to be worrying about this?” Cam asked them all, tense and on edge.

“Yes!” Dagna retorted, hotly. “I want to be sure that if we can have any advantage, that we fucking have it! I’ll bet Lady Macwell wasn’t counting on us killing Cadron.”

“It was pretty fuckin close,” Cam replied sullenly.

“She doesn’t seem to count on us doing much of anything,” Kallas replied, snorting. “That arrogance is something to be used against her.”

The gymnasium was a large floor with several rooms surrounding one larger space for training. But Boone stopped short at the stench that perfumed the battered doorway like a sickening haze. One door was bolted shut, the other had been bashed but only wrenched off its top hinges.

Boone’s sword was glinting, so the paladin drew it a short way and let it send piercing light onto the waxed, wooden floor.

It was littered in bodies: male, female, old, young, and everyone inbetween. Many seemed to be drow. Some looked to have had throats cut or given a single, fatal stab. Others had clearly taken a substantial beating prior to death.

Cam detected the trace remains of transmutation magic but nothing inside stirred. He stepped away from the door. “How about we not invite an army of dead to chase us?”

“Yeah, not interested in tempting death if we don’t have to,” Dagna agreed, shaking her head. “Those poor people.”

Kallas peered at the corpses. “Looks like some were killed violently, by force, but some of these others…”

“Wait! Zephira used that sword and it learned Speak with Dead from her. You could try that,” Cyrus exclaimed.

“Do we really need to?!” Cam cried out. “We can see what happened. They’re dead as shit! Just like those other drow ladies told us when we got back. Most of them turned to Kri’zakth. They were probably sacrifices!”

“Information is something we very much need,” Kallas retorted and he stepped inside the gymnasium. “Cyrus, will you help me carry one of them?”

So the warlock helped the rogue pick up a young male drow and carried him into the hallway, where the stench wasn’t as thick. Cam stepped back from them, as did Dagna. Boone drew her sword and held it ready.

Kallas sat cross-legged in front of the corpse and laid his rapier across his knees. The spell did not call the soul back, but rather, an echo of who the person had been. Cyrus had intensely described Zephira’s memory of finding her teacher, Caldious, dead.

Kallas did not know this drow, so he could not call his name. So instead, the tiefling reached out and lightly touched the dead boy’s arm. Everything was still for a moment and then the corpse slowly sat up. It looked at Kallas, then at Cyrus, but did not seem to comprehend them for a moment.

Kallas started. “Can you tell us what happened to you?”

For a few moments, the corpse was silent, as if collecting his thoughts: “We were to go to Kri’zakth,” the man said, voice faint and monotone. “We were to join our power to his own. We were to join the power and gain a footing for ourselves. A place for ourselves. A space for ourselves.”

Cyrus wrinkled his nose. “You killed yourself?”

“No, no,” the boy insisted faintly. “No, no, the women did it. Men are too stupid, heedless, destructive, selfish. Among other races, men brutalize their women. But among drow, we know ourselves. We act for the best of the whole.”

“Power corrupts no matter the gender,” Cam grumbled.

“The children first, then the men, then the women.” The dead drow rocked back and forth, gently. “Children held and throats cut. Some of us weren’t drow. They fought. They fought.” His piercing pale eyes drifted to the gymnasium doors, looking lost.

“Did you fight?” Kallas asked him.

“No. No. No. Others fought. Not me. My mother decided. My father acquiesced. As is expected.”

Dagna felt a stab of pity for the poor drow. Indoctrinated into such a mindset. Terrible. Man or woman, such things were terrible. His last moments must have been horrific, watching children be killed for a monster from the Far Realm. This is why she didn’t prescribe to a religion. Ugh.

“Do you know what is on the floor below us?” Kallas asked, gently.

The drow looked down at the stone tiles. “More pain, more needles and equipment, strange machines. And a dungeon. I didn’t want to go down there. Didn’t want to.”

“Are there monsters?” Cyrus asked.

“Didn’t want to go,” the drow said again, voice breaking in a strangely soft echo of fear. “Didn’t want to. Didn’t see, didn’t want to see. Torture. Prisoners. Didn’t want to.”

Boone frowned deeper, grip tightening on her sword. And then the young man’s eyes became blank and glassy and he fell back onto the floor.

“Well, we still didn’t learn shit,” Cam said grumpily.

“Maybe you did not learn anything,” Kallas replied, shortly.

Cyrus closed the drow’s eyes. “Rest in peace, friend. If you even can. His soul probably belongs to Kri’zakth now.”

“We released all those souls, didn’t we?” Boone said. “I thought we dealt with that?”

“I do not know the extent of the reservoir of souls that Lady Macwell might keep. It stands to reason that she would not leave her entire plan to fail on one detail,” Kallas said, shrugging. “And Zephira indicated we may face planar collapse. These people may have died inbetween then and now.”

“Best not to assume that she’s out of tricks,” Dagna concluded. “She may be a bitch but she’s good at what she does.”

Boone suddenly remembered the items she’d stolen from Lady Macwell’s compound. But this was hardly the time to start pulling out random magical items. So she followed Kallas and Cyrus, as they took the lead and found another set of downward stairs. Nicnevin, if you’re going to be in my head, at least remind me about the stuff I stole, after this.

Boone didn’t hear a response, exactly. It was more like a throaty, metallic chuckle.

The greenhouse level was damp and moldy. There was a set of glass doors and a crystal clear wall that extended the length of the floor. But inside, it was foggy with humidity. Strange ferns in a variety of colors, had overgrown their pots and planters. Along the floor, Cam saw two lumps with black, slimy vines threading into their mutilated faces. Boone spotted a humanoid foot in the corner, missing the rest of its body. Huge, neon-orange flowers opened up petals lined with teeth, reaching for the flickering wizard lamps. Black, slimy vines were growing up the glass walls.

The magical lights were a warm yellow, normally, but in that chemical deathtrap, the light was sickly green and brown. Not a single one of them even stepped up to the doors. The handles were chained together on their side of the glass. On the other, black webs seemed to be coiled around the entrance. They all filed passed: Cam, Dagna, and Boone felt their scars itch. They all fought a collective chill.

“I don’t think I even want to know what Cadron was doing to people in there,” Cyrus ventured, breaking the overbearing, suffocating silence.

“Nothing good,” Cam agreed. “I really hate this place, by the way. Can we leave? Can’t we teleport now?”

“Boone said there was something down here,” Kallas reminded him.

“Maybe we can throw a Fireball in there before we go,” Dagna mused.

“No, no, no,” Cam said, shaking his head. “No. If we do anything, we just dispel the wizard lamps and let that shit die in the dark. But what we don’t do, is open the sealed room.”

“Okay, yes, Cam, I get it. Take it easy,” Dagna told him. “I get it, literally, I do. But we can teleport now. We just need to check this place out.”

“You’re a little on edge, Cam,” Cyrus informed him.

“I know! That’s what happens when you get tortured and you die over and over and over again!” Cam snapped. The sorcerer went quiet then, shaking a little in his outburst. Cyrus patted him on the shoulder. Cam shuddered. “Ugh,” he muttered. “I just…don’t want to be here. I hate being trapped.”

“It’s all right. Lady Macwell has a lot of tricks,” Cyrus consoled him, “but we have Kallas.”

Cam snorted and laughed.

“He’s right, we have Kallas,” Dagna agreed, pointing at the tiefling. “Look how cute he is.”

Kallas waved a hand. “Eh, it is moments of opportunity. Except for Asmodeus.”

“Well, can’t disagree there,” Boone said, “but thanks for not killing me again.”

“Eh, you know,” Kallas dismissed and waved a hand airily. “Here are the stairs, presumably to the dungeon level.”

“Seriously, why are they always trying to kill you?” Dagna pondered. “I mean, I get you have some power from Jazirian but it’s not like he’s the only god around. You can’t be the only aspect, right?”

“Potential of what I could become, I guess. At least, that’s how Talisa made it sound when she was trying to convince me to side with her.”

Kallas looked back when they quieted and then he opened the door. It screeched on rusted hinges. Cold, musty air came up at them. The investigator drew his rapier and let it shed its dim light onto the steps, descending into the choking darkness.

Boone could feel the little presence again, stronger now. “It’s still here….”

The paladin took the lead, sword shining holy light into a thick stench of rot and horror: a dungeon, in the worst sense of the word. Corpses littered the floor, of all races, in tattered rags or nothing at all: bodies discarded like rotting hay.

Boone took a breath, stifling the urge to retch but then Dagna wiggled her fingers. The bard, Boone and Kallas felt a constant fresh breeze hitting their face. It was a little drying on the eyes but it was better than the reek. Cyrus and Cam could manage the same trick on their own.

They heard shifting in the dark as Boone’s sword began to throw the grimy, metal bars in huge shadows down the hall. Everyone in here seemed to be dead but something not-dead was also here. Just one lonely ping of light in the dark.

Finally, at the second to last cell, they came upon a halfling. His clothes were filthy rags, his portly frame drastically thinned out but he was alive.

Kallas knew him instantly, of course. The tiefling nearly tripped to get to the bars. “Tinker!” He cried out to his friend but could not reach him. “Tinker, are you alive! Tinker!”

“Kallas,” Cyrus said, putting a calming hand out to his friend, “pick the lock—you’re the best at it. We can get him out of here.”

Kallas’ hands were suddenly trembling and he nearly dropped his tools before he could pop the rusted out lock. Or rather, he worked it up and then Boone, Cam, and Cyrus yanked on the metal door. The frame came apart and in a flash, Kallas went to work on the tight cuffs that had dug raw, bloody patches into his skin. “Tinker?”

Dagna came to Tinker’s other side and knelt down. The halfling was breathing faintly and he was thin and drawn but he had a pulse, bare though it was. Tinker was clammy to the touch. The halfling had clearly been down here for some time, barely responsive.

With a jerk, Kallas ripped the cuffs off as Dagna invoked her Healing Word on the halfling. That made Tinker shudder and then seem to relax a little, breathing more easily, though he did not wake.

“Thank you,” Kallas choked out and made a motion to pick up his friend.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Cam told the rogue, gently urging him to the side. “We gotcha.” The spellsword scooped the halfling up over his shoulder. “Now, can we please get out of here.”

Kallas steadied himself, nodding. He drew the shining rapier. “Right. I have two thoughts on this: The Bloodfern Forest, where we left Brenna’s body or, Etherforge, if any of you have been there.”

Cam and Boone each raised a hand. But Boone added: “Though I had to keep around the university district. I wasn’t allowed to look around much. Why would we go there?”

“Because it is far from our enemies and we are unknown there. Also, I’ve heard it is a very magical sort of city-state.”

Cam handed off Tinker to Boone and chuckled. “I’ve been everywhere in Etherforge. I can put us somewhere that’s, hopefully, safe. By now, the Bloodfern forest is likely being watched.”

Kallas handed his sword to Cam and felt the flicker of connection through the stones of power. The sorcerer wasted no time at all. In a flash, they vanished, Tinker and lifted information in tow.

When they reappeared, Cam gave the rapier a satisfied spin before offering it back to Kallas. “Nice. She wouldn’t have counted on this bad boy.”

Kallas took it but could not be distracted from tending to Tinker. The tiefling, Cyrus, and Dagna had never been to Etherforge so they had no idea where they were. But Cam clearly did.

The sorcerer stepped forward onto a stretch of sand and stones, above them was some sort of massive support structure. The ceiling beams and pillars were as thick around as an orc was tall and stretched hundreds of feet. They ribbed across concrete and stone set into the natural rock of the landscape.

“So,” Cam began, waving the group to him. Boone scooped up Tinker again. “this part of Etherforge is called Undertow. Super obvious name, when you realize how close it is to the water but this place is literally underneath Etherforge. The whole place, all the supports and structures, are infused with magic to help reinforce the foundations.”

“Ah,” Cyrus said aloud, “it looks like the underside of a dock or pier, but with just sand and no water.”

“It gets dark here quick too,” Cam went on, “because daylight can’t reach. So poor people end up down here. The sick too, as well as criminals, of course. Obviously. I mean, it’s perfect for that sort of thing. When it storms though, the sea can flood in down here—that’s the big down side. You’ll get swept away if you sleep too soundly.”

The ceiling beams were about ninety feet above their heads and the light lessened the farther in they went. Boone continued to carry Tinker over her shoulder, with a note of distaste at the irony.

“This place is full of magic,” Dagna said softly, voice almost struck in awe. Her green eyes had a shine that told them she’d detected around them.

“Oh yeah,” Cam agreed enthusiastically. “This place is fun as hell. I love this city. We won’t be able to go topside during the day and down here, we should really be careful about showing our faces too much, but even Undertow is interesting. A little dangerous sometimes but fun. I wish I’d been born here instead of Jildos. They’re known for their smiths, magic and their magical smiths.”

Cyrus looked thoughtful. “Now that sounds very interesting.”

“But for later,” Kallas interjected. “Is there a safe place to put the door to the Cabin,” he nodded anxiously towards Tinker.

“Right, yeah, of course,” Cam said and he took the lead. There was a sprawling undercity market near the center, where a magical fire burned in fluctuating colors. They passed it, however, as well as streetside merchants with wares in varying states of disrepair. Someone in a plague mask was tucked into a back alley, perching over a bubbling caldron.

They passed a dragonborn woman selling gems and handmade jewelry and a dwarven man selling spices. Back about two hundred feet, against the western wall of rock and steel, a ring of people were watching two more fight in the middle.

Cam led them to another alley that connected to the outer wall of Etherforge. It was close to the huge boulders that faced the sea on the city’s nothern side. It was wet with spray and clustered with gulls about a hundred feet below them. There was a five foot walkway and a metal bar to serve as a railing. It was rusted from the sea, caked in salt and bird droppings.

“When I was here, no one came out to the walkways very much. There aren’t very many ways off of it so it’s not a convenient route for travel,” the sorcerer explained. “There is one other exit on the opposite side, but otherwise, it’s all solid rock walls, directly exposed to the elements.”

So they walked the circle of Etherforge, going out to the nothernmost point and then Cam planted the door into the wall.

Eeeee greeted them at the foyer but instantly redirected when he saw Tinker, like a sea captain suddenly spotting a kraken. The Ghost Butler clapped his hands for his compatriots. Two appeared with a stretcher and flew Tinker to the main sitting room. Five more appeared with blankets and steamy water and clean linens for the halfling. Kallas watched them, feeling somehow helpless, but knowing the servants were doing what could be done and likely more steadily than he could claim to be.

Eeeee tapped Cyrus on the arm and pointed to the tablet the artist had written on. The phrase “Art Gallery” had a glowing checkmark next to it. Eeeee beamed when Cyrus’ eyes lit up and then the specter hurried after the other servants.

The ghostly apparition trailed after Kallas, watching their friend closely, like a bodyguard. The tiefling himself stayed at Tinker’s side, sitting on one of the other squashy couches. He meant to stay awake until Tinker awoke but once the adrenaline of battle wore off, exhaustion swept over him.

Eeeee stayed close by and himself brought Kallas food and mulled wine. Though, Kallas imagined the wine only made him sleepier. He didn’t have much of an appetite, much to Eeeee’s dismay.

When Kallas dozed off though, Eeeee covered the rogue with a blanket and posted three of the servants around them like sentries.

Boone staggered off to her own chamber and removed her gear. She had bruises and slashes from Cadron’s horrible magic. That had come very close. When she examined her body in the mirror, she noticed again, the slight shimmer over her collarbones, neck and shoulders. And her eyes were slightly different, something brighter and richer in color. Like a glacier illuminated from within.

(“Your body was restored. Now the only marks you bear are mine.”) Nicnevin did not sound boastful when the words came to Boone. It was more simply a statement of fact.

“So I’m not blind right now,” Boone said to her reflection. “My eyes are brighter blue and my skin is…shiny? Shimmery, over my collarbones.”

(“Something to help keep you safe, child. Don’t forget about those items you stole, by the way. Though, I imagine you’ll want to sleep now.”)

“Shit. In the morning, yeah. Brushes with death make me tired.”

(“Good. That might help you live longer.”)

Cam stared up at the illusion of the night sky. He was exhausted. The sorcerer had almost died for good, several times, earlier. It had happened so many times in the Nine Hells that Cam nearly forgot that it might be for good. Dagna had gotten him up again.

You know, if you die, you’ll die never knowing.

Cam scowled and sat up. The air was cool and perfect, no spiders crawling on him, and the fire was still embers, radiating warmth. Cam gathered his hair and pulled it back. They’d all visited each other’s new rooms, marveling at the expensive–looking furniture and marble floors.

Dagna’s tower had been part beauty shop, part costume explosion. It was delightful. Fuck, who was he kidding—it was cozy and all that shit. Just like her.

His mind was scattered, seemingly. He’d surfaced into the world again, bloodied hand on Dagna’s cheek, smearing it into her hair. Her green eyes held onto him, locked him in place, helped him feel more real. Just like in the Nine Hells.

Maybe that’s what it was. Around Dagna, he felt more real. Or maybe it was just trauma-bonding: surviving together built that sort of unhealthy tunnel vision, sometimes…

He sighed to himself, closing his eyes. Come on, now. You might actually die this time.

Right. He wasn’t entirely certain what he felt about Dagna. There was chemistry, definitely. She was a solid, independent, strong woman. And an incredible bard. She was beautiful, hot, whatever. Curves and red hair, it was a good combination.

In the Nine Hells, things had been simmered down to just existing and enduring. They drug themselves through the pain because they had no other choice, literally. Brought back so many times just to die over and over again. Cam shuddered when he thought of it. There had been a ton of scars. Though when they’d come back, they had faded away to almost nothing.

But still, Cam got a choking, cold feeling in his throat when he thought of it. He woke at the slightest sound and there were deep lines of white scars on his knuckles that itched a great deal. But he was alive.

And I should do shit while I’m alive.

“Fuck,” he muttered out loud, in a final sort of way, in order to make himself get up and put his linen clothes on. He grabbed a satchel and stuffed it with his pipe and some leaf. He raided the snack trunk, sliding in some meat, cheese, and marshmallows, so he would not show up empty-handed. He could make up some excuse along the way, certainly.

One of the spectral servants formed together like a mist beside him, bowing their hooded head to receive a command.

Cam waved a hand, dismissively. “Oh, yeah, hey, is Dagna awake?”

The servant nodded.

“All right. That’s all I needed. I don’t require anything.”

The servant nodded and vanished. The snack trunk was miraculously refilled.

Cam stretched, took a deep breath and walked over to the wooden latch door. He lifted the bar, opened it and stopped short.

Dagna was there, looking surprised, hand raised as if to knock. Her red hair was long and loose around her shoulders. “Oh, shit. Was I noisy?”

“Dagna,” Cam said, staring for a second. “No. I, uh—shit, I was just coming to talk to you.”

“Well, I brought snacks,” Dagna told him, opening a satchel at her side and displaying it stuffed to bursting with doughnuts and cakes.

“Well, shit,” Cam told her, opening his satchel. “I mean, I did too but yeah, I mean, sure.” He stepped back and let her in, still rather surprised.

“That is the correct answer,” she advised, smirking as she sauntered in, but then relaxing into a walk. “Oh, hot spring, that’s right. We should do that.”

“You’re welcome to,” Cam said. “I definitely do.”

“Let me off-load these pastries first. I noticed that all of our rooms have different foods in them. I wonder if they want me to gain some weight.”

“Eeeee probably wants all of us to gain weight. He’s a good guy….ghost….whatever.”

Dagna laid out a dozen decorated, palm-sized lumps with crisp icing that hid colorful blocks of moist, light, sweet cake. Doughnuts that were plumped up fat with lemon-glaze and complementing the frosted tops. She pushed one into his palm. “He took to Tinker too—that’ll help Kallas, poor guy. He’s so loyal to Tinker. I just have to wonder if Tinker is that loyal to him.”

Cam took the doughnut and bit into it, licking at the dollop of lemon glaze left on his mouth. “Fuck. See. This is what I live for. Good food.”

The two of them happily polished off two more apiece while Dagna admired his campsite hearth and mossy bed.

Mulled wine helped them both relax enough for Cam to recommend the hot spring. Dagna eagerly agreed and they both hopped up. Cam had no shame as he pulled his clothes off: hardly a surprise, given his background as both sailor and spellsword. As always, his was a form to admire. Son of a bitch knew it too; even though his beard was a bit thin.

In the hot spring, they slipped in while ignoring each other’s nakedness. After all, they had to travel together. They’d been in various stages of undress before. You didn’t really see such things after a while when you were forced to live in close quarters. You learned to ignore it and respect it, like an adult.

Except for right now where, like adults, both of them were struggling internally with all the emotion and trauma they’d experienced together. Intense people with strong personalities but right now, in the fake stars of a glittering night, in a beautiful illusion, they were both quiet for a moment.

Cam took a deep pull from his pipe before he said to the perfect stars: “You know, we might die for good this time. I know we had a bunch of test runs here but the final performance may not go very well.”

Dagna shrugged, red hair trailing in the steaming water. “Eh, fuck that bitch. I’ll cut her for spite. I’d punch Talisa Macwell right in the womb for free, you wouldn’t even have to pay me. If we die-die, then hopefully someone will come along and finish it later. ”

That made Cam laugh. “Right in the womb, damn. Women are cold-blooded when you cross them.”

Dagna let out a booming laugh and wagged her finger at him. “See. We’re not playing around like you guys do. We don’t fight to impress, we fight to win! Just watch yourself, mister,” Dagna told him with a saucy little wink.

“Why not both?” Cam wanted to know, raising his hands. “Why not both?”

“You should try doing both first.”

Cam laughed and splashed a little water at her and then saw the remains of his bloody handprint on her ear and cheek. “Ope, looks like I left some behind.” The sorcerer grabbed a soft, warm, damp rag and pointing with his eyes. “Left some blood on you, let me get it for you.”

She became very still when he leaned in. He swiped the cloth gently over her ear and felt her body language change. Her shoulders went back, opening herself up so they were just barely touching beneath the water.

Cam paused a touch, feeling her hand on his arm. It made him look at the bard, whose eyes were wide and dilated and had an inviting little smile on her face. Coy and also sweet, hardly shy, but also trembling a little. After all the torture, intense emotional experiences were still rather fearful episodes for both of them.

It was difficult not to feel numb, after all of it. They’d had to shut themselves down to endure it.

So though both had certainly had their share of flings and good times in the past, this felt a little different. They both already knew the scarred baggage left on their brains. No need to explain, and both could just be considerate of it.

“Fuck,” Cam swore softly in hot, smirking annoyance and he kissed her. He felt Dagna smile and laugh against him before she returned it.

Cyrus used the sauna and tub in his own chambers to clean up. It was strange to see his own skin without the menagerie of scars he’d once carried. Coming back, like the others, had healed his body almost completely. He was like a blank slate. The only scar that remained was his branding, though it was very faded, just barely visible anymore.

But Cyrus didn’t linger long, the warlock put on his linens and boots and wandered back out into the mansion. It took a bit of navigation to find this promised Art Gallery, until he crossed the foyer and entered the west wing. The flooring here was rich, sealed wood and Cyrus approached a set of glass doors.

It wasn’t until he touched the pull-bar that he realized the door's stained glass was of that familiar and terrible cliff outside of Jildos. The painter pushed the thought aside and entered.

Jildos was not known for its art appreciation and so Cyrus had not been to many galleries in his short life. But of the ones he had seen, this one blew all the others away. As galleries went, it was extraordinary, and would be, even to a frequent visitor of such establishments.

There were glass cases of cut gems and magnificent display weapons. Suits of armor in a variety of styles posed on dummies along the back wall. The huge room was intersected by sheets of clear glass, all displaying incredible masterpieces of art.

A thick, golden sarcophagus lay in the center of one room, clearly the focal piece, protected by glass. All around it were smaller pots and beads and artifacts. Another contained a huge, glowing crystal that apparently helped teleportation in a country Cyrus had never heard of (Eorzea sounded like a groan one would make if they were very, very drunk.). Maybe it was an older name or spelling of Ebreosea?

Another room was a display of faberge eggs, large and small, created of porcelain or glass or ceramic and decorated in gems and jewels, gold and silver.

Cyrus saw a very large painting near the back of the art gallery. A woman that he did not recognize but she was very lovely. She was a human: tall with black hair, coiled in rings of curls, and very blue eyes. She was standing in a stunning red gown, floor-length, in front of a fireplace—

That’s the mantle in the old Great Hall, Cyrus realized, recognizing the grates and stone, everything about the room was familiar. It was only the woman who wasn’t.

There was a couch sitting about ten feet in front of the painting, so all of it might be viewed comfortably, presumably. It was an overstuffed, leather affair, that Cyrus also recognized from the old manor house. The rug under the piece was the same as well.

Cyrus got a weird chill up his spine and looked around. The gallery was empty. Everyone had crashed after the fight. So he was alone.

The warlock hesitated a moment and then sat down on the couch. That was when he noticed there was a small placard under the huge painting that read: Madelaine Fiona Charlotte Sabal

“Sabal,” Cyrus read his own last name, out loud, struck dumb for a second. Wait. Madelaine was my mother’s name. He tried to remember the picture in his locket.

As if on cue, all the sound around him became muted, the air became still and strange. Cyrus opened his dragon eye wide but he couldn’t detect anything wrong. The room just felt very strange.

And then, in front of the portrait, was the woman. She was standing in front of him, smiling gently at him. Cyrus stiffened, the painting was still there but the woman in it was gone.

She was now standing before him, looking gentle and apologetic.

They stared at each other.

Cyrus swallowed hard. “Are you…really there?”

The woman nodded and when she spoke, her voice was warm and quiet. “Yes. Oh, Cyrus, you’ve grown so tall.”

The warlock’s heart almost stopped. “….Mother?”

“Yes,” she answered, voice breaking. “I was given a chance to come to you and I took it.”

Cyrus got up, examining her. He detected no magic on her, no evil intent or corruption, just a normal, human woman. She’d trained in Jildos’ academy for handmaidens and bodyguards but it hadn’t saved her from dying during his birth. “How are—this…is this an illusion?”

Madelaine Sabal’s smile fell into something sadder. “No. But it won’t last, my son. The Lady of our house, the Raven Queen, gave me this chance but there likely will not be another.”

Cyrus approached her. He could see three of his brothers’ black hair and good looks had come from her. But she and Cyrus had the same eyes (or, well, eye). That same depthless blue.

When he was close enough, Madelaine reached out and laid a solid hand on his chest. “Your father was not a great man. He barely managed as a husband. And I was given to him almost immediately out of the Academy, as your grandfather was none too keen for me to be involved in Jildos’ politics. And I’m so sorry, Cyrus. I’m so sorry. He was weak and I didn’t stop him when I had the chance. I was weak, too.”

Her brokenhearted tone brought the warlock in. He embraced her, carefully, and then more firmly when he felt her grip tightly to him. She was shaking and Cyrus could feel tears on his chest.

“And don’t worry about the locket, my love,” she said brokenly. “Magic stole it from you but it cannot take me from you.” She reached up, cupping Cyrus’ jaw. “You are my son. No matter what anyone else tells you. You are my son. And I am so proud of you. You’ve done so much. And been through so much pain and evil with so few real friends around you.”

She embraced him again, fully and deeply. Cyrus may have never really met her but he could feel her sincerity, the truth of it. And for the first time since his father had declared the opposite, he cried.
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Chapter Text

“Please, Master Druid,” said the woman, desperately, clutching at a wrapped bundle, “it is our son. We adopted him to raise as a wyvern hand and he seemed very healthy and strong when we took him off the wagon but over the last year, well…something is wrong.” She wore ragged sandals and the garb of a farmer.

The man had a bull neck and a jaw that seemed permanently slacked. He was also in scratchy wool and canvas, identical in color and make to his wife, and he gestured the woman forward. “We knew something was odd about him, his eyes are orange, after all, but we thought maybe it might be a side effect of some magic in his line. We’re afraid the bumps might be tumors? Maybe cysts? But he don’t seem bothered by ‘em.”

The Master Druid was a powerfully built elf, broad across the chest, with stern, dark features. His amber eyes tracked on the slender, if somewhat disheveled, human woman as she presented the bundled baby, gently placing him on the altar. She meekly stepped back beside her husband. These two had traveled quite far and begged his guardians to ask the Master Druid for aid.

While his hut was not exactly secret knowledge, it would only reveal itself to those seeking him by his own discretion. And he had guardians among the animals and insects, birds and harvest spiders and other creatures that came back to him to whisper their musical words. Many had come to tell him of two stout, tired-looking humans that had been in the forest for a day and a night, seeking him out. They were fretting, concerned, nesting around a little bundle of warmth.

A child…

And so this archdruid allowed his sanctuary to appear to them. Now they were inside, weary, sitting by the raised platform of his altar. The man broke first and nervously ate three of the druid’s offered honey cakes at once. The woman attempted to smile apologetically.

The elf, who could see their exhaustion, shook his head. He was a thousand years old, such things were not lost on him. “Please eat, drink and rest. Take heart, I will examine the child.”

The adopted boy was wrapped up like a swaddled doll. His skin appeared as human as the farmers in every way, though paler than most. The druid began to unwrap him and watched those luminous eyes open. The baby stared up at him quietly. His eyes were big and indeed, orange as flames from whites to pupil. The archdruid smiled kindly at the child even as he unwrapped his little head and saw the source of the parents’ strenuous search for help.

A row across the child’s forehead had bubbled up with knots that were not typical to pure humans. The archdruid ran his thumb over them gently, checking the babe’s express to see if he flinched in pain. But he did not. The boy's skin was also not heated or feverish, nor irritated. Those steady, orange eyes stayed on his face. The bumps were not soft. So hopefully, it was not a tumor. He checked the child’s ears and noticed they had barely-pointed tips, just starting to elongate, apparently. So the child had to be of mixed blood.

The elf thought about the staghorns of his headdress. He gently pressed around the lumps, tracing close and finding the ridges like a master artisan. Two, larger, outer ridges and two, inner, smaller ridges. They felt like bone. Like deer before their antlers emerged from velvety nubs.

The druid straightened up and detected upon the child but there was no magic. At least, not as of now (which could take his entire childhood to surface, depending on the strain).

The baby took hold of one of his calloused fingers. The archdruid took a breath and then reached into the veil for the other part of his power. It sent a shimmering pulse from his feet outward. The human farmers did not light up. The elf’s own fey heritage glowed under his dark skin.

And the babe also lit up. Not the rainbow kaleidoscope of the fey, nor the golden shroud of a celestial, but the darkened purple-red of a fiend. The Master Druid looked up at the parents, studying their sunworn faces. “Do you know where this child came from?”

The couple exchanged a glance. The woman shook her head. “None. He came from a village on a mountain somewhere. It was destroyed by mudslides last winter.”

The man nodded. “The group of refugees showed up in our village in spring. They told us the story. Along with others, of course. They had an excess of children and nowhere to throw them. So they was offering out ones for anyone who might keep them. Our children are grown and gone. So we chose Kallastin and said the oath for him at the Temple.”

“You said you wanted him to be a farm hand,” the archdruid prompted quietly.

“Right, right, yeah, but…you know, we still took him in with good intentions,” the father said, looking a little uncomfortable.

“We’re almost forty now,” the mother added. “We’ll need help soon enough.”

“Is he ill?” the man inquired, the anxiety in his face pinching his brow. The woman stiffened in her seat, wringing her hands together.

They did seem truly anxious for the child. So the druid nodded to the baby and breathed. “No. No, he isn’t ill, very fortunately. He seems quite healthy. The issue is not a sickness but a nature, for the child is a tiefling.”

At the same instant, both their faces changed. Man and woman, in a horrified mirror of revulsion, they both jerked and looked down at the baby.

“Wha—but his skin!” The man demanded, pointing at him. “He’s lighter of tone than either of us! Tieflings are all devils’ colors!”

“How can you say that!” The woman snapped. “What do you have to prove an accusation like that!”

The druid stared at them both, solemn and grave. “My magic does not lie. He is not beastfolk, nor purely humanoid, fey, celestial or undead. Fiends are as natural to the universe as we are. They are part of existence.”

The man’s face went ashy pale. The woman swayed on her feet and spat, helplessly: “B-but they’re evil!”

“Good and evil, one cannot exist without the other. Both are necessary for balance. Tieflings are merely bloodlines shared among fiends and humanoids, as fey bloodlines are among elven kind. They are not inherently evil themselves.”

“Seems like enough of ‘em end up there!” The man snarled.

“Do you account for every human criminal I have known, then?” The druid was calm when he asked it, low and even.

“They are thieves and sorcerers!” The woman sobbed, almost in hysterics. She tried to stand up but dropped to her knees again, swooning in shock.

The archdruid’s eyes went hard and cold, like obsidian. “You would renounce this child? Did you make no oath under the Temple of Bahamut, at the shrine of Estelle, which stands in T’eumar?”

“We did!” The man snapped. “But we didn’t know it was a….a….”

“Do you believe the gods of light would steer you wrong?” The archdruid’s eyes were still cold, staring hard now. The fire in his hearth died down to embers, letting darkness envelop the humans.

The two looked at each other, both of them seemed to feel the shadows reaching and grasping for them.

“We only thought,” the woman began slowly, voice trembling, “that we could provide for a human child. Not a devilling. We do not want the trouble of magic and demons and monsters! We’re trying to raise wyverns so we can eat.”

“The gods have seen fit to bless you with something slightly different but no less deserving,” the druid replied. “Are you both oathbreakers as well as cowards?”

The man’s nose wrinkled and his lip curled. But he was afraid, as well, for the Arch Druid was incredibly powerful. And usually, they wouldn’t even think of going against anything he said! He had known the elf his entire life. The man was at all the seasonal celebrations and he blessed the harvests! His knowledge had always led them right. But this…this…thing! This boy-devil….

The woman quailed and bit her lip, tears spilling down her face. “So we have to take the wretch,” she choked out. Before this druid kills us both. The woman snatched up the bundle like she were picking up a bag of shrunken heads.

“Keep your oaths,” the druid advised. The hearth burned bright again, warming the room and driving the shadows back. “The gods note those who lie.”

They fled.

And so Kallas had grown up with such adoptive parents living in revulsion of him but they were too afraid to turn him out, lest the arch druid should discover them as oathbreakers. He had heard the story from as far back as he could recall. In the boy’s personal opinion, it might have been better if they had simply given him to someone else. But, whoever the mighty druid was, the elf had pitied him for some reason that his “parents” could not fathom. (“He ought to have taken you in himself, if he felt that way!”)

And so little Kallas found himself pushed out of the house as soon as his many chores were done and advised to be gone until nightfall. He’d pondered, wandering the streets of T’eumar, if they wanted him to be kidnapped or killed. It certainly felt like it sometimes.

They were not really concerned about him attending school. It wasn’t compulsory and they had a farm. But one day, when he was nine, he’d found the local school. At first, he hardly dared to enter and just stood outside, listening through the door. He had fled at the breaks the children took, hiding in the trees at the edge of the grounds. But once they were safely back inside, Kallas would sneak up again to listen.

But on his third day of spying, a voice said, “You all right?”

Kallas had nearly jumped a dozen feet in the air. A tiny halfling child was standing beside him. “Uhh, I…uh….”

“Are you a new student?”

“Well,” Kallas stammered and finally managed: “I-I cannot read.”

The halfling chuckled heartily. “Well, you’re at the right place then, friend! My name’s Tinker!”

Kallas couldn’t actually go to school at the same time as everyone else. He had chores all day at the farm. But now, when he was sent away, Kallas went to the schoolhouse. The city had grown little by little and, at that time, the school had a new wing of rooms. And even after the children’s classes were over, adults came in for lessons as well, so someone was almost always around that would be willing to teach him something. That was how he learned to read.

If he happened to be dismissed early enough for the children’s classes, Tinker would instantly wave him over and study with him. The tiny halfling was so kind, even when most of the other children (and adults) scoffed at him. He was a rather lonely, friendless child, just like Kallas was. The two of them had been fascinated by thieves cant as little boys. They'd read all about it in stories and even attempted to make up their own.

Presently, Kallas opened his eyes and thought: We both ended up making some reckless decisions.

Tinker sighed deeply, as if he had heard his thoughts. “Kallas…”

The tiefling jumped and saw the halfling sitting himself up a bit. “Tinker! Are you all right?”

Tinker chuckled softly. “You know, for the first time in a long time, I’m hopeful enough to feel hungry.”

As if summoned by the word, Eeeee appeared next to one of their sentries and pointed at Tinker. The other three vanished.

Kallas went to his friend and looked him over, mostly ignoring the servants at this point. “We’ll get you some new clothes in Undertow. We’re currently in a magical shelter that’s placed in Etherforge.”

That seemed to make the halfling perk up. “Etherforge? Truly?” He asked and laughed weakly. “I’ll be damned. So this isn’t a dream. You’re real. This isn’t some illusion from Cadron?”

“No, my friend. But I can’t let you out of sight while Lady Macwell is still alive. It’s too dangerous.”

“What happened to Cadron? Did you all sneak in?”

“No, we killed Cadron,” Kallas reported. “I didn’t even know you were there. Somehow, Boone sensed you in the dungeon.”

The halfling cringed. “Oh boy, I imagine she didn’t like that.”

“Seriously, no more of this. She is willing to let it go but barely.”

“I got it. I’m not bound to Asmodeus anymore. Shouldn’t have done it in the first place. Sometimes, I get ahead of myself. I should have just died like you did. You were braver than me.”

Kallas startled a little. “….Tinker, mortals are fallible. It is what makes us value the time we have on the material plane.”

“Right….” The halfling breathed in relief. “No more deals.”

“Yes, if you need help again, ask me instead of any demons or devils.”

“I mean, part of you though….” Tinker replied, grinning at him.

Kallas laughed.

The servants burst back into the room with trays and trays of food. And Ghost Butler was in a state of ecstasy as Tinker devoured everything, showered the ghostly man with culinary compliments and then asked for more.

The commotion brought the others to them. Boone wrinkled her nose but nodded. Cyrus waved a little and offered the halfling some pipeweed. Tinker almost dropped the case when he recognized the warlock but then steadied himself.

“Uh, I—I’m glad you were able to save Brenna,” Tinker said to them. “I know I was basically a hindrance at best, and a coward otherwise.” He nodded towards Boone. "Sorry for trying to kill you."

Cam pulled on his cloak. “Just stay here while I go get you some clothes. Don’t need to risk anyone finding out you’re still alive. And if you betray us again, then I’ll just put you in the ground myself.”

“You’ll have to get in line for that one,” Boone said, squinting at Tinker with a sneering glare. For his part, the halfling bowed his head to them, nodding solemnly.

“Hey, uh, before you leave,” Cyrus said, holding out a hand, “did anything strange happen to any of you last night?”

Dagna choked on a hunk of carrot cake she was gnawing on, laughing even as she was grabbing for a glass of milk. Eeeee hovered over her shoulder, likely ready to try and evict the obstructive dessert from her throat, if need be. When Dagna breathed again, she only said, “I slept hard as hell, my dude.”

Cam snorted into his cloak but managed to shrug silently. “Nah, not for me. Why?”

“I just…” Cyrus trailed and then shifted, looking almost pensive. “Just checking. You know, life has been crazy lately. Uh, but—Eeeee put together that gallery for me. You all should make sure to add a room for yourselves.”

Kallas looked thoughtfully at the ghostly butler, who instantly noticed his gaze and curled his fingers up by his chin eagerly. “What about a library?”

Eeeee practically bounced, nodding emphatically. Then he bowed to them and vanished.

“I have several contacts here in Etherforge,” Tinker volunteered. “I might be able to scare up a couple of them for supplies or equipment. I take it if you’ve killed Cadron, then Lady Macwell is next on the list.”

Cam paused at Tinker’s comment and turned to him. “Yeah, she is. Who do you know?”

“Flint Fireiron, Head of the city’s smithing guild, some of the university’s Professors of business, metals and magic. The head of the dairy and farmers’ guild is my brother-in-law’s sister, Roxanne Underborough. I know three lawyers, and a whole clan of deepsea fisherfolk. There’s Master Persim, an excellent tailor and weaver of exemplary embroideries and brocades. I used to go to him when I needed to dress a tavern. I happen to be quite good friends with most of Ironfish Wharf (many of whom have friends in Undertow). I can usually get a free meal down there—“

“Okay, okay, Tinker,” Cam finally stopped him. “Keep the suppliers in mind.”

By the time the sorcerer returned, a half hour had passed and Tinker had finally finished eating. The halfling changed clothes. They were not nearly so fine but they were durable, earthy canvas and yellow cotton with a deep hood.

“Oh yeah!” Boone exclaimed, pulling out the bag. “I remembered! Dagna, it’s the shit I stole from Talisa’s keep in the Shadowfell. I keep forgetting!”

“Oooh! Yeah, let’s see if we can identify it.”

Boone again took out the ring, a cloak, a dolphin statue and the leather bag. Tinker perked up. “I have that spell, if you want any help identifying items.”

“You stole these things from Lady Macwell,” Kallas repeated, stunned for a moment and then shook himself. “Yes, please, Tinker, cast the spell. Things from that woman’s abode can’t likely be trusted.”

“Well, it did look like a random collection!” Boone replied. “Like she probably took them from other people she caught or something.”

“Boone, what if she can scry on them!” Cyrus exclaimed.

(Thanks to the bauble of the dolphin, no one can scry on you, child.)

Boone brow furrowed. “Nicnevi—ugh, you could have told me that earlier, you know! Sorry, the witch is talking again—she said no one can scry on me because of the dolphin.” Boone heard the smile in her voice when she answered: (You did not ask, child.)

Tinker cast his magic and, indeed, the dolphin statue glowed with abjuration magic, keeping magical eyes at bay. The halfling squinted at Boone. “Who is the voice in your head again?”

“Queen of Witches, apparently,” Boone said loftily, stirring her tea with a vengeance.

“Interesting patron relationship,” Cyrus explained, grinning a little, “though not quite as bad as yours.” He winked at Tinker.

The halfling smothered the urge to laugh and then cast on the other items. The ring was first, which Tinker frowned at as he examined it. “Strange little bauble. Let’s you communicate telepathically.”

“I have enough voices in my head,” Boone grumbled, shaking her head at the ring. Cyrus also declined.

Cam said, “I don’t want it—but why is it strange? Just the telepathy or what?”

Tinker wrinkled his little nose at the trinket. “The telepathy, certainly. But it seems like it might have other abilities? But I can’t quite…divine them. It feels like divination magic but…more than I would expect.”

“Well, you could use that while sneaking around, right?” Dagna said, nodding to Kallas.

So the rogue politely took it and slid it on his finger.

When Tinker examined the bag, he shook his head. “Wow, good thing you didn’t open this. Bag of Devouring. It will try to eat you if you open it.”

“What the fuck—like an evil holding bag?!” Dagna exclaimed. “That is some bullshit. Damn, sometimes I forget how scary magic is.”

Cam chuckled, packing a fresh pipe. “We should keep it though, use it on the next person who tries to betray us.”

Tinker swept out the cloak with a flourish. It was a deep, midnight indigo, with faint, pinpoint stars on it. It would be nearly invisible in the dark. “Oh, cloak with Spider Climb attached to it. So you can run up walls at will, basically.”

“Shit, Kallas, you should take that too,” Dagna told him. “You’re gonna be like a shadow.”

So they all agreed and Kallas took the cloak. Boone held onto the dolphin, which they all agreed was for the best. After all this, Tinker was hungry again and Eeeee was only too pleased to provide, though they had to step out of the cabin and recast it for the day, first.

Tinker then reconsidered and suggested they use the moment to make contact with Master Persim, the tailor and merchant of fine silks and brocades. A high-end market with high-end clientele and lots of connections. Aristocrats came to him from all over to purchase his tapestries, and was certain to have Lady Macwell on his lists somewhere. He could find out if the man had any rumors or information. Kallas went with him, donning the cloak to hide his beautiful rapier and pulling the hood over his horns. They went into Undertow, which Tinker wandered about for an hour and then seemed to find his mark: the dwarven man selling spices.

Kallas stood behind Tinker like a bodyguard, face hidden, and observed money exchanging hands. The dwarven merchant seemed to ignore him completely when he understood that the halfling was there for information. This was clearly not a rare occurrence. Kallas watched some flickers of thieves cant, heard his friend use the rhyming slang (“stones and bones, my man, cages or sages?”) and the merchant respond in kind (“still jive, still live, sir, cages and fortresses is sometimes the same.”) until Tinker was satisfied.

When they walked away, his friend told him: “I imagine you caught most of that but that man also works for Persim. I asked him how the tailor was. Apparently, Persim is beset on all sides but has managed not to get involved politically with anyone yet, which is tough to believe in a city like Etherforge, but Persim has never sold me out yet. So I paid to pass a message that I would like a favor turned in, information on a high-level mark of the Jildosi aristocracy. Persim will use a sending scroll to answer, so we just have to wait for him to receive the message."

When they came back inside, Eeeee was awaiting them. He pointed out a glowing yellow checkmark next to the word Library. And then another, under it, and written in Boone’s own messy hand: Sanctuary.

Tinker had an early luncheon while he explained it all to the others. The halfling seemed content to rest, eat and await the message. It might be a couple hours. So Kallas went to check out the library.

He found it on an upper floor, guarded by two massive oak doors, six inches thick with carvings of an aged bookshelf covered in perfectly imitated vines, leaves and flowers. There was even raised moss carved into the handle with incredible detail.

The library was large, not overwhelming, but definitely bigger than he was expecting. It had three floors with an open air atrium in the middle, so all the galleries were open to huge skylights. The shelves were built directly into the walls of red cedar, varnished shiny and smooth. The first floor had a few open rooms branching off the main gallery. In one, were globes of the world, which instantly had Kallas taking notes, as such maps were hard to come across. The globes were in a variety of styles, one of solid silver, another enameled in gems or expertly carved from cherry wood. In the center of them was a large table, like a lord’s banquet table, twenty feet long and ten feet wide. A flat map of Naluri was carved and painted into it.

In another side room, there was a desk inhabited by extensive calligraphy and cartography supplies, as well as thick, sturdy, planning paper. An artificer’s typing machine sat on a four-legged desk with a satin chair perched in front of it.

In each side room was a silent, ghostly servant, there to find books on whatever topic he might want to read about. Kallas breathed in the dust of the pages and felt a little calmer. Somehow, books had that effect. The ceiling was painted with star charts of the constellations and a huge globe, ten feet across, made of black obsidian reflected this data in the middle of the main gallery.

“Oh!” Kallas heard a voice say. It was slightly muffled, as if they were being said in another room. “Here we go. Oh yeah, bring the wine bottles, nice.”

A book jumped out of one of the shelves, landing in the main walkway and sliding nearer to him. Two more books were shunted off like projectiles from a crossbow and then the shelf in the wall suddenly opened.

Like a secret passageway, Kallas stared at the door in stunned silence, waiting. He gripped his rapier, but it did not glow or hum.

A tiefling woman with coal-dark skin, a yellow scarf in her hair, and glittering black eyes, staggered through the doorway.

Kallas almost fell over. “Velicia—I mean, Zephira?”

Their tiefling guide from the Shadowfell perked up and, when she laid eyes on him, her face lit up. “Kallas! Hey!”

A human male followed her out the door. A fair-skinned young man with dancing bright blue eyes and a crooked grin, he bowed over his arm. In one hand, there was two bottles of spiced mead.

Kallas offered out his hand to Zephira and then embraced her hard. “It is good to see you are still alive! Who is this?”

“Aatrin Hallowwood. Did Cyrus survive?”

“Yes, he did, we found our way back to each other. Come, come, you must come and see him. How did you get here? I never thought I’d actually see you again.”

Zephira grinned. “I didn’t either, if I’m honest. But the Raven Queen works in strange ways.”

“You can say that again,” Aatrin echoed cheerfully. “We have got a very interesting story for y’all.”
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Chapter Text

The room was flooded in purple light, lilac soft and airy from lofted ceilings and stained glass. Boone looked down at her skin, pale as moonlight, turned violet gleaming, nearly blue again. Her head swam a little, heady with how bright it seemed. She gazed up into the glass ceiling, slowly turning in a meandering circle.

She felt fifteen again, thirteen, eleven, five, always alone and ignored. “I have real friends now,” she said softly, to the transcendent light. (“Really? You ought to let them know.”)

Boone grimaced. “Can I think without having constant commentary, Nic?”

A large hand came down to rest gently on her shoulder and Boone jerked. She wasn’t wearing her armor and she whirled around, fists clenching….

And beheld a humanoid who was achingly beautiful. Frosty white hair and beard, icy blue eyes, skin dark like a seal hunter. He was taller than she was, broad of shoulder but lean. His face was an age senior to her but handsome and weathered. Wait, no…

A glamour. Boone was looking at a glamour, laid over…a dragon. “Jazirian?”

The cascading purple light seemed to flood into all the white shadows and for a flicker, Boone spied the silvery dragon eyes of her patron. The girl bowed her head.

His voice was rumbling and warm. He felt the girl stiffen when he embraced her. “You were not certain if I would ever return to you,” he murmured to her hair.

Boone struggled to raise her eyes to the god’s. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t sure.”

“What would make you uncertain?” He asked kindly, blue eyes warming like a summer sky.

“I haven’t exactly done what you wanted. Cyrus and Kallas died for me. I couldn’t reach you in the Shadowfell with Lady Macwell. I just….”

“You did the best you could and made a very wise decision in choosing who Thioni would help.”

Boone started again. “Do you—have you heard something? Do you know anything? About Gregor? Is he still alive? Was he—“

“Boone,” Jazirian said, gently and softly. “I intervened in your birth. I gave your parents a blessed girl and they squandered her. You grew up alone and friendless, which was never my intention. That your pain might become bitter and hard, is not unexpected. You are still young, barely out of a mortal childhood. You did not understand the machinations of your birth and any possibilities outside of such.”

Jazirian somehow made Boone feel small, which was surprisingly welcome. Her own father had shunned such sentiments. “Nicnevin said that the only marks you now bear were hers,” the dragongod said, “and she was almost correct. You were reborn in my image, your gem is part of your spirit. You are my child in body now, as well as spirit. Even here, we speak Celestial, and you barely register the change.”

Boone realized he was right and absently touched her own mouth. “So…I am some kind of celestial.”

“Yes, my child. You are an asamar now. So don’t let Nicnevin get to you too much. She’s of the fey, after all.”

Boone was almost startled to hear Nicnevin respond: (“Better to have balance. Everyone needs a few tricks up their sleeve.”)

“As you’ll be sharing space with me, Lady Nicnevin,” Jazirian said to the witch but looking at Boone, of course, “then we must agree on how many tricks up how many sleeves.”

(“He says this for now, child. Don’t worry.”)

“I’m not,” Boone answered, curtly, out loud.

Jazirian laughed. “Easy, Boone, bear patience with two old gods. Now, the hour grows short and the Lady grows desperate to fulfill her pact. But I, for what it’s worth, believe you will return triumphant. Though, that is no reason to tarry.”

Boone startled a little at the fatherly turn of his tone. That handsome face smiled at her, warm as springtime. “My daughter, hear the words of your father, for he, like many others, is an old god and, at times, a fool. Will you hear me, daughter?”

Boone found it hard to keep his gaze for a moment but then she felt it in her skin, her eyes, her toes and her hair. She felt the vibration of familiarity. Warmth, comfort, trust. Truth.

The paladin’s instinct had always leaned to doubt. And for a terrible moment, she thought: Oh, please don’t be a lie or an illusion. I don’t want to be fooled again—

Boone shook herself. She had to be brave now. Stop running, stop fearing the inevitable. She’d literally fucking died in the Nine Hells. Compared to that, facing possible judgment from her father seemed like nothing. She didn’t know what he was about to say, of course, but best to assume it was going to be about her conduct up to that point.

He seemed to know her thoughts immediately. “Daughter, calm. I am not here to render judgment or to scold. So long as you understand why you needed to grow, then we look forward. We reflect on the past, we are not lost in it. We must be centered and present, so that you can learn the art of reading people. Understanding people bestows the wisdom to understand their motives and intentions. And that is a very important element of combat, is it not?”

“Yes? I mean, yes. Yes. Even just knowing how to work with Dagna and the others so we don’t accidentally hurt each other, that’s important. During combat, I mean.”

“And also outside of combat, daughter. Is that not so?” The dragon said, gently.

Boone hesitated and broke eye contact. “I am not too good at that. I tend to hurt my friends.”

“That’s true. You’re terrible about it, really,” the god laughed gently and cupped her right hand in his own. “But it is mostly that you don’t listen. You don’t observe. You are aware of yourself but not of others. But that can be learned. You have already taken those first steps on your own.”

“But I didn’t—that was just a stupid illusion,” Boone said, frowning at the teakwood flooring and interlaid white tiles. "It wasn't real."

“A dream, really. Of a memory, perhaps. Elements Lady Macwell drew from all of the many souls she had trapped in the Nine Hells and the Shadowfell, likely. But you still had an element of free will to interact with her Dream. It was a sort of game to Lady Macwell, of course, but it was real for you, at the time. That is how mortals experience reality. She manipulated that but you still chose to watch your friends, to listen to them. Keep asking questions and figure out how to find lies, daughter. Especially about ourselves.”

“Cyrus tried to get our attention or something with those feathers.”

That warm smile graced his features again. “My dear, he was not even aware of it. I believe the Raven Lady was the actor in that, though I do not doubt young Cyrus was the source. You noticed, as you were supposed to. That is the hardest part, the noticing. Poor Gregor had no help, in that regard, and eventually, the necromancer was able to influence him.”

“I want to save him somehow. Cyrus was restored, couldn’t Gregor be too?” Boone pleaded and, for the first time, actively grasped at Jazirian’s humanoid hands.

“Many things may happen at this point. We are at the last thread, daughter. All things are possible. But if Lady Macwell is able to bring forth her terrible god, we will all suffer. But you will go forth and defeat her, I know this.”

Boone’s brow creased. “How? I mean, do you see the future? Can all gods do that?”

“Not many, no,” Jazirian answered sagely. Nicnevin echoed a little laugh in Boone’s mind: (“More than he’d have you think, depending on how you interpret the seeing of futures.”)

“But,” the dragon god went on, “you are all back where you should be. All the elements are drawn together once again. But this time, for good. This time there can only be one set of victors. The Hungry God or you, my valkyrie. The die has been cast. The evolutions are adapted and now the game is nearly done.”

(“Pretentious riddler,”) Nicnevin sniffed. (“What he means, child, is that he doesn’t know what will happen but he believes. He has his faith in you and your friends. As you know the sun will set in the evening, he knows you will overcome.”)

“You know, I can still hear you, Lady Nicnevin,” Jazirian said aloud, flatly, to the witch in Boone’s soul.

(“Yes, I wasn’t hiding,”) the witch replied scornfully, (“I just didn’t feel the need to take a form to bicker with you. We’ll be sharing soon enough.”)

The girl heard a strange little sigh in her head from the witch-queen: (“Even Lolth believed in a favor repaid and had the sense to know when time was precious. She resurrected your friends. And if we fail, then none of us will be around long enough to regret it.”)

Boone got the absurd urge to laugh at how Jazirian seemed to take a bracing breath and wrinkle his nose before he smiled for Boone again. “You will see Gregor again. That, I do know. Your desire to help him, to save him, I see it in you. I’m glad to see it.”

The god embraced her again and Boone suddenly hugged him back, hard and shaking. The flood of emotion, the desire for approval, something, anything, from her parents and never getting anything in return, it was bursting over her. Utter despair as a child, not knowing how to fix her circumstance. Not knowing that it wasn’t her fault at all, but the insecurity of weak parents. Not knowing it wouldn't be permanent.

Boone felt Nicnevin’s presence swing to quiet, like a buffeting wind softening to the gentlest breeze. The sharpness from the witch queen faded and her influence became calming and soothing. It was warm, and somehow, even motherly. Her aura was a natural summer green to Jazirian’s warm silver.

It felt like hours before Boone was able to stop crying. They all needed space, she and Cam and Dagna, after the Nine Hells. She could admit, she needed it. Boone knuckled her eyes and sat down on a pew. Jazirian was gone now, human or dragon form, but the human-turned-asamar could still feel his presence.

Incredible. Warm and glimmering. This must be what Dagna feels for her father. And he got petrified. I’d be furious if someone took Jazirian from me. He’s like, kind of my dad now. She must be so angry on the inside, even though she hides it.

The paladin gazed up at the stained glass and breathed in the light, holy air. She felt better than she had in years: lighter, even. The paladin washed her face in the bowl of holy water and checked her reflection. Her hair was a ragged black mop and her eyes were redrimmed and puffy but Boone was able to smile. It lightened her whole cast like a full moon, glittering through her eyes. I am able to love and to be loved.

“No more hiding, no more looking back. No need for people who don’t want me around. Learn to find the people who do want me around. I’ve got a few right here. And that’s more than some people ever get. What am I afraid of? Lady Macwell better get ready for me! I will save Gregor or die trying!”

“So, once again, I stand before you as a messenger of the Raven Queen!” Zephira announced as she entered the common room. Cyrus, Dagna and Cam were there, sharing an urn of warm wine and waiting for information.

They could attempt to Teleport right to Lady Macwell but Cam wanted a physical location if it could be had. He wanted to know what they were about to step in to. The sorcerer insisted. So Tinker had run off to pull in favors and tips. Kallas had run in the streets with him yesterday and, for a few hours, pretended they were boys again. But reality was never far away. Today, the halfling had to go alone for everyone's safety. So Kallas waited in the mansion-cabin as well. Out of sight from Lady Macwell's impressive spy network.

At the shout, Cyrus jerked, started, and then jumped up. “Zephira?! Hey! See! I knew I’d see you again!” The warlock beamed and opened his arms to her. "Ah, and you still have the spear I gave you!" It was latched to her harness on her back, alongside an emerald green trident, still trailing its dark mist into the air around the tiefling as she bounded over and clasped his arm. Cyrus did a double-take at the man walking behind her. The warlock pointed at his fellow human. “I know you. Or rather, I saw you in the Shadowfell.”

“Aatrin Hallowwood,” the warbard cleric greeted warmly, raising a hand until they were close enough to grasp arms.

Dagna was a bit surprised to watch a pretty tiefling spring over to Cyrus and, a little shyly, embrace him like a sister. “Is this your guide? From the Shadowfell?”

“Oh yes! We met her as Velicia but her name is Zephira. She helped Kallas and me both,” Cyrus said, holding Zephira and noting how her gear had clearly taken a beating. “Are you all right? How is your back?” Sabal gently put a hand on her shoulder and swept the other over her spine, as if searching for the wound.

The warmage looked a little flustered suddenly, but managed, “I’m fine. Mut cleared it right up.”

The fair-faced warbard laughed. “Well, well, Zephira, this must be Cyrus, the haunting human and, of course, Kallas, an intense and clever tiefling, who we met on arrival.” Aatrin Hallowwood bowed to them. “I appreciate you helping my friend stay alive. I’d offer my services, were it within my power. But alas, maybe one day.”

Zephira carefully separated from Cyrus, and collected herself. “Aatrin is here much the same as you once were, Cyrus. Caught between life and death by the Raven Queen when the Reaping occurred, he has a limited amount of time with us. But he was able to take a physical form in the Shadowfell and there, remembered he had been in a battle in Rhayada."

Under Rhayada, actually, under the waves and piers and decks, under the cobblestones and market and boroughs. In a deep, dark chamber, guarded by a terrible wight. No, something more malicious. Some kind of lich or powerful death knight?

“Captain Perry told me they picked up a sailor called Aramel and a homeless mage and left, instead of staying for some pirate wedding,” Zephira said quietly, as they entered the crypt. "He didn't necessarily say that anything specific was in the crypts, except ghosts."

The two students had arrived three days before and had made a point to take on the look of the place. They didn’t want to stick out in a town like this. ("We look like we're in uniforms, we match in color scheme," Aatrin insisted.)

So Zephira took up garb more fitting for a bard. The yellow scarf was a flash of bright against all of her dark features. And the lovely layers of scarves and dyed linens from the market wound well around her leathers. The bells made sound but they were easily removed afterwards.

Aatrin just covered his own doublet with simple leather one and stowed his violin in its plain-looking wooden case. Thus, in a snap, he could pass for any other bard or poet on the port. "Don't you feel something wrong here?"

"Holy magic was not my specialty, Aatrin. I mean, it feels, I don't know....dark? I don't know what to compare it to." She shrugged at the elder student, feeling very under-qualified to be here.

“Now, that, I understand. I've never felt anything quite like it, myself. But something powerful is in here. I feel like if Professor Argonaut was coming to a pirate port, he must be looking for something,” Aatrin replied and he gently took the lead into the crypt by the sea. He was tapping his fingers against his thumbs but his mind, his magic, was scanning, Zephira knew.

“There’s something very potent here." The warbard repeated, then hesitated. “I’d feel better with a crew of us, rather than just two.”

Zephira’s eyebrows shot up. “What the—how strong is it?!”

“Not many individual undead. But still strong. So one, at least, powerful undead and another that is either directing, or in service to it, and no way to know for certain.” Aatrin kept up a hand to keep Zephira behind him.

“So scout a little and then go back?” The younger said, emphasis on the later part.

Aatrin nodded. “But not far. I would just like to take back something more than...well, neither of us have enough experience to know what it was, just bad. Yep. Just definitely not-good, maybe? The darkness and cold of it is strange. Almost…seeping around the edges of her armor, her cloak.”

Zephira stared at him for a moment. “I assume you are not talking about the Raven Queen?”

“No, no, the presence is…strange,” Aatrin mused, softly now, leaning against the crypt wall, ignoring the cobwebs and fleeing mice. “A death knight, I saw, bleeding around the edges into another plane. Beautiful in face but ugly in her coldness. I can feel how cold she is.”

Zephira was evolving more and more to alarm. Aatrin could be braver than he was smart, at times, but he was touched with a glimmer of foresight. He would occasionally get flashes of insight that were typically very correct. “Uh, I don’t like how this sounds, my friend. Do you think it’s strong enough to have already detected us? We should leave.”

They both held their breath, waiting to see if the torches would flicker or something would laugh maniacally. But nothing happened.

“You know, you're right. Let’s get the map and jot this place down,” Aatrin breathed and gladly acquiesced. "Who am I kidding? We can't report it back if we die." They turned around, walking more quickly than either would admit while still within the hallowed shadows, to the door. Yet, as soon as his fingers brushed the stone, the power vanished.

That, even Zephira felt, jolting like she’d been pranked with Shocking Grasp. “Okay, I felt it disappear, what happened?”

“I’m not sure. Now it just feels like…a remnant. Like a…a dream or a memory…” Aatrin pondered and, foolishly, looked back into the darkness.

That was when the door slammed shut. And not by the wind. Zephira could see the magic on it.

“Oh shit.” she sighed wearily. “Well. We tried to do the smart thing.”

The crypt was in disrepair and close to the sea, but was not maintained well enough to withstand the abuses of weather and age. Some entire rooms were flooded. A dry passage remained for only a short distance and then they heard water around their ankles, echoing like a death knell through the whole pit. Aatrin led and Zephira followed, trying hard to focus on the walking and not what might happen when they arrived at the locker of the door.

“It’s all right,” Aatrin suddenly said, quietly, calmly. He smiled at his younger friend, put his hand on her shoulder and pulled her to him. He could feel her tension and anxiety. “We’ll get through this, okay? The goal now is to leave alive. If we can convince her to let us walk out, we need to send letters. A lot of letters. And so long as we keep our wits about us, don’t say anything out of turn and so on, we have a chance. So, we’re going to get through this one step at a time. All right?”

Zephira searched his eyes with her own, allowed herself a shudder, and then nodded. “R-right.”

As it turned out, only one of them would.

Because what they found was a powerful death knight retrieving some kind of artifact deep underground. And the power they’d initially sensed hadn’t even been hers, but her servant. She could hide her own presence. But the other, a tall and handsome young man, at one time, now aged by Undeath and resignation, he was some kind of deathlock. They had been trained to spot possession at the college and they both cringed for the poor boy. His will had been totally stifled, his aura almost nonexistent.

The necromancer was an age senior to them but still beautiful, sharp and bewitching as a dagger. When they finally found her, she dismissed them with a scraping glance. “Children should not be out so late. It’s dangerous at night.”

Aatrin backed Zephira behind him a step. And then he straightened himself up politely and bowed to her. “Well, uh, we got locked in, my lady. So, we had to find the one who could open the door for us. We would be glad to go, my lady, and leave you to your…grief.”

The knight's eyes were a striking hazel-amber, flecked with green. But that gaze was intelligent and hard. Cold, where once had been warmth. A wall, where once, she’d welcomed affection. Those piercing eyes fixed on Aatrin. This boy had no idea that his aura told the truth: shimmering, shell-like, rainbow gradient of fey magic (so, bard), edged and defined by whispers and darkness (of that gaunt-eyed spook from the Shadowfell). To think she had ever feared the Shadowfell and its bird omens. That witch-hag...

The boy's warlock magic bordered his bardic magic like a strained thin version of her own. The Lady's aura was cloaked by a darkness that was heavier, thicker. Trailing after her like a liquid shadow, her aura had grown and grown the longer it spent gorging on the whispers of the darklands. And the knight could see that the tiefling girl’s magic was almost as dark as her night-black eyes. Less overall magic, but what's there has punch. The Shadowfell touched everyone in some way or another. “You are servants of the Raven Queen?”

Aatrin looked at her as if he didn’t quite understand her meaning, like a linguist who knows elements of a language but isn’t fluent. “Some do take the Raven Queen as a patron?”

The woman smiled, a warm but sly thing. “Just a hunch. Travelers, yes? No need to fear. Sit, please.” She gestured to some cushioned chairs and a knee-high table that was suddenly stacked with cider and a platter of cakes.

Aatrin was careful not to look at Zephira when he cast his message of: ”Play along for now. Check the food. Don’t give her any unnecessary information.”

Ugh, like speaking to a cop, Zephira thought, but only to herself. She took the message to heart. Looking at this woman made her uneasy. Like she could feel the eyes on her head. We are no threat to her, Zephira thought to herself. Why even follow this charade? Why would she lock us in and then put on this little show?

“Now, where were we,” the lady said politely, when they sat themselves on a couch next to each other and across from her. “Please, call me Lady Talisa. Forgive my rudeness earlier. I was taken by surprise to have someone come in here.”

“I assure you,” Aatrin ventured, “we were quite surprised as well. Crypts are not places to find crowds. At least, not of the living. I apologize if we disturbed your grief.”

“Oh, I’m just visiting an old friend,” she returned with icy courtesy. “What are you doing here?”

Aatrin smiled, easy and relaxed. “I’m looking for a professor from the warmage college. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Up in the Shield Peaks?”

“If he’s dead, then perhaps check a more recent crypt?” The lady suggested curtly. Her eyes became cold and piercing. “I’ll ask again. Why are you here?”

“We felt your presence, Lady,” Aatrin allowed, slowly. “We were curious if it might be a sign of our missing mentor.”

“And did a raven lead you here?” Talisa asked, cold and flat. “I find she mettles in more affairs than she lets on. Missing and dead are not the same thing.”

“The Raven Queen’s motives are known only to her,” Aatrin said, placing his fist over his heart. He felt Zephira's attention shift and sharpen.

“And often doesn’t lead people by accident. Sometimes, right into disaster. A wrong place at a wrong time.” Talisa swept her arm over to the lumbering young man in the corner. “Gregor, take them out into the hall and kill them.”

The young man’s eyes were empty, almost faint with a purple light but otherwise, he was like a living doll. He moved automatically, and if there was a struggle taking place, there was no sign. He obeyed his mother, bound to her power. He tried to kill them.

But Aatrin clapped back with his powerful Holy Hammer and rocked the knight off his feet.

That was when Lady Talisa got up from her chair, eyes now alive and livid, fiery acid green and brown. Zephira saw the danger instantly. She had to get close or the mage might roast them! The tiefling took off at a sprint and drew Master Argonaut’s rapier.

Lady Talisa raised her arm to cast and then Zephira was on her. The slashing rapier bit into the mesh over Talisa’s leather gear. And then the warmage let the swelling thunder build over her and burst out in a wave that was meant to knock the death knight over.

But Talisa was not knocked over. She only looked down disdainfully at the tiefling. “Tell the Raven Queen that I know how hard it is to find good help these days.” And then she raised her hand and spoke.

Shimmering blades flashed in front of Zephira, then in front of Aatrin. Back and forth between them once, twice, and Aatrin a third time. They were slashed like alley cats. Throats gurgling, guts spilling out, both struggling. Soaked with blood, Aatrin staggered to his friend. Zephira struggled to protect him.

But Aatrin cast the Shield that saved her. It left him open for Talisa to finish him, however. And she did. Lady Talisa skipped the sword and pointed her finger almost in Aatrin’s face. She cast one of the Death spells. At first, Zephira wasn’t sure which. The warlock simply recognized the energy.

But it quickly became clear. Finger of Death: one of the half dozen or so spells listed in the last textbooks for the senior-most students at the college. Only to be taught under private instruction and only used when no other option was left to you.

Aatrin lay there, beautiful and fair and dying. His blessed violin strings snapped from their posts. Zephira, helpless, could only watch. Her rage billowed into an eruption. She should have healed herself, but instead she pulled her trident off her back.

She could barely run, struggling, heaving to breathe, and saw this bitch mouth the words, making the motions for a Banishment. That was not a spell Zephira could cast and she wasn’t sure if she could even stop such a caster as this, but she thrust her trident up and counterspelled on the necromancer anyway. Surprisingly, it worked.

“Oh, you little wretch,” Talisa grumbled before she clapped the tiefling upside her skull with the flat of her longsword. Talisa snatched the girl’s rapier, intending to disarm her but felt the weapon flare angrily against her hand. It sang like a furnace or crackling molten glass. Talisa cursed and threw it at the girl, then kicked her to the ground. The death knight cleaned the blood off with her cloak as she moved on, leaving them to die.

But, at some point, somehow, Zephira had woken in the Shadowfell with no memory of herself. Just the clothes on her back and her master’s sword at her hip. But it hadn't learned anything from her, nor she from it, until she found Cyrus.

Aatrin gestured to himself. “But I was caught in the Reaping. I’m not sure why we were separated but I figure our Lady needs me to make sure Zephira doesn’t cut her own fingers off or something.” The young man gestured to himself. “That is to specify: I’m undead now. And I will go to my rest when this is settled, I assume.”

“The White Raven still has work to do,” Zephira told them all conspiratorially and winking.

“The Raven Queen has work for me to do.” Aatrin gently pushed on Zephira’s shoulder, smirking. “That’s the only reason I’m still walking around. Same as you. It has to be. Same as all of us, actually.” He looked up at them. “Right?”

“Oh, I dunno, Ghost Raven has a pretty cool sound to it,” Dagna told them, grinning. "But either will make a great stage name."

“Wait, so you were brought back because Lady Macwell used Finger of Death,” Kallas said, cupping his chin. “But your body didn’t simply die after she vanished?”

Zephira nodded to Cyrus. “After I took Mut’s hand, I vanished from Cyrus. I woke up underground and I’m still not sure if any time passed or not. Aatrin was undead but slumped against the wall. The Raven Queen woke him up—ha, and now he doesn’t need to sleep at all.”

The coal-dark woman rubbed her forehead. She looked away when she did this, clearly still trying to process the loss that would inevitably come, but keeping her composure enough to continue. “Anyway, we didn’t end up going above-ground. The Raven Queen came to us there. She brought Aatrin’s mind back, though he remained undead.” The tiefling frowned.

“It’s all right, Zeph. I’m at peace with it,” Aatrin told her lightly. He clapped her on the shoulder. “Besides, someone has to take this story back to the College and write an amazing song about it.”

“Um, yes, hi, hello again, I’m Dagna. Do you like my silver pin? I’m a trained bard and I love performing, let me tell you both. Also, I really enjoy workshopping lyrics so I am down!”

“I ought to start a damn club for us. Undead Friends: Walking Cemetery,” Cyrus lamented. “We shouldn’t be getting so many passes. The gods must be desperate.”

“Ah, don’t think of it that way,” Aatrin advised, gently. “It is only that the gods chose us all for some task. And we need to find the end of our roles in it.” He gestured between himself and Zephira. “Caldious Argonaut’s soul was released. And the Raven Queen decided to send him on one last adventure. She sent him to another plane to be reborn. And that is more than we could have hoped for.”

“Wait a second….” Kallas suddenly jolted and dug around in his books. “I saw that name in one of the books I took from the abandoned library in Avisac.”

“Oh yeah! That’s where I’m from!” Zephira cried out brightly. “I’m going to laugh if it’s the same book that mentions him at the college. Fiercest Battles on the Frontier, by Professor Keya von Trabon of War Studies.”

But Aatrin's brow furrowed: “An abandoned library in Avisac?”

And when Kallas showed them the book, their expressions fell to disquiet. Faces of Mortal Gods: the Men, Women, and Warforged Behind the Legends. The cover was arranged with small, finely detailed portraits of some familiar faces with elegant silver nameplates underneath.

Zephira opened her mouth and then shut it. “Mortal gods?”

Aatrin said: “Legends? I mean, these were the people we were following. His companions: Scrag, Annungilon, Eutax, and D’nias. Captain Perry told us about them."

“Were they famous and we somehow didn’t know?” Zephira exclaimed.

“No, Zeph, look. Argonaut’s portrait is on the front corner,” Aatrin pointed out, voice quiet and subdued now. “And that’s the elf we saw on the beach: Annungilon.”

Zephira took the book from Kallas, suddenly looking a little unsteady. “So, look…uh…does this mean I was gone for a few millennia? I didn’t think I was in the Shadowfell for that long….”

“Sit down, both of you,” Cyrus urged them, waving for Eeeee to bring wine. “Other planes can have weird time effects. Sit before you faint. Here.” He urged Zephira to a couch.

“I suppose I should not be surprised. Time moves strangely in the Shadowfell,” Zephira said quietly, sinking to the cushions and bracingly rubbing the heels of her hands into her thighs.

Aatrin put a hand on her shoulder. “I imagine a lot of things might have changed but I’m sure you’ll still have friends at the warcollege, if it’s still there.”

Kallas cringed a little, thinking of the stories he’d heard about the dwarves of Irulan and decided maybe now wasn’t the time to make reading suggestions. “Eeeee, might you prepare food for us and our friends?”

But Cyrus said, “Well, I could only hear things but they said there were sentient animal races because of a big event called The Shock.”

Since the topic was now broached, Kallas instantly changed his mind. Best do most of it all at once, if possible. He elaborated with: “When I was there, I heard that the city of Avisac was destroyed by The Shock. Have you heard of this event?”

Just from the glances the pair exchanged, it was clear they were unfamiliar with the term or the event.

“Damn,” Aatrin said solemnly. “What could destroy Avisac? Was it some kind of magical event? A war? Either long before our time or in the future?”

Kallas shrugged. “From what I understood—and I didn’t have much time to read—the one called Eutax was traveling with Caldious Argonaut for a time. He was a warforged. He changed the state of magic in Irulan and presumably, your world. It was like a hurricane of wild magic. In a flash, some animals were made sentient, along with a slew of other anomalies. So this is an event that even a civilian would notice. But for you both, it has not happened yet. The Shock is in your near-future, I think.”

“Is this kind of time-blending just a byproduct of impending planar collapse?” Cam wanted to know, casually waving his long-stemmed pipe. “Or is this something specific to your world?” He pointed with the stem to the warlocks.

“Maybe both,” Cyrus suggested and shrugged.

Zephira smiled bracingly. “Well, I suppose for me, the adventure will continue. But in a different direction. I don’t suppose you have a book I could take with me? I know you likely can’t get another so I understand if not.”

“No, not to worry,” Kallas told her. “There were four copies. I took them all. I did not even check them out.”

Cyrus pointed at the rogue. “This guy, very hardcore. He killed Dick-modeus.”

Aatrin snorted and burst out laughing. Zephira clapped her hands, and her bangles jangled on her wrists as she beamed at Kallas. “You must tell me about it before I go back! We only have four hours and then the Raven Lady wants us to return through the wine cellar in the library.”

“Wait,” Dagna cried, astonished and pleased, “there’s a wine cellar in the library? Damn, Eeeee, my man.”

“One of us has to learn Planeshift, so we can visit,” Cyrus told her.

The warmage pointed at the rogue. “Kallas, have everyone you meet try that sword and see if you can learn the spell from any of them,” Zephira advised. “I’ll work on it in the meantime.”

Food was laid out, luring them into the dining hall: Bread, stew, sausages, potatoes sliced thin and swimming in gravy, crab chunks stir-fried with rice, asparagus, corn and peppers. Mead, wine, ale, goat’s milk, water and cold, sweet tea, along with perfectly balanced coffee, were all prepared on the sideboard. Lemon curd, sweet cream, butter, honey and jam for the bread rolls, scones, fruits and empty spoons.

Zephira ate ravenously. Aatrin far less, though he seemed to enjoy what he did partake of (wine), probably on account of being undead. Cyrus, for the first time, was able to feel a strange sort of kinship with someone with a unique life(death) experience.

“Has She said where you’re going?” Kallas asked the pair, nodding towards the raven wings on their weapons.

“Not yet. We can’t have knowledge stolen if we don’t know it,” Zephira explained, scraping lemon curd off of her cheek. “So when we go back, we’ll continue forward.”

“Then I best explain now, eh?” Cyrus said, looking to Kallas for approval and assistance.

Dagna watched the girl closely while the boys talked with her. There was clearly a protective edge still left over from helping Cyrus navigate the wasteland. It was actually kind of sweet. Tragic, as Zephira would go back to her own world, of course. But perfect for a song.

The dark-eyed tiefling shadowwalker and the gleaming, human lance of death. Teasing aside, she did seem to genuinely care about Kallas and Cyrus both. They had clearly had some sort of shared experience in the Shadowfell and Dagna could respect that. I wonder if we’ll end up meeting Thioni again if Cam ends up writing a room in.

Afterwards, all of them smoking pipeweed by this point, Dagna asked all sorts of questions about the cultures of Irulan.

When their time ticked down, the group headed into the library, where Zephira showed them inside the cellar. Aatrin smiled at Cam, both young men examined one another, both still in the throngs of observation and curiosity.

“I didn’t get to speak to you much,” Aatrin said, bowing a little. “You are a sorcerer, yes? Did that sword learn something from you as well?”

“Oh yeah, about that!” Cam exclaimed, suddenly recalling that detail. “Kallas, hold up! This is the time to ask. We all took that rapier and it learned a spell somehow. Spells we’re not even capable of casting. But then it also learned spells from you two. Why? Is it the Stones of Power thing? Lady Macwell’s servant, Cadron, kept babbling about an artifact.”

Cam pulled his swordhilt forward and showed them the sapphire pommel and harp-shaped hilt. “We all got gems like this, later melded with our weapons. Do you have something that connects you to gods?”

Aatrin examined it. “It’s a beautiful blade, balance and light but strong. My violin was broken. I don’t have anything like that. I can only guess that we were chosen for a lesser purpose, to accomplish some smaller task.” The warbard shrugged. “I only hope that it assists in some way. And we were able to free our Professor and for that, I am satisfied.”

“I’m not complaining,” Cam said, more polished when he spoke again. “I’m sorry if I sounded accusatory. It’s been a long few weeks, my man, as I’m sure you are aware.” The sorcerer gestured to him, to indicate his Undeath, rather brusquely (which he felt was his due, as they'd been killed over and over and this guy had only died once). “Gods work in weird ways and they don’t share their plans with us. I imagine it’s impossible for us to comprehend their conception of time and power, but still.”

“Maybe from these gems themselves,” Zephira suggested. The others showed their glowing weapons.

“The gems supposedly could take us to another world, switching with our ‘alternate’ selves,” Kallas said, calm as a glacier, of course. “But none of us ever used them. It is possible that they held some other powers that we weren’t aware of.”

“It was too final to take the risk,” Dagna said, simply shrugged her shoulders. “The gem breaks and we had no idea if we could get back.”

“Understandable,” Aatrin agreed. “And probably wise. I hope the tools will help you in the battle to come. If it’s the same Lady we fought, watch out for the Steel Wind Strike. She also forced the young man to fight on her behalf. But that was more than a year ago for her, I think. But a couple millennia for us.”

“She strangled his aura like a weed,” Zephira added, sadly.

Cam gripped the neck of a wine bottle tighter in his fist.

“Well, here. Look at this.” Aatrin went over to the hundreds of bottles in their cross-hatch beds and pointed out some bottle recommendations from Irulan. “Kingsgard is a great seller. And it’s actually a really solid ale. See the dragonborn on the front, Torrin. He was the guardian of a king. The Good King Stark in an alternate timeline. The only documented instance of such an event. They somehow did a time loop. But he was a former-slave and made a boatload of money.”

“That is some insane magic,” Dagna mused on that. Alternate timelines existing simultaneously. But also separating enough to have one timeline become aware of another. And have proof of it.

Zephira presumed a portal might open for them at the appointed time but, instead, the Raven Queen appeared, suddenly standing next to Cyrus like a spooky monolith emerging from fog on a park’s playground. Kallas recognized this manifestation of her, black armor with the glowing plague mask. Eeeee straightened up noticeably by the door and bowed very low to the god.

Kallas and Cyrus shook hands with Aatrin, Dagna advised him to return if he ever got the undead thing figured out (and she hoped he did, after all, she’d seen it happen). Cam nodded to the warbard, having been content to observe their two visitors during this exchange of news and information.

“Zephira! Stay safe,” Cyrus told her and then embraced his fellow warlock. Zephira returned it to him and to Kallas, enthusiastically.

“Maybe next time you can meet our other companion, Boone. She seems to be resting,” Kallas told them.

As if on a late cue, the library doors swung open and Boone entered. “Guys!” She looked tired and ragged, eyes red-rimmed and puffy and—

“Boone, why are your eyes glowing?” Cam asked flatly.

They all looked at her, even the Raven Queen's beak moved. Boone scanned the faces of the two strangers, saw a tiefling woman look at Cyrus and then glance back at the paladin. Boone’s glowing blue eyes narrowed at her. “Who are you?”

“She was our guide,” Cyrus exclaimed hurriedly, like Boone might try to chop the tiefling’s head off. “In the Shadowfell, remember? Zephira? And this is her friend, Aatrin. And the, uh, Raven Queen, I believe.” He pointed with his entire hand, attempting a respectful nod towards the Raven Lady. The god, for her part, seemed impassive to the interruption.

“Don’t worry, Lady Paladin,” Aatrin said smoothly, bowing over his arm. “I’ll look forward to knowing you better next we meet. Get the rest while you can. You’ll all need it.”

The white beak of the glowing mask pointed at them all, blackened shadow eyes also lingering but saying nothing as she took the hands of her warlocks. The warbard cleric and the warmage vanished.

The group fell out of the wine cellar as Boone began to talk: “I needed to just double-check and make sure you all were okay. I know I’ve been a little out of it for awhile but I’m going to really try and do better! Cyrus, I’m so sorry. You were right to suggest picking a room, and about other stuff too, that I was kinda mean about!”

And then Boone actually stopped him there in the main entrance hall and embraced her warlock. He seemed almost as surprised this time as he had been the first time. But Cyrus collected himself and drew her close carefully. He was almost stunned to feel Boone shaking like a leaf. She seems like she's experienced something. Something that rattled her. "Boone, are you all right?"

The doors to the mansion suddenly were shoved open by Tinker Gildrop. “All right!” The halfling cried out triumphantly, as he trotted inside the lodge. “Is everyone still here? I’ve got what we need!”

Boone pulled back from Cyrus and announced, a little wildly: “I talked to my Gods in the Sanctuary! And I feel a lot better now, guys. I really do.”

Dagna went to the girl, looking alarmed. “Hey, hey, Boone, are you all right? What’s wrong? Calm down, okay, hon. What’s going on?”

“I’m so sorry, Dagna.” The paladin embraced the bard tightly, much to professor’s confusion. "Thank you."

Cam was watching Boone closely, analyzing the glow of her eyes. So. Cyrus made a room and found a painting of his mother. Kallas made a room and brought friends from the other world to us. Boone made a room and talked to her god. Jazirian, I assume. Hopefully. And now her eyes are glowing and she's a literal fuckdamn asamar.

The sorcerer looked sidelong at Eeeee, studying the ghostly butler. What is his connection to the gods? The mansion, as a spell, can’t normally do this kind of stuff.

“Ah, talking to gods, huh?” Tinker said casually, after observing this scene for a moment. He opened his mouth to say something more but then, perhaps wisely, changed his mind.

“You said you got what we need?” Kallas repeated.

“Ah, yes,” Tinker agreed and pulled out a slip of paper. “You will be pleased, or displeased, depending on your perspective, to find that Lady Macwell has recently returned to her old haunting grounds. The estate. But she has made several changes to the structure. The entire estate is still under lockdown and everyone in the surrounding area was turned to stone. Guards and servants had that chance to flee. Those who remained are now under her control.”

“Oh my—Dagna!” Boone cried out suddenly, as if just now remembering. “Talisa turned your dad to stone! You must be so furious inside! We are going to beat the hell out of that deathknight! Let's get ready!”

Eeeee waved his arms at Cam and pointed at the list of rooms his friends had created.

But Cam raised a palm and shook his head. “Nah, Eeeee. Maybe if I make it back. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
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Chapter Text

“Are we ready?” Cam asked the others. “Got to make a quick stop at my mom’s house and then we can dip out for good.”

“Jildos will need to be rebuilt and its government restructured,” Cyrus told him, as if he didn’t know.

“Then I’m sure they can handle it,” Cam replied. “I have zero interest in staying. So now’s the time to reinstate your family, while no one can stop you.”

Cyrus sighed and shook his head. “Ah, well. Maybe Kallas can help us figure something out.”

The tiefling drew his rapier. Tinker had given them a pack of supplies, including grenades and potions. “Some wounds remain fresh for a very long time, Cyrus. There will be time.”

Tinker had made another bow, looking a bit anxious now that they were about to leave. “I’ll make my way to Jildos on the first ship I can catch in the morning,” he told Kallas, worrying at his friend’s sleeve. “Don’t be dead when I get there. This back-and-forth has been killing my nerves.”

Eeeee was standing before them in the foyer of the grand lodge. His expression was muted, anxious. He stared at Cam, fretting with the hems of his wide, transparent sleeves. Again, he pointed at the list of rooms in silent plea.

Cam would analyze later why he felt weirdly guilty about refusing a ghost but it didn’t stop him from silently turning to Kallas instead as they opened the door and stepped out onto the metal walkway. The northernmost point of Etherforge was misty and damp, but the walkway was deserted. The sorcerer turned his back to the others, to take the rapier but first, surreptitiously pressed the tiny Cabin into the palm of Kallas’ hand and met the detective’s somber eyes. Just in case.

For a moment, Cam thought his friend might refuse but then Kallas relented, ever more pragmatic. The tiefling frowned at him, but he nodded, silently, before trading him the elegant rapier.

He took the slender weapon in his fist, ignoring the telltale tremor going through it. “All right. Let’s do this before I come to my damn senses. Family wing will be watched, at this point. We’re better off teleporting to the trophy wing.”

“Why not just go directly to her?” Boone asked. Her armor was shining, gauntlet resting on the coiled dragon pommel of her sword. For once, the paladin seemed calm and settled. “I’m ready to be done with this bitch. She invaded Gregor’s mind through her dream-sphere. That was how she took control of him. She was trying so hard to do the same thing to you, Cam. I’m going to break her for that.”

All of them looked sidelong at Boone for a moment, studying how the glow in her eyes flared with her determination. Cyrus shrugged. “I prefer a more direct approach, if we can do so without being incinerated?”

Cam took a deep, steadying breath and looked at Kallas and Dagna. The bard also shrugged and said, “I guess I’m ready to rumble if you guys are.”

Kallas studied him, trying to read his expression. Cam could feel it. The tiefling said, “It is likely that we would be unable to hide from her, at this rate, I assume? Her control over the estate will be absolute?”

“Probably,” Cam had to admit, crossing his arms. “I don’t know how much her awareness stretches over physical boundaries. When she lost track of Boone in the Shadowfell, that was some god-interference. Best to assume the worst, in my opinion, and bank on her detecting us almost immediately.”

Kallas nodded, eyes still tracking on the human’s face. He could see the warlord prince Cam had been trained as, in parallel with the chaotic sorcerer who rejected the system. He does not think we will survive, Kallas thought. Though that was not a surprise, given Cam’s sardonic view of the world. But instead, he said, “Then our best bet is to attempt to take the first strike?”

Cam looked around at all of them. “It’s what I would do, if we’re going to have a last-stand sort of confrontation. I’d prefer to keep Gregor away but if she controls him then it might not be possible.”

“We’re not gonna fail,” Dagna said firmly. “We’re all on the same page, right? This time, shit’s for keeps. No fuck ups this time. Try anything, even if it’s crazy.” She gripped the elaborate hilt of her rapier, the compass glowing gold like a burning flame.

But Cam looked seriously at Boone. “Do you understand that? She might command Gregor to kill you. We might have to fight him. She’s been stupid-powerful since before I was born.”

Boone nodded, gaze darkening. “Oh, she better think twice. If I have to kill Gregor, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“Hopefully, Lady Bitchface hasn’t discovered our, uh….” Dagna paused and gestured in a triangle between herself, Boone and Cam, “….our other ghostly friend. Which—look, I feel like I just don’t want to use anymore names until this is done. I don’t know why.”

“The Raven Queen said to be careful with them,” Cyrus supplied simply. “When someone who was listening might hear you.”

“Gregor interrupted a nightmare I was having,” Boone remembered suddenly. “He changed the dream and helped me wake up. He said with magic, but not how.”

Cam peered sidelong at her. “Gregor didn’t have much talent for magic when he was…normal. I could sense that had changed…or that Talisa had changed him. But accessing dreams is pretty advanced stuff….”

“When I was with them, he could do simple spells,” Boone told him. “But the magic wasn’t like you, more like a thrall. I guess I hadn’t thought of that until right now. He was able to take control of my nightmare and change it.”

“Is there a chance that Lady Macwell is using him to spy on you?” Cyrus asked and then raised his palms. “Which I only suggest because magic can do crazy shit and Lady Macwell is a bitch but she is smart.”

Boone frowned. “I…well, I don’t know. I don’t think so. It felt real. He felt real.”

Why not come to me? Cam thought reflexively, and then instantly answered himself with: Because he might not be able to hide that from Talisa. However he’s done it. His brother, ever the resourceful one. The sorcerer frowned, smothering down the faint flicker of hope that attempted to kindle itself in his gut.

Kallas gently patted Cam’s shoulder. “Let’s get it done. And hope that it is enough.”

Cyrus summoned his halberd. “Everyone prepare something to hit her with as soon as we arrive.”

“It’s going to be a twinspell Fireball for me, so I’d recommend scattering when we arrive.” But the Macwell heir shuddered, unable to shake the certainty of doom. Let’s get this over with. I don’t like waiting around to die. His grip tightened on Kallas’ rapier and he breathed in deeply before he closed his eyes. For a moment, he could see their shining weapons in his head: Eye of Bahamut, Raven’s Claw, Milil’s Harp, Jazirian’s Coil, and the Traveler’s Compass, yeah. So if the weapons survive, they’ll be misleading quests in someone else’s story, ha! Now’s the time—because if we don’t, we won’t live long enough to regret it.

He focused on his mother’s presence.

Talisa was so cold. She had wrapped up in layers of cloaks, sitting close to the fire. Leopold and his friends somehow severing her will over the souls enshrined in the Dreaming Eye had been a nasty shock. Kri’zakth had been cast back to the Far Realms and his displeasure had been intense.

Her nerves were burning but she was so cold. The sorceress had other fonts of souls, of course, but none so elaborate, nor as large, as the Dreaming Eye. They will come for me, eventually. Lady Macwell was rather counting on it. The silence could only be the calm before the storm. She knew Leopold was still alive, was as utterly certain of it as she was her own state of vitality. Alone, he might try to disappear but his friends had reunited with him and all the work she’d done to clear the board had shipwrecked. If I can bring Kri’zakth, these Old Gods will be next.

If not for their interference, the whole mess might be done with. But now, all the reserve she had of souls would need to be pooled. That was the current objective. Her servants were arranging her foci and sigil paints in her summoning chamber (what had once been a parlor of the Macwell family’s wing), cleared of furniture now. Put to more efficient use. Gregor was in there with the servants, overseeing. She'd had the drow make him a writing stone so he could communicate with them while she was busy.

Talisa bound her hair back in a knot and sipped steaming wine, though the heat hardly seemed to reach her. Sometimes, it was hard for her to look at her son. The warm kindness and strength that she had loved in him was now so faded and grey. So grey.

Talisa closed her eyes. I made my choices.

A soft knock on the door required her answer and, at her consent, the passage opened. One of her remaining three handmaiden bodyguards (this one was a human fighter, Sashana), dressed in half-plate now, knelt and advised that her summoning materials had been gathered.

It needs to be now, the sorceress thought, pulling on a pair of fur-lined gloves.

When she entered the summoning chamber, it had been scrubbed clean and emptied of people. Only Gregor and her drow handmaiden assassin, Tirri, remained. The center of the room had only one piece of furniture, a large dining table. On one end, lay her sigil paints and spell components, the aether dust and brushes.

Far down the table, on the other end, were several glass orbs, each about the size of her fist, a six inch thick tome of red leather, a medallion with a huge chunk of black diamond in the center, a curved, silver dagger, and part of a key. Talisa had never found the other parts of the key’s handle or shaft, just the teeth, under that pirate port of Irulan. But the magic in it was astoundingly potent.

She had hoped to keep these fonts of power for herself but, they were intended to serve if something happened to the Eye. That tiefling. I’ll skin him alive. She would not be able to present Kri’zakth with all the power she had intended but, reasonably, just bringing him here was the hard part. That was the fulfillment of her end of the deal. Perhaps she could give Leopold and his friends to Kri’zakth. Give him the souls who had caused them such trouble. That might serve.

Tie up all the loose ends and be done with it. Be done with it. She had killed her husband, her son had died on the field, her other son had turned against her. It was time to put it all to rest. If Kri’zakth could not restore Gregor, than it might be a mercy to just put him down.

But not yet. Not until Leopold was dealt with.

“Tirri, you may go. Stand outside the doors in shifts. It will take, at least, two hours of preparation but once I actually begin the summoning, I cannot be interrupted,” Lady Macwell said, nodding to her bodyguard. The drow woman bowed to her, then Gregor, before retreating to the door.

Talisa saw that platters of cakes had been placed on the hearth of the fireplace. She choked one down, as if it could fortify her, before she went back to the table and uncapped her magic paints. Gregor stood by the fireplace, silent as a statue, eyes as blank as stone.

I could always read his face, from the time he was a little boy. But I can’t now. I can’t read his face.

Talisa pushed aside that pang of loss and began to work, laying down the lines of power herself. She liked being able to sink into concentration like this. Focus on what she could do right now. Hard part, one more time, summon god. This time, for keeps.

Two hours later, she threw in the purple incense, the powder which amplified her concentration. Gregor stood by the door, guarding it while his mother began with the words. Power rippled like heavy vibrations of sound, it was oppressive. He had to hide away inside, go away inside, shell himself over from the aura. He didn’t want it to feel his awareness. He could feel Thioni trembling in the back of his mind.

Talisa swayed up on the platform, touching her brow, as if a migraine had swept over her. His mother touched her nose and studied the red on her fingers. “Gregor, you’re distracting me,” she said, flatly. “Stay outside the door for this summoning.”

She had never ordered him away before. For just a moment, Gregor looked at his mother. She seemed to have aged ten years in the last fortnight. “I’ll be fine, my love. You couldn’t protect me from Kri’zakth.”

So, soundlessly, Gregor turned and went out the door, to guard the other side of it. The humming and whispers began again, chanting and rising wind and strange music. The last time, the summoning chamber in Irulan had been awash with color, as well as sound. Objects and materials had spontaneously transmuted. Gravity had collapsed the closer one got to the focal point of the summoning.

There had been a strange beauty to it—though something closer to terror had been the feeling he’d identified at the time. They were such small little souls, anchored to a plane that suddenly seemed very flimsy.

Tirri was standing outside the doors. When Gregor emerged, she bowed to him. “My lady says to leave the door closed til she opens it, for at least a full day and night. Is that still the case, my lord?”

Gregor nodded to her. The bodyguards only spoke with him occasionally, as they couldn’t expect much conversation in return, save for his writing stone. And no one wanted to be perceived as trying to get too close to Lady Macwell’s son, even if he seemed to be a thrall.

Two hours later, Sashana came to replace Tirri. The human woman bowed to Gregor but, otherwise, was too much a professional fighter to speak. In another two hours, she was replaced by the third handmaiden, Cassandra, also a human woman, a magically inclined spellsword.

This was the only way Gregor could track the time when the screaming started.

The pain was seizing at her with jabbing, hard fingers. Down all her nerves and muscles, pain was shocking her lungs into stillness, emptying her mind of anything but static. Her hair had come unbound, sticking to her sweating neck. She was on her knees, slumping down onto the rug, power flaring through all her soul wells, thousands of them all, screaming and singing, as they fed the ritual.

Talisa’s nose was bleeding quite heavily onto the rug. She ignored it. It would feed the portal. It would bring Kri’zakth through. After that, she could stop. But this, she had already begun. It was too late to turn her back on Kri’zakth. He now had a hold in this world, on her. He must come through. Cleanse this place properly.

Talisa pushed thoughts out—and finally, a white-hot burst of pain flooded over her face. Searing down into her bones, Talisa swayed and rode it out.

She couldn’t see much. The fire was blocked by something big. Something very tall and strong. Something that reached out to her. She felt cool, perfectly humanoid hands cup her face but she still got a racking chill. A god stared down at her, not half-faded like Irulan, but totally present. A beautiful elven face, carved like ice, staring down with one glowing red eye.

”BRING MY OTHER EYE TO ME.”

“It’s coming,” she replied, faintly. Though, she wasn’t sure how she knew. As if they’d made an appointment, she knew, even though the sorceress had no idea where Sabal was now. “Quickly now,” she gasped, eyes spinning. “He’s coming. No great war, first, as we thought. But after. After.”

Light flashed before them, bright and instantaneous like a stroke of electricity after a crash of thunder.

She was momentarily blinded. She felt the god turning. Hands came down on her shoulders, filling the death-knight with renewed strength, with vigor and power.

From the flash of light, there was a yell and something jumped forward, sweeping down with a hand.

Fire slammed into her, searing at her gear and hair, flashing up and crackling against her latent magical aura. Her god made a sound akin to a screeching owl, ducking down against the deathknight for a moment before raising his beautiful head.

The haze cleared and Lady Macwell could see them. Saw him, specifically. She recognized the broad slopes of his shoulders. Her son was here. Leopold. And his friends, four of them. Right on time.

”MY EYE. MY EYE.”

Cyrus Sabal, standing behind Leopold, suddenly jerked and cupped his face, smothering a cry.

The tiefling shot a look at the warlock and spun towards them, flashing down with a sword. Four arching beams of radiant lightening danced over the death-knight and her god. That one hurt, far more than she had expected. Far more than Kri’zakth had either. What had the tiefling learned? Wait. I’ve seen that spell before. Her mind flashed to a crypt in Rhayada, where she had found a piece of that strange key. Could he have—

Kri’zakth raised a spidery hand. He seemed to catch Boone as she came flying at him like a stampeding bison. She was locked in place with magic, furiously spitting. “Oh, don’t coward out now, assholes! I’ve finally come back to give Lady Bitch my answer about joining up!”

Kri’zakth scowled at the girl, feeling how her very skin burned against his own power. The god said nothing, but threw the human girl at the wall of the chamber.

Lady Macwell finally regained her feet, shock turning to rage. She threw out her hand to Leopold. “You’ve forced my hand, boy.” She certainly had intended to cast Feeblemind on him but then that wretched bard used a counterspell.

Dagna bounded in front of Cyrus Sabal, who was still holding his eye, apparently in intense pain. “All right, time for you to have a time out, ma’am.” The bard pointed and cast Forcecage.

The sorceress found herself surrounded on all sides by a magical cage with transparent, but solid walls, flicking golden. Lady Macwell’s hazel eyes flared with anger, narrowing on that insolent bard. But no magic could pass through the walls of it. And it couldn’t be dispelled. This little bitch. Oh yes, I’m going to make Leopold watch her die one more time.

Kri’zakth laughed, quaking and booming. “YES, YOU ARE THE SOUL THIEVES.”

“Yeah,” his death knight’s younger son called out saucily, “come take ours, if you can.”

“ONE OF YOU IS ALREADY PART-WAY THERE, BOY,” the entity hissed.

Cyrus screamed this time, body wracked with pain as he crashed to his knees. The warlock cursed when they all looked at him. “Eyes front!” He commanded them. He summoned his polearm to his free hand, pointing forward. The other was shielding his silver eye, slick with blood.

“Goddammit, Cyrus, you better fight that fuck off! We ain’t got time to fight you too!” Cam commanded as his sword lit up with blue light, flashing around him in a pulsing wave. It lit up his armor, shielding, empowering himself and the others. That helped Boone break Kri’zakth’s hold on her and the paladin rocked up, slamming to the side with her sword. It flashed in the firelight once, then twice and on the second, Boone blasted the god with power. The spidery legs recoiled.

Boone’s whole being lit up, eyes glowing and flaring more fiercely and more beautifully, than ever. But this time, one of his horrible legs came up and stabbed at Boone’s neck. The paladin shuddered and collapsed to a knee, swaying. A grey pallor came over her face.

”WRETCHED GIRL. WEAKEN AND BE MY THRALL. YOUR LIFE WILL BE FAR SIMPLER.” And then a pulse flooded from Kri’zakth and eyes filled up the room. A swarm of spectral eyes, billowing with darkness and bloody mist, everyone tried to look away. But it was too late.

Cyrus swept up on Dagna and his glittering silver wings erupted, as he encased the bard in a shield. It kept her body from being thrown when the eyes gazed on her, blasting her mind with psychic power. Cyrus barely managed to shake it off and his head was searing and throbbing. Dagna, Cam and Kallas were all blinded.

Boone was not. But she also hadn’t moved after Kri’zakth had touched her neck. “Boone!” Cyrus shouted at her, vision blurred. “Boone, get up!”

But when Boone got up, her movements were jerky and unsteady. When she turned, her eyes were dim. Cyrus' Eye instantly detected the Evil trying to take over Boone’s mind. It flared up red and black over her like a shroud in his vision. “Oh shit!” He could detect Boone fighting against the influence, rejecting it completely.

Kri’zakth forced the paladin to swing her sword around on Cam. But the swipe went wild as Boone fought the monster's hold, barely slicing Cam's arm instead of taking it off. He jumped back from her, raising his sword in front of his blind eyes and listening hard.

Boone’s eyes flared like little suns and her whole body gave a mighty pulse of white-golden light. The entity and Boone both heard the Witch Queen thunder in their heads:("There's already two here! That's more than enough!") Sparks rained down all around them. It seemed to flood Kri'zakth out.

The god-being reappeared, screeching.

And at that precise moment, the door to the room was bashed in. Lady Macwell’s handmaiden, Cassandra, strode in and stopped short in revulsion on seeing Kri’zakth. She was a tall, thickset woman with dark hair and a handsome face. But she drew her sword immediately and shouted: “To arms! To me! It’s the Lady’s son!”

“Cyrus! Are you all right!” Kallas shouted over the din, running over to his friend. “Can you stand?”

The warlock looked out from the shield of his wings and Kallas almost flinched back. His silver eye was still silver (thankfully) but the whites were blotted out in red and black. “He wants my Eye. He’s trying to corrupt it…” Cyrus shuddered and supported himself on his halberd. “I can still fight.” He shook himself and raised his hand over his head. A shining, silver spirit lance, like a harpoon, materialized and slammed into Cassandra.

Two people coming in the door behind the handmaiden both shouted. One was a barbed devil who instantly threw fire at Boone. The other, a male drow, pointed right at Cam. A cone of flashing colors blasted from the wizard’s gloved fist, making the summoning chamber glitter with deadly rainbows.

A red beam hit Cam and exploded in fire, the sorcerer was thrown back into the wall. Boone was hit by an indigo beam and was jolted to a stop midair again, cursing. The green beam hit Dagna and she almost did a full turn, staggering to keep her feet as a wave of nausea swept over her, blurring her vision. Cyrus took the blue beam, his own frosty aura flickering up and flaring around him. He braced himself on his knee before he stood again.

Kallas was the only one who was missed. He pointed his rapier at the god and cast Finger of Death. The blackened bolt of necrotic light blazed smoking red before lancing into Kri’zakth, into the meat of its horrific spidery body. But Kallas could see that the effect was less than he might have hoped.

Gregor entered the room, eyes cold and flat. He grabbed Cassandra and shoved her out into the hallway. He pointed at the wall with his writing stone, allowing words to flash up on the wall: MY MOTHER SAYS TO EVACUATE. SUMMONING HAS BEEN CORRUPTED.

The bodyguard read it, looked back, examined his expression and then nodded. “I will go get Sashana, my lord.”

Tirri arrived with a band of her drow guards at just that moment. “Is that the other one in there? The other son, my lord?”

Gregor nodded, eyes still emotionless. He pointed to his written message on the wall and then shut the door in their faces.

So he didn’t see Tirri smile, nor hear her say to her fellow drow guards, in Undercommon: "It is time, then. Praise be to our lady of spiders. In life we weave, in death, we rest.”

The drow guards, a dozen of them, surrounded and cut down the two remaining barbed devils.

Cassandra roared at her: “Fucking traitor!” and drew her sword again.

Tirri braced herself, drawing her two scimitars, and hoped that Sashana didn’t decide to show up early.

The barbed devil and the drow mage both looked at Gregor when he slammed the door. Realizing they were there, Gregor pointed at it and motioned for them to use it. The devil shrugged and took it, the mage hesitated but then seemed to reconsider, looking at the spidery horror of Kri’zakth and then hurried out the door. For the two of them, it did not much matter. Both found blades awaiting them on the other side (though the devil couldn’t be truly killed on this plane, of course).

Gregor saw his little brother, incorrigible Leopold, resplendent in glittering silvery armor. He looked every inch a prince.

“Gregor!” His mother shouted. “You must kill the bard to free me! Kill her!”

Gregor’s eyes were still flat, emotionless. He turned to scan the room and saw Dagna sprint from Boone to Kri’zakth and attempt a Banishment. The creature stabbed at her with a leg, impaling her shoulder and inflicting on her.

Dagna screamed when her skin withered and split open. Gregor drew his sword.

“Yes, Gregor. Kill her!” Talisa commanded.

Kri’zakth whirled on Boone, blasting her with power, trying to wind them together with a necrotic tether that would leech at her. The paladin swore and cursed and then slammed her sword into the ground and invoked Destructive Wave.

First, roiling thunder and then a wave of radiant light swamped over Kri’zakth and he shrieked in pain and surprise. He reacted with arcane blasts, trying to slam Boone away from him. But the asamar held firm now.

Cam caught sight of his brother running up on Dagna and almost choked. “Gregor, no!”

For a strange moment, his brother seemed to hesitate. He looked at Cam and met his eyes but said nothing. Dagna heard Cam’s shout and turned, seeing his older brother behind her. Her rapier flickered up, eyes wide.

“Kill her!” Talisa commanded.

When Gregor swung down, Dagna held her rapier firm, but it was Cam’s sword that Gregor’s crashed against. The sorcerer had stepped across the room to Dagna, shoving her aside and holding her behind him. Although, the spellsword would note, the strike had not even a quarter of Gregor’s old power and strength. He need not have panicked, Dagna would have had no trouble dodging or blocking it. Cam couldn’t help it, he searched his brother’s expressionless face, trying to find something there.

But Gregor suddenly jolted, grabbing his brother by his chestplate and throwing him down roughly when Kri’zakth made to stab him in the back of the neck, like he’d done to Boone. But another came up, stabbing Kallas instead. But when it tried to possess him, something strange happened.

A glowing sort of reddish circle lit up under Kallas’ boots. The awareness faded in and out of his orange eyes for a moment and then a woman's voice boomed around them. ”Ah, ah, if you do that, I can’t reach him.”

There was a little book tucked in Kallas’ pocket, and it glowed a fierce red. The tiefling came back to himself in a flash.

Kri’zakth was examining him with his red eye. ”I AM SURPRISED THAT ONE OF YOU WERE FOOLISH ENOUGH TO MAKE SUCH A DEAL AGAIN.”

Cyrus and the others all looked sidelong at him. “Kallas, what did you do?” the warlock asked him, very calmly.

“Prepared, in case of an emergency,” Kallas answered and pulled out the little book. He had rather hoped to not have to use this bit of magic he’d prepared. He was glad Tinker wasn’t here, as he’d literally just told his friend to stop making deals with devils.

But desperate times called for desperate measures. And Kallas had read the books in his room of the Cabin and saw a likely candidate, the ruler of the sixth level of the hells, Glasya. She was daughter of Asmodeus, but was known to work with mortal intelligence networks and cults. Kallas didn’t know if that was true but what he saw was a duchess of the Hells who might be more up front than some of the others, so long as Kallas did her the same courtesy.

No doubt Lady Macwell’s success in duping Asmodeus would make the others wary. Devils had an order to them that Kallas could understand, perhaps due to his tiefling nature.

But as Dagna had said: Try anything and see what happens. And he had, last night. So now, he held the little book to his chest and spoke in Infernal. “My lady, Archduchess Glasya, the ones who tricked your father are here.”

Cam did a double-take at him. “Kallas, are you shitting me right now!?”

Glasya, archduchess of the sixth hell, appeared. She stood behind Kallas, a tall, voluptuous tiefling-like woman. Terrifyingly beautiful with sharp, clever eyes and wide wings that fanned over the detective in a guarding stance. Her tail idly slipped around Kallas' waist.

Kri’zakth recoiled in rage and then struck out at the Princess of the Hells with two stabbing legs. She smiled and replied with Confusion. “So you were the one my father’s life bought?” The devil duchess looked down her nose contemptuously towards Lady Macwell. “It might have been better for you to make deals closer to your plane, death-knight.”

She summoned a pit fiend and commanded, carelessly: “Kill this pretender-god from the Far Realms.”

Only Boone knew what the pit fiend was on sight, and only because she’d read about them at the Temple. Extremely powerful, dragon-like devils who worked directly for the dukes and duchesses of the hells. It was twenty feet tall, at least, and had a wingspan almost double that. It instantly used its whip-like tail on Kri’zakth and then cast a blazing Fireball. Boone was, somehow, rather shocked. “Oh my god, Kallas. Seriously?” And then she almost laughed to herself: Using their tools against them, again. Surprised everyone.

Kri’zakth’s red eye rolled in its socket, blasts of black bolts fired out at Kallas. Glasya protected him with a flick of her wings. She leaned down over Kallas’ shoulder and placed her lips against his cheekbone, saying, “We’ll have business to finish up after this, don’t forget.”

I don't think that would be possible, Kallas thought but was grateful anyway. Her lips were searing hot against his cheek and he suddenly had a feeling he knew what she might ask for, though he found that idea difficult to process.

“Holy shit,” Dagna muttered, staring at the devil. “Hot. I mean, anyway!” The bard swept out with her rapier. The pretender-god was rolling in confusion, now. At least the god and the devil could match each other, in that respect. Her blade sent up sparks but didn't find a hold. Boone had better luck.

The paladin swept out of the way when Glasya glided down to Kri’zakth. Boone drove in with her sword, feeling it scrape over Kri’zakth before taking purchase in his ribs. But Glasya reached out and touched the monster, attempting to Planeshift him. She waited a moment but nothing happened, which made her eyes flicker and narrow.

”WEAKLING DEVIL,” the god-monster spat. ”YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE MISTAKE YOU'VE MADE.”

“He is resistant to necrotic, cold and psychic magical damage,” Glasya said, rather conversationally, as if Kallas and his friends were sitting in a café reading about gods, instead of fighting one. “And is quite determined to not be teleported.”

The swarm of eyes flared around Kri’zakth again. Glasya protected Kallas from it. Cam sprinted around behind Kri’zakth, opposite Boone and slammed in with his sword. Cyrus protected Dagna from it again, staggering as his silvery eye flickered and struggled. The blackened corruption kept trying to seep in to the pupil. He kept seeing ghosts in his vision, things that might happen if he gave in to Kri’zakth. The power he would gain, fame and adoration! The deaths he would claim, all of his friends, glory, wealth and status, if he gave in. No need of canaries, he'd have skeletal dragons...

A great war that I would spearhead. A great massacre of people. Cyrus shook himself. That is not my fate! I make my own fate!

Cyrus suddenly knew what to do. He held out his hand. When he opened it, the paper bird was in his palm. Yellow birds. Mutt's canaries. For a moment, the paper bird flickered, turning dark and skeletal but then a canary popped into his hand, replacing the paper caricature. That canary hooted, spun and twittered and then turned into a gold dragon.

It wheeled around instantly on Kri'zakth, tearing into its bloated belly with shining, golden claws. Cyrus laughed and whooped and sprinted after his canary-turned-dragon, flashing through the parlor. The dragon's force made the windows burst and the whole wing creaked dangerously around them.

Dagna ran up on Kri’zakth again and this time, when she slapped her hand down on the pretender-god, he vanished. Banished back to his own plane. The others cheered raggedly.

Lady Macwell screamed in rage and frustration. “Gregor, kill her!” She could see her elder son, staring up at Sabal's golden dragon, as if entranced. He had made no effort to stop the bard from sprinting passed him.

The quiet after Kri’zakth disappeared was like a vacuum of silence. Cam turned to his mother. “Well, that was a shitshow. Now, it’s your turn.”

“You aren’t as strong as I thought,” Talisa told him, peering at him from her transparent cage.

“You never thought much about me at all,” Cam replied acidly. He looked at Gregor. “What about my brother? Are you still in control of him?”

“I saved him while you were busy running,” Talisa snapped.

“You got him killed and then imprisoned him in his own skin.” Cam glared up at his brother. “Well, Gregor, do you remember?” Cam asked him, staring hard. “You said when she found the ones who killed Boone, you wanted them. Well. Here they are, the ones who killed Boone.” He gestured between them, to their mother.

He remembers. The voice Cam suddenly heard in his head wasn’t Gregor’s at all.

Thioni? Cam startled a little, unable to help breaking expression, eyes widening.

My Lady told him that he would know when he saw you again. He has hidden himself away, so she will not hear his mind.

Cam drug his eyes away from his brother and saw Lady Macwell take a long, suspicious look between her sons. Absurdly, it reminded him of childhood. That stupid toy Gregor had taken from him was when Leopold realized the power of earning their parents’ trust. They assured his elder brother that they knew Leopold was lying and Gregor straight-faced played innocent. Leo had stormed away fuming.

Then tell him to stay back! Cam thought fiercely.

Lady Macwell was finally able to escape the cage. She appeared between Kallas, Dagna, Glasya and her pit fiend before she cast her own Destructive Wave. But this one flared with necrotic power, rather than radiant. Dagna smacked into the fireplace, sending a plume of ash into the room and cursing the metal grate. Kallas hit the dining table and it flipped over him.

Glasya snapped her fingers at the pit fiend. “Go find that pretender-god in the Far Realms and finish him.” Her devil vanished. The duchess smirked at Lady Macwell. “See you soon, madam. Though, not the way you likely were hoping. You might have done well in the Hells but you aren’t as strong as you once were.”

She sashayed over to Kallas, lifting him with her power. “Oh, yes, on your feet, cousin. I’ll have need of you later.” Glasya picked up Kallas’ rapier in her fist for a moment, examined it with a smirk and then handed it back to the rogue. Glasya pointed one more time at Lady Macwell. “Finish her soon. Here’s a new spell for your sword.”

The devil cast Contagion and then disappeared.

A wave of grey swept over Lady Macwell, her skin seemed to age before their eyes. Flesh Rot, Boone was sure she recognized. Contagion was a powerful necromantic spell of the clerics. But the sorceress ignored it and grabbed into the air with her fist.

Slashing blades slammed into each of them, the Steel Wind that Aatrin had warned them about. Boone seemed angrier about that than anything else.

"Oh, you're gonna feel this one," the asamar snapped and she raised her sword. Her blue eyes flashed and glittered and she activated her Guardian of Faith. It took the form of a twining serpent for Jazirian (with the addition of two, extremely muscular arms), and instantly bombarded Talisa with radiant magic.

Now that the helpful(?) devils were gone, Cam gripped his sword. All right, move fast. Be done with it.

The sorcerer sprouted wide, bat-like wings. Everyone startled in surprise, Cam swept around his mother’s back. While Talisa rode out Boone’s onslaught, Cam slammed into her side with his sword. He tried to inflict on her but she threw it off. All right, try and get her with Bane next. As he twisted back, she used Chill Touch. Cam saw the shadowy black hand reach out and snatch onto him and his whole arm went numb.

Cyrus spun around with his halberd and slashed the death knight, pulling her away from Cam. If he’d only been bound to the Raven Queen, he might have been in trouble. But Bahamut’s holy power flooded through him now, as well. Cyrus brought down a burning spire on the death-knight, ten feet wide and forty feet tall. It flooded the whole room with heat, the wallpaper and ceiling caught and began to burn. His dragon smashed out the windowed wall, washing them all with wind and mist from the sea, and clearing the smoke.

Talisa responded in kind. Her armor crackled and she threw out a Hellfire Orb. It razed Cam, Cyrus and Boone with fire and then, a black wave of necrosis. They all recoiled, crying out. Dagna flashed them all with healing magic, like ghostly lights under the floorboards. Boone’s guardian blasted Talisa again before it burst into white sparks. The Lady went on the attack.

Cyrus was driven back from her, flicking with his halberd to blunt her longsword. When she struck, it was like being hit by an iron bar. He felt it all the way up his nerves. Lady Macwell was insanely fast and powerful, despite the magical beating she’d taken. The boy was nimble on his feet, luckily. When she swept into him to strike, Cyrus dodged and stiffened straight as a pole. As she staggered by him, he struck her knees with the butt of his weapon.

It swept her off her feet but Talisa rolled away from him, gracefully twirling back up. Cyrus' dragon roared a bout of fire at her. The sorceress had to teleport away to keep from being incinerated. When she jumped back up, she pointed at the warlock to cast her own Finger of Death.

But, suddenly, Gregor was in front of her, blocking her from the rest. She looked up into his face. “G-Gregor, help me, now. Kill Sabal, Gregor. We have to—“

He showed her his sword, as if to prove he was ready—and then turned it. Her elder son drove the point into her gut.

Talisa stared up at him, desperately. “Gregor…Gregor, oh no. Gregor…” And then her hands went to her waist, where the blade was dripping red blood and black shadows onto the floor. Her eyes followed, touching the blood as if she were surprised to see it there.

Cam dodged around her back.

His mother did not look back at him but said, very softly and gently, “Yes, my boys. Properly, now.”

Cam felt no satisfaction in vaulting his longsword up through her spine, tearing aside mail as easily as paper. He felt her convulse around the blade. Her hands reached out to her eldest before falling between them.

Cam let go of his weapon and looked away. Gregor removed his and let Lady Talisa Macwell fall to her knees before him. Her hold over Gregor instantly collapsed and the man swayed, nose starting to bleed. Gregor's greatsword clattered to the floor and when he fell to his knees, he felt Cam catch onto him.

Boone was suddenly at his side too. “Gregor, are you alive? Are you, you? Hey?”

Gregor looked at both of them, studying their faces. He nodded, but only once. Gregor grabbed for Leopold and embraced him, burying his eyes in his younger brother's shoulder. Cam did not resist, he felt numb. The sorcerer could feel Gregor fading without Talisa to keep him here. But his soul was free, at least. Cam shuddered and gripped his elder brother tighter, like he might be able to hold him there, but staring over Gregor's shoulder, expressionless.

Kallas noted that as he walked up to Gregor, his rapier began to hum again. It sparked with silver light and he could feel Cam's brother slipping away. He saw the words etched onto the blade swirl like they were full of fire: Justice, Truth, Judgment

“Boone,” Kallas said, softly. “When you took my sword, our weapons responded but it did not reveal a new spell to me until right now.”

Boone was staring up at the tiefling helplessly from where she knelt on the floor. “What spell?”

Kallas managed a shaking sigh, trembling head to foot. "True Resurrection.” And with that, Kallas pointed his rapier at Gregor and cast.

Cam felt Gregor shudder and tremble, his brother grabbed his shoulder and gripped on like he were afraid to be torn away. The blood stopped from his nose and mouth. The greyness faded from the knight’s face, his eyes brightened. The breath of life in him was unmistakable.

"Oh fuck, oh shit, oh hell yeah, Gregor!" Boone hugged him hard.

Gregor sank back onto the floor with Cam and Boone, shaking. He grabbed into Cam's hair with one hand and spoke with his old voice, with a shadow of his old smile: “I knew you had amazing friends, Leo. I knew it.”
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Chapter Text

Kallas sat down against the wall, still feeling the reverberations of magic. His fingers were hot and buzzing from the resurrection spell. He had been the conduit for other spells that he knew he’d couldn’t naturally cast but this one was like enduring a lightning strike. His whole body was pulsating.

“Seems like we’re keeping all kinds of secrets close to the chest,” Dagna said, holding her arm to herself and nodding to Cam. “When did you get bat wings?”

“Well, you know. Death was weird,” the sorcerer answered, voice sounding a bit thick.

“Dag,” Cyrus said, gently taking her arm and making the bard lean against him while he healed the limb.

“Also, Kallas, when I said try anything, even if it’s crazy, I wasn’t exactly referring to making a deal with another fuckdamn devil,” Dagna said loudly, making a face at the rogue.

“So, will this one ask for your soul? Or for one of our deaths?” Boone wanted to know. She helped Gregor stand and picked up his greatsword.

“No, one of the conditions was that she not ask for that, specifically,” Kallas said, seemingly unable to help smirking a little. “But, that said, I do not know what she will ask for. I wanted her aid in defeating Kri’zakth, specifically. In exchange, she would be able to repay the blood-debt upon the mortals who had presumed to trick the Devil King.”

“Did she not know that you were the one who killed her dad?” Cam asked, scanning his mind for his knowledge of the devils over in the Nine Hells.

“Oh, I told her that I was the one who was forced to deal the blow,” Kallas said, shrugging. “But she laughed at him for being tricked by a mortal. Turns out, devil family dynamics are….eh, complicated.”

“Tell me about it,” Cam muttered, looking down at his mother’s corpse. He withdrew his own sword from her back and flicked the blood off. Only then did the death knight’s body turned to ash. Only her pendant, a simple crystal, remained. When the breeze took most of the mother-ash, Cam fished it out, grimacing at the remnants of his once proud, warm mother. For just a moment, there was a tightening in his throat—for the loss of what she had been, for what they all had been, to the aftermath of their choices.

These, their consequences.

Gregor pointed to the crystal. “That will take you to her keep in the Shadowfell. We might need to hold onto that for now.”

Cam held it out to his brother immediately. And, with a kind but sober expression, Gregor took it in his fist and tucked it into his gear. “I’m sorry, Mac, that I wasn’t able to take care of her myself.”

Cam did a double-take at him. “It’s…I wouldn’t have been able to either. I actually didn’t think we would survive. Or, at least, I wouldn’t. Knowing her.” Cam peered at Gregor. “Is Thioni with you? I heard her before. Her voice in my head.”

Boone jolted. “Wait, so when Thioni helped Gregor, was that how you were able to use the magic and stuff?”

Gregor studied the ground. “Yes. She helped me become aware again. And she helped me hide. She cast Dream and allowed me to talk with you.” Gregor touched his forehead. “I don’t feel her now, though…”

The door to the hallway had buckled during the fight, but now it was tossed aside. Tirri staggered in, leaning against the wall. Her armor was splattered with blood. The drow woman squinted into the sunlight, startled by the wreckage. “The wing is collapsing! You must go!”

Cyrus’ dragon plopped down on the edge of the wall like a huge dog and snorted mightily at them. The whole floor shook, making the woman grab onto the door frame.

Gregor studied the drow bodyguard, who definitely appeared as though she’d been in several fights. “I told you all to evacuate, Tirri.”

The drow woman jerked straight up, startled and staring at him when he spoke but then mastered herself and strode inside. “I am afraid I had a superseding goal, my lord. The defeat of that creature from the Far Realms. I was waiting for the signal, the arrival of your younger brother. I can make no apology for my deceptions.” She bowed over her arm. “But the structure has become unsteady—“

As if the house had heard, a piano fell through the ceiling and crashed in front of the fireplace.

Cyrus went to his dragon, looked in his eyes and patted his massive snout. “You are good to take us?”

The dragon tossed his mighty head as if to scoff and thundered in Celestial: ”Of course! You are but small hatchlings to me!”

Dagna hurried over, a hand on Kallas’ back. The tiefling had a minute tremble going through him from the powerful magic. He kept his feet, though he was clearly shaken. He seemed even paler than usual and there was an unsteadiness to his gait that alarmed Dagna more than she wanted let on. Kallas was usually so surefooted. Dagna knew that same spell, cast by a cleric, would put the caster down for a day or two—just to recover from using such advanced magic. The body was just a conduit for that power. It had clearly rocked him to the core.

“C’mon,” Cam told his brother before he looked back at Tirri and called: “Tell El’lathra we said hi!”

Gregor took his greatsword from Boone. She stayed next to him, watching for any hint of pain or faintness as Cam hurried him over to the dragon.

“Where did the dragon come from, by the way?” Boone asked, as Cyrus took her hand and pulled her on the golden dragon’s broad back.

Cyrus reflexively touched over his eye. “Mut, I think. Ha, and a yellow paper bird.”

Tirri saluted them with her scimitar as the dragon carefully glided out of the decimated parlor.

On the ground, people were fleeing. Others were gathered at the estate’s gate, watching the battle from afar. Some pointed up, spotting the gold dragon, but it did not pause. Bells were ringing across the otherwise silent ruins of Jildos.

Cam bowed his head under the pretense of shielding his eyes from the howling wind and sunlight. Gregor put an arm around him, mussing his hair again, and shielding him from the elements and the others. Gregor could feel Cam shaking. His brother was an excellent fighter, of course, but his path had been primarily magical. A military needed snipers of both bow and magic, just as much as they did battlement breakers, like himself.

Gregor knew he’d lost weight and wasted in undeath but Leo seemed thinner, harder than before. It made that old instinct rise up, want to protect his little brother. He took a look around at his friends, who all seemed thin and ragged and tired. Boone sat beside him, looking off to the horizon, and bundled in her cloak. Sabal was mainly absorbed with the dragon but he sometimes looked back at the two brothers, though Gregor wasn’t certain how to interpret the boy’s gaze.

The tiefling, Kallas, held onto Dagna as he stared down over the landscape. He pointed at the thousands of statues, petrified people, six thousand of them, all in still and silent formation and shrouded in the morning mist. Still stationed outside the city. Someone had laid flower wreaths on some of them. The sight made Dagna suddenly dizzy and she pulled herself to the middle of the great dragon’s back and curled up there.

They passed north of the city and into the forests. The dragon set them down in an isolated grove hidden behind a wide, glistening waterfall. When they dismounted, the dragon snorted and sneezed and popped.

He turned into a canary, who tweeted and flew over to Cyrus’ arm. When the warlock held out his hand, the canary hopped into it, hooted sleepily, and turned into the paper bird again. The human smiled fondly and tucked the folded bird into a warm, inner pocket.

The inside of the waterfall was cool and damp but sculpted smooth by water. Kallas offered out the tiny cabin to Cam and the sorcerer took it. He looked at it for a moment, but it seemed exactly the same as when he’d handed it over (though Cam wasn’t sure what he’d expected, really). So he placed it against the rock. The door materialized and he opened it.

The great fireplace lit itself on their entrance but none saw Eeeee. The warm glow from the fire was the only bit of light, illuminating only the immediate armchairs and sending shadows cascading around them.

“I wanted to be the one to greet you all, at the end,” an unfamiliar voice called out to them.

To all but Cyrus, anyway. The warlock’s silver eye whorled in but he didn’t recognize the man’s face. Just the voice. Where have I heard that voice before?

He appeared out of the dark like a shadow. A young man, like someone had cut out a handsome stranger from the night sky. But his eyes, his hair, the eyelids were lined in golden light. He was seated in one of the armchairs, holding a lute and plucking out a wistful sort of melody.

“Where’s Eeeee?” Cam said, loudly.

“Don’t worry, Mac,” the young man told him, with an exaggerated drawl. “Eeeee is a friend to many of us. I wonder if Tribek quite knew what he had with this strange little Cabin.” The man stood up, putting his lute aside. He was mesmerizing to watch, like a bejeweled sky in motion. “But we’ve never met, well, knowingly.”

His golden eyes went to Cyrus. “You were in a disk at the time, I believe.” He winked. “So you didn’t actually see me, I think.”

The warlock realized in a flash, the voice suddenly clear to him. “Milil, the Lord of Songs.”

“You know, we should really talk about how gods choose us because it seems like Dagna should have the bard and Cam should have the Traveler,” Boone said, pointing between the two.

“Ah, but I’m also friend to the god of knowledge,” Milil said, bowing. “And while some things were set in stone,” and here he gestured to the asamar and the celestial warlock, “you three were not. Four, I see now, my Lord Gregor of Jildos.” The god bowed to Cam’s older brother. “Do secure your mother’s keep in the Shadowfell, there are many valuable and dangerous items and books there.”

Gregor started a little at being addressed but he returned the bow, a little rustily.

“You are the last remaining essence of us, the Old Gods,” Milil said. “That is why I am here. I never appeared to you, that I might save my strength. The others have gone. You bear the last traces.” He pointed at Cyrus and Boone. “Your bloodlines will bear them from now onward. Through you, some forms of magic may survive.”

The god pointed to Dagna, Cam, and Kallas: “You three leave behind your legacies in the magic you use. Infernal, fey, sorcerous. But do not be afraid to embrace change, all of you.” He winked at Cam, as if he knew the sorcerer thrived on it. “Magic may weaken. Some of it may die. And who knows what the future holds?”

“Now is the time to take the tools and write your own stories.” He grinned. “Not that it hasn’t been fun watching you all. Cam reminds me much of myself.” He pointed to Kallas. “And you are full of surprises.” He swept up to Dagna, placing his palms on her shoulders. “And there’s something to be said for the stubbornness of those who carry on. Even if you should no longer have to, child.”

“What happened to Zephira?” Cyrus wanted to know.

Milil nodded knowingly. “The warmage’s college was destroyed. And now, she is the only warmage left who remembers it as it was. She has much to teach in Irulan today.”

“So she really did lose thousands of years,” Kallas murmured softly. It reminded him of his own time in Irulan, lost and wandering. “And now she is there alone.”

“Ah, she learned the Shadowfell well enough to lead me through it alone. I imagine Irulan will be tame by comparison,” Cyrus suggested, though he frowned a little at the floor.

Milil looked at Dagna. “There is still one last matter: the petrified souls, of course.”

“We now can use a spell to resurrect them,” Dagna nodded and seeming to brace herself internally, like she were expecting more bad news. “And I can use Greater Restoration now. It will be slow work, maybe two to three people a day, maybe, but we should be able to revive them. Provided it’s a standard petrification and not something worse.”

“That’s where we should make a camp, then,” Gregor put in, leaning on his knee. “We can establish a post there, and by reviving people, make it clear that we are there to help. I know the city can’t offer much in payment for that kind of service but…I will stay and help protect you.”

Dagna started a little, looking up at Gregor.

The man inclined his head to her. “My mother was the one who caused this. It would ease my mind, if I could attempt to correct some of these horrors, in my own small way.”

Unexpectedly, Dagna felt her eyes swim with tears again. “Holy shit, I’m sorry. Oh wow. Thank you, wow. Thank you. You really are a pretty cool older brother, huh?”

That made Gregor start this time, laughing a little and looking for Leopold, who pointedly did not meet his gaze. “You are welcome to think of me as such, Dagna. You have helped my brother survive his worst impulses, I imagine.”

Dagna burst out laughing. Cam groaned from the fireplace, pouring himself a cup of wine. “Impossible,” he said haughtily. “I do what I want.”

“Yep, sometimes badly,” Boone said, smirking.

Cyrus peered at Milil. “Who were the other people we saw in our reflections at the Cerise Sanctuary.”

“Travelers from another plane,” The god said, simply. “The Ceris Sanctuary is built into a space where the veil between worlds is thin. At this same time and place, of all the variations in all the realities of worlds, there were others who saw you. The gems were meant to aid you, and I see now where we erred. You did not know what they would do. You thought it might switch places, like the halfling did with the lady who had lungs full of black sand. The stones were foci for our power. Tinker’s gem from Asmodeus was different, connected to another soul that was captured at the Reaping.”

Kallas was examining his rapier. Justice. Truth. Judgement. When he looked up, Milil was staring at him like a loving young father. It was somehow comforting, made him feel steadier. “This sword is very powerful. And potentially, very dangerous.”

Milil nodded. “You are wise to realize that. Follow what the sword tells you. Justice. Truth. Judgement.” The god leveled his starry eyes directly at Kallas’ face.

The tiefling took a breath and faced him. “I will do the best I can. That is all I can do. My judgement may not always be sound. So I need my friends around me, for they might give me perspective. But now, I want to revive Brenna.”

Dagna startled. “Kallas, you are exhausted. That resurrection really rocked through you, you know? You should rest.”

Boone furrowed her brow. “We’ve fought this long for Brenna. But you can’t die in the process. Magic is dangerous. Brenna would understand that, stupid.”

Kallas relented reluctantly, for though he was heartsick, a wave of exhaustion was sweeping over him. He was still pragmatic. Dagna drew him to the armchair Milil had occupied and patted his shining fire-bright hair. Gregor stepped forward to address the Lord of Songs. “Do you know what happened to Thioni?”

The god nodded. “She has passed, now. Her thread was held by the Raven Queen and that thread has frayed away. Some part of her magic, I think, now lives in you, Lord Gregor. But she has gone to her rest. She performed her great task with perfection. I’d say that’s worth a song, wouldn’t you?” Milil winked at them all.

“But,” the handsome poet clapped his hands, “this is where my part ends.” Milil examined them all with his haunting, beautiful, golden eyes. “Make your own luck out there, friends.” He bowed.

And then he vanished. Only Eeeee stood in his place, looking a little confused for a moment before he threw his ghostly hands up in horror and ran to Kallas. Instantly, twenty ghostly apparitions stampeded into the room with food and wine and a stretcher that Eeeee insisted on Kallas using. The tiefling was ferried away.

The next evening, Kallas flipped the rapier in front of his eyes before he closed them and breathed in deeply. Brenna, if you want to, come back to us.

When he opened his eyes, the world was awash in grey dimness. He could see her ancestors gathered around him. Some were smiling, weeping, and clapping their ghostly, glowing hands. And four others had their arms opened and seemed to draw the tough little gnome from the air.

She sifted to the spirit-side of the veil, beaming and weeping and embracing the spirits of her ancestors. But soon they were pushing, gently urging Brenna to the tiefling.

“Kallas,” Brenna said, smiling so hard she could hardly see. “You really put the work in, huh.”

The detective grinned. “I keep my word. They can’t wait to see you.”

She materialized like a golden, glittering dust, embracing Kallas (who, to the others, had not moved or changed at all) and her tattoos blazing white. And then she heard the familiar, sweet words of Cam and Boone, swearing and cursing and unable to keep away now. They hugged her at the same time. And then there was Cyrus, hugging all of them.

The gnome peaked out and looked at Dagna, who stood a respectful distance back. “Hey, you get in here too, Dagna. Friends to Kallas are friends to me. It was really funny, how you had the jinn destroy Lady Bitchface’s army. She didn’t see that shit coming! Ha!”

The bard happily joined them, embracing her tightly. “I’m glad I got to meet you, finally. You might not believe this but I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I bet you have! Adventurers ride or die!” The gnome declared. “Also, I got shit to do! You have to write songs about everything I missed!”

Dagna laughed. “The ballad of Kallas the Kobold, coming up!”

“So were you actually not banging Tinker?” Brenna asked loudly. “Cause I know y’all played Wed, Bed, Behead and I know everyone of you wants to marry Kallas.”

“He’s really the smart choice,” Cam advised.

“Just friends,” Kallas grunted, exasperated. The rogue himself had sagged after the spell rocked through him. Cam and Cyrus helped him to an armchair.

The warlock said, “See, you could have taken over Hell but now you’ll be forever known by Kallas the Kobold.”

The tiefling laughed softly, cheerful and exhausted. “There are worse things,” he said, warmly. And he embraced Brenna, they all embraced her again. Like all of them had come full circle, like they were all finally home.
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