Skyclad

Book One of Fate’s Anvil

By Scott Browder

Chapter 1: The Drop

Morgan Mackenzie was having a very bad day. By the end of her shift waiting tables, her relief had yet to show up. None of the other waitresses had been willing to answer their phones, so Morgan was stuck picking up a double shift. As nice as it was collecting tips on a Friday night, she’d already had plans, which she’d had to cancel.

As if they don’t do this shit on purpose every week, she thought to herself with a bitter smile as she closed out her register and turned it in, collecting her tips before she headed out the door. This was the third week in a row she’d been forced to cancel her own plans, and the same waitresses who’d failed to show up as it’d been both times before. I think I’m beginning to see a pattern here, was her next sarcastic thought. Already in a sour mood, she fumbled her keys twice before managing to unlock the driver’s side door to her car. Once she got the seat belt buckled, she just laid her forehead on the steering wheel, sitting and stewing in her own cynical misery. Her phone buzzed in her purse, heralding what she was certain were angry messages from her on-again, off-again, sometimes-boyfriend, angry at taking second place to her job.

“Them’s the breaks, buddy; you don’t pay my rent,” she muttered to herself as she cranked the engine and pulled into the late-night traffic to head home. It’s not like we’ve ever been any more serious than a few drinks here or a wild night or two every other weekend, she mused silently to herself. She just wanted to get home. Her feet hurt, her back hurt, and she was extremely eager for a long bath and a comfy bed. The drive home passed in the forgettable blur experienced by anyone familiar with a routine commute to and from work.

She belatedly trudged her way from the parking lot up two flights of stairs to the door of her small studio apartment. Kicking the door shut, she stepped around her couch to the unofficial bedroom side of the single room dwelling and flopped down on the unmade bed. With a sigh she finally rolled over to retrieve her incessantly buzzing phone from her purse. Instead of angry messages from her boyfriend, it was a message from her best friend Michelle, with a picture attached.

>hey isn’t this your boyfriend Dylan?

The picture showed what was certainly a block party or back room of some club somewhere, and her so-called boyfriend sitting with a grinning blonde in his lap. Even with the other woman’s top pushed down to her waist, Morgan had no trouble recognizing Sara, the waitress who hadn’t bothered showing up, sticking her with a double shift. For a few moments, Morgan just stared at the image, not quite able to process it. She found herself equal parts angry and apathetic. On the one hand, things hadn’t exactly been stellar between her and Dylan in the first place. On the other hand, she’d been sleeping with him on a pretty regular basis for nearly a year. Territorial instincts warred with her natural tendency to just not care.

It’s not like we did all that much other than have sex, she thought. Dylan was the extroverted socialite, always doing something, always the people person. Morgan was a working college student, and preferred staying in on the nights she had free. I should have expected this sooner, if I’m completely honest with myself, she told herself. Her emotions flickered back and forth between feeling used, and feeling like she deserved it for not being willing to indulge his plans more often than she had been. But the longer she looked at that picture, the more she felt the balance beginning to tip. Not only had the other woman poached Morgan’s man from her, she’d foisted her shifts at work onto Morgan in order to do so. As she stared at the other woman’s happy smile and generous bosom, anger began to beat back her apathy and self-loathing. And then anger won out, and her phone hit the far wall hard enough to shatter the screen and break something important inside it, turning the screen black forevermore.

Peeling off her work uniform, Morgan gazed at herself in the mirror, and soon felt the anger burning out, leaving apathy behind. With an expression like she’d just bitten into an unripe lime, she tossed her bra aside and slipped out of her panties. The woman staring back at her in the mirror wasn’t ugly by any means, but she’d had always been quietly envious of her more curvy and well-endowed peers. With her hands on her hips, she arched her back and puffed out her chest…then relaxed her posture again with a sigh. At five feet four inches tall, with ghostly pale skin and her hip bones and the outline of her ribs just barely noticeable, she was just a little too slender to be called curvy, and a little too tall to consider herself petite.

“Not even B cups. I’ll never compete with that!” she snarled in the direction of her broken phone. Stalking back and forth in front of the mirror, she tugged her hair tie loose and let her raven-black locks free with a shake of her head. “What I need,” she declared as she ran her fingers through her waist-length hair, “is a rebound. A one-night stand to get over this shit. I deserve to get slutty every once in a while!”

Turning her back on the mirror, she began to hum to herself as she dug through her closet. Not this. Or this. Or that, she thought to herself. Finally finding what she was looking for, she removed a sheer black dress with tiny, string-like straps from her closet and draped it lovingly across her bed. Simple and perfect. “Let’s see here. Just the dress, the heels, and my ID for the booze.” She giggled at herself, amused by her own sudden boldness. Then her hand trailed over her thigh, and the prickliness of her body hair caught her attention. “But first, a bath,” she declared to the empty apartment.

Deciding not to waste time, as much in a hurry to get out the door before the local bars closed as she was to get going before she could talk herself out of it, Morgan quickly ran a bath and took care of her grooming as the tub filled up. Dunking herself to wet her hair, she lathered her mane vigorously with shampoo. Right as she was working some moisturizer into a froth in her poofy loofah ball, the lights went out in her apartment.

“An outage!? NOW!?” she raged at the total darkness. “DAMN! I can’t see shit… How can this day get ANY WORSE?”

And then the bathtub fell through the floor, and Morgan had just enough time to look up and see two moons wreathed in a few wispy clouds as she was falling.

And, of course, screaming.

Chapter 2: Survival, with a side of screaming.

Morgan Mackenzie was falling through the sky in an old-fashioned metal bathtub, wearing nothing but soapy bathwater and an expression of total shock and panic. The fact that she was screaming in a state of pure and abject terror should come as no surprise to anyone who might have been present to witness her sudden appearance in mid-air in a strange and alien world. As a matter of fact, her arrival was indeed noticed by several local denizens of her new environs. The first creatures to be alerted to her presence were three [Giant Eagle Hatchlings], who were quite startled when over three hundred pounds of iron bathtub, filled with about eighty gallons of soapy water and just over a hundred pounds of screeching, naked human, appeared less than ten feet above their nest.

Gravity immediately remembered its job, and the newborn eagle hatchlings promptly lost any chance of ever becoming proud and mighty [Giant Eagles] like they probably hoped. The unlucky hatchlings didn’t even have time to squawk a hopeless protest about their unhappy fate as the tub landed on them with a crunch Morgan didn’t even notice. The sudden stop of the bathtub and her follow-up splashy impact cut her screams short as she landed, not in the center of the tub, but against the side. Only random luck and slippery soap suds saved her from a concussion—or worse—as she slid down the side, then the bottom of the tub, and she was sloshed, bathwater and all, into the nest on top of scattered pieces of egg shells and scraps of rotting carrion.

Morgan pushed herself up to her knees as the sudden shock wore off in the stillness of the moment. Finally able to draw a breath, ribs aching from the impact, she immediately gagged. Her sudden coughing earned her further protests from her already bruised and tender ribs. “What the hell!” she exclaimed as the scents of rotting meat in various stages of decay assaulted her senses, lightly seasoned with bird droppings, as well as fresh blood and feather-coated viscera. She still held her loofah scrubby in one hand, and raised it to her face in a partially successful attempt to mask the stench of the nest with the familiar smells of her favorite body wash products. She looked around in confusion, battling through the sheer shock and surprise of her situation to try to make some sort of sense out of where she was. Her confusion was promptly renewed, though, as within moments of her landing she felt rather than heard a chiming DING! inside her head, followed immediately by two more sensations, exactly the same as the first. Just as she opened her mouth to blindly repeat her utterance, her attention was stolen by ethereal silvery text spilling itself across the center of her sight.

You have defeated [Giant Eagle Hatchling (Lvl - 1)]

For earning your victory while [Naked] and [Unequipped], experience gain doubled.

+40 experience gained.

You have defeated [Giant Eagle Hatchling (Lvl - 1)]

For earning your victory while [Naked] and [Unequipped], experience gain doubled.

+40 experience gained.

You have defeated [Giant Eagle Hatchling (Lvl - 2)]

For earning your victory while [Naked] and [Unequipped], experience gain doubled.

+70 experience gained.

As an increasingly confused Morgan gazed slack-jawed at the words superimposed over her vision, they quickly began to fade. As several extremely un-ladylike expletives exploded into the silent trees, an even more intense DING! slammed into her mind like a gold and silver starburst.

You have reached Level 2! Health and Status partially restored!

For reaching this milestone while [Naked] and [Unequipped], rewarded points doubled.

10 distributable Stat Points awarded.

10 Skill Points awarded.

Skill purchases unlocked! (Check available skills through your Status Menu)

As interesting as she found these new messages, Morgan didn’t have time to properly consider the information. As the last glowing message faded from her vision, the nest she’d fallen into swayed sideways with a vicious lurch, spilling her once more into the detritus. Suddenly unbalanced, broken eggshells and jagged branches tore into her hands and knees as she struggled to keep from falling face-first onto the muck-covered floor of the nest. A piercing screech rekindled her shortly forgotten terror. The nest shuddered once more with the sound of cracking tree branches.

Morgan scrambled backward toward the trunk of the tree that cradled the nest in its branches, not even noticing the new scratches and the smattering of rotten meat and filth she was crawling through in her panic. Only two important details occupied her attention at that moment. The first, and actually less frightening, thing she had on her mind was that the nest was tilting further and further down away from the tree as the branches cracked and shook. The second and, to Morgan’s frantic mind, more immediately important detail was the gigantic eagle shoving her bathtub off of its ruined wing.

The colossal bird of prey was easily twice the size of an SUV, and it jerked its head to turn a baleful eye in the direction of the one who’d slain its young and so grievously wounded it. The angry bird then drew in a massive breath and gave vent to its rage with a screech far louder than Morgan was capable of comprehending. The sound hit her like a solid wave of force, for indeed, that was the effect of the oversized avian’s skill, [Thunderous Screech]. Not that Morgan was in any state to realize any of this, or care, even if she’d had the information. The pressure of the cry slammed her out of the nest and into the trunk of the tree, shattering her eardrums. The bathtub came to rest almost on top of her previous position against the wall of the nest itself. Stunned, deafened, and feeling sharp jagged lances of pain through her whole body, she fell forward onto the tree branch and almost failed to latch onto it in time.

Her vision blurry and ears hearing nothing but a painful, silent ringing, Morgan held onto the branch of the tree with the last vestiges of effort left in her broken and exhausted body. A different kind of message pulsed in her awareness with a dull, throbbing cadence.

You have taken critical damage!

Status afflicted: [Deafened]! Your eardrums have ruptured!

Status afflicted: [Internal Bleeding]! You are bleeding internally!

She felt her precarious perch shift and crack more than she heard it, and looked on with a sudden blank detachment as the bird that had just killed her flapped its remaining wing, flopped itself right over the side of its own nest, and fell out of her sight. The big eagle’s last lurching movement was the final bit of stress the tortured branch could handle, and less than a foot from Morgan’s face, the groaning limb finally gave out. Looking down, she saw the eagle hit the ground in a puff of oversized feathers like the world’s largest pillow exploded, followed by the nest and forked tree branch. As the broken bird tried to fight its way free from the debris, Morgan’s big metal bathtub landed right on its head with a crunchy GONG! that Morgan might have found rather humorous in better circumstances. And if her eardrums hadn’t been ruptured, rendering her deaf. Eardrums or not, she most certainly heard two back to back notices as more blocks of text appeared in her vision, one after the other, and she suddenly felt much better. She felt better than she’d have thought someone in her situation should be feeling.

DING! rolled through her mind with a bright silver flair.

You have defeated [Giant Wildlands Eagle (Lvl - 9)]

For earning your victory while [Naked] and [Unequipped], experience gain doubled.

+1800 experience gained.

Which was immediately followed with the golden DING!

You have reached Level 3! Health and Status partially restored!

For reaching this milestone while [Naked] and [Unequipped], rewarded points doubled.

10 distributable Stat Points awarded.

10 Skill Points awarded.

Skill purchases unlocked! (Check available skills through your Status Menu)

DING!

You have reached Level 4! Health and Status partially restored!

For reaching this milestone while [Naked] and [Unequipped], rewarded points doubled.

10 distributable Stat Points awarded.

10 Skill Points awarded.

Skill purchases unlocked! (Check available skills through your Status Menu)

DING!

You have reached Level 5! Health and Status partially restored!

For reaching this milestone while [Naked] and [Unequipped], rewarded points doubled.

10 distributable Stat Points awarded.

10 Skill Points awarded.

Skill purchases unlocked! (Check available skills through your Status Menu)

DING!

You have reached Level 6! Health and Status partially restored!

For reaching this milestone while [Naked] and [Unequipped], rewarded points doubled.

10 distributable Stat Points awarded.

10 Skill Points awarded.

Skill purchases unlocked! (Check available skills through your Status Menu)

“What. The. HELL!?” Morgan gasped. While the actual time that had passed between being in her apartment taking a bath and her current situation well over a hundred feet up in the top of a tree could be counted in seconds without needing three digits, the sheer amount of new information and experience of the events had left her with such a horrendous case of mental whiplash that all she could do was hold onto her newfound friend, the tree branch, and try to process it all.

“That…that happened… Did it? Or not?” she said to nobody in particular as she pushed herself up to a sitting position, straddling the waist-thick stub of tree she currently occupied. Her wounds might have been miraculously healed by the mysterious “levels” she’d reached, but she was still covered in a disgusting blend of soap, blood, feathers, and bird droppings. And she was most definitely naked. She was acutely aware of that fact, with the rough bark of the tree scraping her tender thighs and bottom. Her skin was beginning to itch all over from the nasty mess. She had, for all intents and purposes, been rolled in it like a piece of meat being coated in a most fell sort of breading. The other thing she was unable to ignore was the terrible smell.

Realizing she still clutched her scrubby loofah in one hand, she picked the larger pieces of sticks and feathers out of it and once again held it up to her face to try to inhale something nicer than bird droppings and the iron-tangy scent of blood. Carefully, she wiped the worst of the muck off her face and took a slow look around to try to figure out exactly where she was. It only took her a few heartbeats to realize where? was a question that would have no easy answer.

The first thing she noticed was a confirmation of her first stunned look at her new world. Two moons chased each other across the sky, the larger leading the smaller by a thumbnail-wide gap from her point of reference. The next thing she noticed was trees. Lots and lots and lots of trees. Very similar looking trees to the familiar pines, cedars, and juniper trees she’d grown up seeing all around her home in Eastern Washington; the difference was one of scale. She could tell she was well over a hundred feet off the ground, and she was in a much smaller tree than the giant timber she could see all around her.

The tree she currently occupied was in fact dead, with none of the verdant green needles, leaves, or anything else gracing its gnarled and stunted (compared to the other trees) form. She was still above the actual forest canopy, though, thanks to her temporary seat growing out of a rather pronounced hill of raised earth. The sibling moons cast a brighter lunar glow than any full moon she’d ever experienced on Earth, and in any other circumstances, her view most certainly would have been utterly breathtaking. Even with her sudden and frightening situation, she couldn’t help but let out an exclamatory, “Whoa…”

The forest stretched as far as she could see even in the abnormally bright moonlight, at least in every direction she could see, considering she was far too frightened at the moment to try to climb around the main trunk of her new treetop home. In the distance to her left she could see a glimmer through a dip in the landscape that she thought might be a river of some sort, but she had no real way to gauge any semblance of accurate distance just by looking. Off to her right if she turned her head far enough she could just see the edge of the forest in the distance rise in elevation and give way to a stark and jagged mountain range. But the most amazing thing about the forest was, far and away, the trees.

The trees in this forest made the giant redwoods and sequoias she had seen in the American northwest look like quaint little Christmas trees. The hilltop “her” tree grew out of formed a clearing almost a quarter of a mile across by her best estimate. It was, at the very least, a hundred and twenty feet or so from where she sat to the gnarled roots that had caught the giant eagle before her bathtub had ended its final moments of outrage. The slope then steeply dropped off for several hundred feet further before giving way to smaller trees at the edge of the forest, trees that only grew in size and majesty the farther away they were from the root-covered knoll upon which she was sitting.

“There must be something different about either this tree or this hill, or both…” she spoke out loud. While her “level ups” had restored her health, and healed her ruptured eardrums and internal injuries, her voice still sounded muffled and far away due to the congealed blood that had built up before her miraculous recovery. After a partially successful attempt to clean her ears out with the careful application of her fingernails, Morgan simply sat for a few minutes to organize her thoughts.

Morgan Mackenzie wasn’t stupid. Far from it, in fact. She was a below average college student who only took light class loads because she worked a full-time job. Her average to bordering-on-poor grades through high school and into college were a result of her apathy and lack of motivation, not from a lack of intelligence or capability. She simply wasn’t interested in more than just getting by, as long as getting by was reasonably achievable and left her plenty of free time for things she actually enjoyed. Like the company of a select few friends, her books, and looking at cute things on the internet, with the occasional interlude for sexy times with her now ex-boyfriend.

That particular train of thought brought her bad mood crashing back with a vengeance, pulling her out of her reverie so she noticed the rough bark she was clinging to. Not to mention the increasingly itchy coating of ick she was currently wearing. Carefully, she adjusted herself to hold her more sensitive bits away from the scratchy bark she was clinging to like human shrink-wrap. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she refocused on the messages that had appeared in her vision. As soon as her attention came back to them, the last golden “level up” message returned to a startlingly vivid clarity. “What is ‘status menu’? she asked herself, jumping slightly as a silvery list of text and numbers replaced the previous level up message.

Status Information for: Morgan Mackenzie

Level - 6

Primary Class: [Locked]

Secondary Class: [Locked]

Health - 74/74

Stamina - 24/24

Mana - 36/36

STR - 3

AGI - 5

CON - 4

VIT - 4

INT - 6

Stat points available to distribute: 50

Current Skills: None

Basic Skills now available for purchase!

Skill Points available: 50

Titles, Mantles, and Aspects

[Worldwalker (Title)] - You have travelled through the void between the many worlds! Every world is different, each with its own gifts and dangers. To help you survive strange new places, you gain a slight boost to health and an increased ability to learn new things! (+50 to Health, +50% increased gains to Skill Experience)

[Naked Survivor (Aspect)] - You have defeated foes and increased your own power while [Naked] and [Unequipped]! For gaining five or more levels in this manner without the benefits of a [Class], you have gained this Aspect. Experience gained and points rewarded are doubled while you are [Naked] and [Unequipped]. This Aspect will modify some learned or available skills with appropriate bonuses to offset your incompatibility with equipped items. Equipping clothing or items of any type will disable this Aspect, rendering modified skills and benefits unavailable. Facing further challenges and reaching new milestones of personal growth while [Naked] and [Unequipped] will enhance this Aspect for even greater benefit.

“Huh…” huffed Morgan as she took in the sudden influx of information, this time actually paying attention to the words somehow being projected into her eyes. Even though she had played games like Stardew Valley, Factorio, and Starbound more than anything else, the similarities to MMOs and RPGs was not lost on her. As she focused on her dismally low stats, she received, not another notification, but a vague sense of how they worked. Understanding how her stats worked didn’t intrinsically lend itself to helping her figure out how to get from her chilly treetop location to somewhere warmer and safer. Preferably a location with another bath and a change of clothes. A brisk, bone-chilling wind rustled her elevated perch and reminded her just how naked she was.

“S-S-S-SHIT,” she stuttered. The muck she was splattered with was making the cool wind feel even colder, and the cold gave the rough bark she was pressed against an even more savage intensity. With her newly restored health from the leveling up, it didn’t hurt exactly, but it was just about as far from comfortable as she could get without actual pain. Her hair was matted with shampoo and baby bird guts, and beginning to dry, and the rest of her body had begun to itch like mad.

“So…either I’m dead and this is hell; I’m dreaming; or, according to this ‘Worldwalker’ title, I’m in another world. This shit sucks too much to be a dream. Dropped in bird shit is definitely a kind of hell, but giant trees and a creepy forest are pointing toward another world. I hope. Or think. I might just be going insane…”

A small part of Morgan’s mind realized her words were too quick and her breathing far too rapid, and she struggled within her own mind to hold the oncoming panic attack at bay. Taking a deep breath, and with no other ideas for what else to do, she looked back at her stats once again. With her conscious attention on just her stats, the image zoomed in on that section, and the rest fell out of her vision. Focusing her attention on her available stat points, without understanding how she knew she could do so, she willed a single point into her strength stat. She felt more than saw her STR increase from three to four, followed by a quick but noticeable twitching of her entire body. She repeated that several more times in a row, and as her STR hit eleven, her entire body cramped so intensely that she nearly passed out. She’d hugged her tree limb so hard that she’d driven the rough edges of the bark into her skin all along the insides of her legs, arms, and her bare breasts, while her hands had clenched so tightly her fingers were pressed completely through the bark and into the outer wood of the tree.

“OW! OW! OW! SHIT! DAMN!” she panted in a strained cadence as she forced her hands to let go and, with extreme care, readjusted her grip. She tenderly eased herself back up to lean against the trunk of the tree, wincing as the bark pulled loose from her skin. As fresh blood welled up from dozens of tiny cuts and tears, a new message appeared in darker silver text in front of her displayed stats.

Status Afflicted: [Minor Bleeding]!

Feeling insulted by the rather obvious message, she couldn’t help but blurt out, “I know I’m bleeding here, god-dam—” Her jaw snapped shut in surprise as she saw her health tick down by three points. What had silenced her wasn’t seeing the numbers, but the feeling that passed through her mind and body as it happened. It was an unpleasant mixture of a moment of faint weakness, flavored with hints of nervous fear. As she focused her attention more closely on her health numbers, she was overcome with a sense of ominous dread. The silvery text gave her no answers, but she suddenly knew with every fiber of her being that allowing her health to drop to zero was a very bad thing.

She was suddenly afraid, more than she’d been when she was falling, even more afraid than when the eagle had screamed and hurt her so badly. Because now she knew, without knowing how, that zero health points was THE END. As this realization struck her, Morgan felt another pulse of weakness and saw her health drop three more points. She felt it, without being able to explain it even to herself. Her instincts told her that the stat labeled “CON”, her constitution, affected her health, so she quickly dumped five of her remaining sixty-eight points into it.

Increasing her CON did indeed increase her health pool, but to her horror and dismay, it increased the maximum while doing nothing for her steadily dropping current health. Her maximum health grew by thirty points, to a total of a hundred and four, and the increase was followed, not by muscle cramps as she’d experienced when she’d increased her strength, but instead by a wave of nausea and lightheadedness. Another pulse marked another three health points lost, dropping her to sixty-five. The pulses seemed to hit every tenth or so heartbeat, and Morgan knew she wouldn’t have very long, a minute at most, if the bleeding didn’t stop soon.

“Let’s try vitality instead,” she hoarsely groaned, still dizzy and nauseated by the fact that her health was almost halfway gone. Before she could lose another chunk of health, she looked at her stats. With an all or nothing thought, she added ten points to her VIT stat, leaving her with only thirty-three points. Not that Morgan had time to consider points of any sort as she felt her heart stop. And then she felt a THUMP! in her chest that radiated outward like an electrical jolt. Barely managing to keep her balance in the tree, she saw her Stamina had jumped to eighty-four—but more importantly, the next dreaded pulse from the bleeding only cost her two points of health. She held her breath for a few heartbeats, but the next pulse never arrived. Then her health ticked back up a single point, and she released the air she’d held in her lungs, gasping for more, and nearly hyperventilating in relief. She’d been given no message, but somehow she simply knew she was no longer afflicted with the bleeding status. Her maximum Stamina had increased, and now her current Stamina had begun to regenerate slightly faster than her health.

“Oh, thank god!” she sobbed. Morgan’s entire evening had been a frantic rollercoaster ride of emotional ups and downs, even some side to sides and stops and starts, and she didn’t even understand herself how she was managing to hold it together as well as she was. After nearly a full minute of simply leaning against the tree trunk, she realized that the bark of the tree wasn’t digging into her skin as painfully as before. Consciously thinking about it brought the knowledge into her mind; her CON stat affected not only her total health, but her general toughness and resilience as well. She saw her current health march up another tick. It wasn’t coming back very fast, but it was coming back. Slow was better than nothing, after all. With new determination, she once again looked at the stats section of her status screen:

Status Information for: Morgan Mackenzie

Level - 6

Primary Class: [Locked]

Secondary Class: [Locked]

Health - 67/104

Stamina - 28/84

Mana - 36/36

STR - 11

AGI - 5

CON - 9

VIT - 14

INT - 6

Stat points available to distribute: 33

Current Skills: None

Basic Skills now available for purchase!

Skill Points available: 50

Note to self: DO NOT dump points into stats all at once! Morgan mentally scolded herself with a weary sigh. She realized the obvious correlation between her sudden seizure and spending stat points to more than double her strength. The sudden shock and energy from vitality made a sort of sense, but she had no idea why constitution made her feel sick by increasing her health pool. Such considerations soon dropped from her immediate priority list as yet another sensation quite rudely intruded upon her already quite miserable state of existence.

Hunger. She felt a growing hollowness in her belly, reminiscent of visits to doctor clinics for tests where she hadn’t been allowed to eat the day before. Not quite to the point of pain, but with a low growl her empty stomach announced that it didn’t intend to be ignored. Realizing she wouldn’t be allowed to stay in her tree for much longer, she went back to her stats with the intent of figuring out if any of them might somehow provide a way for her to safely make the perilous descent.

Tentatively she put a point into AGI and waited. With only a slight shiver affecting her body, it was hardly an effort to keep her balance in the tree this time. She repeated this process every thirty or so heartbeats until her agility stat was equal to her strength. As she’d increased the attribute much more slowly this time, she almost didn’t notice the effect. It took her several moments of introspection to realize she no longer felt dizzy when she glanced toward the ground, and balancing herself on her craggy perch was much easier to do. Her body simply knew how to stay centered on the branch without her conscious mind having to concentrate on it, and keeping her tender parts away from the sharper outcroppings of the rough bark was so easy it was barely an afterthought. “Oh, now THAT’S a definite improvement!” she quipped out loud. With her mood slightly improved, albeit with her hunger even more noticeable, she moved on to the last of her attributes.

Morgan’s intuition correctly pointed toward the INT statistic being related to the mind as the others had the body. Thusly forewarned by previous experience, she braced herself for a headache or worse as she added a point to the intellect attribute. There was no headache, but she felt her mind become a little less muddled. Another two points and she felt somewhat lightheaded, but it quickly passed after a few deep breaths. With her mind becoming sharper each step of the way, she gradually increased her INT to match her VIT, leaving her with twenty points.

While more than doubling her initial intellect as a stat brought no epiphany or revelation, she did find herself getting more solid impressions of what the different stats did whenever she focused on that part of the translucent text floating in front of her eyes. She also found that it didn’t so much impede her vision as she simply saw both the floating words and the forest vista before her at the same time. With that particular paradox threatening to give her a headache, she switched to putting points into her constitution. More health can never be a bad thing, she thought to herself as she remembered how close she’d come to dying several times merely in the first five minutes of appearing in this strange and frightening world.

Each increase to her CON was followed by another mild but noticeable wave of what she could only describe as a full body nausea that didn’t play nice with her growing hunger. It finally dawned on Morgan that her body was literally changing itself with every point she spent increasing her attributes. She found the fact less disturbing than the realization that she didn’t find it disturbing. With her total health now increased, and not all that keen to experience any more unpleasant waves of sickness, she incrementally spent the rest of her points on her VIT.

While she was happy to see her total maximum health increase, she realized it was truly only as useful to her as her ability to recover it. Each point she spent on VIT was accompanied by a corresponding rush and feeling of energy, and her maximum Stamina grew accordingly. She felt more than saw her current health, Stamina, and Mana pools begin to tick upward much faster. As her remaining distributable stat points dropped to zero, she checked her main status once again as hunger gnawed sharply at her gut.

Status Information for: Morgan Mackenzie

Level - 6

Primary Class: [Locked]

Secondary Class: [Locked]

Health - 73/140

Stamina - 41/168

Mana - 41/84

STR - 11

AGI - 11

CON - 15

VIT - 28

INT - 14

Stat points available to distribute: 0

Current Skills: None

Basic Skills now available for purchase!

Skill Points available: 50

With her increased vitality bringing a noticeable increase to her regen, Morgan focused her attention on her available skill points in the hope that something there might possibly lead to finding her way down from the tree and toward something safer. Hopefully with food, her increasingly insistent innards reminded her with another gurgling growl. “Skills!” she said out loud, and as expected, another menu overlay appeared.

Skill Acquisition Menu

Skill points may be spent to gain new techniques and traits to enhance your capabilities. Skills that are available for purchase will vary depending on your level and your previous accomplishments. Due to your previous methods and circumstances for reaching your levels and milestones, several Basic skills have been modified and are now available. Choose carefully, as some skills are incompatible with each other or certain classes and may lead to future restrictions on available skill and class selection. Other skills may provide bonuses in tandem or even unlock new and unique skills and classes in the future.

Available Skills:

[Naked Instinct (Passive)] - [5 Skill Points] Due to earning the Aspect [Naked Survival], the skill [Survival Instincts] has been modified and purchase cost reduced by 50%. While naked, you are bare before the dangers of the world and need every edge you can get to help you survive! This skill improves all your senses in order to help you detect impending danger. The [Naked] version of this skill will also help you detect possible beneficial situations! May receive bonus improvements from other [Naked] skills.

[Naked Resilience (Passive)] - [5 Skill Points] Due to earning the Aspect [Naked Survival], the skill [Natural Resilience] has been modified and purchase cost reduced by 50%. That which does not kill you makes you stronger! This skill improves your chances of gaining resistances to any negative status effect or damage type you are exposed to. Repeated or continuous exposure increases resistances over time. The [Naked] version of this skill improves your chances of gaining new resistances and improves the rate at which learned resistances increase! May receive bonuses from other [Naked] skills.

[Naked Recovery (Channeled)] - [10 Skill Points] Due to earning the Aspect [Naked Survival], the skill [Recovery] has been modified and purchase cost reduced by 50%. Eventually everyone falls, but sometimes they get back up again! This skill allows you to recover health at an increased rate while channeled, at the expense of Stamina. Health recovery rate and Stamina cost per second dependent on skill level and possible bonuses and/or negative status effects. The [Naked] version of this skill also recovers Mana in addition to health, and instantly recovers a small portion of both Health and Mana upon activation! May receive bonuses from other [Naked] skills.

[Naked Camouflage (Channeled)] - [10 Skill Points] Due to earning the Aspect [Naked Survival], the skill [Camouflage] has been modified and purchase cost reduced by 50%. Mighty enemies or juicy prey, sometimes it’s better not to be seen in the first place! This skill allows you to blend in with your surroundings while channeled, reducing the chances you will be noticed at the expense of Stamina. Effectiveness depends on skill level and the skills and abilities of the ones you are hiding from, in addition to possible bonuses and/or negative status effects. The [Naked] version of this skill also expends Mana in order to suppress your natural life energy, further decreasing your chances of being detected! May receive bonuses from other [Naked] skills.

[Naked Weapons (Activated)] - [20 Skill Points] Due to earning the Aspect [Naked Survival], the skill [Natural Weapons] has been modified and purchase cost reduced by 50%. Sometimes what you were born with is all you have to rely on! This skill hardens your body when you strike or are struck by enemies, allowing you to deliver devastating impacts with your own body, or reducing damage you take by a significant amount at the cost of Stamina. Effectiveness depends on skill level and stats, in addition to possible bonuses and/or negative status effects. The [Naked] version of this skill enhances this effect at the added cost of Mana, thickening your skin into a tough layer similar to tree bark, stone, or even metals at higher levels! May receive bonuses from other [Naked] skills.

[Naked Magic (Activated)] - [20 Skill Points] Due to earning the Aspect [Naked Survival], the skill [Basic Magic] has been modified and its purchase cost reduced by 50%. Some people throw their fists, but some throw fire and lightning! This skill provides the basic ability to manipulate the elements of Mana that flow in and around you, at the cost of Mana. Continuous training and experience will lead to finer control and senses of individual elements of magic. True dedication may lead to enhanced affinity for specific elements or types of magic. The [Naked] version of this skill further enhances your ability to control the primal forces, increasing the rate at which you develop affinities and future magical skills. May receive bonuses from other [Naked] skills.

Morgan took a few minutes to read the descriptions of the skills presented to her. The list itself was quite long, but many options were dim to her eyes with a [Conditions not met] in place of a skill description. From the names she could see, most of those seemed to be related to weapons or armor, and she had neither available anyway. None of the skills shown in her list cost more than the fifty points she had available to spend, so she assumed it only showed her skills she could actually afford to get.

The first four skills Morgan considered absolutely necessary. A way to avoid danger was so appealing as to cause her to salivate, although that may have also been because of her extreme levels of hunger. This made [Naked Instinct] and [Naked Camouflage] the first things she spent her skill points on. She hesitated for a moment because of the [Naked] part, but it was a very short moment. Morgan saw no equivalent skills providing similar options without the “Naked” part tacked onto it in her list of available options, and she was already naked. It’s not like I can get any more naked than I already am, she thought to herself as she mentally okayed the brief “Are you sure?” confirmation messages. In the space of time between one heartbeat and the next, Morgan felt her entire existence shift.

After a brief flash of disorientation that was over faster than it was possible for her to measure, Morgan’s entire body froze into perfect stillness, and her eyes snapped their focus to a patch of movement in the distant treetop canopy. The wind had been rustling the leaves and branches of the forest all around her the whole time she’d been sitting in the tree, but she could tell that this particular spot of movement was not the wind. After a few moments she relaxed again, once her senses confirmed it was moving away from her location and not toward her, thus most likely not a threat at that moment in time. She could see other things in the forest as well, not clearly, but vague impressions as her gaze roamed back and forth across the verdant landscape.

A particularly shadowy area seemed to radiate danger, while another gave her a simple blank feeling, and yet another area with a twinkling glimmer between the trees assured her that water could be found in that direction. The urge to head that way was suddenly quite strong, and Morgan realized she was as thirsty as she was hungry. The impulse was so intense that before she realized it, she’d shifted her hands and feet on her branch and started looking for a way down. That is, until she looked down toward the roots spread all over the hill her tree was growing out of, and the sudden sense of danger caused her to instinctively flatten herself on the limb once more. She felt the sudden drop in her Stamina, and another pull on her mind that had to be Mana, as [Naked Camouflage] activated in response to what she saw below her.

The ground around the tree was moving. Before acquiring the skill, such movements had been imperceptible to Morgan’s senses, but under the effects of [Naked Instinct], it stood out so severely that she was hard pressed to imagine how she could have missed it before. As she watched from above, the rippling shadows resolved themselves into roots. They writhed and slowly crept their way toward the fallen nest and the crushed and mangled bodies of the eagle family that had so precipitously gifted Morgan with the experience points and levels to acquire her newly improved stats and skills. As she shifted her gaze to the tree she was clinging to, however, her newly improved instinct was giving her the opposite impression. One of safety that told her on some level to simply wait and be still. Not one to argue with such a powerful instinct in light of her short but intense time in this new world, Morgan did just that as she relaxed and let go of [Naked Camouflage].

Morgan was acutely aware of just how vulnerable and basically helpless she was in her current situation. The flashy messages and menus displayed in her vision might have given her a few answers and had definitely saved her life with the regeneration provided by her newly boosted Vitality, but the simple fact that it was happening at all spawned more questions in her mind than she could list if she had days to sit and contemplate. She was absolutely certain about a few things, however. Apparently I’m not dead, but in another world, she told herself. And it works differently from Earth, that’s for sure. And I’m stuck in a giant tree. Naked. And cold. And hungry. And if a giant SOMETHING doesn’t eat me, a goddamn tree has me stuck here while its creepy roots do god knows what…

Morgan inwardly turned back to her skills menu and read through the descriptions again. [Naked Resilience] didn’t seem to provide any immediate benefit, but she was pretty sure resistances to harmful things would be vital to her survival. After all, from what she’d seen so far, every single thing that existed in this world intended her harm. First the birds, and now even the tree in which she was tentatively taking shelter seemed to have nefarious intent. She spent the ten skill points to acquire the skill and waited for the inevitable feelings of drastic changes in her body, but a single heartbeat turned into ten, then turned into a full minute, and she felt no different. Relieved, she continued her perusal.

The skill [Naked Recovery] was also pretty much a no-brainer from what she could tell. She had no gear, no medical supplies, and while she was no stranger to the outdoors, she had no guarantees she’d ever find such things in this strange new world. Reassured by the lack of side effects from purchasing the previous skill, she spent the required points for [Naked Recovery] and immediately understood that this time something was very different. Morgan’s heart jackhammered a staccato beat as it tried to pound her rib cage open from the inside. She’d been crouching on all fours on the tree limb, and the only thing that saved her from falling off was the fact that her muscles once again seized up. Her fingers buried themselves in the tree. Her recently increased Constitution kept the bones in her hands from breaking and the skin from tearing, but only just. Not that she could appreciate such merciful coincidence.

Morgan Mackenzie was burning. Nothing in the context of her entire twenty two years of experience could have prepared her to anticipate what was set in motion within her body once she acquired the skill [Naked Recovery], and she hadn’t been graced by fate in meet someone who could have explained it to her. Self-healing [Recovery] type skills in her new world weren’t even all that powerful, not in the greater schema of the universe. Nor were they typically uncommon, although Morgan was decidedly unique in unlocking a [Naked] twist on the usual iteration of it.

Unfortunately for her, all abilities that allowed a person to consciously heal their own injuries and wounds had one thing in common: in order to consciously and directly heal the body, the brain must be able to sense the body. While that might eventually one day seem to be a simple concept to Morgan, any possible chance of her pondering the matter right then were effectively zero. For the simple fact of the matter was, the body and its system of nerves weren’t made to convey that much information about that many things, nor the brain naturally able to deliver such information directly to the conscious mind. Thusly, they both had be forcibly adapted to the [Skill].

Raw, primal Mana pulsed through every fiber of Morgan’s body. Her face and jaw clenched in a grim rictus as every slam of her heartbeat drove the agony to greater heights. She could feel her nerves being torn apart and rewoven, every moment more and more information and sensations pushed into her mind, a mind that was woefully inadequate for the task of interpreting such a flood of knowledge. She could feel her sanity begin to fray as the pain stretched the moment out like a rubber band just before the snap. And then, as suddenly as it started, the pain and pressure vanished, leaving Morgan panting to catch her breath. Before she could even begin to reassess her body’s condition, notifications intruded once more upon her attention.

You have gained the Skill [Pain Resistance]!

[Pain Resistance] has reached Level 2!

[Pain Resistance] has reached Level 3!

Status afflicted: [Starvation] You are starving! All regen disabled!

Status afflicted: [Weakness]! All stats reduced!

That last one is kinda obvious, she thought to herself. The first knowledge her new skill was providing her with was that such fundamental changes to her body had required fuel, and it had used her body’s reserves for that purpose. She hadn’t lost any health from the transformation, and as it had been steadily ticking upward before this point, she now had over two-thirds of her total. But the last of her body’s nutrient reserves had been used up completely, and once those ran out, the magic had begun to devour her other tissues. Looking down at herself only confirmed what the extra senses were already telling her. Her body was now gaunt and hideously skinny. Her ribcage was grotesquely pronounced, as were her hips, her arms, and legs, with knobby knees and gangly elbows. Her breasts had gone from the smaller side of average down to almost totally non-existent.

Carefully she pried her hands out of the crushed tree bark. She almost laughed out loud upon noticing that her loofah scrubby was still with her, though now rather filthy and smushed into the bark of the tree when she’d latched on. Morgan held onto it as if it were the last lifeline connecting her back to her familiar apartment. The spark of humor and remembrance only lasted an instant, however, because her hunger was no longer something that could be ignored. She felt increasingly lethargic and noticeably weaker, although not as weak as before she’d increased her strength. At least not quite.

With her increasingly desperate hunger, she pried up a small piece of the bark from the tree, as that was the only thing within her reach that she might possibly have a chance at chewing. It tasted like cardboard and dirt, and expanded her mind’s definition of the word “dry”, but she was able to just barely work up enough saliva to manage to swallow the scratchy lump. She was about to take a second bite but was interrupted by a sudden spike in her [Naked Instinct]. It wasn’t the same feeling as the crawly fear the roots had spurred within her. It wasn’t even fear, exactly, but it was extremely powerful and intense, and she was paralyzed in the face of it. And then the tree began to shake, causing her to cling tight once again, as another notification popped into her head.

By offering your defeated foes to feed its roots, you have reawakened a:

[Tree of Mana (Legendary Tree, Guardian of the Forest, Father of Faeries)]!

The Tree has granted you it’s favor!

You have gained the Title: [Blessed of the Guardian Tree]! You need never fear its hungry roots! Future offerings or actions that benefit the tree may enhance this Title!

She didn’t notice this new influx of information as the struggle not to fall out of the tree required all her attention and effort in her weakened state. She did, however, notice that not only was the tree shaking, it was glowing. A pale, warm light, low in intensity but definitely there, began emanating from the roots on the ground. Flashes of green and gold pulsed along the ever-brightening roots. The shaking became more intense the brighter the light became, threatening to dislodge Morgan from its branches. The massive clearing occupied by the tree was illuminated in stark relief as light poured out from between cracks and fissures in the bark. The tree stopped shaking suddenly as the light faded to almost nothing. Silence thundered through the forest as if a great pressure held everything still for a single moment, pregnant with expectation. Morgan couldn’t have made a sound or drawn a breath had she tried.

And then with a GROAN that was felt more than heard, the tree was growing, and Morgan found herself pressed into her tree limb as she was pushed farther toward the sky. The strobing light could be felt in the air, a pulsing power that throbbed in her bones. A dozen feet, two dozen, then more. The broken ends of the forked branch she occupied suddenly cracked and split as new, green shoots exploded forth. The main trunk of the tree widened with rippling cracks and crunching noises and old, withered bark was pushed away to fall to the ground by a fresh and vibrant grey-brown mottled covering. More branches sprouted both above and below her, with shoots and leaves forming a massive sheltering canopy.

The shed bark began to crumble underneath her hands and feet, so she scrambled backward to brace herself against the trunk. To her bewilderment, the tree trunk was no longer behind her, and she tumbled backward in fright, certain she was falling to her death. But she simply fell flat on her back into the newly formed hollow just below the canopy. The tree had split into several branching trunks that kept growing up and splitting off more of themselves, leaving a small, almost flat space only a few paces across in the center. Morgan scrambled right to the middle of it, clutching her loofah to her chest protectively. Exhausted, starving, terrified, lonely, and of course still naked, she did the only thing she had the strength to accomplish with her entire world shaking around her. She simply sat down and waited.

Chapter 3: Fruits of Thy Labors

Morgan Mackenzie was starving to death. Merely an hour earlier, she’d been safe and sound in her apartment, taking a bath. At the moment, she found herself on an alien world, apparently one with magic, based on a fantasy game. She’d fallen through some kind of hole in reality, bathtub and all. Landing on a nest of some sort of terrifyingly huge, giant birds had both granted her some levels, points, and titles, while at the same time nearly killing her before she had any chance to get her bearings. The nest and the family of birds had fallen to the ground to be eaten by the roots of the tree, while Morgan learned some rather important lessons about spending too many points and forcing sudden drastic changes on her body. The shaking of the tree had settled down compared to its original burst of rampant growth, and the accompanying light show had travelled up the trunk and into the massive crown of branches that had suddenly grown out from its heart. The light made the night as bright as day, albeit a rather green-hued one. She clutched her only possession from Earth to her chest like the scrubby loofah was the last, tenuous link holding her sanity together. It was all simply too much for the young woman to process.

Magic. A magic world. Several near-death experiences, existential terror, floating messages she could interact with, and points and skills and other things that looked like a game, but were most certainly far more deadly and serious. A veritable roller coaster of changes to her body, resulting in her currently emaciated frame. And to top it all off, she was naked, as well. She blinked tears from her eyes and glumly considered her glowing, silvery status screen:

Status Information for: Morgan Mackenzie

Level - 6

Primary Class: [Locked]

Secondary Class: [Locked]

Health - 73/140

Stamina - 41/168

Mana - 41/84

STR - 11

AGI - 11

CON - 15

VIT - 28

INT - 14

Stat points available to distribute: 0

Current Skills:

[Naked Instinct]

[Naked Resilience]

[Naked Recovery]

[Naked Camouflage]

[Pain Resistance (Lvl 3)]

Skill Points available: 20

Titles, Mantles, and Aspects

[Worldwalker (Title)] - You have travelled through the void between the many worlds! Every world is different, each with its own gifts and dangers. To help you survive strange new places, you gain a slight boost to health and an increased ability to learn new things! (+50 to Health, +50% increased gains to Skill Experience)

[Blessed of the Guardian Tree (Title)] - Through an offering of the blood of your enemies, you have reawakened the ancient tree! You need never fear its hungry roots! Future offerings or actions that benefit the tree may enhance this Title!

[Naked Survivor (Aspect)] - You have defeated foes and increased your own power while [Naked] and [Unequipped]! For gaining five or more levels in this manner without the benefits of any [Class], you have gained this Aspect. Experience gained and points rewarded are doubled while you are [Naked] and [Unequipped]. Equipping clothing or items of any type will disable this Aspect. Facing further challenges and reaching new milestones of personal growth while [Naked] and [Unequipped] will enhance this Aspect for even greater benefit.

Afflictions and effects:

[Starvation] - All regen effects disabled!

Morgan was resolved not to repeat the same mistake of spending points without at least a little bit of thought and consideration. Acquiring [Naked Recovery] had changed her, and had used her body’s last reserves to do it. Her health, Stamina, and Mana weren’t actively draining away, but they were no longer recovering, either. The changes brought on by learning the skill were providing her with a wealth of information in the back of her mind. Just by thinking about it, she could tell exactly how bad her [Starvation] status was. She could feel the state of her very bones, and everything outward. Not only her lack of any remaining body fat reserves, but the strain on her organs to simply keep going. She could also feel older injuries, the hardened places where she’d fractured bones growing up, the scar tissue around wounds long forgotten. She could even feel her own reproductive organs and knew exactly where she was in her ovulation cycle. It would have been a case of too much information for Morgan, but apparently the changes wrought by the skill allowed her to keep it all walled off in her mind unless she actively looked, though it was quite disturbing at first.

Her internal musings were interrupted by the tree once again. The shaking had stopped completely, but the light grew brighter and brighter. Morgan was briefly afraid she’d end up blinded, as she could see the bright pulses even though her closed eyelids. With a sudden gigantic FWOOMP the light vanished, and Morgan gazed upward in stunned wonder. The withered tree she’d landed in was no more. In its place was a gigantic, sprawling canopy of vibrant green. While the verdant layers of giant oak-like leaves blocked the light of the two moons, the undersides of the leaves pulsed gently with a soft green glow. The effect gave the pale radiance a shimmering effect on everything it shone down upon, like the gentle ripples across nearly still water. The effect was stunningly beautiful, surely something no mortal eyes had witnessed in millennia, if not longer. And Morgan didn’t notice any of it, nor would she have paid it any bit of attention in the slightest if she had. In her starving condition, every single fiber of her being was focused on one single thing: the tree had grown fruit.

The tree had grown a lot of fruit. Hundreds upon hundreds of radiant, reddish-golden fruits. Morgan scrambled to her feet, even the scrubby loofah forgotten, as her senses from [Naked Instinct] informed her that these fruits were indeed edible. There was a tinge of danger about them, but she was unable to pay that any attention in the face of her hunger. The closest fruit to her current position was in a cluster of three that were hanging in a clump almost right above her, but at least ten feet higher than she could reach with her feeble jumping. [Starvation] and her emaciated muscles had simply left her too weak to manage any effective way to get to them. There were no branches in reach she could to climb, and the rejuvenated bark of the tree was smooth, and offered no purchase for her weakened grip. They looked somewhat like cherries or apples, but enlarged to almost half the size of basketballs. The very sight of them made Morgan’s mind scream thoughts like tasty and juicy and yes please!!!

With a whimper, she brought up her status menu once more. She had twenty points left to spend on skills, and hoped against hope that something there would provide an option for her to reach this suddenly appearing food. Preferably before any changes her body was forced to experience rendered her dead after all. She was almost certain that picking [Naked Weapons] would force even harsher changes on her body, and she hadn’t been all that enamored of the thought of turning her skin to bark or stone in the first place, even before her starved condition came about. That left [Naked Magic]. There might have been other skills farther down the list, but she was in no state to waste time considering. Holding her breath and hoping she’d gain some way to knock down some of the fruit, she spent her last twenty skill points and promptly passed out.

She woke up in the middle of her ensuing collapse, not enough time having passed for her to even fall completely to the floor of the hollowed-out center of the tree. She felt like she was falling, but the moment stretched out in slow motion. She could feel yet another new sensation in her body now, that thankfully wasn’t converting the last of her muscle tissues in order to change her. It was a buzzing kind of tingling that she could feel from her head down to her toes. It pulsed along with her bloodstream, and felt the most intense in her head and around her heart. Morgan barely had time to assimilate this new feeling before time caught up with her and she fell flat on her back, the air driven from her lungs with a “WHUFF!”

The expulsion of breath and the impact was followed by a simultaneous drop of her health by a few points, but also of her Mana. The part that left Morgan equally shocked and hopeful was the audible pulse of force that emanated from her body, causing the tree to shudder and the fruits to shake slightly. The silvery message now floating in her eyes was one that left her almost giddy.

You have learned the Spell [Mana Pulse]! Project a wave of raw magic away from your body, at the cost of Mana! Practice and experience will help you control the released energy and increase its efficiency!

For a few moments Morgan forgot even her starvation, overcome by sudden excitement. With wide eyes she held the scrubby loofah up before her face and babbled “Oh my god, did you see I just did MAGIC!”

She got back to her feet, shaking with excitement and anticipation, eagerly pointed at the fruits right above her head, and shouted, “MANA PULSE!” at the top of her lungs. And nothing happened, much to her consternation and no small bit of embarrassment.

Okay, she thought with a feeling of chagrin and self-reproach. Slow down and figure this out. Everything about the announcements, messages, and the status menu had worked on thought and willpower so far. So I shouldn’t assume spells and skills are any different at all, she told herself. A quick check told her that she had thirty-five Mana remaining, so it had cost her six points for a relatively small and weak wave of force. If it cost her six every time, she only had five more tries to knock some fruit down where she could get it.

She looked up at the fruit once more, raising a hand toward it. With a deep breath she concentrated on how much she wanted the fruit. She needed that fruit. She let the part of her brain that could feel the buzzing energy gather up a bit of it, and imagined it simply pushing toward her desperately needed meal. A tingly feeling like her whole arm had been asleep built up, but she willed it toward the palm of her hand, and to her surprise it actually began to obey. Her hand began to tremble and felt as if too much blood was being squeezed into it, and suddenly the magic broke free from her hand with a WHUMP while half of her remaining Mana vanished in an instant.

An elongated—the only word Morgan could think of to describe it was lump—of distorted purple and blue energy shot upward. The lump of compressed Mana slammed into the lowest hanging fruit, and then the second, splattering both into a juicy spray of pulp that coated the hollow of the tree and a suddenly very dizzy girl in a generous layer of sticky purple jelly. The sudden drop in her Mana had left Morgan extremely light-headed and dazed. She slowly scrubbed at her face with the loofah, but some of the jelly made it into her mouth, and all other thoughts were driven from her brain. To say it tasted merely good was to blaspheme against the very concept of food.

Just the tiny bit that had passed her lips into her mouth sent a riot of sensation through her body. She could feel her internal reserves being restored just a tiny bit, and a tingling rush hit her brain like a locomotive. The initial rush left her weak in the knees in a manner she most certainly did not expect in her current situation. With a gasping moan, she melted down into the hollow of the tree, and was about to start licking the pulpy mess off of her hands out of sheer reflex when a light thump heralded the third fruit falling in front of her. The sticky mass of jelly in her hair and on her body instantly forgotten, she dropped the now fruity loofah in order to seize the giant red fruit in trembling hands. If merely a taste had done that, how much better would an actual bite be? A whole fruit?

With no further hesitation, she sank her teeth into it. The closest she could come to describing it would be the soft meat of a cherry with the crisp flavor of a juicy apple, but so much more intense. Every bite she took sent climactic waves of satisfaction through her entire body that were almost enough to break through her extreme hunger. By the third bite she felt the [Starvation] affliction drop back down to [Hunger]. Three more bites and that was gone as well, and she felt her resource pools tick back up slightly. Mana increased the most, but she could feel health and Stamina returning as well.

With her extreme hunger no longer forcing itself on her attention, she was able to slow down a tiny bit. Not much, considering how delectably orgasmic the fruit was for her to consume, but enough for her to regain a little bit of influence over her thoughts and mind. To her senses, enhanced by [Naked Recovery], the delicious meal was like glowing bits of radiant contentment that settled in her belly; a more satisfying afterglow than any sex she’d ever experienced. She could feel more than see the flecks of glowing energy dispersing into her blood, and everywhere they went, her body was restored bit by bit. It was a slow process, but she could sense her body beginning to fill back out. Her ribs were no longer so pronounced, and her bottom didn’t feel so bony as she sat on the smooth bark of her treetop alcove. The sensual pleasure crashing through her body with every mouthful only seemed to grow in intensity, but at the same time she found herself more able to endure it, writhing and whimpering as she continued to eat.

All too soon the fruit was entirely consumed, and Morgan only stopped licking the sticky remains off her hands and arms when she got a mouthful of the nasty tasting bird splatter that still covered half her body. She gagged and spluttered as she spit that back out with a grimace, but the experience was enough to shock her back to some semblance of self-control. There was absolutely zero chance of her managing to stand back up, not with such sensations shuddering through her body every other minute or so. Despite that, she vastly preferred this situation over the extreme pain and discomfort she’d experienced every other time something happened to her in this new world.

The sum of her experiences since arriving in this strange new place had been one terrifying crisis after another, and while suddenly unexpected waves of euphoria were something she’d never asked for, she decided they were a much better situation than being eaten. With her resource pools slowly but steadily on their way back to safe levels, and nothing trying to kill her right at this moment, she picked up her scrubby loofah and hugged it once again before seeing to the worst of the sticky mess all over her body. There was a limit to how well she could clean up without a source of water, though, and soon the lacy puff of loofah was saturated with sticky fruit juice, pulp, and a good bit of grime and bird mess.

“All covered in…fruity stuff…” Morgan said to the loofah in her hands. “I’ll just call them churples, because they look like cherries and taste like apples and giant—” She paused with a gasp as another wave of pleasure interrupted her train of thought. “Uh…and calling them giant fruit isn’t really a name…”

She felt extremely sleepy. The sheer insanity of her situation, the constant near-death experiences, had all taken their toll, and while her body was healing because of the fruit, she was simply exhausted down to her soul. When the next wave of sensation crashed through her, she rode it on down and simply lay on her side, gently setting the fruit-saturated loofah on the floor as she fell into a still twitching sleep.

Morgan slept. Her meal of the recently named “churple” fruit kept working during her slumber, slowly restoring her pools of health, Mana, and Stamina all the way to full. Her pleasant nap only lasted a scant few handfuls of minutes, however. Her eyes snapped open as [Naked Instinct] screamed in her mind with a sense of impending calamity. Her Recovery senses allowed her to see in frightening detail just how bad it was. The restorative energies from the fruit she’d so blithely named a “churple” had continued to flow into her body, pushing her health and Stamina pools well past double the maximum provided by her current stats. Even more terrifying was that she could see the glowing essence of the fruit within her continuing to disperse into her blood and the rest of her tissues, and her Mana pool was increasing far faster than Stamina or health. Already she felt hot and fevered, and as her Mana reached triple her normal maximum, a new status message appeared:

Status Afflicted: [Mana Burn]! You have absorbed more Mana than your body can contain! This effect may stack for increased damage!

With the new status affliction, Morgan could feel her fevered body heat up even further, and her steadily rising health points ceased ticking upward. The increased heat seemed to cause the glow from the fruit inside her to intensify even more, dumping yet more of the extremely concentrated Mana into her system. Staring up at the canopy, she frantically repeated the same process that had originally splattered churple jelly everywhere. The first [Mana Pulse] didn’t even cause a noticeable change, as she felt her Mana continue to skyrocket to four times her natural total. A notification she felt more than saw heralded another affliction of Mana burn on top of the original, and Morgan felt her blood ignite.

She’d continued with more Mana pulses, and feeling herself burning from the inside out, she screamed and pushed with all her will in desperation. Her world was purple flame. Without realizing it, she’d managed to channel Mana pulse into a continuous wave straight up and away from her body. Notifications went unheeded in her agony, but she could feel her health being burned away faster than the fruit essence restored it. She knew she had to recover her health, and the only way to do that was by stopping her efforts with Mana pulse and switching to the healing skill. She was somehow managing to hold her Mana stable with two stacks of Mana burn, but her instincts warned her that another might be impossible to manage. As her health dropped down into single digits, she went for it, grasping at her only chance.

The only thing that saved her was the initial restoration of health that came from activating [Naked Recovery], but it was a double-edged gift. The skill also increased Mana in its upgraded [Naked] form, and two stacks of Mana burn became three. Her blood burned with even greater heat, and only another skill increase in [Pain Resistance] kept her conscious. Before her body was completely incinerated by rampant Mana burn, salvation appeared before her eyes in the form of the most welcome notifications she had yet seen:

You have gained the Skill [Mana Resistance]!

You have gained the Skill [Mana Affinity]! Mana flows through your veins, and is bent to your will with ever increasing ease, increasing the effectiveness of your magic!

You have gained the Skill [Heat Resistance]!

You have learned the Skill [Spell Channeling]! Through experimentation and experience, you have learned how to continuously channel spells at increased Mana cost! Effectiveness and efficiency will improve through use!

Between the resistance skills and the newly acquired affinity, Morgan managed to bring her health back into the triple digits, by an extremely slim margin. Another stack of Mana burn forced her back to channeling [Mana Pulse] with all her might. The magic exploded upward from her body like a raging purple torch that waxed brighter in rhythm with her pounding heart. Her skin had begun to blister and crack, glowing blood seeping from the thin fissures and flashing to wispy vapor as soon as it left her body.

When her health once again began to approach such critical levels as before, she swapped back to channeling her recovery ability. Each shift would herald another stack of [Mana Burn], followed by more resistance increases, and more pain. Two more levels in [Mana Affinity] had enabled Morgan to force truly obscene amounts of power into the spell. Her vision had already failed her, the incandescence of her blood continuously burning away at her eyes from the inside. She found she needed no eyes to receive the notification messages. They appeared one after the other, an eternity of burning in between each silvery message of hope for her fraying sanity. Every level in resistances meant she lost less ground as she healed herself with [Naked Recovery], and she gained several levels in that skill as well.

Every stack added to [Mana Burn] made the heat even more intense. [Pain Resistance] gained levels rapidly as well, but it was barely enough to hold her mind in one piece. As Morgan let go of [Mana Pulse] to once again heal herself, [Mana Burn] reached the tenth stack.

[Mana Burn] has reached its maximum limit and triggered a [Mana Cascade]!

Morgan’s body thrashed as her [Pain Resistance] skill levels were rendered irrelevant before the onslaught. She no longer had to channel her pulse spell to expel the rampaging torrent of Mana from her body, as it exploded forth in an incandescent wave that shook the ancient tree all the way to its roots. And then it was over. Her health was in the single digits, but she was alive, somehow. Her body was ravaged, from her bones all the way out to her blistered and cracked skin. She rolled over with a hacking cough, spitting up gritty, ashen residue where her lungs had continuously smoldered while being healed. With an effort of will she hadn’t realized she possessed, she activated her recovery skill for just the time it took to heal her eyes enough to see. Her beloved loofah was amazingly still in the tree with her, albeit slightly singed, and stained the color churple. As she clutched it to herself once again, one last notification made its presence known to her just as she lost consciousness.

You have survived a [Mana Cascade]! For achieving this feat under the Aspect [Naked Survival], the Aspect has increased in rank to become [Naked Affinity]!

This time Morgan slept until dawn.

Chapter 4: End of an Age

Rella silently padded onto the balcony with the [Oracle]’s dessert on a plain wooden tray. She placed the fresh pastries on a low table next to the older woman’s partially eaten supper, then stood quietly to the side of the wicker chair in which her mistress rested. There had once been a time when Rella would have wondered why a blind woman liked to spend her evenings on a balcony overlooking the inland sea, but nowadays she took it in stride. The [Oracle] had other ways of seeing than her eyes, after all. Keeping alert for any requests from the priestess, she let her gaze wander over the moonlit waters. The Sea of Possibility, it was called, and the City of Possibility, as well. Both were so named after the Temple of Possibility.

Life was never easy for a child alone in any city, and for girls it was even worse, but she was silently grateful to have lived in Possibility instead of anywhere else fate might have put her. At least here there are so many people with divine-touched classes that they keep most of the worst kinds of people away, she thought to herself. After all, people were rarely willing to give in to their debased nature when there was always a [Clairvoyant] or a [Truthspeaker] around. They and other, similar classes could simply see through the walls or compel confessions, so such people with disturbing vices limited themselves to the licensed brothels, or simply stayed away from the city.

Rella’s early childhood had been begging for scraps or stealing food on rare occasions, and showing up at the temple for the daily bread handouts. As she grew older and prettier, avoiding unwanted attention became even more difficult, even in a city such as Possibility. She was not inclined to join one of the brothels or take her chances on her own without some sort of patron, so when a scribe at the temple had offered her a place as an attendant, she’d jumped at the opportunity for free meals and a safe place to sleep. She’d thought her next few years would be scrubbing floors and emptying chamber pots, but to her quite happy surprise, she’d been tasked with attending the [Oracle] herself. Gifts as powerful as those granted to the [Oracle] came at a heavy price, and the woman had finally lost her physical sight as those gifts simply showed her too many things for a mortal mind to process.

She had no [Class] as of yet, even at fifteen winters of age. Rella had reached level ten, but the skills she’d developed while living on the street had led to her only being given unpleasant options, such as thief or swindler, or things even less savory. She’d hoped working in the temple would provide her with more options, so she’d refused to choose right away. Surprisingly, the [Oracle] had insisted she attend classes with the other students and acolytes of the temple, so Rella had learned to read and write. After two years of spending time writing out letters dictated by her mistress and running them all over the temple grounds or into the city, the [Messenger] class had finally presented itself. Still, she refused to commit to it. She’d hoped to unlock even better options by studying various schools of divination offered by the temple, but hadn’t yet had any luck. Predicting the future through ritual and rite was something only a few could learn, and truly prophetic gifts were handed out by the various deities, and that extremely sparingly. Rella’s internal musings were soon interrupted by the woman sitting next to her.

“Go ahead and finish off those pastries, girl. I always request extra just so I can share with you, but you always wait until you take the leftovers back to the kitchens to indulge yourself,” the woman grumbled at her. The girl did not take offense at her tone; they’d fallen into a very comfortable kind of companionship over the previous three years. At least in private, anyway. After all, it was pointless to stay formal at all times around the person who helped you bathe and dress, and the [Oracle] was not one to bother with such wasteful awkwardness.

The older woman seemed to give a contented sigh as Rella devoured the remaining desserts, but the girl knew her mistress and her moods better than anyone else. She could tell the old woman was anxious about something, but she knew the [Oracle] would either tell her or not, and didn’t try to pry. It seemed her mistress was in a talkative mood this night, as she continued once Rella had washed the last of the pastries down with a glass of tea.

“Do you know why the priestesses and their ilk fawn so hideously for my favor, Rella?” the [Oracle] asked her, then continued as though she’d already heard Rella’s reply. “I am old, and they each wish for me to name them as my successor.”

“They don’t see the price you pay, mistress,” Rella responded, unable to keep her disdain for the temple sycophants out of her voice. To the nightmares and visions that plagued the [Oracle] more nights than not, Rella was the woman’s only witness and confidant. “They don’t know what terrible things you dream, or how you weep from them.”

The blind woman turned her head in the girl’s direction, as if able to see right through the silk band that covered her eyes. For all she knew, the woman actually could see her. “They sense something coming, and fear because I keep silent. Every talent and god touched from Eastharbor all the way north to Arctern has probably felt it. The possible futures are too chaotic to interpret, and this terrifies them.”

“I don’t understand, mistress,” Rella replied in confusion. “Why are they so afraid of vague premonitions and confusing visions? Aren’t they used to that?”

The [Oracle] replied with nothing more than a cryptic smile, which only heightened Rella’s confusion. “It is good that you ate something while you had the chance, girl. I wasn’t certain you would. You won’t have much of an appetite after, and it will help you recover your strength.”

“You’ve never spoken a word about my future since you took me in. Why now?” Rella asked with growing concern.

“Because the city is under attack while all foresight is disrupted, and the temple will be next,” the [Oracle] replied flatly.

Rella barely managed to contain her shock. “Who would dare? The City of Prophets stays neutral, and the Bargain of Kings means—”

“Absolutely nothing to the slavers from Deskren. They rarely get the chance to capture anyone with divination talents, and everyone’s been blinded for weeks. It presents an opportunity they’ll not be willing to miss.”

Rising panic threatened to choke Rella. The [Oracle] had spoken without a hint of fear, but with a touch of sadness. “Can we do anything at all?” the girl asked, as the older woman stood up from her chair and stepped forward to the balcony as if she could see it perfectly.

“We can do nothing,” said the [Oracle], “but you have a choice to make, and then you must flee, no matter which you decide. A True Vision comes, and it will be my last. I am simply too old to run.”

Rella had no words with which to respond. An [Oracle]’s True Visions were powerful, uncontrollable, and undeniable messages. They were sendings directly from the Goddess of Prophecy, and could herald anything, from the fall of kingdoms to the birth of Heroes, or the beginnings and endings of an Age. The woman standing before her had not spoken a True Vision in Rella’s entire lifetime. Rella stood with mouth agape, frozen in a sort of panic, but unsure of what to do.

“Close your mouth before you catch flies, girl,” the [Oracle] snapped at Rella. “We have some time yet. Not much, but enough for you to decide.”

“Decide what? Which way to run? If Deskren is attacking, you are the target they want most. As interesting as what I’ve read about True Visions is, I’m more interested in not wearing a slave collar.”

“To decide if you will accept the [Mantle of Prophecy] and become the next [Oracle], of course.”

Rella’s legs promptly gave out, and she fell right on her rump on the stone balcony while the old woman cackled and bent over, clutching her sides. The sudden bruising on her backside didn’t even register as her face twitched back and forth between shock and surprise, before sudden horror dawned as Rella realized the woman was utterly serious. “I don’t see what’s funny about it, mistress. The mantle is only passed on when an [Oracle] dies.”

“That definitely was funny, even knowing you had a better than even chance of doing it! Better to laugh before one’s end than cry about it.” The [Oracle] straightened herself up and spoke again with a more serious tone. “Besides, it’s not all bad. My Sight gets clearer as the moment approaches. Deskren’s little raid won’t be as successful as they hoped. Tragic, yes, but no Age ends without bloodshed. But I am too old to run with you, and too recognizable. I will not survive the night no matter your choice, but I hope you will take the Mantle and flee. What was it you always said about growing up with the other children in the city? Survive now, cry later.”

“Yes,” Rella said in a half-whisper, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her temple attendant uniform. “But it’s been a long time since I actually had any practice at it.” Her stomach was turning flips under her heart, but she managed to keep from tossing up the recently eaten pastries, if only just barely. “How will I run away in any case? Won’t I be blind to anything up close?”

“I can’t tell you everything, but I can say that you won’t lose your worldly sight for years, if at all. The Mantle itself will show you more, but it binds me from granting too much knowledge, as it will you. It affects every [Oracle] in different ways.”

Rella slowly got her feet under herself and stood back up, stepping to the balustrade next to her friend. “And if I refuse the Mantle?” she asked, with a hesitant waver in her voice.

“Then you still flee, and I jump from this balcony before they can put one of their abominable collars round my neck, and the Mantle passes by the will of the Goddess alone. There’s still a chance it would fall on you in that case, anyway. A small one, but a chance, nonetheless.”

“And if I accept? Will I be on the run forever, or bound to some ruler, collared in debt if not fact?”

The old woman snorted with derision. “No [Oracle] has ever been so bound, unless they chose it to bring about a better possible future they saw. It takes a God’s intervention to blind the stronger seers, and more than Gods to blind the Mantle’s gifts. What’s coming isn’t their doing, or I would have already Seen.”

“I thought you were unable to talk to me about these things…” Rella’s mind was reeling at these new revelations. The [Oracle] never spoke about how the Mantle worked. “And how can anything do what the Gods cannot?”

“Some things simply cannot be foreseen. Elder Dragons are beyond any Sight or prediction, as are certain places like the Wildlands. Another thing none of us can predict are travellers arriving from other worlds. Worldwalkers simply cause so much change, they leave the fates unstable when they step through to Anfealt. The [Oracle] announces these strangers only when they arrive. We are blind to them until they actually set foot here. And there are also exceptions from time to time, things Seen that we normally cannot, and things we simply do not See.”

“If you can tell me all this, then that means at least part of me has decided,” Rella stated. “How will I know where to go or what to do?”

“The Mantle does not control the [Oracle], Rella. It simply gives knowledge. What you do with it is up to you.” The woman turned back to face out from the balcony, as if looking at the mountains across the inland sea. “There are gaps in the stone you can use to climb down from here. That was how I often got away from the temple without being seen when I was closer to your age. The city will not fall, not completely. You will at least be able to escape, for now. Whether or not you return to the gibbering sycophants and their games will be up to you. Not every [Oracle] stays in the temple.”

Rella was about to respond, but as she opened her mouth to speak, words fled. The mountains across the sea suddenly stood out in stark relief, outlined in the night by flickering purple lights. The air around where she and the [Oracle] stood seemed to thicken, and Rella could no longer move, or even draw breath. The older woman’s hand snapped out and latched onto Rella’s wrist with more strength than she’d ever shown in the years Rella had been the [Oracle]’s attendant. The moment the woman’s hand closed around her wrist, Rella received a notification.

The [Oracle] has invoked the Right of Succession and offers you the [Mantle of Prophecy]!

Will you accept this Gift and the Burdens it entails?

The air around Rella seemed to hold her in place as it waited, and the light over the mountains winked out, only to come back a heartbeat later with even more intensity. She could barely hear the older woman rasp, “Choose, child, we are out of time!” And as the ominous purple lights flashed beyond the mountains once again, Rella made her Choice.

For a brief moment Rella’s mind shattered into a kaleidoscopic whirlwind of images, and then she felt a presence pushing the storm of confusion back. It is much easier this way, she heard the older woman’s voice in her mind. The burden of the transition is shared when the Mantle is passed in this manner. Those who aren’t so lucky often go insane if the others aren’t able to get through to them in time.

Rella’s awareness had expanded. She could sense the temple grounds behind them and the city below. What she had just been told finally pierced her moment of wonder, however. What do you mean the others? she thought.

The Mantle carries our predecessors, of course. It is one of the secrets we are incapable of speaking. There will be only me for now, but in time, you will learn to call upon the others who once carried the Mantle. Rella could feel the humor in the other woman’s mental voice. Her presence had a definite calming effect on the girl, otherwise Rella would have been swept away by the sheer amount of information she was taking in.

She could see the city with an odd, flickering detail. The outlines of people stood out as they moved around, seeming to dart in three or four directions at the same time before settling on a single direction. She could also see fighting, and the captured. The collars stood out to her vision like sickly glowing greasy ropes around necks, and gave her a feeling of utter revulsion. Deskren compulsion collars were illegal in every nation north of the Elemental Desert for a reason, and Rella could see that reason displayed in how the captives complacently marched themselves toward the docks and into the waiting ships. The sickened feeling in her belly reached new heights as she realized the smaller shapes had to be children. There has to be a way to save them, mistress! Rella thought at the other woman.

Not without letting them capture the [Oracle], and that would end with half the continent in chains. Do you think I did not try? That is the heaviest burden of the Mantle, to witness evil and do nothing, in order to avert even greater evil.

Rella could see violence playing out on the lower floors of the temple below them, but few of the guards had fallen. Close range precognitive abilities seemed to be affected by the disruption to a far lesser degree than divination had been, and nearly everyone employed by the temple had such skills in at least some measure. Her observations were brushed aside, however, as the pressure around her and the [Oracle] increased. The whirlwind of visions swirling around them seemed to condense, like shattered glass reforming itself into tiny windows with spiderwebbed cracks. The jagged windows drew more of the smaller pieces into their edges, and clumped together to form larger and yet larger panes that gave glimpses of scenes that Rella’s mind simply could not place into context.

In one window she saw a giant cylinder painted white and blue, flying across the sky on wings that did not move. In another, hundreds of structures rose from the ground, taller than anything she thought could be built, covered in glass, flashing lights, and moving images of people in strange clothing. Metal and glass boxes moved more swiftly than any horse along grey paths with yellow lines, travelling past each other at terrifying speeds, yet never touching. In other windows men and women in strange cloth-covered armor pointed even stranger weapons at each other that spat death, while behind them smaller flying things flew past so quickly the air itself was shattered in their wake, followed by stone and steel buildings simply vanishing in incomprehensible bursts of destruction.

The windows slowed as they clumped together into even larger panels; like crystals shattering in reverse, Rella could see the cracks melt and fade. Millions became thousands became hundreds became tens, and then there were thirteen flickering doorways encircling the pair of women. Each door a window shifting between different visions with flashes of pale, melting blurs. Rella found she couldn’t turn her head or shift her attention away, and as one window slid out of her line of sight, the next came into view. The blurring shifts on its surface slowed, and then solidified in perfect clarity. Violet and silver lightning flashed stark shadows off the snowcapped mountains onto the besieged city below. Standing hand in hand with Rella, the [Oracle] began to Speak.

“The Windows of Fate open yet again; Strangers tread these lands.” The [Oracle] did not raise her voice, yet the air carried her words. Rella could sense the entire city falling still, bound at attention by the power of a True Vision that compelled them to stop and hear the words.

“The Harlot tames the vicious night; strike her daughters at your peril!” and the scene in the window in front of Rella shifts to show a young woman in a flimsy dress running barefoot, chased by three rough looking men who are laughing. Her swollen eye and bruised neck tell a story that needs no divination to guess. As one of the men closes on the girl and takes a drunken swing, she hits back with a rock she’s picked up. The man pushes her away with a snarl, and the girl falls through a hole in the ground and appears in another city. The gate disappears, and the vision shifts from the confused men to the even more confused woman before the window slides away from view and another approaches.

“The Hammer wields a widow’s grief; the prideful learn to kneel!” A man in a large building filled with shelves lined with boxes checks a slip of paper in his hand, then steps on a stool to reach one of them. With both hands full, he steps back down and falls, the floor no longer there behind him. Man and box both tumble into the snowy drifts several hundred paces away from the stone walls of a northern city, and the man stares in confusion and wonder.

“The General marches into blood and death; His Wife follows with healing hands!” In a crowded house full of partially dressed people drinking from red cups and moving to music Rella can’t hear, a man and a woman stumble drunkenly through a door into an empty room. They collapse onto a bed, only to land in the middle of a farmer’s field, asleep in drunken stupor.

“The Shadow grasps at every purse, yet she keeps nothing she takes!” A slim, feminine figure with a hood drops a fat envelope made of finer parchment than Rella has ever seen into a blue box outside a small brown building with signs printed in some unknown language. The woman walks across the street to where several of the strange, wheeled contraptions are sitting, and as she passes between two of them, she vanishes. She appeares on top of a building in a sprawling city, surrounded by rolling fields, with a massive stone spire standing hundreds of feet tall in the background.

“The Dreamer sees what others miss, his mind a vault of knowledge!” A man scribbling strange symbols with chalk on a green panel turns around to tap small knobs on a little box with a glowing glass panel, then turns back to his scribbling. Between one step and the next, he falls through the floor, landing in the middle of a busy street paved with smooth stones and lit by bright lanterns. The man and the surrounding people seem equally surprised.

“The Preacher finds his faith rekindled in a land where his God has no voice!” A man with close-cropped grey hair and several days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks holds a clear bottle to his lips as he stands before four freshly filled graves. The two in the middle are significantly smaller in proportion to the outer burial patches. He sways side to side as he stumbles down the path away from the graves and trips over his own feet. He lands on a hill overlooking a large body of water, and in the distance, Rella can see the very city that has been her home.

“The Broken builds with steel and magic to replace what could not be mended!” A woman seated in a strange chair with two large wheels and two small ones pulls herself up by a metal rod suspended above her head. Her confident expression gives no hint she even acknowledges that her legs end well above the knees. After touching her chin to the bar over a dozen times, she drops herself back into a chair that is no longer there, and lands flat on her back next to the tumbled chair on the side of a sloping stone path. The stunned woman is quickly surrounded by very surprised dwarves unused to sudden visitors in their city within the mountain.

“The Fool faces but a single fate, an example to all who tarry!” A man holds a cup of some sort of beverage in his hands while he talks down to other people sitting in cube-shaped partitions before him. With his seeming minions snickering behind his back, he smugly walks to another room and closes the door behind him. He strides to the desk and sits in the chair, only to land, chair and all, in the middle of a street bracketed by tall, narrow buildings with brass coils and rods suspending arcing cables above. As he turns and sees a massive machine of some sort crawling toward him on the street, he freezes in place. A gnome with glinting goggles frantically waves and screams at the man, but he simply sits there as the massive contraption keeps rolling forward, slower than a child could walk. He is still sitting there in shock when the massive metal wheel crushes him into the cobblestone street.

“The Fortress stands to defend the forgotten and the lost. Unyielding! Even before the Gods!” A young man stands against an older one who strikes blow after blow upon him in wordless fury. He stumbles back only a step, keeping his arms up and staying in place between the older man and two smaller children. The children talk frantically into a flattened silvery box in their hands, crouched over a woman with golden hair and blank eyes above a crushed nose and jaw. Red and blue lights flash in the windows, and men in uniform burst through the door to tackle the older man. A woman with a kind face wraps the younger children in blankets and leads them and their older brother outside. As the man is dragged outside with his hands fastened behind his back with slim metal shackles, he starts kicking and screaming, and is thrown to the ground once again. While everyone’s attention is on him, the young man and his siblings vanish.

“The Twins’ anguished gaze pierces the hearts of men; no malice may hide from their sight!” The young man steps away from the two as he looks upon their new surroundings. The pair drop their blankets back, revealing teary eyes and golden hair to match their late mother. The girls cling to their older brother as the three of them stare at the small village just in view through the sparsely wooded grove where they stand.

“The Defiler’s deeds make demons weep, atrocity without measure!” A crowd of weeping people sit in a small room, looking through a pane of glass at a strange table with straps, cords, and hoses. In a hallway connected to the room with the table, two men carrying what are obviously weapons of some sort follow slightly behind another man holding a set of shackles. They approach a heavily reinforced metal door, and the man carrying the shackles slides open a narrow panel with one hand in order to peer inside. He barks a command to the plain-looking occupant of the cell, who stands there in a bright orange garment. The man turns around, and the guard shuts the small panel and pulls a large, heavy key off his belt. As he turns the lock and pulls the door open to an empty cell, all that can be heard is laughter.

With the last window now past, all of them slip back into each other like puddles of liquid merging together until only one single pane remains. All Rella can see are brief flashes of violet and indigo, illuminating the outline of a giant tree wreathed in massive purple and white flames. At the center of the inferno a young woman burns, incandescent fire pouring out of her eyes and mouth, and from cracks in her skin. Waves of agony and ecstasy in equal measures radiate from the woman along with the intense heat, enough to batter Rella’s own sanity. The [Oracle] continues to speak, but now Rella feels her own body Speak along with her.

“Clad in Storm and Fire unrelenting, the Ancient Tree is awakened! She walks the Wildlands to learn to fly; in her footsteps, thunder and ruin! Severed chains and shattered shackles, so this Age is Ended!

Between one word and the next, the older woman let go of the younger woman’s hand and collapsed onto the balcony, withering into a lifeless husk. Now alone in body, but not in mind, the [Oracle] Spoke one last time.

“At her fury, let the wicked tremble!”

With that the vision finally ended, and the pressure left the air around the temple and the city. The incandescent storm continued to rage over some distant place far past the mountains across the sea. The new [Oracle] wasted no time as she swung over the balcony and lowered herself, one handhold after another, to a ledge several paces below. She shimmied along the narrow path, skirting the cliff until she reached another section with well-worn handholds in the stone, and climbed back up to the bluffs overlooking the temple. Part of her felt a moment of sorrow for leaving the other woman behind, until said woman gave her the mental version of a thump across her nose in admonishment.

Evading the raiding slavers and their hired mercenaries was trivial to the [Oracle], especially with the chaotic disruption to divination now fading. She had no detailed picture of the possible futures yet, but the broad strokes were slowly sifting through the chaotic sea of possibilities unfolding in her mind. Already she knew one important task she wanted to accomplish. She had to find the young man her vision had named The Fortress. He was important, as were his sisters, even if she couldn’t see any details about why.

Of more immediate importance was a safe and warm place to spend the night, as she knew there would be torrential rains within a handful of hours. Whatever had happened in the Wildlands so far to the east had spread a simply enormous amount of heat and magical energy into the sky, and colossal storms were already forming. The young [Oracle] was extremely glad for her newly gained precognitive skills, as she adjusted her course for an abandoned hunting shelter she could reach just ahead of the rains.

And then you can teach me, she thought at the other woman in her head.

The response was akin to a satisfied chuckle, but multiplied with various tones and voices in her mind. Indeed we can, child. Indeed we can.

Chapter 5: Climb Down

Morgan Mackenzie was startled awake by the intrusion of more insistent DING! notifications slamming into her head. She was alive, although she wasn’t quite sure how. Everything hurt, but in a distant and numbed manner. It was as if she were sitting in the back seat of her own mind. Sensations filtered through as if she were experiencing them second-hand, like it was all happening to some other Morgan. This Morgan knew she was in a state of shock, but it was the only way for her to even function at the moment. She knew this feeling of detachment couldn’t last, so she pulled herself together and directed her attention at the insistent messages intruding upon her mind.

You have survived a [Mana Cascade]! For achieving this feat under the Aspect [Naked Survival], the Aspect has increased in rank to become [Naked Affinity]!

She dimly remembered seeing that particular message right before she passed out, but dwelling on it caused her mind to instantly recoil from the memory. The next notifications were far more welcome, if still a mildly disturbing reminder of her continued lack of clothing.

You have stayed an entire night alone in the Wildlands and have lived to see the dawn! For accomplishing this feat under the Aspect [Naked Affinity], the experience awarded for this achievement has been doubled!

+1000 Experience gained.

You have reached Level 7! Health and Status partially restored!

For reaching this milestone while [Naked] and [Unequipped], rewarded points doubled.

10 distributable Stat Points awarded.

10 Skill Points awarded.

You have reached Level 8! Health and Status partially restored!

For reaching this milestone while [Naked] and [Unequipped], rewarded points doubled.

10 distributable Stat Points awarded.

10 Skill Points awarded.

Due to extremely high levels of ambient Mana combined with other local conditions, a [Cleansing Scrubby] has gained sentience and Awakened as a new species! As the previous owner, <unnamed> [Cleansing Scrubby (Slime Species Variant, Originator)] has imprinted itself upon you. Would you like to claim it as your pet and give it a name?

Reading the last message was enough to startle Morgan right out of her dazed frame of mind. Sputtering, she jumped to her feet while she twisted around looking for the scrubby loofah she’d totally forgotten about when she woke up. Said scrubby was currently several feet above the level of her head, somehow clinging to the side of one of the vertical branches that led up into the tree’s canopy. And it was moving.

“What in the hell?” Morgan blurted. The pale purple lace puffball was slowly churning itself back and forth as it crept along the tree trunk, eating into the soot and seared churple jelly splattered all over the place. The path left behind by the scrubby was perfectly clean tree bark. As it twisted itself back and forth like a washing machine cycle, it seemed to exude a soap-like foam and draw it back in as it got dirty with soot and churple juice. Seeing the clean path it left in its wake, Morgan looked down at herself and realized how clean she was. It cleaned me in my sleep!? Even her hair was clean and shiny, with a healthy, silken sheen. Looking back up at the loofah, she thought I don’t know if I should be happy about that, or totally disturbed…

As if it could sense her attention, the scrubby suddenly dropped itself down from the tree-trunk and slowly rolled over to rest just in front of her feet. She started backward a half-step and then made up her mind. “Screw it,” she said as she picked up the plucky little creature. “I shall call you Lulu the Loofah!” As if naming the thing out loud was some sort of signal or trigger, another notification popped into Morgan’s mind, along with Lulu’s own status information.

You have claimed Lulu the [Cleansing Scrubby] as your bonded pet! The pet bond allows you to view the status information of any of your pets. Bonded pets will always find their way back to you if separated!

Pets level up on their own over time, in addition to gaining a percentage of experience you earn on your adventures together!

Status Information for: Lulu

Species: Cleansing Scrubby. Distantly related to Slimes and Oozes. Originator of its species.

Level: 1

Stat Details not viewable except by owners specialized in Pet-based or Tamer type Classes

Skills

[Cleansing Scrub]

[Foaming Wash]

[Absorb Grime]

[Exfoliate]

[Moisturize]

[Rejuvenating Rinse]

“Originator, huh? So you’re the first of your kind?” Morgan said to the little scrubby. It gave no indication that it understood what she said. The lace ball simply sat contentedly in her hands. Before its vivification, the scrubby had simply been a balled-up wad of puffy synthetic lace with a string knotted around its center. It wriggled in protest in her hands as she squished it in different directions. The once ivory-colored lace fronds were still pale on the outside, but had deepened to a violet that was closer to the color given off by Morgan’s [Mana Pulse] spell the previous night. Where the center knot of string used to be was now a spherical crystal structure vaguely resembling a sieve, with the fibers of the lace weaving in and out of the openings. The core glittered in dim shades of purple. Lulu the Loofah suddenly had enough of being handled so roughly, and with a grace Morgan wasn’t expecting, it hopped out of her hands up to her shoulder and sat there. She gave it a pat, and it responded with a faint, burbling purr.

“Absolutely lethal levels of cute!” She giggled at her new sidekick. It felt good to have something she could still laugh about in her present circumstances. As Morgan’s thoughts returned to the present, she sighed and mentally pulled up her own status information. There was a lot she hadn’t been able to spare any attention to while she was simply trying to survive the previous night.

Status Information for: Morgan Mackenzie

Level - 8

Primary Class: [Locked]

Secondary Class: [Locked]

Health - 153/170

Stamina - 202/224

Mana - 112/112

STR - 11

AGI - 11

CON - 15

VIT - 28

INT - 14

Stat points available to distribute: 20

Current Skills:

[Naked Instinct]

[Naked Recovery (Lvl 7)]

[Naked Camouflage]

[Naked Resilience]

-[Pain Resistance (Lvl 9)]

-[Heat Resistance (Lvl 7)]

-[Mana Resistance (Lvl 10/Mastered)]

[Naked Magic]

-[Mana Pulse (Lvl 10/Mastered)]

-[Spell Channeling (Lvl 4)]

-[Mana Affinity (Lvl 6)]

Skill Points available: 20

Titles, Mantles, and Aspects

[Worldwalker (Title)] - You have travelled through the void between the many worlds! Every world is different, each with its own gifts and dangers. To help you survive strange new places, you gain a slight boost to health and an increased ability to learn new things! (+50 to Health, +50% increased gains to Skill Experience)

[Blessed of the Guardian Tree (Title)] - Through an offering of the blood of your enemies, you have reawakened the ancient tree! You need never fear its hungry roots! Future offerings or actions that benefit the tree may enhance this Title!

[Naked Affinity (Aspect)] - Experience gained and points rewarded are doubled while you are [Naked] and [Unequipped]. Base recovery rate of all resource pools are increased. [Naked] variants of skills and abilities enhanced. Rate of skill and ability improvement greatly enhanced. While items or clothing are equipped, this Aspect’s effects are disabled, and [Naked] skills and abilities are locked.

“So…” Morgan read through the new information twice more to make sure she understood what it meant. “I don’t know how much better these naked skills are compared to other ones.”

She stood there a moment to consider the new information. She simply hadn’t been able to take the time to think about it during the gauntlet that was the previous night. “So, I’ve got some magic, but only so long as I don’t have clothes on,” she quipped to her purring shoulder passenger. “At least I think. I don’t have anything like clothes to even try to test it with right now. At least this place is warm…”

Morgan knew she was focusing on everything she could to delay the inevitable. She knew something was wrong with her body, but she was afraid to look with the [Naked Recovery] skill. The memory of burning was simply too vivid. She could tell without delving too deeply that she was in no immediate danger from it, but trying to look closer sent her mind reeling back into the flames. Her health and Stamina had ticked back up to full just in the time since she’d been awake. Her Mana had already been full when she awoke. Understandable, as far as Morgan could understand anything about this world. She hadn’t been able to sense her Mana for very long before she ate the fruit, but to her mind, the magic felt different than it did before. More volatile, as if it were already straining to be used, or released.

“Well,” she said to the scrubby on her shoulder, “naked or not, I need to get out of this tree and find water.”

Morgan took a few minutes to—very carefully—spend her latest points on her stats. She had no intention of repeating the rollercoaster of sudden changes to her body from the previous day.

Ignoring vitality, as it was the highest attribute by far, she split the twenty points evenly between the other stats. Between each spent point, she took the time to look at available skills in the hopes something would be useful for getting safely down to the ground.

Skill Acquisition Menu:

[Naked Athleticism (Passive)] - [5 Skill Points] Due to earning the Aspect [Naked Affinity], the skill [Athleticism] has been modified and purchase cost reduced by 50%. Movement is often the key to survival! This skill improves your basic ability to do physical things, decreasing the Stamina cost of physical skills. The [Naked] version of this skill shares synergy with [Naked Resilience], further increasing your endurance performing physical tasks and improving your body’s efficiency at storing and using its internal reserves.

[The Naked Eye (Channeled)] - [10 Skill Points] Due to earning the Aspect [Naked Affinity], the skill [Eagle Eye] has been modified and purchase cost reduced by 50%. You can’t hit what you can’t see! While active, this skill enhances your visual acuity, allowing you to see with much greater clarity things both far away and very close. The [Naked] version of this skill shares synergy with the skill [Naked Instinct], passively improving your ability to see in all conditions except total darkness at all times.

[Naked Elementalism (Passive)] - [10 Skill Points] Due to earning the Aspect [Naked Affinity], the skill [Basic Elementalism] has been modified and purchase cost reduced by 50%. Magic is more than simple primal force! This skill allows you to sense and manipulate magic at a deeper level, separating Mana into its fundamental elements and gaining affinities for different magics over time. The [Naked] version of this skill allows you to draw out the elements without the need for assistance from [Items] or [Equipment] to focus your will. Shares synergy with [Naked Magic] to enhance your ability to develop affinities with individual elements.

[Natural Traps (Passive)] - [15 Skill Points] Sometimes the environment can be altered to do the work for you! This skill provides increased dexterity and enhances your ability to assemble basic types of traps such as deadfalls, pits, and snares.

Morgan read through several of the skills at the top of the list. Further down skills were greyed out with [Locked - Conditions not met] in place of a description. None that she could see seemed to have anything to do with climbing. She’d even held a faint hope for something that could help her fly, and was a bit disappointed. The skill that seemed most likely to help her climb down from the tree was [Naked Athleticism]. The last one made her snort. “I don’t need a skill to build a deadfall or dig a hole, what a waste!” Lulu the Loofah trilled a burbling response from her shoulder that Morgan chose to take as agreement. “But [Naked Athleticism] looks useful for climbing out of this tree.”

Stepping back to the middle of the treetop hollow, Morgan braced herself for any unpleasant side effects and spent the five points on the [Naked Athleticism]. She’d been prepared for horrible pain or a full body seizure, but all that happened was a short spasm of shivering that was over almost as quickly as it began. The changes were barely noticeable. Her muscles were slightly more toned, if anything. She’d felt more noticeable changes when she’d spent points on her Agility, and that had been the least intrusive of her changes so far.

“Well that was anticlimactic…” she mused out loud, “but I’m not complaining.” Morgan hopped up and down a few times, provoking disgruntled burbling from Lulu sitting on her shoulder. “I don’t feel any different. It probably affects endurance and other shit like that, and my only Stamina-based ability is the healing one…”

Having the little scrubby to talk to was definitely working as a coping mechanism. Being so vulnerable and alone in this new place, and naked on top of that, would definitely have made short work of her sanity. Of course I could be hallucinating all of this. Might have hit my head on the tub, and this is some sort of coma dream, she thought to herself. But if magic is real here, it can’t be all bad.

“Well, that one wasn’t so horrible,” she said as she plucked Lulu off her shoulder and held it up in front of her face. “My other two choices are a skill for magic and a skill for eyesight, Lulu. I’ve never needed glasses or contacts, and it seems this world has magic. I want it. So magic it is.” She stuck the scrubby against one of the tree branches, and it clung to it like a sticky magnet on a fridge door. The continuous burbling purr emanating from the thing wasn’t even interrupted by the action. “I don’t know what will happen, so just wait there, little buddy.”

Stepping back to the center of the tree-top hollow, she spent the points to acquire [Naked Elementalism]. She’d been mentally preparing herself for some sort of agony, but it was more like a mental click. She didn’t feel any different at all. “It must be something I’ll figure out as I cast more spells, then,” Morgan said out loud. “I’m just happy not to be seizing up again, or worse.” She shuddered involuntarily as memories of burning from the inside threatened to smash their way out of the little mental box she’d been keeping them in. She knew she’d have to deal with it sooner or later, but for now, her focus was on getting out of the tree and finding water.

Morgan took a few minutes to look out from her vantage point. The foliage of the canopy had been burned away directly above her, but already new shoots and leaves were beginning to fill in the gap. The early morning sun provided a view that was breathtaking, even with her somewhat dire situation. In the far distance to the east she could just barely make out a gap in the trees that shimmered in the glaring sunlight. Hoping that would be water, she picked that direction.

“Now to get myself out of this tree.” A trilling protest emanated from Lulu, and Morgan held out her hand to let the scrubby make its way back to her shoulder. “Don’t you purble at me! That means you, too!” Instead of puffling its way up her arm like she’d expected, it let go of the tree limb and tumbled down past her feet, then slowly worked its way down the outside of the main trunk. Morgan simply stared as it made its way down toward the ground, leaving a trail of clean and moisturized tree bark in its wake.

“You cheeky little puffball!” she shouted after it. The scrubby was faster than she thought it would be based on its appearance. Morgan stared down the trunk of the tree as the scrubby repeatedly dropped several feet at a time before catching itself. She intended a much slower and more careful descent. The tree trunk was far too large for her to try to hug it with her arms. The main trunk seemed to be as big around as a small house near its base. The outer bark had plenty of cracks and craggy formations that looked like they’d provide hand and footholds for grip, but she knew it would not be pleasant without gloves or shoes. On the other hand, she had absolutely no intention of waiting around ‘til thirst drove her to try to eat another churple. “Once in a lifetime was enough…” she muttered.

Turning around, she tentatively began lowering herself, one handhold at a time, much more slowly than the precocious Lulu had traversed the distance. The going was much easier than she expected, and the benefits of her increased Agility and Strength attributes were readily apparent. The annoying part of it was how the bark dug into her hands and feet, and that was more bearable than the scraping against her breasts, belly, and thighs as she hugged herself close to the trunk. Her idea of exercise had always been yoga or Pilates in comfy sweats and a top, not running around the woods naked like some sort of heathen.

“At least it’s not cold here,” she stated as the morning sun warmed her legs and backside. I’m so glad I never had too much trouble with heights, she thought to herself. Without proper tools, she could only guess, but she figured it was at least four hundred feet from where she’d spent the night and the ground below. The outer bark she was climbing down felt strong and had a rubbery kind of give to it. While the surface was dry and rough, less than an inch would crumble away under her fingers and toes before she found solid purchase.

As Morgan neared the halfway point, the climb became quite a bit easier. The gaps in the bark became larger, and the twists in the tree’s growth provided large bulges and outcroppings she could stand on without having her feet assaulted by pokey twigs and broken pieces of wood. She already had dozens of splinters she was going to have to dig out somehow. Her hair was almost a lost cause, as it had draped across or been pulled through what Morgan thought had to be every single patch of sap or crumbling bark shards she’d passed near.

Less than a hundred feet from the ground, she stopped on a bulging outcropping that was large enough she could have laid down on it. She felt slightly tired from the exertion, but when she looked back up toward the canopy, she realized just how far she’d come. “I guess naked athleticism and spending points on stats is already paying off,” she mused. She wasn’t even winded at this point. “But I need to find water, and then I need a bath. Speaking of baths…”

Looking around for her pet scrubby, she spotted Lulu and jumped back up in alarm. The puffball was making its way back up one of the larger roots, seemingly creeping for its life as it fled from wiggling root tendrils that were inching their way along after it. Without thinking, Morgan held out her hand and sent a [Mana Pulse] at the roots chasing her only friend. Or tried to, at least. The actual result was a baseball sized sphere of purple lightning that shot from her hand with a sizzling sound, and impacted a dozen feet behind the scrubby an instant later with a WHUMP as nearly a third of her Mana left her in an instant.

Dirt, splintered shards of wooden root, singed leaves, and one rather angrily trilling scrubby didn’t quite make it as high as Morgan’s current perch. Lulu hit the side of the tree less than a dozen yards below her, and began working its way back toward Morgan with bubbly sounds that certainly sounded like they’d taken on a scolding tone. As the scrubby made its way up her leg and back to her shoulder with a whuffling burble, Morgan gave it an apologetic pat and dismissed the silver message that had popped up:

You have learned the Spell [Lightning Bolt]! Condense Mana energy into a charged plasma and fire it at your enemies! Practice and experience will help you focus and control the bolt for increased power and efficiency!

Morgan stood there for a few moments trying to remember exactly how she’d formed the new spell. She’d acted on instinct, and the magic had simply worked. Her arm still tingled and her fingertips were numb, although that was slowly fading. Her Mana was replenishing at what seemed to be several points per minute. She had no idea if that was normal, but she got the impression it wasn’t, and that her aspected skills and bonuses had a lot to do with it. “I’m sorry I almost hit you Lulu, but you gotta admit, that was cool wasn’t it?” Morgan was petting the very irritated loofah and pointing at the crater with her other hand. “I have a spell that hits like a truck!” She giggled.

As her Mana inched closer to full, she held her hand up and sent two more bolts out into the air. Shunting that much Mana through her hand that quickly left her feeling like she’d been sitting on it for hours, and she shook her arm about as the pins and needles feeling almost approached pain. The bolts of purple lightning had zipped out without arcing back toward the ground, and fizzled out just over a hundred yards away. “So gravity doesn’t affect it, but I’m no long-range sniper-girl,” she said, petting Lulu again. “Now let’s see if the tree’s blessing really does keep those roots away from me.”

With her lacy friend securely perched on her shoulder, Morgan resumed her descent. She covered the remaining distance to the ground well before the sun reached its noonday zenith. At the bottom, she stood on one of the larger main roots before slowly stepping down to the loamy dirt. “No creepy root tentacles after me, that’s good.” Off to her right she saw her bathtub sitting upon a pile of white bones. The roots had completely cleaned the giant birds of all their flesh, leaving gleaming, pale white skeletons partially crushed under the old clawfoot tub. As Morgan padded her way over carefully, the roots withdrew ahead of her. “We can’t exactly carry it with us, I guess,” she said to Lulu, “but I hate just leaving it here. The porcelain finish isn’t even cracked!” Stepping around a gleaming wing-bone, she reached out and gave the tub a push. She’d barely been able to nudge the thing when it was still in her apartment. Her increased STR attribute proved its effectiveness as she was now able to move it, if only just barely. With some very unladylike grunts and a lot of effort, she managed to lift the end of the tub closest to her and sort of crab walk it backward away from the bones. She walked it back up toward the trunk of the tree and then switched ends to push it to a vertical position and lean it back into a crook in one of the big roots. As it thudded over, she fell back. That actually made me tired, she thought as she panted for breath. It had consumed some of her Stamina, as well. Barely a tenth, but she still felt it.

Lulu had moved from her shoulder to the top of her head as she worked, and while Morgan sat on the larger of the exposed roots for a short break, the scrubby began happily making purbling sounds while it worked its way through her hair. It only took a few minutes, and all the debris and sticky sap was consumed, leaving her hair shiny and lustrous. The purr-like vibrations across her scalp hadn’t felt bad, either. After the scrubby worked its way down her arm to her hand, it somehow scrubbed the splinters out of her palm.

“Oh, you are just NIFTY!!!” she exclaimed excitedly. She propped one foot on her knee and waggled her toes as she held the scrubby to it. Lulu happily glomped onto her foot for a few minutes and took care of the ones stuck in the creases between her toes. “It’s like having a bath and a nurse all in one poofy ball of cute!” Morgan said as she gave the loofah a quick hug before plopping it back onto her shoulder. The trilling burble it gave off seemed to express its willingness to be her lacy bath ball. “One day we’ll come back for this tub. It was the whole reason I kept that apartment instead of finding one closer to school,” she told the scrubby. “But first we need to figure this place out, and get stronger. Maybe I’ll figure out a way to fly with magic someday!”

With her mood vastly improved now that she was on the ground, Morgan set out toward the east. She made her way into the Wildlands with a spring in her step and a friend on her shoulder, and stubbornly refused to look at what her [Naked Recovery] skill kept trying to show her about the churple-flavored Mana that had been crystallized inside her bones.

Chapter 6: Enchantment

Morgan Mackenzie was having a fairly pleasant day, all things considered. She was still stuck in some magical world that was very not-Earth, and she was still naked, but she’d learned magic, her bath loofah had come alive and was her friend-pet, and nothing had tried to eat her yet on this second day of her new life. She’d left the giant tree and headed east toward a body of water that was proving now to be much farther away than she’d originally thought. Even that wasn’t too much of a problem, as she’d crossed several small streams while she wandered east, generally keeping the sun to her back as best she could orient herself in this shadowed forest land. She’d kept going in the direction the streams had been flowing, hoping they would lead her to a larger body of water, and hopefully a settlement or people of some sort. It had been about midday when she’d left the tree, and as the heat of the day began to wane, the shadows deepened, and the forest gained a more eerie vibe.

Morgan wasn’t looking forward to sleeping in the middle of the forest for another night, not with all the various sounds and animal cries she could occasionally hear in the distance in all directions. She’d been thinking ahead though, and had been trying various ways of using magic as she walked. Using [Lightning Bolt] with [Spell Channeling] had drained her Mana almost completely in a mere handful of seconds, but the result had been a rapid stream of smaller, but impressive, purple bolts that reminded her of a Gatling gun.

That particular effort had ended with her screaming again, as she ran from a falling tree she’d cut off at the base. Her screaming had been punctuated by Lulu’s warbling sounds of approval at the destruction. It had also given her second degree burns on her hand that had taken almost half an hour of constantly channeling [Naked Recovery] to heal. “I really need to learn how to do that without hurting myself,” she told the little scrubby. “My first spell didn’t hurt me at all, so it must mean the heat of the bolts is something I have to figure out.” The pain had only been bearable thanks to [Pain Resistance], and a newly gained [Lightning Resistance] skill had likely kept her from losing the hand entirely.

She’d also tried, with some success, to sort out other elements within the magic. Her attempts to pull just the fire element out had led to her learning the [Flame Bolt] spell. Along with scorching her hand and bumping up another level in [Heat Resistance], that one had briefly splattered flames into the brush, and she’d had a moment of panic before they sputtered out. Thankfully it seemed it had rained while she’d slept, and the forest was too damp and humid for her to accidentally cause an ecological disaster. She thought. She wasn’t too sure she couldn’t cause something like that if she wasn’t careful, but learning more magic was simply too tempting to not do.

The air element had been frustrating. She could sort of make the air around her hand swirl, or form an almost solid ball in her hand, but she couldn’t actually do anything with it yet. Trying to push it like [Mana Pulse] or her bolt spells simply made it heavy and hard to move her hand through it. She didn’t understand the air itself like she did the meaning of fire and lightning. Those were energy, and she could picture how they worked and acted. To move air around required adding energy to it or taking it away, and she didn’t yet have her head around that concept. Water had been only slightly easier, when she’d stopped near a stream. Morgan had managed to draw a tendril of water up from the creek that was about as wide as her wrist. It had flowed upward toward her outstretched palm, but holding it in place took momentous effort that drained her Mana and caused her to break out in sweat from the strain. None of her efforts with water or air had yet yielded a newly learned skill, or any form of magical understanding.

The most rewarding attempt of all had been earth magic. Simply shoving the element out in front of her, like with [Mana Pulse], had caused a rippling wave of dirt and rocks to shoot forward out of the ground ahead of her. It barely travelled ten feet in front of her, but the shallow cone of destruction and rubble spread out from a narrow point just inches in front of her toes to wider than she was tall at its farthest away. Morgan thought it certainly looked impressive, and so did Lulu, if the puffball’s drawn out wurble was anything to go by. The ensuing [Earth Wave] spell adding itself to her repertoire was equally welcome. But the awesomeness of those things interested her far less than what she’d learned from using [Spell Channeling], and a more gentle approach.

A little practice as she walked had earned Morgan the spell [Earth Sculpt], and she’d gained [Earth Affinity] while absentmindedly molding a ball of Mana-infused stone into different shapes over the course of an hour or so. She could manage it without actually touching the stone, but the magic seemed to flow much more easily to her will if she used her hands. The stone was soft like putty as long as she kept a trickle of her Mana flowing into it.

She was keeping an eye out for a suitable place to bunker down for the night, planning to use earth magic to burrow in and reinforce a suitable campsite. Morgan had found she could dig in two different ways. She could move the dirt and rocks out and push them around, or with a higher expenditure of Mana, she could compress them into a stronger form. The earth got harder to work with the denser and more compact it was, but she could overcome that with more Mana and a bit of effort.

A promising spot presented itself just before the dusk fell to night. A large tree had fallen over, and its clump of roots had pulled a massive plug of dirt out of a gentle slope. This tree had been dead for some time, and the trunk was mostly rotted away and covered in a thick blanket of moss. The excavated opening faced down the slope toward a small, open meadow nestled in the forest. The gap opened by the treefall had allowed the smaller plants and grasses to rush in to take advantage. “OH! BERRIES!” exclaimed Morgan with sudden excitement. With [Naked Instinct], the berries stood out like bright clumps to her eyes.

The skill had been giving her lots of extra information the entire day as she walked. It didn’t display detailed information right onto her eyeballs; it was more like things she looked at had a taste to her vision. Lots of vines and other plants had felt sort of itchy to look at. A clump of mushrooms on the side of a tree had almost made her gag to look at them. Some of the trees had borne what looked like large pecans the size of her fist on them, but while she got the impression they were edible, she hadn’t been hungry enough to spare the effort of trying to knock some of them down. The berries looked like clusters of blackberries writ extra-large, and the only feeling she got from looking at them was tasty and delicious. Resolved not to rush into another churple type mistake, she left the berries alone for the moment and turned to try to excavate herself a campsite.

“Okay, Lulu, this is probably gonna take a few minutes,” she said as she plucked the loofah off her shoulder and set it on the fallen tree. The scrubby set off to explore the immediate area while Morgan turned toward the partially excavated hole. She dug in by compacting the earth outward to leave an opening roughly as tall as herself and around half as wide. The path inward she flattened out, and the ceiling she condensed even further for extra strength. She worked her way in at a slight upward angle for almost a dozen feet, hoping the sloped floor would keep water draining away. The strain had given her two more levels in [Earth Sculpt] and another in [Spell Channeling]. She stopped to rest a moment, leaning up against the newly formed cave wall. “It definitely looks like the harder something is, the faster you level the skill,” she said to Lulu as the scrubby made its way over to investigate her progress.

While her Mana recovered, Morgan decided to use the last of the day’s light to gather some of the berries in the meadow. She heard thunder rumble in the distance and decided to wait until morning to make a trip back to the last creek she’d passed. With a quick push of Mana, she pulled a sort of bowl-shaped shelf out of the wall of her cave and set her double handful of berries in it, and then resumed her excavations. She decided on a simple single-room dome, and she had to stop twice to let her Mana restore itself. She partook of a tiny bite of the berries both times, simply to make sure they wouldn’t cause her to be violently ill, or worse. She had no intention of exposing herself to something like the churples ever again.

The clouds of the impending storm soon stole the last of the evening light, bringing her efforts to a temporary halt. She stood there in thought for a few minutes before an idea came to mind. With as gentle an effort as she could manage, she pushed a trickle of elemental fire Mana into the palm of her hand. The small flame sputtered, and it took effort to keep it from expanding into a conflagration. As with everything else, her magic felt almost eager to be let loose. While that was great for shooting lightning bolts, and throwing fire, or moving earth, it made small things tricky. “So with just a little fire Mana I can make a light,” she said to Lulu. “OH, SHIT!”

Trying to talk had diverted her attention, and the candle-sized flame had engulfed her hand until she shook it out. A brief moment of healing fixed the blistering skin, and she tried again. This time she focused on holding the flame farther away from her hands. It drained her Mana nearly twice as fast to control the fire barely a foot away from her upturned palm, but that was preferable to burning herself. The hard part was, the flame just didn’t want to be still. If she let it, the fire simply roiled in a sphere that spat jets of flame several inches in every direction.

With her Mana almost halfway depleted and her frustration building, Morgan gave up on holding the fire still. Moving her hand back and forth, the fire followed, and the drain on her Mana actually lessened. “Huh,” she said, this time managing to keep the fire under control while she talked. “If it likes to move, then I’ll just try to let it move!” She let the flame move around her hand, keeping it from getting too close to her skin, then she held it up in both hands and simply let it twist in place. It settled into a rotation that just felt right. And then she received a notification.

You have gained the skill [Fire Affinity]! Fire gives life and burns it away! Your ability to sense the forces and flows of Fire have increased, improving the effectiveness and efficiency of all Fire spells!

You have learned the Spell [Candleflame]! Weave Fire into a persistent orb of magic to produce light and warmth! Practice and experience will help you focus and control the flame for increased power and efficiency!

The Affinity didn’t make the flame easier to control, at least not directly. Rather, it let Morgan sense more detail about the flame itself as the Mana was converted into fire. That, on the other hand, gave her a better feel for how the fire wanted to move, which did make it easier to nudge it into a shape she wanted. Guiding the flame instead of forcing it into a specific shape was far more efficient, and the drain on her Mana dropped low enough that it was recovering faster than it was being spent to maintain the orb of flame.

With the flame hovering over one hand, Morgan tried to resume her digging—“tried” being the operative word, as using two spells at once proved more than she could currently manage. Moving hundreds of pounds of dirt at once required a lot more concentration than the little flame did, and focusing on the Earth magic caused the Fire spell to sputter and flare in intensity.

“Well, this isn’t going to work, Lulu.” The scrubby gave no response; it seemed preoccupied with scrubbing its way back and forth across the ceiling, leaving polished stone gleaming in its wake. Morgan stood there for a few minutes in thought, completely at a loss and letting the flame slowly rotate in place. Then she tried looping the flow of Mana guiding the fire back on itself into a circle.

A very singed and wheezing Morgan struggled to get back to her feet near the entrance to the tunnel a few minutes later. A very angrily warbling Lulu made its way back into the cave, smoke still steaming off the scrubby’s lacy fronds. “Okay,” she gasped as [Naked Recovery] healed the last of the blisters that had been burned across her arms and chest. The loofah’s angry tone shifted to one of concern as it hopped up Morgan’s arm and began gently scrubbing the soot and singed skin away. She gave it a grateful pat and sat there waiting for her Stamina to recover. “That didn’t go as planned. As soon as the circle closed, it just glomped up Mana and burned it up all at once…”

The healing had left her exhausted, so she sat and thought while she ate a supper of berries. “I think closing the circle just let it squeeze the Mana too hard,” she said, holding up another [Candleflame] orb. Lulu had finished administering her impromptu pseudo-bath, and edged away from Morgan and the glowing ball of fire with a nervous sounding trill. As she formed another circle with the Mana, she left several gaps in it. It took more of her Mana to keep the fire rotating this way, like the gaps were resistors in a circuit. Almost as if the magic had a will of its own, the segments of the circle bent between her hands, forming a slight spiral instead of a circle, followed by a very surprising notification.

You have gained the skill [Runic Enchantment]! Magic follows patterns woven of will and imagination! Inscribe runes with magic to store or empower permanent spells! Practice and experience will allow you to create more detailed runes and inscriptions for more advanced and unique enchantments!

You have learned the Spell [Candleflame Rune]! Anchor your [Candleflame] to any non-living material able to withstand the flame!

Morgan’s dancing and whooping in celebration was cut short as she realized the message gave no indication of exactly how to anchor runes. Sticking the orb to the stone wall didn’t do anything at all when she tried it a few times. Pushing the Fire Mana into the stone proved more effective, although the stone began to rapidly heat up under her hand. Then she tried pulling the Earth Element Mana away from where the rune would fit, almost like a socket. It was like writing or drawing with a pencil thinner than a hair. The Fire Mana snapped into place in the minute gaps with an inaudible pop that Morgan felt in her mind, the lines of the rune lighting up like glowing red embers.

“BINGO! Hahaha!”

Morgan now had a fist-sized orb of flame mounted directly on the stone wall of her cave, and it took no concentration at all to keep it burning. She could feel a tiny pull on her Mana, but it was less than what her regen provided. She placed a second light on the opposite wall, and the drain felt just about equal to her natural Mana recovery rate. “Now I can see what I’m doing!” she said to Lulu as the scrubby purbled in agreement and made its way back to her shoulder.

With the light now taken care of, she returned to excavating a decent room to spend the night in. She had no plans to settle in one place for too long, since she hoped to find people, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t use her magic to make up for some of the comforts she lacked. She settled on a simple single room dome, pushing the walls out ‘til she had it about six of her paces across. Her efforts were rewarded with another level in [Earth Sculpt], and in [Earth Affinity] as well. Each level in [Earth Sculpt] allowed her to move more earth for a given expenditure of Mana, and each level in [Earth Affinity] allowed her to push more of her Mana into the earth with greater ease and control. Within an hour she was finished with the main dome, and pulling a raised section out of the wall for a couch-type bed took only a negligible effort. She placed another [Candleflame Rune] on the interior wall, and then sat down on the stone bed.

The stone was cold and uncomfortable on her bare bottom, but a sudden insight had Morgan sprinting back outside with a protesting Lulu tumbling off her shoulder. Thunder rumbled overhead, but the rains had yet to arrive. She jogged over to the fallen tree and inspected the fluffy, verdant moss that coated the nearly school bus-sized trunk. She anchored another light to a column of earth she pulled up from the ground so she could use both hands, and began to pry a section of the moss away from the log. The thunder grew closer as she worked to dig herself a rough rectangle of the moss away from the log, intact. The bark had crumbled underneath, so the hardest part was simply tearing through the interwoven fibers of the moss itself.

Rain began to patter down in fat and heavy drops as Morgan carried her improvised mossy bedroll into the cave. The blanket of moss was slightly larger than her stone couch, but pulling out more stone to match it was mostly trivial. She went back outside long enough to blast another part of the tree apart with a bolt of lightning, gathering an armful of firewood from the debris. After one last trip outside for another double handful of berries, she withdrew to the shelter of the cave as the storm overhead finally broke loose with a downpour of heavy rain. She cut off the rune she’d placed outside for light, and sat back down on the now moss-covered bed. She pulled another bowl-shaped wedge of stone out of the wall for the berries, and sat for a moment in contemplation.

Lulu was vigorously scrubbling its way all over the mossy mat, consuming the gritty debris and dirt from the moss, and leaving it with a soft and silky green shine. Morgan gave it several pats in adoration and approval and got up to leave the loofah to it, walking to the other side of the room to work on a fireplace. It hadn’t yet been cold in this new world, but the rain and the night were unquestionably getting cooler. She intended to make or find some sort of clothing or equipment soon, so she could test out the limits of her Naked aspect and skills and the restrictions the system messages had warned her about. Being stuck naked all the time around people, or worse, in the middle of an eventual winter, wasn’t high on her list of desires. Given her experience so far, she fully expected to gain a cold- or frost-related resistance eventually, but if they worked anything like [Heat Resistance] and [Pain Resistance], it would merely make things bearable, not pleasant.

She started on her fireplace by pulling a broad, shallow bowl out from the wall across from her bed, about half as high as her knees. Above that she extended a dozen finger-wide rods of stone to form a sort of simple fire grate. She inscribed a [Candleflame Rune] in the middle of the bowl below the grate, but left it inactive for the moment, instead of channeling Mana through it to power the flame. After stacking several chunks of firewood on the grate, she activated the rune with a slight touch of Mana. The fire licked up between the gaps in the grate, and less than a minute later Morgan had a cozy fire going.

Cutting off the enchanted rune, she realized she hadn’t accounted for the smoke. Another minute later, she realized she’d forgotten the rain as well, when the chimney she’d hurried to open through the earth above let in a torrent of water that promptly put her fire out. Quickly, she extended a cap over the chimney’s top, the effort of working Mana that far from her body through that much earth nearly draining her entire Mana pool. Taking Lulu’s wurble as snickering laughter, she reactivated the rune and sat back to let the magic flame dry and reignite her cozy campfire. Feeling quite proud, she made herself comfortable on the moss mattress. As the wood dried and the fire began burning once again, she cut off all the rune flames. As she sat there watching the wood burn, she finally pulled up her status menu once again.

Status Information for: Morgan Mackenzie

Level - 8

Primary Class: [Locked]

Secondary Class: [Locked]

Health - 210/210

Stamina - 224/224

Mana - 152/152

STR - 16

AGI - 16

CON - 20

VIT - 28

INT - 19

Stat points available to distribute: 0

Current Skills:

[Naked Instinct]

[Naked Recovery (Lvl 7)]

[Naked Camouflage]

[Naked Resilience]

-[Pain Resistance (Lvl 9)]

-[Heat Resistance (Lvl 8)]

-[Lightning Resistance]

-[Mana Resistance (Lvl 10/Mastered)]

[Naked Magic]

-[Mana Pulse (Lvl 10/Mastered)]

-[Spell Channeling (Lvl 5)]

-[Mana Affinity (Lvl 6)]

[Naked Elementalism]

-[Fire Affinity]

-[Earth Affinity (Lvl 2)]

-[Lightning Bolt]

-[Flame Bolt]

-[Candleflame]

-[Earth Sculpt (Lvl 4)]

-[Earth Wave]

[Runic Enchantment]

-[Candleflame Rune]

Skill Points available: 5

Titles, Mantles, and Aspects

[Worldwalker (Title)] - You have travelled through the void between the many worlds! Every world is different, each with its own gifts and dangers. To help you survive strange new places, you gain a slight boost to health and an increased ability to learn new things! (+50 to Health, +50% increased gains to Skill Experience)

[Blessed of the Guardian Tree (Title)] - Through an offering of the blood of your enemies, you have reawakened the ancient tree! You need never fear its hungry roots! Future offerings or actions that benefit the tree may enhance this Title!

[Naked Affinity (Aspect)] - Experience gained and points rewarded are doubled while you are [Naked] and [Unequipped]. Base recovery rate of all resource pools are increased. [Naked] variants of skills and abilities enhanced. Rate of skill and ability improvement greatly enhanced. While items or clothing are equipped, this Aspect’s effects are disabled and [Naked] skills and abilities are locked.

The skill list was definitely growing, and Morgan absolutely loved being able to do magic in this world. But the [Naked Affinity] aspect was beginning to concern her. All of her magic so far seemed to stem from Naked aspected skills. While she’d never been a prude, she was most certainly not an exhibitionist either. She also had no idea what this world’s system counted as clothing and equipment, and as of yet, she had no way to test anything out. Resolving to figure those things out as soon as a safe opportunity presented itself, Morgan fell asleep watching her improvised campfire.

Chapter 7: Aspect Locked

Morgan Mackenzie was having a very dreary day. By all she could tell, it was only going to get worse. She’d been startled awake, not by notifications in her mind, but by ground-shaking thunderclaps and flashes of lightning from outside her magically excavated burrow. Her fire had gone out, and she’d braved a very quick jaunt outside to handle a brief bathroom situation and gather some more firewood. She was currently sitting on her makeshift stone bed wringing her hair out while she poured Mana into her fireplace [Candleflame Rune]. The closest wood had been the dead tree, and it was quite soggy from a night of heavy rains.

She was glad she’d gone outside when she did. Before her firewood even began to dry, the storm outside picked up again. The howling winds tore at the tops of the giant trees and swirled sprays of raindrops well into the sloped entrance to her cave. A mere handful of minutes outside had left her hair a matted mess, and Lulu was currently on top of her head, working some sort of scrubby magic. Somehow the puffball was able to draw her hair up, untangle it, and leave it clean and silky, and Morgan was not complaining. “Lulu, we could be millionaires in a month if we opened up a salon back home…”

Calling the rain a downpour was an extreme understatement. She was certainly glad for the decision to slope the cave entrance down and away, or she would’ve already been flooded out. With the weather curtailing any chance of exploring for the time being, Morgan set herself to practicing magic again.

Using the lessons she’d picked up from delving into the Fire element, she drew up the water that had pooled on the floor after wringing out her hair. Water wasn’t as nebulous as Fire, but not as firm as Earth. It took more effort to get it to change direction, but it happily kept moving once she got it going in a circle, and a few minutes of making it dance in different sized spirals and loops rewarded her with [Water Affinity].

Several dozen tries later, she succeeded in sending a compressed teardrop-shaped globule of water zipping across her tiny abode. It hit the far wall with enough force to turn the water to a misty spray, and the notification for the [Water Bolt] spell was enough to ratchet up her smug levels immensely.

Over an hour later, her smugness was taking a beating, as she’d failed to make any progress with the Air Element. Forming a hardened or thicker layer of air was just about all she could manage, and while she thought there was potential for things like barriers or shields with that, no epiphanies or sudden spell rewards presented themselves. She gave up on it for the moment and went back to Lightning. She’d acted on instinct the first time she’d used it and gained the [Lightning Bolt] spell before any kind of affinity or experimentation with it.

Not wanting to risk hurting herself with an explosion in a confined space again, she settled for sending smaller bolts zipping out the entrance to her cave. She always got burned by the lightning when it formed within the flesh of her hand, so she tried—with mixed success—to keep that from happening. With the tiniest trickle of Mana, it was possible to form a spark a hair’s breadth away from the tip of her finger.

“It just doesn’t want to stay in one place, Lulu!” She harrumphed in frustration. The scrubby had backed away to the far side of the burrow once she’d started playing with Lightning again. It gave a rather bored wurble in response and resumed scrubbling across the far wall. She returned to playing with the element, letting it arc back and forth between her hands. Finally, by keeping a swirl of Elemental Lightning flowing between her palms, she was able to hold a steady spark of violet incandescence without burning herself. The notification for [Lightning Affinity] was quick to follow, making it easier for her to sense exactly how the charge was flowing.

She bounced in excitement on her mossy bed, letting out a laugh of triumph as lightning arced between her hands. “Affinities make this so much easier!” The lapse in attention left her with singed and tingling hands, but that didn’t dampen her mood in the slightest. She was beginning to think this world might not be so bad after all, if she could just figure out the clothing issue and her Aspect. Satisfied with her newly learned Affinities, she set herself to actually testing out the [Naked Affinity] Aspect.

“How can I test my Aspect, Lulu?” she asked. The scrubby simply wurbled at her softly and continued scrubbling its way across the wall. “I suppose I can make a piece of armor or jewelry with Earth magic. Does jewelry count against nakedness? Is it just clothes, or anything I try to wear?” She was rambling nervously because of the details of the enhanced Aspect, and so she shook her head and decided to get on with it.

“No time like the present, I guess!” she chirped at Lulu with more enthusiasm than she felt at the idea. “At least nothing’s trying to eat us, so better to get it over with now before that changes…”

Steeling her anxious nerves, Morgan drew up a small handful of stone with [Earth Sculpt] and shaped it into a simple hoop. It spun slowly in place, floating between her hands. She sat and looked at it with trepidation for several long moments. “How bad can it be, right, Lulu?”

Before she could change her mind, she slipped her left hand through the loop of Mana-softened stone and let it settle around her wrist. As she let the Mana go, it faded out of the stone, leaving it as hard and solid as natural rock. Almost instantly she felt a full body chill, as if she’d been dunked head-first into freezing water, followed by complete panic as her stats and resource pools were cut nearly in half as fast as a guillotine dropping through her soul. It was worse than any nausea or sensation of dizzy sickness she’d ever felt, and it left her weak and trembling, as the notification slammed into her mind, followed by her altered status menu.

You have equipped a [Simple Stone Wristband]! One of your Aspects is incompatible with equipping items, and has been locked until a state of compatibility is restored!

Status Information for: Morgan Mackenzie

Level - 8

Primary Class: [Locked]

Secondary Class: [Locked]

Health - 130/130

Stamina - 144/144

Mana - 112/112

STR - 11

AGI - 11

CON - 10

VIT - 18

INT - 14

Stat points available to distribute: 0

Current Skills:

[Naked Instinct] - [Locked]

[Naked Recovery (Lvl 7)] - [Locked]

[Naked Camouflage] - [Locked]

[Naked Resilience] - [Locked]

-[Pain Resistance (Lvl 9)] - [Locked]

-[Heat Resistance (Lvl 8)] - [Locked]

-[Lightning Resistance] - [Locked]

-[Mana Resistance (Lvl 10/Mastered)] - [Locked]

[Naked Magic] - [Locked]

-[Mana Pulse (Lvl 10/Mastered)] - [Locked]

-[Spell Channeling (Lvl 5)] - [Locked]

-[Mana Affinity (Lvl 6)] - [Locked]

[Naked Elementalism] - [Locked]

-[Fire Affinity] - [Locked]

-[Water Affinity] - [Locked]

-[Lightning Affinity] - [Locked]

-[Earth Affinity (Lvl 2)] - [Locked]

-[Lightning Bolt] - [Locked]

-[Water Bolt] - [Locked]

-[Flame Bolt] - [Locked]

-[Candleflame] - [Locked]

-[Earth Sculpt (Lvl 4)] - [Locked]

-[Earth Wave] - [Locked]

[Runic Enchantment]

-[Candleflame Rune]

Skill Points available: 5

Titles, Mantles, and Aspects

[Worldwalker (Title)] - You have travelled through the void between the many worlds! Every world is different, each with its own gifts and dangers. To help you survive strange new places, you gain a slight boost to health and an increased ability to learn new things! (+50 to Health, +50% increased gains to Skill Experience)

[Blessed of the Guardian Tree (Title)] - Through an offering of the blood of your enemies, you have reawakened the ancient tree! You need never fear its hungry roots! Future offerings or actions that benefit the tree may enhance this Title!

[Naked Affinity (Aspect)] - Aspect Locked while items are equipped!

Morgan could barely move, flopping over onto the mossy mattress. Her pain resistance and [Naked Resilience] had been dulling the various discomforts and sensations of being naked in the wilderness, among other effects from her skills and magics. With her skills locked out, she was no longer subconsciously keeping everything her body was trying to tell her neatly partitioned away in an abstract form. Everything slamming back to the forefront of her mind left her reeling from the worst hangover she’d ever experienced.

In less than two days, Morgan had become well-adjusted to her newfound strength, agility, and mental sharpness, all boosted by this strange world’s system of stats and skills. Having most of that ripped away, including the magic she’d so eagerly embraced, left her feeling truly naked and vulnerable, and it was made even worse because she had finally felt like she was taking back some semblance of control over her life.

With a herculean effort of will, she pushed herself back up to a sitting position. Her mind felt stuffed full of cotton. She could still feel her Mana, but not in any sort of detail. She tried to push her Mana back into the stone band, but to no avail. It seemed like it wanted to obey her will, but the effort drained her Mana as quickly as trying to catch water with her bare hands. Her skills and abilities were not gone; not exactly, but it was like sensing everything through a misty shower curtain that muffled sound and touch as well as sight. [Naked Recovery] and [Naked Camouflage] simply refused to activate when she concentrated. They were there, and they were still hers. She simply couldn’t reach them in any effective way.

She pushed at the stone band on her wrist, trying to get it off, but she’d made a terrible mistake. Letting the stone close so perfectly into a shape contoured to her arm had happened without her even thinking about it beforehand; it had simply felt natural, as the magic had worked toward her basic intent to make a simple bracelet. It wasn’t exactly tight, but it also had no extra room or gap to slide back and forth. There was no hope of squeezing her hand back out of it, not with her thumb and most of her hand bones in the way. A worry formed in the back of her mind that she might have to find a way to break or crush her own hand to get the damned thing off, which was an extremely scary prospect without her pain resistances. Knowing she could heal the damage later when she got her skills back was no comfort at all in the face of such prospective hurts, so she filed that idea away as a possible last resort.

“Lulu! HELP!”

Looking around in a panic, she finally spotted the scrubby headed back toward her from its previous location on the far wall. The puffball had wandered back over to investigate her distress. “Oh, thank goodness…” Morgan had seen how the scrubby somehow ate or consumed the grit and grime whenever it cleaned things, and it had dissolved the splinters of bark and wood stuck in her hands and feet from climbing down the Tree the day before. “Can you dissolve the rock, Lulu?” she asked as she held the offending stone band out toward the loofah.

The scrubby glommed onto her outstretched hand with a plopping smack sound that would have been adorable in any other circumstance. She felt a tingle everywhere her skin was in contact with the loofah as its purring deepened to a pulsing rumble that was felt more than heard. “You know,” she said as she gave Lulu an encouraging pat with her free hand, “you’d be quite the scary little thing if you weren’t so damned cute…”

After several minutes, the tingling sensation on her skin had developed into a stinging pain and a reddened welt as her scrubby pet tried to exfoliate the stone away. The loofah had wrapped completely around her wrist to encompass the stone band, but it couldn’t get at the stone without also scrubbing away a portion of her skin, as well. It was a sensation like fine grit sandpaper, slowly but constantly rubbing away at her flesh, and she ground her teeth together with a grimace as she endured it.

When the skin around the stone band went from reddened to actually bleeding, Lulu hopped onto Morgan’s shoulder with an apologetic wurble. The blood made the bracelet a lot easier to slide across her skin, and she hissed as she tried to contort her hand enough to force it off, but to no avail. Beating it against the edge of her stone couch resulted in nothing more than extremely painful bruising; the stone didn’t chip at all.

Morgan was growing more frantic by the minute. Her sudden changes in circumstances upon finding herself in a new world had been traumatic by any measure of the word, and she’d latched onto the magics as much out of a desire to reassert control as she had for the coolness factor of it. After going through her many trials, losing her hard-earned gains, and so abruptly, wasn’t pleasant at all. “Gotta get it off!” she huffed in frustration while she beat the bracelet against the stone. She’d worked herself into such a frenzy that she’d actually managed to chip the edge of her bed with the bracelet, and was pretty sure she was close to breaking bones in her hand.

Such was her mental state that she didn’t notice Lulu’s trilling warbles of alarm right in her ear until the dimly lit cave was plunged into deeper darkness around her. She turned, realizing they were no longer alone. Morgan had time to make out a massive, shadowy form with frightening golden eyes before it was upon her, and then all she knew was teeth and snarling panic.

The close confines of the cave were what saved her. The massive thing simply didn’t have room to maneuver, and as it lunged forward, Morgan dove headfirst off the bed, narrowly avoiding the teeth but failing to completely evade the claws. Ribbons of fiery pain tore down her left side and buttock as she rolled away, and the rusty tang of blood joined the stench of the beast’s breath as it turned to follow. A ripping, feline snarl like a wet chainsaw almost deafened Morgan as she pushed herself up with one hand on the sculpted stone fireplace. The fire had died away, but she felt embers burning her hand as she swung the largest piece into her attacker’s face.

The dried deadwood burst apart on impact with its head, the sudden glare from the shower of sparks illuminating the form of a very large cat with exaggeratedly large, tufted ears and a widened jaw profile. Another ripsaw snarl shook the tiny cave as those jaws opened unbelievably wide, and the cat darted forward yet again. Morgan held up her arm and squeezed her eyes shut just as she saw Lulu hop straight into its mouth with a purbling war-cry, and the teeth slammed shut over both the brave little scrubby and Morgan’s bracelet-bound arm, crushing the bones halfway between wrist and elbow.

Her arm wasn’t severed; she wasn’t that lucky, and she was dragged along as the oversized cat thrashed back and forth, swinging her into the cave walls with thumps punctuated by her agonized screams. She was dizzy and close to fainting from blood loss, and only barely managing a few feeble kicks against the creature’s chest and body, while she pummeled its nose with her other hand.

The cat finally managed to pin her down with one massive paw across her torso, extended claws raking her breasts and rib cage as it pushed her down and pulled up with its jaws. She felt a sickening, tearing sensation and a pop as her shoulder dislocated, and then one final, gut-wrenching rip as her left arm gave way a few inches above the wrist.

And then her magic was back.

Naked condition restored! Aspect and associated skills no longer locked!

In an instant, [Naked Recovery] stemmed her bleeding wounds and began to scab over her foreshortened arm. With all her remaining Mana, and every ounce of willpower and rage she could muster, Morgan held her good hand toward her attacker and screamed, “BURN!”

And the world around her obeyed.

Chapter 8: Crystallized

Morgan Mackenzie was in a very sorry state. She was flat on her back in a crater the size of a small house. A crater that had in fact been her house, even if only for a single night. Cold rain fell in slow, lazy plops that hissed and sizzled into steam once they came into contact with the glowing remnants of molten stone and earth around her. The messages notifying her that [Heat Resistance] had reached mastery level were rather anticlimactic, and redundant as well, seeing as the melted rock had pooled around her, yet only felt uncomfortably warm against her body. Not to mention the fact that the fire and heat that had caused such melting had come from within her own body. She was still alive, partially thanks to [Naked Recovery] and [Heat Resistance], and had also gained [Heat Affinity]. The bit of healing and restoration she’d received upon levelling up from defeating what the notification had called a [Wildlands Shadowlynx] had also helped.

Alive didn’t necessarily mean in good health, however. Her health pool was stable, although low, at only around a quarter of her total, which Morgan thought was amazing in its own right, as her body was not exactly in pristine condition anymore. The flames had spread out from her bones, burning her flesh on the way out, and her skin was a spiderweb of singed and bloody cracks. For what seemed an eternity, she waited for her Stamina to recover a few dozen points before spending it on another wave of [Naked Recovery]. She was no longer able to ignore what the skill had been trying to show her ever since she’d left the Tree. The damage to her skin extended deep into her muscles and other tissue, and to heal it, she had to look at it with the senses provided by the Skill.

Her bones had been changed in the aftermath of eating the fruit from the tree, and the changes were disturbing to Morgan on several different levels. What she understood as bones and the stuff that made them up were still there, after a fashion, but they were now interwoven with something else. It was like the solid form of her bone-material was being fused with a riot of various colors of crystals growing out from her very marrow. And she could actually see them, thanks to the stub of fractured bone sticking out from where her left arm ended just before the wrist. Every time her Stamina recovered a few dozen points, she spent it furiously on [Naked Recovery] to bring her health back up and repair the damage. With every wave of healing, she could watch another fraction of an inch of her arm regrow, slivers of crystals like a lattice of needles in twisting, kaleidoscopic patterns rebuilding the bone. It would be beautiful if she weren’t so creeped out by it. And it wasn’t just where the new bone was growing. Her healing skill showed her in full detail how every bit of damage to her skeletal structure, every tiny crack and microfracture, was healing with the same crystalline replacement.

On top of all that, she’d lost her only friend in this new and violent magical world. Even now, anger warred with despair over remembering the jaws closing around Lulu, along with her hand, and when she strayed too far into rage, her Mana would go wild, with jolts of power that caused bright and painful arcs of lightning to flash inside and around her body. That was another skill she’d gained from the most recent crisis, and she read through the notification one final time before dismissing it with a thought:

You have gained the skill [Spell Surge]! Magic is writ into your very bones, and responds to your will and emotions! Ignite the Mana within your body to greatly empower your spells for a short time, in exchange for increased Mana cost! Beware: Passion without control can be as deadly to the caster as to her enemies!

The skill was poor recompense for losing her little friend. The drizzling, cold rain fit Morgan’s mental state perfectly at the moment. The lacy puffball had been a perfect crutch to prop up her sanity, and while ridiculously cute and adorable, it had made a huge difference having something to talk to. Even if it could only make warbling sounds in reply.

A few times spending her Stamina on [Naked Recovery] had pushed it to level eight. That made it a little bit easier to work the healing, but with each round of healing, the skill also used up her body’s fat reserves a little bit. Not by much, as the skill seemed very efficient with the exchange, but enough for her to notice and feel a growing hunger. She was nowhere near starving just yet, but there was a lot of damage in her body, and she had no intention of reliving the experience of the [Starvation] affliction.

Without Lulu to talk to, she felt the gravity of her situation quickly turning into a forlorn sort of apathy and depression. She’d just about given in to despair, laying back on the cooling stone while raindrops fizzled into steam around her. Her deep introspective melancholy was suddenly interrupted by the most welcome notification Morgan had yet received:

Lulu’s [Exfoliate] skill has reached level 2!

Morgan scrambled to her feet, falling over when she forgot her missing hand and drove the exposed bones into the ground. Even with her high level [Pain Resistance] skill, she couldn’t help crying out with harsh yelps from the spikes of agony. Her feet were still tender and cracked from the burns, and she stumbled her way over to the charred remains of the [Wildlands Shadowlynx]. It had been thrown nearly two dozen paces away, although the muddy rubble and tumbled earth and stone scattered about spread several times farther. She paid the destruction she’d caused no heed, however, as she hurried over to the corpse.

The big cat’s paws, tail, and tufted ears were simply gone, burned away by the intense flames Morgan had called forth. The rest of it was a blackened mass of seared fur and hide, its massive head frozen in a rictus snarl of outrage. With its fur and skin burned away, its toothy maw formed a cage, and she could just make out the charred remains of her hand still in its mouth. The sight of that made her pause with a shudder, but she had more pressing concerns.

“LULU!!!” she yelled, ignoring the sooty crumbles of skin and meat that came off in her good hand as she pushed at the cat’s body to roll it over. Part of its rib cage gave way with her shove, the crispy, burnt layers crumbling away to the merely browned and bloody meat underneath.

She could feel more than hear Lulu’s pulsing scrubbing at the inside of the cat, and tried to claw at the meat with her hand, but could find no purchase. Looking at the jagged crystal edge of bone protruding from the stump of her left arm, she took a deep breath to steel herself for the inevitable pain, and pressed the edge of the bone shard against the cat’s chest. Bracing the corpse with her good hand, she leaned into it, and the pain was less extreme than she’d been expecting. The edge of bone parted the cooked cat like a steak knife through a medium rare porterhouse steak. She was dimly aware of her hunger and the drool-inducing aroma of roasted meat, but such thoughts took second place to concern for her best and only friend in the world.

Lulu’s [Exfoliate] skill has reached level 3!

The pulsing whoosh-whoosh sort of vibrations from the loofah’s normal scrubbing deepened even further, like feeling the vibrations of a washing machine cycle from another room in a house. Finally, she managed to tear open the carcass enough to free the brave little scrubby, and it immediately hopped up Morgan’s arm to her shoulder, giving her a purring snuggle that did wonders, making the girl feel better about her situation.

She simply sat there in relief for a few minutes, letting the rain and the scrubby take care of the soot and mud splattered all over her. The time spent freeing her pet had let her Stamina recover almost completely, and her Mana was full, as well. She spent her Mana raising a curved wall of stone out of the ground with [Earth Sculpt], bent it overhead to block the worst of the rain, and then turned her attention back to trying to heal her missing hand. By the time both arm bones had regrown to the base of her wrist joint, [Naked Recovery] had gained another level, and Morgan was once again looking and feeling as gaunt as a bulimic underwear model.

“I guess regrowing a hand burns up a lot of calories with the healing skill, Lulu…”

The scrubby had given her its trademark full body sponge bath, and then had hopped up to the stump of her hand to [Exfoliate] away the dried blood and cracked scabs of skin that were growing there as the flesh kept mending itself around the new bone growth. Lulu didn’t seem concerned at all about the changes in her bones when Morgan rambled absentmindedly about it to the little puffball, merely giving what looked like a loofah equivalent of a shrug as it inched its way along her arm.

Her reserves of body-fat effectively gone, she was now facing a dilemma. With hunger already beginning to gnaw at her belly, the healing was getting harder, and starting to draw on her muscle tissue. She wasn’t thirsty thanks to a quick sculpting of a bowl and some caught rainwater, but she needed to eat. Her [Spell Surge] empowered blast had excavated half the hillside, and the molten stone and burning rubble had devastated the berry patch and most of the open meadow. The only food source she had at hand happened to be one well done [Wildlands Shadowlynx], and while the thought of eating any type of cat seemed just wrong to her native Spokane city girl sensibilities, it smelled really good under all the char and burnt bits. And [Naked Instinct] was most certainly agreeing, giving her impressions of “tasty”, “edible”, and “no danger” every time she glanced at it.

With Morgan’s ribs becoming even more pronounced, Lulu gave a concerned trill and hopped over to the dead creature, bobbing up and down in silent expectation and admonishment. “I know, I know,” said Morgan, “I need to eat. But it’s a cat…” Her stomach chose that moment to announce its agreement with the scrubby with a growling burble of its own.

“Well,” she said as she crammed her reservations into a little box and pushed them aside, “the bastard did try to eat us!” As she pulled off a chunk of still-steaming meat and held it up, the loofah wurbled in approval and began scrubbily consuming the outer charred and sooty burnt bits of the cat, leaving juicy, cooked portions exposed. Between the scent of the meat and her rising hunger, the last of her hesitation fell away and she took a bite. It was stringy, gamey, greasy, and a bit on the rare side, but it was exactly what her body needed.

“It certainly doesn’t taste like chicken,” she professed to the scrubby in between tearing more grisled bites off the chunk of meat in her hand, “but I’ve had worse…”

Her body was already beginning to fill back out, and she had only been eating for a few minutes. Only, she thought. Morgan had spent the last ten minutes eating more meat in one sitting than she normally ate in a week or longer back on Earth. Her body’s magic seemed to speed up the process of digestion, and she couldn’t catch up with her hunger. “I think the magic really affects metabolism, if that wasn’t obvious already,” she said. But it had benefits, as her fat reserves were already replenishing. “I don’t think I’ll have to worry much about getting fat in this world, Lulu, especially if healing always burns up so many calories.”

She held up her stump and looked at it with a sense of morbid fascination. The partially regrown thumb tingled when she wiggled it, and the new muscles felt stiff and sluggish. With the meat from the cat providing such ready replenishment of calories, she felt a lot better about pushing [Naked Recovery] to its limits to hurry the healing. By the time the rest of her palm and the first nubs of fingers had regrown, she’d consumed several more pounds worth of meat from the cat. Her push with the healing led to another notification:

You have mastered the skill [Naked Recovery]!

With the skill mastered, it was only a short time and another couple of fist-sized chunks of roasted meat before she had a fully regrown hand. The skin was sensitive and slightly pink, and her nails were still soft. It was extremely odd to hold it up next to her uninjured hand and compare both. It was even more odd and sickening to see her previously bitten off hand and its burned flesh and bone laying in the dead cat’s mouth. As was the stone band that had caused her so much trouble in the first place. She glared at it with a shudder and sighed.

“That was horrible, Lulu. I’ll just stay naked before I go through something like that again, and I don’t mean just the cat and the burning,” she rambled out loud to the gluttonous scrubby as it continued to feast on burnt kitty. “When I put the bracelet on and lost my magic, it felt like being torn in two, with me on one side and my soul on the other. I don’t know if I can do that again, even if it means gettin’ stuck with no clothes.”

Lulu finally seemed through with its meal, shuffling back over to her and hopping onto her regrown hand to inspect it with comforting purbles of approval. Finding nothing amiss about the new appendage, the scrubby sluggishly worked its way back up her arm to rest in the crook of her neck and shoulder. It definitely seemed well fed, judging by its slow and ponderous movements. Morgan had no idea how the loofah stuck to things, as it didn’t feel sticky or anything remotely unpleasant like that. It simply stuck where it wanted to, whether that was on her, on the ground, on the trees, or whatever else it decided to climb on. From its hushed burbles, she had the impression that the adorably poofy thing was sleeping, or whatever equivalent a scrubby would experience.

While she’d been eating and healing herself, the rains had tapered off to a drizzle, and finally nothing, as the clouds broke. Soft sunlight cast long evening shadows, and she realized just how long her day had been. She’d made a lot of progress practicing with magic before her equipment mishap had locked her Aspect that morning, and then she’d been attacked a few hours into trying and failing to remove the bracelet.

The demise of the shadowlynx had pushed her to level nine, but more pressing concerns than the rewarded points had occupied her attention. She took a wary glance around, checking for more surprise dangers like the shadowlynx, before she pulled up her status menu once again. She spent her stat points first to boost her other attributes closer to the much higher Vitality one. Though she proceeded slowly, the memory of the backlash of bodily changes she had gone through yesterday—was it only yesterday? Or the night before that, rather—slid unpleasantly through her brain. It prompted her to cast an eye on the remainder of the charred cat and contemplate if there was anything left on the corpse that was worthy of salvaging.

Status Information for: Morgan Mackenzie

Level - 9

Primary Class: [Locked]

Secondary Class: [Locked]

Health - 230/230

Stamina - 252/252

Mana - 289/289

STR - 20

AGI - 20

CON - 20

VIT - 28

INT - 21

Stat points available to distribute: 0

Current Skills:

[Naked Instinct]

[Naked Athleticism]

[Naked Recovery (Lvl 10/Mastered)]

[Naked Camouflage]

[Naked Resilience]

-[Pain Resistance (Lvl 9)]

-[Heat Resistance (Lvl 10/Mastered)]

-[Lightning Resistance]

-[Mana Resistance (Lvl 10/Mastered)]

[Naked Magic]

-[Mana Pulse (Lvl 10/Mastered)]

-[Spell Channeling (Lvl 5)]

-[Spell Surge]

-[Mana Affinity (Lvl 6)]

[Naked Elementalism]

-[Fire Affinity]

-[Heat Affinity]

-[Water Affinity]

-[Lightning Affinity]

-[Earth Affinity (Lvl 2)]

-[Lightning Bolt]

-[Water Bolt]

-[Flame Bolt]

-[Candleflame]

-[Earth Sculpt (Lvl 4)]

-[Earth Wave]

[Runic Enchantment]

-[Candleflame Rune]

Skill Points available: 15

Titles, Mantles, and Aspects

[Worldwalker (Title)]

[Blessed of the Guardian Tree (Title)]

[Naked Affinity (Aspect)]

The list of skills was getting longer, and Morgan was glad it was starting to hide information she was already intimately familiar with, like the true ramifications of [Naked Affinity]. She quickly opened the list of available skills to see what, if any, new options presented themselves. She was immediately interested in the skill [The Naked Eye] that she had passed over previously.

Skill Acquisition Menu:

[The Naked Eye (Channeled)] - [10 Skill Points] Due to earning the Aspect [Naked Affinity], the skill [Eagle Eye] has been modified and purchase cost reduced by 50%. You can’t hit what you can’t see! While active, this skill enhances your visual acuity, allowing you to see with much greater clarity things both far away and very close. The [Naked] version of this skill shares synergy with the skill [Naked Instinct], passively improving your ability to see in all conditions except total darkness at all times. Also shares synergy with [Naked Elementalism], allowing you to see the ambient flows of Mana in the world around you.

[Naked Might (Channeled)] - [10 Skill Points] Due to earning the Aspect [Naked Affinity], the skill [Enhanced Might] has been modified and purchase cost reduced by 50%. Sometimes a little extra elbow grease is all you need! While active, this skill increases the overall physical capabilities of your body, enhancing strength, speed, and toughness by reinforcing your bones and muscles with Mana. The [Naked] version of this skill shares synergy with [Naked Resilience], passively increasing the effectiveness of all resistances at all times, reducing damage taken from most types of sources.

[Elemental Fury (Channeled)] - [20 Skill Points] Sometimes unbridled rage is the only answer! When activated, this skill amplifies within your body any Element you have gained an Affinity for, allowing you to temporarily become the living embodiment of the Element you choose, at the cost of Mana. Requires at least one Elemental Affinity to have been learned, and not all Elements are compatible with Fury.

[Natural Traps (Passive)] - [15 Skill Points] Sometimes the environment can be altered to do the work for you! This skill provides increased dexterity and enhances your ability to assemble basic types of traps such as deadfalls, pits, and snares.

[Natural Traps] was still there, and remained of no interest to Morgan. With her Earth magic skills, things like pits and deadfalls would be no problem. [Naked Might] was extremely tempting, and [Elemental Fury] was interesting, to say the least. But both of them either had downsides, or only seemed useful in desperate situations. It had been a struggle to pass up [The Naked Eye] before, and now that it also synergized with her Elementalism skills, her mind was made up. She could already sense her own Mana within her body and that which she moved around, and the chance to see the magic everywhere else was too good to pass up. Without hesitation, she chose [The Naked Eye], and immediately went blind.

Through the use of her healing skill, she was able to make some small amount of sense as to what was happening. It was as though something had reached out and switched off her connection to her vision, but the senses from [Naked Recovery] allowed her to feel the concentrated and extremely tiny threads of Mana that were weaving themselves into her eyeballs. The magic was moving much too quickly for Morgan to make any sort of detailed sense of how and what it was doing, exactly. Disconcertingly, it also felt rather itchy.

Within a few dozen heartbeats, it was over, and her vision slowly went from black to grey, and then colors faded back in. She blinked a few times. “Well, that was a lot less unpleasant than I was expecting, all things considered…”

She looked around, and it definitely seemed that the shadows cast by the forest canopy didn’t hinder her sight or ability to see details, or at least she could see into the depths of the forest with greater clarity than before the skill. With the merest touch of Mana and the simple intent to look, the skill activated, and she felt her vision shift. The nearest tree, a distance of at least a football field away, was revealed in crystal clarity as if she were examining a super high definition photo on a computer with a very large and fancy screen.

It was disorienting to try to shift her gaze while the skill was active. It definitely seemed to work better when she chose a target point in the distance and looked. What Morgan found much more fascinating were the subtle flows of Mana she could now see around almost everything. The earth was like a low, thrumming sea, calm on the surface, with the magic and material she was already used to working with thanks to her [Earth Affinity] and [Earth Sculpt] skill. But she could sense deeper currents of Mana far below. Much farther down than she knew she could ever reach. The trees pulled Earth and Life Mana up from the soil. It was less of a seeing and more of a knowing, as it didn’t hinder her normal vision in the slightest.

A childlike grin of wonder on her face, Morgan looked around at her world with new eyes, literally. She thought she finally understood why she’d been having so much difficulty with Elemental Air. Looking up at the sky, she realized that the air didn’t hold Mana like stone, or combust it into energy like fire, or flow with Mana like water.

No, the Elemental Air Mana danced. While the wind was invisible, she could feel the breeze on her skin and see the Air Mana swirl around everything the wind encountered, dancing with the leaves as they shook on the trees and waving back and forth with the shifting grasses of the meadow. She had no time take advantage of her new understanding of the Element, however, as [Naked Instinct] began prickling at the back of her mind.

Morgan suddenly knew she was being watched.

Chapter 9: Run, Fight, or Die

Morgan Mackenzie was running for her life, a warbling scrubby giving panic-filled trills while desperately hanging on to her shoulder with whatever loofah magic Lulu used. When the first giant wolf had appeared at the far edge of the meadow, she’d felt confident in her abilities to defend herself with her magic. But [Naked Instinct] had simply kept ratcheting up in its intensity, and when [The Naked Eye] had revealed at least a dozen more wolves closing in through the trees, her confidence had drained away like the last swirling dregs of dishwater flowing down the sink. Nervousness became naked fear, as a dozen became two dozen, became three.

Thankfully [Naked Instinct] was more useful than a simple feeling, as she had found herself rolling to the side without thinking just as Lulu had given a warbling warning right in her ear. The wolf that had managed to sneak up behind her had missed its lunging attack, but its near-silent pass over her was equally disturbing. As Morgan rolled back to her feet, she’d tossed a sizzling bolt of lightning at the creature, but it had simply twisted in mid-air with a snarl, avoiding the charged projectile without so much as singeing its fur as it landed with a roll through the dirt.

The girl had immediately turned to run, only to find the entire meadow surrounded. The lone attacking wolf was merely the vanguard before the rest of the pack closed in. [Spell Surge], followed by several [Flame Bolt] spells, resulted in new craters and one side of the encirclement scattering. Morgan had wasted no time sprinting for the opening, and that was how she found herself dashing madly through the forest with howling death nipping at her heels.

The damaging backlash she’d suffered from using [Spell Surge] with the fire magic had left her hands once again blistered and cracked. She didn’t even consider slowing down, however. The pain was tolerable thanks to her [Pain Resistance], and the damage was fairly superficial thanks to her affinities for Heat and Fire, and the associated resistances.

Her boosted physical capability both from spent stat points and the skill [Naked Athleticism] were paying dividends with interest now. Similar to when she had climbed down from the giant tree, the skill helped her instinctively make the most efficient movements as she ran, and her increased strength meant her strides practically launched her with each step, while her agility helped her keep her balance with the impact of every footfall. Morgan had never imagined being able to run like this, and would have been amazed at her speed, if not for the sheer terror driving her heart to pound like a jackhammer.

Any possible thoughts of slowing down were immediately curtailed by the moonlit shapes keeping pace with her through the woods in the distance to either side. As fast as she’d been running, the wolves were easily keeping pace, almost as if they were toying with her. They’d closed in a few times, and she’d responded with bursts of lightning and flame, and terrible accuracy, since she couldn’t spare the attention to aim. The oversized canines simply melted back into the trees unscathed, howls mocking her every effort at retaliation.

Morgan ran for hours. She had no idea how many miles she’d covered. Probably somewhere between a whole bunch of miles and a heck of a lot, she thought to herself, having no breath to spare to speak out loud. As night had fallen sometime around the beginning of her run, the moons had soon risen somewhere to her right. With no frame of reference for the greater surrounding region as a whole, she figured north was as good a direction as any. Between the moonlight and [The Naked Eye], she could see better in the pale night than she’d been able to during the day before she’d gained the skill.

Back on Earth, a run like this would have killed me all by itself, she thought, with mixed emotions. It was almost surreal that she could even think in a situation like this, but her options were simple, and required little thought to process. Either run, fight, or die. Twice she’d tried to slow down to make a stand with her back to a large tree or earth abutment, and twice the wolves simply melted away from the reach of her spells, panting like laughter as if she were merely a game to them. With fighting proven useless, her choices were reduced to running or death.

Morgan had found she could spend Stamina as extra effort in short bursts. She’d leapt over fallen trees and jumped over a small stream with the enhanced exertion, resulting in feats that would make Olympic medalists on Earth feel inadequate. Her Stamina couldn’t recover under the strain of her fear-driven flight, however. When she let herself slow enough that it began to restore itself, there was always a wolf or two right on her heels, nipping at her backside, as Lulu’s warning warbles rose to a piercing pitch.

This is an endurance race, she realized with sudden, dawning clarity. Every big jump or dash brings my Stamina lower, she thought, and they won’t let me slow down enough to get it back.

That realization almost brought her to the brink of despair. With their numbers and the ease with which they kept pace with her, it was only a matter of time until her Stamina was low enough that her body would begin to devour itself to keep her going. Simply running, even at her impressive pace, was no terrible burden on her reserves, thanks to her improved stat attributes. She could tell through her healing skill’s senses that, Stamina aside, she would run into sleep deprivation problems before her caloric reserves became an issue, going by how efficiently her body seemed to presently be operating.

Stamina was simply her ultimate problem. Every bite at her flanks and bare bottom when the wolves rushed her or she slowed her pace required healing, at least enough to stop the bleeding. Vaulting streams or other obstacles, and the healings, each cost her a small portion of Stamina, and running at her current pace took enough of it to keep her from regenerating it, even with her high Vitality stat.

Mana, on the other hand, she had plenty of. There has to be a way to use Mana instead of Stamina to go faster! Her thoughts were frantic; she couldn’t exactly stop to experiment or look for a solution. But I have to try something now while I have the Stamina to recover if it doesn’t work! she scolded herself.

After running so long, she was getting familiar with how her body used up Stamina when she burned it to speed up, or jump higher, or dodge the snarling fangs. If I can just use Mana instead of Stamina—but I have no idea which Element…

At Lulu’s sudden trill of warning that her pursuers were once again closing in, Morgan seized her Mana without attempting to filter out the Elements she’d already become familiar with. I’ll just have to throw it all in and hope something sticks, she thought. She pushed off with her legs in the same way she’d used Stamina to jump before, hoping to at least lunge ahead of snapping jaws, but willed her Mana into the jump instead.

She’d hoped to gain a few dozen paces in a burst of speed. The result she actually got was a burst of Mana running wild as the ground underneath her exploded under the pressure of her foot’s impact. Startled yelps and snarls she barely noticed erupted behind her as she was launched several dozen Morgan-lengths ahead at a truly frightening speed. She would have considered it a resounding success, except for the fact that her left knee had shattered under the shock, and she was not only flying through the air, but also tumbling, while a terrified Lulu emitted purbling whimpers right in her ear.

Morgan hit the ground in a flopping roll, only her [Pain Resistance] skill keeping her conscious. She could see with her recovery skill that the bones in her knee joint had compressed together with such force that the crystalline marrow core had fractured, then splintered against each other, and practically exploded inside her knee. The marrow-crystals burned with Mana and were quickly dissolving back into her blood as [Naked Recovery] regrew, then re-aligned the joint almost before she hit the ground, but even with her resistance, the pain was enough to have her screaming. She was worried she might have spent too much Stamina to heal it so quickly, but it was necessary for her to remain able to run.

She scrambled to her feet, still limping, but quickly recovering. Lulu had come loose from her shoulder when she landed, and she dashed frantically over to the scrubby and picked it up, sticking the loofah back on her shoulder as she looked around for the wolves. She could see many in the distance running between the trees, and the two who’d harried her were both over a hundred yards away, shaking the mud and dirt off their tawny brown fur. They were standing in the middle of a splattered sprawl of earth and brushy detritus that had been kicked up by Morgan’s sudden launch, and it was only the sudden shock of it that had bought the girl a moment’s respite.

She’d rolled partway up a low, rounded hillside, and she put her back to the mounded earth as the pair of wolves closed in. Every moment not running was a few more points of Stamina regenerated, but that wasn’t the only reason she’d stopped. The rest of the pack had been left farther behind the two vanguards, and Morgan wasn’t about to miss a chance at some payback. Especially not when her Mana was literally brimming over, the channeled recovery skill having topped her off. As the wolves spread apart to attack her from both sides, she planted her feet and timed their simultaneous lunge as much by instinct as by sight.

[Spell Surge] caused violet arcs of wild power to snap at the air around her as she pulled on every bit of Earth Mana she could muster and shoved outward with both hands. No amount of twisting could save either wolf as the ground around Morgan exploded toward them in a massive [Earth Wave]. Hundreds of finger-width spines of jagged stone, accompanied by tons of smaller rocks and a cascading wall of mud, blasted outward from where she stood. The raised wave of muddy dirt fell away, but Morgan was already certain of her victory because of notifications, even before she could see the pin-cushioned canines suspended in the air mid-charge.

You have defeated [Wildlands Direwolf Scout (Lvl - 6)]

For earning your victory while [Naked] and [Unequipped], experience gain doubled.

+300 experience gained.

You have defeated [Wildlands Direwolf Scout (Lvl - 6)]

For earning your victory while [Naked] and [Unequipped], experience gain doubled.

+300 experience gained.

A minor victory, but she felt a surge of exultation anyway. The sudden and massive expenditure of power had drained her Mana by almost two thirds, but it was quickly coming back as she activated [Naked Recovery] to finish healing her shattered knee. The rest of the pack seemed almost stunned by her sudden, violent retaliation, slowing their approach to a creeping stalk as they paced through the trees around her. The deaths of two of their packmates didn’t go without consequence, however, as a new howl Morgan hadn’t yet heard shattered the hushed, whispering quiet of the night.

The howl wasn’t just louder than the previous ones that had so terrified Morgan during her frantic flight from the pack. It was deeper, and it vibrated in her bones with mournful notes that spoke to her soul of ancient rage, forlorn despair, and wild expectation all at once. The night itself stilled as the sorrowful sound laid like a blanket across the world. With this new eerie howl turning her fear to stark terror, she actually wet herself. As one, every wolf in sight sank to their bellies, even the ones closest to her. Those four had stopped just shy of her range, and they now lay trembling before the moonlit grief of that primordial howl. The shaking woman gritted her teeth and fought to keep from kneeling as two more howls—just as powerful, though shorter and not quite as deeply pitched—answered the first.

Farther behind the crouching wolves, the dappled moonlight seemed to bow away from three massive shadows that even [The Naked Eye] could not pierce. All of the pack were huge, as tall as Morgan, even crouched as low as they were, with massive, triangular heads that turned in deference before their betters. The three shadows stepped into the bright moonlit night from under the forest canopy, and Morgan understood why the pack had knelt, as the same urge to kneel almost overcame her own senses.

This was submission, for the Alphas of the Pack had arrived. On her shoulder, Lulu’s whimpering purble trailed away to a quivering vibration Morgan could feel as the scrubby tried to shrink itself and hide in her hair. The Alphas were true giants, and she could have easily walked underneath any of them without her head so much as disturbing their chest fur. Two of them were golden shades of dappled brown fading to darker reddish hues along their ears, paws, and tails, and they spread out to the sides with silent steps to bracket her position. The third was slightly larger than the first two, and dark grey, with black ears and muzzle instead of brown. Undeniably the dominant, male leader of all the others, he stepped forward to where her earthen spikes had skewered the two lesser wolves.

With a chuffing rumble and growl that gave off power she could feel from over thirty yards away, the spikes holding up the two wolves crumbled to dust, and the corpses fell to the ground. Morgan backed up slowly, trying to angle her path to bring the hillside between her and the wolves. Her plan was to put some distance between her and these mighty beasts, even if she had to burn half her Stamina and Mana at the same time to do it. She was in a place somewhere beyond fear and dread, and it was empty, calm and clear as the still surface of a cold winter pond. She knew, beyond all certainty, that she would either live or die, and all she could do was all she could do. She had no hope of outrunning these three, not even with enhanced abilities, nor with any magic she could imagine, but she’d somehow decided she wouldn’t just lay down and accept it.

The massive Alpha male silently gazed down at her as the two females stepped forward, each gently lifting the smaller dead wolves by the blood-matted napes of their necks like cubs. The Alpha turned his head to watch as they somberly strode away to Morgan’s left, while she backed away to the side of the hill, readying her will for a last-ditch effort to sprint away to the right. She called forth her Mana in full with [Spell Surge], the Alpha snapped its muzzle back in her direction with a snarl, then the hill to Morgan’s left side stood up, and all hell broke loose.

Morgan fell to the ground, staring at the terrain to her left that kept on rising, despite its appearance of being a mere hill that had no business having any methods of locomotion whatsoever. The Alpha, too, fell flat on its ass, and Morgan took a grain of comfort that she wasn’t the only one who’d been surprised by whatever this new catastrophe happened to be.

Her eardrums were simply blown out by an impossibly loud, hooting roar, somewhere between a steam whistle and a jetliner on takeoff. Dirt and rocks, and even small trees tumbled all round, and her ears—now ringing as she healed herself—revealed shocked yips and snarls as the mountain turned. A mighty chelonian foot the size of a steam-shovel bucket descended next to her, sending her tumbling to the ground once again. As the rubble continued to fall away, it revealed a broad, domed shell that had been the hilltop only moments before, and as it finished turning, the mighty beaked head struck.

In the span of a heartbeat, one of the female alphas was completely devoured in a single, echoing snap of that horrible maw. The wolf’s front half, including the cub it had been carrying, were simply gone, leaving shortened hindquarters that took a ludicrously stretched out moment to fall over. The Pack scattered, and the Alpha’s howl of rage shook the moonlight itself.

Morgan didn’t stick around to watch the imminent battle. She still held her Mana, and now she tried again to boost her speed, this time using her Stamina at the same time as a sort of guide. She headed north once again, fueled by terror and adrenaline, and urged on by Lulu’s whimpering purbles. With her Stamina and Mana together, she was finally rewarded with a most exceptionally useful skill:

You have learned the skill [Naked Acceleration]! All too often, sheer speed is the key to survival! Expend Mana to accelerate your body with a temporal dilation effect, but beware! Inertia is not cancelled out by this skill! This skill shares synergy with [Naked Instinct], allowing you to more easily compensate for high impact movements while the skill is active.

The experience was surreal, especially given her situation. Morgan wasn’t moving faster so much as the rest of the world was barely moving at all, at least to her senses. As she curved her path around what she’d already mentally named the Doomturtle, the rocks and trees still tumbling down moved in slow motion. Sound was felt more than heard, a full body buzzing like low pitched static while swimming underwater. As she leaned into turns to dodge nearly still rocks slowly descending toward the ground, her bare feet punched divots of dirt into the air every time she kicked off to change direction.

She now understood what the skill description meant by inertia and high impact movements. She could feel her knees and ankles developing microfractures she constantly had to heal with her Stamina as she burned Mana to keep her speed up. But while she felt as if she was running normally, albeit at a full sprint, she knew the reality was, well…

This is damn FAST! Morgan thought to herself. A glance back had revealed that the wolves had barely begun to react, and the Doomturtle’s movements were nearly imperceptible. She turned her attention back to putting as much distance between her and the danger as she possibly could before her Mana got too low. Every step she pushed off with launched her forward in bounds that covered more than twenty yards per footfall. She felt she could go even faster, but that would cost too much Stamina due to the constant healing. She paced herself in order to allow her Stamina to recover. By the time her Mana had dropped below half, she’d put several miles between herself and the pack, and she let go of the newly acquired skill.

Panting, she slowed to a stop, shaking from the adrenaline and remnants of fear. Lulu was quite upset as well, manic purbles and wurbles a riot of vocalization from the little scrubby. Its own concern and panic were quite obvious as the poor thing seemed not to know what to do, hopping all over Morgan as if checking to make sure her everything was okay. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry Lulu,” Morgan said, pulling the scrubby in for a comforting hug. “That had to be terrifying if the haste effect didn’t cover you as well.” The loofah took several long moments to finally calm down, followed by stern warbling as she scolded her mistress for such a distressing experience. Morgan knew they couldn’t tarry for long, as the howls in the distance were already closing in.

She no longer felt totally hopeless, though, and took a brief time to let her mind settle and try to think of a plan. She thought very seriously about using [Earth Sculpt] to burrow down as deeply as she could, but that plan was tossed out as she realized the wolves could dig, or might have other abilities she hadn’t seen. At the very least they could simply camp out in the area and ambush her wherever she popped up for air or food.

Morgan knew she had to keep running until she found a place the wolves had no possible way to follow. With the howls getting closer once again, she did exactly that. Heading north again, if only for lack of a better idea, she once again used the acceleration skill. This time she warned Lulu first, however, and the scrubby responded by burrowing up into her mane of hair, anchoring itself solidly before giving a purble to announce its readiness for the impending burst of speed.

This time Morgan was starting with both her Stamina and Mana almost full, so she didn’t hold back. She took off at a full sprint and kept it up. It quickly became apparent how hard she could push off against the ground before damaging herself, and she soon settled into a loping pace that she could maintain for hours. And she so. Navigating the forest by moonlight was almost trivial under the light of the twin moons, especially with [The Naked Eye]. The greatest difficulty she had came from slowing down and releasing her haste skill so she could jump over fallen trees and the like. Her singular attempt at jumping over a stump while under the effects of [Naked Acceleration] had launched her through the next tree in the way.

Broken bones and warbling protests had punctuated another break from running while she healed herself again amidst the shattered ruins of the tree that had stopped her. As her flesh knit itself back together and her bones realigned, she staggered to her feet. She could hear no howls, but [Naked Instinct] still screamed danger to her senses. The frequent healing was also beginning to take its toll on the reserves she’d gained from eating most of a giant crispy cat, even with the extreme metabolic efficiency of [Naked Recovery]. She was nowhere near starving yet, but as things were currently going, she would need some form of food within a day or she’d burn through her body’s reserves. That time would be greatly reduced if she had to recover from more extreme injuries.

The forest seemed truly endless to Morgan as she continued to run, and everything sort of fell into a pattern of sameness. She would cancel [Naked Acceleration] and slow to an easy lope for a time to let her Mana recover while she healed the accrued damage that built up from pushing her body so hard. So far, her bursts of speed had kept her far enough ahead of the pack that they were no longer chewing on her backside as she ran, but Morgan knew that this was their game.

Run the prey to exhaustion, she thought, recalling every wolf documentary she now wished she’d actually paid attention to. Dad always loved his animal shows; he’d know exactly what to do. The repetitive cycle of accelerated sprinting and slower loping really did leave her mind almost too free to wander. Aside from the occasional creek, boulder, or fallen tree, she only really had to think about navigating the sparse brush that grew under the gaps in the forest canopy. That all changed when the forest gave way abruptly, the rolling hills of the woods dropping off to a vast, grassy field that stretched for miles in either direction. And from the higher vantage point at the forest edge where she’d slowed to a stop, she could see just a mile or so in the distance a river winding through the plain.

This was no small stream, she realized, as the fading light of the moons gave way to the first glimmers of dawn that sent rippling reflections twinkling across the water. She’d been running all night, and she felt the first spark of hope in all that time flare up while she gazed at the other side. In the distance past the far riverbank, a sheer cliff rose up from the low hills. The vertical stone walls stretched skyward for thousands of feet, the tops of the cliffs shrouded in mists not yet burned away by the day’s rising sun. She could see with [The Naked Eye] various cracks and formations in the winding, ribbon-like walls of rock. Trees, brush, and lush, verdant ivy painted intense green contrast to the nearly black mountainside, where ledges and outcroppings allowed plants to find purchase.

“AHA!” she shouted in exaltation as she jumped up and down, clutching the scrubby in her hands despite its surprised purbling protests. “Let’s see those assholes climb that shit, Lulu! And I can make my own handholds!”

Her sudden outburst had startled more than the scrubby, however, as Morgan’s [Naked Instinct] reared its insistent head once again. Two utterly massive oversized ears suddenly appeared above the shoulder-height grasses less than a dozen yards from the surprised woman, the tips of the ears almost comically flopped forward and tufted in white. She would have thought they were cute, if the Morgan-length ears hadn’t kept rising, followed by a very not-cute and honestly quite frightening caricature of a rabbit’s head. The eyes were solid red and, instead of the typical rodent incisors she would’ve expected even a giant sort of rabbit to have, its mouth opened wide to reveal double rows of wickedly sharp fangs. As it rose up on its haunches, the horse-sized creature let loose a scream that gave Morgan a notification and left her body frozen perfectly still and helpless.

Status afflicted: [Paralysis]! You have been frozen in place by [Tyrannorabbit]’s [Scream]!

Morgan’s mind was nearly as frozen in shock as her body was. Her magic was dropping away as if there were a layer of static interference between her and her Mana. The whole absurdity of her situation only fueled her outrage, and she furiously willed herself to move as the new threat hopped toward her with a ridiculous, wobbling gait. She’d just managed to get her fingers and toes to move as it pushed its way out of the grass and came into full view, but her magic was still not responding. The creature looked almost cartoonishly mutated, its front limbs smaller and held in close to its chest while its hind legs and feet were oversized in the extreme. The juxtaposition of its name and its mutated form weren’t lost on Morgan, and she would’ve laughed were it not for the danger. It lacked the balancing tail that made its namesake dinosaur beneficiary so mobile, and that gave it a waddling gait that belied the obvious lethality of that ever-widening maw of teeth.

She managed to stumble back a half-step as the [Tyrannorabbit] duck-walked closer, and saw several more pairs of ears pop up in the grass beyond. But these weren’t facing her direction. A sudden basso snarl revealed exactly what they were listening to as the familiar canine form of a wolf slammed into the [Tyrannorabbit] with enough force that she felt the thump of it in her chest from the impact. With her legs working slightly better, she tried another step, and fell backward away from the brawl.

The fall was enough to clear the paralysis, and her magic once again felt under her control. As she rolled to her feet, Morgan saw wolves pouring out of the forest, and what had before been a beautiful dawn lit landscape devolved into snarls, howls, and rabbit-esque screams that cut short in sprays of blood and flying fur.

She wasted no time making her break for the river. The tall grass was much harder to run through than the mossy dirt and leaves she’d grown used to padding across with her bare feet in the forest. A full sprint was practically impossible, stubs of grass and roots tearing her feet to a degree that would have been crippling without her [Pain Resistance] and [Naked Recovery].

A wrenching, rage-filled howl that bent the grasses down in rippling waves as far as the eye could see had Morgan instantly rethinking that full sprint. She ignored the pain from her feet and leaned into a pulse of [Naked Acceleration] as the giant Alpha from before made its appearance. [Naked Instinct] spiked again as the bigger wolf ignored the other prey and homed in on her, almost keeping up with her accelerated rush. As Morgan broke free of the grassland onto the sandy bank of the river, her feet kicked up a rooster tail of sandy dirt sprays behind her. Approaching the water at a pace faster than most highway speed limits, she called upon [Spell Surge] to boost her acceleration skill even farther and burned almost half of her total Stamina at the same time to temporarily empower her body.

Less than a step before the water’s edge, Morgan planted her feet at the lowest point in her stride, pulled Lulu from her shoulder to the middle of her chest, and with both her Mana and her Stamina aiding her efforts, she jumped.

Between the force against the ground and her feet and legs, Morgan managed to launch herself up and across the river at a speed that was truly frightening, even as her mind was buffered by [Naked Acceleration]. The kick-off had crushed her ankles and knees, and even fractured her hips and pelvis, and the same force against the ground had excavated several tons of silty sand and mud. As she tumbled through the air, she watched the Alpha charge right through the spray, wreathed in enough of his own ambient power to repel the wave of dirt and the water of the river as he continued the pursuit.

At the apex of her flight trajectory, as she levelled off and began to descend, Morgan released [Naked Acceleration], but not [Spell Surge], as she used the only form of manipulating the Air Element she’d so far managed. Already using her Stamina furiously to heal the damage from her jump, she curled herself into a ball and cradled a very loudly warbling and panicked Lulu. Empowered by [Spell Surge], she hardened the Air around them into a ball.

She didn’t quite make the distance, hitting the water almost thirty feet shy of the far bank, but her improvised sphere of Air Mana worked. She bounced once off the water, skipping like a stone to plow into soft sand and leaving a shallow furrow excavated out of the earth. She also gained her very first Air spell:

You have gained the spell [Wind Barrier]! What cannot hit you cannot hurt you! Increase the density of the air around you and shape a barrier as you desire! Expending more Mana increases the strength of your Barrier!

Morgan dismissed the notification almost without a thought. She had no time to stop and play with the new spell, not with less than a quarter of her Mana left and her Stamina reduced to a similar amount. She sacrificed even more Stamina as she scrambled to her feet, preparing to resume her sprint for the cliffs. Expecting to face the pursuing Alpha, she turned, and could only stare in shock.

The rest of the pack, including the remaining Alpha Female, had all stopped well short of the water. From the edge of the grassland, they stood witness to the same sight that now held Morgan transfixed. The giant alpha male that had been chasing her had made it across the water right behind her but was now in a fight for its life. Thing was the only word she could think of to describe the new monster now embattled with her pursuer barely a few dozen paces away from where she’d landed.

The rest of the pack refused to come any closer to the water, and Morgan well understood why, if the monster she was now seeing had any relatives lurking below. She’d thought it was tentacles at first, but as she watched the battle play out, she realized it was more like a cluster of eels growing out where a larger eel would have had a head. The wolf and the thing thrashed in the shallows, deep, rumbling snarls and slimy sounding hisses roiling against Morgan’s eardrums. The great wolf’s flanks were shredded and bleeding, and it was now missing an eye, but it was giving even better than it had got.

She stood there watching, almost in a trance, letting [Naked Recovery] heal her fractured bones and restore her much depleted Mana. She could feel Mana being used in the fight as well as see the effects. The eel-hydra seemed to be made from electric eels, as several of its heads latched onto the wolf’s forelegs and sides, and green lightning arced around them. It was only temporarily effective, though, as the mighty wolf had managed to sink his jaws into the clump where all the necks grew out from the main body. With an almost contemptuous snarl, the wolf dug in with its hindquarters and viciously jerked its head from side to side as it worked the massive eel monster farther out of the water.

With its biggest advantage negated, the thing tried to escape, thrashing in the mud in an attempt to retreat to the safety of the water, but the enraged Alpha was having none of that. With all four feet on solid ground, it danced around the weakening strikes, tearing at one neck after the other. When the last of its heads finally came free, the main body thrashed a few more times before going still. The giant wolf, wheezing and exhausted, gave it one final, vicious shake with its jaws before dropping it. The victor stood with his front paws on his defeated foe and gave one last victorious howl to the sky.

Just in time for Morgan’s [Spell Surge] amplified [Flame Bolt] to blast its head from its shoulders in a singularly impressive display of burning brains, bones, and teeth. And then several surprising things happened almost all at once.

You have defeated [Lesser Direwolf Alpha (Lvl - 14)]

For earning your victory while [Naked] and [Unequipped], experience gain doubled.

+5300 experience gained.

Morgan stared in shock at the notification. “Lesser!?”

Lulu made strange purbling noises from her shoulder and suddenly began glowing, startling Morgan back to attention as another notification popped up.

Congratulations! Lulu has reached Level 2!

Followed by another:

Congratulations! Lulu has reached Level 3!

And then another:

DING!

You have reached Level 10! Health and Status partially restored!

For reaching this milestone while [Naked] and [Unequipped], rewarded points doubled.

10 distributable Stat Points awarded.

10 Skill Points awarded.

Class Selection Unlocked!

Initialize Class Selection for one-time review before choosing. After reviewing available classes, you may choose your class, or choose to Delay Class Selection to allow new possible class options later. WARNING! Levelling capped at Level 10 until a Class has been Chosen!

Initialize Class Selection now? [Yes/No]

Morgan had but a moment to parse this new influx of data, however. With the death of the [Lesser Direwolf Alpha], the howling and yipping rest of the pack had fallen silent on the other side of the river. Every previous feeling of fear and panic spurred on by her [Naked Instinct] suddenly faded to a pale memory, as without even thinking, she instinctively crouched low in the sand clutching Lulu and activated [Naked Camouflage]. She’d almost forgotten she had the skill, and it was no comfort before this dread pressure now squeezing the very light out of the day.

A low, roiling mist had begun to slowly creep out of the trees, and it flowed across the ground and the rest of the wolfpack. The mist curled almost lovingly around the pack members before thickening and rising higher. It came to the very edge of the now calm waters and stopped there, as the morning sunlight seemed to fade back to the dim pre-dawn night. The mists gently roiled higher until they obscured the trees of the distant forest edge, and then receded like a slow sigh finally released.

The pack of wolves was now simply gone. In their place on the other side of the river and looking directly at Morgan was an utterly massive wolf, easily twice the size of the [Lesser Direwolf Alpha]. It made no sound and did not blink, and though its fur rippled as if there were a breeze, there was no wind. She stared back at it, entranced by the glow of its ancient amber eyes. And she had no doubt, this wolf was old. Its fur was a yellowed gray, with white on its muzzle and ears. She could suddenly hear its slow growling breath, even from hundreds of yards away, and as it kept its eyes locked on hers, yet another notification slammed into her mind:

The Ancient Direwolf Packmother has Marked you as Enemy of The Pack! Cross their territory at your peril! The Moonlit Hunt is Unending!

She could feel something hit her along with the notification, something that rattled her entire body and knocked her out of [Naked Camouflage]. A whisper of Mana of a type she couldn’t touch brushed across her bones, leaving traces that faded a heartbeat later. Any delusions of being hidden fled her mind, and Morgan stood up with resignation. If this wolf wanted to cross the river, it would, and Morgan knew she couldn’t outrun this one. Her only salvation was the fact that she seemed to have made it outside the territory of the pack. This ancient being not only respected the oldest rules; for all Morgan knew, the thing had written them.

The Packmother raised her head to the sky, and what came forth couldn’t simply be called a howl. It was grief made manifest, a resonating sorrow that caused the land and waters to vibrate, kicking up dirt and river spray. It was a memory of a time older than ancient, when mankind feared the dark and worshiped the life-giving fire, and the only safety to be found in the world was within the light of those embers. It made Morgan want to rip her own heart out of her chest in mourning, and at the same time she wanted to dance for triumph and sheer joy of survival.

The piercing cry carried on and on, and brought tears to her eyes as it faded. She felt like she’d lost something important as the sound faded away, but gained a new understanding, as well. As she blinked the tears away, the daylight returned between one moment and the next, and the Packmother was gone.

Sobbing for multiple reasons, Morgan fell to her knees as [Naked Instinct] finally faded and the adrenaline shock hit her. Relief at no longer being hunted warred with a guilt she didn’t understand over killing the Lesser Alpha. She knew it would have killed her, but that didn’t make her proud of it. It only meant she was the one who had survived. And so she sat and cried, while Lulu made comforting purrs.

It was a much-needed release, and after a few minutes, Morgan felt much better, and well recovered in Mana and Stamina. Her body’s reserves were low, but there were literal tons of fresh meat less than a dozen yards away, so with food and safety at least minimally assured, she returned her attention to the previous notification.

Initialize Class Selection now? [Yes/No]

“I don’t know what’s going to happen, Lulu,” she said. The little scrubby responded with a puffling gesture very evocative of a shrug and hopped off her shoulder with a warble. The precocious loofah seemed completely over the train wreck that had been their entire night, and seemed to have decided to stand guard while Morgan did whatever it was she was about to do.

Without further words, she responded to the notification with a mental yes.

Class Selection Initializing. Preparing Temporal Suspension Instance.

And then the world vanished around her.

Chapter 10: Know Thyself

Morgan Mackenzie was experiencing something she’d never before experienced. Absolute serenity. Or as close to it as it’s possible to get, she mused to herself. She stood upon ground that wasn’t ground. She could feel smooth, loamy dirt beneath her bare feet, but she couldn’t see it. Or anything else, for that matter.

But the darkness didn’t feel oppressive. It was serene, calming, like a warm blanket on a cold night. For the first time in days, Morgan didn’t feel naked, though she still was. There was an expectancy in the air, like something was about to happen. But she didn’t feel frightened by it. or rushed, or anything else. Merely calm. Whatever’s supposed to happen will happen in its own time…

After a period of time that could have been a few seconds or an eternity, the darkness receded slightly as Morgan received another notification:

Class Selection Curation commencing…

Choosing your Class is a commitment to a life-long path. This Choice is permanent, and may not be undone! If you find none of your available options acceptable, you may delay Selection until you meet conditions for other Classes.

The area around Morgan brightened further, gently illuminating roiling black mists that retreated away from her to form a dome nearly thirty paces across. As the wall of mist retreated, a portion remained directly in front of her. It swirled and spiraled around itself in eerie tendrils to form a vaguely humanoid shape. As the shape coalesced into more detail, it seemed to solidify. The coal-colored shadow gave way to flesh tones starting at the feet, rippling upward, until suddenly Morgan was looking at…

Morgan. Or a nearly perfect copy of me, thought the original Morgan. Other-Morgan stood perfectly still as they inspected each other, while Morgan herself shifted awkwardly in sudden nervousness. They were exactly the same, yet somehow, not. This other woman seemed wild, almost feral. Her hair was tangled and frazzled, with grit and small bits of twigs and leaves caught in it. She stood on the balls of her feet with her knees bent slightly, as if she were about to spring in any direction. Her intense blue eyes never blinked as they roved up and down Morgan’s own body, rapidly flicking about as if watching for danger from any possible direction.

Those weren’t the only changes, however. Morgan had never been overly obsessed with her body image beyond her lack of curves, but compared to this Other-Morgan, she suddenly felt soft and flabby. Her doppelganger’s breasts were larger, just big enough that gravity was noticeable in the sway as the other woman took slow, deep breaths. Morgan would have felt jealous of that alone, but it paled into insignificance before the rest of the differences. This reflection of Morgan had muscles. Not big, garish, oversized muscles, but a wiry, toned body like skin stretched over whipcord steel. There was little softness here, aside from the natural femininity that was only magnified by the rest of the physique. Other-Morgan’s lean abs and belly flowed down to the natural vee shape Morgan herself had only ever dreamed of showing off at the beach. She has a freaking eight-pack, thought Morgan.

It wasn’t a musculature for showing off, though. The woman’s skin was marred with scars, and the rope-like tendons of her arms flowed into bony wrists and battle-worn hands with jagged, elongated nails. Her feet were dirty and stained and in a similar state, toes splayed out like talons gripping the earth for better purchase.

Both Morgans studied each other for a long moment before another notification interrupted:

Before making this irrevocable choice, know thyself!

Morgan wondered for a split second if the Other-Morgan had received a notification as well, but all doubt left her mind when her altered reflection hissed and dropped into a crouch while looking up and around frantically. The sudden movement startled the original Morgan, and she stepped back a pace and held up her hands in a peace-making gesture.

“Whoa, hold up it’s okay! It’s okay!” she said to the frightened alter-version of herself. The feral woman bared her teeth at Morgan while gliding backward with cat-like grace. Arcs of energy began to crackle threateningly around her hands, which the woman had raised up into a defensive position. Morgan resisted the urge to draw her own power as she slowly backed away another step to give her other self some more space. She lowered her own hands and turned them, palms out, toward the wild version of herself and spoke again in slower, softer tones.

“I don’t wanna fight you, girl…”

“Nnnnnnnn!”

The other woman seemed to be trying to force a word past her clenched teeth, or not to know how to say the word in the first place. Then those wild eyes went wide and the woman swayed as the sparks fizzled out around her hands, before she shook her head and resumed her defensive stance. “Nnn—” she tried again and then took a deep breath. “No! No fight… Talk—”

“You understand me?” Morgan asked, relieved that she wasn’t trapped in some sort of death-match with her mirror image. Probably not a death-match then, she thought. Maybe. I hope…

The other woman seemed relieved, if her shift in stance back to a more relaxed but wary posture was any indication, while nodding her head happily up and down. “Talk is…” the woman continued to struggle, as if she knew the meanings but not the words to convey them.

“…hard. You speak, give words!”

The last part snapped out like a plea, or a demand, Morgan couldn’t be certain which. “You want to talk but don’t know the words?” she asked the other woman.

A triumphant smile changed Other-Morgan’s feral appearance to one much brighter and less savage, almost innocent, and completely without deception. “YES!” She beamed at Morgan. She bounced from foot to foot happily for a moment, then tried to talk some more. “You un-unner… no.” Another deep breath followed. “You. Understand. Good. Gooder? No… please. Talk. More words. I learn.”

The original Morgan stood in confused thought for a moment while the other-her pulled at her tangled mat of messy hair in frustration before speaking up again.

“You learn to talk better when I talk with you?” Morgan said.

“Yes, yes!” The other woman seemed almost giddy and did the quick dance again. “Talk more!” the Other-Morgan demanded eagerly.

“I have no idea what to say, though. Should I just ramble? And why do you look like me?” responded Morgan. The exuberant happy radiating off her other self was contagious somehow, but then everything about this strange manifestation had been extremely intense, as if the other woman was incapable of holding back her expressions. The next thing the doppelganger said made total sense, given the situation, but was still a shock for Morgan to have it confirmed.

“Not look like Morgan. Am Morgan. You Morgan, me Morgan. We am Morgan.”

“I think I understand! Are you some possible future me? Some way this world works with its magic and levels that we don’t have back on Earth?” Morgan asked, thinking it might be some sort of test or kind of spirit walk like in the movies. Pop culture for the win! she thought, until the wilder woman’s entire demeanor changed.

The other woman looked at her with an expression like she’d just smelled something gross and unpleasant. “No, stupid!” Other-Morgan said, stomping one foot like a young child in a tantrum. “Not future Morgan. Now Morgan. Always Morgan! Talk more! Then Morgan tell…better”

The Other briskly turned and paced back and forth with a muttering prowl as the original Morgan stood in stunned silence. After a few moments, she drew a breath and softly spoke.

“I’m not sure what to talk about. If you really are me, shouldn’t you know all the shit I’ve been through ever since I got here?”

Wild-Morgan seemed to pick up on the sadness in her voice and ceased her pacing to step slowly toward Morgan with a knowing look. She placed her palm gently on Morgan’s temple and softly said, “You Morgan.” Then she slid the hand down Morgan’s neck, between her breasts, to rest it just over her navel. “Me Morgan. In—” She seemed to struggle for the word, but finally managed a quiet whisper. “Instinct. Feelings. I am. Are. This so hard… please more words I learn…fast. I learn fast you- no. I. Learn. Fast. If. You. Help. Talk. Any words. Please.”

The effort of so much verbalization seemed to completely drain her, and Other-Morgan melted down to a sitting position with an exhausted whooshing of air from her lungs.

“Phew…” said Morgan, taking a half-step back. “That’s some heavy shit to drop on a person like that. So you’re what, my gut feelings and instincts? Then how can you even talk at all?”

The sitting woman raised an eyebrow at her with an expression like Morgan had asked another stupid question. “Only here. This place. This… Time. This is place of knowing. Only get one… What word. Visit. Only one. Never again after. Please talk more. All words help.”

“I was telling the truth when I said I just don’t know what to say,” said Morgan. “All I can do is ramble shit off you already know, if you are me and all that.”

“Ramble fine. Ramble IS fine. Learn me how words—Learn how words fit. I learn how words fit. Ramble is good.”

“Wait, so you know things, but not how to put the words together? Can’t you just borrow that from me if we’re the same person?” Morgan sat down herself with her legs crossed under her and looked her counterpart in the eyes. “Or does it not work that way in this place?”

Her other-self looked back with a grin. “You getting it. Here we not one, we apart. But only in this place. After, one again. And I lose words. This only—This is only one-time thing. For knowing self. Agreement.”

Morgan propped her chin on her hand and her elbow on her knee in thought. “So this is obviously something to do with choosing a class in this world. And after this, I’ll never get to talk with you again? And you say you’re my instincts or instinctive self. Were you ever with me on Earth?”

“Yes. Must have agreement choose—Both agree—” the woman shuddered with the effort, but finally spoke an entire coherent sentence. “We both must agree on the Class we choose!” The words left Other-Morgan clutching her head and panting, but grinning at her success. She seemed to consider for a few moments before choosing her next word. “Correct. After this, no talk again. Probaly. Probably? Maybe in very strong dream, only maybe. Very very maybe.”

“So it’s not likely we’ll talk again, but there’s a slim chance we can if I dream deeply enough?” Morgan asked. The other woman nodded with a smile and made a rolling gesture with her hand, begging for more words.

“What about Earth? Have you always been me, has it always been us, even before this world with magic?”

“Always us. Me always—I have always there. Been. There. With you. But sleeping mostly. Earth safe. You safe. You were safe. With tribe. Family. Me—I not always needed, so asleep. Awake more when you little, and scared. Awake less when bigger.” The words seemed to come a little easier to the feral version of Morgan, and a more confident and less fidgety woman was slowly taking the place of the frightened girl who had first appeared. “As child. Awake more when you child, and needed me. Then asleep until not child. Until woman. First mating. Awake for mating. Always awake for mating! Fun!”

The original Morgan found herself blushing furiously, covering herself with an arm across her chest and a hand between her legs. “I’m not sure how to feel about that, um…can we talk about things other than mating, please?”

“HA!” the other woman laughed. “You no fun, that why I awake then, you too—what word—embarrassed. Shy. Need me those times. Even though you want same fun, still need me! I help not be shy, you have better matings.”

Morgan shook her head and feared she’d die from embarrassment. And from being embarrassed by my own inner self, at that!!! Forcibly regaining control of her composure, she cleared her throat before talking again. “Ahem. Yes. Well then. Um. Earth. You were asleep on Earth most of the time except when I needed you. What happened here, how did you wake up, so to speak?”

“Already awake. Other woman steal mate, you—we—angry. MINE! OURS! Territory! Already awake when you angry!” The woman lunged to her feet with anger. She seemed to be completely open and expressive, no matter what the topic, unable or unwilling to even try to control her emotions, and the words became more snarl than speech by the time she finished.

“But then I decided to go find another man,” Morgan said, with a twinge of regret and sadness.

The other woman slapped her hard enough to send Morgan ass over teakettle. Ears ringing, she stumbled to her feet, shouting, “What was that for!?”

“NO REGRET! NO SHAME!” the other woman shouted at her angrily. “She take; if she can take, he not worthy! Find better!”

“Hey, I completely agree with you there, dammit! No need to hit me! I thought you wanted to talk!”

The other woman seemed utterly chastised, verging on tears as she clutched Morgan in a desperate hug. “I sorry. You think. I feel. I am only feel. Can only think here, is hard. Hardest thing I ever do. But have to so you can understand me. Understand self. So WE can understand…”

She stepped back from Morgan with a calmer expression. “Please, more words. Getting easier to say what mean. What I mean.”

Morgan rubbed her jaw, but the anger had faded with the pleading hug and apology from her other self. She paced back and forth under the dome of shadows while she spoke. “So you’re like my primal self, all the primitive feelings, and you were close to the surface because I was so angry. And then we fell through to this world, and I panicked and freaked out. What did that do to you?”

“Then I was very awake! More awake than ever before, except when you were a child and afraid of the dark, or your first man many year later. Only other times I was that awake!”

“But I don’t understand, why are you always asleep?”

“It so hard to explain. Never truly asleep. But close. All peoples are, for a long long long time. Earth is safe most places, most times. Earth is—Earth is tamed. Not no danger but danger is less danger, no…” Another pause and deep breaths. “Earth is less dangerous now. Except war places. Biggest danger other people.” The other woman gestured as she spoke, her expressions flickering so openly and honestly, Morgan could almost forget they looked so alike. Those expressive eyes locked on hers and Other-Morgan said, “You understand me?”

“I think so,” Morgan replied. “You aren’t just my inner self. You’re the primitive side that kept humans alive before fire and guns. Survival instincts? No, not just survival. Primal.”

There was a savage glee in the Other-Morgan’s eyes as she spoke those words, her teeth bared and eyes bright while she slowly nodded. “YES!” she hissed at Morgan with a guttural tone that was both sensual and intimidating at the same time. “I am your fight!” she said, her clawed fists swiping through the air and trailing actinic purple sparks as she danced in place like a boxer. “And I’m your flee!” she hissed as she sprinted a circle around the shadowed dome.

Morgan’s own heart beat a sharp, staccato rhythm as she found the other woman’s complete lack of emotional restraint pull her along with its honest abandon. Other-Morgan darted behind her suddenly, hands slipping around Morgan’s waist to pull her tightly against the other’s body. She nuzzled at her neck, inhaling the scent of Morgan’s hair. One of the woman’s hands curled up to her breast while the other slid gently between her legs, and Morgan felt her whole body flush with heat as fingers danced and teeth lightly nipped her shoulder before an extremely erotic whisper reached her ear with a sultry, soft rasp. “And I’m your sex when your man gets it just right.”

Other-Morgan spun away with an almost sinister laugh, leaving the original standing there gasping for breath. “Primal. That’s the best and only word. I’ve always been there, when you needed to survive. That’s my number one concern. Survival. For you. For your kin. For your tribe, your pack, your family. That has always been why I exist. Why I will always exist. When our people first tamed the fire to fight the night, I was there.”

Morgan couldn’t speak. The Other-Morgan seemed to have found all the words she needed, and now spoke with such intensity, such sheer ferocity and raw emotion, that Morgan herself stood captivated.

“I’m your primal drives. Fight or flight, hunger for food, for a mate. I’m why you want children, to nest up and nurture the next generation. Survive doesn’t just include you. It includes your entire line. Your family, your legacy. I’m always there in the background, but I usually don’t have to do much. You have safety. You have food. You have family, your world has laws, and most people are peaceful. So I can just snooze in the background, letting you be silly or stupid, because even if you make mistakes, you will still survive. And if you do end up wandering into those few dangerous places left in your world? I wake back up to warn you away from dark alleys, dangerous men, or shadows in the woods at night. And of course I wake up when you get your freak on, it gets boring as hell just riding passenger all the time.”

Morgan was utterly fascinated. Everything the woman said made perfect sense in some ways, but her situation since arriving in this world still had no explanation. She tried to frame her own questions, but the words stumbled together.

“But wha-why-HOW? Even with magic, I don’t understand why we can have a conversation like this if you’re that—that instinctual!”

“Because of the System that exists in this world. You have to make a choice, but it cannot let you make a blind one. It cannot talk to you, the same way I normally can’t. But it can talk to me in the other way, the way you can’t understand, but can only feel. And here, in this place, right now, I can talk to you just this once. You’ve been making choices without understanding anything, but you can still change back, at least for the most part. You can’t turn back once you choose a Class.”

Morgan’s near-mirror image stepped forward with a grim look in her eyes. “You aren’t on Earth anymore. This world is not SAFE! And I can’t keep us alive alone because it isn’t Earth. We don’t have thousands of years and hundreds of generations of instinctual memory to draw on. I don’t know if the whole world is like these Wildlands we landed in. The System won’t tell me that. It only shows me enough to point you down the different paths and explain the consequences, and even that is vague.”

“Then we need a plan. What can you tell me about choosing a Class? What even is it? Like the video games I played as a kid with my brothers?”

The other woman nodded. “In a lot of ways it’s exactly like that. We’ll have a lot of options we could take right now, and others we don’t meet the conditions for. But you already have a big problem, even though it’s not completely your fault.”

“The Naked Affinity Aspect,” Morgan said as her counterpart looked heartbreakingly embarrassed and ashamed. “What do you mean not completely my fault?” she asked with sudden apprehension.

“I was already awake when we got here, and then everything went to shit. Right off the bat you earned the basic aspect pretty much by random chance. But after you spent points on the [Naked Instinct], I became something more. I’m a big part of why you only spent points on the naked skills, because I didn’t know enough!” By the end of her confession, the Other-Morgan was almost weeping in shame, looking vulnerable and submissive for the first time since appearing. “And I screwed up, because now I know how stupid that was, not to have other skills…”

“What do you mean? It all made sense at the time. Other skills applied to using items or weapons, and we definitely didn’t have anything like that, except for the bathtub and the loofah, if that counts…”

“They made sense because I don’t care about clothes, Morgan. Your instinctive memories go back farther than the time when humans first wove grass skirts or made a loincloth out of animal hide. Many times, many times farther. We spent tens of thousands of years grunting at each other and huddling in caves before we even figured out fire, back when it was all me and you could barely worry about the next meal, let alone the next week or next year. When as women we were claimed by the strongest male whether we liked him or not, and we were grateful for the protection and the chance of stronger children. Before our brothers tamed the first wolf or made the first spear. That is how I think, or thought before this talk. It’s how I’ll think again when you leave here. So you have to understand, and we have to figure this out, because there is no going back once you go forward.”

Morgan remained silent in thought as the other woman’s voice finished with a quiet sigh. It took her a few minutes to gather herself and take in the scope of that kind of revelation.

“So you pushed me to the naked skills because they were our best bet for survival, right?”

The other her nodded passively, as if waiting for judgement for a crime.

“But all the other skills I could see in the list, they were either useless without the right gear, or seemed pointless in general. I don’t really understand why you feel bad…”

“Because of what the System has shown me about Classes, Morgan. It curates a selection for every person who reaches level ten. And one of the primary ways it decides what classes, or how to modify your classes that are available…” She trailed off, looking more humiliated by the second, and it almost broke Morgan’s heart to see this other self suffer. “…they’re based off the skills you’ve learned,” she whispered, barely audible in the flat acoustics of the misty dome.

They both stood in silence for several long minutes before Morgan finally spoke. “Does that mean I’m stuck with the whole naked thing even with a class?” she asked flatly, almost a monotone without emotion.

Her other-self actually cringed away while wringing her hands. “Probably!” she admitted, followed by a rush of words Morgan struggled to keep up with. “The system works on choices, and your class is the most important one, or one of the most important ones, you can make in your life here in its world! Once you choose, you can’t go back, but you might not meet the conditions for a normal class because of me, and I don’t know how to keep us alive if you delay the choice, and if I’d pushed you toward different skills, you’d have better options, but I just didn’t know, I didn’t know, I didn’t know…”

The woman had dropped down to sitting with her knees drawn up as she spat the words with anguished sobs, rocking back and forth like a forlorn child. “Hey,” Morgan said as she sat next to the woman and drew her into a hug with one arm. “Tell me truly, you didn’t know before now?”

Other-Morgan wiped her eyes but didn’t hesitate to respond. “Truly, I didn’t know. Wasn’t even able to know. And then we were here, and I was afraid you would hate me, and if you hate me, you hate yourself, and that only ends one way. We die. Either on purpose, or because we work against each other and get killed. Still, dead is dead.”

Morgan gave a chuckle and leaned her head on the other’s shoulder. “Yup, dead is definitely dead. But we’re alive right now, and I don’t hate you for not knowing. But I need to know what my options are, whatever you can tell me…”

“Well,” said her counterpart. “If we were anywhere with other people to help, it probably wouldn’t even be a problem. You could delay Class Selection and lock down the aspect with some gear or another bracelet. Then you could practice and learn new skills not under the aspect, and meet conditions for classes without naked restrictions.”

“I don’t think that would be the smartest thing to do, with Dire Wolves, Tyrannorabbits, Eel-Hydras, and lord knows what else chasing us every time we turn around.”

“That’s why I thought you’d hate me. Without the learning bonuses from the aspect and the other skills, it could take days, or weeks for you to learn a single spell. And you can’t level any more until you choose a class, so no more skill points or stat points to help.”

“What if I refuse to choose, but we keep going the way we have been, and try to look for a town or other people, so we can do the whole ‘training new shit but with clothes on’ plan?”

Other-Morgan looked at her glumly. “The System doesn’t show me much, but I do know we’ve not yet encountered creatures anywhere close to the most dangerous in The Wildlands, and that includes the Packmother. Unless you find a safe place to fortify and dig in for the long term, eventually something will pick up our scent that we can’t outrun and can’t fight off. Even choosing a powerful class won’t be a guarantee of survival, it only improves the odds a little bit.”

Both Morgans fell silent for a long time, one in deep thought, the other wracked with emotion she couldn’t control. After what could have been either minutes or hours with no way to tell, the original Morgan finally spoke up.

“No matter what I choose, you’ll still be there, even if you can’t talk, right?” The other woman simply nodded in the affirmative, sniffling quietly and wiping at her eyes.

“Okay. I understand the downsides. And I don’t hate you. If you really are me, or that part of me, you should know that’s the truth. Now, what can you tell me about the benefits? Are classes that powerful, and isn’t there some advantage to saying screw it and going all in with the nudist thing?”

Other-Morgan looked at her in shock, which grew slowly into something akin to wonder. “Um!” she choked out the syllable with a cough, before taking a moment to catch her breath and continue in a calmer manner. “Yeah, there’s definite advantages. The double experience and points you already know. But you also learn any skills aspected under the whole naked thing a hell of a lot faster. Numbers are your thing; I can’t really count much past fingers and toes. After a dozen or so, it’s all just either a heck of a lot or too many to me. But I know you learn ‘Naked’ skills and abilities much easier, and gain skill levels a lot faster than normal, too. It’s all because of the balance of not being able to equip gear.”

“That sounds like some powerful benefits, but it doesn’t explain what a class is.”

“A class is…hard to explain, even with your words to help me. The System lets me know in a vague sense, but it’s stingy on actual classes and details. They’re somewhat like specializations or jobs, and a little like a mantra or a belief system, but not in the religious—well, there might be religious classes, I’m not sure—but…” She paused to consider the words. “Classes are a massive upgrade in your potential, at the cost of narrowing the focus of your life. There is power; from what I can sense, there is a truly awesome potential for power with classes. But the most powerful ones will have the biggest drawbacks. But I won’t know any more than that until we move on to the next part.”

The original Morgan pushed herself up to her feet and brushed the dirt off her backside, planting her hands on her hips and looking around the featureless dome around them. “Well,” she said, “I can back out and choose to put this whole thing off if I don’t like our options, right?” She turned and offered a hand to her other-self, pulling the wild woman to her feet. “So tell me, if you know, how do we move on to the next bit?”

That part was immediately made clear by another notification:

Having reached understanding of thyself, now understand the possible choices!

The charcoal mists surrounding them suddenly writhed and roiled, and faint purple flashes shone through as if lightning were striking in the distance all around them. Her other-self literally flipped from a sitting position to a fighting crouch in a cat-like display of flexibility and a savage, panicked snarl, eyes once again darting in every direction at once. As Morgan stepped over and calmly took her hand, the more feral version of her whimpered.

“It’s okay,” Morgan told her other-self. “Out in the world, you help protect me. I don’t think this system will just outright kill us with something like this. I know you’re all feeling and instinct, so in here, just lean on me…”

The flashes of lightning intensified, and low, rumbling thunder soon announced its own presence as the mists retreated like a wave of ocean waters flowing back out to sea. The ceiling of the dome lifted upward only a few dozen yards, forming low-slung and ominous clouds occasionally backlit by violent streaks of violet purple light. But what currently held their attention were the thousands of Morgans revealed by the receded mists.

There really were more of them than Morgan could have counted. Easily over a thousand, each standing on her own low stone pedestal raised just a scant handful of inches above the surrounding earth. Some of them wore armor, some of them silks and finery, and they seemed to be grouped with similar attire in clumps that followed various themes. As still and grey as statues, they stood facing the same direction, toward a larger raised section of earth that seemed to have a circle of brighter and more colorful versions of her.

“Can you tell me anything about this part?” Morgan inquired of her primal self.

“A little. These versions of you farther away from the center are possible classes that you don’t meet the conditions for. Either you don’t have the right skills, or they’re incompatible with your aspect, or both. The closer you get to the center, the less conflicts those classes have with the way you are now. Easier to figure out how to get to, I think. Words are getting—I’m losing words again…”

“Then we should hurry,” the original Morgan responded. “If there’s anything you need to tell me, just speak up while you can. I don’t hate you. I’m not even angry about it anymore now that I know the details.”

Other-Morgan grinned and pulled her along. “No bother with these. Too far away—too many conditions we not ever…meet. But what does Morgan want? Up here?” She tapped Morgan’s temple again, with an intent focus in her eyes.

Morgan had begun to be distracted by the sheer variety of the statues. She’d seen one with massively exaggerated muscles barely contained in heavy armor holding a huge war hammer overhead. At the question, she stopped for a moment, but only a short one.

“I want the magic. From the first spell I cast, even as we burned after the fruit screwup—which was all me, I know I ignored you there—I wanted the magic. I miss clothes, but I don’t want to die, and I just…” Morgan lost her own words as her thoughts trailed off. “I want the magic more than I want to give a shit about modesty. I already run around in skimpy dresses, and half the time without panties. I’ll have to figure something out when winter comes, or when and if I ever run into other people. But honestly?” She looked at her other self. “The magic is more important than anything except survival. You get me?” The other woman beamed happily back at her as Morgan continued, “What do YOU want? We have to agree, remember?”

“I want…” The primitive version of Morgan seemed to struggle again, as if she were regressing back to the wild child that had first appeared under the dome of shadows. “Want survive. Survive mean power. Must be strong enough. Magic better than fist. Much better. Always have fist. Not always magic.”

As they approached the inner sections of the rows of statues hand-in-hand, Other-Morgan stopped just before the displayed versions of their self began to show in color. “These must be closer to what we meet the conditions for,” Morgan said as the other girl nodded. She started to step further in, where the statues were lit in full detail and vibrant colors, almost as if they’d been caught in mid-motion, but her alter-ego stopped her short with a tightening grip on her hand, and a slightly sad frown.

“In there,” the other woman said, nodding toward the brightened center-most ring of statues, “no more separate. Only you. Us. We. Am one again there.” She struggled with the last few words, and then seemed to lose all capacity for speech as she dropped back to gritted teeth and a frustrated expression.

“I think we’re on the same page, though,” said the original Morgan with a smile, gently booping her other-self on the nose. “You want power, to help with survival. I want magic. So I say we find the most powerful magic we possibly can, and we don’t take no for an answer, no matter what this System says.”

As her primal self grinned back at her, those words seemed to roll out across the assembled statues. The Morgans bathed in light up ahead of their current position flashed brightly, and several of them went dark, while a handful of previously darkened ones farther back suddenly lit savagely bright. A low thrum could be felt in the earth as pedestals began to shift, while the newly greyed-out statues moved backward away from the inner circle, the now-glowing ones further back moved inward to take their place. The ones that moved away seemed to be fighters, poses like martial arts contenders, except for one that knelt with head bowed and hands together as if in prayer.

Morgan resumed the journey inward, pulling her other self along by the hand. A mere two paces away from stepping into the ring of light, they were both brought up short, as if running into a wall. One more notification sprang into Morgan’s view.

Having reached understanding and agreement with thyself, a Choice must be made!

Will you continue Class Selection at this time, or delay for new conditions to be met in the future? [Continue/Delay]

Morgan turned to look at her savagely grinning other-self. The ferocity and confidence in her gaze was matched only by the sheer, joyous energy that seemed to radiate off the other woman as she pulled Morgan into a hug and pressed her forehead to hers. Morgan smiled and chose to continue, and the other faded back into mist that lost its color and dissipated, while a familiar giggling chuckle sounded in the empty and still air. When she realized the giggling was her own, she snorted and clapped her hands together.

“Well then,” she said with a faint smile. “Let’s get the last part over with…”

As Morgan stepped into the circle, the shadowy mist descended once again to cover all that remained outside the light. That left only a handful of figures at the edges of the glowing circle, facing inward in stillness toward the center where a broad stone slab lay upon the ground. The top surface of the slab was polished smooth, the outer edges still rough and uncut stone, as if the entire piece had simply been sliced cleanly from the middle of a boulder. The stone was sparkling white quartz marbled with brilliant purple, violet, and indigo veins that reflected the pulsing lightning that still lit the black, soupy sky.

She stepped closer, and as she fully emerged into the circle of figures, the outer ring of light flared. Space itself distorted as the distance between the figures and the center stone snapped out with a quiet whisper of air. Morgan turned a circle where she stood, and realized she was now standing in an arena. “Oh, dear…”

With even more intense curiosity, she walked back toward the nearest figure that bore her face. Or rather, it resembled her face if she were to grow a glittering, crystal coating over her entire skin. At the woman’s feet lounged a shadowy, crystalline cat that vaguely resembled the tufted shape of the [Shadowlynx] Morgan was so intimately familiar with, if somewhat smaller than the one that had attacked her that day in the cave. On the woman’s shoulder perched some sort of bird, with razor-seeming talons and a wicked beak, and she saw upon stepping closer that the bird’s feathers were tipped in translucent crystal thinner than the thinnest paper.

Morgan came to a complete and sudden stop in surprise when the woman turned her head to watch her approach. “SHIT! I thought you were statues!”

“No,” the crystal Morgan replied. “Merely potential choices that may come to pass, allowed a voice to impart the knowledge to help you decide.”

“Ah…so how does the whole crystal thing happen? What are you?”

“I am the [Crystal Mistress],” this new Morgan replied flatly. “If you choose me as your class, you embrace the changes wrought in your bones when you consumed the Fruit of the Tree of Life and Magic, and then endured the [Mana Cascade]. It will allow you to control all crystalline structures and minerals, from the smallest grains, to massive spires. Creatures you wound with sharpened shards or otherwise pierce with your crystalkinesis will absorb your crystals into their blood, allowing you to absorb their essence and life to increase your power, copying their forms in crystal for you to control. As you can see, clothing is no longer an issue.”

Morgan flat out stared with morbid fascination as the woman made a gesture akin to a sales girl waving her hand in front of a product, only the crystal version of herself lowered her hand past her face, and the crystals coating her skin retreated to the sides in a rippling wave of molecularly fine edges and jagged lethality. As the crystal spines and scales stood up against the skin, they retreated into the flesh, and Morgan shuddered at the obvious agony the cruelly serrated edges caused the potential future her. Especially when the crystals dug back into her breasts and between her legs; the woman flinched, and blood seeped out from a thousand, thousand cuts all over her body.

“There is a price for power,” the woman gasped. “And the price for my power is pain. You will lose your resistances to it in exchange, for there are few things in this world that can counter me. I am limited only by how much Mana I can drain from my enemies, and how much pain I can bring myself to endure, and nothing else. With enough Mana to drain, I could freeze the seas and shatter the land of this world, if only I could bear the pain of it. If you choose the Path of Crystal, take my hand.”

At that the woman ceased all movement, even the blood running down her skin freezing in place as she held out one hand upturned. Morgan did not hesitate, turning away and pacing toward the next figure clockwise around the circle. She’d almost choked at the thought of enduring such pain, especially without her resistances.

She strode to the next statue, slowing to take in every detail of the next version of herself. This one was terrifying in its own right, for an entirely different host of reasons than the [Crystal Mistress] had been. Where Morgan had nearly story-book pale skin, this possible future woman had a dark reddish complexion, marred by cracks that spiderwebbed her body from head to toe. They didn’t quite form patterns around her features, but gave the impression that they almost did so, fading to finer marks around the woman’s eyes and extremities, or broadening around her breasts and below her belly to almost obscure her most female of features. Sooty grey powder seemed to suddenly be pushed out of the cracks as the statue shifted its posture to look Morgan in the eyes, the ashen dust further covering the slender, naked form.

“I am the [Magmastride Banshee],” she said. The voice was a rasp, like dragging a half-charred log out of a dying campfire, and as she continued to speak, her eyes went from black coals to fiercely shining embers. “I am walking ruin, empowered by the Mana that even now smolders in your bones, and by your practiced affinities with Earth, Heat, and Flame. My scorching screams sear life from the very land, and I feed upon the ashen remains of my fallen foes.”

Morgan retreated a step, for with every word, the woman’s eyes glowed brighter, and the sooty cracks along her body were overtaken by a creeping, liquid glow. The heat around the banshee intensified until it rippled the air around her, and tears of magma seeped from her eyes and the cracks in her body, and even from her sex, to drip sizzling and smoking upon the stone pedestal. The voice came again, much louder and with a resonance like a roaring furnace or a jet engine, although still with a feminine pitch. “At the end of all that is, everything shall BURN! Mine is the Scorching Path!”

The woman’s heat-frizzled hair seemed to rise on the updrafts of the inferno as she spoke, before itself igniting into vibrant flame. The [Magmastride Banshee] then rose up a hand’s width off the stone pedestal as the veined quartz platform began to melt, simmering anger and barely restrained rage turning the crystal into a seething mass of crimson-yellow liquid flame that hissed and spat like a thing possessed. The voice boomed out like the guttural snarl of a volcano one last time. “The price of my power is obvious! If you would walk the Scorching Path, take my hand and burn eternal!”

“Nope! Nope! NOPE!” Morgan chuffed as she quickly turned away from the heat. Just because there was power in burning the Mana she had in her bones didn’t mean Morgan could embrace it, as the Banshee seemed to enjoy.

The next pedestal she gave a wide berth as she skipped it to approach the one after. That Morgan didn’t look even close to human. An overly-large mouth gaped wide, baring bestial teeth and vicious fangs. Bulging muscles outlined the scarred figure, and only the swell of breasts and lack of equipment between its legs gave evidence that it was even female. “Nope,” she spoke aloud. “Don’t even wanna know.”

The statue she now approached looked far more promising. A peaceful and serene appearing version of herself gazed slightly up into the distance. What at first looked like tattoos of green vines or roots were revealed, upon closer inspection, to be actual vines and roots covering the woman’s body. They traced beautiful concentric spiral patterns around her breasts, and grew in delicate looping chains around her torso. From the waist, the vines draped down the front and back like a natural skirt, but one that left the outer hips and legs bare. Her feet were stained a dirty green, and tiny purple flowers grew along lines down her arms and legs that accentuated the figure’s beauty. As Morgan approached, the vine-wreathed figure turned its head to regard her, the wreath of blue and yellow blossoms that crowned her head rustling with the movement.

The statue spoke in a voice like the whisper of falling leaves in an autumn breeze. “For your service in awakening the Ancient Tree, by Right of your Title, I am here. I am the [Leafless Druid], and my path is that of the Guardians of Nature. You have consumed the Fruit of the Tree of Life and Mana, and by the power of thy blood may claim kinship with the Tree and its surrounding forest. I am friend to all of the Living Wildlands, servant of the cycles of life and death, predator and prey.”

As the woman spoke, the roots around her writhed and grew tendrils downward, flowing around the stone into the surrounding earth. Up from where the roots touched dirt sprang dense, tangled clumps that grew larger and larger, until the pedestal was surrounded by a dozen roughly humanoid shapes barely waist high to the watching Morgan. They had broad, humped backs with no heads, and proportionately massive arms tipped with vicious, sharpened stakes for fingers as their hands. The blackened wooden tips oozed a viscous green, toxic goop from within grooves along the spikes. Around the elevated druidic figure, more spears of living wood had sprung up around her, covered in giant, barbed thorns. “I command all that grows from the sun and the soil, calling Treants, and even the Mighty Sentinel Trees to my defense, or that of the Forest. From the Eastern Waters to the Western Mountains, and from the Frozen Northern Peaks to the Southern Jungle’s edge, all of the Wildlands is my domain, and feeds my power over Life and Earth.”

As the last sentence still lay in the air, the ground rumbled under Morgan’s feet, and a massive behemoth of moss-covered stone heaved itself up on the opposite side of the druid from where she stood. The [Leafless Druid] held out her hand. “If you choose this path, all my power is yours without any restrictions, save one. You must return to the Tree, and there remain all thy days. My power grows weaker further away from the tree. Three days wandering, perhaps four are the limits you may wander, else facing death as thy power drains away.”

Morgan backed away from the outstretched hand, shaking her head in rejection. Getting away from the tree was the whole point, and being trapped in the Wildlands, or in any single place anywhere, was definitely not on her agenda.

She padded her barefoot self over to the next pedestal, but it, too had restrictions or costs she simply couldn’t bring herself to pay, even for what seemed like extraordinary forms of power.

The [Shadowclad Rune-Witch] offered mastery of enchantment runes and simply ridiculous abilities with the Shadow Element, but came with an allergy to sunlight similar to vampires of Earth legends, along with the magic not working in the day.

Another flat refusal went to the [Flame Raiment Elementalist]. That one offered the ability to shift into Morgan-shaped elementals made of Living Mana of the respective elements—to become Flame, Stone, or Lightning instead of merely wielding them—but the cost was to never return to her flesh and blood form. Morgan didn’t even wait for that one to finish holding out its hand.

Morgan avoided several others that looked like the Class simply included physical changes that were far too extreme or grotesque. She had no desire to become some sort of mutant beast that only dimly remembered humanity, even if the [Stormclaw Were-Tigress] looked like the most badass comic book superhero she could ever have imagined. The poofy tip of her tail was adorable! But the rest, she thought to herself. The neon purple fur was just too much, even as much as I love purple.

She was actually beginning to grow concerned after the ten or so Classes she had to reject. She’d travelled almost halfway around the circular arena, and absolutely nothing had felt right to her, nor had any of them caused any twinge of instinctual pressure. Nothing except for the nopes, and Morgan was in full agreement with her inner self there. The [Wildlands Beastrider] offered the ability to tame and bond with powerful creatures to help her fight or carry her around, and that sounded awesome at first. But she would’ve had to give up her Elemental magics and spells, and neither Morgan nor her now-quiet inner self would have liked that. Even without the required Class Quest to make amends with the Packmother, it was another nope.

Morgan was about to approach the next statue when movement in the distance caught her attention. One of the statues five pedestals further down was moving without her having to approach. Curiosity broke through the tedium of onstantly rejecting the previously offered classes, and she broke into a jog toward the distant moving figure.

As she padded closer, the moving figure resolved into familiar motion patterns. Still a few dozen yards away, she couldn’t help blurting out, “Are you doing YOGA!?!?”

“Yep! Took you long enough to make your way over! I can’t leave the pedestal without you, but I got bored just standin’ here,” came the unusually chipper and happy response in a confident tone of voice. A voice that lacked the exaggeratedly ominous effects the other contending Classes she’d spoken with. This new future-Morgan unfolded herself from a pose that now-Morgan didn’t think she could manage even with enhanced Agility. Scattered across the pedestal were what looked like discarded food wrappings made from folded leaves tied with string, and even a simple stone jug that had been tossed aside to break upon the quartz disk once it was emptied.

“Yeah, I got hungry, too. Had to eat something. You really took your time!”

Morgan could only stare up at this striking possible future version of herself while her heart beat triple-time in her chest. Instincts stirred nervously in her belly, equal parts anticipation and fear. “I don’t even…” she said as the future-Morgan seemed to preen under her gaze. The woman tossed her lustrous hair behind her back with a shake of her head and spread her arms and feet wide, showing everything off.

“You like it?” she quipped down at Morgan with a grin. Her body was utterly striking. A tattoo of a knotted Celtic braid crossed her eyes from temple to temple, vanishing into those raven-black locks of hair. It was a cobalt blue ink that gleamed reflective in the odd ambient light, as were the other tattoos that wreathed the figure standing on the pedestal. Geometric shapes laid in interlocking patterns across her shoulders, reminiscent of fractal patterns Morgan had only ever seen in computer generated estimations of paradoxical structures. The inked blue forms on each shoulder worked inward along her collarbones to spiral down to the center of her chest in finer and finer lines that neared, but never touched, until they both reached a simple, coin-sized circle above the woman’s sternum. Her breasts were as bare as Morgan’s own, but below that, her ribs were traced with rows of tiny triangles outlining very tiny, yet extremely detailed, runes in a linked chain that followed each rib around her torso.

Below the woman’s sternum, toned six-pack abs were outlined by shaded depictions, as if some sort of scale armor had been drawn on her belly. The shiny glimmer of the lines of the tattooed armor descended to a narrow point less than a finger’s width above her most tender bits before arching back up and out over her hip bones in the image of a thin, woven, braid-like belt. Cobalt threads traced lightning patterns up her sides to connect the armor image to the belt, and the belt itself had circled runes inscribed into it. Those patterns seemed to morph and change to Morgan’s eyes as the woman twisted slightly back and forth at the waist to show them off.

Solid bands an inch wide wrapped around the woman’s thighs just below her bare vulva, then gave way to patterns of interlocked triangles, Norse runes, and Celtic swirls that extended down past her knees. Her shins were layered with nested chevron patterns that pointed down toward feet that seemed to have sandals tattooed around them. As the future-Morgan lifted her feet to turn, the now-Morgan saw the soles of her feet were also covered in tiny patterns, like the soles of running shoes she had seen on earth.

“Holy shit, I want these tattoos!” blurted now-Morgan as the future-Morgan turned her back and stretched her arms above her head, holding her hair out of the way. The tattoo belt that had arched up and out from below the front of the woman’s pelvis had wrapped around her hips and arched back down to a point just above her tailbone.

From there it rose upward along her spine, images of interlocking plates that bracketed the ridges of the bones all the way to her shoulders, where it joined the geometric shapes Morgan had seen from the front. And directly on the woman’s finely muscled shoulder blades gleamed two feathered wing tattoos. These ones were different, in the deepest black Morgan had ever laid eyes on. The wings were of a distinctly different style than the cobalt blue and purple lightning tattoos, as if etched by a different hand.

“Are all your tats…” Morgan trailed off, not even sure how to ask.

“Enchantment Runes?” the other woman asked as she turned to face Morgan with a grin. “Yep. Whole body [Living Runic Enchantment]. And if you choose me, you get to learn the first one to set you on the path!”

“You—I can’t even right now!” stammered Morgan. “How are you so different from the others? They’re all like doom and gloom robots, or some shit.”

“I am the [Skyclad Sorceress],” the other replied. “And I’m only here because you challenged the System!”

“How did I do that?”

“Oh, I dunno, maybe by teaming up with your own inner self and declaring that you would find the most powerful magic you possibly could, and take me for your own, no matter what the System had to say about it!” The woman beamed down at her, and Morgan felt her instinctive excitement begin to faintly sway toward fear. “Or by asking what would happen if you went all in with the nudism aspect. Coulda been either. That’s all I know, other than that these others in the circle ain’t worth your time.”

“So what makes you different?”

“I’m different because I’m all or nothing. I get rid of your naked aspect, because it gets rolled into the class. I don’t demand you give anything up you haven’t already been doing without. I don’t restrict you from learning any magic, because I AM magic. Not just magic. I am Sorcery. I don’t need all that frivolous bullshit like magic wands and arcane powders like a weak-ass MAGE!”

She spat the last word with such contempt that Morgan flinched back. The woman’s voice didn’t seem to grow in volume or power, yet as she spoke, the skies darkened and the clouds crept lower, while the bright arcs of lightning intensified. “Wizards. Mages. Shamans. Druids. Priests. Warlocks and Necromancers. Fools, every single one. They miss the point entirely.”

As the [Skyclad Sorceress] gazed down at Morgan with glowing flecks of violet-hued Mana in her eyes, the tattoos began to light up with vicious pulses of power she could feel from a dozen feet away. “Before the first Wizard wrote his notes in the Book that became the Grimoire, there was Sorcery. Before Mages built the first Tower, there was Sorcery. Before the first Druid humped a tree and gave it a name, there was Sorcery. Priests pray to Gods for power, but those Gods ascended because of Sorcery.”

The woman’s voice stayed perfectly calm, but every time she spoke the word sorcery, her tattooed runes flashed and thunder rumbled closer. Lightning began to blast craters in the featureless terrain in the distance, the sound merely muffled thumps Morgan could feel with her bare feet through the ground rather than her ears. “Shamans make bargains with spirits and elementals without even knowing they draw upon Sorcery! And Warlocks and Necromancers? Pulling demons from the Hells, or ripping souls back from the other side of the Veil? They blaspheme against Sorcery itself!”

The last words were a scream, and fire erupted from the skies to fall upon the other statues one by one in brilliant, white bolts that left no rubble, only sparkling molten quartz puddles where each had been before.

“You can feel my power, and I know you must ask the price. There are two. That pesky aspect will be gone. You choose now to commit to the Path of Sorcery and walk with me, and that’s it. No more clothes, no more equipment, no tools. Nothing but your body, your mind, your will, and your power. There will be no penalties for equipping items, for it will be impossible for equipment to affect your body. Sorcery already flows in your blood and lays in your bones as crystal cinders. But there is another price.”

The Sorceress pushed her hand forward, and just above the edge of her stone pedestal, a shimmering barrier appeared against her hand. While the skin of her palm and fingers smoked and sizzled, the woman looked down and spoke once more. “Your inner self told you some, and I can tell you just a little more. You challenged the System, and in return, I am its challenge and its offer to you, but you must understand. It is not good nor evil, it doesn’t know right or wrong, and it doesn’t care who lives or who dies.”

She pushed harder against the barrier, runes dancing with cobalt fire up and down her body. The barrier flared into a complete translucent gold cylinder surrounding the pedestal, tightening closer in response to the Sorceress’ attempts to step down uninvited. Morgan couldn’t breathe, and stood there watching, slack jawed. She’d felt the power in the very earth and in the sky, crashing down upon the other pillars. A single one of those terrible skyborne flashes had contained more Mana than Morgan guessed she’d expended the night she ate the churple and burned in the tree. She continued to stare almost helpless as, within the confines of the barrier, the [Skyclad Sorceress] spread her wings.

They rose up behind the woman’s back slowly, twice again higher than the midnight mane of hair. At first the wings seemed pinned in tightly, squeezed by the shimmering golden light. And then the Sorceress’s body erupted in liquid lightning that flowed upward into and underneath the feathers, and those wings flexed.

The barrier shattered as the wings snapped open in a burst of palpable power. The pedestal of quartz was reduced to flying rubble, and Morgan instinctively brought up her own [Wind Barrier] to protect herself as the [Skyclad Sorceress] flapped her wings a few times to hover, almost as if stretching herself after a nap. Then the woman dropped to the ground in front of Morgan. The wings were night made manifest, an expression of purest darkness that held an actual weight upon the eyes which looked into it. They stretched out over thirty feet to either side of the Sorceress, and the edges rippled gently in the stillness around the two women.

“The system only cares about one thing, Morgan. Stories. Your story. Lulu’s story. Every single living thing on this planet has a story. Everything with a soul, anyway, so even the elementals and the sentient beasts and some of the plants that can move around and think for themselves have a story. And stories are built piece by piece by the choices you make. The System doesn’t care what choices you make, only that you make them, and live your story until the end.”

“I think I understand,” responded Morgan. “About stories and choices, I mean, that part makes sense. But what does the System want from me in exchange for your Class?”

“Sometimes people or things try to remove a soul’s choice. I don’t mean like torture, or threatening to kill someone, or using extortion or blackmail. Those victims, as sad as the truth is, still have choices they can make, even if all their options have been reduced to shitty ones. They can still choose to comply, defy, ignore, or whatever they can think of. No, sometimes people like Warlocks or Necromancers go all the way bad. And they start messing with Souls. To directly compel a Soul is a total abrogation of free will and making choices. To the System, there is no greater sin. In fact, it’s the only sin.”

“So I would have to fight those kinds of people?”

“When you come across them. Your story is still yours; the challenge and the bargain, though, is when you’re faced with such sins, you don’t turn away. Don’t do nothing as so many have before. Embrace your Aspect, embrace this one rule of the system, and I will set you on the path. You’ll receive the [Living Rune Enchantment] skill so you can start learning your tattoos. You will choose your own, most likely, and end up looking different than mine. You will lose that pesky naked aspect and become the [Skyclad Sorceress]. It even comes with stronger bonuses and benefits because you simply won’t be able to equip items, even if you try. So…”

The winged woman finally held out her hand. “If you choose this Class, simply take my hand, and we can move on to the last thing and get this over with.”

Morgan didn’t hesitate. In full agreement with her inner self, heart pounding with excitement, she took the woman’s offered hand.

“And one last thing,” she told Morgan as they clasped hands and the beautiful wings of night vanished with a snapping absence. “You’ll have to find the wings yourself: they aren’t part of the package…”

“WHAT!?!?”

First InterLulude: Defend!

Lulu the valiant scrubby shuffled back and forth, doing its best to ignore the things nearby that seemed to call out to be cleaned. Cleaning was admittedly one of the greater parts of Lulu’s existence, and was something of a joy to accomplish, but right now even the act of cleaning was downranked to secondary importance, if not something even lower.

As a slime variant, Lulu had no eyes, but somehow it was still able to perceive the world around it. A clever observer might even be able to tell by its shifting, boneless posture the direction that held Lulu’s current item of interest. Right now, Morgan’s little friend was shifting about at a rapid rate, attention darting this way and that in search of danger.

Morgan herself was present, in a way. The flickering, purple arcs of Mana dancing across its mistress’ naked body were a strange indication of life, but one that was stronger than the faint but just detectable heartbeat. Lulu gurgled as noisily as it dared, puffling up against a bare ankle, and upon receiving no response yet again, the cleansing scrubby seemed to deflate slightly in sadness.

Something scuttled in the depths of nearby plants, and the purple scrubby gave a tiny, nervous purble. It had never before had to act on its own. True, it had recently made the valiant leap into the gaping maw of the [Wildlands Shadowlynx], but Morgan had been there to help extricate the scrubby in the confusing aftermath. On the whole, that had been a less than pleasant experience. Stomach acid was frightfully harsh on poor Lulu, and it had mentally filed the whole ordeal away somewhere under the region of learning firsthand what it was like to be angrily scrubbed.

Morgan was here, but not here. Lulu was here, in the fullest of senses, and would defend its larger friend to the best of the young scrubby’s capabilities.

From behind Lulu’s current sphere of attention, something else came dashing across the terrain. Something not too large, but moving at frantic speeds. Lulu made an odd movement, less whirling around in alarm as a shifting of the body posture, and came face to face with a [Chittering Murdersquirrel].

It would have been waist high to its standing mistress, and though it was smaller than Morgan, it was decidedly larger than poor little Lulu. Its poofed brown- and grey-striped tail was as large as the rest of its body, and whipped back and forth in rapid curls of anticipation. If slimes and their variants had teeth? Lulu’s would be gritting. If they had shoulders, its would be set back in order to present a stronger posture. If they had legs, Lulu would be poised at the ready, able to dart in any direction that proved necessary.

The little purple puffball had none of these things. It merely watched, and waited, and tried to set aside its fears.

The [Chittering Murdersquirrel] continued to close in with sure and steady steps, and seemed likely to be undeterred by anything. With a quick glance to Morgan to confirm that it was do or die time, Lulu gave an ululating warble and launched itself off from the ground in the strongest, fastest leap it could muster.

Instinctively it had aimed for the shoulder. Morgan’s shoulder was a warm place, and a comfortable seat during travel at regular speeds. It was also a relatively flat surface to land upon on any given creature that happened to have limbs. Unfortunately Lulu hadn’t accounted for shoulder spikes hidden in what seemed to be deceptively soft fur.

TORN LACE! PAIN! BAD! The scrubby loofah squirmed slightly in discomfort as it sensed its green good feeling essence—Lulu had no better thoughts to describe it—diminish slightly.

A paw suddenly swept toward the scrubby, ripping the lacy body off of its own fuzzy shoulder. Without so much as a backward glance, the [Chittering Murdersquirrel] flicked its nails and tossed Lulu violently onto the ground, where it landed with a painful splat.

Pulling itself back into its usual round, fluffy stance, and thinking back on the events that had just transpired, an idea sprang to mind. Dashing as fast as it could, Lulu slipped back into the space between the [Chittering Murdersquirrel] and Morgan. Then, taking careful aim, the valiant scrubby took another swift leap.

Now Lulu had no eyes of its own, but through observation of the world, it had come across the concept of eyeballs, and more importantly, the importance of said eyeballs. Mentally shifting from exuding its movement-assisting moisturizers to producing the sticky coating for its lace that it used to hold onto Morgan in her speedier moments, the puffball landed with a resounding thwack on the [Chittering Murdersquirrel]’s left eye.

With this first step accomplished, Lulu set to work, flattening itself down, around, and into the ocular cavity as much as possible in order to evade another angry swipe from swift, clawed paws. Its strongest skill by far was [Exfoliate], and though the scrubby was not in the least expecting the relative fragility of an eye, it was delighted to discover that the combination of this skill and this target allowed for swift penetration into the head cavity.

The [Chittering Murdersquirrel] roared in agony and flailed at its own head, but Lulu paid it little mind. There was a certain reluctance for a being to reach inside its own skull, and the lacy puffball instinctively knew this. The situation was, perhaps, a little unpleasant, but the scrubby had found a way in to potential victory, and for the sake of Morgan’s continued safety, it was going to use it.

As a slime variant, Lulu was practically made to be flexible, and as only the core bead in the center of its body was solid and unshiftable, it was this core alone that needed to pass through a potential opening. The rest of the scrubby’s body could fold, squish, and slide through the space as easily as liquid through a straw. It was a surprisingly simple matter to [Exfoliate] the small gap in the skull through which the ocular nerve passed, enlarging it to allow most of Lulu passage inside the head. The passage inward wasn’t quite large enough yet to let its solid core through, but the scrubby gave a soft, triumphant warble in knowing that it was more than deep enough within.

Eyes were important parts of the body, but brains—the squishy, unseen masses that usually lurked within the head—were even more important. Lulu squirmed, and writhed, and [Exfoliated] everything within reach, eventually managing to slip all the way inside the [Chittering Murdersquirrel]’s skull. There, it spun, jumped, and wreaked exfoliating havoc until it felt the world shake with a THUMP. The little scrubby paused for a moment, but when nothing further seemed to be happening, it peered out from the empty eye socket.

As Lulu cautiously emerged, observing the world from a position decidedly lower to the ground than before entering the eye, messages it couldn’t read and wouldn’t have cared about if it could flashed before its tiny consciousness before fading away. What it did care about was the surge of Mana in its center, and the increased size it gained after a short pulse of glowing, golden light. It couldn’t help but give a purbling trill of triumph at the simple feeling of becoming more.

With a happy wriggle, the lacy puffball skittered over to Morgan. Lulu’s frills danced in the sunlight as it tried to show off its new, upgraded self. The wriggle turned quickly to a sag as the human had still not budged an inch. The sagging itself shifted to a quiver of fear as Lulu spotted more things, larger still than the [Chittering Murdersquirrel], skulking around nearby.

Lulu pressed itself against Morgan’s ankle again, releasing a quick burst of soothing, fragrant suds. Never you fear, Morgan, it seemed to be saying. Lulu is on patrol.

Then the churple-stained scrubby leaped once more into battle with a purbling war cry.

Chapter 11: Storm Break

Zizzy was startled awake by a notification as the dim, predawn light began to brighten the single small window of her tiny apartment. As groggy and grumpy as she was, she simply dismissed the notification without even bothering to check as the peals of the temple bells announced the arrival of dawn. The sleepy fugue state persisted, as she flopped herself out of her bed and stumbled her way over to the washbasin in the chill morning air. Stormbreak Isle might have been located closer to the warm tropics than not, but the northern trade winds kept the harbor city and capital of the island province much cooler than most would have expected. Her small domicile also happened to be located on the windward face of the high terraced cliffs that made up Stormbreak’s Upper District.

The cold winds had chilled her apartment, infiltrating with greater effect once her fire had finally died. She hurriedly broke the ice in the basin to wash herself as quickly as she could. The brisk wash was certainly effective, and by the time the rising sun finally began to peek over the bay, she was fully awake. “Cheap or not,” she admitted out loud as she gazed out the window, “you can’t beat the view, not for a king’s ransom.”

Doffing her warm woolen nightgown, she finished her morning ablutions with a haste driven by the chilled air, proceeding to quickly don the utilitarian uniform which was her standard attire for most days. Plain, high quality undergarments were followed by the perfectly creased grey trousers, and then a simple linen shirt. A matching grey tunic slid over her shirt, and over this she buckled a utilitarian leather belt filled with tools befitting her rank as a Constable under the aegis of the Stormbreak Wardens.

After lacing up her well-worn, lovingly maintained and polished boots and tucking her braided golden hair under the shallow-billed hat, she finally donned the oiled leather coat hanging on the hook next to her apartment’s door. With a reverence that showed in her every mannerism, she plucked her badge and personal seal of office from the small desk next to her bed. The personalized enchantment, attuned to recognize her own Mana-signature upon touch, pulsed with a gentle thrum as she gently pressed the badge to the left breast panel of her tunic. She felt the entire uniform settle around her as the enchanted set was completed. Low-level standardized enchantments made specifically for the Wardens and their auxiliary police units they may be, yet Zizzy was immensely proud to have earned the right to wear them.

She checked herself over in the small mirror above her washstand one last time, satisfied with what she saw. Then she turned and opened her narrow apartment door, and Constable Zizzy of Stormbreak City stepped out onto the street. The sunlight glittered across the bay in the newborn morning, illuminating a sprawling coastal city that wound around the edge of the water. Lowtown was the largest district of the city by far, stretching for miles around the steeper shores, with docks and floating pavilions stretching out into the water to a massive shipping port that sat directly in the waters. The Merchant’s District rose up on magically hewn stone pillars and arches to facilitate ships with deeper keels, the larger vessels unable to dock directly to the city’s arching stretch of piers. Access to the district itself was a stone bridge wide enough for five or six wagons abreast to trundle across it, but high enough that smaller vessels could pass under its arches in all but the highest of tides.

The port city never slept, of course, and Zizzy could just make out the methodical rise and fall of the massive wooden gantries and their stone counterweights as they worked steadily to load and unload the ponderous merchant vessels. Fishing sloops and other, smaller craft were able to bully their way closer to shore, vying for the better docking positions closer to the markets and Lowtown’s warehouses.

As she looked out at the distant ocean entrance to Stormbreak Bay, she was treated to the somewhat rare sight of a Swiftwater Guild courier vessel racing into the harbor on approach from the sea. Its path curved into the bay in a smooth arc as its Mana-powered nacelles shifted on their outriggers to keep the craft steady at speed. The Swiftwater Guild was notoriously secretive about its ships’ designs, but the power of the enchantments was evident. Foamy plumes of seawater kicked up behind it as the Wavecutter skimmed into the harbor with the natural arrogance of the rare and exotic.

Zizzy didn’t bother with the Mana-Lift elevator station on her apartment’s terraced level, instead continuing past the lift station to one of the many steep stairways cut deep into the stone cliffside. For a few silver, the lift could have taken her all the way down to Lowtown, or any of several stops in between, but she wasn’t going that far on this Sabenday morning. The last day of the week was a day of reflection at the temple, and the traditions of the City Watch allowed their members to observe such things, as long as no pressing matters required their attentions.

She took the stairs down to the next tier, the smells of baked goods and hot beverages leading her onwards. One of the smaller upper markets sat in a naturally occurring gap in the cliffs, not directly facing the tradewinds that made her tiny apartment just barely affordable on her modest pay. Everything was more expensive the higher you went in Stormbreak City, even the street vendors’ goods. But her routine on this day of the week was well known, and a familiar shopkeeper paused from arranging her trays as Zizzy approached.

“Don’t even reach fer that coin pouch, Const’ble,” quipped the young woman as she placed two steaming breakfast pastries on waxed parchment and folded them with a practiced motion of her hands. “Ma never accepted your coin before, an’ if she heard I did, she’d thrash me proper with that rollin’ pin, an’ you know it!”

“Every week I try to pay, and every week you refuse, just like your mother always did when she ran the shop.” Zizzy grinned as she put her coins away. “I’m glad to hear she can still swing that rolling pin. You tell her I asked about her, Kellen.” Zizzy scooped up the wrapped pastries and tucked them into a pocket to keep the drizzling mist that was constant at this elevation from getting to them. Departing the baker’s stand with a wave, she threaded her way through the avenue that was slowly getting more and more busy as the daylight warmed the stone-paved streets.

Traveling a route long since committed to memory, Zizzy’s footsteps soon led her out from the shadow of the stone walls lining either side of the street. Hightown was Stormbreak’s true heart of commerce and law, nestled out of the reach of most of the ocean’s often inclement weather. Guild halls, various banks and offices, and many exclusive shops and other establishments sprawled out from the grounds of Storm Break. It was a low-slung, broad stone building, a seven-sided monstrosity boasting a massive double spire at each of the seven corners. The spires rose up like giant, slender tuning forks over a thousand paces high to tower over even the central peak of the island’s mountainous interior.

As Zizzy made her way down the main boulevard, one of the western facing tower-forks began to glow at the base, just above where the spire split in two. Glowing energy, wider than Zizzy was tall, rose up the pair of tines with a golden spark bridging the gap between. It crawled upward like a god giving a Jacob’s Ladder demonstration. When the massive spark reached the tip of the fork, the sky flashed for a brief instant as the arc leapt westward over the ocean. There should have been thunder, but Zizzy knew the enchantments around the Storm Breaker Central Array kept the locals in the region from being deafened by its discharge.

Before she travelled all the way to the governmental section of the building that sat just in front of Storm Break, Zizzy turned once again to head up a slightly smaller cul-de-sac known as Temple Gardens. Stormbreak’s Temple was a modest affair, as were most. Called the Temple of Guidance by some, and the Temple of Prophecy by others, Zizzy preferred the older name for it: the Temple of Reflection.

Dedicated to no specific deity, it was instead part of the loosely associated temples and groups that bent spiritual knee to the undeniable authority of the [Oracle]. People were free to pray at the various shrines to this or that god within the Temple, as the Custodian of Stories played no favorites. A woman who could topple empires with a word in the right ear, or crown a beggar king with a simple message, many feared the [Oracle], but all respected her Mantle, regardless of their own personal faiths.

Sabenday was not so much a holy day, but rather the traditional weekly event when the Temple gave out a larger charity meal than the daily bread, along with allowing petitioners to request personal divinations from the various prophetic or priest-type classes that served the [Oracle]. A sermon was typically given in the morning, and this was the reason Zizzy had made her way so far out of her usual patrol district.

At the arched front entrance to the outer Temple Gardens, the city’s grey paving cobblestones gave way to smooth, pale marble tiles. Setting foot on the first one, Zizzy counted exactly thirty-three stones as she walked, stopping six squares from the temple steps. She stood there for a few moments as others passed to her left and right, coming and going from the Temple itself. Squaring her shoulders, she slowly held up her right hand and reached forward over the line between her stone and the next.

As her hand crossed the invisible threshold, she was wracked with intense pain. It was a sensation like she’d dipped it into impossibly cold ice water at first, and deepened into a frigid burn the longer she persisted. The skin of her hand began to degrade after a few short moments, drying and cracking with an even more intense hurt. With a resigned, unsurprised sigh, she withdrew her hand, the damage beginning to heal almost as fast as it had been inflicted.

Zizzy turned to her left and paced around to the side of the temple, her expression somewhere between forlorn and hopeful. Less than a third of the way around the temple proper was a stone bench under a canvas awning, sitting close enough to the threshold that one could just hear the low droning of one or another of the priests getting long-winded with his sermon. The tall, narrow windows were too high to allow sight into the main atrium, but the acoustics let enough of the sound carry outside that she could sit on the bench and meditate while the susurrating murmur calmed her soul.

“I don’t even need my divination gifts to know when you get here, Zizzy,” a gruff but friendly voice said off to her left. “You’re like clockwork; every week, same exact time, with almost no deviation unless you have Warden’s business to attend to.”

A portly, kind-faced older man leaning on a cane shuffled into view, dropping to the bench beside her with a groan that gave proof to his age and status. Eventually Vitality simply ceased to be as effective, providing less and less regeneration and health recovery later in life. “I swear,” gently chided the man, “I have seen clocks that don’t keep time as well as you do, Ziz.”

“It’s not like a Diviner or a Prophet needs clocks anyway, Janim,” Zizzy greeted her old friend with a smile and dug out the breakfast pastries. “Besides, I know you only talk to me because I bribe you with sweets, ever since the others stopped letting you sneak them out of the kitchens. I shouldn’t, but you’d probably try to reach Kellen’s stall for them if I didn’t show up.”

“Pshaw!” the old man gusted. “I’d never bother limping that far. I’d bribe a supplicant or one of the dishwashers. I may be too old for an Augury Ritual, but I can still give advice about money and love. Don’t even need my talents for that, it’s all just age and experience.”

Zizzy elbowed him gently in the ribs as they both chewed on the sweet pastries, her being careful of crumbs, while he fully enjoyed the rare treat and left evidence down the front of his robes. While they enjoyed their breakfast in silence, the sky flashed three times in rapid succession with searing golden light.

“They’ve been at it all week, ever since the Purple Night,” said Zizzy, as her companion produced a clay jar and two simple cups from somewhere within his robes with a flourish. Handing her a cup, he poured a smooth, dark liquid for each of them and set the now-empty jug down next to the bench. Wiping his mouth with a corner of his robe in a distinctly unpriestly manner, he held his cup up, and he looked at her expectantly.

Zizzy cocked an eyebrow at him but couldn’t maintain her serious composure for more than a few heartbeats. She waved her fingers over each cup with a small expenditure of Mana and a soft affectionate laugh. With the chocolate beverage now steaming gently, Janim took a few sips to wash the last of his pastry down before speaking again.

“The Storm Breakers don’t consult with the temple, but even we can feel the storm to the west. Whatever happened on the Purple Night disturbed the wind and Mana currents all the way out over the Western Sea.” The retired [Dreamsight Diviner] sipped his chocolate thoughtfully and then continued. “All of us here dreamed of The Burning Woman that night, Ziz. I can’t be sure, but I strongly feel that every single Talent and Touched on the continent did. And then the [Oracle]’s announcement of Worldwalkers coming through right after word of the Deskren Raid on Possibility. If I thought my heart could take it, I’d do an Augury tonight!”

“You better not, old man!” Zizzy snapped. “I didn’t pull a pack of brats out of that burning warehouse just so you could start ending your own stories before their time!” Her grip, freshly white-knuckled in consternation, caused the cup to quiver gently. Janim patted her knee in conciliation.

“Don’t worry, Constable. I’d need a bigger reason than dreams and uncertainty to put my aching bones through that these days. Peace! Stop looking at me like that!”

Zizzy kept up her scolding look as she silently sipped at her chocolate, enjoying her friend’s mild discomfort just a tiny bit more than was probably appropriate. The sky flashed again, interrupting their moment of amusement with a grim reminder.

“They must be wearing even the auxiliaries out to constantly fire the array, Janim. I’ve never seen the Storm Breakers have to work so hard, not in all my years in the city.”

“Worse, Constable. They’ve had to start calling up the old contracts, conscripting mages and wizards and their students from the Academies and from Stormbreak College. There’re whispers that they may have to fire the entire Master Array, all seven circles and Storm Break itself. That hasn’t been done in…” Janim wandered off in thought, “at least two centuries. No one living has ever even seen the Array at full power. They’d have to evacuate parts of the city, too; people have built over the old Runic Lines, it’s been that long.”

“Have the other Dreamers not been able to offer guidance?”

“They can’t, although they’d never admit it. Looking anywhere near a Mana storm is madness, even with the smallest ones. Trying any sort of divination about one this large could bleed over into a shared nightmare. With the dozens of precognitive classers at the temple, that would spread out, trapping innocent people as well as whoever did the looking.”

She shuddered at the thought. The risks were bad enough when they only affected the person seeking the visions. Dragging random bystanders into it was an even more unpleasant thought.

“One thing all of us with foresight abilities agree on though, Zizzy.” The priest had a solemn look that clashed with his usual friendly-gruff persona as he spoke. “If the Storm Breakers can’t break this storm, say goodbye to the island and half the coast. It’ll scour inland across the Golden Meadows and won’t stop ‘til it hits the Wildwall Mountains. It won’t be so bad over land for the people, at first. But there’d be no harvests this year, and on top of that, there’d be so much wild Mana permeating the soil. Nothing would grow right for two or three years. At a minimum, mind you.”

“None of the reports at the office have even hinted at it being that bad, Janim. But that’s not surprising; the Wardens couldn’t handle an evacuation even if they tried to call one.” Zizzy sat back and sipped her chocolate somberly.

“Indeed,” sighed the old priest. “Best us islanders can hope for is to shelter in the interior, but there’s nowhere near enough room under Storm Break’s shield enchantments for everyone.”

“What about the academies? I know they all have protective spells…”

“I really don’t think it will come to that, Ziz. While all our dreams certainly seem dire, they always end with a hopeful note none of us can see clearly. I have faith and will wait it out, like always.” He finished off his sugary drink and relieved Zizzy of her empty cup as well. “And on that note, I’m afraid your habitual Sabenday meditation is about to be cut short…”

The huggably large priest leveraged himself to his feet with a groan and both hands on his cane, then smiled back down at Zizzy. “I do believe that young messenger is about to arrive with your summons to appear before the lord-commander. I’m sure you’ll have important work to do, if they’re calling for you this early today.”

While his age might have prevented the retired priest from performing the more demanding rituals of his class type, his natural prescience proved to still be in effect, as a city runner darted around the corner of the temple. A youth Zizzy didn’t recognize stood for a moment, panting to catch his breath. After a brief recovery, the boy dug through his satchel of missives. The accuracy of Priest Janim’s predictions was borne out once more as the boy handed her a simple grey card of thick parchment, with the Stormbreak Isle crest on one side and the lord-commander’s seal on the other. The card was blank save for the single word, “Urgent,” indicating that her presence was required immediately.

Even though she didn’t recognize the boy, he apparently knew her, even if only by reputation. Her habits and her soft spot for children were well-known, and he grinned as she tossed him a silver coin and a piece of soft candy she dug out of her coat pocket before darting off toward his next destination.

Briskly returning to her feet, Zizzy brushed the few traces of breakfast pastry from her uniform and made her way quickly back the way she’d originally come to the temple. She had no idea what she’d been summoned for, but given her history of employment and unique skillset, the list was fairly comprehensive. She was very good at her job, and frequent summonses to help in districts other than her normal Lowtown beat were not unusual in the slightest.

She set a pace just this side of unseemly, and most pedestrians on the street cleared the way for the uniform, if not her personally. Magical things permeated the island society, which meant magically inclined people, including criminals. And that meant appropriately swift and magically talented law enforcement was necessary. Few people were willing to risk the ire of anyone in the service of the Stormbreak Wardens when it was so obvious they were on official business.

With a nod to Kellen, the baker’s daughter, Zizzy made her way back out through the gap in the cliffs that was Upper Market Row. After another right-hand turn, she continued eastward along the street overlooking the harbor. She was already on the right terraced level, so she skipped both Mana-lifts between her and her destination. Another curve around the edge of the cliff revealed what looked like half of a tower, split vertically and stuck into the cliff face as if a giant’s hand had pushed it into clay.

Storm’s Hold was the headquarters of the Stormbreak Wardens, and it had offices and entrances on each of the city’s different elevation districts. Its foundations were sunk deep below the waves, while its upper floors towered above all else, save Storm Break itself.

Noisy taprooms and quiet back alleys alike held tales of hundreds of underground floors to match the ones above, but Zizzy knew the truth of the dungeons was nowhere near so dramatic. Its actual dungeons weren’t even below sea level; they just didn’t have windows to the outside, and air was vented in through ducts that caught the ocean’s constant winds and kept the whole tower from suffering stagnant air.

Ducking into a side entrance in order to avoid the lines of various civilians and functionaries going about their business, she felt her badge pulse on her chest as the security enchantments lining the archway verified her access. The private entrances would treat unauthorized persons as hostile, and the results, while not demonstrated often, were neither pretty nor easy to clean up.

Heeding the summons, Zizzy went right past her own small but paper-strewn office, turning back toward the main space of the lobby and stepping around busy clerks, Wardens, and Patrol Watchmen going about their respective tasks. As she walked, she couldn’t help but overhear snippets of conversation, in low and worried tones, from the other people working at desks or standing in the halls.

“Another one at Southpeak Village?”

“We don’t know. It looks like the same one that hit Shepherd’s Craig and the Western Glenn.”

She didn’t recognize the whisperers, but the entire office area seemed nervous and apprehensive. More hushed conversation drifted past her as she walked, but the remainder fell below the level of her hearing. Dismissing further consideration, she passed through the administrative section of the Wardens and went up the shallow steps to the lord-commander’s private offices.

“I’m sorry, Ziz; you can’t go in!” A young and flustered secretary stood up from the desk near the heavy double-doors of the office, holding up her hands in a conciliatory gesture. “He requested—”

Zizzy held up her summons card with the lord-commander’s seal stamped on it. “He requested my presence immediately, Megyn, and I know full well that you don’t keep the lord-commander waiting.”

Megyn sat back down at her desk, looking worried as the constable stepped around her with a soothing wave of her hands. “Don’t worry; I’ll take the heat if he’s upset, Megyn. He’s not so gruff as he pretends, once you get to know him”

Zizzy pushed open the heavy double doors to reveal a middle-aged man with graying temples sitting behind a desk even more cluttered than her own. The lord-commander of the Stormbreak Wardens cared much more for results than appearances. What held his attention was a formal envelope sitting on the center of the sprawl of papers, quill pens, and inkwells scattered across his workspace.

The lord-commander didn’t even look up as he waved at one of the simple but sturdy chairs in front of the desk. His eyes never left the document, a plain envelope of thick, soft parchment with an unmistakable pearlescent sheen of Mana embossed into the very fibers. Zizzy drew a sharp breath; despite this being one of the few times she’d ever laid eyes on it, she instantly knew what the stationery meant.

“I thought the [Oracle] was missing since the Deskren raid, presumed taken and collared?”

“Indeed, that was the assumption, until now,” the man said in a deep, gravelly tone. “But this is one Seal that cannot be faked, not even with [Divine] assistance.” He stared down at the enchanted seal that had held the envelope closed, the image of a half-lidded eye seeming to flicker between open and closed, as if the wax-like metal were alive. “I know you’ve seen the Seal before, but this is the first to arrive during my own tenure behind this desk, and I’ve long been among those who believe this chair should be yours. You have twice the years in the Wardens as me or anyone else.”

“Don’t give me that, Terrick. You earned it, and I wouldn’t take the job even if the Council would stand for me in the seat. Are you going to keep being mysterious, or are you going to tell me what the [Oracle] wants?”

“It’s not what she wants. She almost never makes requests; you know that better than I.” Terrick, the man, finally showed through the mask of the lord-commander as he rubbed his face with one tired hand and leaned back in his chair. “You’re aware of the killings that started in the southern villages on the Isle?”

“Only what the gossip lines have said around my district. You know Hightown loves drama more than the truth, though, and I’ve been busier than usual, since the Purple Night got everyone skittish.”

He pulled a stack of sketches, colored and detailed with the expert touch of a very skilled [Mana-Scribe], and passed it to her before continuing. “Nine victims so far. None during the Purple Night, but they start the night after. Two classless shepard’s boys out in the central hills with their family’s flocks. The next, a young girl from Southpeak Village. But then, whoever it is got Circle-Master Gallern of the Southpeak Array Overseers.”

Zizzy had been growing more and more pale as she flipped through the sketches of obscenely desecrated bodies. Her experienced eye informed her that the victims had been kept alive to suffer until the very end. “These wounds, the tearing—it looks like a ritual, but there’s no circle, no spell array. Like someone’s doing it just to hurt them.” Her voice was stiff and clinical as she relied on years of experience to keep a measure of detachment, and yet she could not help her sudden shiver of revulsion.

“That was the conclusion Southpeak’s constable came to as well, and he didn’t wait to request official assistance. We sent a forensic mage team; they found strange Mana signatures all over the crime scene. They couldn’t identify them, except that the magic involved was neither summoning nor soul magic. Worse is what they didn’t find.” The lord-commander had an expression of cold fury in his eyes as he continued, “They were completely drained of magic. While alive. And then mutilated. In the cases of the women and girls, raped. Only after that were they permitted to die. The [Oracle]’s message is merely confirmation.”

“[Mage-Eater],” whispered Zizzy. She now knew why she alone had been summoned. No mage-type class could face one, especially if whoever it was had already become powerful enough to take a circle-master like Gallern. The woman had maintained and powered the Southpeak Lesser Array with perfect diligence for a decade. A sudden horrible thought struck Zizzy.

“The Array! He’s targeting Storm Breakers!”

“Yes,” came Terrick’s blunt reply. “Since Gallern, he’s stuck exclusively to Breakers and obvious mages. And with the Mana-Storm being this bad, we need all of them, Ziz. I’d already planned to send you after him, but the [Oracle] beat me to it.”

“I’ll go, of course, but I don’t know why the [Oracle] would send a message requesting me, personally.”

“It’s not a message about you, Zizzy; it’s a message to you. Care of the lord-commander of the Stormbreak Wardens. It reads as follows:”

“Constable Zizzy, or rather Ix’zizzixtrim the Succubus. Unlike most of your kind, you have spent the eighty-seven years since your summoning in faithful service to Stormbreak Isle—and by extension, all of mankind. Your unique skillset and racial traits will be necessary to stop The Defiler, the monstrous killer who now plagues the island. He is a [Worldwalker], and will become dangerous very quickly by his otherworldly nature. You are immune to a [Mage-Eater]’s draining skills because of your own. You have little time; he will continue to slay Storm Breakers until there are no longer enough to fire the Array and break the World-Storm. For the first time in the history of Anfealt, a demon shall bear the [Seal of the Oracle], and may all who block her path be struck from the Hall of Stories.

“Constable Zizzy, be as swift and merciless as only someone of your nature can be, and may your Story be Remembered.”

The lord-commander held out the [Seal] sent by the [Oracle], a simple coin-sized representation of the mysterious eye. As Zizzy held her hand out in a daze, unable to respond, the man placed the Seal on the back of her hand, where it stuck a moment before melting into her skin with a gentle hiss.

“Your orders, Constable, are as follows: Proceed at once to Southpeak Village and track this piece of dragonshit directly. You have honored your oaths to the city and never used your extra-human abilities without permission for the past eighty-four years; that permission is once again granted.” Zizzy shuddered, shoulders relaxing as if a great weight had been lifted from her. “Here is this [Worldwalker]’s Writ of Execution.”

As the lord-commander reached into a drawer of his desk to withdraw a slender, sealed scroll, inky-black wings of silken midnight made material unfurled from her back. As he extended it across the desk, a scaly, spade-tipped tail snaked out of a long-disused fold in her trousers. As she took it in hand, a lazy, satisfied grin spread across her features.

As Terrick’s brown eyes met Zizzy’s glacial blues, the color melted away, yielding to an inhuman shade of reddish gold.

“Do what you have to, Ziz,” the lord-commander continued quietly, formality giving way to warmth. “Feed if you must; you have my authority, as well as the [Oracle]’s.” He rubbed his face, and for a moment he looked as old as he was. “Nature of his crimes aside, he’s threatening the Storm Breakers’ ability to defend the mainland from the Mana-Storms.”

The warmth in his tone was as fleeting as the appearance of age. “You have your orders, Constable. If there are no questions, dismissed.”

Zizzy turned on her heel with a grace that hadn’t been present before, and the raw, predatory intent that radiated from her as she left his office made itself known even before eyes began to turn and widen. She didn’t stop to enjoy the attention dropping into her deeper nature caused her to crave, however. I have my orders, after all, she thought.

Wings stretching and flexing in anticipation, Zizzy strode directly down the central dais and past the gawking women and defenseless, drooling men. She hadn’t been allowed off the leash of her oaths in over two decades, and the eagerness of her inner nature was palpable in the air around her.

Stepping outside the central doors, Zizzy didn’t turn down the street to approach the Mana-lifts around the cliffs. She instead walked straight ahead to where the raised stone barriers with their linked chains offered a modicum of safety to the pedestrians. Stepping up onto one such barrier, she didn’t even pause to admire the view before letting herself fall forward, diving into the rushing updraft and falling hundreds of feet before letting her wings snap outward. With a haunting laugh that left observers below shivering for minutes after her passing, Ix’zizzixtrim the succubus winged her way south.

Chapter 12: [Skyclad Sorceress]

Morgan Mackenzie was suddenly back in her own physical body, and thoughts of wings and tattoos were whisked away by this new state of affairs. She found herself unable to move, and she quickly realized that the class selection experience was only the beginning of her newest ordeal. In the span of two heartbeats, the notifications began as she lay helpless on the sand.

Self-Unity achieved. Class compatibility approaching 100%. Class selection confirmed. Consent acknowledged: Initializing Soul Modification.

That seems ominous, she thought. I hope this isn’t going to hurt. Or take very long. And it’s going to change my Soul? I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this…

Her worries were indeed well-founded, as what came next hurt a great deal more than she was prepared to endure. Morgan screamed internally as she felt a merciless pull on what she now knew to be her Soul.

Skill List analyzed. Aspected Skills incompatible with class selection. Generating compatible Skill List…

Compatible Skill List generated.

Revoking Aspect: [Naked Affinity].

Morgan felt her sanity begin to fray, as what she could only have described as a spiritual cheese-grater flayed her skills away from her. Each vanishing ability left an agonizing void in her Soul, and her mental anguish intensified to a fever pitch. Her mind felt stretched out, like a rubber band about to snap, but before it could, she felt a familiar otherness envelop her psyche like the most comforting blanket she could have imagined.

And then she was pulled down. Down, away from the pain of the changes being wrought on her Soul. Down into the blessed blackness. The storm raged above as her Soul was stretched, and cut, and re-woven into something stronger—but she was held within her own mind, away from the brunt of the experience. Her inner self had no words to offer, she knew, but words weren’t needed in this place, as they drifted below the waves of sensation. She had chosen this, and would endure.

Lulu’s [Exfoliate] skill has reached level 4!

What?

Lulu’s [Exfoliate] skill has reached level 5!

LULU!

Gripped by sudden panic, she fought to reach Lulu, angling toward the tempest of pain above before her other-self redoubled its grip, pulling her down once more. This new dream place seemed to rock placidly, back and forth, and she heard a low, rhythmic humming surround her, comforting her in this time of crisis. The next notifications allayed her concern, and she felt a small swell of pride.

Lulu has defeated a [Chittering Murdersquirrel (Lvl - 12)]!

Congratulations! Lulu has reached Level 4!

Congratulations! Lulu has reached Level 5!

Hah! Go Lulu!

The scrubby would have to fend for itself for a while, at least until Morgan’s changes were finished. Her concern for her poofy little friend was offset by the fact that the scrubby seemed perfectly capable of handling things for the moment. The notifications seemed to indicate such was the case, anyway.

Lulu’s [Exfoliate] skill has reached level 6!

Lulu’s [Exfoliate] skill has reached level 7!

Lulu’s [Exfoliate] skill has reached level 8!

Lulu has defeated a [Slap-Tongue Toad (Lvl - 15)]!

Congratulations! Lulu has reached Level 6!

Morgan chuckled internally as Lulu’s notifications appeared. Apparently she’s more dangerous than she looks!

She felt a shift in the mindscape as the storm seemed to calm, and the cold sensations of her skills being ripped away one by one finally came to an end. Her own notifications resumed immediately after the surface of her Soul grew quiet, far above her.

Aspect revocation complete. Incompatible Skillset removed.

Applying Unique Class Framework: [Skyclad Sorceress].

Piercing golden light danced across the surface of the dream-sea far above her, etching a pattern that started as a simple circle centered directly over where she floated. As soon as the circle was completed, the light split and raced outward in too many directions for her mind’s eye to follow. Concentric loops, geometric patterns, and runic designs spread out further and further as the points of light continued to propagate, its lace-like complexity quickly defying her ability to understand.

The changes written in place by the golden light were neither pleasant, nor painful like the removal of her Aspect had been. The light writing changes onto her Soul now felt like a symphony of music that resonated in her very being. The glow caused dancing curtains of dappled luminescence to shine down into the dream-sea, and Morgan felt herself lulled deeper into the soothing presence humming tunelessly around her mind. She let herself drift, and time lost all meaning as the messages marking her transformation continued.

Applying Class traits and conditions…

Equipment Auto-Rejection: Enabled.

Auto-Rejection response set to Extreme.

Skyclad status: Absolute, Irrevocable.

Morgan felt only a twinge of regret over the choice she’d made. Bye-bye pretty dresses, she mused, the thought meandering to the forefront of her mind. Good lord, am I going to miss my spiffy boots…

Lulu’s [Exfoliate] skill has reached level 9!

Lulu’s [Exfoliate] skill has reached level 10!

Lulu has mastered the skill [Exfoliate]!

Lulu has defeated a [Razortail Crawdad (Lvl - 13)]!

Congratulations! Lulu has reached Level 7!

She was suddenly struck by the absurd mental image of the plucky loofah murdering critters while she lay immobile in the dirt. She’s like a frilly Dalek! You exfoliate all those little bastards, Lulu! A soundless laugh escaped her as she found herself more amused than she was disturbed by the scrubby’s new lethality.

Applying Class Bonuses…

Oh, thought Morgan as the lattice mosaic of light above her flashed brightly for a moment and the complex shapes began to shift and turn. Is this the good part?

Experience Gains Bonus: 100 Percent.

Distributable Status Points Gains Bonus: 100 Percent.

Skill Points Gains Bonus: 100 Percent.

Enhancement Points Gains Bonus: 100 Percent.

Resistance and Affinities Acquisition Difficulty: -50 Percent.

Uh… Yeah, that’s definitely a good part. Wait! The last gains bonus was something she hadn’t seen before. What are Enhancement Points? Is this a class thing again? Oh, she thought sadly. I can’t ask anyone for details anymore, not unless I can find people…

Lulu has defeated a [Carrion-Crawler Centipede (Lvl - 13)]!

Lulu has defeated a [Carrion-Crawler Centipede (Lvl - 13)]!

Congratulations! Lulu has reached Level 8!

Lulu has defeated a [Carrion-Crawler Centipede (Lvl - 15)]!

Congratulations! Lulu has reached Level 9!

What in the world is going on up there? Morgan was struck once again by deep concern for her poofy little companion. She had no sense of time in this place, but it certainly seemed like there were many more threats to deal with than just the few she’d encountered herself.

Activating Unique Class Signature Skill: [Living Runic Enchantment]

Enabling Primary Rune Anchor…

All thoughts of Lulu were driven away as a pillar of golden light burst downward into the dream-sea from the center of the primary circle, pinning Morgan in place. It caused no pain, but instead an all-enveloping tingle like she was floating in a fizzy drink. An eternal moment later, a needle-thin beam of purple light connected the center of her chest to the center of the golden circle above.

Inscribing Rune: [Soul Anchor]…

You have gained the Living Rune: [Soul Anchor]! Living Runes are Enchantments that will grow in power as you do. This Rune allows you to inscribe one Living Rune per level of [Soul Anchor] onto your body. Maximum level of Living Runes is equal to the level of [Soul Anchor]. Removing an existing Rune to inscribe another results in loss of the previous Rune’s level. [Soul Anchor] may not be removed.

The Rune felt cold on her chest after the thinner beam vanished, but she couldn’t see what it was. More notifications came almost immediately as the purple beam returned to strike her directly in the eyes, blinding her with brilliant indigo incandescence.

Inscribing initial Rune: [Mana Vision]…

You have gained the Living Rune [Mana Vision]! This rune has replaced your previous Aspected Skill [The Naked Eye], allowing you to perceive the flows of magic, as well as improving vision in all light conditions. Higher levels will allow you to pierce through deceptive enchantments such as veils and glamour.

She could feel a similar cold sting on her face as the glare faded, stretching across her eyes in a band connecting her temples. She didn’t even have time to wonder what the runic tattoo might look like before Lulu’s messages intruded upon her attention.

Lulu has defeated a [Shock-Maw Eel (Lvl - 16)]!

Lulu has defeated a [Shock-Maw Eel (Lvl - 15)]!

Congratulations! Lulu has reached Level 10!

Lulu has spawned a Brood!

WHAT!?

In that moment, Morgan wanted nothing more than to wake back up to see just exactly what was going on in the physical world, but the golden light held her pinned in the dreamscape. Her own state of affairs changed almost immediately as well, with the sudden acceleration of the shifting geometric and arcane patterns far above.

Reapplying Modified Skillset…

[Naked Instinct] changed to [Primal Instinct].

[Naked Acceleration] changed to [Acceleration].

[Naked Athleticism] changed to [Athleticism].

[The Naked Eye] removed, replaced by Living Rune: [Mana Sight].

[Naked Recovery] has evolved to [Regeneration].

[Naked Camouflage] removed, replaced with [Fade Presence].

[Naked Resilience] removed; skill effect intrinsic to Class.

[Naked Magic] removed; skill effect intrinsic to Class.

[Naked Elementalism] removed; skill effect intrinsic to Class.

[Runic Enchantment] modified to include [Living Runes].

[Spell Surge] unchanged, compatible with Class.

[Resistances] Skill Group created; see status menu.

[Affinities] Skill Group created; see status menu.

[Spell List] compiled; see status menu.

With every notification that appeared, sections of the light-woven lattice above her shifted. They turned, folded into each other, and slid in dizzying patterns as the entire mosaic seemed to be condensing into the greater circle directly over her floating mind-self.

Lulu has spawned a Brood!

The absurdity of the notifications continuing during Morgan’s transformation gave a humorous tint to the seriousness of the changes happening to her Soul and body. She knew that time felt different in this place, and was now even more eager to return to the waking world to help her loyal companion. Her excitement over the Class notifications and changes had been building ever since the pain had stopped, adding to her impatience.

Formatting Class Status Menu… Complete.

Status Information for: Morgan Mackenzie

Level - 10

Primary Class: [Skyclad Sorceress]

Secondary Class: [Locked]

Health - 250/250

Stamina - 280/280

Mana - 210/210

STR - 20

AGI - 20

CON - 20

VIT - 28

INT - 21

Stat points available to distribute: 10

Current Skills:

[Primal Instinct]

[Acceleration]

[Athleticism]

[Regeneration]

[Fade Presence]

[Spell Surge]

[Resistances]

-[Pain Resistance (Lvl 9)]

-[Heat Resistance (Mastered)]

-[Lightning Resistance]

-[Mana Resistance (Mastered)]

[Affinities]

-[Mana Affinity (Lvl 6)]

-[Fire Affinity]

-[Heat Affinity]

-[Water Affinity]

-[Lightning Affinity]

-[Earth Affinity (Lvl 2)]

[Spell List]

-[Mana Pulse (Mastered)]

-[Spell Channeling (Lvl 5)]

-[Lightning Bolt]

-[Flame Bolt]

-[Water Bolt]

-[Wind Barrier]

-[Candleflame]

-[Earth Sculpt (Lvl 4)]

-[Earth Wave]

[Runic Enchantment]

-[Candleflame Rune]

[Living Runes]

-[Soul Anchor]

-[Mana Sight]

Skill Points available: 10

Titles, Mantles, and Aspects

[Worldwalker (Title)] - You have travelled through the void between the many worlds! Every world is different, each with its own gifts and dangers. To help you survive strange new places, you gain a slight boost to health and an increased ability to learn new things! (+50 to Health, +50% increased gains to Skill Experience)

[Blessed of the Guardian Tree (Title)] - Through an offering of the blood of your enemies, you have reawakened the ancient tree! You need never fear its hungry roots! Future offerings or actions that benefit the tree may enhance this Title!

Class Traits

[Skyclad] You are clad in the sky itself, forfeiting items, clothing, and equipment in exchange for the unrivaled power of purest Sorcery. There are no barriers between you and the magics of the world. Items will no longer equip; in exchange, intangible gains are substantially increased.

[Sorceress] Your pathway to magic and power is Sorcery itself. Needing neither incantations nor blood nor prayer, you wield the flows of Mana directly by your own will.

Morgan took in the new status information as her floating dream island began to rise toward the bright circle. Something about it simply felt right, even though it was only now sinking in that nudity was included in the deal. Lifelong nudity, a firm and inescapable fact. For some reason she wasn’t quite as bothered by her nakedness as she might have once been. She’d come to an agreement with her innermost primal self, after all.

Well, she thought, it doesn’t matter out here in the Wildlands, and if I finally meet people, they’ll just have to get over it!

Lulu has spawned a Brood!

She had no response for yet another brood spawning message other than to chuckle, which seemed to be echoed by her other-self as the dream refuge rose to the surface. As she approached the glowing circle, Morgan felt that other presence squeeze her mind tightly with a burst of emotions she couldn’t help but mirror. Satisfaction, anticipation, affection, protectiveness, and eager hope all rolled into one brief mental hug that needed no words to be understood.

Class Framework finalized. Soul Modification Complete.

Activating Selected Class: [Skyclad Sorceress]!

May your Story be Remembered!

Morgan jolted awake on the sunbaked sands where she’d fallen. The river was still a few dozen paces away, and the grassy brush line was still at her back, in the shadow of the trees on her side of the water. But as she sat up, her eyes fell upon a loofah Armageddon, and shrill, purbling war cries matched bestial screams in her ears.

“LULU!” she called, stiffly jerking herself up to her feet. Her body felt like she’d been immobile for days, and she had to pee with a near painful urgency. [Regeneration] seemed to work like an even more enhanced version of [Naked Recovery], and she could tell her body’s fat reserves were slightly diminished, although not to a troubling degree. What was troubling, however, was the death and destruction Morgan could see all around her.

The broad, sandy bank of the river resembled nothing so much as a war zone, akin to the beaches of Normandy she’d seen in high school history class documentaries. There were craters blown into the sands, bloody bones scattered everywhere, and several different kinds of strange and frightening beasts lying dead and exfoliated all around her for hundreds of paces up and down the riverbank. Like a victorious army, loofahs of every color of the rainbow puffled all over the place, demonstrating magics similar to their hue.

She could do nothing but stare for several moments, mesmerized by the ebb and flow of the oddly colorful and purbling combat. Despite her confusion, she’d already pieced together much of what had happened. I’ve been out longer than I thought. It must have been three or four days, at least…

The skeletons of the Lesser Alpha and the Eel-Hydra were gleaming and polished, and a legion of tiny, coin-sized scrubbies scooted its way between other skeletons on the sandy shore. More scrubbies fought several creatures that looked like bigger versions of typical river and forest dwelling creatures.

Morgan tried to take a step toward the swarming frilly madness, wanting to help out, but she found her path blocked by several skeletons. One was a rodent that must have once been the [Chittering Murdersquirrel] that had been the first of Lulu’s victims. A vaguely frog-like skeleton and several long bone formations that must have at one point been eels also sprawled around her.

The blood and viscera soaked into the sands seemed to have seeped down to the water, drawing more and more creatures eager to feed. Lulu, in turn, had fed well. The plucky scrubby matriarch was now perched on top of what looked like a lobster or crawdad the size of a Volkswagen, with gleaming swords of chitin for the ends of its many legs and fanning out from its tail.

There were more eels trying to slither up the sands toward the feast of corpses, but the scrubby legion reacted as one organism. Poofy loofahs swarmed any threat as soon as it emerged from the water. Red puffballs glowed with intense heat. Yellow ones crackled with arcs of electricity. Green ones left trails of hissing, caustic cleaning fluids. The scents of ozone, lye soap, and charcoal warred with the pungent aromas of days-old corpses the scrubbies hadn’t yet had time to consume.

As one giant eel fell to the sand, still wriggling weakly and not quite dead, the larger loofahs made way to allow the smaller ones to swarm in for the kill. The last thrash of the sparking jaws led to dozens of rippling, golden pulses as the smaller loofahs became not quite so small from subduing their foe and leveling up.

Farther down the bank from Morgan, several scrubbies as big as Lulu were furiously consuming the corpse of another eel, and one by one they all swelled up into massive lacy puffballs. With an almost cartoonish sounding fwoomp, the first scrubby exploded like a piece of popcorn, sending tiny prismatic puffs outward as it lost its extra mass and returned to normal. The newly poofed brood of scrubbies immediately began to feed on the dead bodies scattered across the sands. They were soon followed by more fwoomps, and more scrubby cousins.

The river itself was awash with foamy blood, goopy viscera, and variously tinted patches of soapy bubbles, and this seemed to be what fueled the constant onslaught of the riverbank invasion.

For spawning ten thousand descendants, Lulu has gained the Title [Loofah Prime: The Scrubby Matriarch]!

A silvery halo briefly appeared over the precocious puffball as Lulu hopped off her dead crustacean perch and began working her way back in Morgan’s direction. Morgan herself had been picking her way toward Lulu, around and over and sometimes through the gleaming, off-white skeletons. The combat all across the riverside sandbar seemed to lull for a moment as she scooped up her murderously adorable friend for a hug. The lavender-scented puffball frantically checked to be sure that all of Morgan was still there, zipping across arms to hands, and hopping down to check toes and feet before making its way back up to perch on her shoulder, purbling in relief.

As she walked toward the water’s edge, Morgan felt for her magic, and found it eagerly responsive. With a touch of willpower and Mana, she pulled a globe of water up from the river. The greater ease with which the magic flowed in and around her was simply astounding. She could feel the impurities in the water as well, and expelled the blood and filth from her globular acquisition before sipping from the floating sphere.

“This is amazing, Lulu!” she exclaimed to the scrubby that was, once again, happily perched on her shoulder. Letting go of the ball of water with a splash, she held up her hands and pulled Lightning Mana out of the air around her. She let it dance around and between her fingers like a crackling purple game of cat’s cradle. “My magic doesn’t hurt me anymore, Lulu! It’s like it’s all natural now!”

She paused for a few seconds before chuckling and shaking her head. “Heh, all natural, au naturel, I guess it comes with the territory now.”

The attacking creatures seemed to have vanished for some reason Morgan couldn’t detect, but with her newly attuned instincts giving faint tingly warnings, she headed away from the water. She turned to the most recently deceased eel and, when her instinct skill reassured her it was indeed edible, tore a large chunk of the fishy white flesh away with her bare hands. She wasn’t starving, but she was quite hungry.

With an improvised usage of her [Wind Barrier] spell, she held the roughly torn eel filet suspended in mid-air and cooked it with a careful application of [Candleflame] while she sat on the lobster-like carapace that had previously been Lulu’s matriarchal throne. The sound of purbles, warbles, and trilling purrs surrounded her, and she simply stared at Lulu’s progeny with incredulity as she ate.

“I wasn’t ready to be a grandma, girl.”

Lulu’s only response was a haughty puffling shake before going back to working through Morgan’s hair, which had become encrusted with sand and grit while she lay still for several days. She finished off her roasted eel and suddenly remembered her tattoos.

Jumping up and nearly dislodging the protesting loofah, Morgan drew another ball of pure water from the river. With a brief struggle of will that was more about visualizing exactly what she wanted and less about the power required to do it, the sphere of liquid flattened out into a spinning, shimmering disk.

Her reflection in the improvised mirror was utterly striking. She stood naked on the sand with a proud, confident stance she hadn’t even realized she’d grown into. The diminutive, withdrawn posture of the waitress she used to be was gone. The image she now saw was a strong, fit example of unapologetic femininity and strength. Shoulders back, hair wild, and standing tall on bare feet. “Totally not giving a damn, Lulu,” she said. “Hah! I couldn’t equip a damn to give it!”

With a wry chuckle, she pulled the mirror closer to inspect her enchanted tattoos. In the center of her chest, just below where her collarbones came close together, was a simple divided circle tattoo. The two halves of the shiny, indigo disk had a thin gap of separation between them, but at the center of the circle they seemed to twist together like a lock.

Two hair-thin lines of deep purple inked their way upward, one from each side of the circle. They pulled close together to trace their way through the narrow indentation between her collarbones, then turned outward to curl up the sides of her neck and behind her ears. The lines reemerged from her hair on either side to connect the [Soul Anchor] to the [Mana Sight] Living Rune.

The tattoo for [Mana Sight] struck Morgan as hauntingly beautiful and reminded her of Celtic woad designs and other tribal imagery. The thin, connecting lines split at her temples and wove an intricate, narrow belt across her eyes in a matte indigo color. The tattoo even covered her eyelids, and she made awkward faces at herself by closing one eye and trying to inspect its lid with the other eyeball.

Her moment of self-reflection and study was brought to a halt sooner than she would have liked. Thunder rumbled ominously to the south, despite the bright, sunny day. She’d been wondering what could have scared off the local critters that had been fighting over the buffet of dead creatures all around, and now it made its appearance.

The legions of loofah scrubbies began purbling with nervousness and making their way back into the brush and trees away from the water, but Morgan stood her ground. Her instincts were less fearful and more watchful, as the marshy stretch of the river in the southern distance was covered in low thunderclouds centered over a single large shadow. As the localized storm front crept up the river toward their location, Morgan activated her [Mana Sight] tattoo and, with her vision now piercing the clouds to see the currents of Mana within, the source was revealed in all its fearsome, magical detail.

The center of the small storm was almost directly above a most distinctive creature that Morgan had no trouble at all naming. “Good Lord, Lulu! It’s an ACTUAL hydra! Seven heads and all!”

The loofah simply puffled with a complete lack of awe at the statement, which Morgan could actually understand, given the loofah’s recent record-setting bout of reproduction. The hydra appeared to be quite a bit smaller than the electric eel-hydra had been, but it more than made up for that with powerful front limbs that pulled it through the marshy waters and mud of the lower section of the river.

In addition to sheer strength, the magic was obvious. Morgan could make out giant eddies of Water, Air, and Lightning Mana swirling in the clouds above the approaching monster. And another type of Mana was visible to her rune-enhanced vision, a type she’d not yet experimented with herself. This new Mana seemed to form concentrated knots in the upper layers of the storm, and then zip downward, propelled by the winds and the Air and Water Mana to incredible speeds, to then hit the mud with thumping, wet sounds of impact.

Holding up her hand, Morgan copied the knot of strange new Mana she could see in the hydra’s hovering storm clouds. Within moments, a sphere of ice drew in all the moisture around her hand as it swelled into existence. It froze to her hand, but that proved a benefit, as the entire process rewarded her with a spell, a resistance, and an affinity within a handful of heartbeats.

You have learned the spell [Hailstone]! One or two may not do much, but a storm of hundreds can be deadly! Form a ball of ice with Frost Mana. Multiple [Hailstone] spells may be cast simultaneously, at a proportional cost.

You have gained the skill [Frost Resistance]!

You have gained the skill [Frost Affinity]!

Morgan cackled suddenly but didn’t flee the approaching beast. “Lulu…” she said between gasps of laughter. “It’s a Hail-Hydra…”

She laughed so hard it hurt, and still she did not flee. The scrubby on her shoulder seemed perfectly calm, and instead of fear, her instincts were telling her the hydra would be quite tasty indeed. The urge to test out her new class limits and this newly responsive and intuitive use of magic was overwhelming—and, she admitted to herself, I and my inner self both have some issues that would be good to get worked out.

Her caloric reserves were almost fully replenished by the magically broiled eel she’d consumed. Her Health and resource pools were all full, and she felt physically better, more alive, than she had since appearing in this world.

Morgan stretched her arms above her head and twisted from side to side as if merely preparing for an exercise session, then cracked her neck, and then her knuckles. The [Skyclad Sorceress] wanted to play, and one unfortunately tasty-looking Hydra had picked the wrong time to appear.

Chapter 13: Sympathetic Reflex

Morgan Mackenzie was fighting for her life, and enjoying every glorious moment of it. The magic she wielded was vibrant in a way she didn’t—or couldn’t—notice before. In her blood, in her bones, and in her mind, it hummed. It was utterly intoxicating, a feeling of near invincibility. Her magic seemed to plead to be used, the Mana that sang in her blood responding to her will like a custom-built sports car designed for her and her alone.

Now that the hydra was closer, she could tell it wasn’t, in fact, tasty at all. The vast majority of its body gave off a sort of ick-flavored feeling under her gaze, like smelling sewage with her eyes. It was covered in slimy, iridescent scales of an utterly disgusting shade of green. Protrusions of thick, bony shell guarded the spot where the scaly necks sprouted like a clump of twisted roots.

The heads looked like an abominable cross between a snapping turtle and a crocodile: narrow, ridged beaks filled with vicious, uneven, ugly teeth that gnashed together as the heads hissed and spat in response to her repeated casts of [Lightning Bolt]. The only part of the creature that did, in fact, seem tasty were small pockets of bluish, glowing tendrils that wriggled about under the gill-like flaps behind the jaws of each head, and that was only because Morgan’s [Primal Instinct] told her they were. Morgan herself had no interest in eating anything even remotely resembling tentacles. Not unless I’m starving, at least…

All her magic and skills felt smoother and more cooperative with her will, no longer jittery and difficult to grasp. Before her Class Selection, the spells had been almost wild, with Fire and Lightning literally burning their way out of her flesh when she released them. Now, the Mana seemed to flow nearly unhindered, harmlessly leaving her body with merely the thought to direct it.

Lulu remained glommed tightly onto her shoulder as Morgan activated [Acceleration] and darted between two striking heads to fire a [Spell Surge]-empowered [Lightning Bolt] into the creature’s chest. The magical beast’s raw power with Water made her Fire spells sputteringly ineffective under the localized storm, but she could still temporarily stun it with a good shock of lightning.

The serpentine necks twitched and jerked as Morgan danced back out of range, hopping around and over the exfoliated skeletons scattered across the sands with a grace aided by her [Primal Instinct] and [Athleticism]. Her basic spells had done no lasting damage at all, as far as the young Sorceress could discern. Even intoxicated by the buzzing power thrumming in her Soul, she could understand she wouldn’t be able to keep this pace up indefinitely.

I need something more, she thought as she formed a [Wind Barrier] out of the Air above her to deflect an incoming wave of jagged hail and lightning. The frozen chunks of water bounced off the shield, but the impact of the hydra’s lightning spell sent her sprawling, with her skin tingling from the static.

She sprang to her feet with a burst of [Acceleration], and kept it up long enough to put some distance between her and her foe, burning Stamina with [Regeneration] to recoup the spent Mana. Turning just outside the edge of the magical storm’s range, Morgan drew up Fire and Lightning Mana simultaneously.

It was similar to how she had twisted the Fire Mana before losing control of it back in her temporary Earth shelter, but this time she blended two Elements together for the spell. It took effort, but thanks to her new Class and the improved abilities to manipulate Mana, she managed to keep it from exploding in her face. Vivid, purple flames swirled between her hands, crackling furiously with the charged Lightning Mana inside the spinning Fire.

The more Fire and Lightning she squeezed into the spinning ball, the more of her Mana it cost to keep it contained. The two elements didn’t seem to like being forced together so roughly, but Morgan didn’t have time to experiment slowly. As the hydra closed once again to within thirty paces, she activated [Spell Surge] and thrust her hands out toward the monster, while she shoved the roiling mass forward with her mind.

You have learned the spell [Plasma Glaive]! Annihilate your enemies with a burning spear of Lightning and Flame!

The notification was all she could see for several moments, as the spell had been so bright that it blinded her temporarily. The young Sorceress was also convinced she was deafened as well, until she realized she was no longer hearing the hydra’s thunderstorm because it was no longer there. Neither were, she noticed after blinking her vision back, two of the monster’s heads.

The beast itself stood frozen, understandably even more shocked at this turn of events than Morgan herself was. The two rightmost heads ended in charred stumps, and seared bone and hide rippled back along the massive emerald shoulder. Pieces of green meat and glimmering shards of scales were still falling to the ground with wet thumps and splattering sounds as she and the hydra both stood, stunned.

“Whoa,” she blurted out as Lulu gave appreciative wurbles from her shoulder. The new spell had been far more impressively destructive than she could have hoped for, and losing two heads had definitely hurt the hydra. It heaved its grotesquely muscled body up as high as its stumpy, thick-set front legs could lift it, while its remaining heads writhed, hissed, and shuddered about like angry snakes.

Morgan stared for several heartbeats, the expenditure of almost half her Mana at once leaving her light-headed and swaying on her feet. So disorienting was the effect that even with [Primal Instinct] screaming at her, she didn’t manage to move in time to evade the hydra’s response.

With a disgustingly wet herk that was almost enough on its own to make Morgan retch in sympathy, all five of the remaining heads shuddered in unison, the massive body heaving. The naked Sorceress and the immediate surrounding area for a dozen yards in every direction promptly received a prodigious coating of caustic, reptilian vomit containing partially-digested flesh and bones.

Morgan didn’t even have time to verbalize her own horrified disgust before her body’s reflexes purged her recently-consumed roasted eel and riverwater, adding a much smaller, but still disgustingly aromatic contribution to the mess. It was only after she staggered upright once again that she realized how badly the hydra’s vomit was stinging her skin. Lulu quickly cleaned off her face, but it covered everything else. The next thing she noticed was the fact that within all that stinking, slimy, sticky mess—things were moving.

“Nope, nope, nope!” screamed Morgan as she turned and ran, setting herself on fire to cleanse the filth from her skin as quickly as possible. The heady, buzzing high she’d been experiencing as she’d reveled in the ease and power of her new Class and its magics was now completely gone. In its place were shaky whispers of fear and self-recrimination.

On she ran toward the looming cliffs to the north, not slowing until she could no longer hear the rumbling storm that had reappeared above the hydra. Letting the purifying flames fade away, she slowed to a walk as she brushed the soot and ash from herself as well as she could. Lulu, thankfully immune to her fire, proceeded to deal with the rest in her singularly scrubby fashion.

“I don’t pick fights, Lulu! What the hell was wrong with me?”

The diminutive puffball gave no answer, save its constant purble of contentment as it dealt with all things icky on its mistress’ body. “It was like the magic was making me high or something. I was definitely power trippin’ on the class thing!”

Morgan’s heart was still pounding, but the buzzing hum of her magic had been dampened by the shock of the vomit and her panicked flight. “Stupid! So freakin’ stupid!” She stomped her foot in frustration, but the effect was nowhere near satisfying with her bare sole on the soft dirt.

“God, I miss boots already!” she complained, punctuating her declaration with an annoyed growl.

She gave Lulu several gentle pats in appreciation after the loofah finished its ministrations and returned to her shoulder. Getting covered in vomit had not been part of her plans for the day. Or any day, for that matter. But it had come with the benefit of two new skills; [Corrosion Resistance] and [Toxin Resistance]. “Still, not how I would have planned to get those skills. Yuck!”

Muttering to herself, Morgan continued along toward the distant, looming cliffs. She still wanted to find a high place so she could get a better reading on the local area, hoping to spot signs of civilization or people. Another small stream presented the opportunity to rinse the taste of her own vomit out of her mouth, and after a quick double-check of her surroundings, she sat on a soft, mossy patch next to the creek to think.

Several sips and spits from a globule of floating water later, she felt much better. Her eyes drifted up to the high clifftops, where the day’s sunlight was finally burning most of the obscuring mists away. “I’m not sure how far away those cliffs really are, Lulu, but that looks like it has to be almost a mile from bottom to top, if not more…”

The scrubby’s only response was a snoozy, low purble as it drooped on her shoulder. “Poor lil’ thing,” she said as she gave it another gentle pat. “Must be exhausted from defending me and spawning all those terrifyingly cute hordes of babies.”

With her mind now much calmer, and her body at least somewhat rested, Morgan carefully got to her feet while making sure not to jostle her sleepy loofah passenger. The [Primal Instinct] skill wasn’t warning her of danger, nor urging her toward or away from anything else that she could tell. But there was something different about this section of the forest.

It took her several long moments of staring before it finally fell into place. The small stream she’d sat next to ran in an almost perfectly straight line along a section of furrowed earth that looked like it was chopped out by a massive blade. “Nature doesn’t usually work with straight lines,” she murmured to herself quietly. One bank of the stream was raised higher than the other, a clear delineation aside from some crumbled sections and places where tree roots had pushed the bank out. The unnatural formation was obvious now that she knew to look.

The raised ground stood merely half a pace higher than her side of the stream, and she cleared the distance to the other side with a nimble hop as she continued carefully through the forest. Now that she was looking for it, other things stood out as she meandered through the trees. Toppled boles marked gaps in the canopy above, smaller trees fighting for dominance in the places where the sunlight shone through in full.

There were sections of rippled earth formations, as if a giant had shaken a rug and let it fall in a folded, messy clump, sometimes with trees growing sideways out of the leaning dirt before bending back toward the sky. As she continued on her path, scattered boulders began to appear. It seemed as if a titanic battle had been fought, and she was walking through the battlefield decades later. The area felt as somber and quiet as the grave, the sounds of wildlife dying away the further she advanced.

Half a hundred paces further in, as the signs of old destruction and mayhem became far more pronounced, she stumbled. Vibrant moss and lichen covered the ground, so she had no visual clues to warn her. As she took another step, she felt her Mana snap with a jolt, down her leg and into something under the layer of moss.

“Shit!” she screamed, as she fell over with her leg numb and half of her Mana instantly gone. The tumble dislodged a protesting scrubby as she landed unceremoniously on the ground in confusion. “What the hell was that?!”

She sat there for over a minute, flexing her leg and rubbing her foot, trying to get the feeling back. Sitting up, she noticed that the mossy patch she’d stepped on was now glowing with a soft, pale light from underneath. With a lot of frustration, and a good measure of anger, she wrenched at the dirt underneath the moss with her Earth Mana.

What sprang up from the dirt was equal parts beautiful and astonishing; a lumpy crystal the size of her fist, glowing with Mana. Her Mana, to be specific. She could feel it floating there less than two feet away, and almost without thought, she reached out with her will to pull on the Mana within the crystal. It flowed back into her as easily and smoothly as breathing, all but a trace that remained inside, keeping the object afloat.

“Whoa… It’s a literal Mana Crystal, Lulu!”

The scrubby ceased its warbling protests at being so rudely awoken in the fall, and hopped up to land on the floating crystal chunk while emanating curious, purring tones. The puffball’s adhesive abilities never ceased to amaze Morgan as Lulu treated the sides and bottom of the crystal just like the top, sticking to it without fail as the scrubby cleaned and polished this new, shiny thing its mistress had found.

It wasn’t the only one in the area, either: with her Mana in the crystal, she could feel soft pulses, like sonar pings, scattered through the thinning forest ahead. Like a thousand heartbeats, they sat with a low hum in her perception through the crystal suspended before her. And like an echo, her own bones and blood pulsed a syncopated counter in time with the beats.

With a wave of power from [Spell Surge] and unable to help gesturing along with the thought, Morgan heaved with her magic as she got her arms under an invisible load and raised up. For hundreds of yards ahead of her and to either side, scattered throughout the silent battleground, thousands of brightly glowing crystals burst forth from under the dirt, moss, and leaves.

The effort drained her Mana rapidly; the crystals each pulled in an individual trickle as they floated and flashed in multi-colored strobes of stark light that overpowered the daytime sun. An unexpected reward followed the effort, however, as a notification appeared just before her Mana drained completely.

You have gained the skill [Crystal Affinity]!

She dropped back to the ground with an exhausted thwump, her breathing labored as though she’d just finished a sprint. The shards of crystal fell immediately after, a soft, pattering rain of thumping and tumbling pieces that took a few moments to settle into stillness. The only sound for several minutes was Morgan’s own panting breaths as she recovered from the total drain of her magic.

“Holy shit…”

Using the closest tree, she levered herself back to her feet after the worst of the woozy feeling had passed. From what little she could infer with the limited sense she’d felt from the crystals through her Mana, their positions radiated from a central point. She headed in that direction, carefully picking her way through and around the glowing stones without touching any of them. The iridescent glow shone upward to paint the underside of the canopy in rippling rainbows of living light, which she couldn’t help but admire.

“You couldn’t pay to see something like this on Earth, Lulu,” she said in a hushed whisper. The closer she got to the center, the more pronounced the evidence of old destruction became. The tree cover was thinner and younger the farther in she went, the forest not yet having reclaimed this battlefield as its own.

Boulders, and pieces of rock that must have once been boulders before being shattered by massive impacts, lay tumbled about amongst mossy humps that must have been trees, knocked over and long since rotted away

“It wasn’t a meteor strike,” she whispered to herself. “That would have blown trees out in the same direction, unless I’m remembering physics wrong.” The rocky formations had grown larger as she walked, and as she stepped around a titanic stone slab jutting upward from the dirt, she saw what could only be massive claw marks gouged into the granite itself. Nope, not a meteor, she thought.

Her instincts had submitted to the tranquil atmosphere, and talking out loud seemed almost wrong somehow. Whatever had happened in this place seemed to demand a reverence and respect, like the quiet blanket of stilled air that reminded her of approaching a monument.

Or a grave…

As Morgan approached the center, the crystals grew steadily larger and more uniform in shape. Massive, glass-like blades and needle-thin spikes longer than her arms lay chipped and broken, sometimes half-buried in the larger rocks. Finally, after picking her way through one last extremely dense section of tumbled stone and crystal, she reached the center.

Piled in a mound over twice as tall as the young Sorceress were the bones of a massive creature, with the skull topping the pile like some sort of totem or warning. It was difficult to make out the original shape of the skull due to the obvious damage, but enough was left that Morgan could make out the general shape of what must have been a terrifying creature.

The skull itself was taller than her, with a single front-facing opening that must have housed an eye the size of a large beach ball. Above the empty socket, two stubby protrusions that looked like they had been the base for a pair of horns sat, broken off, the bone jagged with fractures and cracks that spread out across the rest of the skull. An intact third horn extended from the elongated snout halfway between the ocular cavity and the mostly destroyed sinus opening. The two upper horns lay at the foot of the pile, as if dropped and forgotten.

The rest of the bones were piled under the skull, oversized scapulae like broad-bladed shovels atop tumbled vertebrae and sharply edged sections of snapped ribs. A huge femur, easily as long as Morgan was tall, leaned against the pile, studded with fragments of broken mana crystals as if something made of the magic mineral had chewed on the bone.

“Lulu,” she whispered in quiet awe, “if things like this and whatever killed it live in this world, I really can’t pick fights like I did with the hydra…”

The scrubby gave no response, huddling quietly in the crook of her shoulder and neck. The afternoon sun finally passed over the edge of the looming cliffs to sink the creature’s resting place in gloomy shadow, dimly lit by the rainbow glow of thousands of crystals. Now reminded of her destination, Morgan quickly but quietly made her way past the bones. The entire empty battlefield was a place she was now eager to put behind her, driven forth by the fear inspired by the quiet grave.

Morgan resumed her trek for the cliffs in somber silence. She was finally coming to terms with the fact that, despite the game-like characteristics of this new and magical world, she was not safe—and this was most definitely not a game.

Chapter 14: Blood Burns True

Morgan Mackenzie was climbing a sheer rock wall—and having a far easier time of it than any self-proclaimed mountaineer or free-hand rock climber had ever been able to boast. Her magic made it as simple as climbing a ladder, and it was only getting easier the farther she ascended. Magic helped form the perfect hand and footholds sculpted directly into the rock as she went. Barely a third of the way up the cliffside, and notifications for levels in [Earth Sculpt] and [Earth Affinity] had popped up several times in the few short hours since she began.

The sun had begun to set, and the glow of the twin moons had begun to brighten the eastern sky with their pale, silvery luminescence. The fading light was no barrier to her eyes, not with her [Mana Sight] tattoo enchantment. The enhanced vision allowed her to angle her path away from larger cracks and crumbled sections of the cliffs. She could fuse them into safe, solid handholds, but it expended more Mana than she liked. She only had so much, and there was no way to replenish herself on the way upward.

Morgan had debated internally about staying the night in the lowlands, but her experiences so far with the local fauna had spurred her to push for higher ground immediately instead of waiting. The remains of what she was so far calling the Cycloceratops had been a grim reminder of the extreme dangers of this new land. As if the Shadowlynx, the Pack, the Tyrannorabbits, the Doomturtle, and Hail-Hydra weren’t enough of a clue, she thought.

So Morgan was climbing. Lulu seemed to have had enough of getting jostled on her shoulder as she reached for one handhold after the next, and the scrubby had kept pace next to her as they ascended. The poofball’s attempts at napping had been constantly interrupted as Morgan reached upward repeatedly, and it had finally given up with a huffy wurble.

She could have dug out a cave or ledge to rest, but had decided against it. Her Stamina and body fat reserves were holding up for now, but excavating enough stone to yield a safe cave might possibly compromise her ability to finish the climb. Her [Athleticism] skill had gotten an impressive workout due to her efforts, gaining two levels in the long night hours it took her to close in on the summit.

Reach. Exhale. Mana flowing into her hand, out through her fingers. Mold the stone under her fingers. Pull while pushing up with feet, the same smooth feeling of the Mana where her feet dug into the rocks. Inhale. Repeat. Less than a hundred yards to the top, Morgan was in a determined trance. The light of the two moons as they slipped just past high midnight cast her shadow in stark relief on the stone.

Then sudden darkness, instincts screaming in time with Lulu’s panicked warbling as the scrubby leapt frantically back onto Morgan. A thundering wind and a concussive impact nearly dislodged her from the rocks, as massive talons slammed into the cliff-face around her before closing. The tips of the solidified knives of darkness left gouges in the stone and gave off sparks as she was gripped inhumanly tightly and yanked away from the wall.

She couldn’t breathe, so tightly did the thing squeeze her. The sharp ridges of the talons cut into her thighs, back, and chest, grating through bleeding flesh to scrape against her crystalline bones. Each beat of the massive wings hammered the air with grim intensity as she felt herself lifted up at a ridiculous speed. She reached for her Mana in desperation, but could do nothing with it. Some sort of pressure kept it contained within those nightmare claws, the will of another imposed over her own magic.

Panicked struggling and half-choked screams led to [Spell Surge] and outrage together fueling a momentous effort that helped Morgan bring her own flames sputtering into existence. Fire laced with Lightning snapped outward to illuminate a huge, bird-like form, crafted of feathers and fear. The burst of magic bought her enough space for a mere handful of rapid gasps, pulling welcome oxygen into her lungs before the claws tightened even further. The tightened grip came with another wave of that other will, smothering her own power once again.

Lulu, however, had abilities that were most certainly not constrained by the bird’s magical presence. With a wurbling trill that was half panic and half rage, the loofah launched itself into the feathers on the oversized avian’s underside and began to exfoliate with all its scrubby might. Inky black plumage fluttered down as Morgan’s pet went about its macabre work with vehement enthusiasm. Her captor squawked like a truck-sized chicken on steroids as it suddenly tumbled down toward the craggy brush and trees that carpeted the top of the cliffs.

The loofah’s exfoliating abilities were second to none, and soon blood dripped down with the falling feathers as the disgruntled caws turned to agonized screeches from the tumbling giant corvid. To Morgan’s rune-enhanced sight, the blood hummed with sharp, potent Mana, and time seemed to slow as the glowing liquid flowed down toward her. When the blood ran down to meet Morgan’s where it coated the talons that had so offensively ripped into her flesh, the two mixed with a crackling, glittery glow.

And then it exploded.

Burning blood, feathers, a giant screeching bird, a warbling loofah, and one screaming, bloodied Sorceress were sent hurtling in different directions, trailing smoke and indignation. Morgan’s [Regeneration] ability kicked in the moment she was clear of the dread crow’s overpowering magical aura, and a hastily formed [Wind Barrier] formed a sphere that let her roll across the ground without taking further damage.

The newly evolved [Regeneration] seemed even more efficient at the starting skill level than [Naked Recovery] had been once mastered, and while Morgan could tell she’d dipped into her limited fat reserves to knit the wounds and replace her lost blood, it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been. As soon as she could stand, the young Sorceress was back on her feet yelling for her pet puffball.

“Lulu!” She could hear excited wurbling making its way toward her through the brush.

Her scrubby hero hadn’t travelled far, and had wasted no time at all before heading for its mistress. Loofah and Sorceress were reunited a few moments later, the diminutive puffball once again checking Morgan from head to toe to remove all the blood, charred feathers, and dirt from her naked frame. The puffball returned to her shoulder after reassuring itself that she was all in one piece. The squawking caws turned to coughing in the distance, and then something else reached her ears…

“Are those… Are those words, Lulu?” Both Sorceress and scrubby went silent, listening intently. “I think the bird is talking!”

Muffled words in a language that felt familiar, but just escaped Morgan’s understanding drifted back through the trees, from the direction singed feathers still fluttered from. Most of them surely outraged swearing, if the tone was anything to go by.

“Cad é in ainm dia is an rud sin?!” shouted the now mostly human and definitely feminine sounding voice. And it was getting closer. “Bah! Ní féidir leat mo chuid focal a thuiscint, tá litriú agam!”

“I don’t understand a word you’re sayin’, lady! Why’d you attack me?” shouted Morgan as she stalked angrily toward the other woman’s voice, a voice soon given form as an elderly woman draped in a cloak of black feathers picked her way through the trees toward the Sorceress, aided by a gnarled root walking stick. “Do you speak English? Can you even understand me?” snarled Morgan, still wound up with adrenaline and outrage.

“Amhasóg!” the woman shouted, tossing a small stone at Morgan with a strength and speed that belied her apparent age. Less than a foot from her face the stone burst apart, the ensuing flash briefly lighting up the outline of a complex formation of runes spinning around her head. Before Morgan could even begin to process this, the runes snapped out of existence with a pop. She reeled at the sudden and intense headache that split her skull, but it was gone almost as fast as it had started.

“Of course I understand you, foolish child! If you hadn’t fought, we’d be at my home sharing a meal and a lot of questions right now.” The woman angrily pointed her cane at the loofah perched on Morgan’s shoulder. “And what in the seven hells is that thing?”

No way, thought Morgan. She’s a witch! And a bitch too, but definitely a witch or sorceress, or some shit like that!

“Coulda handled that better yourself; I was only a little ways from the top, and you could have waited! Or even thrown a rope or something! And this is Lulu, my loofah scrubby. Show a little respect!” Morgan had given herself over to her vehemence by the end of her tirade, aggressively stepping toward the older woman with more than a little anger, her Mana zapping across her fingertips in a sinister dance.

The old woman raised her cane a few inches off the ground, and then with both hands, slammed the tip into the dirt. Morgan felt the ground ripple under her feet, and then her Mana simply drained away almost completely, and her sudden anger with it.

“Good,” the witch stated with a humorless grin. “It’s nice to know the blood hasn’t cooled since I left the old lands. Tell me, little Worldwalker, how fairs the Eire and old Britannia after all these centuries?”

Morgan was stunned speechless for several heartbeats before suddenly bubbling over with excitement. “Wait, what!? A-Are you from Earth, then? Is there a way back? I don’t know what the eye-er or whatever you called it is, but Great Britain is doing just fine, as far as I knew before I got here. At least I don’t think they were having anything more than the usual arguments in government that any other country does.” The bare-skinned woman seemed unable to make up her mind between freezing in shock and shaking with excitement, as her brain tried to shift into three different gears at the same time. “Wait! You said centuries?”

“Slow down, girl. The Eire is just across the water from Britannia. When I came here, the high king had expelled Rome from the kingdoms a mere decade past. But enough!”

The woman turned and pointed through the trees with her cane. “My home is that way, and you should reach it by sunrise if you don’t dawdle. I’d carry you, but your Lulu” —she spat the name as though it were a foul oath— “already made its stance more than clear on that particular mode of travel.” The old woman shook her greyish-white mane of hair as she shuddered at the memory. “Did the blood not burn true, I would have already eaten ye for that alone, but I suppose I can spare a meal for one of my descendants.”

With that, the woman turned and began to walk away, leaving the naked Sorceress sputtering in confusion.

“What do you mean, ‘descendant’?” Morgan called, staring at the woman’s retreating back like a deer caught in headlights.

“Just what I said, little naked one,” the older woman called back at her. “I left a whole pack of whelps in the old world, and your blood reacted with mine own. It pleases me that our line has not yet faded.”

With that, the older woman finished speaking, and blackness rippled out from her night-feathered cloak to wreath her in shadows that twisted and spun as they expanded into the form of the massive raven. Wings of darkness stretched up before snapping down in a gust of thunder and bent trees as the great bird leapt into the sky.

“She seems like a total bitch, Lulu,” said Morgan, picking her way through the brush and shrubbery in the same direction the raven had flown. The scrubby seemed to mirror the opinion of its mistress, puffing up with a wurble as if it were turning up a nonexistent nose in the general direction of the retreating avian.

Even with the moons beginning to set, her rune tattoo allowed her to see the raven descend in the distance. She set off toward it at a light jog, Lulu happily purbling on her shoulder once again now that the immediate danger had passed. It was well past midnight, and the higher elevation and its accompanying chill had begun to give rise to a low mist.

Within the hour, the mists had thickened enough to blur the trees even to her magically-assisted eyes, so Morgan didn’t notice the signs of civilization until her bare feet slapped down onto the smooth paving stones of an ancient roadway. Trees and other flora had intruded upon the worked stone blocks, pushing them up and apart with their slow, inevitable expansions of roots. As she walked along the uneven path, faintly glowing runes and patterns became visible where two or more blocks still touched.

“I guess the enchantments helped the stones resist the trees, but not even magic lasts forever, Lulu…”

Close to a mile along the ruined road, the trees thinned out even more to give way to crumbling walls of actual buildings. The predawn light lent the mists an eerie beauty and a soft glow that played contrast to the looming shadows as Morgan padded deeper into the city. The residual power in the runes etched into the stonework grew stronger the further in she travelled, the workings showing more and more resistance to nature’s eternal assault.

“Whoa,” said the [Skyclad Sorceress], as the sun broke over the mountains and brightened the mists even further. Above the mists that still clung to the lower ruins, a city within the city rose out of the wispy cover. She could see a thin trail of smoke rising from behind the gleaming white structures that made up the ringed division between the two parts of the ruins. “That must be where the raven lady lives…”

The only trees this far into the empty stone settlement grew up from obviously intentional placements, ringed by low stone benches where the soil had been left unpaved to allow them to grow. Ivy, moss, and other hard-scrabble plants had managed to find a foothold here, and even thrive in some places, but the interlocking enchantments of the stone construction still held fast this far inward.

The paving stones of the streets had so far been a dull grey, worked smooth, but not exceptionally fancy. That changed as she passed under a massive, gated archway into the inner district. The streets were alabaster white, comprised of hexagonal marble tiles joined so perfectly Morgan couldn’t feel the gaps even with her bare feet. Most of the buildings here still had an intact roof, with stone shingles in muted tones of matte grey or light brown. She could feel the enchantments layered deep into every stone in the construction all around her. Rusted metal plates, hanging loops of chain, strips of tarnished metal trim—all told tales of the empty doors, windows, and other accoutrements of civilization, long since worn away by the ravages of time.

Heading for the rising wisp of smoke, she eventually came upon a small park—or was it a monument?—in the middle of a sort of roundabout that was encircled by a loop of the main avenue. Creeping vines and scattered patches of moss only partially obscured a central fountain, in the middle of which stood two life-sized statues of white stone that still gleamed with protective magics. A man and a woman, standing proudly side by side. The man bore a sword on his hip, with one hand resting on its pommel. The woman beside him looked into the distance, the staff held in her grip capped with a smooth orb clasped by three metal claws.

Morgan stood before the statues, regarding the man and woman in silence for over a minute, before her contemplation was broken by an impatient tap-tap-tap of wood on stone.

“You’re late! Even without flight I would have beaten ye here, girl.” The old witch turned with a gesture, indicating for Morgan to follow while she continued her grumbling. “I thought I said ‘don’t dawdle’!”

“Well, no, you said, ‘if’ you don’t dawdle’ back there,” replied Morgan as she followed the woman into a simple but clean and orderly building that still had an actual wooden door.

“Lies! And slander too!” barked the cloaked magic user, obviously laughing behind the snarky demeanor. “It’s been centuries last I had an ear to complain at, don’t spoil my day with such accusations whilst I’m trying to enjoy the favored pastime of the elderly.”

“Centuries? How does that work? Will I live longer because of magic?” Morgan had so many questions, she almost couldn’t decide which to ask.

The woman didn’t answer right away, instead filling two clay cups with water pulled up from a large cistern in the corner of the simple room. The table she set them upon was a simple but sturdy affair, carved of a dark-grained wood. It was well-worn and had a feeling of age and antiquity about it, in similar fashion to everything else in the empty city, but it was clean and serviceable, as were the chairs and the bed. The mattress seemed to be simple animal furs laid over some sort of grasses.

The woman in the raven-feather cloak interrupted Morgan’s stares with a chuckle as she clucked her tongue and spoke. “You tarry when you should not, then rush right to rude questions when hospitality has been offered. Are the old ways truly lost in Breton?”

Suitably chastised, Morgan took a seat once the woman nodded and gestured at a chair. “I’m sorry, but who—” The rest of her sentence died as the woman held up a single bony finger with an irritated look. A magic far too complex for the younger woman’s understanding simply halted the words in her mouth.

“Names have power,” she said, her quiet voice filling the sudden silence. “Do not give yours away so freely. It certainly be rude to ask of mine before even common courtesy be met.”

A hand passed over both cups left the water steaming hot, then the woman opened a small wooden box and dropped a pinch of what looked like crushed herbs into the liquid. “This is my home,” she said, “and even if the old ways are forgotten in your world, they will be respected in this place as long as I yet live.”

The enigmatic hostess turned away from Morgan to open a standing cupboard in one corner of the room. The inner sides of its compartment glowed with runes, holding both Frost Mana and another type Morgan couldn’t identify, but whose purpose was soon revealed as the woman removed a cloth-covered basket and placed it on the table. Another wave of the woman’s hand, and delicious scented steam rose from the cloth. The witch pulled back the cloth cover to reveal golden-brown baked rolls of some sort.

The woman sat across from Morgan before continuing. “Eat, drink, and be safe at my hearth, girl. But mind your manners, or be tossed outside where we can resume our first conversation.”

The naked woman found herself once again able to speak, and she eyed the delicious looking bread with eager eyes as the other woman nodded and nibbled on one herself.

“I—uh, thank you…”

“One can learn, it seems. This is most pleasing.”

The warm drink gave off a minty scent and had a similar flavor as Morgan sipped the brew and chewed on a piece of bread. The bread itself was soft and fluffy, and the tastiest thing she’d experienced since arriving in this world. She ate three more of the delicious rolls; her hostess, two, both chewing with alacrity, as if eager to be on the other side of the food. She turned down a fifth treat with a shake of her head and a murmured, “Thank you.”

As the woman put the basket back in the cold-enchanted cabinet, Morgan had begun to let Lulu clean the sweet and sticky residue off her fingers. The witch gazed at the pair with curiosity as she sat back down across the table from the young Sorceress and her pet.

“So that puffball has uses other than defending you in battle, I see.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Morgan. “She cleans anything that’s dirty, whether that’s me or things around me. It seems to be her favorite thing to do, even.”

“Hah, what I wouldn’t give for one of my own then. Are there any more?”

“Well, she was the only one at first, she came alive the night I landed in the tree—”

The woman interrupted her then. “I saw the purple fire light the sky all the way from here. I knew I smelled the fruit of the Tree of Life and Magic in your blood. Amazing that you survived. Or maybe not so amazing…one other ate of the fruit and lived, long ago.”

“You mean the churples?” The confused expression on her conversational partner’s face prompted Morgan to elaborate. “I didn’t know what to call them, but they looked like something part cherry, and part apple, but purple like a grape. So I called it a churple!”

Her hostess scoffed at that. “Ignorance spawning humor? You certainly are an entertaining one! How many bites did you get down your gullet before the life-fire took you? Kings have been ransomed for a mere drop of the juice…”

Morgan blushed with sudden embarrassment. “Uh, um. I’d just taken a skill that burned up all my body’s reserves, and I was starving. I ate the whole thing as fast as I could…and passed out.”

The woman’s face went entirely blank for several long moments, save for a single twitching eyebrow. “Were I not able to tell a lie by the hearing of it, I wouldst kill ye for telling one. But you could not have known what you were so gluttonously feasting upon, and I think ye too stupid to make up such a telling.”

“I’ve done a lot of stupid since I got here. I don’t know anything! I’m just trying to stay alive and learn magic so I can find a way home!”

For the very first time, the woman’s face looked shocked. “What do ye mean, learn magic? Did the blood not light the way long before ye came to be here in The Wildlands? You be of my line, after all; the blood cannot lie. Ye should have been learning the Old Magics before ye first bled to become a woman!”

“What? Old Magics? Earth has no magic, it’s just old fairy tales and—”

Her exclamation was cut off as the other woman jerked back to her feet with a snarling hiss and seethed, “What do you mean no magic? There was always magic! Ye think I gained my power here?”

“There’s no magic I know of on Earth!” Morgan blurted out, leaning away from the other woman as her [Primal Instinct] slammed the sense of sudden danger into her mind with such power, she barely kept herself from curling into a ball and weeping.

“Did the Romans slay our gods, then?” The rage, grief, and shock radiating from the witch was palpable. “We fought them off, were pushing them out of the old lands, until Gywin Hywar showed his traitorous nature at Camlann, and we had to flee. The fool, always wanted the Sword. But the Knights…”

“I don’t know much history that far back. I’m not even from England, or Britannia, or whatever you called it.” Morgan managed to sit back up as the witch made a clear effort to calm herself. “I’m from a place called America, across the ocean from there, practically on the other side of the world. My parents always said we were pagans or something like that, but we never worshiped any actual gods or anything.”

“So who is King in your lands, then? Does no one remember Pendragon the high king and his Lady Guinevere?”

Morgan’s jaw dropped in shock. “No. Goddamn. Way. King Arthur? That high king? Excalibur, the Sword in the Stone, and all those myths? I’m not sure—no, I know I must be dreaming now. I’m stuck asleep or some shit like that.”

The old witch burst out laughing. “Deny or not, the blood marks ye true. Three bastard whelps I left with three different childless wives. T’was long before we came here, my King and I, and his Lady. My blood in thine own veins, lit aflame by the Life-Fire of the Fruit of the Tree. Believe as ye will, but ye stand near the heart of High Avalon, granddaughter mine.”

Power rippled out from the witch as she spoke, an assertion upon reality by an ancient will that gelled the air and silenced echoes as she spoke again, transfixing Morgan with a burning gaze:

“I am Moghren of Clan Le Fay, daughter of Myrrdin himself. The power of my blood burns in thy veins, and it will not be denied.”

Chapter 15: First Raven’s Roost

Morgan Mackenzie was having a pretty embarrassing day. The old witch, Moghren, had proven to be extremely curious about the conditions and limitations of her Skyclad class effects. The nude spellcaster was currently trying, and failing horribly, at eating soup with a spoon, while the old woman cackled with vicious amusement. Oddly enough, Morgan’s state of undress seemed to interest Moghren the least of all her class quirks.

In between dry chuckles, Moghren managed to make various questions and comments. “I have never seen the like, granddaughter. Ye can hold the spoon, and look upon it, yet when ye try to eat, thy hands twitch like ye’ve got the palsy!” More laughter followed another failed attempt, as the younger woman almost managed to get a spoonful of stew out of the bowl.

“Ugh!” Morgan exclaimed in frustration as the spoon fell back into the bowl, leaving her fingers numb and twitching uncomfortably. “I’m glad this is funny to you, old witch! I had no idea it would keep me from using spoons and shit! And another thing—why aren’t you bothered by me being naked?”

At that, the crone’s smile lost some of its hardness. “Old I may be, but no stranger am I to prancing through the woods in nothing but my skin, young one. Warm springtime was the season for wild revel, to celebrate surviving the cold winters and embracing life and lust under the moonlight. No Christian monk is Moghren, to deny the joys of the flesh to any man or woman. Though mine own age for such things is long past,” she finished wistfully.

“I don’t understand why I’m not embarrassed about it. Back on Earth, I would be scrambling for a blanket or a shirt, but now? Just thinking about it makes me feel uncomfortable and confined.”

Moghren didn’t seem surprised by this admission, either. “Ye chose the Class, child. The changes be writ upon thy very Soul. The choice was made, the consequence accepted, and that choice was then etched into the fabric of thy being. That be how this world works. The rules here be different than the old world.”

The younger woman sat in thought while she gazed down at the spoon with a forlorn expression. Her musings were interrupted as the witch spoke once again.

“Have ye thought to move the spoon with thy magics, child?”

Morgan stared at her elder counterpart, then slapped herself on the forehead at the sudden revelation. “Duh! I should have tried that from the beginning!”

Her initial experiments with the wooden spoon provided no results. “…I can’t feel it with my Mana; it’s not like stone or dirt. There’re grains of Earth in it, but it feels different, somehow. I can’t hold onto them…”

The other woman had nodded as Morgan spoke. “Yes, ye can feel the grains. They be linked with the remnants of Life and Water in the wood. Do ye understand nothing of magic at all?”

Morgan shook her head. “Nothing except what I know from our made-up stories back home, and from things like cartoons—”

“What be these… cartoons?” Moghren asked, with a stilted emphasis on the final word. “The translation spell be quite convenient, but it does not convey all of thy words.”

“They’re like…” Morgan struggled for a moment to explain. “They’re drawn pictures shown one after the other really fast, so that the eye is tricked into thinking they’re moving. The difference between one and the next is small, but if you shift through them fast enough, the picture changes smoothly.”

Moghren considered her explanation for a moment. “There be memory spells that come to mind with such a thing. A flickering illusion to show others what one has seen, though it takes a great effort of the mind. Ye might one day cover thyself with such glamours and thine own recollections of garments, but to fool all the ways of seeing, even I cannae do.”

“I’m honestly not as bothered by it as I thought I would be. I am worried about the cold when winter gets here, and sharp rocks and sticks still hurt my feet. But most of the time, it just doesn’t even cross my mind.”

“That be the changes in thy Soul, then, and a boon of thy Class. Many men, and no few women, may leer or jest, but they would do so even were ye clothed. ‘Tis possible it be a thing ye can use to get thine own way with some, if they be childish and so easily distracted.” The old witch’s expression turned to a nostalgic smile. “I distracted many by such means when I were as young as thee. Kings and beggars both can find their words out of reach when blinded by such delights.”

Morgan picked up the spoon once again, letting it rest on her palm instead of trying to actually use it. “So how do I touch the Life Mana you mentioned? I can’t sense it like the Earth, and even the Water is faint. If it was stone, I could mold it like clay. Easier than clay. It’s my highest Affinity except for basic Mana.”

“Likely it be the points ye wasted on things other than thy magic. Intellect is by far thy most important attribute, as it is for any Class reliant on magics. All five do far more than the mystic messages explain, though ye would not know that, as ye arrived where no one stood to explain.”

“The system notifications?” Morgan asked.

“System. This is a good word,” said Moghren, repeating it as if tasting the meaning. “The language spell I cast upon ye will learn and grow as ye converse with more folk, even though they be far from here. Others can tell ye more, but I can give some small guidance to keep ye from bumbling like a fool.”

“Please!” Morgan exclaimed with obvious relief, sitting at attention at the other woman’s table. “I don’t really know anything! I put points in Vitality right off so I could survive, but I’ve just been trying to round everything out because I don’t really know how everything works!”

“I would call ye daft, but if one has never been told, I can see how it would be beyond thy ken. It is not so dire a thing, to have a touch of extra Strength and Agility. Especially here in the Wildlands. But Intellect will help all Classes. It does not make one any smarter, not directly. But it makes things more clear in thine own thoughts.”

“So it’s more than just my Mana pool?”

“Far more. It will help ye sort out the different flavors of magic, or Elements as ye call them. It will make thy spells more powerful, of course, but it will also help ye in all things to do with thy mind. Not thinking better, but thinking…more. About more things at once, without confusion.”

“So…” Morgan paused for a moment of thought, going over her own status menu. “I have the ten points from reaching level ten; I never spent them after getting my class. And fifteen Skill points. But the Skills menu says I don’t have enough points to get any new Skills…”

“Aye. Ye have a Class now. In this world, thy Class changes everything. I myself used to be the [Raven Witch], until I claimed the heart of the First Raven. Now I am the [Midnight Crone]. By slaying my predecessor, I gained her immortality, but had to assume her role. I have few regrets, but I be bound to never leave First Raven’s Roost.”

“I thought this was the fabled city of Avalon?”

“The old raven was here long before my King, his Lady, and I ever set foot upon this world. How long I know not, perhaps since the beginning of all things. But know this, thy Class is not the end of who ye be. This world’s…system…as you call it, sets nothing in stone. Ye may one day become something other than that which ye be now, but be ever mindful of the price.”

Morgan gestured at her bare breasts, and then the spoon sitting in her other palm. “I think I’m getting an idea of what kinds of prices the system charges for things…”

“Indeed, child. Tell me, what boons be granted for the price thou hast paid, to be ever clad in sky?”

“Well, from what I can tell, it’s mostly in levelling rewards. I get double experience, double the intangible rewards from levelling and system things. So, double the Stat points and Skill points. There’s also something called Enhancement Points, but I don’t know what those are yet.”

Moghren’s eyebrows had risen at the revelation of double experience, but the mention of double Stat and Skill points had caused her expression to go utterly blank. “By the old gods…” the witch whispered almost too quietly for Morgan to catch, before continuing in a clearer voice. “Gaining double experience, even doubled points from earning a level while naked, is certainly known. All classes get some small increase to different things. ‘Tis but a pittance compared to thy gains, however. Double? To all?”

Morgan blushed under the sudden scrutiny and stammered her response. “Y-yep! And I level Skills really quickly, too! I have three skills mastered, four if you count my old healing skill, before it became [Regeneration] during my Class changes.”

“Those be mighty boons, indeed,” said Moghren. “If ye gain twice the Enhancement Points at your half-tens, that will certainly be something few could dream of. Husband those points carefully, girl. At level fifteen, and twenty-five, and so forth, we receive but one. Specializations for thy Class at every tenth level, so twenty and thirty. Those will depend on what ye practice or what skills ye use the most, but Enhancement?”

“What do they do?”

“Those points be for making one of thine own Skills more than it is. A mere half-dozen is all most would earn in a lifetime. As the [Midnight Crone], I no longer level, likened to the beasts and other great creatures of this world. Yet before I claimed the Heart, I knew but seventy and three, and only six points of Enhancement. A single point can be spent on a mastered skill, and they can evolve a simple [Fireball] spell into a blast to shatter a castle’s walls, or [Healing Touch] into a near miracle.”

Morgan let out a low whistle at that new bit of information. “So what different kinds of spells are there? When I set myself on fire, that doesn’t feel the same as a skill or a spell. It’s not even named in my list, it’s just something I do without really thinking about it. Not like [Lightning Bolt], [Earth Sculpt], or [Plasma Glaive].”

“The fire is thine own purest essence of power and magic. Most who strive to learn any form of magic can do similar, although they train first to control such wild burning of Mana. T’would damage or destroy their own clothing and equipment if they did not.” The [Midnight Crone] locked eyes with Morgan, and the girl couldn’t turn away her own gaze. “Thou hast no such limitations, child, and take these words to heart if none other. Find every way thou can to turn the banes of thy class to thine own advantage.”

“I don’t—” Morgan stammered, “I don’t understand.”

“Thy increases in attributes, skills, and levelling is a mighty boon, but compared to even middling enchanted gear on most experienced Classes, thou wouldst still be at a disadvantage. Most who take to battle will be fully adorned in the tools of their own trades. Ye carry no charms, no trinkets, no focusing crystal, nor athame. They shall be clad in layers of armor, sheathed in enchantments to strengthen, protect, and enhance their own abilities.”

Moghren pushed herself back from the table and stood, laying her cloak across the back of the chair. “Mine own Night-Feather Cloak. Arrows find it difficult to find me through its shroud, and the winds stand aside as I pass.”

With the cloak removed, multiple pieces of ornamentation were revealed. With slow, sure, deliberate movements, the crone began removing them, laying them on the table.

First to meet the wood was a bracelet, wrought from twisted copper, from her left wrist. “A shield charm. It doth not even require mine own Mana to protect me from blows that be not magical.” From her wrists and forearms, several more join its likeness. “Here be a half-dozen. Even more have I, simple as they are to make. Useless to thee.”

Three silver rings with pale grey chunks of Mana Crystal set in each came off her fingers, clattering to the surface. “Mana Wells,” she noted. “Each can replenish mine own magic reserves once entire, and take but a day before they may be used again.”

From around her neck, Moghren removed a simple circle of leather, strung with several thin crystals. “A spellcatcher. Toss thy thunder or flame at me, and I shall return it tenfold.”

Morgan watched the pile of jewelry grow, muted shock rising inside her.

Two thicker bands around the witch’s biceps were the next to join the growing pile. “A matching pair. Constitution and resistances are far greater, as long as ye wear both.”

Finally, the old woman picked up her stick from where it rested against the table. It seemed to twist in a familiar way as Morgan’s eyes passed across it. She gasped, bringing her gaze up to meet Moghren’s knowing eyes. “Is that—”

“Recognize it, do ye?” the crone chuckled. “Yes, this is a root of the very tree ye landed in. It may negate magic across a wide area, and it is mine favored focus for spellwork. Among other things,” she continued, an edge entering her voice. “Its other secrets are mine alone.”

Moghren fixed Morgan with a calm stare. “All of these, either made by mine own hand or earned as favors, then bent to serve or enhance mine own magics. This is what thou hast, all unknowing, traded away.”

Morgan stared quietly at the items, deep in thought as Moghren reequipped herself with her favored gear. Lulu had hopped off of her shoulder and tried to inspect the various items before the elder spellcaster shooed her back with a wave of a hand. The precocious puffball gave an offended purbling trill and returned its attention to its mistress, who had begun rubbing her face and bore an expression somewhere between sadness and despair.

“I think—” Morgan felt as if the little bit of soup she’d managed to eat was about to come back up. “I think I’ve made some terrible mistakes, then…”

The witch snorted without sympathy at Morgan’s self-recrimination. “Never think that. This world may levy a price for everything, but it is always fair. What thou hast given up, ye will find returned to thee in some way. I sense potential in thee that burns brighter in sorcerous power than I have seen in any but a mere handful of others in nearly sixteen centuries here.”

“But how can my spells and stats compete with all that specialized gear and enchantments?”

“Do ye not realize what that rune upon thine own breast means?” asked Moghren with an expression of incredulity on her face. “That,” she said, pointing at the [Soul Anchor] rune on her bare chest, “allows thee to craft [Living Runes] upon thyself. Ye know it not, but such a thing should not be possible! Not even on this world of Anfealt! Enchantments do not level, not any that I have ever seen nor even heard whispers of, though many have attempted to create such!”

“I’m not even sure what that means!” exclaimed Morgan, leaning back away from the intensity radiating off the other woman. Moghren seemed to loom even while sitting in the chair across the table, and Lulu once again hopped onto the table in front of its mistress. The scrubby puffed up as if warning the witch away.

“Be calm, little creature,” said Moghren. “Thy mistress has naught to fear from me—not since the blood marked her kin—but Moghren coddles no one.”

“It’s okay, Lulu,” Morgan said as she picked up the scrubby and gave it several affectionate pats before placing it back on her shoulder. “I don’t think she means to be so scary, she’s just powerful and does it without realizing…”

“Indeed,” said the old witch with a nod of appreciation for Morgan’s sideways compliment. “Ye have thine own aura of power, though ye know it not quite yet. A presence that can be sensed thusly may be a bane or a boon. Lesser creatures will avoid the threat, but greater ones may hunger for a taste of thee. I sensed it ere ye crossed the river; t’was only the perception of food at first that drew my Raven form to pluck thee from the cliffs.”

“What? You mean you really would have eaten me?”

“Had the blood not marked ye mine kin? Most certainly, as I have done to many trespassers these centuries past. Mine Raven half has needs of its own, as part of the bargain I struck so long ago. Thus is the price of power, and why ye cannae stay near Avalon beyond a day or so. The Crone still hungers, and I prefer mine solitude.”

Morgan eyed the older woman with no small bit of suspicion, and more than a touch of disappointment at that revelation. “I was beginning to hope I could stay a while so you could teach me magic…”

The older woman shook her head in bemusement while smiling grimly. “I can no more teach thee than I could teach a fish or a cat. And thou hast no need; thy class is built to learn. Trust in it, experiment on thine own.”

“More things I don’t understand…”

“A [Sorceress] of any kind is not like a [Mage] or [Wizard], and even more different from a [Witch] or [Druid]. They are the rarest of all the spell-weavers. Mine own cantrips, rituals, and nature magics would be useless to thee. Advice be all that Moghren can give, and ye would be wise to take it to heart.”

At this Morgan sat up straight and paid rapt attention. “Please. I don’t want to just stumble around, fighting one thing after the next, and barely surviving.”

Moghren scoffed at that. “Tsk!” she clicked with her teeth. “The Wildlands be the wrong place for that way of thinking, granddaughter! Tis not called The Wildlands for naught. Dangers beyond counting lie in wait in the forests and mountains and swamps, and mortal peril stalks the meadows and the plains.”

The old woman shook her head grimly and continued. “All the old nightmares of the ancient tales, and new ones twisted beyond even mine own imaginings. What does not seek to devour thy flesh will want worse; to consume thy magics and power. And a few will seek to take a fertile one such as thee for breeding, such as the Nagai, far to the east.”

Morgan blanched at the last statement. She’d been travelling east before the wolves diverted her path during the chase. “That sounds more than unpleasant.”

“Aye. At least the beasts merely want to eat and grow. Most tribes of the merfolk are peaceable enough, but the Nagai would claim you for the breeding pens. Ever do they seek to spawn more magically gifted offspring. Thou wouldst make a prize for kings amongst their people, and the songs of their Sahn Rhen priestesses would have ye spreading thy legs right willingly for their hordes of mage-priests seeking to sire the next King of the Waves.”

Sudden nausea caused Morgan to shudder involuntarily. “I’d rather be eaten,” she murmured.

“Goblins would do the same, though no offspring would come of it. They would merely take thee for the fun of it, so always be wary of those nasty bastards. They cannae sire offspring on human women, but they love to try. They are rare in the Wildlands, thank the old gods. The Packmother and her children do not tolerate them, nor do any of the others who hold territories, such as myself.”

“Is there anywhere safe in this world?”

“Phtah!” Moghren made a vicious chopping gesture to the side with one hand. “Disregard such a naïve notion! Safe is a word for children and the simpletons who drool and stutter. As it was in the old world in my time, and such is it now and always in this world; the strong take unless prevented by the strength of others. I hold First Raven’s Roost by mine own might and cunning; yet, one day, another shall take it from me. This is the way of the Wildlands, and the lands of mankind far to the west be no different, no matter the fancy words they call it.”

“That sounds…” Morgan wanted to argue the point, but her words died in her throat. “No, that sounds about right. My own country on Earth pretty much does the same thing. No one can truly challenge us except for two or three countries, and everyone else usually keeps their heads down, hoping the big guys don’t have a brawl.”

“That is the way of history since the beginning, child,” Moghren replied, not unkindly. “Titans move, and the weak either serve, or hide and hope to go unnoticed, whether it be nations of men or beasts in their own lairs. But the Wildlands has its own Titan that breaks the cycle. Ye came upon the crystal grave in the shadow of the cliffs, yes?”

Morgan remembered the massive bones of the great beast with a vivid clarity, and nodded the affirmative. “Yeah, I don’t want to meet whatever killed that thing.”

“The [Crystal Titan] sleeps under the Tree. The tree withers and blooms according to its own seasons, but when it is in bloom, The Titan roams. So it has been for over a dozen centuries. He arrived in the same fashion thou didst appear, near the tree. And he, also, ate of the Fruits.”

“Wait! My bones are crystal now! Am I going to turn into some giant crystal monster?”

“Rest thy mind, child, and be easy,” said the older woman. “If that were to be, t’would already have happened. The magic I see in thy bones is calm and settled, and I suspect any changes to be wrought are done. But The Titan…”

Moghren sat back in her chair and looked at the naked Sorceress for a long, quiet moment before continuing. “The Titan arrived long ago, less than half a century after myself, although our paths did not cross until centuries later. He partook of the fruit, and he did not stop at one. These lands were not the Wildlands then. After the high king died, the lesser kingdoms under the banner of High Avalon scrabbled for his crown, and that tale is not for the telling today.”

The witch sipped from her cup before speaking again. “The Titan cleanses this land every few score winters. The beasts he leaves alone, unless they challenge, but the evils of thinking beings? The malice of dark intent? They drive The Titan mad. ‘Tis The Titan who keeps these lands unsettled with his migrations. If the Tree be awakened, The Titan follows soon. Months away at least, but always within a year of the Tree bearing Fruit.”

“What does The Titan do?” Morgan asked, entirely enthralled by the woman’s storytelling.

“He devours malicious magic. Thy sorcery emanates the flavors of thine intent. The primal magics of the Wildlands make creatures grow strong and mighty. Enchantments and spells be wrought from things that grow here that be much more powerful and pure in magic than in most places on this world, and power draws the ambitious, both for the sake of good and evil works. If mine own domain be the Wind and the shadows of Night itself, his be Earth and righteous fury.”

“So I should definitely stay away from whatever he is…”

Moghren looked at her as if she were a silly child once more. “There be no staying away. If his wanderings bring him near thee, thou wilt either be devoured or left in peace. Neither mine own power, nor the Packmother’s, nor that of the Mountain Stag or any of the other territorial lords of the Wildlands could stop such a force. The [Crystal Titan] is other. None know the measure by which he judges, but t’was he who broke the Nagai as a people almost a thousand years ago when he devoured their last King of the Waves. Mine own belief is that it was because they were sacrificing their own children upon the altars of power, seeking blessings from dark gods.”

“So he goes after the truly wicked?” Morgan asked. “That doesn’t sound all bad. Scary, but not all bad. My dad and brothers are like that; they’re soldiers in the military back home. Or dad was before he retired; my brothers still serve though.”

“The wicked, the malicious,” Moghren agreed. “When the veil between the worlds weakens and vile demons walk the world, The Titan seems to seek them out above most others. But no one can truly predict him. There are countless sites similar to the crystal grave thou passed through below, scattered throughout these lands. He devours those who challenge him as easily and readily as those he hunts in earnest. And there are broken ruins of settlements where nations from elsewhere attempted to tame the Wildlands. You will find them, if you wander long enough. And The Titan will find thee, if he so desires.”

“So all I can do is be wary, and don’t attack him. How would I even know what he looks like?”

Moghren chuckled at the younger woman’s seemingly casual attitude about such a powerful being. “Thou hast the right of it, truly. Ye can do nothing if the [Crystal Titan] seeks the ending of thy Story. But knowing him by sight is easy. A massive man-beast he be, of twisted scars and muscle. The crystals grow out of his body, adorning his brow, his hands, and feet with armor most lethal and savage. Hunched over, he lopes on his feet and hands, as if a man were become a bear but halted the change half-finished. Three times the height of a man, and the Earth itself ripples with power for leagues when he wanders.”

Morgan’s empty belly chose that moment to interrupt their conversation with a low, rumbling growl. The climb, and the short but fierce early morning battle, had not dipped into her caloric reserves all that badly, but she was still very hungry.

“Please,” Morgan pleaded with an embarrassed look in her eyes, as she gazed longingly at the bowl of stew. “I don’t want to lick it up off the table like a dog, and I don’t think I’m gonna manage to levitate a spoon in one morning. And it smells so good…”

Moghren chuckled with low mirth before standing and turning back to one of the cupboards along the wall. “If mine own nature could bear the company, t’would almost be worth it to keep ye about, if only for amusement at thy plight.”

Morgan gawked as the other woman’s hand seemed to disappear into thin air upon reaching into the cabinet, before Moghren withdrew a handful of some sort of bread rolls or biscuits.

Moghren tossed her a biscuit to sop up the stew with, then sat the others on the table. “Saw that look, did I. Storage Box enchantment, similar to Bags of Holding and other weavings that alter the shape of a space. Spend those points ye hold on thine Intellect, and perhaps we shall see if ye can learn how to weave one, an I shall try to point the way.”

Morgan let her questions wait upon that assurance, and set about devouring the stew by scooping it up frantically with torn chunks of bread rolls. She had no idea what kind of meat it contained, but the savory flavors and pieces of what seemed to be halfway between a potato and a turnip were just what she needed. Burnt lynx and roasted eel had been filling, but weren’t the sort of meal she would ever have picked had she anything else to choose from.

Soon the stew was devoured and washed down with a hastily levitated globule of the herbal tea-like concoction Moghren had served earlier. Lulu happily scrubbed the remaining mess from Morgan’s fingers, and then set about cleaning the table and the bowl, as the loofah’s mistress had still managed to spill some when she tried to hold the bowl with one hand to facilitate scooping.

“That is a fascinating creature,” said Moghren wistfully. “How did ye come to acquire such a pet? I have never seen its like in all my years.”

“Um. This is Lulu. She came here with me. But she wasn’t alive then; that didn’t happen ‘til I ate the fruit and burned all night. I woke up and had notifications that my scrubby had gained sentience. Something about ambient Mana and local conditions. And then the messages asked if I wanted to adopt it as a pet, and I did!”

Lulu purbled and preened at the attention, while its Mistress recounted the scrubby’s origins. If cleaning was the puffball’s first and highest calling, then adoration and attention ran a close second.

“A new kind of creature, then, and the first of its kind. There be Classes that tame or talk with beasts and creatures of all sorts that could help thee learn more from it. Beware when thy pet spawns a brood, for an Originator gains blessings from the Mystic, that which ye named System. It will breed unchecked for a time, until a steady populace be achieved.”

“Uh…I think she kinda—” Morgan stuttered. “She already did. It gave her a title and everything, Loofah Prime. For spawning ten thousand descendants, I think? Yeah…”

Moghren laughed with genuine mirth at that admission. “Precocious puffball indeed! I shall keep an eye open for such as thy Lulu’s offspring. I spend most of my time as the raven, but someone to talk to from time to time is a blessing I shan’t turn down. At least it did not appear edible to mine other eyes, unlike thine own pretty self.”

“That is so creepy!” breathed Morgan. “What is it about eating people?”

“People be food like any other to the denizens of the wilds, and mine feathered form is no different. I do not control the Raven, girl-child. It is a partnership. Our bodies may be one since I consumed the Heart, but I have mine own needs, and so doth she.”

“I think I understand. So that’s why I can’t stay here?” asked Morgan.

“Indeed. I shall leave to hunt and feed this eve. T’will be safe enough in this abode, but risk not a jaunt outside until I return in mine own form. Tomorrow thou must be gone from this place. The Crone sees all that moves upon or near the Roost, and she was denied her rightfully hunted meal when thy blood proved ye kin. I will not be able to turn her from the hunt a second time so easily.”

Morgan sat deep in thought for over a minute, absentmindedly petting Lulu as the loofah polished and cleaned the tabletop while emanating contented purbles. “Well,” she said as she plucked the scrubby off the table and returned it to her shoulder, “I guess I’m ready to try to learn that storage enchantment before you go hunting. I wish I could stay longer, but I understand.”

Moghren stood, once again draping the feathered cloak about her shoulders before plucking a small leather pouch off of a shelf above the fur-covered bed. “All I can give ye be a night of safe rest, child. I suggest thy heading be westerly on the morrow. A few thousand leagues to reach the mountains, and on the other side, the nations of men still squabble. At least, it was so last I were able to travel beyond the Roost.”

“So that’s where people are?” Morgan asked as she followed the older witch outside. “And a few thousand leagues? That could take me years to cross! Is there any way I can get wings like you? The class avatar when I made my choice had wings! But she said I had to find them on my own. That trolling bitch!” She spat the last words, remembering her shocked disappointment.

Moghren snorted again as they walked toward a broad intersection that opened up where several stone-paved avenues met. “There be many ways to gain such a thing, but none be easy, nor simple. An Angel’s Feather could grant ye the gift ye wish for, or a Demon’s Bargain, but the price of either be great and terrible upon one so young as thee.”

“Do I even want to know what I would have to give up for either of those?”

“The Angels would have thy Soul bound to light an no longer serving thine own will, and a Demon powerful enough to grant thy wish would demand ye rut with him and his brethren. Thou wouldst be granted wings to fly, ‘tis true, but birthing a demon’s spawn would end thy Story right quickly.”

Morgan crossed her arms and shivered out of horrified reflex. “Those can’t be the only ways! Surely the Class thing wouldn’t have teased me like that!?”

“There are other ways, but thou hast chosen to forego all clothing. Ye cannot wear a winged garment or enchanted robes, not even the [Sandals of Hermes]. Even Divine Artefacts are barred to thee and shall never cover thy skin. I can see the etching upon thy Soul, even if ye cannot, and thou art Clad in Sky from now ‘til time’s own ending. Rarely have I witnessed such absolutes, yet it is become as much a certainty for thee as it is for the sun to rise in the east.”

Moghren stopped in the center of the intersection, as far away from the ancient buildings as was possible to stand. Morgan stepped closer to watch the old woman open the small leather pouch and turn it inside out before continuing her own questions.

“So what are the other ways? How did you strike your bargain to become a raven? Can I learn shapeshifting magics?”

“There be scant few who can truly shapeshift,” Moghren responded after a moment’s thought. “Less than a score I have ever met in all my years. Some older [Druids] manage to learn it, but without assistance from greater beings, it requires giving up a portion of thy sense of self. Ye could take mine own wings, were ye strong enough and willing to be bound to the Roost.” She paused, then shot Morgan a poisonous look. “If ye intend such rudeness, however, speak now, and my Raven shall feast on thy bones this night.”

“Oh God, no!” Morgan backed up a step. “No, I don’t want to fight you or anyone else! Or be bound anywhere! And I really don’t want to be dinner, please…”

The old crone looked at her descendant and through her, her gaze ranging back through uncounted centuries. “With wearing an enchanted artefact barred to thee, I can think of only two ways ye could achieve such a thing. For wings on thy back, t’would needs be grafted directly into thine own flesh and Soul. Such a weaving of Magic and Soul thou would find only agony in the doing.” She shook her head, as if banishing the thought. “Thou art far too new to thy class, too young. T’would scar thy mind and leave thee broken and drooling. With time and another dozen levels or so, perhaps, possible. But not soon, not by any measure.”

“And the other way?”

“A Divine Blessing. I…cannae help ye there. Moghren bows not to the godlings of this world, not even after all these centuries. Now,” said the [Midnight Crone] as she held up the leather pouch, “enough of wings ye cannae make use of. Spend thy hoarded points upon thine Intellect, and pay attention as I weave the workings for an enchanted pouch. Thy first attempts shall likely prove volatile failures, but I have faith in thy blood, if nothing else.”

Morgan did as the old witch requested, and waited for her head to clear from the rush of increased Stats. Once done, she checked her status menu, waiting for her Mana to swell to match her new capacity.

Status Information for: Morgan Mackenzie

Level - 10

Primary Class: [Skyclad Sorceress]

Secondary Class: [Locked]

Health - 250/250

Stamina - 280/280

Mana - 310/310

STR - 20

AGI - 20

CON - 20

VIT - 28

INT - 31

Stat points available to distribute: 0

Current Skills:

[Primal Instinct]

[Acceleration]

[Athleticism (Lvl 3)]

[Regeneration]

[Fade Presence]

[Spell Surge]

[Resistances]

-[Pain Resistance (Lvl 9)]

-[Heat Resistance (Mastered)]

-[Frost Resistance]

-[Lightning Resistance]

-[Mana Resistance (Mastered)]

[Affinities]

-[Mana Affinity (Lvl 6)]

-[Frost Affinity]

-[Fire Affinity (Lvl 2)]

-[Heat Affinity (Lvl 2)]

-[Water Affinity]

-[Lightning Affinity (Lvl 2)]

-[Earth Affinity (Lvl 5)]

[Spell List]

-[Mana Pulse (Mastered)]

-[Spell Channeling (Lvl 5)]

-[Lightning Bolt (Lvl 3)]

-[Frost Bolt]

-[Flame Bolt]

-[Water Bolt]

-[Hailstone]

-[Wind Barrier (Lvl 2)]

-[Candleflame]

-[Earth Sculpt (Lvl 8)]

-[Earth Wave]

-[Plasma Glaive]

[Runic Enchantment]

-[Candleflame Rune]

[Living Runes]

-[Soul Anchor]

-[Mana Sight]

Skill Points available: 15

Enhancement Points available: 0

Titles, Mantles, and Aspects

[Worldwalker (Title)] - You have travelled through the void between the many worlds! Every world is different, each with its own gifts and dangers. To help you survive strange new places, you gain a slight boost to health and an increased ability to learn new things! (+50 to Health, +50% increased gains to Skill Experience)

[Blessed of the Guardian Tree (Title)] - Through an offering of the blood of your enemies, you have reawakened the ancient tree! You need never fear its hungry roots! Future offerings or actions that benefit the tree may enhance this Title!

Class Traits

[Skyclad] You are clad in the sky itself, forfeiting items, clothing, and equipment in exchange for the unrivaled power of purest Sorcery. There are no barriers between you and the magics of the world. Items will no longer equip; in exchange, intangible gains are substantially increased.

[Sorceress] Your pathway to magic and power is Sorcery itself. Needing neither incantations nor blood nor prayer, you wield the flows of Mana directly by your own will.

Then, with the enhanced ease with which she could sense the workings of Mana woven by the old witch, and further improved by her [Mana Sight]-enchanted vision, Morgan watched.

And Morgan learned.

Interlude: The Broken

Dana Pierce dropped the overheated welding rod with a hiss and shook her singed fingers. She’d developed many resistances, along with other useful skills, since her arrival in the dwarven city of Thun’Kadrass, but pain was still a thing she avoided, and without a high [Pain Resistance], burns still hurt. With a frustrated grunt, she backed her chair away from the worktable and wheeled through her workshop to make her way to her rather small but comfortable living quarters, not too dissimilar from her old barracks.

After getting over her initial shock at her situation, she’d struggled to find a way to support herself while remaining independent. The dwarves had been tripping over each other trying to offer her patronage and support, in exchange for exclusive access to pick her brain about Earth technologies and industry. All their offers came with strings attached, and required oaths of loyalty she was not prepared to give, however, so she’d finally haggled her way into a direct exchange of information for gold.

Her background in engineering and well-rounded, modern education had provided her with many intangible things to leverage with the dwarves of Clan Kadrass, and she’d traded on her knowledge with the sort of cold calculation only a trained Sapper and veteran Combat Engineer could manage.

The dwarves had learned of basic black powder from another Worldwalker centuries before. While they jealously guarded the secret against the other races of Anfealt, her impression was that they weren’t a culture prone to rapid advancement. They were long-lived and practical on the whole, and that had led to a much slower and more plodding approach to experimentation. However, that didn’t prevent them from aggressively pursuing advancement opportunities when one literally fell into their figurative laps.

While she was no chemist, she’d still managed to trade them a simplified version of smokeless powder for their cannons and smaller arms in exchange for a comfortably tidy sum of coin. She’d used that gold to buy her current workshop and home, nestled in the outer side of the mountain that contained the greater part of the city of Thun’Kadrass. All in all, I think I got the best deal possible, she thought to herself.

Dwarven society seemed to place more value on properties built closer to the center of the mountain, far away from daylight. Her shop, larger than any aircraft hangar that could be found on Earth, opened up to the outside of the mountain. Only the poorest of dwarves lived close to the surface at all if they could help it, and almost none actually sought such a thing willingly. The property merchant group she’d bought her new home from had been utterly thrilled to get such an undesirable piece of real estate off their books.

“Kojeg!” she shouted, wheeling herself to a stop near a low table that held an assortment of items, among them a clay jug filled with water. “I need more fusion tips for the welding rod!” She quickly doffed her protective welding apron and tinted crystal visor, placing them on the table and wiping her brow before claiming the clay water jug. Despite the magic of this new world, metalwork was still a hot and sweaty profession.

“Kojeg!” she shouted again after quenching her thirst. She left the jug on the table and headed back through the scattered, junkyard maze that was her demesne, searching for her friend and business partner. The [Steelgrip Artificer] had been one of the relatively rare dwarves who’d spent most of his life adventuring in the human lands before retiring, and unlike most of dwarvenkind, he had no issues at all living and working so close to the surface.

Her shouts could barely be heard over the banging and clanking in another part of her mountainside garage. Pieces of equipment and gear she used to think were strangely designed sat scattered about the vast open space, like a huge junkyard of detritus that seemed to have been cast aside by an army of insane heavy equipment mechanics.

My shop is a steampunk fan’s wet dream, she thought to herself while navigating the piles of parts and ramshackle shelves that sprawled chaotically throughout the expanse of the shop. I really need to work on an inventory system.

Her search for her busy workshop assistant was cut short as Kojeg’s daughter, Andeira, came rushing out of the office storefront that faced into the mountain toward the upper levels of the city. “I have them, Dana!” the stocky woman called out as she approached, carrying a small wooden box. “I know the shop isn’t in a bind for coin right now, but ordering them all the way from Sprocket is going to start hurting soon. We’ve bought up every single one available in the Thun, and the Gnomes have started charging more thanks to the demand.”

“I know, I know,” Dana replied, “but the ones made here can’t do the detail work I need them for.” She took the box and placed it in her lap to free up her hands to maneuver her chair. “It’s getting easier, though; every time I level a fabrication or assembly skill, I get better at controlling the Mana output through the lenses.”

“Your Worldwalker traits are just unfair,” the young dwarven woman grumbled. “We already level slower because we live longer than humans, so when you add in your skills bonus, not even our Earth and Metal Affinities can keep up with you!”

“Ha!” she barked. “I’m still stuck in a chair, though, don’t feel bad. And I’ll never be able to shape the metal like your pa.” She wheeled around and headed to return to the worktables, Andeira following to continue their conversation.

“I can’t thank you enough for hiring him on.” The younger dwarf smiled as she walked beside Dana. “After his adventurin’ days, he’s just not suited to the repetitive factory work at the Great Forges of the Thun.”

“How could I not? I practically landed on his head, after all! I thought for sure he was gonna kill me, ‘til he realized I was legless and wasn’t trying to attack him!” Dana chuckled as she placed the box of parts on the table. “And then he helped me out, let me stay at your place, while every guild in the city was champing at the bit to sponsor a pet Worldwalker and be the only ones using my knowledge.”

“Still, a shop like this was always his dream after he retired. The forges were crushing his spirit.” The dwarven woman smiled as a particularly loud banging noise and some colorful cursing echoed through the cavern. “He likes being able to work on his own projects and do different things every day, instead of just hundreds of the same parts with every order.”

“Well,” Dana said after finishing off the water jug from the table, “he taught me about golems. Magic versions of the robotics I was going to school for after I left the military.”

Andeira had always been interested in anything to do with Earth and its technology, and was quite happy for an opportunity to ask about details. “It’s amazing to me that your people were able to build golems and set their instructions without an enchanted matrix and mana crystal cores.”

“You’ll be able to do things like that here, too, one day,” the chair-bound woman replied. “This world simply had no need to advance that field of study, not with magic, and the levelling and skills system.”

She opened the box of parts and removed one of the new fusion tips. Three conductive metal prongs held a needle-thin sliver of extremely delicate crystal, the entire piece slotting into the end of an enchanted rod similar to a screwdriver handle. A larger crystal was nestled into the back end of the rod’s insulated grip to provide the power for the device.

“I’m actually working on a hybrid mana-turbine for power generation for our next coin infusion,” she continued. “Your dad’s said for months he wishes we had an actual smelter and a proper forge here, and we definitely have room. I also want to be able to melt down some of this scrap so I can start making my own custom alloys.”

“More strange metals? I thought the clan’s Great Forge could produce anything you needed.”

Dana looked at her with a thoughtful expression before answering. “It definitely can, for a given custom item. Your Kadrass smiths produce some of the finest work I’ve ever seen, so don’t take it as an insult. But each thing they make is slightly different, with variations in machining tolerances.”

“I’m not insulted, I just don’t understand why that’s important.” Andeira shrugged. “I’m only a shopkeeper; the forge never interested me as much as haggling over prices did.”

“It’s not all that big of a deal with things like swords and armor, as long as they meet minimum spec,” Dana replied, “but a lot of my designs are modular or require interchangeable parts with exact specifications. If something’s even a tenth of an inch too large or too small, it won’t work. Some of the things I want to make require building the tools to build the tools to even get started.”

“I’m sure the guilds will be eager as ever to—”

Their conversation was interrupted as the double doors to the shop’s supply entrance were suddenly pushed open. A pair of dwarven porters shuffled through the doors, carefully bearing a rounded cylindrical chest between them. The chest itself positively reeked of protective enchantments; even the most novice of caster classes would be able to sense them.

But it was the pair following the delivery that had Dana’s jaw dropping to her chest. A gnome, barely three and a half feet tall, followed the dwarves. The various tools affixed to his belt and the goggles on his head with selectable lenses made his specialization in some form of artisan or tinkering profession rather obvious.

His tunic was the most offensively bright shade of yellow Dana had ever seen in her life, as ridiculously gaudy as the most heinous Hawaiian shirt imaginable. Said insult to fashion was driven even further into depravity by the horrifically reflective blue breeches, lending an overall effect that resulted in her eyes trying to focus on one or the other and settling on neither, leaving her almost cross-eyed.

“It doesn’t get any easier to see with time, either,” the gnome’s companion said. Not having seen another human since her arrival on Anfealt, he was also a shock for Dana’s eyes—even before she noticed the man’s glaring oddities.

“Petram Bracklethwait, the [Lifesteel Architect],” said the human as he held out his hand to shake hers, and Dana saw that his entire arm was made of interlocking sections of metal that flexed as smoothly as flesh. “My insultingly garish friend here is Jemeris, a [Brightspark Engineer]. Your order was so unusually fascinating, we decided to deliver it in person so we could be available if you need any adjustments done.”

“Ha! Don’t let him fool you,” the so-named Jemeris interjected. “We wanted to meet a Worldwalker and pick your brains about how you came up with the ideas for these design modifications on the standard prosthetic grafting interface.”

Dana practically vibrated in her chair once she realized who these new guests actually were. “Andi!” she exclaimed. “Tell your Pa to mind the shop, I’ll need your help with this!”

As the dwarven woman hurried to deliver the message to her father, Dana turned back to the newcomers with a grin. “Dana Pierce. Man, it’s good to see a human! No offense, Mister Jemeris, sorry! And I wasn’t expecting it to be done for at least another month, let alone delivered all the way from Sprocket!”

“Well, normally our prosthetics don’t require a personal visit,” Petram said. “The peculiarities of our Lifesteel Alloy and the form of enchantments used to graft them are intentionally designed so that almost any skilled healer can activate and adjust them.”

Petram’s gnomish business partner seemed to be nearly vibrating with excitement. “But the design specifications you sent, they’re not for a prosthetic, are they?”

“You have a skill to let you directly interface with golem-cores, don’t you?” the metal-armed man blurted out, unable to contain his own eagerness any longer. “I’m betting you contracted us because you needed a better way to link with them than just touch or a standard mithril graft!”

Dana was suddenly wary, leaning back in her chair to eye the newcomers with a cautious look. “If this is a push for you to get me to work for you or sign any contracts, you made the trip for nothin’.” She shook her head viciously. “I had to deal with enough of that with the dwarven guilds and the cartels when I first got here.”

“Nothing of the sort, Miss Pierce,” Petram said with a conciliatory tone, raising his arms placatingly. “While we’d love to strike some sort of arrangement of that sort, your stance on such things is quite well established among the guilds. We knew that before setting out on this trip.”

“Besides,” Jemeris cut in with a wave of his hand, “he really outdid himself this time. It’s a masterpiece! And we weren’t about to just ship it with a standard caravan.” The gnome patted the enchanted chest affectionately before continuing, “Very delicate work; we both earned a class level working on this project!”

“All we ask is that we be allowed to see our work in action before we leave,” the taller man said, “and any information you may volunteer about how and why you made such a request. We can see now why you didn’t request prosthetic legs,” he said with a nod toward her obvious lack of appendages. “At a glance, I’m guessing there wasn’t enough left of your bone mass? I had to have my entire shoulder structure replaced to anchor my arm, and legs are trickier, sadly.”

“That was a disappointment, finding that out after seeing people with magically animated metal limbs after I got here.” She sighed as she scooted her chair up to inspect the enchanted box. “Really got my hopes up, I have to admit.” She looked down at the container with a grin, barely able to contain her anticipation. “Come on, bring it into the clean room. Everything should make sense once you see what it’s for.”

Without waiting for acknowledgement, she made her way back across the shop as a huffing Andeira returned from her errand to fall in beside her. Petram and Jemeris trailed after, directing the porters to bring the chest. The chair-bound Worldwalker led them past her living quarters, stopping only long enough to place the almost forgotten box of welder parts on the table.

Nestled into one corner of the cavernous junkyard was a steel structure easily as big as a two-car garage on Earth. Enchantments traced onto the walls pulsed gently with Fire, Earth, and Air magic, keeping the building and the surrounding area perfectly sterile and clean.

The door to the partition opened to reveal a sectioned-off antechamber with a low table running along one side, and doors opening up to the rest of the interior. After the porters placed the chest upon the table, Dana shooed everyone except Andeira out of the building. “This shouldn’t take long, gentlemen, but I’m not about to give everyone a show while Andi helps me get changed. Just be patient, please,” she said as she shut the door in their faces and slid a locking bar into place.

Her excitement was infectious, and Andeira was grinning as Dana turned the catches to unlock the chest. The lid smoothly slid open to reveal what looked like a metal centipede from a low-budget Hollywood reject horror film, but to Dana, it rivaled the Sistine Chapel ceiling. It’s just like I designed it, she thought with wonder.

The Lifesteel Alloy gleamed in the light of the mana crystal bulbs embedded in the ceiling. The implant was constructed of thirty-three articulated segments that could move organically, the enchanted metal allowing for a perfect melding with flesh and bone. Each segment sported a pair of needle-thin prongs, so delicate they could make a razor’s edge jealous of their sharpness.

Andeira grimaced at the sight of it, inhaling sharply with a hiss. “Are you sure it’s going to work the way you designed it? Once Lifesteel is bonded with the body, you can’t remove it without going deeper than the melding, and this is going to graft right onto your spine!”

“I’m sure,” Dana replied as she double- and triple-checked the spinal graft with several different magical analysis tools. “All of the connecting linkage enchantments are spot-on with my design specifications. It’s exactly the same principles as any normal prosthetic that uses Life Mana to force new nerve tissue connections to mesh with the Lifesteel, only I’m not connecting to the nerves of severed limbs. I’m making entirely new ones.”

She didn’t give her dwarven friend any more time to protest, pulling herself out of her wheelchair and up onto the table with a smooth burst of effort. Dana had worked very hard to maintain her upper body strength after losing her legs, and the addition of stats and levels in the new world had led to an even more pronounced physique.

“I have no idea how you came up with these ideas, Dana,” Andeira said as she helped the human remove her clothing.

Dana awkwardly wriggled what remained of her lower extremities to discard her shorts before laying forward across the padded support fastened to one end of the table. “Heh,” she chuckled. “I got this particular idea from one of the villains in a popular illustrated fiction series, only he was made up. This is really happening.”

The dwarf didn’t reply this time as she used her teeth to pull the stopper from a crystal bottle before pouring the liquid over a cloth. Dana pulled her hair up out of the way as her friend swabbed up and down her back with the specialized cocktail of healing potion, antiseptic, and magical numbing agents.

Finishing her ministrations, she replaced the stopper and put the bottle back on a shelf. “Now, you know this is still gonna hurt like nothing you’ve ever experienced, right?”

Dana nodded affirmative. “Do it before I change my mind.” She grimaced, straightening her neck to face forward and biting down on a piece of folded leather. The other woman moved around outside of her vision, and in a mere handful of heartbeats, she felt the prickle of the living metal tines prodding the partially numb skin of her back.

Andeira pulled a small crystal rod down from a shelf and paused for a single breath. “Activating the grafting enchantment now,” she said.

And then Dana passed out from waves of pain orders of magnitude worse than the incident that had first maimed her body.

Watery eyes and too bright lights welcomed her back to the waking world, and a biting, burning pain that danced through her entire being. But the pain was fading with every labored breath in Dana’s lungs, as the nerves and bones of her spinal column meshed with the enchanted Lifesteel Alloy more completely with every heartbeat.

“Pffftaaah!” she exclaimed when she’d finally recovered enough to spit out the leather she’d bitten into. “Jesus Christ on a burnt cheese cracker! Shit!” she gasped. “I’m so goddamn glad I only have to do that once!”

Moving carefully, Dana felt around her lower back and tailbone where she could reach without the flexing causing too much pain. All along her spine the living metal was fused with her flesh. She could feel smooth ridges with staggered notches etched into the material like strange connecting ports. She could feel it with her fingers, and she could feel that touch of her fingers through the metal as if it were flesh.

“God, that’s so weird,” she said. “I can feel through the metal.”

“Aye, that’s why P&J’s prosthetics are the most sought after and most expensive in all of Anfealt, when people can’t get to a healer in time to replace the actual limb. Nobody else knows the secret to enchanting the alloy, though I doubt Mister Petram ever thought anyone would request something like this.”

“I’ll have to come up with some outfits that leave my entire spine clear, Andi, but for today I’ll have to settle for just the harness. It covers everything anyway, and I can’t not try this out right now.”

Now recovered enough to move almost normally, Dana pushed herself up and flexed from side to side to relax her pain-cramped muscles. She lowered herself into her chair, and then wheeled through the door into the main space of the building, where a half-dozen bays were occupied with what looked like different designs for archaic steampunk armor.

Rolling over to the second bay, Dana pulled herself up out of her chair by means of two curved bars on either side of the opening. With a practiced swing, she turned herself around and gently lowered herself into the customized, cupped seat of the magitech walker standing ready in the alcove.

Andeira helped her secure herself into the seat with the various buckles and straps, and tightened the padded chest harness in place with a deft manipulation of the fasteners on either side under Dana’s arms. “So this is supposed to get rid of the delay between movements when you use your skill?” the dwarf asked as she double-checked that her employer was firmly secure.

“That’s the idea. With touch alone it’s like jerking along; I can move it, but there’s so much lag.”

Dana relaxed back into the contraption and closed her eyes to focus. She’d spent months trying to figure out the best way to use the signature skill of her class, and the day had finally arrived. With a thought, she activated the [Neural Link].

As her skill went into effect, the golem frame shivered as the core activated with a low hum of Mana. Tendrils of woven copper, gold, and mithril protruded from the seat to socket gently into Dana’s new spinal graft, allowing her to sense the entire mechanical body as if it were her own.

The experience was disorienting at first. Moving the walker’s arm happened by instinct when she moved her own flesh and blood arm, and she’d have fallen over in the bay when she tried to take a step. “Okay,” she laughed with a heady feeling of intoxication over the improvement. “There’s no lag at all, but this is gonna take an adjustment period.”

A few clanks and experimental attempts, and Dana was able to make the walker march in place, very slowly and carefully. “The arms I’ll have to practice with later,” she said with satisfaction. “Alright, Andi, open the main bay door.”

Her assistant complied, pulling a lever on the wall that caused the chain and pulley to slowly raise the front wall section.

With a smugness that couldn’t be expressed in any languages on Earth or Anfealt, and to the utter surprise and wonder of a gnome, a human, and two dwarven laborers, the [Golem-Forge Mechaneer] stepped into view.

Chapter 16: [Mage-Eater]

On any other day, in any other circumstance, Zizzy would have been overjoyed to be flying across the entirety of Stormbreak Isle. Chances for her to stretch her wings were few and far between, usually limited to training exercises with other teams of Wardens, and her coveted free days that were, by the terms of the accord she’d struck with the city, afforded to her merely twice a year.

This was not one of those enjoyable days. Training exercises were varied in their purpose, but always satisfying and goal oriented. Her free days were less structured, but still restricted in where she was allowed to fly. But today she had a mission. A mission sanctioned by the [Oracle] herself; this fact, hanging over her, made Zizzy as nervous as she was excited.

The [Oracle] rarely intervened in worldly affairs on her own initiative; usually, petitions on behalf of, or bargains between, nations were required to drag her into things. The fact that she had sent a missive in such a way was a grim reminder of the potential disaster looming over the island. With such implications weighing on her like a funeral pall, and with explicit permission to top up her own reserves of power, Zizzy flitted southward along the eastern coast of the island. She had an important stop to make before she could even attempt the two-day flight to Southpeak Village.

Roughly an hour by flight south of Stormbreak City, a massive block of grey and black stone jutted out of the sea just off the coast. Officially known as Stormbreak Prison, it was known to the locals by a name as mysterious as it was fitting: the Pillar. No bridge connected the facility to the rest of the island; instead, a broad platform butted up against the cliff facing the isolated tower of stone. The platform was ringed halfway around with one half of a levitation array, and its mate was inscribed on a balcony jutting from the side of the prison.

Zizzy swooped down toward the platform on the edge of the island cliffs, wary of the Pillar’s enchanted defenses. The passive wards made flight impossible, turning the ocean winds into vicious downdrafts that would smash any potentially flight-capable escapees straight down onto the jagged rocks that encircled the prison just above the waterline. What prevented escape also prevented entrance, and the only way in or out of the imposing structure was the floating platform.

With no small measure of satisfaction, she banked sharply into a quick turn to halt her forward flight, a double beat of her wings in quick succession kicking up swirls of dust in front of the guard station next to the ferry platform. Not even the urgency of her mission could totally dampen her pleasure at being given a reason to fly. Her boots touched the ground with a soft crunch of gravel, and she took a moment to straighten her uniform while she waited for the dust to settle.

Even this far out, and isolated from the rumor mills present in more central cities, news of the [Mage-Eater] had managed to travel. A very tiny settlement had grown around the small clump of guard buildings and barracks. Normally it was lively, but today it lacked the normal hustle and bustle of the families brought in by Wardens serving their year-long posting for guard duty.

Zizzy’s demonic nature was completely unshackled after her exertion from the flight, and she could taste the nervous fear and wariness in the air all around her.

The ambient fear was not enough to abate her own arousal and hunger, however. A succubus had to feed to survive, and her feedings were always fatal to those unfortunates who became her meals. Word of her impending arrival, and the purpose thereof, must have been sent ahead by the lord-commander via expensive communication spells, because most of the men had cleared the area around the local Warden captain’s office, save those who had enough mental resistances to endure the full expression of her own sensual aura.

“So it’s true then, Constable?” asked the young guardswoman standing outside the captain’s door after a nervous salute, the slight quaver in her arm replicated in her voice. “We’ve heard all the rumors, but if they’re sending you here, then he must be as dangerous as the last supply caravan people were claiming…”

Even with wings, I can’t outrun rumor! The thought was grim in the back of Zizzy’s mind. The ferry platform operators were charging up the crystals to prepare for the unscheduled crossing, so she couldn’t avoid the necessity of speaking to the young woman.

“He’s dangerous, of course. But we know how to deal with people of his class,” Zizzy replied soothingly. “Stay paired up with fighters or brawlers, don’t leave our mages alone for any reason whatsoever, and swap out your gear for stuns and riot suppression instead of Mana-based focus items.”

“But why riot gear? Isn’t that for huge crowds?” asked the other woman as the door to the office opened to reveal the grizzled captain.

The captain’s voice broke in suddenly. “Because riot gear is loud and guaranteed to get everyone’s attention. The constable has the right of it,” His voice was gruff, and somewhat strained from the proximity of Zizzy’s aura, but he spoke with the calm experience of a lifelong professional about his trade. With a very rare specialization in physical combat, the [Steel-Whip Sentinel] was one of the few class types who had little to fear from an anti-mage. “Classes like the [Mage-Eater] can’t tank a straight fight, Lieutenant, not unless they live long enough to reach higher levels and more powerful specializations. Which is why he needs to be stopped now, before his Worldwalker traits let him outpace us.”

Zizzy nodded at the young woman as the trio walked down the cobbled street to the ferry platform. “On the off chance you do encounter him, get loud, get flashy, get as much attention as you can, and try to get away from him.” She regarded the junior guardswoman soberly. “Flash grenades, bright-sticks, sticky-balls, shock-nets. Don’t hold back, but keep your magic skills on lockdown. Attack with a single spell of your own, and he’ll turn it right back at you, but even stronger.”

“Aye,” continued the captain as they waited for the crystals to charge the platform enchantment. “We haven’t had to deal with one in…what…thirty years or so, Constable?”

“Twenty-nine years and some months, Captain, but there were three of them,” Zizzy replied meticulously. “Mercenary spies, though; not true anti-magic classes, merely trained in similar skills. They all three managed to suicide before I could take them. Likely a Deskren geas,” —the succubus almost spat the phrase—“although we couldn’t prove it at the time.”

The younger guard tentatively made to back away as the low hum of the charging platform reached a steady keen, but the captain stopped her with a gesture. “I know it’s your first posting here at the Pillar, Lieutenant, but you were going to have to make this trip soon anyway. You’ll be rotating weekly between the shore and the prison for your entire tour of duty here, and now is as good a time as any to give you the tour of your new part-time home. I’ll see to that while the constable attends to her…business.”

Zizzy’s aura pulsed with an intensity that beggared even the veteran captain’s composure, and the lieutenant struggled and failed to keep a blush from coloring her cheeks before the succubus wrangled her inner self back under control. “You are new, Lieutenant. You’ll be seeing me every month when things are running normally. Though usually I come here with the regular supply run, so my aura is not this pronounced. Today is by no means regular.”

“Lieutenant Kanessa here is a [Dreamsinger],” the captain spoke up, saving the young woman from what would have been a stuttering attempt to respond. “Bardic types tend to be more sensitive than most to empathic auras like yours, and being around you is good training for what she needs to look out for to protect her mind on duty. Sometimes our tenants can get rowdy, so a strong bard or singer comes in handy for calming a mob or riot.”

The trio stepped onto the platform once the sigils lit up to indicate the levitation array was ready. As they came within range of a small, glowing crest set into a simple pedestal in the center of the ferry, the captain’s badge began to glow in concert. As the safety rail closed around the edges, Zizzy cleared her throat and spoke up once again to get the awkward part of the conversation over with.

“Any volunteers from the condemned to go early, Captain?”

Lieutenant Kanessa made a choking sound, the blood draining from her face.

“As a matter of fact, yes. A new arrival since your last visit has requested the Kiss of Mercy,” replied the older man with a solemn tone. He continued speaking, giving Kanessa a moment to compose herself while Zizzy’s attention was on him. “The young woman who burned down her husband’s shop when she caught him cheating. Girl admitted to it after she found out the collapsing wall had killed a child. She’s tried to hang herself twice already.”

Zizzy winced at the news. “The truly penitent ones are always the hardest, sir, even though they don’t try to fight it.”

The captain’s gaze slid to the side. “The other two we have on the list might be more to your liking, then; a thief who turned to cutting throats instead of just purses, and a verified pirate who had the misfortune of being recognized by some local tavern patrons who saw his wanted poster. He’s regretting his choice of drinking establishments now.”

“Southpeak is two days away by wing, and more killings will happen before I can get there,” the succubus stated flatly. “Were these any other circumstances, I would give the woman a few months to reconsider, but I’ll need all three if I’m to fly through the night without stopping to rest.”

The lieutenant finally worked up the nerve to speak, blurting out a question that had been on her mind since the constable arrived. “How will you fight the [Mage-Eater], Constable Zizzy? Can’t he turn your magics against you, too?”

Zizzy’s response was a throaty chuckle, laced with such lethal promise that the junior officer unconsciously retreated a pace. “I hope he does, Lieutenant. Truly. All my succubus magics are fueled by lust and demonic hunger.” The constable shivered for a moment, struggling with her predatory nature. “He may be able to match me in direct combat; there’s no way to know unless someone manages to live to tell about it. But all he will accomplish if he throws my magics back is to make me even stronger, and his own hungers will feed mine as well.”

The lieutenant stared at the succubus for a long moment, deep in thought. “Everyone knows about the Good Succubus of Stormbreak, Ma’am. You’re very…” The woman struggled to find words. “Different than I thought you would be. Nicer in some ways than I thought…not as nice in others.”

“Good is not always nice,” said the captain with a gravelly chuckle. “Zizzy has done good work for decades, but she needs to eat, just like the rest of us. She’s not once fed upon the innocent since she arrived in Stormbreak, so allowing her to act as executioner solves two problems at the same time. She gets to feed, and nobody else has to burden their conscience.”

As the platform passed the halfway point between the Island and the Pillar, it carried its passengers into the aegis of the Pillar’s protective wards. The security enchantments began audibly humming, filling the space with sound. The captain’s badge and the pedestal glowed brighter still; then, both glow and noise died as the wards accepted the arrivals. Once they were through, the air was calm enough to resume their previous discussion.

“So it’s true then, the stories about how you were summoned?”

The captain and the constable chuckled, sharing a glance, before Zizzy responded, “Absolutely true, though incomplete. I was summoned by an unusually young student at the old Stormbreak Academy, but instead of taking me to bed or selling me amongst his friends, he merely asked me hundreds of questions about demonium runes. The boy never even looked at me, naked and kneeling in his room. I never even got his name before he cast me out, with orders to stay out of his sight.”

“Might as well tell her the rest of it, Constable,” the captain said gruffly as he turned to look at Kanessa. “Her other orders were simple, with no loopholes for a young demoness to exploit. Merely to never feed on the innocent, and to be useful to the city.”

The succubus nodded as the captain spoke, then continued herself, “I nearly starved the first few years. I didn’t know what to do. A summoned familiar literally cannot disobey their summoner. I didn’t even have enough leeway to go back and beg for an explanation. They caught me after I’d chased down a murderer I witnessed committing his crime.”

“The reports from the Wardens of the time were quite detailed,” said the captain. “They’d been tracking him for weeks, but he was always two steps ahead and could hide his Mana traces. Zizzy, however,” he said with a nod at the constable, “didn’t know how to do that back then. So they followed her demonic energy trail from the last victim, and found her in the middle of feeding.”

The younger guardswoman goggled at the story, more detailed than the publicly known tales and rumors, albeit less fanciful. “And you never found out who summoned you? Even after more than eighty years?”

“No clues whatsoever,” admitted Zizzy. “And the Wardens tried. By the time they caught me, there was no trace of anyone matching his description at any of the magic academies, and no one has come forward to admit performing a restricted ritual in the middle of the city. I know he’s still alive, through the link we share, but that’s all I know.”

“You know the rest,” said the grizzled [Sentinel]. “The city petitioned the [Oracle] to find out who the summoner was, but the request was denied, and a suggestion sent back to the Wardens that they might benefit from recruiting someone like Zizzy.” The emphasis he placed on the word implied it was more than mere advice. “And now she’s the longest-serving Warden in the history of Stormbreak.”

By the time the captain finished speaking, the floating platform had crossed the distance to the Pillar. It came to a stop with a smooth whisper as it slid into its berth on the stone ledge that led into the side of the imposing prison structure. They did not immediately step off the platform, however, as the entrance was guarded by three massive [Obsidian Gatekeeper] golems.

All three golems had turned to face the platform as it approached, and the captain and Constable Zizzy approached the central golem, badges held ahead of them. Like its brothers, it stood nearly two meters tall, imposing and blocky, rough-hewn from the same rock from which it took its class name. Its head was a smooth plate, vaguely reminiscent of a person’s, and its entire surface was occupied by a smooth crystal oculus. Zizzy stepped down first, holding her badge out as she waited a few heartbeats for the red stone eye of the golems to shift to blue.

“Right, Lieutenant, we can get this out of the way as well,” said the captain as he presented his own badge, gesturing for the now very nervous guardswoman to approach. Turning back to the golem, his tone became terse and clipped.

“Command authorization: Danram Krev, Captain. Register new Warden identification.”

The central golem’s blue eye flickered, and a moment of silence hung in the air as it processed its new command.

“Command authorization confirmed. Ready to register new Stormbreak Prison Warden. Present badge and state name and rank.” Its voice held a distinctly mechanical edge, and was as slow and ponderous as its owner.

The rookie Warden help up her badge, emulating the constable and the captain carefully.

“Kanessa Merron, Lieutenant,” she stated clearly, and with a touch of pride.

“Identification registered. Life essence and Mana Signature recorded. You are now known to Stormbreak Prison, Lieutenant. Do not lose your identification. Loss of identification will result in detention until a superior arrives.”

With all the visitors now accounted for and identified, the golems retreated to the wall farthest away from the ferry platform and backed into their carved nooks in the stone to clear the way. The captain assumed a kindly teacher-like tone as he continued explaining things to the lieutenant.

“Postings here at the Pillar are for one year, Lieutenant Kanessa, as you already know. We have three shifts that rotate in and out of the prison itself, staggered so a third of the guards swap out every week. The ferry platform is only active one day a week, barring situations like today, when the lord-commander overrides protocol for emergencies.”

The younger woman listened raptly while the trio walked. “Will I be allowed to sing without causing trouble, sir?” she asked cautiously. “I’ve levelled some from combat training, but my Songs give me the most benefit to levels.”

“It’s encouraged, actually,” Zizzy broke in. “There’s very little entertainment here, for guards and inmates alike. Don’t think you have to wait for a riot to break out to sing calming songs.”

Danram gestured to Zizzy, nodding. “As long as you don’t have other duties, there are several places along the Walk where you can sing. The Walk circles above the central yard that’s hollowed out a few floors deep in the top of the facility. Don’t be surprised if the inmates sing along with you sometimes.”

As they made their way deeper into the prison, more people began to appear, the captain explaining the meaning of their differently colored uniforms as they passed. A pair of scribes stepped to the side of the passageway after recognizing the captain and the constable, nodding respectfully as the three Wardens passed by.

“There’s a hospital wing, and a chapel for any staff who are so inclined. You’ll get your own room here, and the kitchens serve three times a day. You won’t be in the same room every rotation, though, so don’t get attached,” the man said with a knowing grin. “Once the storm season passes, there’ll be a lot more pirates working the local island waters, and a lot more bounties getting claimed because of that. If the Pillar receives more guests, we post more guards.”

“That makes sense,” Kanessa replied. “What about you, Constable? How does it normally—um, work for you here when things go according to schedule?”

“Once a month feeding visits,” Zizzy replied with clinical detachment. “That keeps me strong enough to perform my duties. The condemned inmates usually make peace with it all before I even meet them. My Kiss is preferable to the noose, by far.” The succubus’s expression turned thoughtful before she resumed speaking. “I am not cruel, Lieutenant. My demonic nature requires me to feed to survive, and the pleasure and satisfaction is undeniable, but I show them all due respect for the Ending of their Stories.”

“And the woman the captain mentioned?”

Zizzy’s expression became contemplative, chin dipping, as the detachment bled away from her voice. “Cases like her are…rare, and more difficult for me. The feeding itself is reflexive, but I…feel their emotions in the act.” The succubus’ tail twitched behind her. “Her request alone is a sign she is truly repentant, as if the priests couldn’t determine that with their divinations and spiritual delving.” She shook her head sadly, then continued, “I wish we had more time to try to talk her out of her decision, but The Defiler may be working his horrors upon another victim as we speak here. I need all the power I can get to be sure I’m able to take him down.”

The three of them approached a T-junction in the corridor. The hallway to the left was the same as the one from which they’d come; to the right, it terminated abruptly in a heavy stone door, sealing runes arrayed across its surface. Zizzy fished her badge from her pocket and tapped it to the center of the array.

Kanessa made to follow, but the captain placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her short. “Not that way, Lieutenant. We’ll speak to the woman and…get her ready. Constable, will you not take care of her first?”

Zizzy shook her head, wings rustling gently behind her. “No,” she said as her eyes began to pulse with a reddish light in time with her inhumanly powerful heartbeat. She continued with a husky rasp to her voice. “I’ll be more in control after these first two, so I can be gentle with her. Let her know her life won’t be spent in vain, despite her accidental crime.” As the seals on the stone door faded and unlocked, the door grated open, sounding like nothing so much as the door to a great tomb.

The grizzled old captain nodded somberly, and with a gentle touch to the lieutenant’s elbow, turned to the other doorway. Neither of Zizzy’s companions saw her expression finally give way to unbridled lust as she strode through the black stone entrance, and she was silently grateful for that.

For it was time for Zizzy to feed.

Chapter 17: Living Runes

Morgan Mackenzie was having a very frustrating morning. Nearly an entire week had passed since parting ways with her distant ancestor, and every day had managed to be more irritating than the last. The [Skyclad Sorceress] currently sat upon a low stone stool raised from the earth with her magic, bent forward in a grouchy slouch with her elbows on her knees while she looked upon yet another failed enchantment attempt.

The object of her frustrations floated between her hands; several fragments of stone that had once fit together in the shape of a shallow cup. She had finally learned the [Spatial Expansion Rune] enchantment, after dozens of failures at emulating how the needle and thread of Moghren’s spellwork pulled the Mana fabric together. However, her inability to utilize such tools meant she’d been forced to hold the threads of Mana in the woven pattern in her mind, and it was headache-inducing to a surprising degree.

She could apply the enchantment to the inside of a bowl or cup made with [Earth Sculpt], but her best efforts had yielded nothing more than a slight bending of the space inside. Every attempt she’d made to further twist the volume of the storage area had led to the enchantment destabilizing. The space would snap back to normal size, shattering the stone no matter how much she strengthened it. With a slight push of Mana and a defeated sigh, Morgan tossed the broken shards to the side, where they joined the remains of previous attempts.

“At least my campsites are improving, Lulu.” She groaned, rubbing her face.

The puffy lace scrubby merely purbled in response and continued scrubbling around the flat stone ring that Morgan had sculpted around the fire pit. The fire, having been allowed to burn low, now featured a stone spit upon which rested a well-cooked murdersquirrel. It had made the fatal mistake of being too oblivious of its surroundings while Morgan was practicing her [Fade Presence] skill, and had paid the price for its inattention. The cooking process had resulted in spatters of grease and fat around the fire, which Lulu had happily set about cleaning up.

The campsite itself was a fully enclosed dome with a small opening in the middle of the ceiling for the smoke, and a mat of forest moss lay on a low, stone bed to one side. Compared to Morgan’s first attempt at a temporary abode, it was a significant improvement. The walls were smoother and much more uniform, the stone much stronger.

And there’s a door, she thought to herself with a grim reminder of her one-time loss and subsequent regrowth of her arm. Won’t be making that particular mistake again!

“I just don’t get it, Lulu,” she said as she got up to tear another chunk of meat off the roasted squirrel. “I learned the basic enchantment, but it keeps collapsing—like a house without load-bearing walls.”

Morgan sat back down and continued her breakfast, carefully tearing bite-sized pieces off of the roasted squirrel. She took her time, looking at the stone walls she’d pulled up from the earth the night before. Her skills had improved with her evening construction projects, and a trail of increasingly bigger and better stone hutches marked her travels since leaving First Raven’s Roost. Her current abode was over twice the size of the previous, as the rains that had started the day before had forced her to make camp several hours earlier than usual. The respite from the tough slog through the mud was sorely needed, but it lacked for entertainment; more out of boredom than necessity, she’d spent more time expanding the structure before falling asleep.

The rains were still falling outside, a constant whispering in the forest she could hear through the hand-sized windows spaced randomly around the little house. The roof was large and dense enough that the falling droplets didn’t make audible noise from the inside. Large enough, in fact, that she’d added vertical support ribs of stone every few feet to support the weight. It was while she looked at these irregular protrusions standing out from the walls, and the now-meatless rib of murdersquirrel in her hands, that realization struck.

“I’ve been looking at it all wrong, Lulu!” she exclaimed, tossing the rib section back into the coals as she stood back up with excitement. The puffball wurbled in admonishment as the bone hitting the ashes kicked up another mess, but happily set about cleaning it up as its nature dictated it must. “It’s like Engineering class for my Architecture Major at school back on Earth! I can’t make a big room without supporting the structure itself!”

With renewed enthusiasm, Morgan pulled up another fist-sized ball of Earth from the ground below, returning to her seat and focusing all her attention on her new project. A surge of will and Earth Mana had the raw dirt compressed into a dense, magically infused putty that she warped like taffy into the rough shape of a round jar. Spinning it on three different axes simultaneously allowed her to make the jar almost perfectly spherical, and earned her a bonus in the form of another level in [Earth Sculpt], leaving the skill mastered at last.

Spatial Magic didn’t seem to have any distinct elemental flavor to the Mana, at least not to Morgan’s Rune-enhanced sight and other senses. It seemed to work with just raw Mana, as best she could tell with her current abilities. She looked inside the jar, instinctively brightening the flame runes inscribed in a ring around the inside of the stone hut in order to better see.

Drawing the thread-thin traces into the stone with her Earth Mana let her anchor the space-manipulating weaves into the hardened jar, similar to her [Candleflame Rune] enchantments. A single rune for the spatial magic had thus far proven to be too unstable in practice, however. So instead of one single spherical rune, she inscribed seven matching pairs of them on the inside of the jar. “Eight feels like too many,” she mumbled to herself as sweat beaded across her brow. “Six isn’t enough, it doesn’t balance right…”

Seven tiny circles lined up in a ring along the inner opening of the jar, each with a matching opposite seated in a ring closer to the bottom of the jar, and a spidery thread linking each one to its mate. Holding so much detail fixed in her mind took extreme concentration, and spikes of pain began to develop behind her eyes as she held the traced designs in her thoughts, waiting for the Mana to slowly coalesce into the forms.

Just before the pain became an agony strong enough to break her concentration, her efforts were rewarded.

You have learned the enchantment [Spatial Reinforcement Rune]! Reinforce the underlying structure of a localized spatial zone! Practice and experience with different applications will improve this enchantment!

Between the sudden relief of the disappearing headache and the shock of the notification, Morgan very nearly dropped the floating jar in surprise; she recovered in time to catch it with a light touch of Mana. She levitated it above one hand while cupping her chin with the other, suddenly thoughtful as she inspected her work.

“The reinforcement should definitely help,” she mused out loud to Lulu. The scrubby was now inspecting the reject pile, glomming one fragment after another and tossing them away with strange puffling motions of its fronds after cleaning them to a shiny gleam.

After another few bites of squirrel and a brief rest, Morgan set about working the actual spatial enchantment into the jar. Once again, she went with a doubled pattern of seven smaller enchantments, staggered between the reinforcement runes. With multiple anchoring points, the overall effect was extremely stable, and the effort led to her gaining [Spatial Affinity]. Pulling the space inside the jar still felt wrong, but as the affinity skill settled into her mind, it became clearer just exactly how the lattice of hair-thin threads of Mana was actually affecting the space.

“Ha!” she exclaimed as she inverted the tiny rune circles to reverse the effect. “I was trying to make the space inside bigger, when I should have been trying to put more space…into the, uh…space?” she finished, a puzzled expression crossing her features.

The inverted spatial runes finally did the trick, and the enchantment snapped into place with another notification.

You have learned the enchantment [Spatial Compression Rune]! Compress a larger volume of space into a smaller area! Practice and experience with different applications will improve this enchantment!

The feeling of accomplishment was immensely satisfying; a smug gratification that Morgan felt on a visceral level, radiating out from her chest as she grinned with an exuberance similar to when she’d received the keys to her first car as a teenager. Wait, she thought, it’s coming from the [Soul Anchor]…

You have increased your understanding of [Runic Enchantment]! Your [Soul Anchor] has gained a level due to your learning new Runes! Living Runes that have been linked to the [Soul Anchor] may now grow to a maximum level of two! You may now link a total of two Living Runes to the [Soul Anchor]!

DING!

You have reached Level 11! Health and Status partially restored!

Remember, combat is not the only path to advancement. Performing tasks and training skills aligned with your class will often yield surprising benefits.

Rewarded points doubled by Class Traits!

10 distributable Stat points awarded.

Class Template: [Skyclad Sorceress] auto-assigns 3 points(+1 CON, +2 INT), Distributable points reduced to 7.

10 Skill points awarded. New Skills available for purchase due to meeting prerequisite conditions!

Morgan hadn’t fought anything tougher than a few murdersquirrels since her near-disastrous encounter with the hydra and the subsequent faux battle upon meeting Moghren. Her thoughts hadn’t been focused on leveling at all, so the sudden notification without a preceding experience gains message had her tumbling backward off the stool, the hardened clay pot bouncing along the floor beside her.

“Well,” said the [Skyclad Sorceress] as she picked herself up and brushed the dirt off her bottom and back as well as she could. “Moghren did say levelling happened from doing class-related things…”

Lulu had been startled as well by her sudden fall, and had immediately made its way over to assist in restoring its mistress’ skin to immaculate condition. With the purbling minion contentedly going about its task, Morgan returned her attention to the skill menu she’d been ignoring for the past week. No new options had been available since her class selection, so she hadn’t bothered after an initial check upon gaining the class.

“I guess if I don’t have enough points, it won’t display things I can’t afford to get…”

After spending her remaining stat points on INT, Morgan mentally pulled up the skills menu.

Skill Acquisition Menu

Leveling Class Abilities may provide unique skills for purchase when conditions are met!

One unique Class Skill is now available for purchase due to learning the required skills!

Experimentation and learning more skills will grant access to more skills for acquisition!

[Runic Belt (Living Rune)] - [20 Skill Points] This Living Rune links to your [Soul Anchor] rune. One spatial storage enchantment may be added to [Runic Belt] per level of the Living Rune. Living Rune level is capped at the current level of [Soul Anchor]. Improving your abilities with spatial magics will increase the level of [Runic Belt].

Morgan danced happily in place, hugging a protesting Lulu in her excitement. “Ha, ha-ha!” she half-giggled, half-sang with satisfaction, placing the scrubby back on the bed to allow it to resume its wandering scrubbly travels. “So experimenting pays off!”

There were no other options available at present other than greyed out skills that were useless to her. Many applied to tools, weapons, or items that she would never be able to equip, and others she simply had no interest in whatsoever. She ignored the other skills and hastily spent the points to acquire the [Runic Belt] enchantment.

“Huh…”

She felt the skill settle with a strange, pulsing sensation from her [Soul Anchor], but no new tattoo appeared.

“Okay… “

Slightly confused, she brought up her skill list with a thought. Focusing on the living runes listed at the end, she finally realized the problem.

“Oh,” she said with sudden understanding. “[Mana Vision] is listed as an active rune, and [Runic Belt] isn’t…”

Selecting the skill with her mind and activating it was simple enough, yet still nothing happened at first. Morgan frowned, her confusion growing every second.

And then she was yelping in pain while jumping up and down and slapping at her belly just above her most sensitive bits.

“Damn! Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”

In the crook of her hips, on either side of what was formerly her bikini line (when she had still been able to wear such things), bright blue arcs of Mana began tracing an ultra-fine filigree pattern into her skin. The burning ignored her [Pain Resistance] entirely, and she dropped to the ground once again. Her heels drummed a staccato pattern on the dirt floor, and her back arched while she sobbed through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut.

The tracings began at two points slightly above and to either side of her crotch, and as they spread up her abdomen from there, the runes grew outward to either side and arched over and around her hips. The entire process took only minutes, yet felt to her like hours. Morgan wailed until the two ends of the tattoo met at the base of her spine, just above the tailbone. The last few inches of the inscribing process hurt more than all that came before, and she flopped and screamed helplessly until, after what felt like an eternity, it was done.

Morgan simply lay there in a limp heap, whimpering, exhausted, and panting to catch her breath. Lulu, the loyal scrubby, rushed over to its fallen mistress with frightened wurbles while it began inspecting her for damage. The scrubby’s panic at its mistress’ distress took a while to fade as it continued to search for whatever unseen foe had caused such violence. Once her poofy companion had finally determined there were no immediate threats, the loofah set about checking Morgan over in its typical hopping fashion.

In this instance, however, that inspection was cut short as Lulu hopped from Morgan’s arm onto the outside of her hip—and suddenly vanished, with an alarmed, trilling wurble that was cut horrifyingly short. The naked girl felt panic begin to claw at her mind once again, scrambling to her feet with a cry.

“Lulu! Shit, no!”

The tattoo that now circled her hips sat like an unbuckled belt, not quite meeting in the middle of her pelvis. Five empty circles were traced along evenly spaced sections on each side; the forward-most circle on her right hip, however, was filled with a complex triple-spiral pattern that was now pulsing faintly with a gentle blue light.

Placing her hand over the glowing part of the tattoo, she could feel it pulse with her heartbeat, and with a hurried thought, she pushed extra Mana into her hand, and from her hand into the rune.

A very upset loofah suddenly popped into existence with a faint rush of air, and immediately resumed its outraged warbling until Morgan gathered Lulu up in both hands to administer soothing pats while hugging it close.

“Sorry ‘bout that, Lulu!” she cooed, sitting down on the moss-covered bed that occupied one side of the hut. “I wasn’t expecting the tattoo part to hurt at all. The first one didn’t.” She gently petted the loofah as she lay down on the bed, and the soothing, rhythmic motion seemed to unlock something in her mind. Emotional walls she didn’t realize she’d put into place finally began to fall apart.

“Why does almost everything cool in this world hurt so much?” she whimpered. Then, she felt a burst of anger. “Everything! If it’s not something trying to eat me, I end up burning alive, or—”

The anger was as short-lived as it was intense, her own words bringing back memories of her first night in the Tree. She’d walled the entire experience off inside her mind as an instinctive self-defense, leaving her more able to deal with the chaos and threats that came her way. But since leaving Moghren’s home and the ancient ruins of the city, her experiences had been much slower paced and far less dangerous. Traumas such as her burning on that first, fateful night could never be truly forgotten, however, and after a few calmer days—and now, the relative safety in her reinforced stone hut—the shock of the tattoos and the familiar burning sensation brought all that pain back in exquisite detail.

With the memory came the emotions long denied. And, as the rains played a dreary, susurrating tune outside the windows, Morgan finally cried.

Chapter 18: Terrakinesis

Morgan was having a rather dreary day, all things considered. She’d indulged in a much-needed breakdown and a good cry as she finally processed everything that had occurred to her since arriving in this new world, culminating in the rainfall carrying her to sleep in an unplanned nap. She felt much better upon waking, but the rains hadn’t abated by the time she awoke.

“Looks like two nights in the same spot this time, Lulu,” she said as the ever-curious scrubby wurbled its way across her hip, to once again disappear into the newly-enchanted storage rune.

“Oh, come out of there!”

The scrubby had spent the minutes since Morgan woke up inspecting this new change to its mistress, its reaction having shifted from shock to a childish wonder. She picked up the purbling loofah after letting it out of the spatial pocket and placed it back on her shoulder. The loofah’s curiosity was infectious though, and she decided to experiment with the new rune on her own.

“So how much do you think I can carry in there, Lulu?”

A brief test with the discarded pottery shards soon demonstrated the capacity of her new spatial pocket. After a few dozen finger-width pieces vanished into the warped space, the enchantment remained dim when she brought the next one close.

“So, a couple of pounds of stuff, maybe? But is it mass, or volume…?”

She carefully removed the shards from within the rune, floating them up between her hands. They seemed to sort of slip into existence as they left the Living Enchantment, with only a gentle feeling of Mana pulsing through the tattooed design. She poured her Mana into the stone, squeezing them down into one lumpy mass with [Earth Sculpt]. With the same amount of matter now occupying a smaller volume, she put the clump of earth back into storage and was able to add a few more pieces of the broken jars.

Morgan frowned, tapping the rune. “Hrm. Seems to be a little of Column A, little of Column B…”

Another attempt, this time spinning the lumpy stone into a larger but hollow shape, proved to also reject any effort to make it vanish into the magical space.

She nodded to herself. “Volume’s going to be the more limiting factor, looks like…”

Incrementally shrinking the sphere and redistributing its weight, it was finally small enough to vanish into the rune. The spatial warping that allowed things to disappear into and return from the storage rune seemed to have a size limit roughly that of a volleyball—at least as far as she could tell, with no way to take precise measurements.

Her next experiment was to see how much mass she could carry outside the storage rune. Levitating more than twenty or so separate pieces of earthen shards seemed to be her upper limit, a limit which surprised Morgan, as she scooped up a cluster of them with a surge of Mana and mental effort.

Compared to her other spells and skills, the one she had the most actual practice with was [Earth Sculpt]. Since leaving First Raven’s Roost, the string of campsites and stone hutches she’d abandoned in her wake had finally allowed her to master the ability, not to mention her habit of using it to stave off boredom by playing with stone like it was silly putty.

There had always been a maximum limit to how densely she could compress the stone, a plateau past which pouring more Mana and effort into it simply yielded no greater result. But, partly due to her modern education on Earth, and her experience learning about various types of stone for usage in architecture, Morgan knew she hadn’t come close to producing a material nearly as strong as marbled granite or quartz.

“I think the problem with the stone is, regular dirt isn’t all one thing,” she mused out loud. “There’re all kinds of things mixed into most dirt and rocks. Silicates, clay, minerals, and organics. I should have paid more attention in Geology class, dammit!” she exclaimed as she let the clump of squeezed dirt fall to the floor.

The rains pattering on the roof were showing no signs of letting up any time soon, so Morgan settled in for an evening of experimentation. Alleviating her boredom by playing with her magics killed two birds with one stone.

Or several birds with one stone, she realized with a thought. Why only practice one type?

Within an hour, she was already making progress. A sphere of purple flame hovered a few feet away to her left, and a globe of water to her right. Balancing two opposing types of Mana while holding them steady was difficult at first, and would definitely have been beyond her abilities before acquiring her Class. The extra levels in their respective affinities alleviated the strain once the notifications popped into her head, however, and prompted Morgan to really push herself.

The flame sputtered and dimmed, and the water rippled, threatening to lose cohesion. Slowly, ever so slowly, the lump of earth she’d fused together from the discarded shards began to rise directly in front of her. She could feel the strain on her Mana, even though Earth was her strongest Affinity. The addition of a third manipulation began to strain her; she would normally use gestures of hand or arm to help direct the flow of Mana, and both hands were currently otherwise occupied.

A bead of sweat fell victim to gravity, travelling down her forehead and into her eye. Her concentration disrupted, the flame died, and the water splashed to the ground, followed quickly by the misshapen stone. Panting to recover from the effort, she stood stooped over with her hands on her knees, while Lulu set about inspecting this new mess in its domain of cleanliness.

Deciding a break was in order, she tore another chunk of squirrel off the spit and returned to the mossy bed, drawing her feet up to sit cross-legged while she recovered. “I’m glad you seem to be entertained,” she remarked wryly, as the diminutive little puffball wurbled its way around, cleaning up the splashed water and mud.

“I didn’t realize just how much I was giving up along with the clothes, Lulu,” she mumbled around a particularly chewy piece of gristle. “I made the choice—and I can’t really complain, magic is badass!—even when it hurts like hell.”

Hunger sated and Mana restored by the short break, Morgan settled herself into a more serious meditative pose and resumed her experimenting. She caught another fist-sized globe of water from the falling rain, pulling it in through the window and stabilizing it above her right hand. Another push with her will, and an orb of flame appeared over her left, a flickering [Candleflame] she pushed more Mana into until it was a roiling, violet sphere the same size as the ball of water.

Once again the lump of molded stone began to rise, shaking at first as her Mana seemed to slip around it without gaining purchase. Then an inch became two, then four, and soon the distorted rock was over a foot above the ground. Morgan felt her Mana draining, sweat dripping off her face to track uncomfortably ticklish rivulets between her breasts and down her belly. Holding two Elements stable while trying to manipulate a third wasn’t simply difficult; it was like trying to lift an impossible weight with the barest tips of her fingers, extended awkwardly, while she had no leverage.

The draw on her Mana made her feel hot and flushed, uncomfortable despite her [Heat Affinity]. She still refused to give up, mentally leaning into the effort, a spike of pain driving itself between her eyes. Two feet off the ground. Then three.

And then the lump of stone shot straight upward with such force that it buried itself in the ceiling of the campsite hutch, as Morgan felt her Mana surge on its own. A wave of force rippled out from her body, bending the ambient light with a faint pulse before it slammed into the floor, the walls, and the stone bed upon which she sat. The orb of flame and globe of water dispersed into sparks and spray as she lost control of her Mana entirely.

You have mastered the skill [Earth Affinity]!

By mastering this affinity, you have gained the bonus skill [Terrakinesis]! With this, your command over the Earth itself will grow, permitting extraordinary feats of spellwork. Continue experimenting with Affinities to unlock additional kinesis abilities.

Morgan flopped onto her back in a most unladylike manner, caught in a sudden bout of extreme dizziness from the instantaneous drain of her entire Mana pool. She jerked about like a puppet with tangled strings as the spinning sensation in her head turned to nausea, and her recently consumed haunch of murdersquirrel chose that moment to make its reappearance into the outside world.

She just barely managed to roll herself off the bed in time to catch herself on all fours as she violently retched up the contents of her stomach. Her wobbly arms betrayed her then, and she failed miserably at avoiding the spreading pile of acrid bile and chunks as she collapsed from sudden vertigo.

Even Lulu was offended by the mess, hopping back from its mistress while making worried, wurbling trills. She finally managed to bring her trembling limbs under at least partial control, levering herself back up to her knees with one arm over the stone stool that had been her seat earlier in the day.

“Graa-urgh!” she choked out like a drunk on a three-day bender, still swaying side to side even with her knees on the ground. Her [Regeneration] skill kicked in once her head began to clear, restoring her Mana at the expense of precious calories. The improved form of the old [Naked Recovery] skill was much more efficient, however, and within a handful of minutes she was back to nearly a third of her total magical reserves without suffering further debilitating strain on her fat reserves.

As her Mana returned, so did her cognitive abilities, and the acrid smell of puke and bile stung her sinuses as she heaved to catch her breath while wiping snot and vomit off her face. She staggered to her feet and turned to her makeshift door, determined to at least rinse off in the rain before dealing with the pile of nasty that was now smeared across the floor.

The door she’d fashioned was a makeshift affair without hinges, merely a slab of stone set in the opening to the campsite hutch. It had another stone bar set across it with notches on either side, preventing anything from just pushing it open. Reaching out with her Mana, she expected the stone bar to feel as heavy as every other time she’d levitated it out of the way.

Instead the bar, the door, and several inches of the surrounding masonry cleanly came away from the wall, the edges separating as smooth as liquid glass. She could feel the weight and the mass, but it was no longer a grunt-inducing effort of will to keep it floating.

“Whoa,” she choked in surprise. “Must be [Terrakinesis]…”

Talking through the horrible taste was an ordeal, and she made her way outside into the rain on swaying legs to lean against the outside of the hut. With the dizzy feeling subsiding, and her Mana returning, she let go of [Regeneration] and simply stood there, letting the downpour wash away the ick.

After a few minutes, time which Morgan spent rinsing her mouth out with rainwater, she felt much better—good enough to deal with the mess, at least. She promptly did so, directing a blob of rippling water into the hut and using it to draw up the worst of her refunded lunch. With a surge of Frost Mana, she solidified the water around the floating wad of nastiness and heaved it away from her campsite as hard as she could with her magic.

With most of the splatter now rinsed away, Lulu resumed her normal routine of wurbling around to tidy things up. Morgan simply stood with her hands on her hips for a long moment, watching and thinking.

“I haven’t been that sick since my high-school graduation,” she grumbled to herself from the doorway while she inspected the damage to her humble abode.

The floor, the walls, the ceiling—every surface in the hut was spiderwebbed with cracks. But they weren’t jagged and sharp like she would have expected. Instead, the fractures had the appearance of softened and extruded candle wax. The wall by the bed where she’d been sitting was now bulging outward like a blister, and the stool a few feet from the bed was bent in the opposite direction like a sad mushroom cap. The squirrel that had been waiting over the coals now lay in the coals, its stone skewer now bent and twisted. As if I could eat any more of that after tasting it on the way back up.

“Well, [Terrakinesis] really did a number on this shit, Lulu,” she said flatly, taking in the damage.

She had no intention of risking the building collapsing on her during the night, and drops of water were leaking through imperfections now lacing through the structure. Curiosity about the new skill also had a part to play along with the safety concerns as she reached out with her Mana and her senses.

The stone and earth now felt far more real to her senses; she could tell that difference right away. Her effective range was increased, and as her magic permeated the stone and ground below, there was a sense of a more detailed perception. At first, [Mana Sight] didn’t show her anything she hadn’t already seen, but her expanded senses allowed her to interpret far more information about the Mana flowing through the stone in swirls and eddies.

The notification of her vision-enhancing rune gaining a level went almost unnoticed before this new information. It made sense to her; after all, she’d been relying on it constantly since her Class Selection and acquiring the first [Living Rune], so it was bound to level up sooner or later.

What was revealed to her enhanced senses now came in much finer detail. She could pick out the various things that actually made up the stone. Parts she was almost certain were clay were interspersed with what tasted to her senses like the scent of rust. I’m pretty sure that’s iron oxide in the strata, she thought, with no small amount of wonder.

Other things ran through the stone as well. Grains of metals had varying flavors, ranging from dull to a fizzy, buzzing taste like licking a nine-volt battery. The sharp tang of different crystalline structures stood out in some parts of the stone as well. And with her newly acquired [Terrakinesis], all these things could be moved.

“I see now why I couldn’t make the stone any stronger! It’s all smushed together, with no underlying crystalline structure!”

The drain on her Mana for manipulating a given amount of earth and stone felt noticeably lighter. Pushing her magic outward into the stone wasn’t quite as easy as breathing, but it came fairly close to it. Another firm shove with her willpower and roughly a fifth of her Mana later, the stone walls, roof, and floor were just about as packed with magic as she figured she could get them, far more than she’d ever been able to before.

With that much of her Mana flowing through it, the stone flowed as well. Like a warm syrup, the various underlying structures within the mass began to rearrange. Morgan didn’t try to think of every single cubic millimeter of the substance, she merely let it flow into as strong an interlocking pattern as she could get by feel. Clay and silicates shifted around iron and other hair-thin traces of metals and collapsed in around the quartzy, buzzing crystal structures.

The almost-liquid stone also flowed around another contaminant that had earlier helped prevent her from condensing the material. Tiny air pockets smaller than pinheads drifted to the surface of the stone, and she could feel it becoming denser and stronger as the gaps she’d never realized existed were now filled in on an astonishingly tiny scale.

So entranced was Morgan by this new expanded ability that she almost didn’t react in time to the tingling sensation on the back of her neck, but [Primal Instinct] had leveled as well in the days since leaving Moghren’s home. Lulu’s senses also proved to be just as effective as her own, and the scrubby gave its signature wurbling war cry as the [Skyclad Sorceress] dove sideways out of the doorway into a tucked roll.

As she rolled back onto her side facing the doorway, she let loose a short burst of [Lightning Bolt] combined with [Spell Channeling] for a crackling stream of pellet-sized destruction. The brilliant incandescence exploded against something that rippled in the rain and had far too many legs for Morgan’s comfort. The tiny bolts of lightning, normally able to drill straight through the enormous trees of the forest with far less Mana than she was using, skipped off some manner of shield.

She had to use [Acceleration] in order to dodge her own spell fragments as some of them bounced straight back at her. As the thing, whatever it was, barreled through the open doorway, an enraged loofah came zooming out of the stone hut in full-blown exfoliate attack mode. Rainwater and silty mud were sent flying in a miniature bow wave as the spinning ball of lethal lace raced immediately to Morgan’s side to take up a guard position.

Turning back to face into the building, she finally saw her assailant. Now occupying Morgan’s former temporary home was a hard-shelled creature over ten feet long, with hundreds of legs and vicious mandibles at the end that held the glittering eyes.

As if that wasn’t enough by itself, its armored segments of shell seemed to have ridges of crystal along the edges where they overlapped. These ridges, the tips of all of its legs, and especially the mandibles, were lit up like the Vegas strip to her [Mana Sight]; angry colors that clearly indicated its immense threat.

“Holy shit, that’s a lotta nope!” she exclaimed.

Direct spell attacks having proven ineffective once, she was in no hurry to try blasting it with something more powerful and risking the blowback from its shield. It seemed more intent on claiming the dry space as territory, rather than coming back out into the rain, so Morgan simply reached out with her new skill and quickly jerked the door section back into place, sealing it with a burst of magic.

“Well, shit,” she said after her heartbeat slowed slightly and she finally caught her breath. Almost as an afterthought, she ripped up a basketball-sized chunk of dirt and squeezed it down into a broad, flattened dome, which she levitated above herself and the still-trilling loofah.

“Eagles, wolves, lynxes, tyrannorabbits, murdersquirrels, even my own ancestor wants to eat me in this screwed up world!” she shouted in frustration. “And now some goddamn doom-noodle wants to run me out of my own house?” The loofah wurbled angrily in agreement. Although its understanding of her actual words was up for debate, its loyalty was most certainly not.

Fed up, angry, and unwilling to slog however many miles it took through the rain to find another good spot to camp, Morgan decided enough was simply enough.

With a bit more force than she’d intended, she pushed the domed roof of the hut downward and flattened it out. The whooshing of air out of the chimney-vent and the small windows was immediately followed by a flurry of angry hissing and scuttling noises. Mandible tips periodically poked out of the hand-sized openings, but the creature was simply too large to get out that way; the reinforced stone was now too strong for it to break, even with those frightening, vice-like jaws.

The hissing was followed by thumps and thuds as it charged wall after wall, but Morgan’s construction held true. After flattening the roof, she opened up even more tiny vents, strengthening the remaining stone as she squeezed it into a rough form resembling a net. No space wider than her hand, and no span of stone smaller than that, either. Another wave of Mana and a little more effort smoothed out the windows to seal the walls, leaving only the openings in the now-flattened top of the structure.

Steam from the coals of her once-campfire trickled up for a moment or two before the rains quenched the last of the smoldering fire pit. Coldly, methodically, Morgan pulled water up from around her and lobbed it into the hut-turned-pool. The rains were heavy, providing plenty of water for her to work with. Within minutes, the hut was overflowing.

The creature thrashed at the top of the makeshift cage, its reflective magical shield unable to affect the mundane water it found itself trapped in. Morgan simply waited for her Mana to recover while considering how to best bring about a swift end to the creature. She was also quite aware of how tasty [Primal Instinct] was telling her this new invader happened to be.

With that in mind, and very much uninterested in eating another murdersquirrel, Morgan reached through the stone with her Mana to feel the even dozen [Candleflame Rune] enchantments inscribed around the inside of the stone hut.

At first, the runes seemed to have no effect. The water simply had too much mass to heat up, at least not quickly. The draw on her Mana was still fairly light with such simple runes, so Morgan paced around the structure, placing more runes every couple of steps. These she inscribed down lower, and with more sources of heat pushing energy into the water, the effect finally became noticeable.

The stone was warmer to the touch already, low mist beginning to steam where the rains dripped down the outsides of the hut. The creature thrashed harder, actually managing to cause the walls to shiver, and kicked a spray of droplets away from the sides of the building.

Morgan pushed even more of her magic into the [Candleflame Runes], prompting another bout of frantic attacks against the walls and top of the hut.

And then she activated [Spell Surge] and shoved so much Mana through the runes that the stone began to glow.

The creature screamed in pain and agony as it began to boil alive.

Interlude: The General

Jacob Ward sat his horse with greater ease than he would have ever thought possible in his previous life. [Horsemanship] was one of his passive skills, and allowed him much increased ability to understand his mount. He now handled the creature with smooth assurance.

One of the local youths who’d not yet unlocked a class came riding toward Jacob’s position. The boy had already had some basic riding skills, and had volunteered to ride with the scouts patrolling ahead of the wagon train.

“Report, boy. Are the farms in the next valley going to evacuate?”

The younger man turned his horse to fall in next to Jacob with a deft gesture of the reins. “Yes sir, or at least most of them. A few holdouts ran us off, but they were all white-haired ancient classers.”

“Why’s that so important?”

The youth gave him a strange look before clearing his throat and continuing, “I forget Worldwalkers don’t know everything, sir. For classers that old, they may not have the endurance or regen of the rest of us, but the raw power never goes away.” He grinned savagely. “They may only be able to do it once or twice before the effort kills them, but they can still crack the earth or break the sky.”

“So the Deskren will have a sorry time of it to try to rout them…”

“They’ll fight like cornered badgers,” the youth agreed, “and if they take enough out at once to gain a level, they could hold this valley for days.”

“Good,” Jacob said, noting with a smile the slight confusion on the lad’s face. “I can’t put off Class Selection much longer, and the caravan can’t afford to have me down for two or three days to get over it.”

“So the rumors are true, sir?” His face shone with a new eagerness. “We can hold for a few days; the training has already let most of us learn new combat skills, even some of the older classers. Or you could lay in one of the wagons for Selection, and we can just avoid stopping at all…”

“That’s an option I’ll talk over with Erin and the others. Now, you go see my wife for some food and then get rested for your next patrol. Mishel’s husband Parnus slaughtered one of the hogs this morning, so there’s bacon.”

The youth gave an earnest, if imperfect, salute and turned his horse to head back toward the rear of the caravan, where Jacob’s wife rode with the family who’d first taken them in when they arrived on Anfealt. A [Farmer] and a [Midwife], who’d graciously allowed the newlywed pair of Worldwalkers to stay in their barn in exchange for help with the fields. It hadn’t lasted, however, as the Deskren incursions began less than a month after the Purple Night.

The city of South Hollows had fallen, and it hadn’t gone gentle into that good night. Knowing the alternative was slavery, the entire city had taken up arms to clear a path for the young and those unable to fight. Those unable or unwilling to flee had made suicidal last stands, street by street, to buy time. The evacuees had scattered into the surrounding hills, and different groups banded together for protection from banditry, and from the slaver teams who filtered into the wilderness, picking off stragglers.

A few haggard groups passing through the farmstead prompted the farmer and his family to evacuate as well, smoke from the neighboring lands a grim notice of the consequences of staying alone. One family and a pair of Worldwalkers on the road became two families, then three, then five as more joined them. Jacob’s background in military command lent itself almost immediately to Skills regarding organization and the logistics of managing a caravan on the march. Most of the common citizenry of Anfealt stood in awe of Worldwalkers, and that gave an even sharper edge to his natural abilities to command.

He wasn’t sure exactly when it happened, but he’d become the unofficial leader of an entire column of refugees. He did, however, know why: his natural aptitude for any number of survival-oriented tasks—organizing wagon trains, managing the flow of bodies without any getting in another’s way, and maintaining effective patrol coverage, to name but three—led the refugees to defer to him almost without conscious thought.

When the first bandit raid came in the middle of the night, they lost three wagons and the lives of a dozen refugees. The caravan’s food stores had been raided, and several women had also been dragged off into the night. Though he’d assumed everything would fall apart after that, the thirty riders he led out to rescue the women hadn’t turned against him.

Indeed, while his wife helped heal the traumatized girls with her own class skills, those who’d been in the rescue party had dispersed among the wagons, spreading tales of his passive command skill, [Momentum]. Any mounted unit he led travelled with greater…inertia, was the only way he could describe it, even to himself.

When they’d charged into the ragtag camp of bandits, their horses’ hooves struck the ground with thunderous impact, and they hit the brigands with such force that the enemy had been nearly obliterated. Bodies, tents, armor, even the other group’s own mounts had been sent flying as if struck by a plow, not mere horseflesh. Those not sent flying were trampled and broken without mercy, and the sight of the battered women next to their wagon rid them of any notion of taking prisoners. Jacob had put the surviving bandits to the sword personally, while his makeshift militia watched with flat eyes.

There had been no more losses to banditry since that night. Jacob had drafted the best riders from among the refugees and organized training schedules for scouting and formation drills. Everyone with fighting experience had been drawn up to practice in groups for at least two hours every evening, when the caravan halted for the night. The wagons were now circled together whenever they made camp. Anyone who could swing a pick or shovel quickly learned how to dig shallow trenches for defense, and everyone with archery skills kept eyes on the surrounding hills and forest glades at all times. People with woodcraft, hunting skills, or classes were recruited to stealthily keep watch on the surrounding area, ready to sound a signal with flashy spells or by simply blowing horns if they lacked magic.

What Jacob had was an army assembling itself as it went, protecting the children and livestock in the middle of a barricade of healthy, strong bodies. Several bandit groups since the first had mistaken the caravan for easy pickings, and had paid the price for their hubris. He’d gained the title [The Implacable] when he’d executed the rapists in that first battle, providing a significant boost to his already-formidable abilities. His original thirty riders were quickly growing into a solid cavalry unit under his lead, his Skills allowing for rapid maneuvers and almost instinctive unit awareness. Thanks to watchful scouts, several groups of unsuspecting brigands had met their end facing a heavy charge. What amounted to a proto-hivemind among the riders under his command permitted a remarkable fluidity, the men able to be everywhere among the wagons until they all needed to be somewhere to repel a threat.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he sat upright in the saddle and watched the refugee train pass by into the clearing, where initial fortifications for camp were already being dug that could be added to later. Trenches were being carved out, and berms of dirt piled up to give archers cover, to break up enemy charges, and to protect against magical attacks. The few people they’d picked up with magical classes moved in a group, laying out protective wards and linking them in a circle around the grounds. They had no offensive caster classes so far, but several classless teens showed minor talent with basic attack spells, and seemed eager to train toward combat-related magecraft. Jacob looked over the forming camp and was once again struck by the sense of a military compound, at once filled with both pride at the ability of those under him, and remorse at its necessity.

As the main body of the column moved into the fortified area, Jacob saw his wife, Erin, climb down from one of the two large Conestoga wagons that had been converted into mobile field hospitals. Her med school training on Earth had led to her gaining skills in diagnosis, healing magics, and surgery on a level the people they’d met so far had found miraculous. Though they’d successfully fought off every raid from both regular bandits and Deskren slavers, they still ended up with wounded to care for. She’d gained a class within the first week of the march from such extensive use of her abilities, and the [Hand of Solace] had organized every warm body with any healing talent at all into the kind of trauma response unit that would make any metropolitan hospital jealous.

He spurred his horse to an easy trot and made his way down into the camp. His wife, having just finished dumping out a basin of bloody water into one of the latrines, approached him. “Everyone made it today, Jake,” she called as he dismounted and handed the reins to one of the tenders that helped manage the caravan’s mounts and livestock. “I couldn’t save Millie’s arm— the arrow was poisoned—but at least now she won’t have to worry about infection. The rest will be up and walking in a day or two at the most.”

He didn’t respond, simply walking up and lifting her off her feet in a hug that highlighted the difference in their respective heights, her shoes nearly a foot off the ground.

“You have to choose, don’t you?” she said after silently enjoying the attention for several moments.

“I can’t put it off any longer. But I hate leaving you helpless while I’m under.”

She straightened her blouse and apron as he set her back on her feet, shooing away his concerns with a wave of her hand. “It’ll only be two days, three at the most. We can hold off the raiders should they come. You’ve trained your men well; trust in them. I’m more worried about what class you plan to choose.”

They walked between the rows of wagons, stopping at a nondescript cart pulled by a single horse. “I’m not worried about little raids, Erin. If the Deskren are mounting a full invasion, there are entire armies on the move. And my options so far…”

“No half measures,” she said sternly. “You do what makes the most sense for the mission; you’ve never been a glory hound.” Her face twisted with disgusted outrage. “They enslave children,” she snarled before calming herself and continuing. “The man I married stood against such evils back on our old world. He wouldn’t be the same man if he didn’t here as well.”

“I’m not going to disparage myself, woman,” he said with a feral grin and pulled her into another embrace. “If I commit to this, I absolutely can break the Deskren. All that’ll take is time.” His savage grin faded, replaced with an uneasy expression. “But it could be decades of war, hon. What about after?”

“How can there be an ‘after’ if they aren’t beaten? I won’t wear a collar like a dog or bring children into any world ruled by the likes of them.”

His slumped a little as he held his better half, a more resigned and somber mood now floating between the two. “You know me better than these people, know what it’ll mean if I do this. I explained my options to you when I checked them last.”

“Every day we wait, they take more innocent people, Jacob. As long as you don’t come back from this as some silly dancing dandy, you know I’ll stand with you no matter what it takes to finish them.” She pulled back, fixing Jacob with an intense gaze. “I married a good man, not a nice one.”

He threw back the flap on the end of the wagon, revealing a bed of folded blankets just wide enough for a person to lay comfortably within. “All the extra defenses have been prepared, and they all know what to do to keep reinforcing them,” he said as he stepped onto the running board at the back of the cart. “You’re in charge until I get back.”

“If you aren’t awake by the third day, we’ll move the convoy. I know we can’t stay in one place any longer than that.”

Never one to drag out any form of goodbye, Jacob leaned down and kissed his wife, then turned and crawled into the wagon to lay down. A brief mental command to pull up his status menu, and he was once again in another place, oblivious to the surrounding world.

His wife had recounted her Class Selection to him, her other self being a nurse dressed in hospital scrubs in a hospital waiting room. Her presentation of the Class Avatars had been a gigantic, sprawling facility with different types of specialized doctors and healer classes, with a few Life- and Death-aspected mage classes scattered here and there.

Jacob’s own was very different. Instead of a waiting room, he found himself in an Army recruiter’s office, but with a younger copy of himself sitting behind the desk. So similar to the room he’d walked into all those years ago, before his first enlistment and service, and later his trip through West Point.

His other self didn’t even get up from the desk as he had the previous visits when Jacob had come here to review his choices. He simply nodded and sipped from his mug of coffee before speaking.

“So this is it, then.”

“There’s a lot that needs doing, and I don’t see anybody else doing it,” Jacob replied with a shrug.

“That’s how it goes. We swore the Oaths when we signed up, and the spirit still pulls, even if we’re far away from where we swore. Some things are simply intolerable and require that hard men do hard things.”

“Then let it be done.”

Recruiter-Jacob nodded and waved toward the door. “You don’t need me out there; we both know what you’ve chosen.”

Jacob gave a somber nod, then turned and opened the door. He stepped out, not into an arena, a hospital, or a ballroom, or any of the other manifestations that had been described to him. No…

Jacob Ward’s Class Selection landscape was a battlefield. Or The Battlefield, thought Jacob grimly.

It stretched from horizon to horizon, running into the distance both ahead and behind. Near the limits of his sight, explosions flashed, and thunder tore the sky as dirt, rubble, and bodies were churned up by the chaos of the conflict. Clouds the color of gunmetal hung low and ominous, and the scent of burned things, both organic and synthetic, permeated the air.

He walked along trenches and behind barricades, threading his way between artillery emplacements and the wreckage of tanks and vehicles from every era of war. Different versions of himself operated various pieces of equipment or stood next to them in uniform, all greyed out and faded, despite the perfect detail. He’d made his choice before entering this place, so they didn’t call out to him. They merely discharged their roles in silence as jets thundered above, and the ground shook from rolling tracks, marching boots, and bombs falling from the sky.

The war-torn landscape was endless, but it did seem to have themed regions, where one age of warfare was more pronounced than others. He’d been here several times before, and knew roughly where his destination was. As he walked, the trenches and barbed wire gave way to more shallow ditches and walls of pikes, with infantry marching in lockstep to advance toward the field of death and destruction. Tanks and vehicles gave way to horses and wagons, but the eyes of all his copies remained the same—iron determination, and a relentless dedication to getting the job done. The eyes of the soldier.

Here, the avatars were beginning to show up in full color—options that were closer to or more compatible with what he’d finally decided to choose. Men in crisply pressed dress uniforms stood between men in gleaming, medieval full plate to their left, and men in modern sets of body armor to their right. Though these, too, stood as possible directions for his Soul (as he had been informed after his first, abortive Selection), they, like those before, stood silent. No Class like [Dawnbreak Commander] or [Ivory Gauntlet] for Jacob, no—those classes leaned as much toward the glory itself as they did to accomplishing the mission. Capable as they were, he harbored no desire for such gaudy, frivolous things as medals and recognition.

For what seemed like half a day or more, Jacob’s feet carried him past interminable battlefields, endless tableaus, silent commemorations of death, destruction, and war. Finally, Jacob’s journey drew to its end. The clouds seemed to press further in as the machines of war faded behind him, the scream of warfare fading to the throaty rumble of distant ordnance, heavy with expectation. Before him stood a formation of at least fifty armed and armored riders, lances rising above them like jagged teeth, raking the sky. Blood, black and steaming in the wintry air, dripped down their shafts. Their armor wasn’t polished, nor was it even uniform between each rider and horse, but all of it was functional, and the care spent on maintaining that function was obvious.

One rider sat ahead of the formation. Like his brothers, he and his mount faced the battlefield; however, as Jacob drew closer, their heads turned to meet him. His armor, too, set him apart from his fellows—it seemed to darken at the edges, leaking shadow into the air, leeching the light from the space around him. His mount, a massive Percheron, exhibited the same effect. His expression was cold and calm, his motions economy itself.

Jacob approached the imposing figure, neither saying a word until he approached to within a few paces, causing the massive warhorse to snort and stamp its hoof hard enough to throw up mud and dirt. Silence quickly returned, and Jacob and the rider watched each other for several long moments.

“It’s time,” he said to his reflection.

“Indeed.” The reply was given in a matter-of-fact tone, cold and deep, and in that moment, with that word, the muted thunder and roar of distant battle faded away.

“I intend to crush the Deskren, and any who enslave others. This world doesn’t know war, not truly.”

“They will,” rumbled the reply.

“I’ll bow to no kings or kingdoms,” Jacob said. “I swore my oaths to one nation, and they still hold. Those who follow me will hold to them, as well.”

“Then seek the [Oracle], in due time. She may fashion a treaty to set you apart from the Bargain of Kings. More than this I cannot say,” spoke the horseman.

“Then there’s nothing more to discuss.”

The man made no reply, merely tucking his lance back against his shoulder and leaning toward Jacob slightly to extend a hand. He reached out and shook that bloodied, mailed gauntlet. In the next moment, the eternal battlefield vanished.

The [Blacklance Battlemaster] opened his eyes, gritting his teeth as the changes to be wrought upon his Soul began to ravage his being.

Chapter 19: Experimentation

Morgan Mackenzie sat upon a magically raised earthen seat, happily chewing perfectly parboiled [Shardback Shellipede] and wishing she had some cocktail sauce from Earth.

“This tastes better than lobster, Lulu,” she said as she licked her fingers. “If I had drawn butter, we’d really be on a roll. Oh! Dinner rolls… Really miss those now.”

The previous evening’s rains had continued into night, and after cooking her assailant in a giant makeshift crab pot, she’d simply built a new and bigger stone house to camp in. [Terrakinesis] made moving the dirt itself almost trivial. The biggest difficulty now was holding the shape of what she wanted in her head long enough for the Earth Mana to guide the material into place.

Within her range—easily over a hundred feet by her rough estimation—the effort of moving the dirt itself was almost negligible below a certain critical mass. Beyond that range, things became much more difficult, the difference between lifting a weight close to her body or with her arm extended.

She couldn’t rip up literal tons of earth and rocks and throw them about, but it came close. Morgan felt pretty confident that, if she was willing to risk another bout of debilitating illness, she could burn her Mana all at once with [Spell Surge] and cause a localized earthquake.

“Not that I want to shake the earth right now, but it’s cool that I can,” she mused out loud.

After finishing off several small strips of lobster-like flesh, she turned back to the corpse of the giant shellipede. One thing she definitely wanted to study was the mana crystals growing along the edges of its shell segments, its mandibles, and the tips of its many legs. To her [Mana Sight] the night before, it definitely seemed as if the shield the monster had projected came from the crystals that grew out of it.

“Even if I can’t figure out that kind of shield right now, maybe I can activate it…”

It turned out her instincts were correct in this instance. Upon closer inspection, her enhanced vision revealed a pattern of odd swirls, repeating themselves throughout the edges of the crystals. The pattern was denser and finer along the ridges that circled the creature’s broad and armored head. It seemed to continue down along the edges of those fearsome mandibles as well.

After tracing the swirls with both finger and mind, Morgan let out a low, impressed whistle. “This thing looks like it was born to counter magical attacks, Lulu.”

The scrubby puffball was busy wurbling its way along the inside of one of the shellipede’s segmented armor sections. Its ministrations let the chitin’s natural iridescence shine through where the viscera had been obscuring it. Lulu purbled briefly in protest as its mistress pulled it away from its current task, but happily continued cleaning once she placed it on another segment.

Taking the shell in her hands, she inspected it more closely, now that the last traces of meat and greasy tissue had been exfoliated from its curved inner side. She could feel the faint, lingering traces of the creature’s Mana within the crystalline structure, interwoven through the organic chitinous material. The magically reflective properties of the enchantment seemed to be projected outward by the denser layers of crystal on the edges of the shell.

Carefully, and with an extremely light touch of Mana so as to not trigger some drastic or destructive effect, Morgan supplied a bit of magic to the runic patterns of the shell. The result was a brief manifestation of the same rippling shield, just an inch or so offset from the surface of the shell section.

It wasn’t one single piece, either. Her own Mana was powering the portion of the shield closest to where her fingertips made contact with the curved shell, and the barrier was reflected on the other side, in overlapping parts like a snake’s scales.

“Ah,” she exhaled. “So it’s not one contiguous shield enchantment. It’s actually interlocking segments of armor like its shell, but for magic instead of normal attacks.”

Morgan raised the segment of shell ahead of her as she spoke, holding it in both hands. Her grip spasmed then, weakening, shell slipping from suddenly nerveless fingers. “Damn,” she cursed. “What hap—”

Realization struck like a bolt of lightning—she’d run afoul of her [Skyclad] nature! “Figures,” she muttered. It seemed inspecting the shell section was one thing, but trying to use it was another entirely. Turning back to the uneaten head of the beast, she looked down at the almost solid crystal mandibles.

“There’s gotta be a way I can power this up without holding it.”

Dropping the segment of shell, she pulled the head upward from the carcass by one hardened jaw-crystal. Its appearance lent itself most readily to the pincers of some large beetle; despite her misgivings, her [Primal Instinct] lay quiet.

The crystal wasn’t as dense as the ones she’d encountered before climbing the cliffs and encountering Moghren. It also didn’t pull at her Mana so hungrily. Instead it hummed with anticipation, as if it were waiting for…something. This feeling was confirmed as she tried to push some of her own magic into the crystal. The other crystals had drained her Mana on their own, while the lighter-hued mandible simply allowed her to pour it into the glassy structure at her own pace.

As her magic filled the crystal, the mandible began to glow with a familiar violet light. That’s my color of fire, she thought, then continued out loud, “I wonder if other people have different colors to their magic. Moghren gave off shadows, my fire is purple…”

Her [Crystal Affinity] didn’t give her the ability to shape the structure like her Earth skills did with dirt and stone, but she could sense the grain of the mineral formation, and the area under the greatest strain. Bracing one foot on the outside of the mandible, she pushed more of her Mana into the microscopic cracks at the base of the shard, and pulled up while twisting it in her hands.

A glassy creaking followed by a sharp crackling sound heralded the crystal jawbone coming free, sending Morgan stumbling backward out of her new shelter. She stumbled a few steps before catching her balance and gazed down at her prize.

Jagged teeth of pale pink and milky white crystal glimmered in the morning sun, the mandible easily two feet long and as wide as Morgan’s hand. The outer side of the curving piece was formed of smooth facets with irregular outlines, curving around to narrow into a serrated inner edge, and a wickedly sharp tip.

She turned it from side to side in the light, looking closely at the cracks that had spread from the broken base up into the rest of the piece of crystal. Her [Crystal Affinity] allowed her to sense how the flaws had propagated through the mineral structure with a detail and certainty that would make any geologist or gem cutter jealous.

“I didn’t have [Earth Sculpt] the first time I molded dirt with magic, either.”

Concentrating on the cracks running through the mandible, Morgan slowly poured her Mana into the crystal. “Still too fast,” she murmured to herself ,as a tinkling sound emanated from the glassy chunk when the flaws began to expand. Slowing down the flow of magic to the barest trickle she could control, she could feel the substance begin to warm up and shift in her hands. It vibrated with an uncomfortable buzzing, as if it were about to fly apart; a thrumming she could feel in her hands that increased whenever the magic flowed too fast or too slow.

With strange, stuttering crackles, the flaws in the crystal began to mend. She could feel the stresses fading away in the undamaged parts of the jaw, as the fractures closed back up along the grain of the material. And as the last of the shattered lines melded back together, she gained another skill.

You have learned the spell [Gem Sculpt]! Understanding the mineral structure of crystals has allowed you to guide their formation and alteration!

Morgan felt a sense of smug satisfaction when she read that notice; soon afterward, she felt the strain of manipulating the crystal ease somewhat. Now she could levitate it above her hands, although any distance over a few inches became increasingly more difficult. As with Earth magics, all that remained was practice and time to level the skill and the related affinity.

Turning back to the dropped shell segment, Morgan crouched and stabbed the mandible into the ground using her magic. Molding the soil around it to secure it in place was a casual afterthought with [Terrakinesis].

She spent almost a third of her Mana, pouring it into the crystal until it glowed with a bright pink light that cast glimmering shapes onto the ground and surrounding trees around her. Then she lay the shell segment against the upright mandible and stepped back in expectation.

Nothing happened.

“Well, that was disappointing, Lulu,” she said to the puffball as it wurbled its way over to investigate the latest activities of its mistress. “But I shouldn’t be surprised it’s not that simple…”

The crystal held plenty of Mana to power the shell’s enchantment, but it needed something more than proximity or touch to activate it. Reaching out with just her raw Mana to both items at the same time merely gave her a headache that left her sitting inside with her head between her knees for at least an hour while she recovered.

Getting back to her feet, she reached out to the Mana she’d stored within the crystal. Her own supply had long since recovered, but the magical energy within the mandible still resonated with familiarity. It hadn’t changed in any way. She could add more to it, and then pull it back to smoothly replenish what she was lacking. It was while she was playing with this new information that she realized, as the crystal contained Mana that matched her own, it was possible to feel and manipulate it as though it were a sort of extension of her magical body.

With a new idea to test out, Morgan reached out to the shell segment with Mana. Not the Mana within her own body, however. She reached through the mandible, using the magical energy stored within it to activate the shield enchantment.

You have learned the Spell [Mana Link]! Link multiple enchantments or sources of Mana together, allowing magic to flow between them!

“Booyah!” exclaimed Morgan. “Now if I can test the shield, I can learn to copy it!”

The faint ripples of the shield hovered a few inches above the surface of the shell’s ridges, its power linked to the crystal battery. The concentric patterns grown into the edges of the armored material pulsed gently, the overlapping hexagons just barely visible as disturbances in the air

Grinning, Morgan took two steps back and cast the weakest [Lightning Bolt] she could manage at the shield, staring intently with [Mana Sight]. The crackling bolt zipped out from her finger to hit the shield, causing it to flare up in coruscating ripples as her spell was reflected back at a close angle. The returning pellet of lightning left the scent of ozone lingering in the air as it streaked past, scant feet from her head, eliciting a startled oath from the young Sorceress.

The manifestation of the magic was only visible at full power for the briefest of moments at impact, and she spent over a dozen casts and a break to refill the mandible-turned-Mana-battery before she felt she’d learned enough to figure out how the shield worked.

After refilling the crystal once again, she took a few more steps back and moved a pace to her left. This time the bolt came straight back at her, and even with the new knowledge, she didn’t manage to get the shield formed in time to block. Her own [Lightning Bolt] struck her right in the midriff, doubling her over and blistering the skin just above her navel.

After taking a moment to heal, she tried again. This time she held the makeshift shield spell ready around her left hand as she cast the bolt with her right. She took several more jolts from her own reflected spells before she managed to nail down the timing, but her perseverance was rewarded on the eighth attempt.

You have learned the spell [Spell Parry]! Deflect or redirect incoming magical effects!

“Yes!” Morgan twirled in place and pumped her fist in the air as Lulu wurbled in frustration, trying to clean the soot and burned skin left over from its mistress’ repeated healing after each bolt. “Now I have somethin’ to work with!”

Without an anchoring substance to form a defensive enchantment, her own manifestation of the spell was only as coherent as her focus. A central hexagon of Mana, Lightning, Fire, and Air Elements mixed together, formed the center of the shield, and more hexagons spiraled out from the center in slightly overlapping layers. Each layer required more of her Mana and mental effort to maintain, and as the strain on her mind increased, the edges of the polygonal shapes began to ripple and deteriorate.

One single hexagonal shield section seemed extremely strong, but only covered an area about the size of her palm. “So if I add more plate sections around it, the shield gets bigger, but weaker…”

She added one ring of shields around the center. Then a second, and then a third; she kept adding layers until the shield threatened to collapse under its own weight.

“Seven seems to be my sweet spot…”

She walked back over to the boiled remains of the shellipede and broke for lunch, practicing with [Spell Parry]. The shield was definitely not something she could use for constant heavy blocking, and the name was appropriate. It formed most solidly right in the first moments of its creation, and every second it existed drained more and more of her Mana.

“So, I can parry spell attacks now, Lulu,” she told her ruffled companion, “but I also wanna figure out a permanent defensive enchantment I can set up, like that thing’s shield.” She tore a handful of meat off the shellipede corpse after reheating it with a touch of fire magic.

“That can wait ‘til tonight though; we need to get moving,” she said around mouthfuls as she chewed vigorously, eager to pad her calories in case of emergencies.

Remembering something she’d seen during her class selection dream, Morgan plucked several large leaves from a low-hanging branch. They were broad and reminiscent of oak leaves, and she was careful to merely hold them, as she was wary of triggering her equipment rejection.

Placing the leaves on the ground, she tore several smaller chunks of the meat from the monster and placed them on the leaves. She had no string, but wrapping millimeter-thin threads of earth around the leaves to hold her food was a simple matter with [Terrakinesis]. Picking up the three parcels, she placed them in her spatial storage rune. She wrapped up three more, but only two would fit, for a total of five.

Thinking she could rearrange them and possibly fit the last one, Morgan emptied the spatial pocket. When the last leaf-wrapped chunk of meat reappeared, [Runic Belt] gained a level, and she was hit with the corresponding notification. On the front of her left hip she felt a warm tingle as a new storage rune appeared opposite the first.

“Well, that’s handy,” she said while rearranging her leaf-wrapped pack lunches. She returned to the crystalline mandible she’d been using as a Mana-battery. While she had a feeling it wouldn’t fit into her storage as it was now shaped, that didn’t mean it had to stay in its current form.

Pulling the faceted jawbone up from the ground, she used [Gem Sculpt] to slowly condense its form. That kind of practice didn’t even slow her down, as she resumed her westward trek just as the sun peaked overhead through the forest canopy. With Lulu purbling happily on her shoulder once again, she set her pace at an easy, loping jog while keeping the shifting lump of crystal hovering above one hand or the other as she traveled.

Morgan was learning the forest now, more out of sheer necessity than by any genuine desire. It was no longer the terrifyingly impossible visage of doom she’d once seen it as, but that certainly didn’t mean it was safe. She relied heavily on her [Primal Instinct] to guide her feet around areas that felt more dangerous than others: shadows that darkened the ground more noticeably, depressions in the mossy floor that carried the impression of hungry mouths, and formations of stones or upraised hillocks that seemed eager to pull her down. With the aid of her instincts, she avoided these pitfalls with an almost prescient ease, padding through the forest in near silence. Occasionally, she’d [Fade Presence] in response to a silent warning, slinking around more organic threats that might otherwise seek to end her.

Threats weren’t the only things that stood out, though. She could hear various animal calls in the distance; the coos of some large type of bird conveying thoughts of supper, and the odd clump of brush or thicker section of boughs in the canopy seemed like good nesting places for wild critters, should she need to flush something out. Small bushes or green plants stood out with faint outlines that seemed to indicate they’d be at least somewhat edible, even if she didn’t think they would be particularly tasty. She even snagged a few of the familiar berries as she went past, a welcome sweet treat to contrast the greasy-rich calorie lump that was her usual fare from consuming defeated foes.

So it was that, as Morgan travelled, she kept her eyes and ears open for danger, and for useful or tasty things. All the while, she absentmindedly worked the crystal mandible from the shellipede. First she smoothed back the serrated inner edge, pulling the ridged sawtooth formations back into the main jawbone trunk while straightening the overall shape.

Crystal didn’t flow as fast as Earth did by any measure, but she felt like it almost wanted to be a straighter, purer, and simpler crystalline pattern. With each repaired imperfection, as the crystal returned to its natural form, the amount of Mana the crystal could hold increased.

Her footsteps devoured miles and hours, and by the time the sun had sunk toward the distant horizon, she’d worked what had once been a mandible down into a rough crystal spar. It was now a six-sided column, or roughly so, with rougher ends and formations of smaller crystals at the base and the former claw-like tip. Now less than two feet long, it was as wide as her calf muscle. It held nearly twice as much Mana as when she’d started, the uniform interior allowing for a much greater density as she packed her magical energy into it. The day’s efforts had yielded two more levels for [Gem Sculpt], and even one for [Crystal Affinity].

Feeling proud of herself, she placed the crystal into her second storage rune, and felt her connection to the Mana within it simply vanish. “Looks like I can’t use it as an internal Mana Battery, Lulu,” she said as she petted her poofy friend. The scrubby gave a sleepy wurble, seemingly lulled to sleep by Morgan’s rhythmic jogging through the late evening.

She had no need to slow her pace yet—[Mana Sight] helped to compensate for the fading light and lengthening shadow—but there was no need to risk night predators, either. So she reduced her speed to a brisk walk, keeping an eye out for water and a good place to build another stone-house campsite.

Within another mile, and just after dusk had given way to actual night with the twin moons rising in the distant east, she’d found a small stream and a nearby copse of smaller trees. After a drink, she set about finding a good place to fortify for the night.

The stream cut its way through several hills and trees, and she followed it to a small gap between two raised sections of earth. A natural deadfall of tumbled rocks made an uneven path alongside the water, leading into a small gully that opened up into a larger depression.

As Morgan hopped down from the last flattened section of rock, she realized her mistake. [Primal Instinct] screamed in her mind, panic building to a fever pitch—but it pointed at no specific danger, no incoming threat to run away from. The shadowy depression had seemed like a good place to build herself a shelter, and now she knew it was anything but.

The small ravine only looked small from the outside. Now that she was within its walls, she could clearly see it was far larger. Trees had become twisted, looming overhead, vines and leaves forming natural walls lending to a maze-like pattern. Not exactly eager to deal with the danger as her senses continued to impress the feeling of menace upon her—that of this entire ravine seeking her life—she turned to exit via the same rockfall.

And it was gone. All that remained was a tumbled section of boulders and loose scree that didn’t look as if she or anything else could have traversed its treacherous terrain. Panic rose yet higher, but she stood her ground, drawing on her [Terrakinesis], and trying to shift the stone to secure a safe path to climb out.

“Shit.”

The earth around her refused her Mana. As she tried to push it into and underneath the stone and rubble, tried to lift and move it, something pushed back, as if another will had infused the area with its own Mana that kept hers out. All she could manage was to shift a few pebbles and levitate a few handfuls of loose dirt.

Her instincts finally pointing to something behind her, Morgan turned around, primed to unleash flame, lightning, and ice. The trees muffled the rustling sound at first, and then suddenly an oversized deer-like creature burst through one of the vine-laced walls just inside the maze, eyes rolling in sheer terror. It looked around wildly before trying to stumble away. But instead of forward, its trembling legs carried it sideways while it wheezed and snorted in confusion. As it fetched up against a short tree with large blooms on low-hanging branches, one of the flowers suddenly snapped down and closed around the top half of the deer.

The flower heaved back, a sickeningly wet crunch accompanying a violent shudder, the deer’s exposed legs seeming to leap up for the briefest of moments before going still. The bloom pulled away from the once-living creature, leaving the legs standing in place, surrounded by a pile of viscera and bloodied, tattered fur. The scent of the animal’s blood and organs permeated the air, and it was all Morgan could do to not lose what she’d eaten as her instincts redoubled their harpy-like shrieking.

The various calls, the rustling of the underbrush, and the pulse of life from the very forest itself spread around her, circling her, promising her end.

“Shit,” she gasped again, wide eyes turning to her puffy companion, who was now wide awake. “I think we’re in a dungeon.”

Chapter 20: Eye of Madness

Morgan Mackenzie was hearing voices. Or at least, she thought she was; faint whispers seeming to echo down the twisting corridors, as if people were dancing and laughing just out of sight. The area she found herself in was maddening, with passages changing before her eyes as vines and plants drew back and regrew around her, almost as if shepherding her. No pathway stayed as it was for more than a few minutes, and within the first half an hour, she knew she was well and truly lost.

Before she’d left First Raven’s Roost, Moghren had briefly mentioned dungeons, if only to warn Morgan to avoid them if at all possible. Unfortunately the old crone had offered no specifics, and Morgan had had other matters on her mind, so the question of how to recognize—and more importantly, avoid—dungeons had simply never been asked.

Through experimentation, Morgan determined that the hostile Mana surrounding her only really affected her Earth magic, and had little other impact. She’d used Fire to burn away particularly aggressive plants, Lightning to “discourage” more mobile predators, and Ice to freeze a watery slime solid.

“Thank God for small favors,” Morgan muttered. Lulu made a noise of agreement.

The little loofah refused to leave her mistress’ shoulder, purbling warnings every time Morgan approached a trap, and alerting her to danger around blind corners. A good thing, too; her [Primal Instinct] could barely keep up with those comparatively small threats, as it screamed constantly into her mind about the imminent danger she faced by merely being in this place.

To give herself something to focus on besides sheer animal panic, Morgan had taken to collecting loose stone and dirt from the walls and floor, shaping them into small disks and cubes, carving runes into their surfaces, and then leaving them littered behind her. They served the secondary purpose of acting like breadcrumbs, letting her know where she’d walked before. By the end of the first ninety minutes, she’d come across her markers no fewer than five times.

It was growing increasingly clear to her that, beyond being shepherded, she was actively being herded toward the center of this place; by listening to how her instincts shrieked at her, she was able to determine that movement away from the center, where the heart of malice lay, was becoming an impossibility.

For certain definitions of impossible, she thought bleakly. Though the hostile aura permeating this place made it difficult, she felt reasonably confident that she might be able to simply force her way directly through the walls…if she wanted to drain herself dry and take hours in the effort. She had determined one thing: though her [Terrakinesis] was being blocked, the effect posed little obstacle to her [Plasma Glaive]. The only downside was, it imposed a fantastic drain on her Mana, and demanded all the focus she could spare to burn her way through the walls. Though she could recover by eating the meals she’d prepared, she simply didn’t have enough to make it feasible.

Night had already fallen when she’d stumbled into the dungeon, and she’d spent the last several hours—or more, she had no way to tell—wandering its halls. There were sources of ambient light inside the place that kept her from tracking time that way, even if she could see the sky: glowing flowers and vines; pale, pearlescent mists; and insects bigger than her thumb that reminded her of fireflies. If not for the constant, oppressive sensation of menacing danger that pushed down on her mind, it would have been beautiful.

The sounds of merriment coming from just around every corner were getting more pronounced the longer she wandered. Lulu seemed to be even more agitated by it than Morgan, the loofah emanating a much lower purbling sound into her ear that was closer to a growl than anything else Morgan had previously heard coming from her lacy companion.

“She cannot catch us!” came a high, childlike, and ethereal whisper of excitement from somewhere just out of sight.

“But she can hear us,” giggled the response. “Too slow, too slow!”

The words came so softly Morgan could barely make out the meanings, the mocking tones pitched just right to carry along the foliage-covered corridors. Exhaustion pulled her toward sleep as well, the lullaby of distant music and laughter swaying with the walls as she walked.

Ignore them, she thought.

“She’ll sleep soon!” Another hushed exclamation.

“And then we eat her!”

Must not sleep.

“And her magic too!”

“I bet it’s delicious!”

She stumbled, toes catching in the scattered detritus of sticks, vines, and leaves littering the dungeon floor. Morgan had run all day, and then spent several additional hours wandering around in this lush maze of whispers; to say she was exhausted would be an understatement. The constant warnings of imminent danger from [Primal Instinct] lay upon her mind like a heavy blanket, and keeping herself hyper-alert was draining in a way she hadn’t experienced, even when running from the Pack.

Vision starting to blur and run at the edges, she regained her balance and lurched her way down the corridor for another dozen yards before slumping against the wall, legs turning to lead. “S…something,” she slurred, sliding down the wall and ending up on her knees, “is vuh…very wrong…” Lulu became frantic, the normally refreshing effects of the loofah’s ministrations now stinging her skin as it zipped across her body. Something was wrong with its mistress, but it could not find the source.

WAKE UP!

“No, sleepy…” she mumbled as she slumped to her side, sprawling on the hard ground.

Now I’m even talking to myself, she thought, slowly sinking down toward sleep.

No, you’re not. Wake up, or die!

But I just want to sleep!

WAKE UP!

The last thought slammed through her mind, accompanied by far more than words. Images of darkness, the bite of fangs, strands of webs, and an interconnected lace that spanned the world many times over rushed through her consciousness. Glimpses of things simply outside the reach of human understanding, cold and predatory, yet simple and without judgement. Alien, but not evil or malicious. The pain of the psychic intrusion was enough to startle her back to wakefulness, and she knew immediately something was very wrong. She hadn’t been talking to herself or to Lulu.

“I think I’ve been drugged!” she shouted at the empty halls of the dungeon, halfway between a giggle and a sob.

Spores. Pollen. Bad air.

She could tell the thoughts were not her own, now that adrenaline had buffered her mind against the worst of the effects. She knew it wouldn’t last, and needed a better solution.

“It’s in the air?” she asked the voice.

Like dust, choking my children. We are trapped within the Eye.

With her mind temporarily cleared, Morgan could see. Just barely discernible in the air, only [Mana Sight] allowed her to pick them out at all; tiny motes like the glimmers of dust in a sunbeam. She had no spell to filter them out, and no time to craft a new one; even as she watched, she could feel the spores—whatever they were—lay on her mind again, a choking fog to snuff her out. But Morgan didn’t need a specific spell for her inner fire. She merely had to let it out.

So she did.

Lulu gave a trilling wurble of triumph as actinic purple light filled the green-sheathed hallway around Morgan, the little scrubby immune to the flames of its mistress. The Sorceress breathed the flames in and out, embers searing their way from under her skin to flare into a localized inferno. There was still pain, but it was distant and muted. The fire was her and she was the fire, hungry and indiscriminate. And the dusty pollen proved to be wonderful fuel.

Waves and trails of orange flames flashed out in short-lived clouds even further away from Morgan as the fire ran joyfully ahead of her. Tendrils of yellow light burned their way down the hallway ahead and sparked secondary flash-fires that raced in and around the leaves on the walls. Tiny buds hidden just under the leaves glowed like lantern-wicks for a brief moment, before crumbling away to ash.

As the fire cleansed her body, her mind began to clear as well. Anger replaced confusion, and she added its heat to the fire. Around her kneeling body, the leaves and sticks littering the dungeon floor turned to ash and crumbled to dust, and then the dirt itself began to bake, flowing like sand as the stone underneath softened. Her knees, feet, and hands sank into the floor of the dungeon, leaving imprints like a child playing in wet concrete.

PLEASE, STOP!

The words sliced into her mind, the mental plea gutting her rage with its primal fear and panic, and she banked the flames, keeping them just within a few feet of her body. The words came fainter, as if pushed across a vast distance, strain evident in the speaker’s voice.

You burn even the webs!

The sounds of laughter and the auditory hallucinations were gone, but to fill the void, an entirely new sound echoed through the halls: a distant screech, a furiously angry noise that told Morgan she was no longer alone here. Further up the passageway, where her fire hadn’t scorched the walls, dried but still green foliage rippled in time with the enraged outbursts.

You rebuked her! She traps us all!

Who? She couldn’t speak the reply out loud, her throat and mouth too dry for anything more than a faint croaking. She pulled a pouch of broiled shellipede from her storage, chewing on the grease-moistened flesh to wet her parched gullet and work up some saliva.

Solana of the Vines…her pollen brings the waking dreams, dragging us to sleep.

Morgan sat back on her haunches to think, the heat-softened stone soothing to her bare bottom and feet. Who is us?

The reply came not in words, but images and feelings. Like looking through a hundred eyes at once, she could see an oval-shaped clearing from many different angles. From each viewpoint, she saw many different creatures entangled in thorny vines. Deer. Wolves. Tyrannorabbits and Murdersquirrels, even a Shellipede, and what she thought was the emaciated form of a giant species of bear. A titanic creature that looked like nothing so much as an overgrown panther took up a space over six paces wide, stretching from the dungeon floor up to the branches that formed the canopied ceiling.

All of us. I send my children to make webs to find a way to escape, but all fall prey to her spores, until you! My children show me all the prey of Solana!

“Who are you?” asked Morgan, finally finished eating and having worked up enough saliva to actually speak.

A thousand images at once skittered across her mind. Webs spun in shadows and sunlight, between trees and along the banks of rivers, in damp tunnels and the open treetops. Eggs, silks, and fluttery prey, the bite of fangs, and sharp tang of venom. The satisfaction of the well-sprung trap, the hatching of offspring and their subsequent flooding out into the world, spinning more threads to connect to the web that spanned across worlds.

I have no name. I simply am, and I am trapped here like the others.

“Oh, you’re a spider.”

Morgan busied herself eating another parcel of cooked shellipede from her storage, stocking up on calories and getting ready for another fight. She would prefer to avoid it, but her preferences had had little to do with her circumstances of late. “I suppose you’re huge too, gigantic like all the animals in the wildlands…”

It was more of an observation than a question, but the voice still answered.

Not a spider, although that comparison is closer than any other. More images flashed into her mind with the words, feelings of insult mixed with amusement. I am as large as I need to be!

“Got it, don’t call the spider fat,” Morgan replied, a trace of amusement in her tone.

Exoskeletal chitin does not get fat. It simply grows to accommodate the tissues and ichors of the being wearing it.

Morgan chuckled grimly, finished with her meal and now letting Lulu tidy up the grease and crumbs coating her hands.

“So tell me then,” she said after the loofah finished it’s ministrations, “where is this Solana? And what is this place?”

Solana feeds us to the Eye of Madness, and the Eye, in turn, feeds her. More images followed, visions of herself stumbling through the maze and leaving her breadcrumb trail of stone runes and pieces. The visions followed all the way up to her bursting into flame, and then the pictures continued ahead without her. The path ahead doubled back on itself multiple times, distorting the actual separation between her and Solana. It finally ended in the huge cleared room with the trapped beasts, and a pool of water ringed by roots and ivy-like leaves. The water roiled angrily, and the outline of a woman shrouded in leaves and vines lay just below the surface.

Many have sought to claim the power of the Eye for themselves, and all have fallen to her spores. Free us, Burning Woman! A grim urgency flavored the last part of the message.

“So…she doesn’t like fire, huh?”

Morgan pushed herself to her feet and brushed the worst of the ashen dust from her body as Lulu purbled about to take care of the rest.

“Well, I have lots of fire.”

And the [Skyclad Sorceress] strode further into the dungeon, girded with terrible purpose, her own laughter drowning out the frantic shrieks of the plant-woman in the center.

Chapter 21: Glimmers and Glimpses

Rella—former orphaned street rat, later temple girl, and currently the [Oracle]—huddled under the blankets in a farmer’s cart as it wound its way through the hills approaching the small town of Brackholt. She had carefully avoided any temples or larger settlements as she travelled. Some stops in small villages to send messages had been necessary, but for the most powerful precognitive on the continent, it was a trivial matter to avoid Deskren patrols and slip in and out of such places. She’d sent several parcels to various destinations, leaving instructions and personal foretelling advice for those willing to help the new [Oracle] as payment for sending her missives.

Her new Class—both a Mantle and Title in one, and singularly unique in all the world—had not been kind to her since the Purple Night. It was only under the aegis of her predecessors, souls contained within the Mantle of Prophecy, that she was still sane at all. Least of her concerns was that she could no longer sleep; the shared consciousness of the previous [Oracles] bore the burden for a few hours each night to allow her some semblance of rest, but their ability to do so was fading faster than Rella was learning to control the visions that constantly bombarded her mind.

We may have to attempt more dangerous methods of training, girl, said a familiar and comforting voice in her mind. The previous [Oracle] still retained the strongest personality of all the others. The further back in time a given [Oracle] had lived, the fainter their individual presence, and the more they faded into the gestalt. The more ancient ones were beyond the ability to speak, merely sending images or memories of emotions. They stayed in a dreamlike state, the worlds they’d lived and died in so lost to time that little could stir them to break their own slumber.

Images cascaded through her thoughts in a never-ending stream, and she still couldn’t manage to partition them away from her conscious mind. Glimpses of the Wildwall—the mountains that separated the Western Nations from the Wildlands—overlapped with scenes from the western shore of the continent. Situations occurring up in the frozen north vied with the growing number of disturbances in the Southern Elemental Desert—the sandy barrier separating the Kingdoms from the Deskren Empire. She was a prisoner of her own visions, seeing almost everything, and able to see nothing. With a bit of conscious effort, she could follow one chain of action and choice or another into the past. The future remained a blur, however.

The gestalt of the thousands of women held within the mantle was the only thing buffering her mind against the full impact of trying to funnel so much information through one person. I’m not learning fast enough, Rella told the others inside the mindscape.

The world can’t afford an insane [Oracle] right now, replied one of the women.

You must appoint a Champion, a protector, to stand guard over your body while we take you deeper into the mindscape, said another woman, her form seeming more childlike. That one must have acquired the mantle extremely young, and died young as well, Rella realized with a bit of sadness.

Don’t cry for me, kid, said the girl. It’s not like it’s lonely or boring here; if I’m not upset about it, you have no right to be, either.

An older woman stepped forward from the quiet crowd of souls. Once you have your protector, we can take you back to the Elders. Time flows differently for them that sleep so deep within the Mantle, and you must secure protection for your body while you are under.

And not for just a few hours or days, either, said the girl-child. You could be under for more than a week. Much longer than Class Selection.

The Mantle has passed between women without a Class, and women of so many different Classes over the ages, the older one told Rella. You must learn to hold back the sight to protect yourself before you can partake of our other gifts.

One of the older [Oracles] spoke up then: Eventually you’ll be able to use any Skill any of us ever learned, but only one at a time.

Well, that would have been handy to know a bit earlier, Rella thought at the other women.

The girl gave her the thought equivalent of a mocking snort. You can’t even control the Sight yet, don’t get ahead of yourself.

I should be arriving in Brackholt in—Rella withdrew from the mind-space and allowed her senses to be swamped with all the local possibilities and current circumstances happening for several miles around her; nauseating confusion nearly overwhelmed her for a moment before she regained her bearings and returned to the half-dream—about two hours.

You’ll have to endure the chaos until then, if you want us rested enough to act as a buffer while you are in the town, her predecessor explained.

I do, Rella replied. I could probably get my Champion to agree out of pity if I collapse in front of him, but everything I’ve seen says that’s a bad idea for the long run. I want his respect, not his sympathy.

Don’t be silly here, said the child-[Oracle]. We dream your dreams, too. You’re hoping he’ll be your lover one day, and if he pities you, that will never happen, and we all know it.

As Rella blushed and cringed inwardly, the previous [Oracle] scolded the younger girl with the mental image of twisting her ear. That was unkind. All of us suffer enough during our tenure. Leave her some chance at whimsy and romance without teasing!

It’s okay, the current [Oracle] sent back at the others. All of you, rest, please. I can deal with a headache for a couple of hours so you can help me again when I reach Brackholt.

The girl radiated feelings of chagrin and apology as Rella left the mindscape and brought herself back to the waking world. The wagon trundled along, pulled by the farmer’s mule, and her abilities gave her the distinct pleasure of experiencing every bump and jostling impact a few seconds early, before feeling them again in real-time.

Rella sat up, digging some jerky and a waterskin out of her pack. By the time she’d resettled herself in the back of the cart, the protective mental shield provided by the past [Oracles] had faded from her mind.

The farmer noticed her movements and called back to her, “Just a few more miles, Miss. You just rest up, and we be there by noon.”

“Thank you,” she replied around a mouthful of too-spicy jerky before washing it down with a few gulps of water.

“No thanks needed. The [Oracle]’s word on what to plant on what day for a bumper crop come harvest is worth more than a trip to Brackholt. You just sit comfy, an’ ol’ Hett’ll gitchee there.”

Grateful for the farmer’s help, Rella settled back into the wagon to make herself as comfortable as she could manage, with the impending headache already worming its way between her eyes. As she lay her head back on her pack and secured a strip of cloth over her eyes to block out the daylight, the [Oracle] began to See. Slowly at first, and then with increasing speed, her awareness spread. Starting within a few hundred yards around the wagon, her perception expanded as the power of the previous mantle-bearers faded away.

At first, things were bearable. What triggered the gifts of the Mantle were choices and actions, and the greater the effect of the choice, the more sharply her attention was pulled toward the possible outcomes. The region through which she traveled was, thankfully, less densely populated than most, which meant she had less information flooding into her mind at first. But even then, it wasn’t exactly pleasant. The primary function of an [Oracle] was to bear witness, and thus she witnessed.

She saw people going about their lives, making choices, both mundane and of great import. She saw good works, and evil ones. She saw a man shove a child out of the way of a startled horse, a bitter wife drop poison into her husband’s food, and a pair of builders decide to lay the foundation for a new mill on a different plot of land than they had originally planned. The new location was a mistake; within four months of the building’s completion, the nearby bank would erode into the river and topple the structure, as its foundation washed away.

Rella also wasn’t spared the sheer, disgusting obscenity of everything unmentionable. As the area she could See spread further, she witnessed murders, rapes, depravities, and deaths. To all the horrors people inflicted upon themselves and each other, the [Oracle] bore witness. Her heart broke with every anguished sob.

But it also soared, for not all was horrible and dark. A maiden wrapped her legs around her lover and gave in to passion’s first kiss. A man and wife held their newborn child and wept for joy. A woodcarver finished the last touches on a masterpiece and stood back to admire it. A group of adventurers defeated their first higher-leveled monster, wounded, but victorious and proud. Fortunes were made, fates were sealed; people tasted the sweetness of victories, both great and small, and the bitter flavors of defeat in all its forms.

Most things she saw, Rella knew she would never be able to allow the knowledge to pass her lips, or write it down, nor share it in any fashion. The [Oracle] stood as Witness to the world, not as its judge or jury. The Sight began to blur as her range surpassed a thousand leagues, every action and choice spiraling out, with possible futures and outcomes that shifted in time with the different choices people made.

Some places were beyond even her ability to see; the Elemental Desert and the bulk of the Deskren Empire were shrouded in phantasmal, turbulent mists. Unfortunately she could clearly see their legions marching north, out of the sandy dunes, and had borne mute witness to the fall of South Hollows and the subjugation of hundreds of surrounding farms and smaller settlements.

The Deskren were still hundreds of miles south of Brackholt, although the northern cities were already arming themselves for full-scale war. Rella’s current destination sat halfway between Meadowspire and West Harbor, in the southern hills of the Golden Meadows. Thinking about the place shifted her Sight, revealing a busy little town with hastily erected palisades and rough stone fortifications, mortar not yet dry. To one side of the town, an older and more properly built stone structure with a watchtower and barracks sat bracketing a training yard. Rella could see the focus of her current plans training in heavy armor, with a large shield and a mace. His face was obscured, but she had observed him often during the weeks since she took up the Mantle of Prophecy. He faced off against four opponents and, despite being outnumbered, acquitted himself well. Two girls with identical faces and matching pale golden hair sat on the fence around the training yard, watching their brother, and tossing colored balls of light back and forth as if playing a game.

A breaking wave in the sea of probabilities pulled her vision far to the west, past the coastline, and to Stormbreak Isle. There she watched Constable Zizzy as she stalked between two villages, trying to catch her quarry before he claimed a new victim. Rella knew she would fail to catch him today, and that the experience would change the succubus forever. The [Oracle] hoped the succubus wouldn’t give up, however. She’d lent the demon constable all the help she could for now, though she desperately wished she could do more.

Crafting the Seal had left her hand paralyzed for days, and her very Soul raw and ravaged for even longer before it healed. The price of changing fate was a heavy one, indeed. Doing so had cost her predecessor her physical sight for longer and longer periods of time with each Seal she created, until one day, she saw no more. It seemed that Rella’s price would be paralysis, and she wasn’t looking forward to having to make such a sacrifice. But the inevitability of needing to use her powers made her current quest for a Champion all the more important. Using her primary skills as the [Oracle] would leave her helpless for longer and longer periods of time; having a stalwart defender to guard her during those times would be critical. Not all [Oracles] appointed a Champion, but the ones who did had tended to live longer and accomplish more.

Pulled by forces she couldn’t yet comprehend, Rella’s Sight swung to the far northern reaches, where another Worldwalker ran fleetfooted across the tundra, side-by-side with several Wolven Beastmen. She recognized the sigils of his escorts; they belonged to a particularly insular clan of Beastmen, not known for charity or compassion. Clearly, The Hammer had had a rough start, but just as clearly had thrived.

Vainly, she sought The Dreamer next; unfortunately, he was lost to her Sight. What little had been revealed to her on the Purple Night suggested he’d arrived in Deskren-controlled territory, and their rapid mobilization north of the Elemental Desert admitted to the possibility that he’d been collared; the Deskren wouldn’t be so rash without a perceived advantage. Partly, this was due to the logistical effort involved; more importantly, the greater the threat the Deskren posed, the more directly an [Oracle] would be permitted to move against them.

The Shadow currently prowled the rooftops and shadowed streets of Meadowspire, and while Rella saw seeds of greatness in her future, they were just that at the moment: seeds, waiting to germinate. Similar to The Shadow was The Preacher, tending to the wounded, and helping feed children in the wake of the Deskren raid on Possibility. The Christian faith wasn’t foreign to the collective memory of the [Oracle]; previous Worldwalkers had been adherents, but the religion had never found a firm foothold. In The Preacher, though, Rella could sense the possibility of change.

This stood in stark contrast to the works of The Harlot, which—even through the lens of Prophecy—left Rella breathless. The otherworldly prostitute had hit the less reputable underbelly of the city with the grace of a charging bull, while spending most of her time flat on her back or twisted like a pretzel, ruthlessly trading her body and skills with pleasure to gain allies and coin, which she used to further her own ends. Less than a fortnight after arriving on Anfealt, the woman had taken over three entire pleasure guilds, toppled a smuggling and extortion organization, and preemptively secured the services of every assassin and hired killer in the city to quietly silence the rest of her competition. With most of the city guard getting free or reduced cost services from The Harlot’s employed girls, anyone who harmed a pleasure worker in East Harbor quickly found themselves in said harbor.

The Broken continued to astound Rella at every turn, both with her current activities and her possible futures. She could see myriad designs pouring out from the woman’s workshop in the future, and the [Oracle] knew that once she achieved mastery of her Class, she would revolutionize the fields of Golemancy and Engineering. Despite Rella’s no more than budding gifts, she foresaw one certainty as though it were etched in stone: barring those timelines where she met an untimely end, The Broken would bring flying ships to Anfealt. Beyond that titanic event, possibilities branched and branched again, bringing events both terrible and wonderful.

The closer to the Wildlands she tried to see, the more painful and difficult it was to discern things with her Sight. While the Elemental Desert simply seemed empty, gazing into the Wildlands was like looking into a boiling storm of mists and flame. The background intensity of everything that lived in that massive region simply drowned out any chance of making out detail, but she could still discern flashes here and there. Moments where one color or flavor of Soul or Mana energy flared strong enough to drown out the rest of the sea of chaos. And more and more, those flashes were a bright and violent purple. Thus she knew The Burning Woman was still alive, and moving through the Wildlands, even if she’d received no further prophetic revelations or another True Vision since that fateful night.

The wagon rolled along, gently rocking back and forth in the rolling ruts of the old road. Rella soon found her Sight pulled, as though a magnet were drawing her, to a familiar convoy of wagons, horses, and travellers on foot. She’d seen the convoy several times, each instance noting how much the caravan had grown over the course of a few short weeks. The convoy had circled up and dug in, the extent of their fortifications indicating they’d remained in place for some time.

At first it seemed that the roving band of refugees had finally run out of luck; a large group of Deskren slave-soldiers had caught up with them, and battle had been joined. No ragtag mob, the slaves fought as a coordinated entity, higher-ranked slaves providing tactical direction to their underlings. Unlike the control collars Rella had seen on the Purple Night, these were the more common conditioning collars used by the Deskren on their born slaves. Instead of the sickeningly yellow, greasy aura of the control collars, these collars were much simpler, relying on sensory stimulus, reward and punishment, to control their wearers. But when you raised a person from birth with such a device around their necks, the results were as certain as they were with the rarer Soul Collars. Such distinctions mattered little to the victims under attack, and if Rella hadn’t borne the gifts of her Mantle, she would have written the caravan off as lost without a second thought. As it was, however, she Watched and waited.

With her Sight, she saw the refugees slaughtering the attacking force. The General was not on the field of battle, but she watched his wife, the [Hand of Solace], walk with purpose behind the lines. In her wake wounds healed, broken bones reset themselves, exhausted fighters regained Stamina, and drained mages recovered their Mana so rapidly, it was visible to the naked eye as sparks and glowing auras.

While they fought, Rella watched and waited as mystical energies, invisible to all but a select few, swirled and eddied over one particular wagon, then lanced downward to disappear beneath its roof.

So he’s finally Chosen, she thought.

The aura of the wagon changed. Gone were the energies of the System, replaced now with shadow and dread, a near-tangible presence that caused refugee and slave-soldier alike to shy away. Nearby a horse screamed, breaking free of its tether and charging toward the wagon. Eyes wild and mouth frothing, it raced for its master, heedless of those throwing themselves out of its path.

The man himself emerged from the wagon, barking orders to those around him as his mount drew to his side, seeming to swell in all dimensions until it seemed a fitting companion for what the man had become.

When he swung himself into his saddle, Rella felt the world relax, as though something terribly wrong had, at long last, been set right.

Man and mount turned then, and without prompting, streaked away. He reached out and snagged a lance from a weapons rack as he passed, the haft darkening at his touch. Blackness like liquid shadow spread to either end, and it seemed to grow longer and deadlier of its own accord. He hadn’t donned his armor before mounting his steed, yet the shadows wrapped around him and his horse, solidifying into a dark projection that was just as solid as actual steel.

Behind him, as if drawn by naught but his will, riders fell in beside him. In the span of mere moments, the disparate individuals transformed into a single entity, a combined charge roaring with a single voice.

And when the mounted charge barreled into the Deskren offensive, led by the dread man wielding his dread lance, Rella knew the battle was done, her vision pulling itself at last from the field of battle as the cart jerked to a rough stop. She’d been under for several hours while the farmer made his way to the city, although it seemed like only a moment, and like an eternity at the same time.

“We’s almost to the city, lass,” said Hett. “They be searchin’ every wagon goes into the city on ‘count of the Deskren and bandits, so this’ll be as far as I can take ya. Any further, we may’s well just ‘nounce you all ‘fficial-like.”

We are here, as well, came the thought from the [Oracles] past, as the pressure of the Sight faded from her mind. Rella sat with her head in her hands in the back of the wagon for several moments, waiting for the pain to fade away as well. We can give you a few hours unburdened, but remember the costs.

“Thank you, mister Hett. Be sure to take the eastern fork of the old road on your way back; the shorter path to the south has some brigands camping near it.”

The old farmer thanked her for the warning and maneuvered his wagon around, heading back the way he’d brought her. She knew he wouldn’t heed her advice this time, and that there would be one less group of thieves wandering the hills come the next day. Many a band of ruffians met their ends at the hands of old and grumpy classers, and Rella had definitely noticed the well-oiled and meticulously sharpened axe under Hett’s wagon seat. Skills to cleave a stump in twain to clear a farmer’s field also worked impressively well on people, after all.

Shouldering her small travel pack and hooking her waterskin to her belt, Rella made her way through the low scrub near the city’s edge, her precognitive abilities helping her to make better time. When you could know for a fact that nobody was looking at a given spot, you could stroll right through a guarded perimeter. The patrols she had to dodge in order to get into the town itself were only a little bit trickier than the earlier approach.

Meaty impacts, the rattle of steel against steel, and cries of exertion led her as surely as her Sight did as she approached the training barracks and its fenced-in arena. Her potential future Champion was done with his own round of mock combat and stood by a water trough. His shield was propped up against a fence post, and two younger men were helping him out of his armor. The young man’s sisters, The Twins, sat by, tossing orbs of light between themselves while surreptitiously eyeing the various shirtless boys and men beating each other with dulled training weapons in the corral. Rella kept to the shadows under the roof that covered the area encircling the training grounds, listening and watching while she waited for the right time to introduce herself.

“I’m telling you, Jargo, the boy will break, Worldwalker or not,” said a dark-haired man in dirty leathers to a shorter man with distinguished grey in his beard. “He refuses to commit himself; all he does is defend.”

“Defend is all he has to do, really. Once the boy plants his feet, that shield is like a stone wall.” The shorter man was rubbing one hand with the other, and stopped to shake his arm to work the circulation back into it. “I know that personally, Bill. I beat that boy’s shield for over an hour ‘til my arm gave out, and he wasn’t even tired. He won’t break when he stands in a shieldwall.”

“I’m sayin’, if he won’t hit back, he’s a coward, and cowards break and run.”

An elderly man with wispy grey hair had been listening to their banter in silence. This new observer watched as the subject of their conversation stripped the last of his armor off, as well as his shirt, to wash himself in the water trough. Scars crisscrossed the young man’s chest and arms. His face was the charming kind of ugly granted by a nose broken more than once, and a crooked brow that left one eye in a half-squint. Every time his gaze passed over the place where his sisters sat perched on the fence, his expression of intense focus softened to a tender protectiveness.

He knows what it means to get hit, and get hurt, thought Rella to herself, and then a girlish flutter flipped her belly upside-down. But there is still kindness in him too…

The first two men, Jargo and Bill, continued to banter and grumble at each other with good-natured rivalry. “I’m tellin’ you, Jargo, I’ll put a month’s wages down that he breaks on the first charge when he’s in the line.”

“Two months’ says he holds, old coot,” replied the shorter man, placing a gold coin on the fencepost between them.

The much taller and much older veteran broke in at that moment, his quiet, raspy voice cutting through the noises on the training ground. “The boy won’t break, ever,” said the ancient Classer before spitting a wad of tobacco on the ground.

“What makes you say that, Cid?” asked Bill, still not convinced the boy wasn’t a coward at heart.

“I don’t see no scars on his back. The boy ain’t never run, an’ he never will.”

Rella couldn’t help but giggle, catching the attention of the three men. She stepped forward, letting her hood fall back to reveal the silvery glowing eyes of the [Oracle]. “Cid is right,” she said quietly to the three men. “The [Anvil-Heart Guardian] does not run, nor does he know how to yield.”

Recognition of who and what she was struck all three men like a bolt of lightning. Jargo and Bill stood up straight and placed a hand over their hearts before giving a quick and respectful bow. The older Cid took a half-step back to cover the previously spat tobacco with his foot, giving a reverent nod of his head. The Twins’ game of juggled lights came to a halt as they turned to look at Rella as one, the half-dozen colored balls of energy fizzing out as they hit the ground. Their brother, The Fortress, as he had been named by the previous [Oracle], followed their gaze, and Rella felt her heart skip a beat when he finally noticed her.

She stepped forward and rested one hand on the fence, about to speak to introduce herself, when she felt a pull far to the east, ripping her attention away from her current location despite the efforts of the past [Oracles’] gestalt to keep her buffered from such visions. A True Vision could not be prevented. Rella’s mind was pulled away, and she Saw.

She saw The Burning Woman again, standing in the center of an inferno of lightning and molten stone. Beasts of all kinds fled the storm, but few escaped. The woman raised her arms, magma flowing up around her in a maelstrom over a thousand feet tall, before Rella’s vision was kicked back, away from the storm. At the same time she saw, the [Oracle] also spoke.

“She burns! Sparks in the marrow to ignite the Burning Light! Her Life is the Fire and Fire is her Life! She burns!”

And then the vision ended, the [Oracle]’s words trailing into a heavy silence. Rella felt the presence of the dead [Oracles] fade away within the Mantle, even more exhausted than she herself was. She collapsed against the fence, barely able to hold herself up. Dizziness spun her vision in circles for a moment, and just before her knees gave way completely, she looked The Fortress in the eyes.

“Hi. I’m Rella.”

And then she fell unconscious, the blackness rising up to greet her mind with welcoming arms.

Chapter 22: Incineratus

Morgan Mackenzie was very angry. And frustrated. And fatigued, to the point of exhaustion. Her [Flame Affinity] and [Heat Affinity] were getting a serious workout—which was good—but the effort of continuously flash-frying the sinister pollen out of the air was a pain in her bare backside. It used up her Mana when she knew she was heading for a fight against a foe of unknown power, which was bad. Keeping the flames going wasn’t that intense on its own, but her initial outburst of fire had undoubtedly gotten the dungeon’s attention.

The dungeon itself had given up on trying to wrap her up in simple vines and roots. Three times had the tendrils of thorny green shot out from the walls and floor to wrap around her limbs and torso. The first time it happened, Morgan was about to panic before her auto-rejection kicked in. It seemed if she wasn’t the one trying to put something on her body, the reaction affected the offending thing, and not her body. The third time, the vines stayed on her body barely long enough for her to start to laugh before an incandescent flash hurled them away.

Then the monsters came. Crawling [Barbed Creepers] met a fiery end. A [Verdant Slime] proved resistant to her Frost spells, and Morgan had been terrified for her friend for a moment, when Lulu had charged the blorping blob. The effectiveness of the loofah’s exfoliation abilities proved more than a match, however, as the puffball scrubbed its way into the slime and caused it to explode in a disgusting flood of bubbles and green goop.

“Good scrubby…” she murmured as the loofah returned to her shoulder. She didn’t even spare a thought for the pool of nasty ick the scrubby had just been exposed to.

The living walls of the dungeon randomly sprouted various buds, and while most released pollen or dripped acid, some of them spat bolts of greenish-black magic at her. The first one had struck her arm and left it paralyzed for over an hour, while the smell of rot and decay hung in the air after the hit. Lulu’s cleansing abilities had no effect on the magical contamination, but Morgan’s inherent healing had let her power through until the effect wore off.

[Spell Parry] was useless against the worst of the attacks she’d been forced to deal with, however. She’d come across massive rooted balls of vines and greenery that shot thorn-like projectiles at her as fast as arrows. These new foes appeared less often than the others, which was for the better—they were at once dense enough to survive her flame, and devoid of magic to the point where [Spell Parry] couldn’t deflect them. After a half-dozen thorns pierced her left side and thigh while jumping back from the initial volley, she quickly learned to use [Wind Barrier] as a counter and eventually managed to gain [Air Affinity] from it. The plants that shot them burned easily enough, but the spikes were a constant annoyance until the vine-creatures actually died.

She is distracted. We come closer to waking from the dreams. The messages from the creepy, psychic not-spider still felt alien and uncomfortable in Morgan’s mind.

You and your children? she responded. Or you and all the other critters this Solana has trapped?

Yes.

The not-spider was only adding to Morgan’s frustration at this point, and her irritation was beginning to affect her magic. Not in a bad way, though; not exactly. Her Fire was becoming more volatile, quicker to ignite—snappier, if she had to put a single word to it. She didn’t bother trying to control it past a vague direction, simply throwing destruction at this or that thing with indiscriminate fury. Her [Hailstones] were no longer smooth spheres of unblemished ice. Rather, they were rough, jagged chunks in glaciated shades of blue and green, sharp-edged and hungry as she launched them at anything that moved. [Frost Bolt] was likewise wild and uncontrolled, as was her [Lightning Bolt], each crackling and snapping with use.

So it’s both… thought Morgan to herself as she blasted a horrid creature that looked like brambled vines had attached to the limbs of a small deer to manipulate it like a puppet. She was angry at being attacked, and she was even angrier at the horror of the mere existence of such a macabre plant puppeteer. She found herself only slightly mollified to learn that her latest kill had granted her another level.

You have reached Level 12!

Health and Status partially restored!

Rewarded points doubled by Class Traits!

10 distributable Stat points awarded.

Class Template: [Skyclad Sorceress] auto-assigns 3 points(+1 VIT, +2 INT), Distributable points reduced to 7.

10 Skill points awarded.

You grow stronger through battle! the not-spider spoke into her mind. Solana fears the flames, but my children perish, as well.

Morgan chose not to respond, humming to herself as she flash-burned the pollen out of the air once again. It took only a few moments for her to put all her new stat points toward Intellect. A quick glance at the Skills menu showed nothing new or interesting, so she decided to save the skill points. The increase to her Mana reserves was extremely welcome, and she spent some of it raising two walls of icy spears to block off a space in the corridor to allow her to take a short break.

Temporarily protected by the walls of ice and giggling about gaining the skill [Frost Wall], Morgan took a few minutes to eat another leaf-wrapped package of broiled shellipede and let her Stamina and Mana recover naturally. Using her skills to get Mana back was definitely useful, but far less efficient than the slower regeneration. She was getting much better at judging how much she could push herself burning calories, but she much preferred having food on hand to recover.

“Three meals left, Lulu,” she told the scrubby after finishing her lunch. She gave the loofah an affectionate pat, her mood now much improved after eating. “I need to finish this up before I run out of food.”

So, she thought at the not-spider. The dungeon keeps shifting, keeping me away from the center.

I grow stronger as well, replied the inhuman being. There are others in reach whom I devour for strength. By the time you reach Solana, we may wrest the Eye from her grasp if we cooperate.

What exactly is this Eye?

Fragment. Shard. Sliver. Essence of something greater, something old. The one of might and crystal devoured an enemy and scattered the remains. Images accompanied the words, vague impressions of a massive beast the size of a dump truck locked in battle with an abomination of twisted limbs and shelled carapace, even larger than the titan. Some fragments retained the power.

So how does Solana use the Eye?

Many creatures who sense the power are tempted. I was no exception. Solana weaves the traps and walls, tainting the air with dust that brings the dream. More images and emotions followed, the thrill of the hunt, the desire to get stronger, seeking the scent of power and the smug satisfaction, followed by the despair of being trapped. The Eye feeds on the sleepers, and Solana feeds on the Eye.

Morgan hadn’t stood idle while she conversed mentally with the psychic being. She’d shattered her own ice walls and continued through the dungeon halls. The increase in her magical efficacy from the extra Intellect attribute might have been slight, but it compounded over time. She was also very much ready to no longer be in the dungeon.

So we just need to separate her from the thing itself? I hope you aren’t talking about a literal eyeball here…

That which it once was, it is no longer. A jewel too large to carry, it rests below Solana’s waters.

Morgan held her thoughts close at the last bit of information. If the object powering the dungeon was a crystal gem, that opened up definite possibilities for her, since she could manipulate or control its structure with [Crystalkinesis]. Or at least she presumed she could, were she close enough to the thing. She had no intention whatsoever of attempting to keep or use the Eye for herself; things like that ended badly in every movie she’d ever watched and every story she’d ever read. Breaking things, however, was always much easier than making or using a given thing.

The way the dungeon keeps changing to keep me away from the center is getting tedious. I need a more direct route, she thought at the not-spider. How many walls between where I am now and Solana?

An image came in response instead of words, and feelings of hunger laced with anticipation. She was actually no more than fifty paces from the center, although the current path through the maze led through twists and turns for at least a quarter mile. Only six walls stood between Morgan and her foe, the innermost section being easily twice as thick as the rest.

“I think I can deal with this,” she said, both out loud and to the not-spider in her mind.

She’d kept up leaving a trail of breadcrumbs via inscribed runes as she wandered the dungeon, and the practice had paid dividends by increasing her understanding of structured Mana. While she could only scrape the surface of the ground to a depth of about half an inch with [Terrakinesis], it was still enough for her to work with. She gathered six clumps of earth about the size of her fist and flattened them down into smooth disks. A bit of heat and fire softened them, allowing her to compress the density even further and improve the strength.

What are you doing?

“Making a new enchantment rune,” murmured Morgan absentmindedly as she held one of the disks between her hands, leaving the other five floating lazily above her head. Lulu amused herself by hopping from one floating disk to the other with happy purbles while the scrubby’s mistress worked on the last.

Creating her first [Candleflame Rune] had been as simple as forming the structure of the spell with barely a wisp of Mana, not giving it enough power to actually activate the spell. Her skills had vastly improved since that day in the forest, especially since learning the enchantments for spatial storage. Her increased Intellect helped her hold far more detail in her mind, as well, and she set about inscribing a new rune into the disk. Operating as much on instinct as she was planning ahead, she laid the underlying pattern of her [Plasma Glaive] spell into the disk. The thin bands of Fire Mana didn’t want to form at first, but then she separated the stone itself into twin interlocking spirals: Fire flowed one way, Lightning the other.

Powering the rune herself wasn’t something she could sustain in any useful capacity, but she didn’t need to. A simple tracing of her fingers across her left hipbone, and the shard of crystal from the dead shellipede sprang into existence to float a few inches away from her hand.

Shock and surprise came from the not-spider. You bring a reservoir of power! And it is attuned to you through victorious combat!

“Not too sure what that means, but I could probably guess,” she replied, using a surge of willpower and relying on her [Crystal Affinity] to separate a finger-width section of the shard. “And yeah, it’s full of my own Mana, if that’s what you mean by attuned.” Another gesture had the larger crystal disappearing back into her storage rune, leaving her with a needle of Mana-charged crystal as long as her forearm.

By simply thinking it and gently flicking with her [Terrakinesis], the prototype rune she’d formed snapped from a nearly flat disk into a wide cone of interlocking spirals. Splitting the sliver of Mana Crystal into six fragments took much more effort, but was still well within her capacity. Carefully, she levitated one of the crystal pieces into the center of the rune, activating [Mana Link] to magically connect the two pieces even as she pulled with her Earth magic and tightened the spirals together to physically lock them around the shard.

You have learned the enchantment [Plasma Lance Rune]! Imbue your [Plasma Glaive] spell into a rune for use at a time and place of your choosing!

“Gotcha!” exclaimed Morgan as she gave a quick fist pump, startling the loofah perched on her shoulder. The notification was followed by another, even more welcome burst of information:

You have increased your understanding of [Runic Enchantment]! Your [Soul Anchor] has gained a level! Living Runes that have been linked to the [Soul Anchor] may now grow to a maximum level of three! You may now link a total of three Living Runes to the [Soul Anchor]!

“Nice!” she said, checking to see if any new runes had appeared in her menu; unfortunately, there were none. Given her current situation, Morgan was unwilling to stop and try to devise another new rune on her own; not with danger potentially lurking around every corner. She decided to worry about those things later, and quickly copied the new enchantment onto the remaining disks while using the pieces of Mana Crystal as a socketed power source.

Placing one of the enchanted disks was simple enough. She merely pulled barbed hooks out from the sides of each disk with [Terrakinesis] and drove them into the wall. Stepping back, she reached out with [Mana Link] and activated the rune, both [Spell Parry] and [Wind Barrier] at the ready.

With a thunderous, flaming roar, a round section of the wall flared with a purple light and simply ceased to be. Past the falling rain of cinders, the corridor beyond could now be seen through an opening that was over five feet wide. Where it had once crouched, hidden and waiting, the barely recognizable remains of one of the thorn-throwing shrubs twitched, smoldering. The loofah gave an almost impressed sounding wurble from its perch on her shoulder as she stepped through to place the next rune.

That was certainly effective…

The not-spider’s tone had changed to something much more wary and nervous. It didn’t sound afraid, but it respected her more. Morgan also thought she could detect a bit of eagerness to the flavor of the thing’s thoughts, although she could already tell psychic magics would never be one of her specializations, so she couldn’t be entirely sure about that last bit.

“Daddy always said nothing solves a problem like fire. If fire doesn’t fix it, use more fire.”

My kind do not use fire, but the logic fits for a certain subset of problem types.

The next wall had no enemies on the other side, but the enraged screams emanating from the very leaves and plants on the walls and the canopied ceiling gave proof that Solana was definitely not pleased with her current activities. She could also hear a lot more movement in the distance, and feel rumblings in the ground beneath her feet. Slicing through the cacophony came another sound then, deep as the ocean, and terrible in its leonine fury: the roar of a great cat, like the ripping yowl of a housecat, but with the bass turned up to an organ-rattling thrum.

“Sounds like I’m not the only one tired of being in this dungeon,” she said to Lulu as she placed the next [Plasma Lance Rune] on the wall ahead. This time the breach was filled almost instantly with creatures, but instead of attacking her, they all seemed more concerned with getting out than trying to make a meal of her.

She weakens! We awaken! the voice exulted. The [Nightstride Panther] holds her at bay while the others flee! Hurry!

Two of the remaining three walls were demolished in rapid succession, and the sounds of terrible battle grew louder. The last wall was thicker than the others, and the blast merely burned a crater over a meter deep into the vine-woven structure. Morgan simply raised one hand and fired a brief burst with [Plasma Glaive], and she was through. The room beyond was the size of an auditorium, although the ceiling wasn’t very high. Several of the actual passageways in and out of the center area were open, natural arches of woven branches, plants, stone, and earth melded together. Through these doorways fled a plethora of creatures: Tyrannorabbits, Murdersquirrels, many different kinds of deer or elk for which she had no name. Weakened as they were, their only options were to escape, or die trying. Three creatures, however, showed no signs of fleeing: one, the enormous panther-like being she’d seen before, and another, looking like nothing so much as a cross between a carpenter spider and a scorpion the size of a Saint Bernard.

So that’s the not-spider, thought Morgan to herself as she entered the room.

Definitely not a spider! came the frantic response, as it gave a hiss almost too high-pitched to hear while dodging a flailing clump of vines and stone that slammed into the ground where it had previously been—scuttling? She tried to keep the thought to herself, but failed, and was rewarded with consternation and thoughts of reproach from the creature.

Use your fire! But remember, the panther and I are not immune to it!

The third and final creature, Solana herself, was over eight feet tall; a massively overdone caricature of a woman in the likeness of the old tribal fertility goddess figurines Morgan had read about and seen pictures of in a few different classes in school. Dirt and roots formed slender legs that widened into ridiculously exaggerated hips and a tiny waist that spread back out to an enormous bosom. A comparatively tiny head formed of ivy leaves with a thorny mouth and no eyes that Morgan could see continuously screamed like the sound of a windstorm over dead leaves magnified to thunderous volume.

Even emaciated and starved half to death, the panther emanated a savage power as it faced Solana from the side opposite the not-spider. Everywhere the root-woman struck, the panther suddenly was not. It seemed to phase into shadow and resolidify a pace to the left or to the right, its roars and snarls fading in those transitory moments, as if the massive cat was suddenly much farther away, and then came rushing back. Shredded branches littered the room, evidence of the work of its claws and teeth.

Where Solana attacked the not-spider, it was a different sort of battle. The psychic creature seemed to step around the being’s attacks like it could tell where the strikes would hit, and each time it left more sticky web and sizzling acidic venom on that appendage. It took the woman-shaped body of vines and leaves longer and longer each time to withdraw whatever tendrils she used, the masses of webbing holding her limbs to the floor or wall for just an extra second or so each time, while the greyish-black venom hissed and spat, burning away layers of plant matter.

As Morgan drew nearer, so far ignored by the root-woman, she could see that the woman-shaped monster was held over a pool of water that glowed with a green light emanating from the depths, and instead of using fire and risking hurting the panther or the not-spider, Morgan froze the pool.

The waters solidified with a snap right as Solana lunged for the panther, and her momentum caused the roots connecting her lower legs with the pool to simply break loose.

The monster’s screams turned harsher, an echoing assault of sound and fury, even as she began to visibly wither. No longer bound to one spot, she rushed at Morgan. Thorny spikes sprouted in one last, desperate effort that caused the leafy mane draped down her shoulders to shrivel and dry up, but it proved to be in vain. Morgan simply let the creature close with her, and once again burst into violet, super-heated flames. Dried out from its own efforts, the room was suddenly silent, save for the softly burning corpse that had once ruled over a dungeon, and Morgan gained another level. She’d also gained mastery of [Heat Affinity] when she’d pulled the heat out of the water to freeze it, and having mastered [Fire Affinity] earlier in the dungeon, another notification heralded her acquisition of [Pyrokinesis]. Two affinities seemed to be required for that one, but it was a welcome addition to her abilities of manipulating Earth.

“Well, that was easier than I expected,” said Morgan.

The panther yowled, fleeing through the nearest opening, but the not-spider remained near the edge of the icy pool.

Once separated from the waters and the Eye, her power was greatly diminished. Now I shall claim the Eye.

“Yeah, I thought you might want to do that once Solana was gone. Thing is, I can feel how bad that thing is from here. I’m going to destroy it.”

No. The mental word was accompanied by a massive push into her mind that drove Morgan to her knees. Shaking with terror, she grabbed Lulu and hid the loofah in her storage rune out of fear for its life. For but a moment, as the fell creature’s power was brought to bear, its mind reaching out to choke out her own in a black, abyssal embrace, Morgan knew abject fear.

The moment passed, and then Morgan knew nothing at all.

Then, as though from the depths of her soul—a keening cry, a wordless rejection. Two points of glimmering violet blazed, and something old beyond measure and filled with awful power rose to fill the gap: another Morgan, the Other-Morgan, her most primal self, who had no understanding of words and no need to speak them, for the oldest things needed no words to express.

That wordless rage burst from her lips, drowning out the spider-creature’s enraged shrieks at its lost opportunity. Her arm raised itself up level with the beast, jagged lightning skittering toward her palm, throwing her face into sharp relief, and highlighting the primal savagery etched into her expression. Gone was the human; here now was survival incarnate, writ large and terrible.

A shaft of pure, actinic destruction lanced forth from its outthrust palm, swiftly growing and spreading to encompass the floor before her, the creature ahead, and the wall beyond, the very air screaming as it found itself riven apart by forces older than knowing. The arm lowered. The figure turned, lacking even the capacity for grim satisfaction at the carnage it wrought. It beheld the Eye and saw that it was bad. It considered, as much as it could, and arrived at the only course of action it could countenance: destruction, raw and untamed.

It raised its arms, fire sweeping along its body as it began its work. A grasping pulse of raw, magical power spread outward from the figure, rolling through the dungeon like a great wave. As it went, it touched the little castoff pieces of earth and stone Morgan had littered behind her to mark her way, sitting amongst themselves throughout the dungeon as dry, scant reminders of the path an adventurer once took.

But that was not all they were. Engraved upon each were two small runes: one to link them back to her, and the newly-upgraded [Pyreflame Rune]. Several thousand of these small objects sat, waiting with the patience of stone. As one, the runic symbols on the rocks began to glow in sympathy with the will of their creator.

As one, they heated.

And as one, they burst into a column of fire, adding themselves to the inferno being crafted in the dungeon’s heart.

Thousands of leagues away, a newly minted Oracle staggered and slumped against a fence in a small town, looking upon the towering monument to destruction being wrought.

Much closer, merely hundreds of miles distant, there stood a Tree.

And deep beneath that Tree, miles down at the very bottom of the roots, something moved.

Chapter 23: Expedition

Terisa Aras stood on the observation deck of the northeast tower of Fort Expedition, sipping a steaming cup of kaffen, and ignoring the murmurs of the small gathering behind her. Calling it a fort was truly an exercise in masterful understatement. It was either an epic wonder of fortified construction, or a mad engineer’s worst nightmare, depending on who you asked. Stone walls over a hundred feet tall formed a curved barricade stretching almost eight leagues to seal off the foothills of Expedition Pass, atop which stood hulking machines and works of arcana spread evenly along its length. Massive ballistae, their limbs relaxed, stood beside trebuchets and catapults. Dwarven cannons and dizzying spell arrays lined the wall’s outer surface. Those who would be manning them milled to and fro, throwing dice and playing cards amongst their fellows, casting the occasional wary eye out over the lowlands or up toward the tower.

Far below within the walls, the sounds of construction and the shouts of foremen and workers alike drifted up to her. Expedition was always in flux, and it seemed one couldn’t take five steps without tripping over some form of work being done. There was no central authority directing the projects, and nothing keeping them from dragging on and on; those who were here were united only by virtue of their purpose: safeguarding Expedition Pass against the fell creatures of the Wildlands.

The tower upon which she stood was the tallest, and dozens more spread out to either side in the distance. She ignored the chill wind that blew down from the sloped valley above, letting the hot kaffen warm her while it cleared the morning’s cobwebs from her mind. What she didn’t ignore was the young Worldwalker approaching her.

“Impressive defenses, even by the standards of most nations back home,” said The Broken as she stepped up to the stone battlement.

The gentle whirring of the armor that allowed her to walk was the only sound that gave away the mechanical nature of its workings. Though she would never admit it, Terisa was quite impressed with the woman’s workmanship and skill. The suit was entirely unlike the heavy and over-engineered practicality of most things of dwarven make, and without all the useless frills and gizmos a Gnomish designer would have included. Instead, everything fit together to give the Worldwalker a striking feminine figure, the armor plates shifting with an organic smoothness. The armor encased the woman past her chest and over her shoulders, leaving her arms and head bare. Having seen a demonstration when they’d first met only days prior, Terisa knew it would reconfigure to cover its passenger completely in less than an instant if necessary.

“They aren’t needed as often as they once were,” she told the inquisitive Worldwalker, “but long ago, these walls were all that stood against rampaging beasts coming down the pass.”

Terisa sipped her warm drink and kept her eyes on the slowly brightening sky above the distant peaks. “Tell me,” she began, “how did you convince the dwarves of Thun’Kadrass to take you along on this year’s Expedition into the Wildlands?”

The golemist arched a single eyebrow before responding, “Can’t talk about it. Terms of the contract we worked out. You’ll have to ask them.”

Terisa chuckled. “So it’s to do with their cannon, then.”

“I really, really can’t say; I’m sorry,” she replied apologetically.

“That wasn’t a question, girl. The Thuns don’t agree on much except keeping their explosive powder a secret, and it’s the only thing they’d have bound you to be silent on.”

The otherworlder looked quite uncomfortable for several moments, shifting and grinding noises coming from her armor as it cycled through several internal configurations before returning to its dormant state. “If you know that much, you know the penalties for breaking their contracts, lady. We ain’t talkin’ fines here.”

“Relax,” Terisa said soothingly. “I’ve had enough dealings with them to have learned more than a few things. They know I keep my mouth shut. I just need to know how well you can fend for yourself on the other side of the pass.”

Dana rolled her eyes, huffing. “Is that why a dozen idiots have challenged me in the past three days?”

“Only a dozen?” Terisa laughed. “This is Expedition, hon. Everyone challenges everyone here; it’s sorta what they do in between trips to the Wildlands. If you’d whip a few instead of turning them all down, they’d leave you alone…except the occasional idiot looking to test themselves,” she amended.

“I didn’t exactly build non-lethal weapons into my gear,” Dana replied peevishly, putting her fists on her hips. “Everyone I talked to claims these Wildlands are super dangerous. I can’t fist-fight worth a damn, and I’m not getting my golems thrashed over and over again; repairs are expensive.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To get the higher-tier mana crystals. They’re too expensive for me to just buy them by the crate-load, and I need more than a few.”

This time Terisa was the one to raise an eyebrow. “Most Wildlands crystals get auctioned off to the various guilds or bartered to the Kingdoms for royal favors, if Stormbreak doesn’t buy them outright in order to power their array. The only golems I know that require those kinds of crystals are the Obsidian Guard at Stormbreak Prison. Are you saying you can build golems even the Wardens can’t reproduce? “

“Not my golems,” Dana replied, shaking her head. “It’s not so much the power as it is structural stability under load, and lowering the resonance coefficient within the crystal so I can squeeze more power out of a given size.” She shrugged. “Golems I can use just about any crystal for.” Dana tapped at her armored hip, where a recessed panel slid back to reveal three flawless crystals the size of Terisa’s thumbnail. “Crystals with higher resonance coefficients tend to fall out of sync with each other if you start demanding more energy. Bad enough using just one, but multiple?” She shook her head. “They start interfering with each other, you get oscillations in the output, and then you start having real problems.” The panel slid back into place. “These three cost me a small fortune. If I can get higher-quality ones from the Wildlands, I can boost my suit’s efficiency by at least three times. If I can get some for my golems, too, so much the better.”

Terisa’s expression became thoughtful for several long moments before she replied, “That all sounds well and good, but nothing about it tells me you can hold your own out there. The Wildlands is most definitely not Thun’Kadrass, or any other place on Anfealt.”

“Ye should listen to her, lassie,” said a barrel-chested dwarf who had approached from the growing crowd on the tower’s rooftop. He turned from the Worldwalker to give a respectful nod. “Lady Terisa. Been a year or three since my last trip, but ye don’ look a day older!”

“Kojeg!” she exclaimed with sudden delight. She set her cup on the stone battlement and stepped forward, drawing the old dwarf into a familiar embrace. “And it’s been closer to ten years,” she added critically.

“It has?” He grunted. “Harder to tell from within the Thun. How be that grumpy husband o’ yours? Althenea still hate him?” He stepped back to regard Dana once more. “Terisa leads the Expedition. Nary a soul knows the Wildlands like the [Wild-Heart Huntress], and once we’re over the pass, her word be as law.”

“Foz isn’t grumpy, he’s just misunderstood! And my sister sees everyone and everything as targets to hit, you know that. Now I expect this year to be worse than usual, given the Purple Night, and just three months past, the Burning Noon. Convince me this young woman can take care of herself in the Wildlands.” Terisa shook her head vehemently. “You know we lose one or two in ten every year. I’ll not have ‘Got a Worldwalker Killed’ added as a line in my story, Koj. I have enough mistakes in it already.”

“I figured ye’d take some convincin’,” said Kojeg, stroking his beard braids with a smug expression on his face. “Pick a target, let the lass change yer mind her own self!”

An older woman in simple grey and blue robes chose that moment to make her appearance, shuffling her way up the stone steps to join the murmuring throng. She leaned on a staff gleaming with dark varnish, and with faint runes carved along its length. “I thought I heard a familiar voice up here! What dragged you out of retirement, Kojeg? And what in the [Oracle]’s name is that thing your brethren brought with you through the Sunless Road? It’s the largest carriage contraption I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been to Sprocket!”

“Nessara, ye old witch! I thought ye retired to Stormbreak and whelped a pack of runts!” bellowed the dwarf.

“That was almost twenty years ago, and my oldest just joined the Wardens, to judge from the last message she sent. I’m here because I got bored, and the Academy wanted someone to look for signs of The Burning Woman on this trip. All the ‘Walkers are accounted for except her and The Dreamer.” She gave a polite nod to Dana. “No disrespect intended, girl, but when people from other worlds drop in, only idiots wouldn’t want to track them down to get a feel for their intentions.”

“None taken,” replied Dana. “Something like this happening on my own world would have been—” She shivered. “Well, depending on where they ended up, it could be just a little bit bad, or a whole lot of really, really bad.”

“There are no hints in the legends of any Worldwalker ever going back to wherever they came from,” said Terisa with a bit of sympathy. “So whatever effect brings them here must be a one-way trip. Then again, you don’t seem too keen on trying to go home yourself, from what I can tell. Now, about that demonstration…”

“I don’t have my full loadout right now; I left most of my gear in the mobile workshop, what Miss Nessara here called a thing a minute ago. I only have a few secondary weapons with my armor in stand-by mode like this.” The Worldwalker seemed to shrug slightly as plates shifted and split, rearranging themselves to cover her arms all the way down to her fingertips. “I can reconfigure for a couple of long-range shots, but aren’t we waiting for dawn so you can survey the pass anyway?”

“We have another few minutes,” said the Huntress. “I’d like to at least get a feel for your baseline ability, and my word will calm the other delegations joining us for this trip. The beastkin tribal groups won’t respect power they don’t witness firsthand; same for the groups from human nations. The dwarves seem impressed enough by you already, but the Gnomes will ignore you until things start exploding. And don’t look so smug, Kojeg; seeing is believing, and I don’t put stock in rumors.”

“Aye, seeing is believing, and what I’ve seen the lassie build would make ye grow a beard, and then curl it, too.” He turned toward Dana with a grin. “Show her.”

Dana blushed slightly and turned back to Terisa. “Okay, but it’s not really up to par with what I originally designed. I haven’t quite figured out how this world’s magical effects interact with baseline physics and ballistics. What do you want me to hit?”

The Huntress turned to look over the lowlands before pointing off in the distance. “Do you see the massive skeleton sticking out of the earth on the northern slope of the pass to the left of the road? About half a league up from the gates below us.”

Dana leaned forward, planting her hands on the parapet. “The thing that looks like a cross between a stegosaur and a shark or fish? With three eye sockets in the skull?”

“I don’t know what a stegosaur is, but yes, the rockmaw skeleton. They have three eyes, grow bigger than a house.”

“Yeah, I see it. Are you sure you want me to shoot it?” she asked dubiously. “It’s barely a klick out from here.”

“The bones of a rockmaw are tougher than steel and resistant to magic. If you can hit it, I won’t complain about taking you into the Wildlands. If you can shatter it, I might even be impressed.” The gaze she levelled at the Worldwalker was flat and expressionless. “Might.”

“Heh,” grunted Kojeg, before leaning toward Dana and whispering something just faintly enough that Terisa couldn’t make out the words.

Grinning, the dwarf stepped back as Dana’s armor split down both legs, segments shifting as her height dropped, and the armor thickened around her torso. A helmet seemed to snap into place with several muted clicks. Her voice sounded from within the helmet, the tones tinny and metallic from whatever mechanism allowed her to talk through the suit.

“Stabilizers engaging, crawler mode activated. Anchoring emplacement.”

The legs, now almost a foot shorter, shifted once more. Each leg split into three individual segments. Two legs jammed into the masonry behind the armored form hard enough to drive their points into the stone. Two more legs similarly shot to her sides, and the remaining two arched up to anchor themselves over the outer lip of the stone barrier that bracketed the platform. The watching crowd fell completely silent, eager to witness an unexpected demonstration from the Worldwalker.

“Configuring kinetic driver.”

The woman reached out with her right hand toward the distant skull, and a straight section of metal nearly two feet long hissed its way upward out of the thicker section of armor on her back. It pivoted down and snapped into place along the upper side of the outstretched arm, more brackets and pieces Terisa couldn’t quite understand sliding into place and closing around it to secure its alignment. Kojeg stepped back, covering his ears, and a manic grin never leaving his face.

“Mana Field Propulsors charged. SLAM round armed. Firing.”

The heavy thump broke the night with a thunderous roar and flash of light as the armored figure was pushed back and down by the recoil. The six legs did their job, though, and she was back in firing position less than a heartbeat later. Terisa shook her head to clear the ringing from her ears just in time to hear the tell-tale crackle-crunch of shattering bone fragments, reaching back to the tower just as the echoes of the shot began to fade. The next sound was the whirring rumble of Dana’s armor returning her to a standing and upright state, followed by the helmet receding and the girl speaking up.

“That’s not really a challenging range, though. I’m sighted in with this thing out to three thousand meters, and I think I can double that with better materials, or if I can get the enchantments right to keep the round from disintegrating from atmospheric friction.”

Terisa was speechless, as was the rest of the crowd, save for one laughing, boisterous dwarf. There were chuckles and grumbles as coin changed hands from various wagers placed over the woman’s performance.

“I can’t say I’ve never seen that kind of destruction at range, Miss Dana,” said the Huntress. “But you’re only, what? Level thirteen? Fourteen at most?”

She nodded back at Terisa. “Fourteen, yes. But I spent my entire adult life on Earth on active duty in my home nation’s military, until I lost my legs in combat. Destruction I can do. Destruction I can definitely do.”

“That certainly seems to be the case,” she told the Worldwalker as the rising sun began to illuminate the still-settling rubble around the crater where the monster’s skull once rested. “That would have been a lethal hit on a live Rockmaw, so you’ll hear no more complaints from me.”

Terisa turned her gaze to the far heights of the pass as the rising sun illuminated the ancient roadway, cut through a gap in the snowy peaks by some civilization long forgotten by any but the [Oracle]. “It’s time,” she said as the sunlight glinted off the polished stone arches in the distance. The late-spring warmth had finally caused the snows to recede from the passageway, and with her improved [Eagle Eye] skill, she could see the road laid bare. “Give me some room, people.”

“Back up, lass,” said Kojeg, taking Dana by the arm. “If the pass is clear, she’ll signal the city, and we’ll be in the Wildlands before nightfall. This is what everyone’s been waiting for.”

The Worldwalker stepped back, an inquisitive look on her face. “How’s she going to signal the city? Does she have some sort of skill for an area-wide announcement?”

Nessara guffawed and leaned on her staff, an amused smirk playing across her face. “HAH! Something like that! You ‘ve never seen someone of a truly high level at work, have you?”

“Just Kojeg and the other smiths at the Great Forge in the Thun.”

“I’m only level fifty-two. There hasn’t been a smith over sixty working the Great Forge in a human lifetime at least, lass,” Kojeg said wistfully, with a mournful shake of his head.

“The thing is, otherworlder,” Nessara began with a lecturing tone as Terisa unslung her bow, “most people slow down and almost stop levelling in the mid to late thirties. Settle down, have kids, raise a family.”

Terisa ran her hands up and down the main body of the bow with a gentle reverence, barely hearing as the mage educated the youngling. It’s time, she thought at the enchanted weapon. The bow pulsed in her hands, suddenly radiating an eagerness that hadn’t been present before. It was as if it had been sleeping, waiting, and was now awake. The thicker section just above the grip was an intricate cage woven of silvery wood that held within its embrace a smooth, pearlescent gem glowing softly in the morning light. The bowstring was faintly visible, seeming to be barely there, the gossamer strand only occasionally catching the light.

“A dozen or so people out of a hundred will reach their fiftieth level before old age cuts their regen back ‘til they finally succumb to sickness, or just get tired and die,” continued Nessara in the background. “Out of those, another dozen out of a hundred will find some reason to push on. War, adventure, stubborn determination…whatever their reason, they’ll get into their sixties. Lot of them come here; once you’re that high, you’ll likely only gain levels out there, in the Wildlands. There are more level fifty-plus classers in this city than in entire nations. Not even Stormbreak Isle comes close.”

“And Terisa is in charge of them all?” asked the Worldwalker.

“Heh,” Kojeg grunted as the Huntress knocked an arrow against the ghostly string and let herself relax. “No one’s ‘in charge’ of’ this city, lass, but if there’s a top dog sitting on this gathering of mutts, they walk small when she goes a-hunting.”

“Every now and then,” said the mage, “once or twice, maybe, in ten thousand or more people, someone has the fire. Something driving them to keep pushing, whether it’s ambition, or pride, or greed… something simply makes them relentless. Terisa has fought more than one war, and went adventuring with Kojeg and I for over twenty years in between them. Her story is hers alone to tell, but…”

The mage trailed off and the dwarf continued, “Lassie, ye’ve seen the Great Forge, and ye build mighty works. But now ye stand before true power, earned the hard way. The [Wild-Heart Huntress] be level seventy and four, and not a score others in Anfealt are alive at this moment with higher levels.”

Terisa finally tuned them out completely, her will combining with that of the Living Weapon in her hands. The arrow was simple and mundane, albeit of exemplary quality, enabling it to withstand the terrible pressure applied by the magic coursing through the bow. Focusing her mind, she settled into an almost trance-like state as she felt her own Mana and Stamina drawn in to merge with the will of the weapon itself.

Now!

The thought came unbidden from her mind, echoed by a gentle wave of power that emanated from the bow. She took a deep breath as the bow came up, and up, until the tip of the arrow was nearly vertical. The muscles of her arms stood out like coiled steel springs and cables under tanned parchment skin as she drew the string back as far as it would go. The energy from her Mana and Stamina roared through her veins, and though she felt calm, the light bent around her as the magic drew in to squeeze down to a point just ahead of the bow’s glowing gem. As the stones around her began to vibrate with power, she spoke.

“Now, Althenea! Pierce the heavens!”

Her fingers released the bowstring. The concussive force from the string returning to its neutral position drove the crowd—Dana included, despite her armor’s best attempts to keep her upright—to their knees. Kojeg and Nessara alone remained standing, a testament to their own strength and power.

Slung upward as though borne aloft by a rocket, the arrow flew skyward with such force that it split the air apart, ionizing it into an incandescent column—a lightning bolt cast back to the clouds, leaving a jagged afterimage in its wake.

A mile and more into the air, the Mana wreathing the arrow detonated into a brilliant flare so bright that the rising sun itself hid its face.

Terisa, lowering her arms, blinked the remnants of her signal out of her eyes. As the city began to reverberate to the beat of unseen drums, and a clamor rose up from the ranks assembled atop the barricade, she gently ran her fingers over the bow.

Softly, so softly that only those closest to her might hear, she whispered, “I declare this year’s Expedition underway.”

Dana had regained her footing by now, expression still shell-shocked for a moment more. Approaching the Huntress, she said, “You called your bow ‘Althenea.’ Isn’t that your sister’s name?”

Terisa turned her head, expression unreadable, but with just a hint of longing. “Yes,” she replied, sighing, “and I’ll tell you the story behind that…if you’ll answer me one question.”

Dana brimmed with excitement. “I can’t say no to that! I’ll answer whatever question you have! …As long as it doesn’t violate my oaths,” she amended quickly.

Terisa cracked the ghost of a grin. “Perfect. Now…tell me… How do you relieve yourself in that suit of yours? You haven’t taken it off in the three days you’ve been in the city, and you haven’t visited the latrines even once. And I don’t see anybody else asking.”

The Worldwalker opened her mouth, shut it, and blushed furiously as the crowd burst into raucous laughter.

Chapter 24: Bitter Tears

Constable Zizzy stood before another crime scene, yet another display of pointless brutality serving no purpose higher than pain and suffering. Echoes of the raw agony suffered here dragged across her nerves like nails across a chalkboard. She found herself constantly surprised by this feeling; ordinarily, the pain and suffering of mankind failed to move her. After all, the Hells she was summoned from—and by extension, she herself—existed for the sole purpose of cleansing the sins of the damned by returning to them all the suffering they’d inflicted during their lives.

This scene, though, like all the others, was different; this was no ordinary predator inflicting ordinary suffering on an ordinary victim. Like others of her kind, Zizzy was able to sense the good and evil inherent in the souls of Man, and even through the remnants imprinted on the crime scene, two things stood out to her: The Defiler was evil, and his victims were innocent.

Despite her agitation, Zizzy kept her wings furled and her tail tucked around her waist; she was the picture of tranquility as she took in the sight before her. The scene had already been documented, of course; the local township—called Hat for some reason not even the residents could remember—had a handful of retired, yet still competent Wardens who took every pain to record the scene. But Zizzy wasn’t here to observe those details; if she were, she could have reviewed their meticulous report.

The details she sought weren’t sounds, smells, or sights, and her attempts to explain them to her mortal peers, even those among the Wardens, had all fallen short. It was more like the heat from a fire that warmed the skin, but it came with flavors, and she could feel it through clothing. All living things emanated such energies in varying intensities, and every person’s trace was different. On top of every person’s unique signature came impressions of a person’s emotions and feelings, to which her heritage sensitized her. People were constantly giving off these signals, and if they were particularly intense, objects and places around them could echo the signals for some time.

What she could sense didn’t tell the entire tale by itself, but it added vital context to what she already knew from the Wardens’ report. The crushed chair and the broken table reeked of outrage and surprise, most likely that of the victim, whose body was still cooling in the evening air. The slashed tunic he wore gave off desperation; so too did the shattered plank of wood, half of which was still in the decedent’s grip. His body, riddled with shattered fragments of his own bone, stank of suffering and malice alike, a pall that hung like a miasma through the entire room.

Again, The Defiler lived up to his title. Nothing in this room was spared the marks of The Defiler’s passing; though Zizzy was used to seeing this level of brutality in connection with ritual sacrifice and the like, there was no evidence of such acts here. There were no ritual circles with lingering traces of Mana, no blood sigils, and no patterns denoting any sort of language. At least no language known to Man or Demonkind. She couldn’t completely rule out the possibility of The Defiler using some sort of ritual runes from his own world in the smattering of bloody mess spread amongst the random sprays, but she didn’t think that was the case. She sensed no Faith- or Mana-based magics from the scrawling lines.

She knelt down by the man’s body, sniffing the air. The blood, like the corpse, was still warm; she was closing in, gradually whittling away The Defiler’s lead as he killed, night after night. A silver pin covered in blood lay on the floor next to the body, marking the young man as an Adept in the Storm Breakers. The outline of the broken storm cloud was just visible under the blood. The young mage hadn’t had it long enough for his feeling of pride and accomplishment to wear off, and his emotive essence made the symbol stand out, shiny and gold to Zizzy’s senses even through the coating of blood.

She heard footsteps approaching the door to the room and stood, turning to greet the other Warden.

“Every head in the village is accounted for, Constable.” The man looked tired even beyond his middling years, certainly never expecting such tragedy to interrupt his comfortable posting. He shook his head with weary sadness. “Tarma hadn’t been stationed at the local array very long; less than a year. But we all liked him. The village midwife, Miss Landi Pael, is the only one not here. She’s up the valley at Middle Gates, deliverin’, but I’ve questioned everyone else.”

“And not a soul saw or heard anything in the early morning, just like the others,” Zizzy replied.

“Not a thing.” The man sighed in resignation. “I never thought I’d have to send a letter like this back to the mainland. I think his family is in Meadowspire, but the Breakers will know for sure.”

“The failure is mine, Senior Warden. Have his personal effects delivered to my office at Stormbreak, and I’ll see to notifying the family.” She stepped out of the room, letting her wings finally spread out and relax, while her tail whipped in nervous agitation. “I have to get ahead of him, Warden. The road splits just north of Hat; where do the forks lead?”

“Well, the coastal road keeps on following the shoreline for sixty or so miles to Twelve Oaks and their array. It’s bigger than the standard ones, and the next upstream link for our lesser array here at Hat.”

“And the eastern fork?”

“That cuts over Bald Rock Road, through a bunch of gullies and switchback canyons heading to the interior of the island. Can’t take a cart over it, but it can get you to Ridgewater in a day’s travel on foot.”

Zizzy stood still for a moment, deep in thought. “Ridgewater doesn’t have an array…but it sits on the road to Southpeak. They’ve drafted older students through the old treaties so they can fire the entire array, and they’ll be travelling under guard.”

“Twelve Oaks has a chapter-house retreat for [Paladins] on pilgrimage to get their Blessing from Asima, Constable,” the Warden informed her. His expression gained a grim and eager light. “If he heads there, his story will end.”

“We can hope,” she muttered. After a moment’s thought, she nodded. “I’m going to Ridgewater to try to get ahead of him,” she said with a stretch of her wings. “If he goes to Twelve Oaks, I’d just get in the way. And if I catch the wrong end of a thrown Holy Judgement, well…” She shuddered at the thought of being anywhere near a Holy Warrior throwing down Divine enhanced abilities. “He doesn’t leave traces when he travels, so tracking him directly is right out. But a bunch of students fresh from the academy, travelling scared? That’s a tempting target.”

“How do you know he won’t simply go around, Constable?”

“I don’t. But he’s taken over thirty victims so far since Purple Night. He has to be close to a Class Specialization into something even nastier, if not already past one. I have to get to him before he gets too strong for me to take him.”

She snapped her wings and leapt into the sky, barely hearing the man calling out to wish her good luck and good hunting. Winds from the approaching storm buffeted the succubus as she climbed over the township, but her magical nature permitted her to cut through them with ease. By the time she reached a thousand feet over the village, she could see past the ridgeline to the western sea. Though the worldstorm was still hundreds of leagues away, she found herself staggered by its size and ferocity. The wall of inky clouds whipped the ocean into a roiling froth, and smaller storms spun off to wreak their own devastation. Flashes of wild Mana arced through the steely thunderheads, illuminating the distant darkness with impressions of eldritch shadows moving within the storm. It was a stark reminder of what was at stake: by threatening the Storm Breakers, The Defiler threatened the entire continent.

As she winged her way north and west to head inland, Zizzy activated one of the enchantments she’d had placed on her uniform. She felt the magic settle against her body and knew she’d just become transparent, nearly invisible to mundane sight. A static light-bending camouflage enchantment was simple enough for even student [Mages] to make; however, hers was of a caliber that allowed her to move while maintaining the effect. Gliding in near silence, she rode the winds from the approaching storm, climbing above the rocky crags after less than an hour of travel.

As she crested the ridge, she could make out a town to the northeast, sprawling at the intersection of one broad roadway paved with time-worn stone cobbles that bisected a sprawling community of thatched-roof buildings. The avenue ended in a wide, circular lot with smaller roads heading southward in half a dozen directions. Several stone bridges crossed the rushing water below the ridge that gave the town its name, and to the north she could see a large caravan slowly making its way toward the town. Evening approached, and the lengthening shadows lent the entire scene an eerie ambiance from her lofty vantage point.

For a few minutes, as she flew, Zizzy contemplated informing the Wardens guarding the convoy of her plan. But every person who knows could betray my plan, and I have no idea what this monster looks like, who he could be…

No, she decided as she settled onto a rooftop next to the north gates of the city, still shrouded in the effects of the magical cloaking enchantment. Better to surprise everyone, not just him.

With inhuman patience, she waited until the convoy of guarded wagons passed through the stone entrance. Tired young men and women in various colors of robes denoting their academic affiliations sat in the open wagons or took turns walking beside them. Dipping further into her demonic abilities, it was a trivial thing to slip into the group. A quick drop to an alley before they passed, a quiet furling of her wings back inside her tunic. Her golden braids darkened to a milk-chocolate brown, then flowed down into tousled locks, and her skin likewise went from pale cream to an islander’s tan. As if sculpting herself, the succubus ran her hands down her bust to enlarge her chest, while a wriggle of her hips rounded out her posterior, her tail vanishing through the slot in her trousers. The enchanted attire proved its worth, responding to her intent, while her badge and signature hat slipped into an enchanted storage pouch on her belt. The colors of her uniform faded from a formal grey to a more well-worn brown befitting a dusty and road-weary student of magic, pants tightening around her curves, while the buttons of her tunic strained to hold her bosom, seemingly ready to fail at any moment. A cloak from her utility pouch completed the disguise as she shed inches from her height.

A short and mousey brunette with wide, innocent eyes and a figure that would cause any mother to hide her sons casually flounced out of the alleyway to join the passing pack of students. A wizened but burly Master with the golden emblem of a broken storm clasping his cloak at one shoulder looked across his group of charges. His gaze lingered a moment on Zizzy, and he reached for one of the many flasks on his belt before recognition dawned on his face. He remained silent, and she nodded respectfully. One didn’t reach the rank of Master in the Breakers without a hefty amount of Intellect.

“Groups of three at a minimum,” he growled as the students began to disperse toward the inn, its windows casting a warm and inviting light into the chill evening air. “Don’t wander off, not even to use the facilities, just like last night.”

Zizzy paid no attention to the murmuring gossip and whispers of the students, but she did listen to the general tone. Older students feigned bravery and boldness, as much to impress the younger as to mask their own feelings of fear and nervousness. A less experienced succubus—a less experienced demon—would have found the aura given off by the anxious younglings to be a nectar too sweet to resist, and she was counting on The Defiler feeling the same way. She slipped into a chair next to two timid girls, quietly pretending to eat from the tray of meats and cheese offered to the mages. They offered no conversation, and Zizzy was silently grateful that she wouldn’t have to play a role. While playing to the fantasies of others was instinctual to any succubus, she’d spent decades growing into her own maturity of personality. Even without the geas from her unknown master, she would have preferred older, more deserving prey.

The meal passed without consequence, quiet and hushed conversations carrying on between different groups of students. Armored and well-armed [Fighter]- and [Brawler]-type guards surrounded the building, with experienced [Scout] and [Ranger] lookouts watching the perimeter. All should have been well. But Zizzy’s instincts—naturally honed far past any mortal ability, and further refined by decades of experience tracking nefarious criminals through myriad situations—were screaming inside her head.

As the Master instructed, the students traveled in threes when they had to go anywhere—including the facilities. The girls she’d attached herself to, after doing the same, slowly made their way back to the room selected for them. The need for security drew out the process of getting the students settled in, and it was well past midnight before her pair settled on their shared bunk, tossing and turning as sleep slowly took them.

Sisters, I’m sure, she thought to herself. And far too young for this.

Hours passed in what was, for Zizzy, a mixture of nervous waiting and the calm anticipation of the predator waiting for its prey. Her keen senses brought her the snoring and other nocturnal sounds typical of a large group of travellers, especially the romantic couples that normally would’ve piqued her unique interests. The building grew even more quiet as the hours drew on; as the eastern horizon slowly began to brighten, she could hear the kitchen staff rummaging through cupboards and beginning preparations for the morning meal. Her innocent charges had finally succumbed to sleep, entwined on their bed and exhausted by the pallor of fear that had likely followed the group all the way from Stormbreak.

While her demonic nature let her go longer than most without certain physical requirements, she still had to tend to the needs of her own body eventually. Silently, she made her way out of the room to the facilities at the end of the hall, partly in hopes that a solitary student would appear more inviting to The Defiler. Nothing projected an air of vulnerability better than actual vulnerability, so her trip to tend to her needs wasn’t faked. She lingered in the washroom for a few extra heartbeats, but nothing changed in the building to her senses.

She exited the restroom and spied the Master, who stood watching the hallway. As she passed, he placed his hand on her shoulder to stop her.

“Nearly didn’t recognize you, Constable,” he rumbled, taking pains to keep his voice low so as not to prematurely wake his charges. “Makes me more comfortable knowing you’re here. And your partner, too; suppose Stormbreak saw the risk and sent you with backup.”

Zizzy shook her head in automatic negation. “I work alone. None are my equal.” A moment passed before horror slowly stole over her expression.

The Master, seeing her paling face, grew tense. “There were two extra students when we passed into Ridgewater. If the other wasn’t your partner, then—”

As Zizzy’s eyes widened, twin bolts of agony and suffering broke over her senses, sending her staggering into the wall. “M-Master Breaker—!”

The Breaker reacted, drawing a clear crystal the size of his thumb from a pocket in his cloak, hurling it to the ground. As it broke, a sound like a massive gong echoed throughout the building and beyond, shouts and cries going up immediately afterward.

The succubus let her disguise fade, body flowing smoothly back into its natural shape as she pelted toward the source of the feelings—the room she’d just left.

I can’t sense him! she realized, a flash of insight dashing her like a cold bucket of water. And he can’t sense me! We’re both hunters, drawn to our prey and not each other! What she could sense in horrifyingly exquisite detail, however, was the reverberating waves of horror, pain, trauma, and weak outrage emanating ahead.

Drawing on the power afforded her by the hellfire coursing through her veins, she smashed through the wall into the room beyond, wood crumbling into splinters before her implacable might. The sound was somehow muted, even standing as she was in its midst. He has a muffling Skill! That’s why—

She took in the scene without slowing down as she burst into the room. Before her stood a tableau so wretched it might have been borne from a nightmare, from the hell that gave birth to Zizzy herself: one girl lay curled on her side, clutching at her throat while blood-tinged froth bubbled at her lips and painted a crimson hook on the floor ahead of her. She hacked and coughed, trying to draw breath through her own viscera while she looked helplessly at her sister.

The other screamed, raw and animalistic even in the soundless space, at a writhing, shadowy form that sat both atop her and in the air above her. It resolved into the twisted form of what had once been a man, but was no longer, feral and lengthened in a wholly unnatural way.

Zizzy leapt forward, raising her hands, the air ahead of them wavering before her heated aura. The Defiler’s free hand rose as well, catching the onrushing succubus by the face, ignoring both her snarls and the way she wrenched at his forearm.

As he resolved further, his other arm tensed and jerked back, parting the girl’s belly with a sick, wet sound and splitting her from sternum to crotch, a fresh wave of agony rolling out from the girl as she screamed anew, audible now as he laid aside whatever Skill he’d been using.

His bloody arm reached under the ragged garment he still wore, crushing something over the girl’s horrific wound as Zizzy drew her legs up to kick him in the side, tearing herself from his grip. Whatever he crushed over the girl had immediate and terrifying effect, forcing the misaligned, tattered flesh and bone to heal in place, further intensifying the girl’s agony. The sheer power of the pain nearly broke Zizzy’s composure as she was exposed to its full extent.

“I chose them because you did,” the beast who was once a man growled, his voice guttural and sharp. He disappeared into the room’s shadow, only to emerge to her left, this time assuming the guise of a male student she’d sat beside mere hours before. “You smell…different,” he continued, voice now cooler and smooth, almost curious. “Not afraid. Your magic, too. It hisses and burns.”

He’s managed a Class Evolution or gained a shifting skill already! The thought trickled through her being like ice water down her back. To face a [Mage-Eater] was dangerous in its own right, but ultimately simple enough, once you mitigated their ability. This particular [Mage-Eater], however, had obviously unlocked a more sinister specialization for whatever his particular Class was, amplifying him into an even more formidable opponent. Dread filled the constable, but she couldn’t back down.

“I’ve got more for you,” she replied, voice low and dangerous. Her tail flickered out, looping around his ankle. Her hands grew longer, palms and fingers elongating as her nails slid into claws, burning with a sulfurous light that was mirrored in her wings. She leapt forward as her tail yanked the man’s leg out from under him, raising her claws to strike.

He fell and rolled with inhuman agility, dropping his glamour once again to rise as the feral beast, wreathed in shadow. So fast! she thought in shock. He’s even faster than me! As he rose, he yanked on her tail, spinning her around and drawing a bark of pain from her throat to add to the distressed wailing of the crippled girls.

He got both hands on her tail, strengthening his grip, and Zizzy barely had time to realize what he was doing before he tore at her spine, flooding her with agony as she collapsed against the wall. Stronger than I thought, she whimpered to herself as all feeling abandoned her legs, leaving her paralyzed from the waist down.

She felt the man shift as one booted foot planted itself firmly between her shoulder blades, aborting her attempt to push herself away. He leaned in and took hold of her wing, and a long, tearing sound and fresh waves of pain preceded one burning wing settling to the ground. Never before had she had to square off against someone with such physical strength, always relying on speed, surprise, or emotional manipulation to level the playing field. Panic began to rise like bile in her throat as the weight of her mistake crashed down around her.

As a demon, death didn’t mean the same thing for her as it did for mortals; instead of cessation, she would merely face banishment to the Hells for a time, a fate she had hitherto avoided for a half-century. She was saved from that ordeal—as a succubus, she knew there were fates worse than death (a notion the two girls on the floor might object to, if they could) —by a sudden ring of steel and throaty shouts as someone else burst into the room, drawing The Defiler’s attention.

Thankful for the brief reprieve, Zizzy slid down the wall and rolled toward the center of the room, her healing abilities already working to repair her spine and patch over the stump of her wing, a process which sent bolts of lightning up her spine from her hips to her back. The severed wing had disappeared into motes of hellfire, already fading, and Zizzy knew it would be days before she could take wing again.

She saw the Master standing beside someone she didn’t recognize, facing down The Defiler. The newcomer brandished a mace, bringing it down it in a savage arc and activating a Skill which made it glow briefly with an inner light. The Defiler brought his arm up to block the strike, but his limb crumpled before the heavy blow with a sickening crunch. He snarled, turning to merge with the shadows, but the Master whipped a vial from his cloak. It broke against his body before he could disappear, evoking a sizzling sound as his shadow-wreathed flesh began to melt. He howled, a savage, bestial sound as he turned and burst through the window and out into the pre-dawn twilight.

Nobody bothered giving chase; the moment he left, he was gone, the trail cold before it began. Her failure burned in her mind, almost as hot as her own wounds and the slowly-fading—too slowly—agony of the girls before her.

The girl who could still move did so, weakly coughing as she dragged a cloak over her sister’s ruined form, attempting to give her some measure of dignity in their remaining moments.

Though Zizzy wasn’t a mage herself, she could feel the ragged edges of their magical essence as they shriveled and faded away. It was a sad truth that the life-force of those who use magic—anyone alive—was inextricably linked to that core. To remove it is to promise death, with the cold inexorability of the tides. She could feel the girls’ life slowly fade, bleeding drop by drop, into that abyss.

She dragged herself with agonizing slowness toward the girls, gathering them in her arms, whispering meaningless platitudes, promises she couldn’t fulfill. Her skills, though geared toward the taking of life, did permit some flow in the other direction. She husbanded her Stamina and poured it into the girls, and she could feel their weak gratitude, even though her efforts delayed the inevitable by only a few, fleeting moments. Bereft of the ability to hold Mana, her gift trickled through the cracks, fading into the nothingness that reached out. The girls’ desperate stares burned into Zizzy’s face with a hopeless intensity, their pleading expressions nearly breaking her heart as oblivion smoothed them, stealing the breath from their lungs, the light from their eyes, and finally, the last, lingering spark of their lives. So clutching was oblivion’s grasp that, before it retreated, it nearly took Zizzy as well.

She sat there, breath frozen in her chest as she looked down at the two slowly-cooling bodies—silent rebukes, silent testaments to her failure—and wept like a broken-hearted child.

A world away, a dungeon burned.

A world away, a titan woke.

And in the here and now, on the back of a constable’s hand, a [Seal of the Oracle] flared into brilliant light.

Chapter 25: Wanderings

Morgan Mackenzie had lost track of just how long she’d spent aimlessly wandering the forest. The flood of notifications, experience, and more than one level up would have been bad enough, given what she’d just done to the dungeon. Worse, however, was the mental assault from the not-spider. It had left her dazed, drifting in a dreamlike state of unreality that didn’t seem to fade. She remembered the fire, of course; the taste of ash and cinder in the air as the greenery of the leafy maze burned, the splash of molten earth and stone beneath her toes as she ran out of the inferno like a toddler in hell’s own burning mud puddle. Though she was immune to Morgan’s fire, Lulu had eventually retreated into the storage rune on her hip as the lava flowed around its mistress’ legs. The hardest part of getting out of where the dungeon had once existed had been breathing; Morgan had been forced to resort to using Air magic to filter out the dust and fumes as they threatened to choke her to death.

Compared to the raging fire burning in her bones, the heat of the molten stone through which she trod had felt warm and soothing. Drawing on Fire as deeply as she had had wed her to the flames in her marrow, to the living thing inside her, the essence of [Fire] waiting eagerly for its chance to surge forth.

Morgan didn’t know how long she spent in a fugue state. Several days at least, she knew, because when she pulled the last parcel of broiled shellipede out of her storage, it was rotten and slick. As her mind cleared, she began to hunt as she traveled. She lost track of days and nights, walking when she was awake, and leaving a trail of ever more complex earthen campsites behind her when she slept. She killed and ate [Murdersquirrels], a [Wildpine Deer], and even a [Tyrannorabbit] that made the mistake of startling her with its scream. Her reaction to being suddenly paralyzed had been immediate and visceral, unleashing her Fire to rage against everything in her reach, a reach that had grown considerably after she’d allocated points to her Intellect in the wake of the dungeon’s destruction. There was barely a meal left of the rabbit after that.

Headaches frequently washed away her vision and sent spikes into her brain, driving her to her knees with their intensity while a frantic Lulu hopped around looking for whatever enemy assailed its mistress. But there were no external threats for the brave little scrubby to exfoliate, for the damage was in Morgan’s mind. She had no defense against it, and her brain was the one part of her body she couldn’t repair through her [Regeneration] skill. The overwhelming confusion had faded eventually, and all she could do was endure the headaches, and hope they would fade, as well.

Fortunately, they did; after what felt like an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than a few weeks, she was awoken by another notification that her [Psychic Resistance] had reached the second level.

“I don’t even remember getting the first level…” she said out loud, with more than a little concern for other things she might not even remember forgetting. That concern, however, couldn’t take the shine off how good she was feeling now that the constant migraine was behind her.

To celebrate her much-improved mood, Morgan treated herself to a bath. She’d built her nightly campsite within a short walk of a small stream, and made her way there through the early morning fog that blanketed the forest. [Terrakinesis] made quick work of pulling up stone and molding it into a luxuriously large and perfectly ergonomic bathtub, reminiscent of her old cast-iron clawfoot. “I really need to go back and get that old tub someday,” she remarked. The scrubby was inspecting this new thing its mistress had made, wurbling about the inside of the tub. When Morgan levitated a few globules of water from the stream to fill the tub, the loofah’s wurbles went from curious to gleeful trills. It puffled about in the water, exuding lavender scented suds. “Yeah, you get the idea!” She giggled as she heated the water with a touch of her Fire.

Thanks to Lulu’s constant ministrations every day, Morgan was far from dirty, and her incipient bath wasn’t motivated by hygiene. But sometimes you just need a good bath to relax…

Her resistances proved to be somewhat of a detriment in this one instance. She had to heat the water almost to boiling to get a comfortable soak, but she didn’t really mind, and Lulu didn’t seem to, either. She lowered herself into the water with an exaggerated sigh, breathing in the steam. Her [Primal Instinct] flared to warn her of something behind her, but she didn’t even budge. A lazy, almost negligent terrakinetic shove transformed a stretch of ground behind her into a graveyard of vicious earthen spikes.

“Well, that’s lunch here in a bit.” She chuckled to herself as the notification for defeating another [Murdersquirrel] faded from her view. The bath was relaxing, certainly something she needed in more ways than one. The constant demand of staying on edge and alert had begun to wear on her sanity. With her instincts finally calm for the first time since she’d entered the dungeon, she let herself enjoy the moment. She soaked, and she rested, and she contemplated her options for spending her skill points.

There were plenty of useless choices available, to be sure, but the ones that interested her were the new runes she could get as tattoos. [Soul Anchor] had increased to its fourth level, one time from activating all the enchantments simultaneously when she’d burned the dungeon, and another from layering enchantments into her stone huts when she camped for the night. She now had three options to learn new Living Runes, and her fifty-five skill points could snag her two of them, with a handful left over.

Skill Acquisition Menu

Leveling Class Abilities may provide unique skills for purchase when conditions are met.

Several unique Class Skills are now available for purchase due to learning the required skills. Experimentation and continued advancement will grant access to more skills for acquisition.

[Runic Armor (Living Rune)] - [25 Skill Points] This Living Rune links to your [Soul Anchor] rune. [Runic Armor] absorbs a portion of kinetic energy from impacts, reducing the damage you take, and converting the kinetic energy into Mana. Percentage of kinetic energy absorbed and efficiency of Mana conversion increases with the level of [Runic Armor]. Living Rune level is capped at the current level of [Soul Anchor]. Improving your abilities in combat and defensive magic will increase the level of [Runic Armor].

[Runic Chain (Living Rune)] - [25 Skill Points] This Living Rune links to your [Soul Anchor] rune. [Runic Chain] allows you to inscribe one Spell per level of [Runic Chain]. Spells inscribed into the chain may be cast instantly to greater effect, at the cost of increased Mana usage. Higher levels of [Runic Chain] increase the effect and reduce the enhanced Mana cost of inscribed spells. Living Rune level is capped at the current level of [Soul Anchor]. Improving your abilities in combat and destructive magic will increase the level of [Runic Chain].

[Runic Core (Living Rune)] - [35 Skill Points] This Living Rune links to your [Soul Anchor] rune. [Runic Core] stores excess Stamina and Mana provided by your metabolic activities. Skills and Spells may draw part of their cost from [Runic Core], reducing the drain on your own reserves. Amount of Stamina and Mana stored increases per level of [Runic Core]. Living Rune level is capped at the current level of [Soul Anchor]. Improving your abilities with recovery and regeneration will increase the level of [Runic Core].

Morgan let out a low whistle after reading through her options. “Talk about tough choices, Lulu,” she told the burbling puffball as it propelled itself around the gently bubbling bath by some mysterious means. She’d long ago given up trying to understand how the scrubby did the things it did. Considering her options, she ducked under the bubbles to wash her hair before coming back up and continuing out loud.

“If I get the runic core…I can’t get the chain or the armor,” she realized after a moment.

As good as the [Runic Core] sounded, the armor was something she just couldn’t pass up. She lay back in the tub and braced herself, then spent the points on [Runic Armor] before setting it to active with a thought. The pain of the rune inscribing itself into her skin wasn’t as brutal as her first experience with the belt, but it was still painful. When it finally finished, an interlocking scale-like pattern had been inscribed into her skin across her entire body. It started at her scalp and etched its way down like it was being burned under her skin, the feeling growing particularly exquisite when it crossed her breasts and reached her backside. The lines of the scales faded almost to nothing across most of her skin, the edges standing out in thicker, bolder lines across her shoulders, knees, and part of her belly.

She stepped out of the tub, drying her hair by gently pushing the water away with a touch of her Mana. “It’s supposed to activate automatically on impact, Lulu. It’s only a matter of time until something hits me, or…tries to, I guess. I’ll just have to let it to see how well this works.”

Done with her bath, she now felt hunger beginning to intrude upon her day. She turned to claim her meal, and stared in utter shock.

“It’s gone…”

The spikes of earth she’d raised were still there, as was a cooling splash of blood, now drying in the morning air. A bit of shredded meat and bone off to one side of the arc of stone knives still dotted the ground, but other than that, no trace of the [Murdersquirrel] remained.

She took a nervous half-step backward, glancing over her shoulder. “Nothing, Lulu. I sensed nothing…”

The scrubby’s only response was a nervous wurble from her shoulder. Lulu was as keen to detect approaching threats as its mistress was, if not more so, and the loofah seemed chagrined and embarrassed to have missed whatever intruding thief had taken Morgan’s lunch. Smears and drops of blood led back toward the thicker brush under the trees before vanishing entirely, and she headed that way with careful steps.

She found the culprit just over a hundred paces away from the stream, smugly perched atop a great branch of one of the massive evergreen trees which dominated the forest. Fur and skin clung to the bark of the tree, and giblets of meat and smears of blood decorated the trunk and the ground below. On the limb itself sat the massive panther she’d seen in the dungeon. It licked its paws to remove the last traces of blood, cleaning itself in a manner similar to its much, much smaller Terran brethren.

“Couldn’t wait until I’d had a bite, could you?” Morgan complained at the unrepentant thief. Her instincts were only mildly agitated by the presence of the massive predator; they’d fought together, after all, albeit only briefly. Not that I would be willing to test things if she was hungry, the Sorceress thought to herself, barely repressing a shudder. “I guess you’ve been following me and claiming the leftovers! Just wait next time, and I’ll share!”

The feline refused to acknowledge her, continuing to groom its fur while it basked in the late-morning sunlight. She found the sight remarkably refreshing, something pretty that, for once, wasn’t trying to eat her for either meat or magic. The cat gave no sign of understanding her, but likewise showed no sign of latent aggression or skittishness. Struck by an urge as irresistible as it was irresponsible, Morgan activated [Acceleration]. She heaved upward with [Terrakinesis], lifting a circle of Earth beneath her feet as quickly as she could manage with the skill. She leapt forward and up, the rising circle of stone adding itself to her efforts, culminating in landing lightly atop the same limb that held the [Nightstride Panther]. The giant cat’s ears pinned back in surprise, and a low rumble emanated from its chest. It bared its teeth at her, revealing a quartet of dagger-like fangs longer than Morgan’s hand. Before it could do anything else, Morgan reached out and gently bumped it square on the nose.

With a sound halfway between a yowl and a soggy chainsaw, the panther melted into the shadows of the branches, only to appear in another tree several dozen paces away, hackles raised as it stared straight back at Morgan. Its fur stood out straight, making for a ridiculously puffy visage of a housecat writ extra-large as its tail lashed in agitation and it wriggled its snout in confusion.

“Snoot status: booped!” yelled the naked Sorceress at the disgruntled feline, laughing as she dropped back down to the ground. “I’ll leave you a snack next time! You don’t have to sneak!”

Despite her cavalier attitude, Morgan kept her ears open in case the big cat took offense and sought her out. She didn’t think it would attack, but it never hurt to keep her guard up. The tub was still there, and she was still hungry. She had a parcel of steak wrapped in leaves from the deer she’d killed the day before, but a diet of nothing but meat was beginning to bore her. The occasional berries had been nice, but nothing like the rich, sweet, modern foods she was beginning to miss now that the novelty of life in the Wildlands was beginning to wear thin.

“I guess I can kill two birds with one stone,” she said, spending most of her remaining skill points on the [Runic Chain] skill. She gritted her teeth as the rune burned its way down her arms, tracing paper-thin lines until the pattern reached her wrists, where it morphed into thicker, cobalt-colored bands. Inscribing [Plasma Glaive] as the first rune in the chain was as simple as forming the different types of Mana into the woven shape to cast the spell, only without turning it loose. Instead, the banded pattern around her right wrist lit up with a gentle blue glow after a few moments, then shifted colors to match the Fire and Lightning Mana of the spell’s form before pulling the threads of magic into the inscription along the band.

“Test out a rune, get some lunch, maybe find some berries to go with it…”

She set off again with a whole new plan for her day, still giggling about her encounter with the panther. “I booped the snoot, hah!”

Several hours later found Morgan sitting in a perfectly molded stone chair, with a layer of moss draped over it as a cushion. The chair rose up from a flat-topped pavilion that was the rooftop of her latest sculpted stone campsite. With one leg lazily crossed over the other, she looked over her handiwork. In front of her a polished stone table rose up from the floor, with actual plates of food sitting upon it. A piece of Mana Crystal shaped roughly like a wine-glass—filled with water, as she had figured out no other beverage yet—floated a few inches away from her left hand.

Her [Primal Instinct] skill had led her to a herd of [Wildpine Deer], and several thickly-sliced steaks from one now graced her table. The boosted form of [Plasma Glaive] empowered by her new rune had worked far better than she’d planned, the beam of destruction killing three outright and wounding several others. “I guess the panther eats good tonight,” she said to Lulu as the scrubby wurbled its way around, cleaning up the plates.

Also on her table was a giant nut, a volleyball-sized cross between an acorn and a hazelnut. The shell had required her to crush it between two stones with [Terrakinesis], but roasting the inner part over a fire had led to a pleasant taste similar to almonds. Definitely hope to find more of those in the future.

Some things were similar to plants she knew from Earth, only bigger. A plate of greens with yellow dandelion flowers as big as her hand also resided on the table in a broad, shallow bowl. Some of the familiar berries that grew all over the forest added their own red and blue colors, as did chopped pieces of something Morgan had never seen before. It looked a little like a pumpkin, but it was purple with green striations through the meat of the fruit. It was every bit as tasty as her instincts promised, and the copious juices added a nice tangy flavor to her impromptu salad. Finally, her instincts had also led her to something akin to a green onion or a parsnip, though she couldn’t decide which it resembled more. The bulb was bigger than her fist, and the savory flavor had gone perfectly with the flame-cooked venison.

Stone cutlery and utensils of varying quality lay upon the table as well, evidence of her attempts at making flatware. Actually trying to eat with it had provided varying results, and several punctures around her mouth were still healing, although the bleeding had quickly stopped. She couldn’t use her hands for working the forks and knives, but she could levitate them with [Terrakinesis]. I’ll just have to practice, she thought to herself.

“And I’ll definitely have to figure out something like tea or coffee to drink,” she continued out loud.

She sat and watched the sun set over the distant mountains, pondering her life since arriving on her new world. “I have two of those enhancement points Moghren told me about, Lulu.” The scrubby continued purbling its way around the table, seemingly content with the day. “But I think I need to save them, like she said.” She stopped to sip from her levitated glass. “For something more interesting than a fireball or my glaive spell, I mean. If they can boost a mastered spell as much as the old witch seemed to be saying, I think I should keep them for more fancy magics than just throwing fire and ice.”

As the last of the day’s light died over the snow-capped peaks on the far horizon, she stood and stretched with a weary sigh. She took a moment to check the layered circles of enchantments she’d placed around her camp; two dozen [Pyreflame Runes], primed and ready to fire if the thin strands of Mana linking them together was broken. More [Mana Link] threads stood out to her senses, reaching back into the little stone house, and as she walked down the sculpted steps to the ground floor, she could see them faintly twist around the Mana Crystal in the center of the room. What had once been the jaw of a giant shellipede was now a violet-pink crystal spar. It was hexagonal in cross-section, as wide across as her forearm, and stood three feet from base to hooked, needle-sharp tip. Mana flowed out from it, along the threads of the Link, into her wards. She levitated her makeshift wineglass over to it, and a brief push with [Gem Sculpt] saw the glass merging back into the crystal, adding another half inch to its height.

She topped off the crystal’s stores of Mana and made her way to the bed to lay down, followed by a wurbling loofah. Lulu seemed sleepy as well, and circled a spot on the moss-covered stone slab before trilling once and going still, but for gentle purrs. Opposite the bed, a fireplace with several chunks of smoldering wood had nearly burned out, and she nudged the pieces together with short bursts of air and let the remaining embers do the work instead of adding Fire. Temperatures bothered her less and less as her resistances increased, and she had no worries about getting too cold.

“I need to stop wandering around,” she told the dozing scrubby. “I think I should start looking for a place to call my own.”

Her [Primal Instinct] skill surged with satisfaction in the back of her mind at that statement, and she nodded in agreement as she made herself comfortable on the bed.

“Time to claim my own territory,” she murmured, just before sleep claimed her.

Chapter 26: Territorial Disputes

Morgan Mackenzie crouched atop the corpse of a [Rockmaw], carefully applying touches of superheated flame with her fingertips. The last tendrils of flesh and gristle had finally been seared away, allowing her to pry up the large chunk of Mana Crystal that had once protected the neck and upper back of the beast. With its connection to the remnants of the dead beast’s Mana removed, her own Mana was able to take over the massive, glass-like plate. Standing back up, she levitated her prize up and away from the defeated [Rockmaw]. Surveying her path downward, she leapt from its back to a part of its hindquarters that wasn’t overly viscera-slickened, then down to the snow-covered ground. She turned and looked back over her erstwhile foe.

Jaws wide enough she could step through their death-gaped arch. A burned and blistered tongue, studded with stones and slick with blood muddied by charred ashes, protruded from the mouth, larger than one of her legs, and several times as long. She shuddered; the [Rockmaw] had managed to snare her leg with that long, slimy tongue, and it had earned itself a meal before Morgan’s [Runic Chain]-enhanced [Plasma Glaive] sent its own tongue of destruction down its gullet. Superheated tissue and fluids left in its wake had over-pressurized the creature, causing its flesh to rupture in an impressive display of red steam and broiled meat, a good portion of which found its exit back through the thing’s mouth. Morgan had once again found herself covered in ick, a distressingly frequent happening that, even now, she hated every bit as much as the first time.

Morgan let the fire within her come to the surface for a few moments, the blood and gore blackening to flakes of ash that blew away in the glacial mountain winds that constantly scoured the landscape. During her early travels in the Wildlands, she’d kept to the lower valleys and forested lowlands. The constant, sweltering heat of high summer had finally driven her to higher elevations; not because of the temperature, but because Wildlands summers were punishingly humid. I like a sauna as much as the next girl, she thought, but not enough to live in one all the time.

So Morgan had headed west for higher ground. The mountains had proven to be further away than she’d originally estimated, but she persevered. And what she’d found once she climbed and climbed to crest the first mountain ridge after finally reaching it was…

More mountains.

The creatures had grown progressively stronger and more powerful the deeper she travelled into the highlands. Rams that reminded her of bighorn sheep the size of a small car, with plated skulls and two pairs of vicious, twisted horns. Enormous bears with ridged skulls and shovel-like claws. Her sole fight so far with one of the latter had ended in a stalemate: the beast dug its way away from her flames, while she hopped off to regenerate a below-the-knee amputation. She’d also crossed the territories of two more packs of [Direwolves], but without a guardian like the Packmother, she’d simply whittled them down through attrition until they left her alone.

Her [Frost Resistance] had built up quickly, the nights at higher elevation dipping close to freezing long before she actually came near the snow line. She still enjoyed a hot bath with her loofah companion every handful of days, taking the opportunity to build campsites that were more lavish than her usual accommodations. Such breaks inevitably ended in battle more and more often as she gained levels, though. Her working theory was, as she grew in power, she became more attractive in some way to the various denizens of the primordial landscape. She’d gained a level every third or fourth day, it seemed, although after she’d reached level thirty, it had begun to slow down.

Every level brought more stats, more Intellect, more skills. The key to improving her [Soul Anchor] had turned out to be improving skills with enchantments. She layered more and more wards and defenses around her campsites every night, and practiced new ones whenever she rested. [Runic Core] joined the other markings burned into her skin, interlocking chevrons and triangles bracketing her navel and forming a diamond pattern out of what looked like Celtic knots, but with sharp angles instead of rounded braids. The rune stretched from her sternum down to between her legs, and that particular experience had left her whimpering for several hours after it had etched itself onto her body. It stored Mana and Stamina similar to the Mana Well rings Moghren had shown her months before. With the rune currently at its fifth level, it effectively tripled her staying power in combat in all but the most extreme cases.

[Runic Reinforcement] had come next, and despite its invasiveness, had been significantly less painful. It made her flesh and bones stronger, enhancing her ability to take hits. The incoming attacks that made it past her [Spell Parry] and [Runic Armor] did far less damage to her body, and combined with her [Athleticism], she could sprint for hours without worry of the accompanying soreness. The tattoo that had come with the rune ran from the base of her tailbone where it joined with her [Runic Belt], all the way up her spine to blend with the scaled armor etched over her shoulders.

[Spell Resonance] was her latest Living Rune, and it gave her an extra sense for the magics around her. The tattoo presented itself as a gossamer-thin tracing of tiny swirls, only visible when the light reflected as she moved. On the palms of her hands and soles of her feet, it traced the patterns of her fingertips and toes like shiny henna art, and the practical effect was that she could feel magic at greater range and sensitivity: through the air, in water when she swam, and through the earth beneath her feet. If her Intellect hadn’t been expanded many times over since her arrival at the Tree, it would have overwhelmed her mind.

It was thanks to this that Morgan wasn’t caught entirely flat-footed when her next battle found her. A gargantuan creature looking like nothing so much as an armored earthworm—fittingly, a [Burrowspine Earthwyrm]—erupted from the ground in a geyser of gravel and dirt where she’d been standing scant moments before. She’d sensed the Earth magic it used to travel beneath the ground, and tapped her [Acceleration] to clear the area just before a maw full of teeth and spines snapped shut around where she’d been.

She turned and loosed a [Plasma Glaive] at it, the superheated Mana splashing off its chitinous armor and causing the air above to waver from its intensity. [Spell Resonance] further allowed her to feel the Mana layered throughout its plating, providing more defense than she could quickly burn through.

Lulu, for her part, was undeterred; its boldness and bravery had only grown as it levelled alongside its mistress. Now a respectable level thirty-seven on its own, it had grown to the size of a volleyball, and its abilities had only grown more fearsome to match. No natural armor Morgan had yet faced could stand up to its [Exfoliate] skill, and Lulu seemed eager to show off again.

The scrubby launched itself at the new attacker, and Morgan kept the wyrm’s attention on her with showy blasts from her [Plasma Glaive]. Lulu quickly found—or made—a gap in its armor, and the monster went from lunging at the Sorceress to contorting and snapping at itself in the span of a moment.

Earth and stone heaved, rising up like a living thing as the beast thrashed, and Morgan was obliged to tap her own [Terrakinesis] to counteract it. A few moments later, Lulu obviously hit something vital—the worm heaved itself almost entirely out of its burrow in a single spasmodic movement, then shuddered, vomiting an unidentifiable rush of green and brown fluid, narrowly missing Morgan as she scrambled to safety. Already been covered in ick once today! Not again!

Lulu has spawned a brood!

“Hah! That’ll show it!” the Sorceress exclaimed as her latest enemy coiled and shook in agonizing death throes. A proud Lulu burst back out from between two of the armored plates several paces closer to the head of the beast than the spot it had burrowed in. As the wyrm finally trembled one last time and lay still, the loofah seemed to preen a moment before hopping its way back to Morgan. “I guess your brood has plenty of food right here,” she told the scrubby, giving it an affectionate pat as it made its way back to her shoulder.

The [Rockmaw] and the wyrm had been the most recent of a menagerie of creatures that had objected to Morgan taking over the shallow valley, which she now gazed down upon with no small bit of satisfaction. It was just about as ideal for a permanent home as she could have imagined. High enough in elevation that the worst of the summer heat and humidity were lessened, but not so close to the great frozen peaks that she would have to worry. Her [Primal Instinct] made her very wary when she turned her gaze to the snow-capped mountaintops in the distance.

Snow flurries still dusted the valley, blowing down from the higher passes, and a lake fed by glacial streams shone in the midday glare of the sun overhead. That there were only a handful of gaps in the surrounding mountainsides meant she could more easily defend her nascent domain, and work toward a much-needed place of safety and refuge to call her own. The passes also provided easy ways for her to descend to the lowlands to hunt and forage, although she planned to try her hand at cultivating some of the tastier kinds of plants she had found in her wanderings. Her Earth magic senses, amplified with [Spell Resonance], informed her that the ground was solid for miles in every direction, meaning she had no restriction on where she could build. The only exceptions were a handful of comparatively small tunnels, akin to the one the wyrm had dug, but Morgan could fill those if they became a problem.

With a happily wurbling loofah on her shoulder, Morgan began to make her way around the outer edges of the valley. The crystal piece she’d taken from the [Rockmaw] floated along next to her, and she worked it with her [Gem Sculpt] as she went, flattening it down and repairing the cracks and battle damage before separating it out into fist-sized gemstones. Every thirty or forty paces, she flattened a circular patch of dirt with [Terrakinesis], inscribing an enhanced [Mana Link] enchantment, and one for [Spatial Reinforcement]. She seated one gemstone in the center of each patch, a brief pulse of purple light glowing for a moment to indicate the activation of the enchantments. A third of the way around the valley she ran out of crystals from the armor piece, and began to pull more of them out of her [Runic Belt] storage spaces.

Lesser creatures like [Murdersquirrels] and the like hadn’t bothered her for weeks, and she grinned with wry satisfaction as she sensed those sorts of residents of the valley avoiding her presence. Just as her growing power attracted stronger foes, weaker creatures fearfully scurried away from her path. The [Nightstride Panther] continued to evade her senses, despite her gains in levels and abilities. She’d seen it from time to time, claiming the parts of her hunts she didn’t eat herself. The gigantic feline hadn’t seemed fond of the cooler climate as she went further up the mountains, however. Morgan had last seen the cat heading north toward a lower region several days earlier, but she was sure she’d see it again when she left the high valley to look for food.

It took her the entire day to circle the valley, even taking advantage of her [Acceleration] skills to shorten the trip. Over a hundred linked enchantment nodes stood out in her mind, expanding the reach of her [Terrakinesis] to a range she’d never before attempted. It was very close to her limits for using multiple enchantments at once, and only possible thanks to her vastly improved Intellect.

“I have to set the foundation before I can really make anything worthwhile,” she said out loud to Lulu as she placed the purbling loofah on a nearby boulder. Slowly she pushed her Mana out through the linked crystals and their stabilized emplacements. At the same time she reached below her feet, letting the Mana creep out to gently take control of the stone and dirt. [Spell Resonance] fed her a constant stream of information. There were thick, ropey veins of quartz threaded throughout, with tiny seeds of mana crystals waiting to be grown; slabs of heavy granite that acted as Mana sinks, unworkable until they’d absorbed a certain amount of Mana; and various layers of different rocks, clay, shale, and sand, all of which Morgan could sense in exacting detail.

Taking a few deep breaths to center herself, she withdrew the last mana crystals from within her spatial storage runes. An even dozen rods of perfectly formed violet crystal floated around her, each a spike three feet in length and barely wider than her wrist. The hexagonal spars tapered to needle-thin tips, and were the purest and densest forms of crystal she’d yet created. Their perfectly flawless nature enhanced their ability to store Mana, each one able to store easily triple the amount she could hold. They floated around her in a circle, and she could feel the gentle warmth they radiated, even with her eyes closed against the brightness the energy within them gave off.

The first skill Morgan had spent an Enhancement point on, before any others, had been [Spell Surge]. Others had come later, but that one had been the skill she chose to wait until mastery and test out. Her investment had paid significant dividends; the mastered skill had just about doubled the effective power she could wield. She had no way to take exact measurements, not for such things as how much Fire she could make or how much Earth she could move. The enhanced amplification of the skill turned her flames from a candle to a raging bonfire.

What it did to her [Terrakinesis], Morgan didn’t yet have words for.

Drawing on the stored Mana from all twelve floating crystals, and from her reserves in her [Runic Core], Morgan reached out through the many enchantment nodes she’d ringed the valley with.

Then she activated [Spell Surge].

With a rush of power that spread throughout the valley, washing over everyone and everything within its expanse, and for leagues beyond, Morgan set about her work.

For the third morning in a row, Terisa Aras finished her patrol around the Expedition camps. For the third morning in a row, there was nothing to report. Harrying a dozen different disparate groups from a dozen different nations or tribal groups into one cohesive formation was never an easy task, not any year since she’d begun leading the yearly trip into the wilds. Unlike previous years, this Expedition hadn’t been attacked on the first day; at least, not by anything strong enough to give trouble to the several hundred members of the group, each above level fifty. The lack of attention from the denizens of the region disturbed her, for more reasons than one.

The current Expedition hadn’t yet been tested. Every year new aspirants joined the Expedition, and every year they failed to heed the warnings given by those more experienced with the wilds. Adventurers all, some even veterans of war, they joined the Expedition when the pass cleared, and returned, humbled, with the first winter snows chasing their heels back over the pass. At least, if they survived. The Wildlands showed no mercy to those who engaged in hubris. Terisa did not worry overmuch about the veterans; they were survivors, one and all. Rather, her concern lay with the relatively low-levelled Worldwalker. One person lacking experience and levels would have been bad enough, but the woman’s presence had attracted a bevy of attention from different sources, both good and bad.

Several different nations and more than one guild consortium had sent envoys, trying to coax Dana away from the Dwarves of Thun’Kadrass. Their impressions must have been that she could be bought or otherwise bribed into selling otherworlder knowledge, the various polities acting as if she worked for the Thun out of some sense of obligation or debt. Terisa knew it to be far from the truth, having spent time around the Worldwalker. It was obvious to the Huntress that Dana worked for Dana and nobody else, her bargains with the Thane of Thun’Kadrass notwithstanding. But the envoys couldn’t be convinced, and tagged along with the Expedition as it made its way into the wilds.

Normally—if any expedition could be considered normal—the presence of so many high-levelled classers and their accompanying gear and supplies, both magical and mundane, would have attracted several extremely powerful and high-levelled beasts by the first or second day. That, or a horde of smaller monsters stampeding to get out of the way of something larger. So far they’d barely encountered enough monsters to feed themselves, something which was generally not a problem on the first day of any given year’s Expedition.

Terisa made her way between two fortified encampments, following her nose toward her own tent next to the Worldwalker’s “mobile workshop”, as the otherworlder called the massive triple-carriage monstrosity on wheels that moved itself without a beast of burden to pull it. The Huntress had seen wheeled golems before, but nothing on a scale approaching what the strange engineer had built.

The Engineer—if that was truly what Dana was; she hadn’t said, and Terisa was too polite to ask—was only just rolling out of the hatch on the side of the rear-most section of her workshop, appearing to sit in a wheelchair. As the woman rolled toward the steps down from the elevated vehicle, the wheels smoothly changed shape, reconfiguring themselves into a set of legs in a display so smooth that Dana hardly missed a step.

“What is that totally awesome smell?” asked the Worldwalker as she approached the same cookfire Terisa had just stepped up to.

“Rockmaw strips and razorquail eggs,” replied the burly mass of hair and muscle standing over the fire. The voice was gravelly and rough, and the huge cook didn’t elaborate further. The words were practically growled, escaping from behind upper and lower canines so long they barely avoided being called tusks, that protruded from his jaws—evidence of his part-beastkin heritage. Several strips of meat and a half dozen eggs sizzled happily in a cast iron pan over five feet across, laid over a bed of coals. Dana backed up a half-step at the man’s grumpy tone, and looked as if she were about to say something confrontational herself.

“Don’t mind him, he’s always like this,” Terisa told the Worldwalker. “Foz doesn’t talk much, he just likes to cook. There’s kaffen, too.” The Huntress followed word with action, hooking a mug off the side of a pack sitting close to the fire and filling it from the kettle hanging over one side of the coals.

The Worldwalker copied the Huntress, procuring a cup of her own from a compartment on her suit. Her suit shifted from two legs to four, and the woman’s height dropped by over a foot as she leaned back, as if sitting in a comfortable chair. “That’s even better than coffee from my world,” said Dana after taking a sip. “More kick, but it does remind me of the bitter brews we lived off of on deployment.”

Scouting-type classers made their way between the campsites, some heading out for their watch, while others returned. Terisa sipped her kaffen and enjoyed the quiet of the early morning for several minutes, until Foz began flipping meat onto a platter.

“Food,” grunted the giant of a man, setting the platter on top of a section of a log cut to usable height for a table. “Eat.” He glanced off toward the east, sniffing the air. “Fight today, probably.”

“I get that feeling, too,” agreed the Huntress. “Only made it two days without a fight one time before, over ten years ago. Never seen an Expedition make it three without being challenged by something big.”

“The rockmaw didn’t count?” blurted Dana. “I gained two levels from killing that thing, and Kojeg had already hacked one of its legs off!”

Terisa ignored the woman in favor of devouring several strips of seared meat from said [Rockmaw], daintily using her fingertips to avoid getting the juices on her enchanted tunic.

“Little rockmaw,” growled Foz in response. “Baby, almost. Good meat, though.” He followed up his brief statement by devouring several strips of the meat in one bite, then grabbing another.

“We’ll get you some tyrannorabbits when we reach the lower plains, Foz.” The Huntress turned to Dana. “He makes excellent rabbit stew.”

“You say ‘tyrannorabbits’ like I’m supposed to know what that is,” Dana complained. “You have no idea what kind of imagery that name brings me.”

“I’m sure you’ll still be surprised. And I hope you’re ready for a fight. I haven’t seen any signs of anything big yet, but I’ve learned to trust my instincts out here.”

“Always ready,” rumbled the oversized breakfast cook, sharpening a massive cleaver with a smooth stone while the two women ate in relative silence.

“So how does a cook end up with the Expedition group?” asked Dana.

Terisa’s gaze snapped to the Engineer, her jaw dropping open as she laughed. “Foz ain’t a cook! He’s a [Bloodaxe Berserker]!”

“Just like to cook!” the man rumbled with a grin. “Nobody told me no. Wife likes it, too!”

“Yup,” continued Terisa. “He couldn’t cook a thing when I married him, but people aren’t stuck with just their class skills. Some take longer to learn, but nobody tells a level sixty berserker they can’t when the man tries his hand at it.”

Dana looked back and forth between Terisa and Foz, her expression cycling between shock, awe, and utter disbelief. “You,”—she gaped like a fish out of water—“him! He’s like eight feet tall! You’re barely past five foot! He—he’s five times your size!”

“I like big, strong men, what can I say?”

The Worldwalker shook her head, chiding herself. “I didn’t realize, heh.”

Foz raised his head suddenly, sniffing at the air. Even with her higher levels, Terisa’s senses didn’t compare to those with beast heritage in their blood. The alarm was raised through the camp, the sounds of shouting breaking through the early morning, and the Huntress knew the Wildlands had finally decided to test the Expedition’s mettle.

“Can you smell them?” she asked her husband, voice low and urgent.

“Many. Different. Rockmaw, Stonebear, Gamgarra.” His growled responses came as low rumbles, the berserker shrugging himself to his feet and shaking out his arms. “They’re afraid,” he noted.

“What’s a Gamgarra?” asked Dana.

“It’s what the tribes call an elder wyvern,” said Terisa. “Like a drake, but without wings, and even bigger. And something has this one afraid.”

“Not one,” growled Foz as the ground began to shake. “Many.”

Terisa was already pulling pouches out of her pack and clipping them to her gear, adding several enchanted quivers with storage enhancements to her not-insignificant arsenal. Althenea thrummed at her back, sensing the excitement and danger approaching.

“Do you need me to sound an alarm?” The Worldwalker’s suit had gone back to its bipedal mode, but gems glowed at the woman’s hips, and in the middle of the armor-plated chest.

“Everyone knows already,” replied the Huntress as spells began to explode to the east and south of the campsites. “If they’re spread out, we can take them, probably.” The unmistakable thunder of dwarven cannon joined the cacophony of artillery spells.

Her Berserker husband interrupted with a resounding, “No. Stampede.” He bent down to the wagon he shared with her and stood back up, holding two axes, the broad crescent blades almost as tall as Terisa herself. He held them as if they were cleavers in his ursine hands, and threw his head back and roared.

Anyone who had somehow managed to sleep through the shouts, spells, and cannon fire in the vicinity was rudely awakened by the resonating echoes of the sound. Foz’s roar carried a weight that was physical, dampening fires, and shaking wagons and people both.

“Stay alive!” she ordered, watching the woman’s chair reconfigure again as she hurriedly wheeled herself back into her workshop and sealed the hatch behind her. Even if she wanted to, Terisa couldn’t watch out for one person in the face of the stampede. With no hope of killing all of the oncoming monsters, the Expedition’s survival hinged on convincing it to change direction. She’d hoped for a couple of single monsters, a few easy kills to forge their will; as it stood, the entire caravan would face mortal danger in this crucible.

She followed her husband Foz, who used his nose as much as his ears and eyes to make his way past the dwarven encampment and the beastkin campsite to where an emplacement of cannon had been set as a perimeter defense. Several dead rockmaw littered the meadow before them, and the trees in the distance shook as more approached. Nessara stood in a glowing circle with three other mages, each with their staves raised to the sky for a group casting.

“Scouts came back just ahead of the rockmaw,” Kojeg informed Terisa. “They’re running this way, and some stonebear, chased by some elder wyverns.”

“Not chased,” snarled Foz. “Gamgarra are terrified, don’t know why. Something bigger is out there.”

“I don’t know what would scare an entire family of ‘em,” replied the dwarf while his brethren reloaded the cannons. “But we need to turn the charge before they come up this side of the valley pass. It’s a whole herd of rockmaw, and dozens of stonebear. I know it be matin’ season, but I never seen a group this big before.”

“I haven’t either,” replied Terisa as the cannons barked in unison, the acrid scent of the alchemical powder stinging her nose. “But old Mageema, that half-wolf shamaness who led the Expedition before me, she told me some things. This could be a migration year. But it’s too early in the season!”

“Dunno what that is,” Foz growled, spinning his axes. The berserker had to wind himself up to take full advantage of his class, and wouldn’t truly come into his own until blood flowed.

Nessara and her companion mages finished their working of Mana, and a massive sphere of light and flame arced up over the meadow just as several dozen more rockmaw burst through the trees. The fireball was over ten paces wide, and it impacted more than thirty paces from the leading monster, almost half a mile away. Despite the distance, and despite their innate magical resistances, the front rank of charging beasts were incinerated, and the ones behind them ran around the smoking ruin left by the spell. The mages wasted no time, immediately resuming their spellcraft after downing Mana potions. The glowing circles around them began to pulse once again as they gathered power.

More adventurers were joining the line now, and a pair of feline beastkin scouts came darting out of the trees a hundred paces to the right of the crater. Terisa wasn’t sure what tribe they were from, not that it mattered to her, but some tribes didn’t get along at all. They crossed the meadow with bestial swiftness, stopping near Foz to salute the larger man. “We diverted two of the stonebears, but there’s at least another two hundred rockmaw coming up the valley,” one said while the other recovered from the sprint. At least these two don’t dislike the Ursara, she thought to herself.

“Where’s Dana?” shouted Kojeg as the cannon roared again. “The lass built summat be perfect for a situation like this.”

“What could she build that can turn a stampede?” retorted the Huntress as she raised her bow, sending several arrows into another small pack of rockmaw that stumbled through the trees. Each arrow struck a monster in the head as if a giant hammer had crushed their skulls, dropping a half a dozen beasts in a heartbeat. “Once they knock enough of those trees down to get a good run, they’ll all be coming this way!”

“She don’t think like we do!” responded the dwarf. “That woman has the most terrifying mind I’ve ever witnessed! If you ever saw her workshop—”

Terisa didn’t have time to respond before a new, completely foreign sound swelled into being, swallowing the rumbling of the oncoming horde. It was a long, mournful wail, a howling siren that grew to such a peak that Terisa had to clap her hands to her ears. She might have screamed; she couldn’t hear herself. It seemed to come from the direction of the rest of the camp, but it was so unimaginably loud that it was hard to tell. It died away, but as Terisa cautiously lowered her hands, it rose once again. Once more it fell and rose, only to finally die away into silence. Stunned, Terisa gawked at Kojeg.

“That be her,” said Kojeg flatly, twisting his fingers in his ears. “I suggest everyone without the urge to be turned ta’ paste just step back a wee bit.”

New earthshaking rumbles joined what she could feel from the approaching horde of monsters. The impact of metal on metal reverberated throughout the camp, drowning out the monsters’ cries. The sound began to remind her of Gnomish metalwork, but writ several times louder.

“The way she builds golems! She doesn’t see ‘em as separate things! Modular, she calls it,” yelled the dwarf over the noise as he led her and Foz back from the line of cannon that faced the forest’s edge. “Never seen the like,” he continued as they ran. His explanation was cut short as the ground heaved from a massive impact, nearly throwing Terisa to the ground. Then another. And another.

Six jointed insectoid legs bore Dana’s workshop, or what used to be her workshop, into the clearing. Each impact shook the ground as though a giant were treading the earth. Terisa could recognize parts of the rear sections of the workshop in the legs, as well as the bristling weaponry of foreign design that studded the foremost section.

Plates shifted and gears turned with an almost organic smoothness. A leg tore itself free from the ground, earth falling away as it rose, then slammed down again. On the front of the machine two plates slid aside, making room for twin cylinders to protrude. It reminded Terisa somewhat of a spider’s jaw. That is, until they began to spin—slowly at first, growing faster and faster until they were screaming.

The first of the main herd of rockmaws broke through the tree line on the opposite end of the meadow.

And then the Worldwalker’s creation spat death and devastation at a rate that boggled the mind. Her class skills and enhancements allowed her to see that the cylinders—which were themselves made of smaller cylinders—were spewing bits of metal so fast she could barely distinguish one from the next. Pieces of what she was sure was brass rained down in a continuous stream from somewhere on the machine’s belly, pattering off the rock and earth. One bounced over to her, and she reached down to examine it. At its base, it was nearly as thick as her wrist, but tapered to a smaller opening at the far end.

The cannons and their effluence cut down trees, rockmaws, and stonebears alike with an ease that seemed almost casual. Though no single strike would have felled one of the monsters—in fact, most of the Expedition could have survived a few hits unless they were well-placed—the strikes didn’t come singly, but in a continuous hailstorm, littering the ground with blood, flesh, and corpses, chewed to pieces as the awesome machine swept its beam of death from one side of the killing field to the other.

But still the Worldwalker wasn’t done. For nearly sixty seconds her machine spat its death across the field, and only then did it slow, the red-hot barrels steaming as the rain of brass came to an end.

The field lay barren, and far quieter than it had been mere minutes before. But then the trees exploded, giving birth to a pair of Gamgarra, the elder wyverns. They’d been at the rear of the stampede, and now their path was laid clear.

Terisa raised her bow, Mana swirling along her arms as she prepared another [Celestial Shot], another heavensplitter—but Dana was quicker on the draw. Two of the machine’s great legs split apart, panels opening to reveal pulsating mana crystals, already beginning to pull Mana from the air around them in a current Terisa could easily feel.

Another cylinder thrust forward from the innards of the machine between the still-cooling cannons. This cylinder was a single piece and covered in concentric circles of runes. These began to contra-rotate, faster and faster, until they blurred into solid bands.

Then, a hum that was so loud it couldn’t be called a hum, a crack of thunder, and a solid beam of cerulean light leapt from the barrel to the lead wyvern—and emerged from the other side of its head. It flashed again, and its mate fell as well.

The field went silent as the grave. Nobody spoke; nobody could speak. Everyone stood slack jawed, struck dumb by the devastation a single woman had wrought.

Over a hundred monsters, in moments! the Huntress thought. And no common monsters, either, these are all—Horror overtook her, and she turned, but too late.

The massive walker lurched to the side as a flash of golden light shone forth from inside; Dana had gained a level. More flashes signaled more levels, and the walker staggered as if under some unimaginable onslaught before pitching to the ground, its legs collapsing as golden flashes continued to rise.

“Kojeg!” Terisa shouted as she bounded toward the machine. “What’re her autos?”

“Dunno!” the dwarf shouted back. “Never asked, but she gets stronger every time, so at least one to strength!”

“Dammit,” she cursed, leaping onto the machine’s head. “She’s hyper-leveling! We have to get her out, or she’ll starve to death before waking up!”

She tugged, then heaved at the armor, to no avail. The Worldwalker had clearly built her machine to be a tank, but it would also become her grave if Terisa couldn’t get it open. Kojeg swung his hammer with a mighty shout, trying to open a hole, but it was Foz who ultimately brought the solution.

Or, rather, was the solution. The excitement and the sight of blood had given him the opportunity to finally tap into his berserker’s rage, and he exercised it against the side of the machine, his great axes shearing away at its structure with each strike. It wasn’t long before he’d opened a big enough path for Terisa to reach the fallen engineer.

“Food, Foz! Go get more, meat and drink!” Before her eyes she could see Dana’s body wasting away, growing more gaunt as she expended caloric reserves she didn’t have. Terisa didn’t understand the mechanisms holding Dana into her seat, but she didn’t need to understand in order to destroy. She tore cables, bent back metal braces, and ripped away woven straps in order to pull the unconscious Worldwalker out of the cupped seat from which she’d controlled the machine.

The woman’s spinal graft had released the linking tendrils when she fell unconscious, and she knew she’d owe Dana an apology after cutting free the plumbing connectors the woman had so shyly explained after their first meeting’s awkward questions. She didn’t know how many times the girl had just levelled, but as she watched, the girl’s skin pulled tight against her bones. Gently pulling her from the seat once all the various connectors and strange metal workings were out of the way, she wrapped the girl in her cloak and gingerly carried her back out of the machine to set her on the ground. She’s light, Terisa thought worriedly, far too light.

“Here’s some Stamina potions,” offered Nessara as she approached with the other mages. “That’ll stave off the worst of it. She has to have gained at least a dozen levels, probably more.”

Kojeg and Foz were already returning, the dwarf with a small cask on one shoulder, and her husband with an armload of still-bloody steaks. Terisa managed to get one of the Stamina potions down Dana’s throat, but the Worldwalker wasn’t out of danger, by any measure. The woman sputtered, waking up to clutch at the bottle and drain the rest of the potion. Terisa handed her another as Nessara used Fire magic to sear small, bite-sized chunks of meat before handing them to the girl. Quality was less of a concern than getting it cooked enough the woman wouldn’t throw it back up.

After finally recovering enough strength to feed herself, Dana broke down in tears, curling up in Terisa’s robe. “I had no idea,” she groaned. “Levelling never hurt before!”

“Too much of anything hurts, lass,” Kojeg replied softly.

After wolfing down several more fist-sized chunks of meat, she managed to ask, “Did I stop the stampede?”

“Aye, ye did that and more,” replied the dwarf.

“I broke it,” growled Foz, pointing at the mobile walker with one axe. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” replied the Worldwalker. Her expression went from pained to sudden mirth. “Is he always like that?” she asked Terisa, unable to stop herself from laughing. The Huntress, relieved that she didn’t have a dead Worldwalker on her hands, joined in her laughter. Soon everyone present was stifling chuckles, except for Foz. He simply grunted and ate another piece of meat.

They sat around her, watchful of the Wildlands, and she continued to eat and recover. Their revelry was interrupted once more, however, by the mage Nessara crying out, clutching her head, and falling to her knees.

The other mages still standing by the ritual circle had likewise collapsed, and Terisa stared in utter confusion.

“Nothing in the Wildlands can do this!” one moaned.

“It’s not the Wildlands,” Nessara groaned through clenched teeth. “Someone is working a ritual, or a Greater Spellworking.”

Terisa felt it then as well, a low pulsing in the earth beneath them. Nessara and the other mages were beginning to recover, but still seemed on the verge of collapse at any moment. “What is it? I can sense Earth magic…”

“Yes, it’s Earth, alright,” Nessara responded shakily. “And some Fire, and Lightning too. Every mage in the Expedition felt that, and I bet the shamans at Thun’Kadrass are shitting gold bricks right now.”

“I don’t understand,” Terisa said, shaking her head.

“I’ve visited the Great Forge myself, you know, over ten years ago. Whoever’s doing whatever they’re doing is channeling more Earth Mana than the Great Forge. It’s quite literally enough to move a mountain.”

They stood, and Dana sat, looking out to the east, wondering who could manage such a feat in a place where there were supposedly no people at all.

And the magic kept pulsing until long after nightfall.

Chapter 27: Shattered Fates

When Rella awoke, she was surrounded by darkness, and she was floating. More importantly, she was well and truly alone. For the first time since accepting the Mantle, she didn’t have a constant flood of visions gnawing at the back of her mind. For the first time, she didn’t have the constant sensation of presence, of past [Oracles] riding along with her.

For a long time she basked in the emptiness, luxuriating in the silence.

Suddenly something reached out of the blackness, seizing her hair, as icy fingers wrapped around her neck. She was abruptly made aware of the fact that she wasn’t floating, but falling—seconds before breaking through a barrier of cold, white light.

She felt wet stone beneath her hands and cried out as her head was yanked back, a spray of chilled water following her.

“Long has it been since one came this far down,” said a cool voice, tinged with curiosity.

The speaker still had a grip on Rella’s hair, taut against her scalp. She sputtered, water freezing on her face as she tried to break free. Her efforts proved futile, the hand lifting up and up until Rella was forced to stand on tiptoe. The stone fountain she’d been so rudely dunked in was already beginning to frost back over, and the cold night sky held thousands of brilliant stars, illuminating an ancient and timeworn courtyard. To her left stood a woman in a plain homespun dress, golden curls framing a rounded and motherly face with sharp blue eyes. She blinked, and the dress was suddenly a fine silken ensemble with plaited ruffles down the sides and white velvet gloves. Another blink, and it was a translucent blue scarf, so thin that it hid nothing at all as it wrapped around the woman’s chest and thighs. It kept shifting every time Rella glanced away even for the briefest of moments, and so distracted was she by the sight, she almost didn’t notice the other figure standing to her right.

A winged helm covered the new woman’s hair, and a scuffed steel chestplate hid her figure. The armor was built for function over form; had she worn her hair short and concealed her face, Rella would have been hard-pressed to call her a woman. The hilt of the sword at her side gleamed with the polish of a lifetime of use, and a faded [Oracle]’s eye sat on the worn pommel. The armored figure watched for several moments while Rella scratched and clawed at the immovable hand and arm holding her suspended by the hair. She felt as if her neck would break, or the hair pull away from her head, and then the woman on the right spoke, in clipped, businesslike tones.

“Let her go, Ruga; I think you have her attention.”

The hand lowered, the soles of Rella’s feet finally touching the ground. It didn’t let go immediately, and the woman on the left shifted through a dozen more iterations of attire before the one called Ruga finally relented with a resigned sigh.

“It wasn’t as entertaining as I thought it would be, waking her up in the fountain,” said the one to her left, the dress shifting to impossibly tight leathers sewn all in one piece, her voice warm and soothing. “Should have let Koma kick her a few times.”

“I’ll kick her and you if we don’t hurry this up, Ingra,” the armored woman replied. “If she’s here too long, Mother will wake.”

Koma turned away from the fountain, cold starlight casting defined shadows behind her as she walked through an arched doorway into what looked like a temple. The biting cold finally brought Rella to the realization that she was naked, and she shivered while trying to cover herself.

“Where—what—?” she stammered, glancing from one woman to the other.

“Calm down, girl,” said Ruga from behind her. “For clothes, all you have to do is think it, as Ingra does. The cold is the same way; stop thinking about it, and it won’t bother you. This place has its own rules.”

Bringing her thoughts in order, Rella suddenly found herself wearing her old tunic and breeches, the outfit she’d grown accustomed to during her time serving as the attendant to the previous [Oracle]. The woman behind her, Ruga, snorted derisively.

“Still haven’t grown to fill the shoes you stepped into, have you?”

“I-I’m—” Rella stuttered. “I’m still new at this! Where am I, anyway? This isn’t like the mindscape with the others…”

“It’s exactly the same,” Ruga countered, “except your sisters never learned how to navigate well enough to come this far. We had to pull you down.” She turned, following the other two women through the arch and out of sight. Rella remained where she was, awestruck and taking in the courtyard. Suddenly Ruga was behind her again, once more seizing her hair. She marched Rella forward, through the archway, to where the women waited.

“No time to dawdle, girl. If Mother wakes up, it’s all for naught.”

“After we went through all that effort to bring you here, too,” said Ingra, dress shifting through several more changes, each seeming determined to beat the last in levels of indecency.

Ruga pressed Rella onward, following the two women out to a wide plain, where a worn stone path cut through thick grasses which stood taller than the young girl’s waist, eerily still in the calm air. A hundred paces distant, the path ended at a huge stone building, its roof braced by fluted Doric columns the height of ten men. It was toward this building the group led Rella, stopping at its entrance.

“Welcome to the Halls of Remembrance,” said Koma, pushing the door open and leading the way inside.

When Rella caught sight of the interior, she stopped again, breath snatched out of her lungs by what she saw. Ruga simply lifted her back onto her toes, dragging her along.

The interior of the building held the sky full of stars she’d seen while outside, only now they were striding through the middle of the floating lights. The paved stone floor was featureless, but suspended above it was an ocean of glimmering cerulean and aquamarine, the orbs lazily describing individual pathways down the hall’s length. Other women walked the star-lined hall, reaching out from time to time to nudge the orbs back into position. The edges of the paved path gave way to an infinite blackness below, and Rella couldn’t see what supported the structure at all.

Ruga gave her no time to take in the rest of the temple, quickly marching her to the far end of the hall where the path widened into a broad, circular platform. The path also split here, spidering above and below, to different levels of the structure. A golden ring was inscribed in the grey stone, and the three women bracketed Rella in the center as the section of floor within the ring began to drop.

Growing more frustrated at being held up by her hair, Rella continued to claw at the iron wrist holding her up.

“Please! I can walk!”

With glacial slowness, Ruga lowered her until her feet were again flat on the floor. “I know this is new to you, and you have questions about everything you see here, but they can wait. Stop again, and Koma will move you instead of me. She will be far less gentle than I.” The hand withdrew, and Rella shook her hair out while rubbing the back of her head.

“What did I do? I don’t know any of you!”

Koma’s clipped intonation gave way to dripping, barely leashed outrage.

“I don’t think you realize what you’ve done, giving a Seal to a demon,” she almost growled at her. “What were you thinking?”

“Don’t mind her,” Ingra interjected. “She was the [Oracle] during a crusade, had to let herself get killed by a demon abomination so that the next could lead the armies against the Bin’Drana Summoners. Tore her apart in front of all her loyal followers.” Rella gaped at the woman, mouth working soundlessly. “Sometimes we have to do unpleasant things, as you already know.”

“A decade of battle, only to die like an animal,” Koma grated, leering at Rella. “Do you know what it’s like to get your head ripped off by a demon? It’s not instant like you would think, especially when they do it slow. A succubus is the most vicious kind there is, and you gave her a Seal!” “She trembled, enraged, muscles jumping and quivering.

“If I can see her story, so can you,” Rella objected, drawing a step away from the woman. “She was human once, before she Sinned.”

“Demons are not redeemable,” snapped the warrior woman. “They serve the Hells until their Sin is purged and they return to the Cycle. You are young and naïve.”

“And if it doesn’t work, you have a demon running rampant without a summoner’s geas,” added Ruga. “The death toll could be—”

“A lot less than letting Stormbreak fall,” Rella replied, heat entering her voice. “We can’t see past a choice not made, and you don’t know what she’ll choose!” Blooming anger starched her spine, letting her face the women’s stares.

The silent gazes persisted until the platform slowed to a stop, and Ingra broke the silence. “Enough, sisters,” she said, while her clothes settled into a slower pattern of formal suits that wouldn’t have been out of place at a bank or merchant’s guild. “The Mantle is hers until it passes on, and she’ll have to live with the consequences of that which she has set in motion. We brought her here because she cannot control the Sight.”

Koma’s hand drifted to the pommel of her sword, an absent-minded caress that Rella realized was a subconscious affectation. She looked at the young [Oracle], a cold smile spreading across her face. “There is a solution, if you want to skip a few years of training and stay sane under the deluge. But you will not enjoy it.”

Ruga gently placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her down the walkway. On this level, there were no floating orbs, and only one path, the polished stones leading to a looming door, layered with what appeared to be thousands of overlapping protective enchantments, all linked to a central ward with a single circular disk serenely floating in midair. Her three escorts stepped forward, and Ruga let go of her shoulder as each of the three ancient [Oracles] placed a hand on the seal that floated in the center of the wards.

“This is the Armory.” Koma spoke softly, almost reverently. “You won’t be able to speak of what is stored within. These doors can only open in the right circumstances.”

“The world must reach a certain threshold of danger to everyone before we can come here directly, even in the dream.” Ingra’s dress finally stopped shifting, the woman losing her carefree irreverence as the enchantments began to disarm themselves. Her clothes settled into a simple tunic and breeches, utilitarian and subdued, with shades of brown split by a dark green crossbody sash. “We aren’t breaking any rules, not exactly…”

“But the price will weaken us considerably, so make it worth it.”

The last was almost a whisper from Ruga as lengths of chain wound through the seal began to move. The seal itself began to spin counterclockwise as if it were unwinding a screw to play out more chain, and heavy rumblings could be felt in the air.

“A bit overdone with the ominous presentation for something in a dream,” whispered Rella, subdued by the gravitas of the moment.

“This is no dream,” Koma replied stiffly. “It’s a reflection of the Halls in the waking world, and if there is need enough, you can unlock the door on that side just like here. How else would the Armory be useful at all, if there was no way to access it?” Koma spoke as if lecturing a child, telling her something that she should already have known. “You simply have not had need of it in your time.”

“I haven’t even heard of it, or seen anything about it in the memories…”

The wards finally stopped spinning, the chains falling slack with a piercing rattle that sounded too loud for the empty space around them. The doors began to groan loudly as gigantic hidden mechanisms stirred to life, and they finally began to slide open.

“The existence of the Armory is not restricted knowledge, but throughout the history of Anfealt, it has only been opened a handful of times in the waking world. If you had no reason to look, you wouldn’t know.” Koma gripped the hilt of her sword so tightly her gauntlet creaked under the strain, her own memories darkening her gaze. “You won’t need to actually go there on the waking side unless you have to call a crusade, and if that happens, you will know how to find it.”

“We must hurry,” murmured Ruga urgently as the doors slid open with agonizing slowness. “She’s been here too long already.”

The three older women stepped through the doorway, a wide-eyed Rella close behind. The grand hall they entered next put every building the fledgling [Oracle] had ever seen to shame, in both the waking and dreaming worlds. She couldn’t see the roof; the columns that might hold one up disappeared into a misty cloudbank shot through with grim, jagged lightning. They were made of a bone-white stone mottled with grey and black striations, and so thick were they that Rella thought ten men might not be able to link hands around one. Hundreds of paces separated one from the next, and what lay between slackened Rella’s jaw and stopped her in her tracks.

“What…?”

“I told you, this is the Armory.” Koma’s voice was soft, subdued, reverent. Rella stepped forward, toward a seemingly endless field of weaponry, some in styles she couldn’t recognize, stretching farther than her eyes could see. “Anfealt is the Forge of Stories; this is where we remember the tools of those whose Stories resonate throughout time.”

The women took Rella along a winding path through the racks, and she felt like she might snap her neck as her eyes skipped from weapon to weapon:

A massive double-edged sword, seemingly crafted of a single piece of flint twice her height, with a dark substance staining its terrible edge. The bloodthirst that radiated from the blade was palpable from dozens of strides away;

A spear, its haft made of a white wood that seemed to glow against the backdrop of stone. Its head was fashioned of some intensely red metal that somehow hurt her eyes to look at;

A humble blacksmith’s hammer atop a simple pedestal. It seemed so pedestrian, and yet arranged in a circle around it were seven sets of armor that seemed as solid and strong as the columns that braced the sky;

A single-edged sword with a slightly curved blade in an ebony rack, its scabbard racked below it. A braided tassel hung from the grip, and the corded hilt bore an intricate diamond design. The blade thinned into invisibility at its edge, to a sharpness that beggared the mind.

Swords, shields, spears; hammers, maces, flails. Longbows and crossbows, knives and more. Weapons of every stripe Rella could imagine, and some she couldn’t, were scattered around the columns, defying her attempts to organize them in her mind.

The women led her past a gap in the scattered weaponry, a space between the columns where the floor sat bare for hundreds of paces. Ruga and her sisters refused to look toward the center as they skirted the edge, but Rella couldn’t help herself. Her eyes were drawn to an enchanted dais in the center of the cleared space. A Seal formed of seven glowing rings of energy encircled a massive black stone block that spun slowly in place, hovering inside the sphere of nullification magics held together by the seal. Her feet slowed as she looked at it, the dread material seeming to pull her in.

Ruga took her by the chin and forcibly turned her head away before she realized she had stepped toward it. “We don’t go there, girl. Only Mother can open it, and that’s enough negatite to kill you and wound the Mantle in the doing.”

Icy fingers of fear suddenly worked their way into her guts, and she took a shuddering step back, eager now to be away. “Negatite?” she whispered, stunned. “B-but that block…it must be six tons! Dark guilds pay a king’s ransom for grams of it!”

“Aye,” Ingra replied, her clothes flashing to a black dress and veil in funereal black. “And ten times the amount in the waking world would not be a tenth of that block. And what it holds inside is even more terrible.”

“What could require that much negatite to seal away!?”

“We don’t know,” admitted Koma, for once without anger in her voice. “It came after my time, and all of us within the Mantle agreed it was best to forget, so Mother sealed even the memory away.”

“Who is this ‘Mother’, and why are you all afraid she’ll wake up?”

“That would be me,” came a vaguely amused voice from ahead.

As one, Ruga and her sisters dropped to their knees. Koma jerked Rella to the ground so hard she barely had time to put her hands out to catch herself, and her knees hardly fared better. Unlike the three who kept their gazes to the floor, Rella beheld the woman. She stood next to a pedestal which bore a small orb on a cloth-covered tray. Slippers of pale cream adorned her feet, below a dress of such a rich blue that it was as if the sky itself was wrapped around her body. Indeed, clouds appeared to move across its surface as her eyes drifted up. A belt fashioned of flattened silver chain draped across her hips, resting beneath a narrow waist and a matronly bosom.

Her face was stern and regal in appearance, framed by midnight-black hair which cascaded below her shoulders, but it was her eyes that entranced the young girl. They seemed as if they held the myriad stars of the universe within them, and pierced her soul with an all-seeing, all-knowing gaze.

Her presence burned, impressing itself on the world, and drove doubled lances of pain into Rella’s skull.

“Don’t look so close,” she advised. “Your sisters do not avert their eyes for fear of me, but of losing themselves within the Mantle.”

A sob tore its way out of her throat, and Rella jerked her gaze away. “Who—what—are you?”

“I was the First,” came the flat reply. “I stood alone, with no others to share my burden. Whatever trials you may face as you come to control the Sight will earn no sympathy from me.”

She wilted under that proclamation, excuses dying in her mouth unspoken. “I am trying,” she whispered. “I’m willing to pay whatever price must be paid. I can’t afford to take years to train myself.”

“A dangerous thing to say, without knowing the price first.” Looking down, Rella could hear the swish of fabric as the woman took several steps. Her shadow on the floor seemed to circle the pedestal she’d glimpsed earlier. “Do not think I am angry, child. I am merely…displeased with your sisters for playing such games with you, while more important matters must be attended to.”

“She risks a demon unbound!” Koma interjected without raising her head, knuckles white.

“There are always demons, child. Devils. Angels. Worldwalkers and fallen gods, dark cultists, war and strife and death—and life burgeons unending despite that. Anfealt endures! Does the anvil fear the might of the smith? It is indifferent, as is the world and the Mantle itself. The purpose of the [Oracle] is two-fold. We witness! That none may fall forgotten! We do not judge, we only preserve!”

The first [Oracle] didn’t raise her voice—she didn’t need to—and yet it carried in echoes back from the distant columns. It rebounded from the emptiness above, pressing down on the kneeling women. She stood silent for a long moment, then continued.

“We preserve the stories, and we safeguard free will. For without free will, choice is no more. Stories are made, piece by piece, by the choices mortals make, and without the ability to choose, the story ends. They brought you here, child, to offer you a choice. At this rate, the visions will kill you or drive you mad before you come into your full power.”

“How do I stop that from happening? How do I buy myself the time to learn?”

“You pay the price,” she replied. “Come and look at the pedestal; there, you will find what your sisters were bringing you to see.” The woman stepped out of Rella’s view, sparing her the intensity of looking upon the first [Oracle]. She stood, keeping her eyes on the simple, carved post. It lacked ornamentation, and had been chiseled into a square, the toolmarks still rough on its surface. It was capped with a plain linen cloth above which floated the small orb she’d glimpsed before. It was formed of some type of glass, or perhaps crystal, and within it swirled the same lights she’d beheld in the first [Oracle]’s eyes.

“Long ago, a young god from another world came to Anfealt, seeking wisdom and knowledge as he travelled the stars. You do not have years to spend in meditation at your temple, so claim the eye he traded for lost knowledge. It will filter the chaos from your Sight, allowing you to withstand the weight of the knowing. Make your choice, and remember our purpose.”

The woman faded away as she spoke the last words, leaving the younger [Oracles] alone once more.

Rella reached out tentatively, stopping just short of touching the orb. “Do I…eat it? Or just grab it?”

The other women had risen by this point, and closed in behind her; she felt the familiar hand as Ruga once again seized her by the hair to hold her still. It was Koma who spoke then, her voice drained of the anger she’d aimed at Rella before.

“You know the answer to that. And I am sorry for being rude before. Mother is right, and there are more important things than demons while those damned collars still taint the waking world.”

“Is this what you choose?” Ingra asked with a sorrowful expression. “Koma will be as quick and merciful as she can, but you already know it will be bad.”

Rella’s heart beat faster and faster, determination fortifying her spirit against the dread which sought to claim it. “Will it stop hurting after, or will it stay bad?”

“It will likely be sore for months,” Ruga answered, “but the worst will pass in a few moments. The danger will be the shock. If you can hold onto yourself through that, you will recover. And the visions will be much more bearable.”

Rella let out a quick breath. “Do it, then, before I—”

She didn’t get to finish her sentence before Ruga’s grip tightened on her head and chin, fixing her in place. For a fleeting moment she saw the tips of Koma’s gauntleted fingers, and then her world became whiteness and pain. She screamed in agony, muscles twitching and jumping as she tried to thrash her way out of Ruga’s grip.

She felt one of the women—it must have been Ingra—wrap her arms around her, murmuring softly, “Shh…shh, we have you…just a few more moments…”

The words in her ear brought the young [Oracle] precious little comfort as she felt something cold and solid press into the void where her right eye had been moments before. The coldness spread backward, through meat and bone, before suddenly intensifying, a frozen snap she could almost hear causing her body to convulse. Another cry rose from her throat before her jaw snapped shut and a hot, coppery taste flooded her mouth, causing her to gag and choke. Ruga and Ingra lowered her to the floor, where Koma’s iron grip squeezed her jaw.

“Breathe, girl!” she commanded.

Rella obeyed with an explosive gasp, flopping over onto her side and coughing up blood. For a moment she thought she had truly gone blind, until a soft linen cloth wiped her face. It withdrew, soiled with blood, and another was offered in its place. Sobbing, she took it and pushed herself up to sit, using her own tears to wash her face as best she could.

She sat for a long time, or so it seemed to her. The other women stood a silent vigil, their respect keeping them from offering weak platitudes or false sorrow. She finally spoke, her voice a raspy whisper.

“How do I get out? I want to leave, but I don’t know how…”

“Leaving is as simple as willing it. There are no locks keeping us in, and we can only take things out when there is need or a price has been paid. You have paid the price and can leave as soon as you wish to.”

It was Ingra who spoke, as she helped Rella back to her feet. Her gentle touch at odds with her earlier brusqueness, she pushed Rella’s hair aside, wiping another smudge of blood off her face while inspecting the new eye. “It is rather striking,” she commented. “I hope your would-be champion likes it. But now, I think you are out of time.”

“You cannot stay much longer, or it will begin to damage your mind, eye of a god or not,” added Ruga.

“Only a few minutes will have passed in the waking world,” said Koma.

“I know,” she told them, the pain fading and part of the Sight beginning to return. “I have one more bit of business to take care of before I wake.” She held up her left hand, the flickering image of an eye coming to life on her palm. “The seal is activating. I guess I’ll know soon enough if you were right, Koma.”

With a burst of will guided by her newly-improved Sight, Rella stepped through the dream to another place. Smokey images of walls still dripping with blood formed around the blurred, yet familiar shape cradling two forms on the floor. The demon wept, and the Seal on the back of Zizzy’s hand flashed brilliant white.

The light brought the room into vivid detail, and the constable saw Rella standing there.

“Who? How? You’re here, yet not!” exclaimed the succubus.

“It’s time to make a choice, Ix’zizzixtrim,” the young [Oracle] intoned.

“What choice?” Zizzy moaned. “I failed. I was too slow, and he managed to trigger an evolution into something even stronger. Wouldn’t the Paladins serve you better now?”

“They’re much slower than you. They don’t have a chance to catch him now. But would you still take him, had you the chance?”

Zizzy flapped her remaining wing with a belated sigh of resignation. “Of course, but it will be days before I regenerate,” she groaned, indicating the amputated limb, “even if I feed first.”

“Enough self-loathing, demon!” Rella barked. She thrust her hand forward, the dream-limb sliding smoothly into the constable’s chest. The succubus’ lips parted in a soundless gasp as Rella’s hand took hold of the chains binding the demon’s heart, forcing her to lock eyes with the [Oracle]. Her new eye, in its wisdom, showed Rella exactly how to loosen the chains—and in the span of a heartbeat, her geas lay half undone. “Were you unbound, would you still pursue him?”

The succubus strained and flailed, clawing at Rella’s arm in blind panic, until what Rella had said impressed itself upon her. Zizzy’s arms went limp around Rella’s, and she licked suddenly dry lips. “You can’t possibly mean—?”

“I mean exactly what I said, Constable. I’ve made my Choice. It’s time for you to make yours.”

The [Oracle] twisted the last link with a deft gesture, and runes the color of weeks-old blood drew themselves into scarlet ribbons around the succubus. Rella withdrew her arm and stepped back, letting Zizzy collapse to the floor. The demon’s missing wing regrew in fits and starts under the guiding hand of her unbound nature, as a pulsing drumbeat rose to fill the room.

Her broken back healed itself in a series of grotesque snaps and cracks, wrenching sobs from the demon as she found herself wracked with changes she hadn’t felt in an age. Infernal light shone from her eyes as the drumbeat grew to a physical thing. Her arms lengthened into inhumanity, hands elongating into vicious talons. She looked down at them in wonder as her veins began to pulse, glowing a hellish orange as the fires, long dormant, once again rose inside her. As her Warden uniform burned to cinders, Zizzy let out a scream, half in agony, and half in demonic fury.

What rose moments later was not Zizzy, the succubus constable of Stormbreak.

“Make your choice,” the [Oracle] demanded. “Ix’zizzixtrim the Unbound—choose now how your Story will be remembered!”

“Not…one…more,” the towering figure growled, muscles jumping and quivering. “He takes not one more!”

The [Oracle] regarded the enraged demon before her, smiling bloodlessly. One human eye and one starlit orb met the challenge of a pair of demonic slits and held them fast.

“Then, rise!” she Commanded. “[Crimson Ruin], [Defiler’s Nemesis], rise and take wing!”

The roof of the building erupted, throwing masonry and massive chunks of wood into the air as Zizzy took flight, hurling herself skyward on massive beats of fiery wings. As the vision faded, Rella could hear screams and shouts of fear and panic, but those would pass in time.

She swam back to the waking world for the span of a few heartbeats, long enough to feel anew the searing pain in her replaced eye, and to see three panicked faces above her. Two golden-haired girls stood to one side, terrified, their eyes wide and shining. A handsome young man with a familiarly crooked nose stood to the other, his eyes dry, but no less shocked. All three were spattered with blood.

Then, sleep took her—and this time, she did not dream.

Chapter 28: Crimson Ruin

Lord-Commander Terrick stood on the uppermost balcony of Wardenholt, the Warden’s traditional headquarters, looking down over the city of Stormbreak. A nervous pall lay over the entire city, an aura of uncertain dread over what was to come. From his vantage point he could see where several rows of tenements had recently been demolished and the rubble cleared away to expose the lines of an ancient section of the Stormbreak Array. Over the course of the two centuries since the last time the entire array had been needed, the citizens had forgotten it, and construction had spread atop its expanse. Now that the time had come again, all of it had to be cleared away. Notwithstanding the fact that charging the array might destroy the buildings anyway, it had to be inspected before the mages of the Hold could risk reactivating it. The lower offices of the Wardens had been awash with complaints for weeks, and Terrick had been prepared to issue standing orders to arrest the angriest ringleaders. Such threats proved unnecessary, once the Storm Breakers completed their assessment and began linking the array together.

Outrage gave way to awestruck fear as swirls of lightning began to coalesce above the nodes, and the tenuously leashed display took the will out of the protesters. Even those shopkeepers who hadn’t been involved with the protests edged their wares away from the roiling vortices. Now that the array was gathering energy, Terrick could begin to make out the pattern of the enchantment laying beneath the stones. Though not a mage himself, his class dealt with Mana enough that he had some limited grasp, and even to his half-opened senses, the air seemed to hum with ancient energy—and he knew it was far worse for the actual spellcasters.

As awe-inspiring as the work the Storm Breakers were doing was, no less so was what they hoped to counter by their efforts. The western sky was filled with grim, black clouds, lit from within by dread power in a riot of every imaginable color. It was rare for a storm to be more than a dot on the horizon, a far-off challenge to the Storm Breakers’ power. Lesser firings of the array were usually sufficient to shatter the cloud formations into smaller, far less dangerous squalls that dissipated long before they threatened even the least-equipped merchant convoy or fisherman fleet.

History attested to more threatening storms, of course; though the city’s archives were spotty and incomplete, with only scattered clues as to the storm systems’ origin, it was obvious to anyone caring to look that they were by no means natural. Appearing every year from beyond the western horizon, they waxed and waned with the seasons, growing most powerful in the summer, and fading into nothingness with winter’s chill. Something drove them out of the west, far beyond the sight of even the most daring scouts. Rumor and superstition offered a thousand tales to explain them, but such speculation was a luxury the Breakers could ill afford, especially now.

Terrick looked down, not at the city below, but at a silver disk in his palm. Slightly larger across than the gold coins that mediated trade in the merchants’ sector below, it was inset with a wickedly gleaming red gem that lent the whole an uncomfortable warmth. It represented a contingency, one he hoped would never be needed in his lifetime. But what we want to be and what comes to pass are ever at odds. He closed his fingers around the disk, the thought like bitter poison in his mind as he tucked it into a pouch on his belt.

“Sir!”

The shout and sound of footsteps broke him from his reverie, and he turned to see his secretary approach, clutching a notebook under one arm. “Latest reports are in by way of the old semaphore towers, sir!”

“Thank you, Megyn,” Terrick responded. “The array is simply drawing too much magic around the island to scry through. How bad is it?”

His assistant wore a confused expression and didn’t respond immediately, a sign the news was different than either had been expecting. It had been several weeks since the constable had vanished in a welter of fire and mayhem, and Terrick had been silently dreading reports of slaughter and bloodshed at the hands of another monster alongside The Defiler. Sightings had been sporadic and impossible to confirm, villages all over the interior of the island sending messages telling of bursts of flame in the night and screams in the wilderness. An unbound demon had the potential to be only marginally better than The Defiler, and many had been Terrick’s nightmares where he ended up having to put Zizzy down.

“There’ve been no murders even remotely resembling The Defiler’s work since she fought him at Ridgewater. There was a copycat near the Pine Lodge crossroads, but the lieutenant stationed at the village has experience with tracking magics and sniffed out the bastard. He’s on his way to the Pillar after confessing.”

Terrick only just managed to stop himself from sagging in relief. “So she’s keeping him away from more victims instead of rampaging on her own.”

“That’s the good news, sir.” Megyn seemed reluctant to continue. The girl was newly classed and not yet accustomed to working as his [Secretary], but Terrick knew one couldn’t level easily without actually doing the things aligned with their class archetype, so he softened his tone to put her at ease.

“I’m not one to kill the messenger, Megyn. Just breathe, and finish your report.”

The young woman closed her eyes and took a breath, then glanced down at the notebook she held.

“Reports from Highfort Ruins confirm its destruction. Mages sent to investigate reported substantial traces of hellfire burned into the stone. The bridge over Thunderfall Gap will need repairs as well.” She glanced up at Terrick, then back down to her report. “Commander Danram was close enough to three of the sightings to give us more; he sends word from the Pillar that he believes she’s wearing him down. But, sir…he also thinks he’s heading for the Isle.” She fidgeted in place, looking up.

Terrick nodded his agreement with the analysis. “Even the non-mages and classless can feel the array for hundreds of miles. He has to be hungry for magic, and the central array must be like a second sun to his senses.”

“I thought the array drew on the ley lines beneath the island, sir…”

“It does,” Terrick acknowledged, “but it can’t use that magic while it’s down there. The nodes of the array act like a siphon, bringing it up and concentrating it into something the Breakers can actually use. A [Mage-Eater] couldn’t touch a ley line, but once the magic is on the surface, they could feed on it unimpeded.”

The storm-shadowed skies flashed a brilliant gold several times in rapid succession, and even the dampening enchantments around Stormbreak Hold were insufficient to completely muffle the sound. Low rumbles shook the air, felt in the chest more than heard by the ears. The array was approaching full charge, and the Breakers had to keep the swirling energies balanced while the power gathered. At least, that’s what Terrick assumed. His own knowledge of actual magecraft was largely academic outside the enchantments his class used, as he had no use for outwardly-directed spells.

“The last sighting was at Thunderfall, near the bridge,” Megyn continued after a moment. “It’s only three days by cart, so he could be in the city already!”

Terrick rubbed his chin, thoughtful for several long moments. “I don’t think they’ve reached the city yet,” he disagreed. “Both the [Mage-Eater] and the constable would gain strength from the magic being drawn into the city, and noticeably so. I doubt they’ll be able to hide when they arrive, either one of them.” They fell silent, looking out over the city.

The evening sun backlit the dark clouds to the west, an approaching wall the city had been dreading for months. The sky over the city itself was clear, but high winds drove waves across the harbor, and whipped between the buildings and down the streets. The island’s fishing fleets and merchant vessels had been pulled into drydocks, where space was available and the captains had coin to pay, but many were stuck in the harbor. Only the truly insane would risk a run to the mainland with such a storm bearing down. Many ships had been put to anchor in the bay, sails stripped, and sometimes even unstepping the masts. The Breakers had held the storms at bay for over a millennium, but the fear was palpable, despite their track record for reliability.

Megyn began to fidget, waiting for him to continue or dismiss her, as he stared out over the city. He turned, gesturing for her to follow him into the Wardens’ offices. “Looks to be a long night. Time to brief the night shift before they relieve the current guards.”

“All our mages are helping the Breakers,” his secretary said. “We’ve deputized just about everyone in good standing with the courts who has melee skills and experience to guard the nodes while the Breakers charge the array.”

Terrick strode into the central hall of the Wardens’ office, keeping his face calm as officers and deputies of Stormbreak’s different districts turned to face the lord-commander. “I’ll keep it short,” he said simply, not needing to raise his voice. “We expect The Defiler at any moment. There’s no way to predict where he may show up in the city, but it’s almost certain the constable will be right on his heels, if the reports from the rest of the island are anything to go by.”

He looked at the assembled officers and deputies, veterans and rookies both. “Do not, under any circumstance, try to cast a spell at the [Mage-Eater]. Enhancements and self-augmentation should be safer, but rely on physical skills and abilities as much as you can.”

One of the older sergeants spoke up, asking the question the younger and less experienced Wardens were afraid to voice. “Rules of engagement, sir?”

His response was swift and certain. “Kill on sight. Do not try to detain. We’re to put him down if possible, and keep him away from civilians to the best of our abilities.”

“And the constable? Rumor has it she’s broken her bindings.”

“Let me deal with Constable Zizzy. If she’s capable of being reasoned with, there shouldn’t be any issue. If she’s truly gone berserk…then there’s not much we can do but be as quick and merciful as possible. She deserves that much for her service.”

More than a few of those assembled expressed relief at the last statement. Many had joined the Wardens after Zizzy had saved them from some disaster or another, Terrick included. The possibility of having to fight someone who had been a fixture of so many lives wasn’t something the Wardens could countenance lightly. After dismissing them to their duties, the lord-commander headed for his own office.

A young boy waited by the door to his chambers—a messenger, judging by his well-worn boots and letter-pouch on his belt. He seemed extremely anxious, but too fearful of the Wardens to interrupt. Terrick stopped before the door and smiled kindly at the boy.

“You have a message, son? We don’t bite without cause.”

“Not scared of Wardens, sir; the Temple sent me. It’s Father Janim, the Diviner. They say he’s trying to do an Augury, but he’s too old!”

Terrick’s heart skipped a beat at the boy’s proclamation. “Go,” he said crisply. “I’ll be right there.” The boy took off running for the main doors, and the lord-commander continued toward his office. Shoving the door open, he threw on his coat and adjusted his sword belt. No carts or horses traversed the high streets of the upper district; the flask he snatched up from his desk contained a restorative brew to help him with the sprint he would need to make. Megyn raised a hand to ask him something on his way back out, but sat back and remained quiet when she saw his face as he passed the reception area.

He kept himself calm all the way down the upper street terrace, far above the city below. A Mana-lift transfer station allowed passage between the Wardens’ cliffside tower and the upper district, and what seemed like an eternity passed entirely too slowly while he waited for the platform to cross the gap. Janim! What are you thinking? You old fool!

His thoughts were bitter. Terrick and Janim had been like brothers once, pulled out of a burning warehouse by a certain constable…one hereditarily immune to fire. She’d shielded over a dozen children to bring them out of their own personal hell, one of her earlier accomplishments after the council had finally agreed to allow her to serve the city in exchange for feeding her; a bargain Terrick had felt Zizzy had repaid the city thousands of times over.

He put his thoughts aside as the platform slid to a standstill with a quiet whisper, locking in place on the city side of the gap in the cliffs. He started with a light jog to loosen up old muscles that, he had to admit, didn’t get as much exercise as they needed at his age, then relaxed into a steady run. The streets were deserted, a combination of the nervous anticipation that had infected the city, and the late hour. The glowing runic nodes every few blocks cast an eerie, golden light and threw sections of the street into deep shadow. He crossed a footbridge that led to a fork: the right-hand road hugged the cliffside and led into the lowest residential section of the Upper District, where Zizzy kept house; the left cut through a gap in the cliff, the forked tines of Stormbreak Hold visible on the other side, arcs of golden lightning rippling up their length.

Turning into the gap, Terrick finally used a Skill. [Phase Dash] cost him a healthy amount of Stamina, but closed merchant stalls and shuttered houses passed in a blur and a rush of wind. The sound barely registered in his ears, the familiar effect of his skill shielding him from being buffeted by the air as it was shunted aside to allow him passage. Trained mages could formulate spells with similar effects, but the inherent skill was a rare one he had learned while working as a delivery boy in his own youth before gaining his Class. Continued use of [Phase Dash] brought him closer and closer to his destination.

The temple itself was layered with protective wards and had its own guards; the two at the door drew their blades partially from their sheaths as Terrick appeared out of thin air. People milled about just inside the gates, as did several more of the temple guards. They weren’t career soldiers, merely older, retired classers who’d taken an easy posting for quiet work and the meager stipend; they didn’t seem to know what to do about a crisis that wasn’t an actual attack. An older priestess sat on the steps, her saddened expression telling Terrick all he didn’t want to know.

“He’s asking for you,” she said quietly.

“I’m too late to stop it?”

“He waited until the atrium was empty after evening bell for supper. Blocked the doors with one of the pews; nobody expected him to skip a meal. He claimed he had to, but…his heart couldn’t take it. The healers say his regen is simply not enough to sustain him.”

“Blocked the door with one of the pews?” Terrick asked disbelievingly. “Those heavy iron-oak bastards?”

“It was always easy to forget how strong he was in his prime, you know.” The priestess chuckled grimly. “Go on, he’s waiting for you, and the elixir will wear off soon. I don’t need divination to know what will happen then.”

He strode past the priestess, up the steps, and through the main doors. Supplicants and temple staff alike packed the hall, the doors to the temple atrium standing half-ajar with a broken pew leaning to one side. He could hear his old friend fussing before he closed half the distance.

“Move aside, you slack-jawed goblinspawn! Terrick’s here! And I need to tell him!”

“He’s almost here and you know it, now lay back so you don’t burn through the elixir any faster than you have to,” a quietly commanding voice responded.

“I’ve known the moment of my death for days, you old hag! Terrick!” The portly priest was shouting by the time he called Terrick’s name. The sad truth of recovery elixirs was, even if they weren’t enough to restore a patient to health, they still made a person feel restored. Until, that is, they wore off. Many had been the adventurer who, under the false aegis of a healing potion, had refused treatment only to die of what proved to be mortal wounds after the tonics wore off.

“Calm down, old man, I’m here.” Terrick spoke with a joviality he didn’t truly feel, but his friend deserved more than anger in his last moments. “Was this truly the only way?”

“Bah,” retorted the dying priest. “I’ve been dreaming my death for weeks; knew today was the day for a while now. And there’s things you need to know. I wasn’t going to survive to see tomorrow’s dawn regardless.”

“You’d say that either way, old friend.”

“Regardless, you need to know.” Janim pushed a fussing temple acolyte away after repeating himself, and struggled upright, using the altar for support and pushing his scrying orb and incense chalice out of the way. Ritualized divination was a Stamina- and Mana-intensive ordeal, and the circle drawn in chalk on the floor still glowed with traces of the old diviner’s magic. “The Defiler.”

Terrick crouched down next to his friend, concern and grief sequestered in the name of duty. “Go on.”

“He’s not coming for the city, Terrick. The array’s been pulling in Mana from the ley lines under the island, and he’s following one while getting stronger. That’s how he’s gotten ahead of the constable.”

“Is she not drawing from the ambient magic as well?”

“She is, yes, but not as quickly. And your Warden’s contingency is useless. The [Oracle] herself sundered the chains of the Geas, both the summoner’s bindings and the Bloodbind Gem the council demanded when they let her join the Wardens.”

Janim coughed suddenly, the intensity fading from his voice as he slumped against the altar. “I guess the potion is wearing off. You have to hold him off until the constable arrives.”

“Where? You said he’s following—”

“The ley lines!” Janim responded, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity. “They all run to—” The priest wheezed, rapidly growing too tired to continue.

A dull horror worked its way into Terrick’s voice. “Stormbreak Hold. The circle under the spires.”

“You don’t have to worry about the constable, Terrick,” Janim said quietly, mortality robbing his voice of power. “Succubi all want to be mothers, and their damnation…is that they can never bear children. Zizzy sees us, all of us she saved, as her children. She won’t…can’t harm us.”

“And The Defiler…” Terrick’s sadness broke through in his words.

“He killed children, Terrick,” gasped the priest. Even on the verge of death, the old man managed a vicious grin. “Just hold him off until she catches up.” He coughed, breath starting to come more rapidly. “I’m glad I get to go first…to show her the way…” His grin gave way to a beatific smile as he turned his eyes to the ceiling.

And then the light faded from his eyes and Janim slouched, his head drooping as his last breath rattled out of his lungs. The healer who’d been trying to ease the priest’s last moments stood in shock. “The—” He choked on the words.

“Yes, The Defiler. He warned me in time,” replied Terrick, pulling the bottle from his belt and taking several long draws of the bitter solution. Standard practice among apothecary and alchemist classes was to make such brews taste strongly medicinal to keep people from abusing them without need, but need was what he had today. “Send runners,” he instructed. “All you have here, to all the nodes. All available men are to make for the Hold immediately.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring at the motionless healer, the bitter tincture roughening his words even above his intent. “Don’t gape at me like a fish, man! Send word, the Wardens! To Stormbreak Hold!”

The healer recoiled as if slapped, backing away before shouting for messengers. Terrick knelt down and closed Janim’s eyes. “You told me in time, old friend. Sleep easy.” He didn’t wait any longer, activating [Phase Dash] while still within the temple. It had been years since he’d had reason to use it twice in one day, and months since he’d used it at all. He ignored the aches in his legs, refusing to admit he was even older than Janim. He cleared the front steps of the temple on his way out the door, a muted thunderclap following in his wake as his heels slammed into the flagstones to launch himself down the approach. From the Temple to the main boulevard of the Upper District took him less than a handful of heartbeats, and his momentum carried him into the side of a shuttered brick storefront as he made the turn at speed. His boots left cracked imprints in the stone wall as he kicked off to sprint toward Stormbreak Hold.

I’m sure I just woke somebody up in there, he thought with a twinge of amusement. He had no time to stop and express his apologies, however. He raced onward, up the low hill upon which sat Stormbreak Hold itself. Magic pulsed in the air and in the ground, and even his mastered [Phase Dash] skill was beginning to have trouble pushing the Mana aside. Three swirling bands of energy flowed in twisting ribbons from larger nodes in the lower parts of the city, spiraling through the air to connect to the front of the building. They crackled and spat like lightning, but the flow of Mana pulled the sparks back into line before they could drop to the ground. As he approached the Hold, nothing appeared amiss, so Terrick ran to the left, circling the structure. Arcs of Mana flowed into the building from all sides, and as he rounded the corner to the south face, he noticed that one such arc was weaker than its mates, flickering worryingly.

He slowed to a stop, seeing nothing wrong with the building itself. [Phase Dash] fading left him feeling slightly drained, and he took another swig from the bottle on his hip. He could hear alarm bells in the distance and stopped himself just short of following the flickering Mana-stream into the boulder-strewn hills and ravines that lead south into the interior of the island. Above the hold itself, a vortex had formed between the three forked spires, and the Mana began to flow faster, crawling up the building to feed it. Two figures in the signature grey-and-green warden uniforms came dashing out of a side entrance, baring steel before recognizing their commander.

“He’s coming,” said Terrick. “No spells. Be ready.”

Both Wardens saluted before falling into step to his left. The sky to the south was lit in eerie red hues, as though a fire raged just beyond the horizon. “Sir! I thought he didn’t have magic of his own!”

“He doesn’t,” Terrick replied with a smile. Hellfire had a familiar tint that was unmistakable to any who’d ever witnessed it. “We just have to hold him for the constable. She grows stronger as well.”

“Are you sure she can take him?” the third warden asked. Terrick answered with his blade and another Skill, [Quickstep], turning on his heel and stepping a pace to the side. His dueling blade parted the air with a snapping whistle as it crossed where The Defiler’s neck had been a fraction of a moment before. The [Mage-Eater] dropped its glamour as it realized Terrick had seen through it. “More observant than the others,” it growled at him. The form was hunched, with elongated arms, seeming to blend into shadows while fighting the light that tried to illuminate its body. “Even that hellfire bitch couldn’t spot me that fast.”

The lord-commander was too slow to stop The Defiler as the beast—having long ago left behind the trappings of humanity for whatever abominable class he’d unlocked—leapt back, and the two younger Wardens dropped to the ground. The twin thumps of their bodies were followed by the twin thumps of their severed heads, eyes widened in their final shock. Terrick raised his sword, relaxing into a practiced stance.

“Whatcha gonna do with that pig-sticker?” The Defiler taunted.

Terrick, Lord-Commander of the Stormbreak Wardens, didn’t grace the beast before him with a reply. The [Spellsabre Duelist] had no need for words at the precipice of battle. He invoked his class abilities, feeling them start to pulse through his body in sync with the beat of his heart. He enjoyed a significant advantage here against a [Mage-Eater]—he was no mage. His Mana stayed within him, not heeding The Defiler’s ravenous hunger.

Bestial eyes gleamed as the monster took a deep breath. The pull intensified, and the flickering Mana stream above it bent, dipping to within a few feet. Sparks flew off and were drawn into that shadowy maw, the beast inhaling the magic; the shadows wreathing its form grew even darker as it set its stance.

“All that time I wasted on children and boring old women. There’s so much fun to have here in this world, and no one to stop me.”

The voice rumbled low and gravelly, barely understandable around the physical changes to the vocal cords. Terrick still didn’t respond, stepping sideways to keep himself between the monster and the building. He could feel the array gaining power, and knew he had to keep his foe away from the vortex. The Defiler paced side to side like a prowling cat, and Terrick met every exploratory lunge with the tip of his blade.

Without warning, the beast charged him, low to the ground and on all fours. Even with [Haste] aiding Terrick’s movements, he barely managed to step aside. His sword flickered out in a riposte, a rapid flurry of strikes, as he danced out of reach and left the monster hamstrung and bleeding, the thick, black ichor sizzling and smoking as it hit the air. He almost got me there, Terrick thought grimly. Can’t let him close; I’m in better shape than Janim, but my own regen isn’t as good as it used to be…

So Terrick danced. A few years younger, a little bit faster, and he might have been able to end it right then and there. But the lord-commander’s beard had been grey for years, and aches and pains in his joints had long been an everyday ordeal instead of the occasional annoyance. It was only decades of experience, and no small bit of luck, that kept him from losing his head when his boot slipped on a bloody patch of stone. He tucked himself into the fall, a clawed hand passing close enough to his head that the wind of its passage tugged at his hair. He rolled back, using [Quickstep] to recover his footing and face The Defiler once again.

“You don’t scare like the others. Finally. Someone worth the trouble, even if you ain’t pretty like the young ones.” Its growling voice seemed somehow respectful.

“A man I considered my brother died a few minutes ago. Compared to that? You’re merely a distraction, a loose end that needs tying off before I move on to actual important things today.” Terrick’s tone was flat and empty, devoid of emotion, his words slow and measured. It mocked The Defiler in its matter-of-fact delivery, the Warden refusing to take the bait. The Defiler abandoned conversation with a blindingly fast leap forward.

But the lord-commander’s words had been slow and measured because, to his own perception, he was already moving extremely fast. The [Spellsabre Duelist] didn’t engage in flashy spellwork like a [Mage]; his magic was focused inward, and he’d activated another skill the moment the beast had been revealed. Terrick saw the monster approach in slow motion from the effects of his own internal [Haste] skill. The skill was much more Mana-intensive than [Phase Dash], and it was something he had to use sparingly at his age, with his reduced regeneration. But its usefulness was undeniable; it permitted him to take measured steps sideways and back while ducking under the onrushing arm, talons seeking his heart. His sword came up, flicked down, then came up again. The arcing magic overhead flashed. The blade swept sideways, then back and down again.

He let [Haste] fade away, panting to catch his breath. The Defiler had managed to avoid being decapitated, but four distinct pieces of one arm and a gnarled and disfigured foot lay on the ground. The beast itself thrashed in mixed fury and agony, its gurgling snarls painting the stones with sprays of ichor. It rolled away from the Warden, rage boosting its speed. Its severed limbs were already growing back as it lurched upright. The shadows around it deepened as it inhaled again, and the band of glowing magic above them snapped.

The Defiler gulped down the raw Mana, growing larger and more hideous. When the ribbon of light connected to the building snapped back into place, the stone erupted. Terrick could hear screams from inside the breached wall, and the vortex above began to wobble dangerously. Thunderous cracks and explosive shards of magic flew off in all directions as it bounced between the tines.

The monster heaved on all fours, gasping, gravelling breaths. “I don’t know why you people would build such a thing, and I don’t care. I think I’m gonna stay here after I kill you all, and just keep eating the magic. Do you think there’s enough to make me a god? I might leave then, go back to my old world to have some fun.”

Terrick kept his eyes on the beast as the golden light began to shift into a deeper red that cast a vivid sunset hue on the courtyard. He brandished his blade, letting his Magic flow into the steel. The Defiler watched the blade with wary eyes, already cut more than once. “You don’t throw your magic,” it observed carefully. “You hold it. But that won’t save you, it just means I have to get closer.”

“Try me, beast.” Terrick gave a flourish, letting his sword go from fiery red to icy blue. The roaring cyclone of power above the magical fortress drowned out the approaching wingbeats, and he grinned with savage triumph. Just as the creature was readying itself to leap again, an enraged and empowered Constable Zizzy slammed into the middle of its back with both feet. Most of her uniform had been burned away, but her boots had been made of sturdier material than the rest of her attire. The unbound demon descended upon The Defiler with enough force to shatter the pavement and drop it two feet below the roadbed.

Terrick stumbled back, fearing she’d destabilized the array even further. Several [Mages] had already reinforced the broken wall, shoving the rubble away and shoring up the damaged section on either side. It left the interior of Stormbreak Hold open to view, where over a dozen robed figures stood around a massive table displaying a map of the island and its surroundings, above which floated a series of concentric bronze rings.

The constable screamed, primal fury given a terrible voice. She, too, had been drawing on the gathered magic to grow stronger—and it showed. Every beat of her wings shed sparks of hellfire that lingered on the stones and burned tracers into Terrick’s vision. She was a living inferno, an ember hellstorm writ in crimson flames, and The Defiler screamed in return as those flames burned into its back.

The beast inhaled, and instead of the arcing Mana of the array, it was Zizzy’s hellfire that flowed into its maw. It screamed again as the fires began to burn it from the inside, and the laugh that came from the succubus chilled Terrick’s spine despite the growing heat. Her laughter was short-lived, however, as the flames glowing within the monster’s chest began to darken and dim. The fire went from crimson to black, shadows growing as The Defiler gave a grim chuckle. A shadow-wreathed hand snapped up and latched around the succubus’s neck, and then slammed her into the ground once, twice, a third and fourth time before the monster stood up.

“I ripped one of your wings off already,” it growled. “If I take both, will they stay gone this time?”

Zizzy tried to roll away, her crushed face already beginning to heal, the broken nose and flattened mouth crunching as bones shifted into place and regrew. The Defiler reached down and picked her up by one ankle to stop her escape, swinging her up and overhead to slam her back down into the ground. This time, the heavy wooden door that had once adorned the wall of the Hold broke her fall. It splintered but didn’t break, and the beast pushed her face-first into it as it straddled her shattered form. Terrick felt hope begin to die as it wrapped one arm around Zizzy’s neck, pulling her head back. A beheading was a sure-fire way to banish a demon.

Zizzy’s eyes met his, and she smiled—and laughed. Her skin blurred, and her broken legs suddenly snapped backward around the monster’s waist, locking together by her ankles. Her arms likewise encircled the grotesque form as her face melted away to reappear nose-to-nose with The Defiler. “Mine now,” she breathed at him, voice husky with a desire that knocked Terrick back from almost twenty paces away.

And then the constable Kissed The Defiler.

Intimacy and lethality had never been so closely intertwined as in the case of a Succubus and her Kiss; it attracted and repelled at the same time, a sensuously deadly display that weakened the knees and averted the gaze. Terrick’s cheeks burned hot to behold it as Zizzy devoured the beast from the inside, setting aflame what she did not consume. The Defiler tried to pull his face away from hers, but to no avail. The monster seemed to shrivel as the demon fed. A thread of burning black energies trailed out of its mouth as the constable inhaled, her expression languid and almost sleepy, her own fires brightening to a vivid crimson as the shadowed flames of her prey dimmed and faded. With one final, exhausted gasp, the last of its life vanished into her mouth. Terrick found himself unable to stand, shaken by the sight. He’d never before witnessed the constable in the act of feeding.

She sat there then, cradling the dried-out husk of what had been The Defiler, seeming to luxuriate in the afterglow of her effort. She sprawled on the ruined wooden door like a courtesan on her bed, oblivious to the splintered edges gouging her skin. The remnants of her uniform were merely singed tatters that did nothing to preserve her modesty, but he could see that the badge remained affixed to the last remnants of her tunic. Neither the Demon nor the lord-commander had any words for the moment, one threat ended—but the future left uncertain. The destabilized vortex of energies swirled with magical violence above, and the tines of the three forked spires groaned audibly while lightning flashed overhead. Zizzy shoved the desiccated corpse to the side, flowing up to her feet with a graceful flick of her wings. Decency was restored as her demonic glamour regrew the image of her uniform around her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said to Terrick. “I’m still me, even unbound.”

He grinned back at her, lurching to his feet and dusting himself off. “You never can tell. You’re a Warden yourself; you know what I’m thinking.”

Before she could respond, a pair of robed figures came rushing out of Stormbreak Hold, stepping across the rubble to approach Terrick and the constable. mana crystals floated around the Storm Breakers inside the building, and coruscating ribbons of power circled the team controlling the Array.

“The array is destabilizing, Lord-Commander! We don’t have enough power to keep it under control!” said one of the wizards, the golden brooch with the broken storm emblem gleaming on her collar. “The arch-master and the rest of us will hold it as long as we can, but you need to evacuate the island. The city, at the very least; when we lose the array, it’ll take the whole mountaintop with it!”

“Someone needs to send word to the mainland, if anyone survives,” continued her male counterpart, his face ashen with fear. “He must have damaged one of the southern nodes, and the backlash from blowing the wall didn’t help, either. But we don’t have enough power to be sure—when it blows, it’s just as likely to make the storm worse as it is to split it up.”

Zizzy had simply stood there, staring up at the vortex while the mages gave their report to Terrick. She seemed unfazed by the dread news, while his heart twinged in fear for the people of the island. And the mainland, too; the Mana-Storm was worse than any in living memory, rivalled only by dim legend. The only reason he hadn’t already taken off running was that there simply was no time. Not for an evacuation, even if the Breakers could hold the Array for an entire day. If there were a Wavecutter from the Swiftwater Guild at the docks, he could possibly at least get a message out. But one ship could never take enough people to make a difference in the coming destruction. Terrick opened his mouth, not entirely sure what his next orders—his last orders—would be.

He was saved, however, by a sensuous voice. “If you had more power, would it work?”

Terrick and both mages turned to look at Zizzy as she spoke. She never looked away from the vortex, her wings rustling gently while her tail flicked back and forth, much like a cat’s.

“You said you don’t have enough power to fire it. It’s destabilized, and gonna blow the island, right? So…if you had enough power, everything would be alright?”

“Uh…Yes, that’s technically true,” said the woman, “but there aren’t enough Mana Potions or crystal wells and other artifacts on the entire Island to make a difference.”

The constable shook her wings and stretched languorously before turning to face Terrick. “It’s just a matter of time before the council has me banished, you know. They won’t risk an Unbound, and I won’t fight them.”

“What do you mean? You’ve earned your place here! Saved so many!” The words scraped their way out of his throat, and he’d crossed half the distance before she rose into the air and out of his reach.

“I did save a lot. My kind have no children, Terrick…but I have hundreds.” Her face looked serene, voice calm and relaxed as she spoke. “I hope all of you remember me. Demons don’t get Stories. And no one would remember me if all of you die.”

Before he could say another word, Zizzy shot upward, great beats of her fiery wings bearing her skyward, level with the tips of the spires, and then higher still. She hung there a moment, with Stormbreak Isle spread below her.

Then she heeled over and dove between the spires, a red aura wrapping around her and granting her a comet-like tail as she plunged into the vortex’s heart. The golden bands writhed and changed color to a deep red, before brightening to a hellish crimson.

Terrick could only watch, mouth agape, as the vortex howled like the demon who had just fed it, bolts of crimson lashing between all three forks. It stopped wobbling, holding steady and pulsing like a great and terrible heart. Its spin stabilized, growing faster with each passing moment.

The Storm Breakers around the table stood straighter, galvanized by the sudden infusion. “It’s working!” one of them called from her position. Terrick could barely hear her, but evidence of her words was abundant as traces of sulphurous light crawled up the tines, the underlying array saturated with hellfire.

As the vortex shrank, the mages raised their arms in unison, the arch-master’s cowl falling back to reveal a shock of yellow-grey hair atop intensely focused eyes. A silver sphere grew into existence between his hands, covered in thousands of tiny runes which glowed to match the fires of the constable’s sacrifice. He floated it over the table, positioning it above one particular section of the grey, stormy mass.

“Targeting is set!” he called, voice partially muffled by the wind. “Make ready to fire the Array!” Power thrummed beneath the mages, and before Terrick had a chance to shield his eyes, night turned to day.

The vortex squeezed tighter still, then shot away like a great lance, shattering the acoustic enchantments and setting the entire island to shuddering. A solid, red-gold blade of light sliced its way through the air, rocketing toward the west to banish the darkness.

The sound of the Array’s firing had been as a physical blow, and it had flattened the lord-commander and the two mages unfortunate enough to be outside the hold. Terrick clambered back to his feet, ears ringing. The spires above Stormbreak Hold had already begun to fade into dormancy, the magic returning to the subterranean ley lines now that its purpose had been fulfilled. Inside the hall, the arch-master leaned against the table, the other mages variously sitting or lying on the ground and trying to catch their breath. The man seemed older than Terrick had ever seen him, the effort wizening him. His hearing had recovered just enough to make out the man’s words as he spoke, surveying the table:

“It is done,” he said in wonder. “We’re not out of the woods…but the Worldstorm has been broken.”

As if that had been what he was waiting for, the arch-master collapsed to the ground.

Terrick, Lord-Commander of the Stormbreak Wardens, grieved in silence.

Chapter 29: Bounty of the Wilds

Morgan Mackenzie, flush with pride at her latest accomplishment, was eating honey. In addition to being delicious, the honey also carried medicinal properties, which ended up being a happy discovery after she’d fought a swarm of [Sting-Flinger Bees] to claim her prize. Welts adorned her left flank and backside, and while her healing abilities meant the wounds wouldn’t be life-threatening, the toxins had proven persistent—and quite itchy. The itching was the worst, and unfortunately, the System was quiet on the subject of resistances, so it seemed Morgan would have to simply grin and bear it.

The honey had shone with a golden light when she passed it in the forest, her [Primal Instinct] lighting it in stark contrast to the greens and browns that most often colored the woodlands, giving it the appearance of so many glittering jewels. With honey came bees, Morgan knew, so her time-granted confidence was tempered with a certain amount of caution as she approached: she’d encountered the bees before, and knew that even a single fist-sized bee, with its burst-fire ranged attack and powerful sting, could prove troublesome.

It wasn’t just one, however. The first scout became five, and five quickly became dozens. The sweet honey was such a welcome break from her too-savory diet of meats and nuts that Morgan dispatched the scouts with an almost-negligent blast of flame before reaching out with both arms to snap off a section of honeycomb for later.

She’d just managed to prise off a piece bigger than her head when she began to hear an unearthly roar rise from the forest around her, as seemingly thousands of angered insects boiled out from the trees. Her shields had failed under the furious assault almost before she managed to store the honeycomb in one of her runes—each individual impact barely caused her shield to flicker, but thousands in the space of moments overwhelmed her. With a panicked yelp, she’d loosed her fire, but this time she kept it within inches of her skin. For several reasons, she had no desire to annihilate the hive: for one thing, the bees were simply obeying their instincts and trying to drive out an intruder. For another (and more saliently, Morgan admitted), she wanted to be able to return in the future and claim more honey now that she knew where to find it. The [Skyclad Sorceress] had shimmied down the trunk and ran out along one of the larger branches, trying to get away from the bees before she took enough impacts to actually become a problem.

And then the hive queen arrived, accompanied by an escort of drones. Rather than attack, the drones formed a living barrier around the monarch. The queen, for her part, launched volley after volley of explosive projectiles at Morgan, which she was barely able to dodge in time to avoid serious damage. The branch she’d been running along fared significantly worse, and any creatures in earshot were given a vociferous, entirely involuntary education in Earth profanity as Morgan fell to the ground below.

Using [Terrakinesis], she’d pulled an earthen dome over herself, then burrowed into the ground to give herself some breathing room. The bees’ stingers had quickly given rise to itchy, painful welts just in the short span of time she’d spent escaping. Morgan had reached back and rubbed her wounds, and with her hands still sticky from the honey, she discovered its medicinal properties. As the soothing numbness settled into her flesh, she sighed in relief.

“Bet this’ll be worth quite a bit to people…if I ever find people,” she amended, her mood taking a brief turn. She resumed burrowing her way through the earth, looking to put more distance between herself and the hive—no doubt the bees were still furiously angry and searching for their attacker. While it wouldn’t take much to burn the entire hive to the ground, there was no urgent need to do so. She knew where the hive was in relation to her demesne; destroying it would force her farther afield. Her diet had, up to this point, been devoid of anything sweet other than the odd patch of berries or fruit trees she harvested as she moved, and the honey was a welcome addition to her nascent pantry.

She didn’t quite understand why she was feeling a growing urge to stockpile food and fortify her surroundings—to settle down, in other words. She did know that the storms she could see over the northern mountaintops made her very anxious, to the point of nausea; danger signals abounded when she cast her eyes northward to the snow-capped peaks. It wasn’t anything she could put into words, but her best guesses at this point were either terrible monsters, or terrible weather, neither of which she much felt like dealing with out in the open.

Her increasing caloric needs began to drive the point home when it came to stockpiling food, at least. Morgan had to eat frequently if she used her magic, and she was at the point where she used magic nearly without thinking. Her vast resources did nothing to dull the pangs of hunger that plagued her whenever she had to replenish herself, and she now spent almost as much time eating as she did experimenting with new spells. She found she even cast spells while sleeping, which had been a shock—waking up with her stone bed wrapped around her and contoured to her flesh had been one of the stranger experiences she’d had during her time on Anfealt.

She continued licking the honey off of one hand as she burrowed through the earth, refusing to waste any more on soothing her rump and side. It helped, but not entirely, and she didn’t want to squander any more. By this point she was walking upright, parting the earth ahead of her and sealing it behind her as she went. After a few hundred paces (and half her Mana reserves), she began angling her tunnel upward, sure she was far enough from danger. As she neared the topsoil, however, her [Spell Resonance] alerted her to a presence near where she intended to ascend to the surface. She took a couple steps to the side, took a breath, and emerged.

A very startled, very familiar panther leapt into the air as Morgan sprang from the ground a few feet away from where it had been feasting on its recent kill—one of the numerous deer that populated the Wildlands. It chuffed, yowling its annoyance after realizing she wasn’t a threat, and Morgan darted forward to tap it on the nose once more. It had become a running challenge between the two of them, and Morgan so rarely had the opportunity to get the drop on the titanic cat. Her hand, which still bore a coating of honey, left a sticky residue on the beast’s snout, and it nearly went cross-eyed trying to lick it away. Breaking into peals of laughter at the comedic sight, Morgan fled back into the wilderness.

The panther had become a welcome sight during Morgan’s frequent foraging expeditions. It seemed to have staked its own territory somewhere north of hers, and while she was almost certain she could find its lair, given enough time, she would rather not risk intruding on its territory and escalating their encounters beyond their current level. At the moment, it seemed to see her as a cross between a friendly rival and a meal ticket, and it was tolerant enough of her antics. The bare-skinned spellcaster thought that was sufficient for the moment.

The mountains’ shadows had grown long, casting an eerie penumbra over the land by the time she finally reentered her own territory. The path she took followed a winding mountain ledge that ran alongside a gorge cut by a glacial stream that flowed down the mountain. She ducked underneath a tree root that made for a convenient and obvious marker; as she passed, she felt a surge of Mana rise up before the magical ward recognized its mistress and subsided. Anyone or anything that had approached without being Morgan would have received a highly energetic response. As much as she might like to, Morgan had no idea how to make her wards more discriminating; she hadn’t as yet needed to, given how everything she encountered (that wasn’t the panther) was either trying to eat her, or avoid being eaten themselves.

I wish I had people to help me, she mourned.

As impressive as they might have been, the defensive wards were but the least of her magical workings in the valley. The massive spire of gleaming stone that stood in the middle of the valley lake stood as proof positive of her advancements in magical understanding. Sculpted crystal was striated alongside stone worked smoother than the most advanced tooling could manage, and it plunged into the earth to an even greater extent than the two hundred paces that raked the sky. As Morgan walked deeper into her domain, her Mana reserves began to rapidly replenish, the spire acting as a conduit, tapping the deep, slow-flowing river of Mana she’d felt the day she settled in this valley. Here she was free to use her Mana, not entirely without cost, but close. Throughout the Wildlands, the ambient Mana was appropriately wild—raw, primal, and difficult for her to affect. Here, she could use it as if it were her own, her spire reaching down and claiming it on her behalf.

That wasn’t her current destination, however. She skirted the edge of the lake and made her way over a hardened stone bridge that spanned one of the streams that led out of the valley. A short walk through a copse of trees brought her to the place that had inspired her to settle here: a spring-fed pond, uphill and on one side of the valley relative to the central lake. It was a hot spring, too, heated both by geothermal activity and the Mana pooling beneath it, which had given her the idea for her spire. Her [Spell Resonance] had let her sense the edges of it from miles away, and closer examination had revealed its source: ley lines buried deep underground. Far deeper than she would normally be able to tap, but her spire allowed her to reach down and grasp it.

Next to the small pond stood Morgan’s house. Far more intricately detailed than any of the temporary stone hutches she’d left in her wake, the modest two-story stone edifice seemed to grow right out of the ground as though it were a natural formation. The stone itself was a lighter grey than the surrounding boulders; she’d found this material a day’s walk to the north. Finding it calming and easy to look at, she’d spent a period of several days dragging tons of it back to the pond. Definitely worth it, she thought as she let her eyes roam over it once again.

Trilling wurbles and excited purring could be heard as she approached the door, and when she opened it, she was nearly bowled over by a very energetic, basketball-sized loofah. Morgan laughed and rubbed Lulu, trying to push her off.

“Hey! I missed you too!” she exclaimed. “But I’m home now, and I found honey!”

This excited Lulu even more, and she wurbled with glee as she found the honey, cleaning it off of Morgan’s hands. As the loofah circled Morgan, however, it grew agitated when it saw the welts and rashes covering her flank. But what the honey hadn’t managed to fix, Lulu did in short order, with a brisk exfoliation and its own brand of magic. So attended, Lulu subsided to let Morgan inside. The Sorceress had long since learned to take Lulu in stride, no longer wasting energy trying to figure out just how it did what it did. She continued into her house, [Candleflame Runes] igniting in stone embrasures as she passed from room to room. Toward the rear of the house stood a stone double door, and a brief push of her will and a gesture had the doors opening far quieter than their construction would indicate, as if they hung on perfectly oiled hinges.

A short set of stairs brought her to an underground hallway, and at its end lay a broad rotunda with runes set in floor and ceiling alike, glowing softly as Morgan approached. This area was the focus of her efforts, encompassing more space than the house above it. It was a project in constant evolution, supported by magically reinforced stone and made larger through application of her spatial enchantments. Three arches to her left opened into more rooms, and the suggestions of doorways ringed the edges of the space, as if inviting her to complete them.

The three finished rooms were inset with multiple [Glacis Runes], and cold mists eddied around her feet as she stepped through the curtain of Air magic that kept the warmth of the main space out of the chamber. The shelves in this chamber held leaf-wrapped portions of meat harvested from the creatures she’d faced, and what Morgan lacked in butchery skills, she more than made up for in sheer volume. What would have once appeared as a macabre display to a city girl and waitress now looked like security and preparation to the wilderness-tested Sorceress. She pulled more such portions from her storage runes, setting them among her current stockpile as she did every time she returned.

Enough for several months, she decided, unless I have to fight for my life! Nothing burned through her Mana reserves quite like running combat, and while most of the monsters she’d been fighting were simple to deal with, she never let herself drop her guard outside her domain. She’d learned the dear lesson that in the Wildlands, there was always something bigger and meaner to fight—and it would find you if you weren’t careful.

The next room she entered wasn’t as cold, kept at just above freezing. The stone shelves in this chamber were packed with piles of roots, tubers, and other things she had no name for; she called them what they appeared to be from Earth. Potatoes with purple skin and a fluffy texture when baked; giant carrots with skin and flesh the color of radishes; piles of nuts that bore stronger resemblances to their analogues from Earth; and one of her personal favorites, bulbs that resembled onions, but which were larger than watermelons, with a distinctly rich, savory aroma. Everything here was as outsized as everything else in the Wildlands.

Morgan’s attempts to preserve the greens and flowers she found had failed miserably, the plants wilting and growing slimy no matter what she did to adjust the enchantments. She thought, perhaps, that some kind of stasis or time-acceleration enchantment might be possible, as her own [Acceleration] skill was definitely temporal in nature; unfortunately, she’d had no success yet. Maybe when I find people, she thought ruefully as she emptied the rest of her storage runes. After that, only the honeycomb remained. Lulu, who had kept by her heels this entire time, seemed very excited by the sweet stuff, and Morgan hastily fashioned a lidded crock of stone to keep the curious loofah out. Transferring the chunk, however, left Morgan’s hands covered in the golden substance, as well as scattering some on the floor, so Lulu wasn’t as displeased as she might have been.

After a brief pass through the third chamber to empty the rest of her storage runes, and a quick swim in her pond to relax and clean herself on her own, Morgan finally made her way back down to the lake. The spire, a spike of grey and brown stone inset with glittering crystal veins that formed spiraling geometric patterns, reached into the sky over a hundred times taller than the Sorceress stood. She hadn’t gained any spells or skills over the course of its construction, though it was laced throughout with thousands of reinforcing enchantments and a dense lattice of [Mana Link] runes. Despite her lack of advancement, Morgan couldn’t be displeased with it, given what it allowed her to accomplish.

Within her domain, Morgan’s personal Mana expenditure for her spellcraft approached zero, and dwindled more the closer she got to the spire. A stone path led from the lakeshore to a small island, its appearance cast so as to put Morgan in mind of a wooden bridge. Another such bridge led from that first island to a second; from that, however, no bridge issued forth toward the center. Instead she froze the water under her feet, and made her way across a bridge of ice. Her [Frost Resistance] meant the ice was comfortably cool against her bare soles, rather than bringing the sensation of biting cold.

The air grew thicker with Mana as she approached the spire, clinging to her skin and bringing a cloying scent. Once, it had made her light-headed and dizzy to come so close, but she was long accustomed to the sensation. She could no longer remember what it was like to wear clothes, but she imagined the sensation of Mana pressed against her body was similar; oddly comforting in its own way, as if the Mana was giving her a hug. A very energetic, very tingly hug. Static built up through her hair and along her skin, wreathing her in crackling power by the time she reached the steps carved into the spire’s side.

The steps jutted out between lines of crystal carving complex fractal patterns around the structure, neatly avoiding them while still being traversable. The thickness of the Mana in the air dissipated as she ascended, covering a circle nearly fifty paces across at the widest point. A dozen or so paces from the top of the spire, an archway opened into its interior, directly above where she began her climb. Inside, the magic was constrained and confined, no longer playing like eager lightning through the air. Morgan made her way deeper into the interior, through a narrow hallway of stone leading to a hollow sphere.

This is where the Mana in the air had gone; in this space, the Mana was clearly visible and tangible. The sensation of Mana against her skin and through her body was something Morgan had no words to describe. It was almost alive, and she swam through it to reach the center of the space. It hung in the air in lazy, green streams, eddying this way and that. She breathed it, felt it through every centimeter of her being. The spire reached over three hundred paces beneath her feet, down to brush against the nexus of power she’d felt from the very first day she swam in the spring-fed pond by her house. For all the enchantments and latticework layered into her spire, she didn’t have to pull; quite the opposite. The wild magic beneath her was eager for an outlet, and her spellwork served to regulate it, to keep the magic smooth and in control. The confluence of power deep underground pulsed in great beats, like the heart of some tremendous organism, and those pulses would crush even one such as her, were she exposed to them without her spire to act as a filter.

Morgan floated toward the center of the room, drawing the magic into her lungs, and relaxed, casting herself adrift in the great sea.

This was how she’d been planning her excursions. She couldn’t actually see nor explain what she felt to anyone who wasn’t plugged in like she was. If she were ever asked, the closest she might be able to come would be sonar, radar, or something between the two. Magic lay over the valley and through the Wildlands like a net, and those that lived, grew, walked, crawled, or flew disturbed that net, and allowed her to feel the different flavors of magic and energy flowing around her. The highest mountaintops felt dead to her, and her [Primal Instinct] screamed at her when she focused too long thereon.

This had become a daily routine for her, usually in the evenings before she turned in. She would make note of which direction held the densest signs of life and movement that didn’t register as a threat, or what her instincts told her would be beneficial, and that would be where she foraged the following day.

But for the past three weeks or so, ever since she’d constructed the spire, she could sense that something was coming. It was too distant for her to feel anything but a presence, but she knew it must be big, to feel it from that range. Each day it drew closer, but not on a straight-line path: whatever it was, it followed the same ley lines she herself was tapped into.

Whatever it was, the strangest thing about it was that its magical presence, its signature upon Anfealt, felt oddly familiar. She couldn’t explain why or how, but the waves of Earth magic that preceded it felt like her own, only much stronger, as if her own magic were being amplified and reflected back at her from a far distant point.

Inside the spire, at its apex, suspended in her own bastion of power, Morgan ordinarily felt invincible. This approaching presence, however, dwarfed her utterly, and she imagined it could snuff her out with ease. This was an odd realization, because still, even now, her [Primal Instinct] looked at it and felt like….

Home.

So she floated, there in the magic, and relaxed to let her senses expand, diffusing her presence across her valley. What she felt at that moment first baffled her, and then took her to confusion to hope to wild excitement, because in addition to the approaching presence, she felt and heard something new. The sound was so strange, so unexpected, that it took her a few moments to place it, but once she did, it was unmistakable.

The presence was still there; indeed, it had grown yet closer. And something was in its way, standing on the ley line it was following. Many somethings, many small somethings that left tiny, pattering footfalls that she felt through her connection to the valley, as though people were running in the distance. She also felt the creaking, groaning sensation of what had to be wagon wheels rolling across a cobblestone roadbed.

But what sent her heart racing, what had her clawing her way back to her body, what sent her soaring out the window with [Acceleration] so fast she nearly made it back to the shore before plowing into the water and beach, was a sound only someone from Earth could know.

After all, the daughter of a retired Marine who had spent many of her formative years living on a military base, knew very, very well what the rhythmic slamming thumps of heavy machine gun fire sounded like.

Chapter 30: Entrenchment

Terisa Aras stood atop the western gate of an ancient stone fort, watching the last few wagons of the Expedition’s caravan finish their journey across an equally ancient bridge. The fort was named Castra Pristis, and the bridge spanning the three-mile-long gorge was known as Pontem Praetor. Nobody could remember where those names came from, not even Terisa’s mentor. The old Ma’akan Badger had known many legends, but she’d told Terisa more stories about the beast tribes than she had about the Wildlands. The [Oracle] could probably tell her, Terisa knew, but she would never consider asking for an audience for a matter of personal curiosity. The Worldwalker Dana Pierce, however, seemed to be at least passingly familiar, though; she’d been inordinately interested in the Old Road they’d followed from the pass into the wilds, and the sight of the bridge itself had sent her into a frenzy, crawling all over the columns and arches holding the structure in place.

The Engineer had spent hours inspecting various points along the bridge’s span, closely examining the hand-hewn stones and ancient mortar. Ominous mists obscured the rushing waters and jagged rocks almost a mile below, yet Dana was heedless of the danger, confidently working her way across the undersides of the arches and up and down the support columns. The Worldwalker had long since repaired her suit from the punishment it had undergone, and went about on six or eight legs as often as two. Her aptitude for means of locomotion other than the bipedal was something many in her group found unsettling.

“Repaired” was, perhaps, a too-modest description; it might be more accurate to say that the woman had “remade” her suit. Most of the materials remained the same; just as increased levels had altered and hardened Dana’s muscles and body, however, so too had her new skills honed her capabilities. Terisa understood her new friend still had a lot to learn, but the sheer speed at which the otherworlder did so was a frightening thing to behold. Not simply her skills and the leveling system, either; Dana brought her scientific mind to bear on everything Anfealt had to teach her, based on her remembered knowledge from her homeworld.

“What a hell her world must be,” she mused, “to have learned such things with no magecraft in her lands.”

“Scary, innit?” a man’s voice responded. Turning her head, Terisa saw Kojeg, who had joined her on the tower’s roof. His warhammer was resting head-down on the masonry, and he leaned against it with casual ease. “The things the lass builds in her workshop, only to destroy them afore anyone else can see…” He shook his head. “Almost enough to curl me beard.”

“Is it true she threatened the Thane of Thun’Kadrass at his own table?” she asked, intrigued.

“T’wasn’t a threat, Teri,” the man denied. “She simply told old Kadra she was nae gonna give any of the Thuns her service or knowledge. Claimed it may end us as a people, to make war in the ways of her home. He called his Earthspeaker and Stonecallers, but they agreed she wasn’t lying. What they saw in her spirit shook them badly.”

Terisa leaned against the parapet, running one hand along the grip of her bow in a seemingly unconscious gesture. “Yet she gave you better powders for your cannon…”

“Aye, that she did,” he agreed, stroking his beard. “But that was summat we already had, an’ she just made it better. Too, ‘twas nary a thing a mage cannae do on their own; I be no alchemer, but I was told there was much tugging of beards when she spoke to the Cannonry mages.”

The Huntress turned back to the parapet, letting her eyes drift away from the ancient bridge to the fort behind them. The ancient, moldering bones of a city long abandoned could be seen peeking through the abundant greenery slowly reclaiming the land. The walls of the fort, however, had been built of sterner stuff, withstanding the ravages of uncountable centuries much better than what it had protected. Far below, the subject of their conversation had begun directing the placement of her mobile workshop, laying aside her sketching paper. The odd shapes and lines of the rearmost section of her carriage now made sense to Terisa, after witnessing it in action. The legs of the massive walker were folded up against the body like a set of great ribs, and the terrifying cannons had retracted almost completely, leaving the barest suggestion of their shape to evoke memories of the carnage.

She glanced back at Kojeg, her expression worried. “You should have talked her out of coming, Kojeg. I have…concerns about the wild magic here. For all it does to us…she’s a Worldwalker. She’ll adapt to it instead of resisting.”

The old dwarf shook his head, expression grim. “Might ‘ave worked were she stuck in her chair, but not for long, not even then.” He nods toward a point on the horizon. “Her workshop opens to the north face of the Kadral Valley. If you’d forbidden her again, she would have come on her own.”

Terisa scoffed, shaking her head. “Drakengard would never have let her through, Worldwalker or not. Especially not a golemist Worldwalker. They still remember the Steel Crusade, and none too fondly.”

“They don’t leave the peaks very often,” Kojeg pointed out, “except to scout their old lands. The Silent City has lived up to its name for almost half a century.”

Terisa’s fingers caressed the glowing jewel set above her bow’s grip, soothing the agitated emotions she felt from within. “Tch,” she scoffed again. “Even Althenea disagrees with you. You know the metalmen will come again, someday. All we can do is pray it’s not in our lifetimes.”

Kojeg laughed grimly. “And when they do, the Thuns stand ready. We remember, as the Drakengard do. Those lessons were hard-learned, indeed.”

“Hard lessons,” she echoed, sighing. “I’m also worried about the migrating beasts…if the Wanderer’s come too early, or too far—”

“Nae,” the dwarf said, shaking his head. “The Thun’s Lorekeepers say he follows the ley lines. So long as we don’t disturb those, we just have to stay out of his way.”

“Still,” Terisa insisted, “something feels different.” She looked back over the bridge, leaning over the parapet. “I don’t know what or why, Kojeg. It’s…more than just Dana. Althenea is unusually agitated.” She shakes her head. “The Purple Night, the Worldwalkers, the Worldstorm…all has me on edge, Kojeg. And you know my instincts are good.”

Kojeg lifted his warhammer, hefting it across his broad shoulders as he stepped beside Terisa. “Well, the lass will certainly be a boon to Castra Pristis’ defenses this year, at any rate.” He nodded to the other towers dotting the wall, where dwarven crews were winching their cannons to set up the stronghold’s defenses. The cannons themselves were fantastically heavy, but the dwarves managed the blocks and tackles with practiced efficiency.

“That’s another thing,” she mused. “We’ve never managed to gather so much crystal this early before. All of it in one place, unprocessed, is going to draw more beasts than we’ve ever seen. We should have had a lot of it processed and put away, but Dana damaged so much of it, even I can feel the Mana leaking out.”

“Don’t worry so much,” came a worn-out voice from behind the pair. Turning, Terisa saw the mage, Nessara, stopping to catch her breath after climbing the tower. “I’m working on it, same as the Guild mages from Swift Waters’ delegation. We have the Expedition’s take stabilized for the most part, sealed up in storage.”

Terisa raised an eyebrow. “And Dana’s half?”

Nessara shrugged. “She claimed mostly the broken pieces, and only a handful of intact crystals. Nobody knows why; the broken bits are only good for alchemy if you can liquefy them, but we don’t have the right equipment. I don’t think she knows what she’s doing.”

Kojeg chuckled with wry amusement. “Never make the mistake of underestimating that woman. May it be she cannae liquefy them, but I don’t doubt she can use them as they are.”

As if summoned by her mention in conversation, an insectile leg hooked itself over the parapet, quickly followed by one of its mates, and then the rest of them. Dana’s suit reconfigured itself back to normal-seeming legs, helmet already retracted. While the three on the roof tried to recover their composure, Dana vibrated in place before exploding into a proclamation.

“This is a Roman fort!” she exclaimed, an eager grin dominating her face. “The Lost Legion from my world must have ended up here!” She forced herself to pause and take half a breath, hopping on her feet. “The road? Down there? Definitely an imperial highway. The bridge, too! I wasn’t sure at first, but when we got here, the fort is laid out exactly like the ones the legions used to build back on Earth! The barracks, storage, armory…even the walls! Sure, there’s magic laced through every brick and joint, but…the design is there if you know where to look!”

The three adventurers simply stared at her, at a loss for words. The silence hung in the air, but just before Dana could become embarrassed by her own enthusiasm, Terisa spoke. “There are many historians who would give their entire fortunes to know that. I admit, I’m curious myself, but I’m more interested in what lives on this side of the canyon come nightfall.”

“I know!” Dana replied, still excited. “The larger monsters can’t cross the gorge, and now we’re in their territory. Don’t worry, though; my crawler ain’t the only toy I brought.”

Nessara failed to stifle a laugh. “‘Toy’, she says. ‘Toy’, says the woman who singlehandedly met the Expedition’s entire quota for mana crystals in the span of an hour.”

The otherworlder’s expression faded into stony silence, and she locked eyes with Nessara. “Yes,” she says firmly. “Toys. Playthings. Tactically questionable—at best—and far more flashy than effective. The fact that they seem so terrible to you…” Dana shook her head. “Some doors are better left closed, and you’d better pray the rest of my world doesn’t come here and throw ‘em open. I brought these toys, and they’ll be enough.” The woman spoke with a quiet confidence that shook Terisa. “Be thankful I choose not to build real weapons of war.”

Nessara remained quiet for a long moment. “I…find your tales hard to believe, girl. Yet I cannot gainsay them. I meant no offense,” she replied, nodding respectfully. “In numbers, your crawler would be terrifying.”

“Maybe,” Dana agreed, “but it’s slow and heavy. And it requires a [Neural Link] to control it. A normal golem core wouldn’t have the information bandwidth to make it do more than walk in one direction. For…certain definitions of walk…”

Terisa spoke up over Kojeg’s sudden laughter. “You seem fully recovered,” she noted, “from your hyper-leveling. I know Biggles—he wouldn’t turn you loose if your health were still in danger. Unless,” she amended after a moment’s thought, “he found something new to study. He may technically be a necromancer, but he takes his healing seriously.”

Dana grinned. “Both, actually! He seemed pretty sure I’m fine, except for the ambient Mana making me light-headed every now and then. And then he found some new slime critter crawling among his sample jars. Looks like a bath scrubby from home, but he called it a new species, and hasn’t left his wagon since.”

“Something strange like that could be evidence of The Burning Woman,” Nessara noted. “I don’t intend to hare off on my own to search her out, but the Magisterium did send me along to keep an eye—”

Suddenly, shouts went up from outside the walls, sharp-eyed scouts vigilant for incoming threats. As they died away, a low, buzzing thrum could be heard, rising and dropping in pitch. It grew suddenly louder as a metallic thing came zipping toward the fortress, barely above the treetops. In an instant, Terisa had nocked and drawn an arrow, Althenea charging the air around her with Mana. She was suddenly thrown to the side as Dana hurled herself at the Huntress.

“Stop!” she yelped. “Don’t shoot my drone!”

“What?” Terisa asked, looking extremely nonplussed at the Engineer, who had nearly thrown her to the masonry. She lowered her bow, but kept it drawn as the small metal thing circled the tower before perching on Dana’s shoulder. Soft clicking sounds heralded the drone extending spindly metal legs to lock itself into her armor. Once it stopped moving, four slender splinters of Mana crystal could be seen. They were held in place by delicate copper settings bracketing a body no larger than its mistress’ forearm, vaguely reminiscent of a wingless dragonfly.

“I sent them out this morning to do aerial reconnaissance and map the Wildlands.” An aperture opened on what could have been its head, and it offered up a finger-sized piece of metal, which Dana reached back to take. “After I leveled, I was able to upgrade them a lot.”

She held up the small metal rod for her companions to see. “They can take pictures—ah, they record what they see, and store it on these little chips. I should be able to put together a detailed map of the area by…sometime this evening, of at least a few dozen miles around us.”

“Them?” asked Terisa, finally relaxing the bowstring. “How many of ‘them’ are there? And do try to warn us before you turn any more of your ‘toys’ loose, if you could.” She shook her head, letting her shoulders unknot. “We’ll be here at least another two months before we have to head back before the first snows, and I’d rather not have to intercede if someone breaks one of your toys, thinking it’s an attack.”

Dana looked appropriately chagrined, rubbing the back of her head. “S-sorry. I get excited, sometimes, when I build something new.” Her expression morphed into intense curiosity. “Are you so sure we’ll be attacked? It’s all been quiet since the stampede.”

“We’re always attacked at the fort,” Terisa responded. “More often toward the end of the Expedition, when we have wagons full of material. But…don’t let your guard down. You’ve brought in more than normal, and if this is a migration year, all sorts of monsters will be moving out of the Wanderer’s path.” Terisa slung her bow, turning back to look over the fort. “I take it these are more of your ‘toys’ Kojeg’s countrymen are setting up along the walls?”

The dwarves, having finished setting up their cannons, were now unpacking crates and setting up tripod-mounted weapons atop the parapets. They looked a bit like smaller versions of the larger cannons, an elongated box with a long, comparatively thin barrel jutting out above the wall.

Dana shook her head. “Those aren’t toys. You asked me what the Thanes requested in exchange for their sponsorship? They wanted my help improving the defenses here. Nothing they wouldn’t have worked out on their own in a couple more decades, anyway.”

“Aye,” rumbled Kojeg, masking a grin. “Weapons that throw bolts of Mana from crystals are common enough, but—”

“—the challenge is recharging the crystals fast enough to be useful,” Terisa finished, nodding. “I know. I take it you think you’ve fixed that?”

Dana nodded. “That’s why I wanted most of the tiny pieces. The big ones, sure, they power my suit and mecha, but for these, I needed a smaller size; I’d have had to break them down if I didn’t have ‘em. I actually will when I get home, if I can work out how to cast them into a substrate.”

The Worldwalker turned to Nessara with a questioning expression, and the mage considered. “Should be simple to liquefy the crystals, but once you destroy them like that, they won’t hold much of a charge, even if you resolidify them.” She leaned on her staff, frowning. “If…you don’t need much of a charge, and you just need something quick, it ought to work. It’d be weak, though. Any spell you cast won’t pack much punch, though I suppose if you had enough…” Nessara trailed off, watching as the dwarves attached flattened metal cylinders to the backs of each weapon.

Dana picked up the explanation. “I don’t have the means to make more ammo for my crawler, and I burned most of it against the stampede. These, though, are just a standard Manabolt enchantment with a rotor to connect multiple chambers to a flow of power in sequence. The crystals get fed into the rotor, cycle through the chamber, the powering crystal discharges the Mana in the chamber, then they get dumped into a hopper on the other side.” She grinned.

“So that’s why you wanted the pulverized crystals,” Nessara breathed, understanding dawning on the mage’s face. “You’ve got…what, several hundred thousand shots?”

“Just under two million,” Dana replied proudly. “But I don’t have nearly that much ready to go in drums. I’ve got two of my worker golems playing collier, so the rest of the shards should be ready within a week, unless I have to use them before they’re ready.”

As if cued, impact tremors began to resonate through the earth. Another shout went up from the scouts, and the four atop the wall watched as trees began to shake off to the south, limbs swaying and timber cracking as if under a heavy gale, though the skies remained calm.

“I think you’ll get to put ‘em to use earlier than you thought, Worldwalker,” Terisa said, drawing her bow once again. Her [Eagle Eye] skill allowed her to confirm what she already suspected. “[Dozer Moles],” she called. “They won’t be able to go under the walls, but they’ll sure be able to go through ‘em. Looks like they’re running from something.”

Kojeg raised a brass spyglass, peering to the south alongside Terisa. “I think ye be on ta summat about it being a migration year. I’ve never seen one, but we all know the stories.”

“I’ve seen one,” Terisa replied grimly. “The first Expedition I joined, cutting my teeth on the wilds after the Third Deskren War. The Wanderer isn’t usually the problem; it’s everything running to get out of his way.”

“What’s a migration year?” Dana asked. “I never read anything about it!”

Birds and other flying creatures rose in droves from the distant trees, and the ground rumbled again. This time loose stones and gravel bounced, and the adventurers on the tower struggled to keep their feet.

“Get yer guns ready, lassie,” Kojeg warned, flexing his hand on his warhammer. “It seems ye be about to find out.”

Interlude: The Dreamer

Noah Rowland sat in a laboratory, making minute adjustments to a piece of equipment that, to him, bore striking resemblance to an advanced medical scanning machine from Earth. One had to, he supposed, make allowances for the difference in available material; in place of computer chips and circuit boards, glowing runes controlled it. Instead of surgical steel, crystal styluses allowed for manipulation. Rather than plastic, bronze and silver crafted its outer shell. It was beautiful, he thought, shot through with copper conduits to conduct the sensitive magical energies that powered it.

Such thoughts were only natural; he had built it. It had been a laborious process, requiring him to build new tools and learn an entirely new field—magic! Puzzles had long fascinated him, and magic was a puzzle like no other. Except maybe people, he thought to himself with a tinge of amusement. His fellow man remained a mystery that defied all attempts to unravel, here just as before.

It was a pity, then, that the beauty inherent in the construction of the machine was lost on the person strapped to it; Noah’s latest subject, a young man of scarcely twenty winters, held fast by magically reinforced leather straps. He was whimpering; of that Noah was certain. They always whimpered, and it had quickly got to the point where he’d installed sound-dampening enchantments in the latest iteration of his machine. All in all, an improvement, even if it cost me a week or two. The noisome screams and begging were nothing but distractions—ones Noah could ill afford when there was data to analyze.

“So,” came a refined male voice from behind him, “this device will show you more about how the collars work?”

Another distraction; this one less unwelcome, given its identity. Kavnerrin Descroix, grandson of Emperor Descroix, seventy-third in the line of succession, and Noah’s patron and benefactor. Noah turned to face him; so engrossed had he been in recording the observations from the magically projected display that he hadn’t heard his approach.

Unlike most of the Descroix line, Kavnerrin eschewed the gaudy ostentations of rank, opting instead to wear plain grey robes. He also eschewed most jewelry, save for the imperial signet ring on his left hand. This lack of display extended to his overall appearance; while most of the imperial family adorned themselves lushly, Kavnerrin preferred to go without. He was some form of [Necromancer], Noah was fairly sure, having read through most of the workshop’s library. More precisely he couldn’t say, but the man had displayed uncanny aptitude with spirit magic.

“Maybe,” Noah hedged. “So far, results haven’t matched up with the descriptions in your older journals,” he continued, setting aside his irritation at the distraction. “My working hypothesis is that when the original emperor died at the battle of Oasa, the System itself adjusted its parameters to disallow the creation of any more soul shackles.”

Kavnerrin nodded slowly. “Yes, that was the assumption of our scholars, then and now. No one has managed to recreate the originals. Conditioning collars are nothing but an imitation, using pain and pleasure stimulus.” Kavnerrin stood quietly for almost a full minute, rubbing his chin with one hand. “Raising stock from birth with those collars ends with similar results, but the skills and abilities they can learn on their own are vastly curtailed as a result. Soul Shackles let us take new classers of any level and spread their skills through the Empire.”

Noah nodded; this was nothing he hadn’t heard many times since arriving on Anfealt. Mostly in passing, of course; his arrival had sparked a quiet war, since Kavnerrin had heard from the few seers and clairvoyants the Empire had control over that a Worldwalker was due to arrive within the Empire’s territory. He’d acted swiftly and brutally, and Noah had found himself captured within minutes of arriving. Two assassinations, two public auctions, four (temporarily successful) escape attempts, and one agonizingly slow river voyage had brought him at last to the docks of Nouveau Deskra, and Kavnerrin’s workshop.

Not to say that Noah was unhappy with his current situation; far from it, in fact. Whatever luxuries he required, Kavnerrin provided; moreover, he was free to work on whatever magical puzzles struck his fancy. He was also freed from any ethical constraints regarding his work; on Earth, the minutiae of law and social mores kept him as shackled as any Deskren slave. It’s refreshing, he thought, to finally be able to study anything I find interesting, unconcerned with such trivialities.

He glanced at the display for a moment to give himself time to arrange his thoughts before returning to his patron. “The Soul Shackles, these golden collars…they simply work in ways the System itself prevents anyone from replicating. I can’t directly edit a soul, and I think it’s because the system is stopping me.” Noah made several adjustments to the ring hovering above his current subject, ignoring the blood dripping down where the man had scraped the skin of his wrists and ankles raw trying to pull his hands and feet out of the bindings. He circled the table, tapping his chin and musing, “If we can get someone of a higher level, or with a more unique class and skillset, it should be possible to acquire more data. The precise nature of how the soul interacts with a person’s magic to enable skills and levelling isn’t written down in any of the books you have here.”

After checking the restraints one final time, Noah stepped around the table and held his hand over a burnished silver sphere held within a setting of three silver clasps, like an inverted eagle’s talons. A brief pulse of light shone under his palm, and the table holding the young man pivoted upright as the ring shifted to encircle the trapped form. Kavnerrin watched with intent interest.

“So if you can’t alter the soul or bind it, what’s the purpose of this machine?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not proof from being collared, Worldwalker, and your materials are not without expense, even to me. I expect results.”

Noah didn’t respond, instead simply turning the sphere slightly, adjusting the aperture of the ring around the floating man. It started turning more rapidly as it passed up and down the man’s body, sending sheets of pale, ghostly luminescence through his frame. Soon, his tissues began to glow with a golden light, as if something had been brought to the surface.

“If the soul is the problem, isn’t it more effective to simply disconnect it?” Noah asked.

Kavnerrin frowned, considering the implication. “Without the soul, there would be no—”

“No Soul Crime, yes?” Noah suggested.

The light suffusing the man’s body intensified, and he seemed to subtly vibrate as the glowing afterimage almost bent toward the ring. It slid down to his feet and began spinning faster still, emitting a high-pitched, whining hum that made Noah’s ears ache before it quickly faded, too high to be heard. Suddenly the ring rose around the man’s body—and the golden image came with it, all the way to his head, and then beyond. The ring lifted clear from the man’s body, and the golden light condensed into a small orb, suspended in midair. It flickered once, then twice—then winked out of existence. The man’s struggles ceased, his breathing slowing down to a measured pace.

“I’m not entirely sure where the soul goes afterward, but disconnecting it from the subject’s body gives me a lot more flexibility,” Noah explained. “The soul itself also gives me a wealth of information. Now that I can replicate it in the lab, retrofitting the spell matrix to function alongside your conditioning collars is just math. Someone of higher level might be able to resist, but…given time, the Golden Collars shouldn’t be necessary.”

“Alongside?” Kavnerrin’s expression quickly flickered between horror, disgust, and greed, before settling on elation.

“It should be possible to apply the severing enchantment matrix to existing conditioning collars that are already in use,” Noah confirmed. “I’ll need a few higher-levelled test subjects to refine the matrix. I suspect the more powerful the subject, the greater the energy released upon severing the soul from the shell.”

At his command, the table returned to horizontal. Noah released the shackles from the young man’s form as the rings returned to a resting position at the head of the table. With a disinterested expression, the man sat up under his direction, then smoothly stood and walked to the other end of the room, where the Worldwalker pointed. Several other young men and women stood there, faces blank as they waited for orders.

“Apply it to existing collars?” Kavnerrin could barely keep the avarice out of his tone. “Without physically replacing them?”

“Exactly that, yes. The conditioning collars are linked to the control rings—what you call the ‘leashes’. The leashes I’ve seen all link to higher-ranked rings held by your peers in the nobility.” Noah made several more notes on a sheet of parchment, not needing to return to his machine’s display to recall the readings it had given while removing the man’s soul. “I presume there’s a master leash of some form or another, yes? One that controls all the collars? With that, I could apply the severing spell to every collar in the Empire at once!”

Kavnerrin shook his head in wonder. “It’s not always rings, but the master leash you speak of is the Imperial Scepter, symbol of my grandfather’s authority. It’s a failsafe so no one of lesser blood may turn their slave stock against the imperial family.”

The prince’s eyes drooped for a moment and he scratched his chin, deep in thought. “To lay hands on the scepter would be…unthinkable, a short trip to a golden collar for myself and my conspirators. Now, if a dozen or so heirs disappear or suffer accidents, that may change, but…for now, I’m too far down the list of succession to even consider a bid for the scepter.”

Noah kept working as the man talked, unconcerned with the schemings of royalty. The data he’d been gathering on how souls interacted with bodies and the skills of a person had been utterly fascinating, and he motioned for the next subject, eager for more. Two hulking wolfmen stood before a group of chained slaves, golden bands glimmering around their necks. With a low growl of submissive obedience, one of them reached down and picked up a shaking woman by the throat. Her whimpers turned into choked sobs in the beastman’s grip as his counterpart undid the chains around her wrists and ankles before the two beastkin guards forced her to the table and strapped her down. She began screaming, but the enchantments rendered her silent as she feebly struggled against the straps.

“What benefit would higher-levelled classers bring to your studies, Worldwalker?”

At this Noah brightened, eager to acquire better test material. “Oh, a lot. I’m already learning how skills interact with souls, and more data on different class types would be wonderful. A greater variety of skills, classes…every person seems to be different, although life-long conditioned slaves are limited in their skills.”

The Worldwalker pulled his spectacles off and rubbed them clean with his shirt, raking the fingers of his other hand through unkempt hair. “Some-higher levelled classers would provide wonderful data on how rare and powerful skills interact with souls. If I can get enough data, I should be able to work out how to modify skills without needing to level—or even make entirely new skills!” Noah could scarce contain his excitement, grinning like a schoolboy.

At that, Kavnerrin couldn’t help but grin himself. “You may be in luck, then. The empire has worked for years to infiltrate the Wildlands Expedition, and this year, we’ve finally succeeded. Away from support and help, and unable to send messages back to the city, it may very well be that I can acquire some very unique high-levelled classers for your studies.” Kavnerrin rubbed his hands together, a habit Noah had noticed on the day they’d met. “My uncle’s campaign in the northlands hasn’t been as successful as he’d hoped…this General character has been gathering the locals to him and leading them back and forth across the Golden Meadows, keeping his men at bay.” He snorted in disgust. “What few classers he has managed to get will be going straight to the imperial stables to breed new lines. The rest are children, and the classless.” He shook his head. “But, if my efforts with the Expedition bear fruit…there are many unique classers travelling with that group. I’ve tasked them with capturing that Worldwalker who’s friends with the dwarves, but…they’re instructed to use their own initiative, too.”

“I’ll continue to collect data as well as I can in the meanwhile,” replied Noah.

“Is my little brother planning sedition, or a coup?” The new voice chimed in from the entrance to the laboratory, as its bearer, a woman, strode through the doors. She was preceded by a pair of wolven soldiers, each bearing a drawn sword. Her golden hair fell in thin braids, twisted in loops, and held by a thin net adorned with tiny gemstones woven into the fabric. A hawkish nose and sharp eyes shone with a vicious cunning above a thin figure clad in green tunic and trousers over boots of soft green leather.

“You managed to squeeze some spies into the Expedition and didn’t tell Father?” Her eyes glittered with avarice. “Or, more importantly, Grandfather? I thought you had no ambition, Kavni. And what is this fascinating contraption our friend the Worldwalker has built?”

Noah froze, unable to adjust to rapidly changing environments as quickly as his patron Kavnerrin. The imperial prince simply sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“You shouldn’t have come here, dearest Louisa,” he said delicately.

“Oh, come now, Kavni; you don’t think I’ll be telling Father on you, do you? I hate him as much as you. It took me an entire decade, and three children, before I managed to poison that geezer he sold me off to.” She shuddered in revulsion. “I had my own dreams other than an arranged marriage, you know.”

Kavnerrin simply stood, rubbing his chin with his other hand on his elbow. “That tells me nothing of why, or even how, you are here where you should not be. You never miss one of the Imperial galas, or an opportunity to show off your daughters before the fawning nobility. Father’s schemes aside, it didn’t stop you from planning the same sort of fates for your own children.”

Louisa twirled, circling the table and its bound occupant, and eyeing the kneeling slaves awaiting their turn as experiments. She wandered over to the corner to inspect the ones standing without restraints.

“Amazing,” she breathed. “They stand like the shackled, but they don’t wear a collar.” She spun to face Noah. “What have you accomplished here?”

Noah opened his mouth, always eager to explain the intricacies of his work to an interested audience. However, Kavnerrin silenced him with a quick gesture, dipping his hand into his coat. He stepped back just as the prince whipped a glass vial to the ground near his sister and her guards. Kavnerrin held up his hand and twisted one of the rings thereon, and a vivid green barrier shimmered into existence around them. From the vial, choking black smoke issued forth, filling the laboratory and clinging to the writhing forms outside their barrier. Where the smoke touched it, it fizzed and spat sparks, the sound putting Noah in mind of a breakfast cereal from Earth.

“My own alchemical cocktail,” the princeling explained to Noah, “to neutralize threats. The red mold and parafelis extract cost me a fortune, and a grain of negatite cost three times the rest together, but it’s worth every copper.”

The woman’s guards had dropped to the ground instantly, along with the guards Kavnerrin had stationed in the laboratory himself, the slaves, and the soulless husks. The only ones left standing after a few heartbeats were Noah and the two imperials, and soon only the one imperial; Louisa’s panicked expression intensified as her own shield collapsed. The black smoke rushed in and Louisa fell to her knees, partially overcome. Even without her shield, she could at least somewhat resist its effect; paralyzed but still awake, she slumped to the ground, eyes wild.

“You really shouldn’t have come here, Louisa,” the princeling said regretfully. “I’ve always said I don’t want grandfather’s throne, and I meant it.”

As the black mists faded away, Kavnerrin waited a dozen more heartbeats before dropping his shield. He wasted no time, executing his sister’s guards with brutal efficiency before they could recover. Circling back around the room, he stood over the woman’s crumpled form. Turning back, he looked at Noah.

“I guess you get a high-levelled classer sooner than you thought,” he said with a smile. “I’ll have to figure out a convincing reason for her disappearance, but our work must not be discovered.”

Pulling a small ebony rod out of his coat, he pointed it at her neck. A glowing green whip of energy snaked out, and with its help, he lifted his sister bodily by the neck. She dangled limply in his magical grasp, fingers and feet twitching in outrage. The woman made strangled, whimpering noises, trying to form words as the effects began to wear off.

“I—” she choked the word out as her feet slid across the stone floor. Noah had already begun unstrapping the slave woman from the table, and Kavnerrin’s guards—now recovered—reattached her chains after putting her back in line.

“—thought you didn’t want the throne!” gasped Louisa. Kavnerrin stretched her out over the table, cutting her tunic and breeches away, depriving her of any enchantments that may have been woven into her clothes. The sparkling hairnet came last, and Noah set it aside for study. It reeked of magic, and he wouldn’t forget to analyze it later. Clad in nothing but her fine silken undergarments, the imperial princess finally recovered enough to begin to move—far too late. “What are you doing?” she asked, horrified.

It was half question, half desperate plea for mercy. She began hyperventilating, tugging against the straps, but in addition to paralyzing her, the smoke had cut her off from her skills.

“I don’t want the throne, sister. I want to be a god. And I can’t let you tell anyone what I’m doing before I’m ready, so…thank you for your contribution.”

Before Noah could activate the device, Kavnerrin did so. Reaching out, he charged up the crystal sphere, and a few heartbeats later—it was over. With a surprised look on his face, he turned to Noah. The shock left him speechless for several heartbeats, jaw hanging open. His expression was ashen, his voice numb.

“You didn’t tell me using the machine would grant a title!”

“I didn’t know it was relevant,” the [Mortis Mathematician] replied. “I didn’t feel anything different upon gaining it the first time I used the machine.”

“You fool!” he hissed. “It’s branded us both with the title of [Blasphemer]! The [Oracle] can see us despite the Elemental Desert’s dead zone now!”

The Dreamer considered for a few moments. “But can she actually cross the desert before spring? The construct will be complete before winter solstice,” he said confidently.

“Rule nothing out with the [Oracle]. We’ll have to accelerate plans accordingly. And I must hurry to fabricate a convincing scenario for my sister’s disappearance.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair.

In response, The Dreamer merely shrugged. Foresight aside, it didn’t matter to him. An [Oracle] can’t be more powerful than a god, surely, he thought to himself. Kavnerrin left after directing the guards to clean up, and Noah turned to inspect the data gathered by the machine. Soon he’d forgotten all about the title and the [Oracle], lost in the wealth of information provided by extracting the soul of a level forty-six [Sultry Enchantress]. His hypothesis had been proven correct, after all, and there was a lot of science still to do.

Chapter 31: A Slight Miscalculation

Morgan Mackenzie was running again. This in itself was not a new occurrence. In fact, she’d spent most of her waking hours since arriving on Anfealt running; she was either running toward something she wanted to eat, or away from something that wanted to eat her. She’d spent her share of time walking, but rare had been the day she had not, at some point, needed to run for one reason or another.

Today was a day the [Skyclad Sorceress] had something to run to. Or perhaps to run for. The thoughts and emotions swirling around her mind yielded to no words she had to describe it. The confused mass of footfalls she’d sensed from her spire might not have been panicked at all, but the rhythmic thumping that had seemed so much like machine-gun fire meant they were certainly fighting something. What that something was couldn’t have been the massive presence she felt approaching, as it was still days away, by her best estimation. The cacophony of sensations, vibrations, and echoes she’d felt were difficult to decipher.

Morgan knew one thing for certain, though: there were people. There were lots of people, using what could only be modern Earth weapons. She realized she could technically be wrong about that, as she had no idea what sort of civilizations lived beyond the mountains—but her gut feelings pointed toward someone else from Earth, and that thought spurred her feet to move faster. The massive presence moving along the ley lines was travelling slowly, but steadily, and she knew it would take her at least two days to reach where she’d sensed the people. While her instincts didn’t warn her of any direct danger associated with whatever it was, she knew an avalanche or a rockslide didn’t have to intend to hurt you in order to be dangerous. So Morgan had packed as much food as she could carry in her [Runic Belt], along with several crystals, and Lulu had latched onto her shoulder, refusing to be left behind when something had its mistress so excited.

And she ran to meet new people.

Terisa Aras picked her way across the lowlands outside the walls of Castra Pristis. The smell of slaughter and death hung, miasma-like, in the early morning light, and the croaks and caws of oversized carrion birds reminded her of battlefields from her past. Normally the Expedition sent out hunting parties from the fort to gather resources, such as furs, horns, and other valuable parts of the various denizens of the wilds, but a migration year presented new challenges—as well as new opportunities. Creatures tended to swarm up to the walls as they passed, meaning hunting parties didn’t have to travel nearly as far.

I suppose this year’s take will be heavy on furs and crystals…but lacking in witchwood and herbs, she thought to herself. It was too much of a risk to send out gathering parties with so many beasts on the move; there was no telling which areas were even relatively safe this season. The [Dozer Moles] had only been the beginning, and Dana’s rapid-firing gun emplacements had more than proven their worth next to experienced Dwarven Cannoneers. Thankfully the Mana-based weaponry didn’t damage the hides anywhere near as much as her crawler’s guns would have, and there were now racks of hundreds of moleskins stretched out and drying within the walls of the fort. It had taken two full days to salvage that many before the rest simply spoiled, leaving the clearing south of Castra Pristis an abattoir, which the Huntress now carefully traversed.

Giant moles weren’t the only corpses rotting in the field. The first day’s dead had drawn scavengers, and those had to be dealt with as well; they made no distinction between the corpses of the fallen moles and the adventurers seeking to strip them. Many of the creatures of the wilds had trade value in various magical and mundane markets, but not all of them, and Terisa detested the wasteful slaughter as much as she recognized its necessity. If the fort were to be overrun, the entire Expedition could be a wash for the year, notwithstanding the potential loss of life if some of the less stable things stored in the wagons were trampled.

One benefit to a migration year was that certain other ventures didn’t have to travel as far into the wilds to accomplish their goals. It was one of these groups that Terisa was now heading toward, having seen her husband approaching through the trees with a small group of younger beastkin tribesmen. She could see much further than the part-beast man, but his sense of smell had no equal, and the Huntress saw him grinning in the distance when the wind shifted, bringing him her scent and alerting him to her approach. One of Dana’s flying drones zipped by, low over the treetops and heading for the fort. Terisa was used to their passing by now, and simply ignored it.

More of the poofy creatures Dana had called scrubbies had appeared the morning after the slaughter of the [Dozer Moles], and they seemed to be driven to clean up the mess. Terisa stepped carefully around several wurbling puffballs that were gathered around a shiny, gleaming skeleton, and approached the weary group of beastmen.

“Good hunt,” Foz grumbled amicably. “Ka’Na Oko will be well pleased; the younglings fought a mighty Na’Kohe.”

Several Lupara wolfmen panted happily, exhausted from the run, and a lumbering Ursara full-blood bearkin brought up the rear. One of the wolves spoke up then, unable to contain his excitement. “Graz gained a berserking skill during the fight, Lady Huntress! Foz had to wrestle him down so he wouldn’t kill the bear!”

Graz, the younger Ursaran of the group, grinned sheepishly but made no response. Foz chuckled. “Good skill. Be strong, when he learns to control it!”

“Honor to the Children of Ka’Na Oko,” Terisa complimented the youth with a nod. The young Ursara was obviously wounded, deeply enough that he would bear scars, but the Huntress knew better than to belittle his accomplishments by suggesting he accept healing after what was, essentially, his tribe’s test of manhood. All of the Children of the First Beast were prickly about honor, and the Ursara more so than the rest. She ignored his wounds, and the others responded with nods and flicks of ears, acknowledging the respect given.

The group resumed its trek back toward the fort, and Terisa joined them, falling in step alongside her husband. “Did you find any of the plants Biggles wanted?” she asked.

“Lots of witchwood,” he agreed with a low rumble. “Off to the south. Not far; might be worth the trip. Nothing else.

“I’m sure we can manage it,” she replied, nodding. “You didn’t find any whisperveil mushrooms, though? Shame; Biggles could have made an anti-magic compound for my arrows,” she continued, running a finger along her bow.

“Didn’t see any,” Foz confirmed. “Found bindleberries, though.”

Her expression lit up with avarice, and she leaned in. “Oh? You did, did you? Where are they?”

“Already ate ‘em,” came the stoic response. “They were very-uph!”

Terisa had only held herself back a little bit as she drove her fist into her husband’s solar plexus with a cry; Ursara were tougher than most, even for a high-leveled Classer like Terisa. “Plague take you, Foz, you know those are my favorite!”

“Mine, too,” Foz replied, grinning and rubbing his chest. “Saved you some, though.” His hand dropped to the enchanted belt pouches he wore, and emerged with a cluster of perfectly ripened berries, which Terisa took almost as soon as they were proffered.

“Should have led with that, then,” she complained, the playful acidity in her reply cut with her obvious delight as she popped the berries into her mouth.

As they continued across the field, the little puffballs could be seen and heard all around them, wurbling contentedly as they continued their macabre work. Some of them had latched onto various Expedition members and let themselves be carried this way and that; this had caused some consternation, before it was discovered that they made for interesting and affectionate pets.

Skirting a [Dozer Mole] corpse being attended to by several of the creatures, Terisa mused, “I think these things are going to enjoy a lot of popularity when we return to the lowlands.”

“Cute. Useful,” her husband replied.

At that point, their leisurely stroll back toward the walls was interrupted—first by the sound of horns, and then a moment later by a resonating whump as a bright flare shot into the sky from within the fort’s walls.

Terisa broke into a jog, with Foz and the others falling in behind her. “That’s our recall sign,” she called. “Dana or the scouts must have found something.” Nessara and Kojeg met them at the fort’s gate, and once inside, Foz led the young beastkin down a side avenue back to their area. The mage and dwarf accompanied Terisa to the central field and pavilion.

“We need to make for the wall,” huffed Nessara. “Dana will join us soon.”

“Skitterlings,” Kojeg rumbled. “The lass’ latest drone brought back images of a full colony on the march less than an hour to the south.”

“Then why are we bothering with the walls?” the Huntress asked. “At least with her drones, we have warning; we should be heading for the bridge.”

“T’would mean leaving everything we’ve gathered, and the Worldwalker’s workshop. The lass refused when we suggested it.”

“More than refused,” Nessara grumped. “Either the translation spell the sages at Thun’Kadrass gave her is malfunctioning, or her world is stranger than we ever thought. I’m not sure the things she told me to do with my various body parts and a goat are even possible. It would at least require serious healing after the attempt.”

“You can’t stop a skitterling swarm,” Terisa objected. “They’re mindless bugs, except for the queens; you have to wipe them out or run. And I don’t think we have enough here to do that, even with Dana’s help.”

“I cannae say that, Teri,” countered Kojeg. “I’ve seen some of the things she’s built. And she tore off into her workshop, yelling about something called ‘counter-zerg protocols’.” The dwarf seemed rattled and unsure despite his casual words, nervously flexing his hand on the haft of his hammer. “I have faith we can hold the walls for a time, but t’would be best to be crossing the bridge sooner than later.”

The Dwarven Cannoneers had never left their posts on the walls, and were now being joined by the other adventurers of the Expedition. Terisa recognized one slender, brown-robed figure in particular, and made her way along the wall to the necromancer’s side. The man had a pale green puffball stuck to his shoulder, and seemed infatuated by his new pet, despite the news of the approaching danger.

“I know you prefer healing, Biggles,” Terisa began, “but can you do anything with all the dead moles out there to help with the defenses?”

Biggles rubbed his cheek, considering Terisa’s question. “Normally I wouldn’t have the time to prepare them, but Wuffle’s kindred seems to have been extremely effective at cleaning the flesh from the bones. I can sense hundreds of constructs’ worth of skeletons out there, although I’ll need two or three large mana crystals in order to make anything useful of them.”

Terisa blinked. “Wuffle?”

“Oh, yes! We seem to have bonded quite handily.” Biggles reached up to his shoulder and gently patted the puffball. “Wuffle cleans the bones and my sample jars better than anything I’ve got on my table.”

Terisa turned back to Nessara. “Can you and your fellow mages assist him?”

The other woman leaned on her staff, deep in thought, for several heartbeats. “We don’t touch necromancy,” she said slowly. “The Magisterium doesn’t truck with anything that even smells like soul magics.”

Biggles made a placating gesture as he broke back into the conversation. “No, no soul magic. Even if I wanted to, there’s too much death energy; it’d take days to sanctify the grounds to the point where things won’t get corrupted on their way across the veil. Second, I’ve never tried necromancy in the Wildlands; I don’t know how the Mana will react. Even after all that, we’d need to strike a bargain with whatever we found. I refuse to simply bind a soul; I don’t need the [Oracle]’s eye on me.” He shook his head. “No, this would just be a simple reanimation; all I’d need is raw power.”

“That we can help with,” Nessara replied, relieved. “As can the Swift Waters enchanters, if their representative is agreeable?” she continued with a nod as the guild representative joined them on the wall. “Mister Chadwick, Swift Waters claimed the largest of the intact rockmaw crystals. May we use a few of them for a linked circle?”

The man’s robes were an almost offensive shade of blue, with ostentatious gold embroidery filigreed across his shoulders and down his sleeves. The rings and bracelets he wore on his hands were as pompous and gaudy as they were useful, and the expensive enchantments layered into the adornments leaked enough magical energy to set Terisa’s nose to itching. He wasn’t the usual Swift Waters delegate Terisa was used to dealing with, and she wouldn’t have even entertained the notion of bringing him, but for the fact that the guild funded a significant portion of the Expedition’s expenses every year. She could tolerate snobbishness and foppery for the right price, and it helped that Chadwick seemed capable, if supremely annoying.

“If it means keeping the rest of the crystals safe, by all means,” he agreed, spreading his arms. “We’ve sunk entire fortunes into this year’s venture, and it would be a shame to have to return empty handed.”

Nessara stepped closer to confer with the necromancer. “Which form of circle are you more familiar with?”

“Three groups of three magi with a crystal for each group should be enough. I’d like seven groups, if I thought we could spare the mages.” Biggles patted Wuffle gently while he considered. “I suppose three of three would be best, though, so the others can link up for barriers.”

Terisa turned away from the mage and the necromancer, her attention drawn by the sound of a young Luparan running toward their section of the wall. In her impatience, she simply leapt off the wall rather than take the stairs, landing on the cobblestone path below with a grunt of exertion and a sudden ache in her knees. I’ll regret that later, she mused. I’m not exactly young anymore. Her thoughts were tinged with a rueful melancholy; for all she’d accomplished, she hadn’t taken a level in two years, and her natural regeneration was leaving her more and more. I should probably just retire and let someone else take over the Expedition.

The wolfling slowed as she approached, clearly excited or agitated by something. “I think the Worldwalker is in trouble, Lady Huntress. She tore apart the back of her giant carriage and keeps shouting horrible things at it.” His ear flicked, directing his attention behind him for a moment as he cocked his head curiously. “Is her world full of people who mate with their mothers?”

“I don’t believe so, but it’s certainly full of strange people and things.” Workers in the livery of the Swift Waters Guild went jogging by as the Huntress and the wolfkin made their way to the center of the fort’s grounds. Nessara and Biggles had the initial defenses well in hand, it seemed, and Terisa stepped to one side of the path to let a pair of porters pass. carrying a crated Mana crystal. As they approached the central clearing, clangs, shouts of helpers, and one swearing Worldwalker could be heard.

Dana’s “mobile workshop”, as she called it, normally travelled as three massive metal sections connected by an assortment of hinges, hoses, and cables that allowed it to wind its way along the roads on its massive spoked wheels. The three oversized carriages that made up the travelling behemoth were now disconnected from each other, and Foz was helping several other Ursara push the middle section to another recently cleared area of the fort’s central courtyard. The front section was opened wide, racks of strange tools and coiled loops of cables scattered about in Dana’s rush to do her work. The rear section the otherworlder had referred to as a crawler was now partially dismantled, exposing an inner construct Terisa barely recognized as a golem core. She’d seen many sorts of golems, and up until now, they’d all been powered and controlled by a single Mana crystal encased in an enchanted frame.

The crawler’s heart, however, was a contraption of interlocking ring gears around a central grooved spindle, each groove holding a single sliver of crystal, thinner than one of the arrows the Huntress fired from her bow, and almost as long. The otherworld engineer was just finishing seating the last of the new crystal spines into one of the grooves, seven discarded crystals of lower quality dropped haphazardly on the ground. As the Huntress drew closer, Dana scuttled around to the other side of the crawler. Several clanking thunks and declarations about the contraption being derived from incestuous heritage later, the assembly of rings rotated around the center, and with a thrum of power, they shrank down to fit neatly around the slowly spinning core.

“I’ve never seen a golem core like that in all my years,” Terisa exclaimed as a steel housing engraved with control runes slid smoothly into place around the mechanical wonder.

“That’s because it’s technically not a golem core,” mumbled Dana past some sort of flanged tool she held in her teeth, both hands and all but two of her mechanical limbs making adjustments on the underside of the contraption. “It’s a—Hold on.”

The woman’s helmet snapped back into place after she spat out the metal tool, a dark visor covering her eyes as one of her metal appendages flipped its end around with a whirring flash. Bright sparks followed as the Worldwalker fused a steel support strut into place on the underside of the machine before skittering her way back out from beneath it.

“Standard golem cores have plenty of power packed into one big crystal, but they’re slow to transfer the energy out of the core to the rest of the golem. Unexpected power demands can destabilize the core, usually catastrophically, so golem frames keep it nice and slow.” Dana’s voice was tinny at first, until her helmet retracted once again. As she spoke, she manipulated several levers and knobs on the side of the crawler and then backed away. The machine’s core slid back into the housing of the metal beast, the deep rumble of gears and other strange devices heralding the metallic clunking as the outer armor plates closed back up and the legs began to unfold from the sides.

“The crawler has different power needs, though, and by design, she needs to draw power a lot more quickly than the standard architecture allows. Her reactor core is seven crystal shards in a stabilizing matrix, to buffer the power transference under loads a normal golem simply wouldn’t be able to handle. Smaller crystals, but more total power, and more efficiency overall. She’s actually able to recharge in a third of the time a single bigger crystal would take!”

“I’m no golemist, but that sounds very impressive,” acknowledged Terisa. “But I thought you were limited on ammunition?”

“On physical rounds for the crawler, yes,” replied the Worldwalker as she dashed around picking up tools and parts. The inferior mana crystals went into a crate packed with straw, which was soon tucked into the shelving on the still-opened front section of the workshop. “But I’m not using the crawler’s guns for this; Foz and the others are pushing the big gun into place right now.”

“The ‘big gun’? I shudder to think what you used on the rockmaw stampede wasn’t a ‘big gun’,” said the Huntress, unable to repress an involuntary shiver. Horns sounded from the walls as they spoke, and Terisa glanced back to see flares of light and lightning springing up around the fort. “They’ve sighted the skitterlings,” she said tensely. “Biggles is animating skeletons from the [Dozer Moles] to buy us time, and then it’s gonna be dirty. What are you contributing?”

“Well,” said Dana as several sections of her suit reconfigured, then dropped away, leaving the otherworlder sitting in a nearly immodest state in a stripped-down, chair-type configuration. A flattened oblong metal crate next to her suddenly split along previously invisible seams, runes glowing and shifting as a new armored shell seemed to assemble itself around her. Where the previous suit had seemed functional and utilitarian, this one was obviously heavier and more heavily armed, shrouding the Worldwalker in a far more sinister form.

“There was a weapons program on my world; one of many, of course. It doesn’t matter what it was called, and the name wouldn’t mean anything to you anyway, but the tests were abandoned because the soldiers who would have used the weapon could never have escaped its area of effect.”

Terisa appeared unimpressed. “That doesn’t fill me with confidence. Give me a reason not to declare this Expedition over and get everyone across the bridge right now.”

“Kojeg tells me you can kill the queens if we can crack their armor.”

“I can,” Terisa confirmed as she hefted her bow. “Or rather, we can, my sister and me. But first we have to deal with the worker and soldier forms in the swarm, and it can take hours of battle and dozens of mages to break their defenses down. And if there’s more than one queen…”

The crawler had continued its reconfiguration, clanking and thumping emanating from its internal systems as it lumbered to a standing position on its six metal legs. Dana’s armored glove retracted partially, leaving her fingers and palm bare as she reached up to touch it.

She furrowed her brow, speaking in a short, clipped tone. “Engage Autonomous Mode, Defender protocol.”

Terisa opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, a harsh, mechanical voice rose from around her.

“Autonomous Mode confirmed. Initializing Defender protocol.”

Terisa actually jumped back in surprise as the crawler spoke in response. “I thought you said it couldn’t function as a normal golem on its own!”

“It can’t,” she admitted, “but it can follow limited preset directives.”

The massive metal beast shook the ground as it moved its legs to turn in place. One by one, each leg raised itself off the ground and slammed downward, each foot springing open as three spikes lanced into the cobbles of the ancient courtyard. The legs folded in, lowering the front of the crawler’s body. The rearmost section rotated to point upward, and the outer ringed sections of its shell began to rotate and pulse with a gentle blue light from the runes inscribed on the metal.

“Defender mode will give us an extra shield,” Dana said as she finished packing up the workshop section of the first metal carriage. The shop then closed up, leaving just the hatch-like portal on the side, which the Worldwalker closed behind herself as she stepped out and headed toward the middle section. Foz and the other Ursara had finally managed to push the oversized wagon into place, where Dana had somehow cut markings into the ground to indicate where she needed it to go. She continued speaking as they neared the contraption.

“Between the walls, the shield, and any barriers the mages can give us, I’m confident Castra Pristis can take it. It may get uncomfortably hot, but it will be brief. Or should be; I couldn’t test these rounds at Thun’Kadrass. Shouldn’t you already be at the walls?”

“My own wide-area attacks wouldn’t put a dent in the workers and soldiers of the skitterling swarm,” the Huntress replied as the cannons began to fire, accompanied by the stuttering cacophony of Dana’s Mana-bolt machineguns. “But if you can crack the queen’s armor, Althenea can take out the lot of them with one shot. I just can’t use that skill twice in a row; it will take me days to recover. So it has to count.”

“Oh, it will,” Dana said with a sinister grin. The central section of her workshop reacted as she laid her bared palm against the side, the six wheels churning up stone and dirt as they twisted, and the axles bent to lay the rims flat on the earth. The top and sides of the carriage split with a hum and folded outward as both women stepped back, and what was obviously a cannon of some sort was revealed.

But what a cannon, thought Terisa. Instead of a fat, elongated bell shape akin to the dwarven cannons she was already familiar with, this weapon revealed an elegance the Huntress couldn’t put words to. The central barrel was narrower than those others, its bore barely larger than her arm. Flattened rectangular ports on the end flared backward, bracketing the muzzle of the gun, and a pair of massive springs on each side held it in place on a sliding rail. Twice as long as she was tall, the gun slowly elevated with a gentle, mechanical whirr that ill fit its deadly purpose. A double row of shells sat nested into a sliding rack on one side, and as Terisa watched, mechanical components took one of the conical shells and fed it into the cannon’s breech.

“First round is a standard charge, to confirm range and accuracy.” Dana held out a strange flattened device inset with impossibly tiny runes, and as it began to glow, a small-scale image of the fort and the surrounding area was projected into the air in front of the two women. “I’ve had the drones mapping out the area. If I can build a radio, or find a magical equivalent, I can do targeting in real-time, but for now we’ll have to settle for a little delay.”

Dana thumped a metal barrel on the side of the cannon, and a small golem suddenly sprang to action. Legs sprouted from the barrel, and it hopped off the side of the machine, trailing a thin cable that spooled out from within itself. The other end of the cord disappeared behind one of the panels of the gun’s carriage. It followed Dana as she headed for the wall, Terisa in tow.

“That’s a lot of bugs,” said the Worldwalker as they reached the parapet. Nessara and Biggles stood in a circle with the guild representative, a man-sized crystal shard floating between them. Three more mages stood in a circle over a dozen paces to their left, and another three to their right, both with crystals of their own. Eerie drafts of lucent green drifted between the crystals and the mages, flowing around the necromancer as he directed a skeletal army; one which was in very real danger of being overrun simply by the sheer numbers of the enemy. Other mages held position at the ready near each of the dwarven cannon emplacements, and Foz and the beastkin stood on the southern wall, ready for their own grim work when the time came.

Biggles himself stood motionless, knuckles white as he gripped the stone to hold himself up. Sweat ran down his brow with the effort, but his skill at his craft was evident in the growing berm of insectile forms building up over a thousand paces south of the walls. “The skitterlings aren’t going around,” he declared through clenched teeth. “When the queen appears, she’ll be bringing soldiers with her. The constructs won’t hold after that.”

“This is gonna be loud,” Dana declared, pulling a cord from their golem escort and plugging it into a slot on the back of her armored arm. She held out the flattened device once again, inspecting the map and tapping at the runes. “Adjusting angle. Biggles, if this takes out some of your constructs, I’m sorry.”

“A few is no issue, but if I lose too many, they’ll hit the walls,” he grunted.

“Fire in the hole!” the Worldwalker shouted, her voice pitched differently than Terisa had ever heard. It carried across the fort, leaving a sudden questioning silence for a single, brief moment.

The impact of the cannon firing was a thing felt more than heard, the thump of the ground against her feet almost enough to set the Huntress to dancing to keep her balance just a split second before the sound itself reached her ears. Many times louder than any of the dwarven guns, the noise reached her ears with a ringing impact. The world shook, and chunks of dirt and stone flew back from the Engineer’s cannon. Foz and the other beastkin crouched instinctively, many wincing and holding their ears.

“Three…” Dana said. “Two. One.”

Several dozen skitterlings, resembling nothing so much as common ants writ large, suddenly vanished in a shower of dirt and stone. The low rumble that reached their ears on the walls was much deeper and less jarring than the initial firing, but no less terrifying for its lack of volume. Two of the skeletal constructs nearest the blast simply collapsed, the animating magic no longer able to hold them together. Biggles breathed more heavily, straining to hold the rest.

The explosion and loss gave the swarm no pause, and Terisa readied her bow as dozens of even larger soldiers made their way out of the trees behind the frenzied horde. “How is that supposed to break the queen’s armor?” the Huntress demanded. “She’ll be here soon, following behind the soldiers.”

“That isn’t supposed to do anything to the queen’s armor.” Dana checked her map again, switching her gaze between it and the tree line. “Biggles, the next time I fire, you might consider dropping all the constructs and throwing up a shield.”

“What kind of shield?” he grunted exasperatedly “You realize the headaches this is going to cause all of us if I simply sever the links to the constructs?”

“What do you mean what kind of shield?” Dana asked. “And I think I see the queen!”

The magical strain made Biggles’ words sound forced as he snapped, “Flame shield? Wind barrier? Sonic attenuation? Any of a dozen and a half other shield types?”

“Queen, tree line, two hundred paces west of the southern trail!” called Terisa, drawing Althenea and nocking one of her most expensive arrows. The destructive enchantment inscribed on the adamantine broadhead would have cost a years’ pay to most working classers without the Huntress’ unique connections and wealth. “If you can crack her armor, I can kill her.”

“How do you expect to punch through with just one shot?” asked Nessara. Magic swirled around the woman as she added her own strength to Biggles’ channeling.

“I don’t intend to just break the queen’s armor,” Dana replied, shaking her head. “I’m taking out most of that swarm, too.” The queen lumbered out of the forest then, several times larger than even Dana’s crawler. It was escorted by soldiers even larger than the last group, whose gargantuan mandibles chewed through everything in their queen’s path: rocks, trees, and even the odd unfortunate worker skitterling who failed to clear the path in time.

“How on earth are you going to do that?” came the frustrated and strained question from Nessara.

Dana grinned. “Remember what I said about pulling energy out of a Mana crystal too fast? I engineered a round to do that deliberately to a shard about the size of my fingernail. Then I packed it into a compression chamber. When the shell hits, it destabilizes the crystal, then annihilates it all at once! Simple, right? Fire in the hole!”

The cannon thumped once more, as if in agreement, but the assembled group could hardly hear it over their own sudden horror. The blood drained from Nessara’s cheeks, her ashen expression one Terisa would not soon forget. Chadwick lost control of his bladder, the front of his gaudy blue robes turning a dark color. Biggles and the other mages dropped their necromantic spells, the constructs slumping to the earth. The Mana around the crystals changed from green to bluish-white as the mages began casting a shield around them. From the southern wall, Foz heard Dana’s proclamation as well, and his hasty commands had the beastkin and dwarves diving as one, covering their heads in sheer panic.

Dana simply stood in place, her armor suddenly glowing with sigils that projected several layers of shielding around the top of the gate tower. “Why’s everybody being all dramatic? It’s seriously a tiny shard. And the math checked out!”

And then the shell slammed into the ground a few paces away from the queen, who stopped at the sudden geyser of dirt. For a half of a heartbeat, Terisa was sure something had gone wrong.

Then the shell exploded, and the entire world disappeared into a sea of white.

Morgan had stopped running to eat, her third such break of the day. Bursts of [Acceleration] let her cover ground at an amazing pace, but the caloric cost to sustain such motion wasn’t something she could keep up for very long. So, she’d brought several dozen leaf-wrapped parcels of meat, and in the two days since heading for the people she’d sensed, she’d consumed almost all of them.

“I have to be getting close, Lulu,” she said after finishing her meal, while the scrubby cleaned the grease off her hands. “I know I’m going the right direction, but I could be miles to one side or the other by the time I get there.”

She rose from her seat. A fallen log with moss growing over it had made for a comfortable place of respite while she’d had a brief rest and a snack. Without wasting any more time, she continued on her way, heading roughly south by southwest—at least, by her best reckoning. Don’t really have a way to make a compass, not that I know of, she thought to herself as she jogged along. Her meal would take an hour or so to fully replenish her reserves, and she wanted to pace herself before returning to her skills.

It was well past noon before she got close enough that her [Spell Resonance] let her sense the faintest echoes of activity in the distance. She surmised she might make it by nightfall at her current pace, even if she didn’t use [Acceleration]. The impressions she sensed at such a distance were vague, and while she was sure some of it was gun or cannon fire, she couldn’t be sure who or what was fighting. Too many feet hitting too much ground over too much of an area; only the rapid thumps of weapons were sharp enough to stand out.

So she restrained herself, resisting the urge to make a mad dash and use up her reserves. She was down to three meals in her storage, and had no clue if the people at the far end would even be friendly. The thought that they might have ill intentions had crossed her mind more than once while she ran, but she was willing to chance it, in case they were nice. If they weren’t, she’d have to run, and she didn’t want to be stuck without food in such circumstances.

Suddenly there came a far sharper, far louder impact. Her senses were instantly on edge as she skidded to a stop, pausing to feel for more tremors. Some sort of booming concussion had cut through the low rumbling of everything else, nearly stinging her feet as [Spell Resonance] transferred the sensation. All the other vibrations through the ground seemed to fall away for a moment before resuming again, and Morgan stood still for several heartbeats. She’d barely taken another step before her senses were overloaded.

She sensed a flash of heat, a rumble of earth, and it took her nearly a full minute to realize she was actually physically hearing the sound with her own ears and not just through her [Spell Resonance]. Thunder rolled in a continuous rumble throughout the valley, and the sky to the southeast was visibly brighter in the early afternoon. The Sorceress stumbled, catching herself just before falling, as Lulu wurbled with surprised concern from her shoulder.

“Oh, god…”

She continued more slowly, picking her way up the mountainside to the next ridge. Dread filled her at the thought of what she suspected she’d see, and was made manifest when she crested the rocky ledge at the very top.

“Someone built a nuke in this world?” she wondered in a small voice.

An ominously glowing cloud was forming in the distance, the emblematic shape of destruction writ large and terrible, simultaneously idolized and feared in the fictional works of her own world. It wasn’t as big as she’d been afraid of, but it cast dead shadows across the low mountains to the south. Violent lightnings danced around the edges of the darkness, and she could feel her skin prickle with tingling and burning sensations that healed as fast as they appeared.

“Radiation, has to be. It’s like a really itchy sunburn.” She patted the loofah on her shoulder, but Lulu seemed even less bothered by it than Morgan. “If it gets worse, you may have to hide in one of my runes, girl. I have to check for survivors.”

So Morgan ran once more, discarding caution and using [Acceleration] as much as she dared. She hoped there were still people left when she arrived.

Terisa staggered to her feet, leaning heavily against the stone parapet as she fumbled at her belt. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and twin spears of agony lanced into her brain; she knew in that instant that she’d been blinded, and if she didn’t move quickly, it might well be a permanent affliction. Her right hand gripped Althenea tightly, the bow pulsing with barely-contained panic, while her left rummaged through the pouches sewn into her wyvern-hide breeches. She calmed her breathing as her fingers finally closed around a familiarly shaped bottle, drawing it forth and tearing the stopper out with her teeth. She drank the bitter potion in a single motion as she began to feel again. Her exposed arms, legs, face, what little cleavage her tunic exposed—all of it stung from the flash of hellish heat that had burned out her eyes.

A standard healing potion would have only stopped the damage and scarred it over—but Terisa was no standard adventurer, and this no standard potion. The elixir (which she had saved for emergencies not exactly like this one) tasted vile, but it worked, and Terisa felt her natural regeneration amplify a hundredfold under its effects. Her eyes itched maddeningly as they grew back, repairing the damage, and eventually restoring functional, albeit blurry, sight. Such potions fetched a king’s ransom, but when you needed them most, nothing else could compare.

As her vision cleared, the Huntress lowered her bow and pushed herself off the parapet to survey the destruction the Engineer had wrought. The forest had been blown down like matchsticks in a circle stretching for miles away from the fort, and charred, smoking corpses lay strewn amongst the fallen trees like so many lumps of coal. To Dana’s credit, the crawler’s shield had done its job; though the shield itself was barely visible to the naked eye, its effect was visible as a curved line several dozen paces out from the fort’s walls, against which a wave of debris had piled up to form a noticeable berm.

It had not, however, stopped all of the tremendous heat from the blast, and the battlements of Castra Pristis bore the scars: they’d been scorched by the heat, with strangely-formed shadows seemingly etched into the surfaces that had faced the blast. They looked much like the skitterlings, but cast in silhouette against the stones, as if thrown there by an evening sun. The towering cloud above rumbled ominously, eerie lightning flashing in its depths.

Dana herself stood rigid and motionless atop the tower, as if her armor had locked her in place. Terisa thought to herself that that must have been what happened. The suit creaked, smoke drifting in thin, curling tendrils away from the joints and seams. She managed to turn her head fractionally to either side, and the effort seemed to push the suit out of whatever lockdown mode it had been pressed into. With a hiss, the faceplate bulged forward, then slid up over the woman’s head, stunned disbelief written across her features.

“I-I think…” she croaked.

“I think you made a miscalculation,” Terisa said frostily, not taking her eyes off the field. Biggles and his mages, and Foz and his beastmen and dwarves, were just starting to regain their footing. Singed one and all, but their concerned shouts didn’t have the overtones of panic that might indicate severe injury; nobody else had stared directly into the blast as she had. Terisa scanned the battlefield once more, desperately searching for any sign of the skitterling queen.

Dana’s suit creaked again as she flexed her limbs, runes flickering across its exterior as it worked to repair the damage she had incurred. “Just, ah, a rough estimate,” she replied with a nervous laugh, putting her suit through a brief self-test. “I, ah, don’t have proper equipment to get a real measurement, but I was expecting maybe point three kay-tee? But that was more like…had to be at least a kiloton, just to look at the mushroom cloud! I don’t understand, the math checked out, it shouldn’t have—”

The Engineer’s babbling was cut short by a low, persistent beeping and strident flashing from a raised section of her armored left arm. Startled, she slid a panel back and peered at something, swearing vehemently. “Ah, shit, I’m getting readings on my dosimeter. It’s not terribly high, but it’s concerning enough as it is—”

Terisa cut her off with a sharp gesture. “Explain later. The queen’s not here, but there are still plenty of soldiers and workers, and they’re still coming.”

The smoking earth around the crater where the weapon went off still glowed with heat, and the skitterlings surrounding it seemed unwilling to cross. Suddenly Terisa glanced skyward, bidden by her instincts, or possibly the rising cry from the people within the fort. As she looked up, a shape fell from the sky, still glowing and trailing smoke. The remains of the skitterling queen, merely a chunk of her armored carapace, slammed back to earth, sending a tremor through the ground as it bounced once, then came to rest.

“Miss Dana,” Terisa began, her eyes on the tree line. Her sharp-eyed gaze saw more chitinous soldiers boiling forth from the tree line, ahead of a second lumbering shape whose presence poured icy dread into the Huntress’ heart. “While I’m thankful I didn’t end up wasting my ultimate skill, please tell me you have a less destructive way to crack a queen’s shell?”

Dana’s gaze snapped to Terisa, then out to the tree line. “I…I don’t even have another annihilator,” she said softly. “I-it was a prototype. I don’t know if standard rounds will do the job.”

The second queen broke through the tree line, and the milling workers and soldiers let out hissing, insectile screams as they were driven forth by the new queen’s orders. They surged forth across the cracked, seared ground, the lead ants bursting into flames, falling, and being trampled by those behind them. Foz’s bellowing roar rose from within the fort, followed by howls, barked commands, and acknowledgments as the beastmen and dwarves made ready to hold the walls in a desperate stand.

“This won’t be fun, Worldwalker,” the [Wild-Heart Huntress] warned. “Hit the queen with everything you have. If you can weaken her armor, I’ll take the shot.”

Dana responded with a quiet nod, her helmet slipping back into place. Nessara, Biggles, and the mages had finally reset themselves, and barriers once more sprang into existence as they returned to their work. Cheers resounded as the guns resumed their monotonous thumping, flinging death out over the walls into the onrushing horde.

The first shot landed short of the queen, but the second, third, and then several more thudded into its armored carapace. The swarm didn’t falter, more of the bugs flooding out of the trees, pushing their brethren up against the walls, and then simply up the walls. Terisa kept her arrow nocked, watching the queen and trusting Kojeg and the mages to keep the gate-tower clear. Biggles and Nessara were wreathed in eerie light, each supporting one side of a low, translucent dome, and the dwarf laid about with his hammer to crush intruders that pushed under the edge of the shield.

“Twelve more rounds,” shouted the Worldwalker. “I don’t think they’re having any effect!” Each impact drove the queen into a low crouch, but the monstrous creature simply shrugged its cottage-sized bulk and crept forward under the deluge. And then the gun went silent. “That’s all I have,” said Dana, yanking out the cord through which she’d controlled the massive gun. “I’ll have to get close and see if I can cut through with my fusion blades.”

As she spoke the last, her suit went from two legs back to four, then six, then eight. Four appendages held her off the ground, and the other four sprouted glowing knives of hard-edged light. Another giant ant had forced its way under the edge of the dome held up by the mages, opposite the side Kojeg defended. Dana’s blades snicked out too fast even for Terisa to see clearly, and the bug fell, hewn into two pieces that dripped smoking ichor.

“Something’s coming!” Biggles shouted suddenly, turning to face the mountainside to the northwest of the fort.

Nessara turned to look as well. “Earth Mana, and Fire! It’s the same as the day of the rockmaw stampede!” she shouted.

Terisa felt it as well suddenly. A shiver beneath her feet, a low rumble. The skitterling queen stumbled in its tracks, and she finally took her eyes off the bugs to see what the mages had turned to look at.

One of the mountaintops off to the west of the fort lit up with flashes of brilliant purple incandescence. As it continued, even the Huntress was struck with the sensation of power.

And the mountain shrugged. The top rose up as if buoyed by that terrible light, and then dropped. And kept dropping. The lower slope facing the swarm bulged out and then, as if a dam had burst, flowed forth like a wave of water poured across a table. Within the churning earth was snapping, crackling, burning purple lightning. The leading edge of the rolling dirt and stone threw up a bow wave of more stone, trees, and then giant ants as it swept across the valley in the span of less than a dozen heartbeats.

The others couldn’t see as clearly as Terisa could, when the lightning and stone reached the queen and crushed it under tons of rock and earth as easily as she might crush a normal-sized insect underfoot. They saw the effect, but not the source. But her [Eagle Eye] skill showed her, in perfect clarity, a woman covered in glowing lines of power from head to toe, leaping from one floating disk of stone to another several paces above the churning mass of burning earth. Seven flawless mana crystals floated in a circle that slowly rotated around the woman, and a poofy puffball twice the size of Biggles’ own Wuffle perched upon her shoulder.

The necromancer’s jaw hung open, as did those of Nessara and the other mages, as he tracked her across the sky. “One person,” he said weakly. “One person, linked to seven mana crystals? That…shouldn’t be possible! The flux alone should…!”

“Nobody told them that,” retorted Nessara.

“Her,” said Kojeg absently, peering through his spyglass. “Terisa, is it just me eyes, or be that lass as naked as the day she were born?”

“It’s not your eyes, Koj,” Terisa replied in wonder.

“Well,” Dana supplied as the glowing figure approached the fort, resting her hands on her hips. “This should be interesting!”

Second InterLulude: Hello!

It had been a long journey.

Her mistress had been running flat-out for two days and two nights, barely stopping to eat and rest, and the loyal scrubby had come along for the ride. Sometimes she’d clung tightly to her mistress’ shoulder, flattening herself down so the great winds couldn’t find enough purchase on her form to push her off her perch. Other times, Lulu had quickly scurried downward to hide in the strange, airless void she’d found at her hip, napping in the unchanging quiet and trusting, knowing, that if she was needed, her mistress would retrieve her.

Every time the lacy puffball emerged from her preferred travel napping place, her mistress felt worryingly less than before. Thinner. Bonier. The effort she was expending was clear even to Lulu, and more than once it took a good purble-scolding before her mistress deigned to have a meal and replenish herself.

Their encounters with the denizens of the forest during this period of travel had all been brief, their goal not to kill and conquer, but merely to evade and suppress long enough to get going again.

It had never been clear to Lulu where they were going, or what their purpose was; all she knew was her mistress deemed it very important that they get somewhere. When they’d crested the top of the mountain and seen the vast swaths of insects below, the scrubby had wondered if perhaps they were headed for a grand, glorious battle of some sort.

They were, and yet they weren’t. It was a sidestep, a last detour before coming to what her mistress had really been seeking: others of her own kind.

Together, all of them had battled against the swarm of chittering foes and emerged triumphant. Now, after the dust had settled and her mistress had been cleaned off, the ones who walked on two legs were conversing in tones that spoke of friendly curiosity and confusion. Lulu listened in as best as she could, but nothing in their tone gave her cause for concern—and when a few of them broke away from the group and did things around fires that made mistress’ stomach growl noisily, the scrubby knew they were in good hands.

With one last look around to satisfy herself that they’d be safe for the moment, Lulu crept onto Morgan’s shoulder and purbled a quiet goodbye before leaping away, moving off to explore a little. Learning more about the sorts of beings they would be staying with seemed to be a prudent thing to do, and as the beings in question were of the same kind as her mistress, she might learn more about her by learning about them.

The shelters these people used were things completely foreign to the scrubby, and were the first stop on her tour of exploration. The texture felt unlike anything Lulu had yet encountered, and she crawled all over the yielding surface in an effort to understand. After careful examination, she concluded that they were comprised of thin lengths of fiber woven together in some manner. It was complex, like a braided hairstyle, and yet smaller and more intricate still. How curious!

Letting her attentions stretch further away from what she was touching, Lulu suddenly realized that the smell sensations coming from within seemed to line up with what she thought of as home and safety. What strange people! Did they not want to be protected with good, sturdy, earthen walls? She had half a mind to test the strength of this flexible home, but before she’d even started to work up a good cleansing lather, something else caught her attention. Something with a different tinge of familiarity to it. No—something more family than familiar.

She bounded off of the tent, purbling in her most cheerful and bubbly manner to the being who’d just spotted her, and set off on her new quest.

Lulu knew she didn’t need to travel far, but she found she had to do a lot of dodging and rerouting in order to avoid being stepped on. The scrubby had never conceived of so many of her mistress’ kind congregated in one area, and to make the experience even more daunting, they all seemed to be observing her very closely. If they were going to look, she mused, she might as well have some fun. The wurbling puffball increased her speed, and did what she could to be worthy of their interest. She hopped this way and that, burbling a melody compiled from excerpts she’d heard from Morgan. Then with a high leap, she spun so her lacy fronds sparkled with suds in the fading sunlight.

It was at the end of this leap that she landed at the entrance to one particular wagon. With a farewell purble to the crowd that had gathered to watch, Lulu slipped inside and immediately noticed the shy, green scrubby trying to hide behind some containers. Given that they were made of transparent glass, it wasn’t a very effective hiding spot.

Shuffling into the middle of the room, she fluffed her frills into a posture of easy repose, trying to school her larger mass into a less intimidating bulk. Reaching out with her emotions, she sent a quiet burble of greeting to the young scrubby.

The response she got in return was chaotic and would have made her head spin, if she’d had one. The pale green loofah was wavering between excitement and awe at meeting [Loofah Prime: The Scrubby Matriarch], and was visibly vibrating where it stood on the shelf. Lulu found herself filled with the essence of warm laughter at this young one who was clearly unable to decide between quiet prostration and exuberant chatter. She made her reaction known to Pale Green with a low burble, and subtly expressed her desire to know more.

That did it. The other scrubby found its conversational footing and switched very decidedly to the excited end of the spectrum, proudly proclaiming that it was not Pale Green, but instead, Wuffle.

And I am Lulu, she replied. Seeing that the other was no longer quite so uncertain, she hopped up on a chair to be closer to the one she was talking to before asking who it was that had named the young scrubby.

Emotions and images flickered swiftly through the air, and Lulu reached out to taste them all. Discovery of the traveling wooden place that struck her as someone’s home, and peering inside to see what was there. Glass jars sparkling in the daylight, tempting Wuffle’s curious nature. Carefully cleaning delicate things, learning to spin and shift in order to get the difficult, rounded corners just as uncontaminated as the rest. Attention shifting, whirling around as a large being enters the room. Hiding behind shining, clean glass.

The images came more swiftly, and Lulu watched as the uneasy truce between the small loofah and the man blossomed into understanding, as the task of cleaning sample jars was more clearly laid out. “Biggles” seemed to be the man’s name, and he had a high bar for cleanliness. Wuffle, for its part, was more than happy to oblige.

The barrage of information faded as Wuffle came to the end of its happy babbling, and the scrubby matriarch shifted her attention to her surroundings. The smell coming off of the cleaned jars sparked Lulu’s curiosity, and as Lulu contemplated them through the lens of the new information she’d gleaned from her conversation, she found herself wanting to learn more. She hopped up onto the shelf with Wuffle, surprising it with how lightly she moved despite her bulk, and scooted inside the nearest dirty container to get a feel for things.

Instantly Lulu was overwhelmed by the remnants of some form of magic that was new to her. It didn’t speak of danger, not exactly, but its strength wasn’t one to be dismissed lightly. It tingled and buzzed all over in a very unfamiliar way, and in a handful of moments, Lulu had backed right out again to escape the unpleasant sensations. A quick self-fluff and a gentle cleanse removed the worst of the buzzing feeling.

Wuffle made a purble of amusement that almost shifted into clicking noises from its intensity. With a smooshing of its body into something akin to a bow, it slid eagerly into the container Lulu had just vacated. The young scrubby spun and danced within, frothing up with a scent-feel the scrubby matriarch could never have previously imagined. Whatever it was, it did the trick, and by the time Wuffle slid back out of the jar, it was literally sparkling with cleanliness.

Lulu was almost consumed by her desire to investigate the strange cleaning ability she’d just seen, but restrained her curiosity to ask first. May I?

Only after the pale green loofah gave a hop of consent did she slide over and reach cautiously over the rim of the jar. To her relief, there was no lingering trace of the unpleasant buzzing to be found. Nothing but shiny cleanliness. She took a brief moment to file away the things she felt for later contemplation. Perhaps she could learn a thing or two from this clever youngster.

Pulling her reaching frill back out from the glass jar, she praised the little one for its thoroughness and ability. To make things as clear as possible, she fluffed out with pride at the way the younger one could accomplish something Lulu herself could not. Wuffle, in turn, was obviously so very pleased at compliments in general. When one came from the matriarch herself, it started vibrating with pleasure so hard that it actually began bouncing on the shelf. Indeed, Wuffle was so beside itself that it didn’t even notice that its tall friend had entered the door of the carriage.

In the brief moment Biggles was aware but the smaller scrubby was not, Lulu watched. She’d gotten decently adept at reading the emotions of her mistress, and while this was certainly not her, she could still detect a good range of things. Surprise was clearly evident on the tall one’s face, as was amusement. There were a handful of smaller emotional elements, but nothing that really stood out to her as concerning, or even worthy of her attention.

The newcomer cleared his throat. “Wuffle?”

The green loofah immediately stopped bouncing, shifting around in embarrassment before giving a gleeful trill and leaping onto its friend’s shoulder.

“Heh. Glad to see you too.” His eyes shifted over to Lulu. “Been making friends?”

Wuffle squished itself into the crook of his neck, chirping in the affirmative, then added a low coo of admiration and respect.

Lulu hopped down onto the chair again, fluffing out in pride and respect in return as she burbled pleasantly. A good friend is important, she said to her descendant in images and feelings, and you seem to have chosen quite well. Taste and absorb and learn and grow together. Become a team.

Wuffle bobbed in understanding, but Biggles only looked confused. To try to make sure the human also understood her, she leaped high to land lightly atop his head. Lulu purbled soothingly as she went to work, massaging his scalp with the gentlest of exfoliations and frothing up to give his hair the most pleasant of cleansings. How better to show approval than to give the gift of something clean?

Something tickled at the back of her mind as she was finishing up the rinse cycle. Her mistress was being fed, and would likely need cleaning shortly. With that in mind, she concluded her work as quickly as she could without sacrificing the quality of her cleaning, then hopped down with a friendly purr.

The man reached up to pat his hair, and as the corner of his mouth twitched, Lulu knew she’d done well. She’d done very well, she amended, as she spotted Wuffle leaning in to investigate. The two friends shared a brief moment, during which she slipped away.

Emerging from the wagon, the scrubby matriarch caught the essence of cooked food in the air. In the distance, she could detect the sounds of eating. Lulu immediately began scurrying back to her mistress.

Further exploration would have to wait for another day. Her own friend would be needing her now.

Chapter 32: A Fireside Chat

Terisa Aras sat on a stool a short distance away from the firepit where her husband was cooking supper. This wouldn’t ordinarily be remarkable, but he was cooking supper for the third time in one evening. A few hours ago, Dana and Morgan had disappeared into the former’s workshop to discuss matters amongst themselves. Dana had appeared quiet and withdrawn, a stark contrast to her earlier eagerness upon meeting the other Worldwalker. When they’d emerged, the newcomer had sat down and begged food and drink, and began to eat.

And eat.

And eat some more.

Dana, meanwhile, had gone back into her shop to analyze her suit’s data, to see if she could figure out what had gone wrong with her munition. Nessara sat to Terisa’s left, still speechless at the display of wanton gluttony they were currently bearing witness to. Kojeg and Graz, the Ursaran youth, had seen the woman’s efforts as a challenge to meet, and had attempted to keep up with the Worldwalker as she devoured plate after plate of grilled meats and spiced vegetables as fast as Foz could serve them. Their efforts had been truly herculean, worthy of any competitive eater, yet they’d been forced to concede. Kojeg lay back against a log in slumber, and Graz had long since wandered off in a sleepy daze. She still showed no signs of slowing down, and Terisa couldn’t do anything but stare as Foz laid another rack of elk ribs on the stone grating, sprinkling it with salt and other spices.

The newcomer’s attire—or, more properly, lack thereof—was certainly striking, especially with her vivid purple tattoos. That wasn’t what had Terisa staring. The Huntress had seen many things in her years, had lived a Story of fame and earned uncountable fortunes through her adventures, and had taken sides in more than one war. Her own abilities barely touched on magics beyond skills with her bow, enhanced senses, and physicality, but she’d seen more spellwork in her life than most. Even the greater working that had sent the burning landslide rushing over the skitterlings didn’t merit much attention, beyond the sheer spectacle and her relief at such an opportune intervention.

She’d never before, however, seen any spellcaster of any class variant rip stones from the ground, mold them into forks, knives, and plates, then sit on a chair that seemed to grow up from the ground to catch the person as they sat down while eating with said utensils—all without touching them by hand. Levitation wasn’t something she had much familiarity with, but one thing Terisa did know was it wasn’t just the total mass that made it difficult. Every separate item so controlled took more effort than the last, so the mages she’d known had either used static enchantments to hold the items aloft, or only lifted two or three objects at most.

“How much Mana is she using?” asked the Huntress in an awestruck whisper, leaning toward Nessara.

“It’s not how much she’s using, I can’t even get a read on that. It has to be a skill!” hissed the mage.

“Oh, speak plain, mighty wizard! I can see she has to be using several skills!”

“She’s generating Mana at a prodigious rate, and the more she eats, the more she gains! But I can’t tell where it’s coming from, or going. Her tattoos are enchantments that shouldn’t be possible, and I think some of them are storing it…”

The mage had stopped bothering to whisper, the newcomer seemingly oblivious to the conversation as she devoured more and more food. The woman’s stomach was visibly larger, yet that was fading as her body adapted. She’d seemed thin and gangly upon her arrival at the wall after her staggering display of power, and now the food was replenishing her figure fast enough to be visible to the naked eye. Biggles was preparing a fourth kettle of kaffen on the grate over the coals, and the tattooed spellcaster levitated a large goblet in the necromancer’s direction when she noticed, a goblet formed of solid Mana crystal, as clear as glass and free of imperfections: yet another feat that drew stares and strange looks from both Nessara and Chadwick.

“Mmfh,” sputtered the woman, licking grease off her fingers. “You have no idea how long it’s been since I had salt, and seasoning on food!” The loofah on her shoulder, twice as large as the necromancer’s own Wuffle, made its way down her arm to finish off the last traces on her hands as the crystal goblet floated up for her to take a drink. “And I don’t know what this stuff is, but all I’ve had was water and a bad tea I made once from some flowers I found. It tastes like all that’s good about coffee and hot chocolate!”

The floating plates and forks suddenly converged, the puffball hopping from the woman’s shoulder to clean the last of the mess before the stone crumbled, returning to the earth from which it had been formed. Another shocking display followed, as she seemed to let herself fall backward over her chair, throwing her limbs out. Terisa noticed Chadwick leering at the woman’s naked form, but that wasn’t what had Terisa staring—nor was it that her tattoos were glowing contentedly. Instead of falling to the ground in a heap, the ground itself flowed upward to catch her, as though it were her lover.

“Oh, man,” purred the glowing woman. She patted her rune-covered abdomen, the slight bulge from gorging on so much food already fading and her magical presence growing even more intense. After a languorous stretch that had more than just the Swift Waters Guild representative drooling to witness, Morgan sat back up. More accurately, the stone beneath her shifted to lift her up to a sitting position, arms sculpting themselves from the ground as the newly formed chair adapted to the contours of her body with perfect precision. Several men, and a handful of women, stared from other cookfires scattered about the clearing at the center of Castra Pristis. Foz and the other beastkin were unphased, unlike their human counterparts.

The Tribes have no taboos about anything as silly as nudity, recalled Terisa, eyes lingering on Foz for half a heartbeat.

“She’s not actively trying to show off,” muttered Nessara to her left. “I think she genuinely just doesn’t care she’s naked.”

Chadwick broke in at that moment, grinning like a schoolboy and unable to contain himself any longer. “I can see her—”

A leathery rasp and a flicker of movement from across the campfire presaged the arrival of a gleaming dagger, stuck in the ground and quivering a hair’s width from the man’s toes. “You can see her what?” Foz rumbled, staring at the man as Terisa stifled a laugh.

The man shuffled his boot away from the knife, gulping as the blood drained from his face. “Uh! I can see her loofah!”

“Oh! You mean Lulu?” the [Skyclad Sorceress] replied brightly, grinning at Chadwick.

“Not as oblivious as I thought,” mumbled a grinning Nessara.

The woman made no effort to cover herself or even shift to sit in a manner more befitting a lady, merely held out the puffball and continued, “Don’t you like my Lulu?” she said, staring at Chadwick. The scrubby seemed to puff up from the attention. “She’s so soft, and pink, and likes to be stroked, just like this!”

The loofah seemed to preen, wurbling with contentment and, unlike its mistress, totally oblivious to the wordplay as the woman petted the puffball with a gentle circular motion. Terisa lost her composure and burst into raucous laughter, nearly falling off her own stool as the guild representative turned several different shades of red. Anger fought for a place next to embarrassment on the man’s face and he eventually rose to his feet, stalking away toward his own wagon.

“Finally,” said Morgan, suddenly more serious. “I know I’m naked, and I don’t really mind people looking,” she said as she patted herself between the legs to make the point, “but there’s no excuse for rudeness, and he’s been creeping me out since I got here. I thought I was going to have to set him on fire to make him leave.”

“Can drag him back here if you still want to do that,” Foz rumbled with a conspiratorial grin.

“He’s rude, crass, and immature,” Terisa admitted after regaining her composure, “and I would have barred him from the trip, but the Swift Waters Guild provides the lion’s share of funding for the Expedition every year. Supplies aren’t cheap, especially the quality and quantity of healing and Mana potions we require.”

“Meh,” said the Sorceress with a dismissive wave of her hand. “If he wants to perv on me from a distance, let him. At least Biggles here doesn’t have his eyes falling out of his head.”

“As a healer, I’m more familiar with the uglier side of bodies, particularly the insides. And as a necromancer, of course,” he mused, pouring another round of kaffen for everyone around the fire. “Working with both the dead and the living lends itself to a certain immunity to being distracted by bodies themselves. I prefer my plants and garden at home.”

“Speaking of healing…” Terisa left the question hanging in the air unfinished.

“The unstable magics will fade over the next few days,” the necromancer replied. “Miss Dana was appropriately chagrined over what she called radiation, but that’s already been absorbed by the ambient Mana in the atmosphere. I hope she doesn’t sulk overmuch, but one really shouldn’t make a habit of detonating mana crystals. Miss Morgan here,” he nodded at the Sorceress, “already took care of the corruption at the blast site when she covered it with burning earth.”

“It makes sense there’d be gaps in what people thought to inform her about,” Nessara said as she sipped her own mug. “It’s not like there’s a guidebook for Worldwalkers.”

“Hah!” Morgan exclaimed. “That would have helped more than you know! I might not have ended up naked if I’d found something like that. Instead, all I got was eagle poop when I landed.”

The Sorceress turned wistful for a few moments after that, emotions flickering across her face too quickly for Terisa to track. “Yet you survived the wilds alone. Not many can say that, even those of us with levels and experience the first time we come here.”

“Yeah. And it’s not like I didn’t have help. Lulu can take care of herself better than you would think,” she said, giving her poofy passenger a pat. “And I did meet one other person, a witch who turned into a raven.”

Foz sat straighter then, keen interest shining in his eyes as he spoke up. “You met the First Raven? The secrets of full shifting have been lost to the Children since the time of Ka’Na Oko. Long have we yearned for the old knowledge.”

Morgan shuddered at the memory. “Yeah, that’s her. Apparently my distant ancestor too, and not a nice lady. Not mean, exactly, but I guess you’d say, very old-fashioned. You guys might get along better with her than I did.”

Clanks and mechanical rumblings heralded Dana’s return as she exited the side door of her workshop, the triple-carriage now reassembled into its original form. The Engineer no longer looked as dejected as she had after getting lectured by Nessara, and a Morgan who’d been literally on fire at the time.

“Okay,” Dana said as her suit shifted from two legs into a configuration that left her sitting level with everyone else. “I see where my math went wrong. I had no idea converting mana crystals to energy would be different than regular matter, and that there’d be an amplification effect that nearly tripled the yield.”

Foz served her up a plate with an amicable grunt of approval. “Long as you know to be more careful from now on. Everybody survived, this time.”

“You get the energy from the matter and the residual energy of the Mana stored in the crystals, and the effect is more than the flat sum of both,” Nessara said in a more kindly tone. “Normally you just detonate the crystal and shatter it to pieces, but your containment field held the energy in one place and forced it to annihilate itself.”

“It’s all good, though,” Morgan added before sipping more steaming kaffen from her crystal goblet. “It won’t matter in a few days anyway.” Points of faint purple light flickered along the lines of her tattoos, tracing outward from the sigil on her chest as if the magic pulsed with her heartbeats.

For all Terisa could sense, that was exactly what was happening. The woman’s eyes, clearly naturally brown, were shot through with flecks and streaks of bright violet and deep indigo, and even her fingers and toes were tipped with glimmering crystal in place of keratin. Striking doesn’t even begin to describe this creature, thought the Huntress. I’m not even sure she still counts as human… “What do you mean it won’t matter in a few days?”

The Sorceress looked at Terisa, resting her chin on her hands with her elbows on her knees. “Because there’s something big coming up the ley line that passes near the fort, and it’ll churn up the magic around here anyway.”

“Could that be the Wanderer you and Kojeg talk about, Terisa?” Dana had eaten with haste, washing down her food with a mug of kaffen.

“Possibly. Probably,” the Huntress amended. “It’s definitely a migration year, and if he’s heading this way, it would explain the stampedes and the different creatures on the move outside of their normal territories.”

“Moghren did tell me The Titan wanders,” Morgan mused. “Have you ever seen him?”

Terisa nodded slowly, deep in thought. Foz spoke up on her behalf when she seemed reluctant to speak.

“Long time ago. Her first trip out here, back when the old badger Kamaga led the Expedition.”

“Half of us didn’t come back from that trip,” the Huntress whispered. “He didn’t seek us out, but some hot-headed fools thought to reap a bounty in crystal from his hide. Kamaga got the younglings out.” Terisa shuddered at the memory. “He wasn’t picking a fight then, and I doubt he is now, but if the Wanderer is coming this way, this year’s Expedition is done. We head back tomorrow.”

“Chadwick will be incensed!” Nessara said. “All those resources waiting out there? Swift Waters does pay a fortune for crystals for their Wavecutters, though, so he’ll still make a profit, considering how Dana ended the stampede.” The mage stood to go spread the word, knowing it was pointless to argue with the Huntress.

“I want to know more about the Wanderer,” Morgan said as the mage walked away.

“Why? He’s ancient, powerful beyond belief, and has only left the Wildlands once, to my knowledge, in all of living memory.” Terisa slid from her stool to a crouch, drawing a stick from the fire to scratch the charcoal tip against the stone. “He’s bigger than a troll, but smaller than a hill giant, and more dangerous than either one.”

Morgan shook her head. “Are you sure? I don’t feel danger. My instincts would tell me… No, he feels familiar, his magic similar to my own. When did he leave the Wildlands?”

“That was before my time, but I have Kamaga’s journals back home at Expedition. He just walked down from the pass one day, with several children on his shoulders.”

The Huntress continued to draw on the ground with the burnt stick, the others around the fire falling silent in the fading light of dusk. Kojeg had sat up to listen, nursing a mug of Biggles’ specialty kaffen. Dana sat quietly next to the naked Worldwalker, and Chadwick returned with Nessara, but remained respectfully subdued.

“According to Kamaga, a pack of local thieves and bandits had gone from robbery to…darker things. They killed a dozen or more people in the mountainside territories outside of any nation’s borders, and took captives.”

She kept drawing, deep in memory of old tales. “Apparently they thought they could hide in the Wildlands and have fun with the women. The kids they were going to sell to smugglers bound for Deskren lands; they pay gold for young classless. But the Wanderer wandered and found them. Apparently he has a soft spot for children. They told old Kamaga he “ate the bad men” and carried them out of the wilds.”

“That sounds almost noble,” Dana said.

“It may be,” Terisa said, adding more lines to her drawing, focused on the memories. She’d read the journals only after her own experience, seeing the massive creature from a distance herself, and what she was drawing had been burned into her mind. “But he shakes the earth when he walks, disrupts magic of any kind. He’s heavier than he looks, and sheds crystals with every movement, as his armored form bends and cracks with every step.”

Morgan looked up at that last detail. “I’ve found these—” she seemed to struggle for the words, the loofah wurbling gently on her shoulder. “I call them graveyards, massive skeletons in the middle of shattered earth and stone, with crystals scattered everywhere. Lots of them all over the Wildlands, from what I can tell.”

“They look chewed on, don’t they?” the Huntress asked, still distracted by her improvised artwork. A circle, unfamiliar runes inside it. Above the circle, three lines formed an unfinished triangle somehow reminiscent of a bird’s wings, with a fourth line connecting it to the circle. To one side, a curved, double-headed arrow opposite a bar and circle. The details of the design were lost to her memory, but the outline was sharp.

“Yeah, chewed and crushed,” Morgan agreed.

“According to old Kamaga, he guards these lands, but why and against what, not even the [Oracle] will admit to knowing, if she does know.”

Dana had been watching Terisa etch shapes onto the ground, and suddenly her interest sharpened to an almost frightening intensity, her body growing tense. “What are you drawing?” she asked slowly.

“When the Wanderer brought the children to the city, he didn’t talk, but everyone saw him, and several people drew sketches. He looks as a man does, vaguely, but bestial and twisted. Bark and vines seem to grow from his muscles, and crystal armors his hands, back, legs, and head.”

Terisa added a few more lines to her drawing and sat back as Morgan stood and stepped around the fire to join Dana. Both simply stared at what she’d inscribed in the dirt.

“That’s the sigil burned into his chest,” Terisa finished, “like armor over his heart.”

“No,” muttered Dana, “that can’t be. It doesn’t make sense.” She glanced up at Terisa, intensity burning in her eyes. “Those artists—that can’t be right.”

Likewise Morgan was affected by this foreign drawing. “There’s no way—”

“I know that symbol,” Dana declared. “That’s the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor. The official emblem of the Marines.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Are you trying to tell me a Devil Dog is a Worldwalker? And has been here thousands of years?”

Morgan stood there beside Dana, regarding the symbol and its runic inscription. She gestured, and the stone on which the symbol lay pulled itself up, the design gleaming in the firelight. “…Is it possible?” she asked, her voice a whisper. She looked at Terisa, and where Dana’s expression held intensity, Morgan’s held longing. “Can…do Worldwalkers always stay…in their own times?”

“Guild records go back over a thousand years,” Chadwick volunteered, slight confusion in his voice. “Some Worldwalkers have claimed to arrive from different times, and from different worlds. Some aren’t even human.”

“Using magic to adjust time is…difficult,” Nessara supplied. “Speeding up or slowing down an area, or even a single person, requires rare skills and lots of Mana. But…travel between worlds, how and why Worldwalkers get here…I can’t tell you. Nobody knows, not even the [Oracle].

“I do,” Morgan replied firmly. “They don’t always stay in their own time. This proves it,” she insisted, pointing at the symbol.

“How can you say that?” Dana scoffed. “I could be wrong, or it could be just a coincidence! Time buggery means paradoxes!”

“Not if it’s a one-way trip,” Nessara said, leaning wearily on her staff.

“Yes,” Chadwick said, rubbing his chin. “If you accept that you can never return, then the past becomes your new now, and paradox is avoided. Only the System itself could ever muster the energy for it, though.”

“Say what you like,” Morgan said, her shoulders hunched. “I have all the proof I need. Believe me or not, I don’t care.” Morgan’s finger took fire, and she reached toward the image.

“You aren’t making any sense!” exclaimed Dana, as the Sorceress began to draw with her finger on the strange runes in the circle in the image.

Morgan spoke, cutting Dana off. “Marianne.” She moved her finger clockwise to the next series. “Michael.” Her finger moved. “Mitchell.” Her finger moved once more, hovering over the fourth and final inscription, before letting her finger fall against it. “And…Morgan,” she finished with a sigh.

“I’m Morgan Mackenzie, of Clan Mackenzie. If this is in fact inscribed on his chest, then the Wanderer is…has to be…my dad.” She shook her head. “He put our names inside the ‘globe’ of his eagle, globe, and anchor after mom died. Michael and Mitchell are my older brothers.”

“So you’re staying to meet the Wanderer instead of coming back to the lowlands with us?” Nessara’s gaze burned with an intense curiosity, and her posture suddenly became inexplicably nervous.

“And I’m staying, too,” Dana interjected “If he’s a Marine, I can talk to him. Even if he can’t talk.” Dana’s suit reconfigured once again as she spoke, returning her to standing on two legs.

“You don’t have to—” Morgan got out before the Engineer cut her off.

“No,” Dana said. “If he’s really been here for hundreds of years—”

“Thousands,” the Sorceress interjected.

“Thousands of years, then. If he’s been here that long, you’ll need help, or at least just someone else around to talk to and help out. I screwed up with the almost-nuke, but I can do this.” She thumped her metal leg. “I have experience with PTSD.”

“I won’t mind the help,” Morgan agreed, “and I have a safe place near here. Well, it took me two days to get here from there. Nothing can challenge me in my valley; I claimed it the hard way. I think that’s where he’s headed, anyway, if he follows the ley lines.”

“If the lass goes with ye, I’ll be comin ‘long too,” said Kojeg. “I’d still be hammerin’ blades at the Great Forge and hating every minute were it not for the girl.”

“If Kojeg and Dana are staying with you, the rest of the Expedition can make it back through the pass without me.” Terisa nodded at her husband and the necromancer. “Foz and Biggles can handle it, along with Nessara.”

“How unfortunate,” Chadwick said. He stepped closer to the fire, and something in his manner and posture screamed at Terisa, though she couldn’t put a name to it. With her instinct to warn her, she reached back to draw her bow, but was stopped when Nessara touched her arm, paralyzing her body and holding her fast. She couldn’t even move her eyes, but could see the mage’s blank, empty expression as she regarded Chadwick. At the same time, a pulse of energy rippled out from his body and the others around the campfire dropped as if knocked unconscious.

Kojeg slumped back against his log. Foz fell back onto the ground, and Biggles crumpled, spilling his pot of kaffen. Dana’s suit kept her upright, but her head drooped, mouth slack. Only the [Skyclad Sorceress] remained standing, although she swayed on her feet. Terisa’s innate resistances and much higher level had protected her from the effect, the slight wave of dizziness barely noticeable, compared to her cramping muscles.

“It would have been so much easier on the way back, all of us together,” Chadwick continued, shaking his head. “A little something in the evening kaffen, a nice long nap, and you wake up in Nouveau Deskra.” The man’s tone was no longer pompous and self-important, and Terisa found herself immediately wishing for the annoying pervert instead of the new, colder Chadwick. Her heart froze as she saw his hand recede from his belt, a flash of gold resolving into a solid band.

“Nessara, you can’t keep her still forever. Break her bow, if you please, and don’t lose the pieces; there’s still a bounty on it in the Empire.”

Terisa couldn’t even voice a scream as Nessara immediately reached behind the Huntress with her free hand. She felt a surge of Mana, and heard a crackle of power and a series of popping snaps, followed by several soft thumps as her sister’s Soul Gem shattered, falling to the ground amidst splinters of witchwood.

“A pity they only gave me the one collar.” Chadwick sighed. “It was meant for the one known as The Broken—” he nodded toward Dana—“but I suppose the Sorceress is a better choice, anyway. She can tame the rest of you once she’s nice and obedient.”

The puffball on Morgan’s shoulder protested with sleepy wurbles as the guild representative batted it off its mistress’ shoulder with a negligent swat of his hand before looping the collar around the woman’s neck with a twist. Terisa barely noticed the Worldwalker jerk upright as it clicked, so lost was the Huntress in her own grief, and her vision blurry with tears. It had to be tears blurring her vision, because she thought she saw the woman begin to glow. Golden Collars lock down skills, I’m imagining things! Althenea! Gods, this can’t be real! Your Story wasn’t supposed to end this way! Terisa dropped to her knees, sobbing, as Nessara’s paralysis spell began to fade.

Chadwick leered at Morgan. “Now, Sorceress, kill the others, but leave Dana alive!”

Morgan made no move. She simply stood there, staring through the Swift Waters representative. The tattoos covering her body flared into brightness, and Terisa could feel the Mana gathering around them, even though she wasn’t a mage herself.

“Filth.” It was barely a word, spat from between clenched teeth. The rune at the center of her chest just below and between her collarbones began pulsing—slowly at first, but then with feverish intensity. Chadwick’s expression began to falter.

“You dare touch me,” she hissed, reaching up to grip the golden band with a hand wreathed in purple fire, “with filth!”

The metal, quickly heating up, began to soften and run like wax before stretching away from the woman’s neck. Her expression, as she looked down at the melting artifact clenched in her hand, was one of the purest disgust, hatred, and outrage.

This is impossible, Terisa thought to herself, staring at the spectacle before her. The Collars are absolute!

The heat around the woman began to melt the stone under her feet, and the others around the cookfire began to scramble away. Foz, recovering faster than the humans or the dwarf, dragged Biggles with him as he rolled away from the heat. Dana’s suit shifted automatically into defensive mode, shields springing up as she stumbled back on six legs once more. Terisa had much higher resistances than anyone else in the Expedition. More experience, more travels. She’d lived a long Story, filled with adventures and wonders as much as with conflict and strife.

Her resistances started failing her as her skin began to blister, and her wyvern-hide leathers and armor began to smoke and char. Terisa had fought in wars against mages, and against golems. She’d seen terrible things, and seen people die in horrible ways. She’d thought she understood fire. She was wrong.

Morgan stood there, chest heaving and body tense, with hatred etched into every line on her face. Her body was hardly visible through the violet inferno she was cloaked in, and she stared daggers at Chadwick as he stumbled backward. The man activated the defensive enchantments woven into his rings and bracelets as he turned to run. Mana surged like a tidal wave, and Terisa could dimly hear the other people in the camp begin to scream as she dropped to the ground, covering the remains of her sister’s gem with her own body.

She saw the Sorceress raise her head to the sky, violet flames shooting up around her as she gave one simple command.

“Burn.”

And the sky obeyed.

Third InterLulude: Filth!

Lulu knew something was terribly wrong.

Someone had stepped forward from the friendly gathering around the mealtime campfire and sent out a pulse that had pushed all but the strongest into unconsciousness.

The scrubby had only had the barest forewarning, and the man’s magic had a strange tang she couldn’t identify—oily, greasy, forceful, wrong—and couldn’t counter. Lulu struggled to retain her own consciousness.

She hung onto Morgan’s shoulder by instinct, her mind screaming Danger! and Fight it! even as her body slipped closer and closer to sleep. Beneath her she could feel her mistress swaying on her feet, and the situation suddenly seemed even more grim. Desperately the scrubby tried to do something, anything, but could only muster a weak and sleepy purble.

Even her mind seemed to slow down, sinking toward sleep. The slick-feeling coils of magic grew more intense as the dangerous man stepped closer, and though Lulu itched to try cleaning him, she still found herself unable to do anything but watch. Chadwick batted her off her mistress’ shoulder with a casual flick of a hand. The scrubby flared with indignation at being treated so casually, but still couldn’t manage more than a quiet wurble in retaliation.

Things were going horribly, terribly, unequivocally wrong.

With neither skill nor natural grace to aid her, Lulu fell to the ground and rolled briefly before coming to a stop. As though from a great distance, she watched as the man who wielded oily magic reached up and placed something golden around Morgan’s neck. The feeling of forceful greasiness in the air multiplied a hundredfold as something went to work on her mistress, and for a moment, Lulu thought all hope was lost.

Then Morgan’s purple skin markings flared with their usual glow, and hope returned. With it came a single word from her mistress’ lips.

Filth.

Lulu had lived alongside Morgan for many months now, and had experienced many messes. From icky and gross to disgusting and sticky and yuck, and through to foul and slimy and even contaminated, the loyal scrubby had battled them all. Or at least she thought she had.

Never before had an expression of dirtiness erupted from Morgan’s lips like a vulgar oath.

Never before had a mess caused such levels of disgusted outrage.

Never before had her mistress seemed so very, very angry.

The new monosyllabic term raced around Lulu’s mind, allowing her to fight off the impending urge to sleep just a little bit longer.

Filth.

Filth was clearly bad. Filth deserved to be destroyed. Filth needed to be cleaned.

Lulu struggled with her entire self. She tried to wriggle, to lather up, to do anything other than lie there and watch, but the man’s magic still held her fast. She couldn’t act, and yet she had to.

As if born through her need, something appeared within the depths of the scrubby’s being. Something that felt like it could be an answer. Giving up on the effort of attempting to move as well as letting go of the desire to stay awake, Lulu’s mind sank like a rock to the most primal part of herself, to latch on to the [Matriarch’s Decree].

Here, deep within her subconscious, the mother of all loofahs found the energy to act.

The powerful, oily feeling in the air. The shine of the necklace. The helplessness of those who wore it. Mistress’ anger. The spoken word of filth. She compressed it all into a packet of memory and sensation and sent it through a tiny, glimmering doorway she found behind her new skill. All would know of this new kind of mess, this new dirt.

Lulu still couldn’t move, but through that doorway she was able to observe the effect of her action, as every scrubby in the Wildlands—all her children, no matter how far removed from her—heeded their matriarch. She felt an unfortunate few, those embroiled in battle, wiped out as their attention turned to her. The rest responded with affirmation, understanding her decree.

The scrubby matriarch was currently unable to do anything, but not all of her children were so affected. They could act.

There was filth in the world, and one way or another, it would be cleansed.

Satisfied that her decree had been heard, Lulu finally succumbed to sleep, lulled by the sound of crackling flames.

Chapter 33: Under Ashen Skies

Morgan Mackenzie was burning. So, too, was everything around her. Faintly, as though from a distance, she could hear pained screams and high-pitched whimpers that barely cut through the roaring wind and flame that swirled around her and inside her. She’d always been afraid of her fire, in a small way. For the first few weeks after she’d landed in the Tree, her magic had burned its way out of her body every time she worked any spellcraft that used fire or lightning. Those memories had never truly faded, but the biggest reason, the one she always tried to ignore despite the tickling sense of warning from her instincts, was because of her very first night on Anfealt. Now, however, she was too angry to be afraid.

The sickening magic thing the strange, rude man in the blue robes had tried to put around her neck felt wrong on a fundamental level. Morgan didn’t know how she hadn’t sensed it before, but in the face of the fire, such questions could wait. The touch of the metal against her skin, the man’s pompous attitude, the cavalier way he’d ordered the other woman to destroy the bow—all of it was an assault of wrongness against everything she believed was good in the world.

This was to say nothing of the soul housed in the bow’s gem. She felt it break before she realized what it was, and her realization only added to the fury. The woman raised her staff, stepping between the Sorceress and her enemy. Morgan’s fire raged through the staff, battering away the defensive enchantments layered into the other mage’s robes. When the illusion snapped, the golden collar became visible: a sharp new target, standing out raw and repulsive to her sight.

Nessara fell to her knees when the collar melted under Morgan’s power and its own magical hold broke. The relief on her face and the tears that boiled away were almost enough to halt Morgan’s fire, the heat retreating for a moment as the woman whimpered a choking “Thank you.” Then the light left her eyes as she crumpled, and the Sorceress felt her rage reignite.

The target of her ire sent bolts of water and ice at her as he backed away. His own defensive magics were much more powerful than what Nessara had mustered, several rings and dozens of bracelets augmenting the passive protections woven into his robes. Morgan launched bolt after bolt of lightning his way as the sky burned above. She saw Dana scuttle under the flames, low to the ground, to shield a weeping Terisa as the Huntress frantically gathered what fragments of the shattered gem she could find into a bag. A distant part of her mind regretted the damage her fire had caused the woman, but making up for it would have to wait for another time. Chadwick had produced a small black rod gilded in silver, and the shadowy bolt of darkness was enough to leave her fingers tingling and numb after blocking it with [Spell Parry].

“Take her down!” screamed the man, his cowardice plain on his face. The other members of the Expedition had turned on each other in a grand melee, and now the instigators of the chaos left the fight to aid their master. A woman with a crossbow fell, one of many cleaved in two as Morgan’s [Plasma Glaive] scythed through the charging group. The others dove to the ground, seeking to evade her fate. The [Skyclad Sorceress] allowed them no succor, however, and the earth churned and heaved like a living thing. Only bones and grisly viscera remained as evidence of their doom.

“I thought I understood what it meant,” she said as she stalked toward the panicking guild representative. Her voice wasn’t loud, yet it sliced through the roaring fire like a knife. “When the other me explained what the deal was. To not do nothing.”

Morgan’s voice rasped through the flames, resonating with the magic that coursed through her blood and the fire she breathed in and out of her lungs. Her resistances and affinities had kept the sensations of heat to a distant thing, something she was aware of, but nothing that made her uncomfortable. Now she felt it running deep in her bones. White-hot and indiscriminate, her inner flame raged as brightly as it had that fateful night she ate the Fruit of the Tree. She poured it out toward her enemy, and one of his bracelets shattered into fragments. Another layer of his shields went with it. Her [Mana Sight] revealed dozens more, magic inscribed on items around his arms, pinpoints of magic at his belt, and the delicate filigree of enchantment in his clothing. Temporary obstacles, she thought in that small part of her mind that was still calm.

“I made a lot of mistakes when I got here. So many mistakes. But the worst was the fruit.”

Foz’s roar broke through the gloom, the booming sound competing even with the rumble of burning thunderheads forming overhead, as the enraged cook charged forward with only his massive clawed hands for weapons. Morgan shot a [Mana Pulse] to intercept the first shadowy bolt the slaver sent toward the half-Ursaran, but missed the second. Tendrils of darkness entangled the berserker, but the barbs were unable to penetrate his thick hide, so Morgan ignored him to turn back to her quarry.

“I burned that first night.” Morgan’s fire—not her magic, but the terrible, primal force that had burned within her bones ever since that moment—raged in her and through her as she continued her approach. “I think…it broke me; the fruit healing me as I burned, over and over and over again.” For so long, she’d tried to keep her fire contained; now, she finally gave it leave to burn. And burn it did. She knew she’d lost control, but she no longer cared. She’d done so only twice before; first when the [Shadowlynx] had bitten off her arm, and once again after defeating Solana at the Eye of Madness. This time was different from the others. This time, she didn’t black out. This time, she stayed fully aware of herself and her surroundings. Before, her fire had dominated her; now, the [Skyclad Sorceress] embraced it.

Thunderous explosions of fire and lightning burst from her hands, and one after another, more of Chadwick’s shield charms and defensive enchantments failed as he staggered backward under the ruinous assault. Several small seashells inset with intricate runes woven into his robes began to glow a brilliant blue. “Waters deep, heed my call!” he cried, and suddenly a torrent of foaming green sea water poured out of the enchanted shells. The streams of water gathered themselves in a vortex, sheathing the representative in a wall of liquid, and distorting his leering features. Morgan’s fire hammered into the flowing water, giving off great, hissing clouds of steam, but it held fast.

Morgan took a step. “And that fire?” she hissed, violet lightning flashing and thunder rumbling overhead. Jagged teeth of ice came into existence around her and shot forward into the watery shield.

“It never went out.”

The [Skyclad Sorceress] vented her towering fury in a single, piercing shriek, leaned into her fire, and gave it free rein.

Terisa Aras curled up around the leather bag containing the fragments of Althenea’s Soul Gem. Dana’s shields flickered, and the Engineer shuddered under the forces brought to bear against it, but the barrier around the women held. Distantly she heard Foz roar. The familiar sound buoyed her spirit, for she knew the longer he fought, the stronger he’d become. Few things could compete with an enraged Berserker, and his Ursaran blood only made his rage all the more potent. Biggles skirted around The Burning Woman’s flames, joining the Huntress and the Engineer, and adding his own layer of magic to the shields projected by the suit.

“Something else is coming!” the necromancer shouted, his voice almost drowned out by the twisting inferno and the rushing winds that sprang up to feed it. “Pure Life magic, and Earth! I can feel it even through her Fire!”

Terisa could hear The Burning Woman speaking, but couldn’t make out the words at first. She dug into one of her remaining pockets to fish out another healing potion. Not as powerful—or as expensive—as the one she’d used to repair her eyes, but still of exemplary quality that proved its worth as her burns began to heal. While lacking the immediate intensity of Dana’s Annihilator warhead, Morgan’s fire more than made up for it with its persistence: it was like unto a living thing that swirled around the woman and filled the space around her.

“The Wanderer?” Dana asked, her voice tinny and distorted through the faceplate of her suit. “I thought he was at least a couple days away!”

Terisa clutched the bag of shards as she replied, “He can move more quickly than you would think, even at his size!”

“—never went out.”

The words came just as the rushing winds stilled for a moment, and lightning ripped through the sky above the flames. The Sorceress glowed even more brightly, her burning bones visible through the laced patterns of runes etched into her skin. The winds returned, whipping her hair into a wildly twisting mass of purple and black. And then the heat intensified once again.

“She’s lost control of her Mana!” shouted Biggles as he backpedaled, trying to pull Terisa and Dana back with him. “And I can’t find Wuffle anywhere!”

Spheres of solid purple lightning formed around the Sorceress, dripping liquid light that seared the eyes before dozens of balls of energy rocketed away from their mistress to slam into the guild representative’s shields. His layered barriers flared, and the watery wall he had summoned flashed into steam. The woman screamed incoherently, pouring more and more power into her effort. Chadwick’s enchanted bracelets and charms blackened one by one, shattering and falling away, as Morgan brought her towering will to bear against them. As the last of the steam from his waters faded, he reached into his robes and produced one final artifact.

Icy fingers of dread wormed their way through Terisa’s gut as Guild Representative Chadwick used an item almost as infamous as the Golden Collars, more evidence of how deeply the man belonged to the Deskren Empire: after all, the Emperor didn’t hand out such artifacts lightly. With a twisting motion, a dark, gilded cage sprang into existence around the man, with a pulse of shadowy power. The Huntress flinched, as did Dana and Biggles; the magic felt wrong, and sent a twist through their guts. Mere possession of a Soul Shield, recharged as it was through terrible human sacrifice, was grounds for summary execution in every nation north of the Elemental Desert.

The man turned grey, his outline growing hazy as if seen through a wave of heat, as his physical being was partially shifted elsewhere, rendering him immune to Morgan’s magic as it slammed into a spherical lattice of dark energy. “Your fire will burn out long before the Soul Shield fades,” he remarked grimly. “I probably still won’t escape. But…” A grin flickered onto his face. “The rest of you will be trapped here, in the Wilds, while Expedition burns. The siege should be well underway by now.”

A distant rumble of thunder caught Chadwick’s attention, and he glanced off toward the west. “That’s Pontem Praetor. You’ll never cross the gorge in time now.”

“No—!” blurted the Huntress as Morgan screamed again, mindlessly flinging magic at the man. The effort was futile, the flames and lightning seeming to fizzle out within an arm’s length of the greyed-out figure. Earth Mana, having actual mass behind it, was slightly more effective, the gout of stone and dirt from underneath flinging the man back into the enchanted stone wall of Castra Pristis. Frustrated once more, the Sorceress screamed again.

As if in answer, a deafening roar issued from beyond the fort’s walls, the sound almost a physical thing. Mana hung thick and heavy in the air, dense enough Terisa could feel it; Biggles turned a peculiar shade of green as his more receptive senses were nearly overloaded. Dark green tendrils sprouted from between the cracks in the stone walls, and harsh grating sounds rippled through the air. A cool wind blew through the flames as a thirty-pace section of wall fell outward, ripped free by the colossal form of what might once have been called a man.

Crystal gauntlets wrapped in vines protected his hands and arms, glittering spikes protruding from shoulder and elbow. His brow was crowned in uneven nubs of the same greyish quartz, set above a face Terisa could never have forgotten, burned indelibly into her memory.

Misshapen and twisted, covered in crystal, he approached. Even hunched over as he was, and using his fists to walk, he stood over ten paces tall. The massive, ogre-like form opened his maw to reveal jagged crystal tusks and inhaled. The magic hanging heavy over the field evaporated, drawn into that inexorable sucking well of walking power that was the Crystal Titan.

The Sorceress, her flames banked and only faintly flickering, turned her glowing form to face the beast.

“ Oh, Daddy…?” she asked, her suddenly child-like voice clearly audible in the deafening silence. “I…I think I killed people…”

As if that effort drained the rest of her energy, she fell forward, the brilliant light of her runes fading into quiescence. Vines erupted from the ground, gently catching her unconscious form as The Titan lumbered forward through the gap in the wall.

It approached Chadwick on feet and fists, planting itself in the ground and staring at the man, his ancient eyes full of primal hatred.

“You…die.”

The words shook out of the air, not from the creature’s maw, but from the humming crystals protruding from its head. They came slowly, as if the very act of speech had to be dredged up from somewhere nearly forgotten. The sound resonated through the air, the earth, and the stone, simultaneously a screech and a rumbling bass, and for a moment, Terisa thought her eardrums had ruptured. Chadwick watched nervously as a massive crystal fist rose into the air, and unconsciously raised his arm in a gesture of warding as it descended with meteoric force. A sphere of space around the representative was smashed into the cobblestone pavement, but the shield held around the terrified, trembling mage.

“Wait!” Terisa screamed, stumbling back to her feet. “We need him alive! We don’t know who else is working with him!”

“Where’s Wuffle?” Biggles was looking around in near panic, searching for any sign of his friend.

“He dies.”

“He definitely does, after he tells us what we need to know!” Terisa shouted at the gigantic man-like beast. Dimly, in the back of her mind, she registered surprise that the Wanderer was talking—none of the Expedition’s records had ever mentioned him doing so. The knowledge was welcome, however, for if The Titan could speak, then it could understand and, just possibly, be reasoned with. “There could be a hundred or more traitors in the Expedition!”

“Dies. All. Die.”

The vines had carried Morgan’s unconscious form closer to the Wanderer, and a massive hand scooped the woman up with a gentleness at odds with his terrifying presence.

“Hurt Morgan. Dies.”

“I think we’re in total agreement there, big guy,” Dana said. Her helmet had retracted after the flames died down, and her suit had returned to bipedal form. She brought her hand to her brow in a gesture Terisa was sure was a salute, though not one she was familiar with. “Thanks for the save, Devil Dog. I know she didn’t mean to, but the girl almost killed us, too.”

“Long time.” The yellowed eyes of the creature flicked over Dana’s form. His grotesque head bobbed slightly in recognition. “Soldier.”

The Titan swung its attention back to the frightened representative. It grinned, showing a terrifying array of jagged teeth, bone, and razor-edged mana crystals.

“Tick. Tock.”

It waited. It watched as Chadwick’s shield began to flicker, but it was not idle. As Terisa watched in wonder, vines snaked across the ground with a rapidity bordering on the surreal. The creeping vegetation spread faster than any plant, visibly working its way throughout the fort. Screams and cursing rose up from all around as people were forcibly dragged from wagons and tents, far more than the Huntress would have anticipated. Fully a third of the Expedition’s manpower was compromised by the Deskren—if the Wanderer’s senses could be relied upon.

Not that I could stop him, even if he’s wrong about any of them… she thought grimly.

“How do you know these ones are the bad guys?” Dana inquired of the giant.

“Bad magics. Same as other one. And hungry.”

“The magic is hungry, or you are hungry?” the Worldwalker replied.

“Yes.”

The guild representative kept trying to scramble out of the hole in the ground where his shield had formed an indentation, but each time he reached the edge, a length of vine would casually slam into the barrier to send him tumbling back down. The Titan seemed to find this amusing, a deep rumble emanating from within his chest as he sat cross-legged, waiting for the man’s defenses to expire. Biggles continued to frantically search the grounds for his scrubby assistant, and Lulu had hopped onto its mistress’ chest with a concerned wurble.

“I don’t see Wuffle! He’s not in my wagon!” he exclaimed, reappearing from within the structure.

“That’s the green one, innit?” a soot-encrusted dwarf asked while brushing himself off. Kojeg had rolled away from the flames, but seemed to have traversed the ashes of the cookfire on his flight away from the heat. He grinned, barely able to contain some sudden mirth.

“Yes, he’s pale green.”

“Methinks he’s about to have a word with the Guild Representative,” the dwarf said, leveling his hammer at the man.

Chadwick had finally noticed the lacy puffball stuck fast to his shoulder. He slapped at the scrubby, twisting around in a mad attempt to dislodge it. It remained doggedly attached, however; the Soul Shield’s effect apparently extended to the scrubby, as well.

“What is—!” the man exclaimed, trying to pry Wuffle away from his robes. The scrubby had a surprisingly tight hold, however, and all he managed to do was transfer the puffball from his shoulder to his bare hand.

“Wuffle! What are you doing?” the necromancer demanded.

The only reply Biggles received was angry wurbling.

Suddenly, the man’s shield finally flickered and died.

Chadwick began to scream.

The Titan began to laugh.

And as Wuffle set about his duty, the Swift Waters Guild representative learned the horrible truth about exfoliation.

Chapter 34: The Devil’s Drum

Millie Thatcher sat on the back of a wagon, cradling the nub that was all that remained of her left arm. The rest of her felt as empty and numb as the lost limb. The General’s Wife had wrought a cleaner amputation than any but the most skilled healers or priests could have managed—a far better result than she could have expected, given the circumstances. Simply stopping the Bloodsear poison at just her arm was practically a miracle all by itself. Others had not been as lucky, and the caravan following Jacob Ward had left behind a dozen grave markers before breaking camp that day. The bandits who’d thought a pack of farmers to be easy pickings had fared much worse when the Battlemaster eventually caught them. Several trees in their wake had sprouted grim fruit; cold comfort for a classless girl barely past twelve winters.

With only one arm, she’d felt useless, but couldn’t bring herself to speak about her troubles. Not even with Miss Erin, the wife of the Battlemaster and the [Hand of Solace]. Millie hadn’t spoken since the night bandits had killed her parents, and not even the motherly healer who had so skillfully saved her from the poison arrow could bring her to utter a word. The Battlemaster had understood, though, and had given her a small drum and taught her a few simple cadences. As the daughter of a Bard who’d retired from adventure to marry a farmer, she’d picked those up quickly, and had been grateful for something to do that was useful to the caravan.

That Millie remained classless at this point was merely by virtue of her not having selected a class, not for lack of level; the nearly daily fighting, continuous marching, and the simple nature of being on the road had led to nearly everyone in the caravan gaining new skills they’d never expected to learn. Older classless, of fifteen or sixteen winters, had already begun to gain classes aligned with combat and soldiering; new potency added to the Battlemaster’s already-fearsome banner.

And what a banner it was. Someone had hung a bloodstained sheet on a piece of wood attached to the head of a pike, and none would step forward for the credit. A vertical slash of black paint—or possibly tar, Millie couldn’t be certain—bisected the worn red cloth. The Black Lance, they called it, the symbol of Jacob’s class. He’d finally given up on ordering it taken down, as it would always reappear in the night. After a few encounters with Deskren Hoplites, the troops had taken to attaching slave collars to the bottom of the sheet. The sight of it held a weight befitting the atmosphere surrounding the refugee caravan.

Millie wasn’t sure it could even be called a caravan any longer. It looked like an army on the march to her own inexperienced eyes. Bandits who might normally find such a wagon train easy pickings had learned to run the other way when they heard the rumble of endless pairs of wheels. The smaller Deskren units no longer attempted to engage them, though they lingered in the distance in a worrying way. A few times, the entire column had been roused in the middle of the night for a quick march to surprise unlucky, lazy, and incompetent enemy commanders. The refugees had full bellies at the moment, thanks to a Deskren supply train they’d encountered and then overrun, the Battlemaster not being one to turn his head from opportunity.

The Deskren seemed to have finally learned that the caravan had teeth, though. The refugee train had grown to over a thousand wagons and more than ten thousand people over the long summer march. Nearly a thousand horsemen rode directly under the Battlemaster; veteran soldiers dusting off old skills alongside new classers learning quickly under the leadership of The General. Several times that many—at least by her own count, she hadn’t heard anyone give actual numbers—marched on foot, bearing pikes, spears, and what armor they could cobble together. Barely a week past, they’d suffered the worst engagement yet, losing dozens of wagons and incurring hundreds of casualties. Millie had reached level ten during the engagement, stabbing a Hoplite slave through the eye with her dagger when the face had appeared over the wagon where she’d been riding with other small children.

The more foolish or stupid enemy commanders seemed to have been weeded out, either crushed when they attacked the column, or recalled by higher authority from the empire. Millie didn’t understand the details, but a youth who remained silent heard many things. There was a nervous taste to the air around the wagons, she knew. They’d been marching north and west in their flight from the Deskren, but now a river she’d never heard of was supposedly in the way, and there were no bridges they could reach before the main Deskren force caught them. Nameless whispers floated through the caravan when the campfires rose, laying down a pall of fear in their wake.

Millie wasn’t afraid, though—not of the Deskren, nor of bandits or brigands. Her parents might be gone, but the Battlemaster had killed their killers, and then led the refugees across half the western side of the continent. There’d been losses and deaths in the undertaking, but every day the wagons rolled on behind his dread banner. She had faith they would reach their destination: the city of Possibility, and the Gathering of Kings.

So she sat in the back of the wagon in the predawn shadows before the nascent army roused itself for breakfast call, listening to the low chatter of cooks over their fires. In exchange for not sharing the caravan’s fear of the Deskren, she had her own fear, which she couldn’t share. Her eyes drooped, and she dug her fingernails into the stump of her arm to keep herself awake. She’d reached level ten, and she knew gaining her Class was now within reach. But there were obstacles in her way, and she didn’t know what to do. Sleep brought the nightmare unbidden, and she’d fought it for two days, but now weakened. Even the pain of scratching the tender flesh where her arm had once been was not enough to hold slumber at bay this time, and her head drooped as she slumped against the side of the wagon.

Then came the dream world, where she’d been reliving the worst day of her life every time she closed her eyes since reaching her tenth level.

Her father, opening the trap door under the table of the farmhouse, and her mother, dragging her down to the cellar. The scrape of wood and hushed whispers between her brothers as the table was dragged back over the hatch. She lived it all again as if standing beside her own body, seeing another her, but with two arms and still innocent eyes. The crash of the door splintering, the screams as her older brothers and her pa slew the first two bandits that rushed into the building. Dozens of savage thunks as arrows impacted the walls above, then a wetter, more sickening sound, and a thud as someone fell to the floor. Screams of rage, blood dripping between the floorboards.

Then the silence as the blood pooling on the dirt floor of the cellar reached her toes. The murderous bandits were already leaving, not noticing the passageway to their hiding place at first. But when that muddy red reached her feet, Millie screamed.

Then it started over. Her father opened the trap door. Her mother dragged her down. The sounds of fighting repeated. The shouts, the groans. The blood on the floor touched her toes. Millie screamed.

The trap door opened. Down into the shadows. Shouts above. Blood at her feet. Millie screamed.

Her fault.

It was always her fault. Millie screamed, and they were found. There was a small gap under the wall of the house, but while Millie had fit, her mother had not, and had stayed behind to give Millie a chance to escape. She’d escaped the bandits, but not the guilt. So she was stuck repeating the memory instead of moving on to gain a class, because in the dream, she couldn’t leave the cellar.

Door. Down. Shouts. Blood.

Millie screamed.

Her fault.

She should have been able to move past it. Perhaps if she hadn’t levelled so quickly in the caravan, she could have worked through the memories and moved on. Perhaps not.

The tragedy had not gone unanswered, however. A barefoot girl in a torn dress covered in mud and leaves had stumbled out onto the road and almost ended up trampled, but the Battlemaster had turned his charger aside at the last moment. She hadn’t been able to speak, but the scouts had quickly found the farmhouse, and her family.

The bandits had cut her mother’s tongue out first, to stop the [Whisperwind Songstress] from charming them. The rest the Battlemaster’s wife had covered her eyes to keep her from seeing. Millie had watched when Jacob had the murdering rapists hung from the tree next to the farmhouse opposite where four shallow graves had been dug, and that should have been enough. It wasn’t.

Door. Down. Shouts. Blood.

Millie screamed again.

Her fault.

As she watched the past Millie work her way out from under the wall, she could hear the heavy steps of the invading bandits coming down the stairs to the cellar. A veil of darkness fell over the scene, but it couldn’t cloak the tension in the air, nor could it mask her mother’s sudden scream—

She was startled awake by the rattling clink of a metal dish hitting the wagon bed beside her. “Biscuits ‘n bacon,” grunted old Hett, the wagon’s driver. A skin of water followed, and then the ancient classer withdrew, continuing around to tend to the mules without saying anything else. He’d joined the caravan only a few weeks past, but his mules and his wagon had travelled at the head of the column without the man saying a word. It had simply happened, and the Battlemaster hadn’t objected. The man was old and wizened like wrinkled rawhide leather, but no one else could heft the broad woodcutter’s axe that rode next to him on the seat. None had dared pester the old man about his class or levels either, not after seeing him cleave Deskren horses into pieces with one hand on the axe, never letting go of his mules.

Millie liked the old man. He didn’t talk much, and he never pestered her to speak, either. Few tried anymore, although Erin had been concerned, in a very comforting and motherly way, for the first several weeks after they’d taken the orphan girl in. But only Old Hett and Jacob himself had seemed to be unfazed at all by her silence. As if the thought of the man had summoned him, hoofbeats approached at a steady trot just as the first rays of dawn peeked over the eastern horizon. He went past the back of the wagon where she sat, talking quietly with Hett as she finished her breakfast and washed it down with water from the skin. The now-familiar sounds of the caravan stirring to wakefulness washed over her as she ate, preparing for yet another long day of hard marching.

It took her more time than most to finish her repast, but she was improving her abilities to function with one arm with each and every day. Bracing the water skin between her knees, she stoppered the cork back into place just as the Battlemaster walked his horse alongside the back of the wagon. He spoke quietly but clearly, and without the pity most seemed to think the girl needed. She was grateful for that, more than she would ever be able to tell the man.

“Another half-bell, and then drum the wake-up call, if you would, Miss Millie,” he said without dismounting. On the back of his oversized charger, he was as tall as if he were standing on the wagon itself. “We’re marching hard today, so it’s a fast beat until we break at noon to rest the horses.”

Hett spat a wad of tobacco juice from the front of the wagon as his mules snorted. “And the mules, of course, Mister Hett,” added the Battlemaster.

Millie nodded, looping the strap of her drum over her right shoulder and securing it to her left leg with another belt. Keeping the musical instrument in place with only one arm had taken some ingenuity, but practice had led her to figure out her own way. The worst part now was fastening the buckles with only one hand, but she’d refused help often enough that people no longer offered, much to her relief.

“Can you keep it up until noon, lass?” Jacob asked. “Or will you need a Stamina potion?”

She shook her head, offering a thumbs-up and a slight smile. She could play the drum for an entire day, now that she’d levelled her skills and her own abilities had improved. The general didn’t waste extra words or her time, merely thumping the side of the wagon in approval as he took the reins of his horse in the other hand.

“Carry on, then, soldier.”

The words, somehow amplified, slammed into Millie’s mind, her jaw dropping open in shock as the notification followed a half a heartbeat later.

The [Blacklance Battlemaster] has granted you the Title of [Soldier]! Class Selection options have changed to reflect the opportunities and responsibilities provided by this Title.

A Soldier never marches alone; she walks with the weight of tradition and the history of all who tread before and after.

Jacob Ward rocked back in his saddle; the pulse of power that had left him at the utterance of the words drained him somehow, and left a nearly palpable feeling in the air. Millie recovered from the shock as he shouted for Erin and Hett, demanding explanations. She paid him no heed, instinctively seizing the opportunity before anyone or anything could stop her. Her head drooped, and she leapt into the darkness.

Gone was the farmhouse. Gone was the bitter memory of failure and loss that she’d been reliving for days with no respite. She stood next to a road under a heavy, cloudless, grey sky. Dried grass and gravel crunched under her feet, and she looked down to see boots of an unfamiliar style adorning them, laced up to mid-calf. The leather she understood, but not the strange material of the soles when she raised her foot to look. Despite the oddities, the boots felt right.

Above the boots were pants of a material she’d never seen, mottled shades of green, brown, and grey seemingly blended together. A heavy shirt in a similar lack of pattern covered her from the waist up, and a strange, thin chain around her neck held two rectangular plates that bore her name and what looked to her like numbers, though she couldn’t understand the actual runes. She’d seen The General and his wife Erin both writing similar things when counting the wagons and sacks of food for the march, so the girl assumed they were in a written language from the Worldwalkers’ home.

She wasn’t alone, either. Another version of her stood in front of her in an even stranger uniform. Her other image stood at crisp attention, her uniform forgoing the chaotic mottling for a more formal appearance, green coat over pale breeches standing out from the background, where the previous uniform had tried to hide in it. Different insignia covered the left breast, and although this image was missing its left arm as well, the neat folding and pinning took nothing away from the order the figure emanated. Her mirror image locked eyes with her and raised her hand to her brow in what could only be a symbolic gesture, then faded away, as though she were made of mist.

The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps. Just one pair at first, then it swelled into a rumble of more boots than she could ever have counted. A few heartbeats later, and thousands of figures marched into view from around a bend in the road. Millie stared for a long moment, trying to understand, to remember the things she’d heard about classes.

The figures were all her. Some wore uniforms, others were outfitted with armor; some bore swords, and others held maces in firm grips. To a person, they all tirelessly marched forward, eyes locked straight ahead, and jaws set in determined lines. One, near the front, bore a silver flute, the only flash of color amidst the endless sea of grey.

The road led over the horizon, where the sun hung low in the sky, red and bloated. More sounds reached her ears: rumbles, crashes of thunder, and screaming. Onward the soldiers marched, unflinching, toward the terrible clamor. Young though she was, Millie already knew the sounds of battle. She watched herself walk past in numbers beyond counting. She’d exchanged no words with her other self, as she’d heard others recount their own experiences when gaining a class. She felt none were needed, now that she’d broken out of the looping horrors of endlessly repeating memory. She watched, and she considered. The flute had felt closer than the others to a proper choice, but it didn’t speak to her.

After a timeless moment, a different sound rose, almost imperceptibly at first, from the sky: not from the battlefield ahead, but the endless column behind her. The uniforms worn by her other selves began to grow darker, dipped in shadow. Their eyes began to gleam, gazes growing more sinister as the sound of their boots began synchronizing with the flashes of lightning from the low storm which had begun to follow them.

Finally, a version of herself in full color marched slowly into view. Clad in chainmail and leather, and wearing a helm of blackened iron, this new version of herself seemed somehow more real than the others. A drum, similar to the one the Battlemaster had issued her, sat strapped to her left side, and her right arm—sheathed in a black gauntlet and wielding a steel baton—beat a thunderous cadence against it.

As the darkened, shadowy figure approached Millie and began to pass her by, she fell in beside her, her footfalls slowly joining the rhythm of the endless march. She’d made her Choice, so long delayed.

As she swam back to consciousness, the sounds of battle and drumming thunder faded away. She could hear the Battlemaster and his wife arguing, and as she stirred, she saw his eyes were filled with sadness and guilt. His wife averted her gaze, and couldn’t hide her tears.

She wished she could bring herself to speak, to comfort him, but even though fear no longer ruled her, she made nary a sound as the changes to her Soul took hold of her body.

She’d traded her words for power, and henceforth, the [Thunderstrike Battle-Bard] would speak only through her drum.

Chapter 35: Aspect of the Harbinger

Millie Thatcher sat on the back of a wagon, happily eating her breakfast of a thick slice of fried bacon and a biscuit. She washed them down with water from a skin, before replacing the stopper with a twist of her hand and fingers that was now only slightly awkward instead of truly difficult. The signs of the Deskren encampment could be seen to the southwest, and the caravan buzzed with nervous whispers from the more doubtful civilians. She no longer counted herself among them, and her faith in whatever plan The General had to deal with the enemy was enough to banish her own fears. What that plan might have been, the Battle-Bard had no idea; she merely held to the certainty that he did, in fact, have a plan.

The caravan had been obliged to slow down after descending into a shallow valley. The ground had been littered with smooth stones, from tiny pebbles up to wagon-sized boulders that had to be navigated around. Short trees and stunted shrub growth grew in sparse patches, scattered across the dried clay that had cracked in the summer sun. The mounts of the lancers had fared much better than most of the wagons, but Hett’s mules merely seemed insulted by the inconvenience. More than a few members of the refugee column had been forced to dodge fist-sized chunks of stone when the hot-tempered equines kicked the obstacles out of their way. At least the terrain was slowing the Deskren as well; a small boon, for the reports brought back by the scouts were something the Battlemaster hadn’t tried to keep secret.

Gendarmes. The word had spread through the refugees like wildfire, sowing panic in their wake. No mere Hoplites, the elite infantry of the Empire had finally been turned loose on their trail. Millie could see why Jacob hadn’t bothered to keep the rumors quiet: the fear had the refugees packing up in the mornings without complaint, and marching all day without pestering the soldiers for rest, so they’d made good time in the three days they’d been in the shallow valley. To the northwest, the taller trees and hills rose above the flats; she knew they’d reach higher ground and smoother terrain by midday.

Jacob approached from the direction of the blacksmith’s wagon, carrying a bundle and the reason for Millie’s happy excitement draped over his arm. There’d been no armor sized for one as small as her, and the sight of the fitted chainmail had the girl grinning despite her intent to maintain orderly composure. Soldier or not, and despite growing up fast, she couldn’t help some childish displays.

“You’ll have to head over to Erin’s tent so she and Jenna can help you get kitted out,” said the Battlemaster, as Millie jumped to her feet to stand at attention. “There’s just no way to fasten the gauntlet and plate for the arm with only one hand.”

Hett spat a plug of tobacco off the side of the wagon and leaned into the conversation. “Iffen we reach a city, ye can place an order for an arm for the girl.”

Jacob looked at the old man with incredulity. “I thought that would have to wait until she was grown?”

“Nay, there’s a [Lifesteel Architect] in Sprocket, the Gnome capital. He takes special jobs like hers, so I hear.”

“And the price?” Jacob asked warily.

“Jes’ a small thing,” Hett replied, shaking his head. “With a company of soldiers, honest gold won’t be hard to come by. ‘Specially once the new [Oracle] whips the nobility inta shape at the Gathering of Kings.”

Jacob turned to look across the encampment, where tents were being packed up and wagons made ready for the march. “We have to get the Deskren off our backs first.”

Millie listened to the two men as she inspected her new gear. The pants, tunic, and boots she already wore; Miss Erin had made sure to get them properly hemmed up and fitted the day she woke up with her class. Her armored vambrace clasped her arm and connected to a shoulder pauldron, and the outer surface bore a lacquered steel plate, matching the rank patch on her tunic.

“Aye,” said the Battlemaster after watching her stare for a moment. “Back home it would be gold instead of red, but it seemed more fitting.” His expression turned pensive, and he glanced away. “Back home you’d be in school teasing boys, instead of marching into war.”

He seemed sad, wracked by a deep-seated grief she couldn’t understand. Millie knew she wasn’t unique, and that many families had been torn apart, or worse, by the Deskren. She felt lucky to have a chance to fight back and actually be effective.

“They tell me I can’t revoke the Title without damaging your Class and, by extension, your Soul. If you’re stuck being a Soldier because of me, by God, you’ll be the best one I can make you. Report to Erin to get that armor on. You’ll be on the wagon today, where all the troops can see and hear. I want you to drum us up a storm.”

Millie saluted, then tucked her new gear under her arm and turned away as her commander turned back to Hett to discuss his plans with the old veteran.

Commander Calvin Descroix gazed down at a map pinned to a folding camp table inside the Gendarmes’ command tent. The Battlemaster leading the refugees had become a thorn in his side, slaughtering Hoplite units wholesale, and hitting every supply train his scouts could find. Left to his own devices, the commander would simply have withdrawn and let the refugees escape, but the Imperial Seal on his orders brooked no disobedience, especially when it came to Worldwalkers, who were to be captured at all costs. Even his own life was expendable, should it come to that. His status as the fourth son of the emperor wouldn’t protect him from the old man’s wrath, especially considering his lifelong refusal to marry and produce heirs. The emperor had little patience for anything he saw as useless; Calvin’s only option to remain useful required victories on the field.

“I hope we bring this chase to a close soon, Commander,” the man on the other side of the tent said. Cruel eyes and a hooked nose perched over the thin mouth that gave rise to that oily voice.

Excruciator Selunj of the Imperial Overseers outranked Calvin by a technicality and, in his own way, had become as much of an annoyance as the enemy Battlemaster. Following the subjugation of South Hollows, the Deskren army had exhausted its supply of Golden Collars, and the plentiful Black Collars worked most effectively on the young. It was by the emperor’s wisdom, then, that a full battalion of Overseers accompanied the campaign, to manage the use of the Black Collars in breaking in the higher-leveled slaves they’d captured. Selunj existed outside Calvin’s command, reporting directly to the Imperial Throne, and his insistence on earlier attempts to seize the caravan and the pair of Worldwalkers leading it had led to disastrous failures, the blame for which passed easily to Calvin.

He considered his words carefully before answering. Everything he said, he knew, would eventually reach the emperor’s ears. “If everything goes to plan, we’ll have them no less than a bell past noon. Southbridge and Ferrytown are ours, and his scouts know it. So he’s turned north.”

“What is he trying to do?” Selunj asked. The man stared at the map as if it were a beast ready to bite. The overseers were best left to their grim work, and not sent on campaign, as far as Calvin was concerned. Preferably out of range of my own hearing, thought the imperial prince.

“The only thing he can do,” the commander answered. “He has to have maps, probably better ones than we do. The next nearest crossing of the River Weldt is a fjord nine days to the north. There’s a bridge at the border between Weldtir and Forvale, but that’s another week’s march away. He’s out of time, now that we’ve brought the Gendarmes to bear. We’ll carve his caravan to pieces if he tries for either.”

Calvin looked down at the map once more. Something had been tickling the back of his mind for several days, a nervousness he couldn’t shake. The otherworlder leading the refugees had made few mistakes over the summer, avoiding larger forces and ruthlessly crushing weaker groups too slow to evade his lancers. “I don’t understand,” he said after a few moments, running a hand over his shaven head. “The man is obviously a military veteran from his own world. His best option would have been to make for one of the bridges, but it’s too late for that now that we’re this close on his tail.”

“Explain,” said the excruciator.

“We don’t have cavalry. The empire has always relied on the beast born as our heavy troops. They’re extremely effective in the jungles and forests of the homeland, but for holding a position, they are found lacking, except for Ursaran or Ma’akan. My father sent no bears or badgers to build or dig, and the wolfmen we do have aren’t suited to either.”

He tapped a finger over the illustrated bridge where a tiny Imperial flag had been pinned. “We hold Southbridge, but it has no walls. He could break our lines there, even if it would cost him half his horse or more. Once the wagons crossed the bridge, we’d be right back to chasing him. Why did he turn north? There has to be another reason beyond the fact that it’s his least bad option.” The map held no answers for Calvin, and the silence between himself and the excruciator grew thick and uncomfortable until a scout was ushered into the tent.

The scout knelt before Calvin, then stood with a nod to the excruciator. “Sir! They’ve stopped at the top of a slope and seem to be digging fortifications.”

Excruciator Selunj gave a crooked smile. “So he’s realized there’s no escape?”

“Possibly, sirs. A smaller group of riders led by one who appears similar to descriptions of The General’s Wife split off from the main force to continue north.”

Calvin looked once more at the map. “All my instincts say it must be a trap, but…”

“The opportunity must not be ignored,” the excruciator finished in his stead. “I shall ride with a small detachment of Gendarmes to see to the woman personally. The emperor would have both our heads if we simply let a Worldwalker ride away.”

The commander did his best to ignore the visceral glee that dripped from the other man’s voice as he turned to issue orders to his aide. “The Gendarmes are to advance, Hoplites to the flanks, but they are to hold back until their line is broken.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance out of the clear sky as they exited the command tent. Calvin looked up, but saw no clouds. “Strange weather,” he said with apprehension, “but we do what we must. You have your orders.”

Millie Thatcher stood on the back of Hett’s wagon, playing a steady beat on her drum. The caravan had reached high ground shortly before noon, and the Battlemaster had circled the wagons together before setting the soldiers to digging fortifications. Some of the troops seemed almost embarrassed when Hett joined the effort to clear the high ground of trees, a single swing of his axe felling full-grown timbers with an ease that almost seemed contemptuous.

The refugees were close to panic. Never before had The General actually stopped the wagons for a fight, preferring to keep them moving. Compounding their nervousness was the fact that Jacob had sent his wife Erin away, riding north with most of the Mages and plenty of horse. A minor lordling who’d lost his lands to the Deskren—Millie didn’t know his name, nor did she care—had had the gall to challenge The General, publicly questioning why the caravan’s most powerful mage and healer had been sent to safety while they prepared to fight and die.

Jacob’s casual backhand had silenced not only his complaint, but any other, his armored gauntlet crushing the man’s jaw and sending him tumbling into a wagon with enough force to splinter the side panels. A shake of his head had halted the pair of healers rushing to help the man.

“We’ll have wounded soldiers to tend to soon enough,” said the Battlemaster, his voice rough and cold. “Save your Mana for those who are about to die for you.” Without another word, he turned and walked away.

Millie didn’t have words for the feeling that was building around the encampment. Those not wounded or young had been set to work in some way: digging, lashing saplings together to set spikes in the ground facing out from the wagons, and last-minute repairs to armor. Everyone worked, and it seemed that the steady beat of her drum lent a form of order to chaos to keep the worst of the panic at bay. So she kept a steady hand, keeping an eye on the Deskren forces downslope of them.

She also couldn’t help glancing at the sky every few minutes. The morning had been clear, the day promising sun and heat just like the past few days of late summer weather. But the wind had picked up soon after the caravan stopped, and now low clouds scudded by, almost touching the treetops. Drum us up a storm, the Battlemaster had said. Millie would have been overjoyed to do so had she known how, but despite how natural her class felt, she was still new to it.

Her mother could have sung thunderheads into existence, were she still alive. The [Whisperwind Songstress] had called rains for the family farm more than once during drought, giving them a much-needed lifeline. She’d sang about, and to, different gods and spirits as much as she sang to and for any audience. More names than Millie could remember; to her mother, the important thing had been the songs and the singing more than any capricious deity. Their family hadn’t been anything close to what one could call devout, nor did they worship in service to anyone.

She knew of paladins and priests, of course. But their power came from oaths they made and service they offered. Millie served now, too, and while she didn’t fully understand what it was she served, she did feel that she couldn’t swear to anything else. She hadn’t sworn herself verbally to the Battlemaster—fear had stayed her tongue, and by the time she’d conquered it, she had no more words—but accepting his title and choosing her class had had the same effect. Most of the gods her mother had spoken of would have demanded a similar exchange of vows; those paths now stood barred to her.

But not everything she’d sung to her about struck such bargains; thus, the manner in which the songstress called rain and storm. Storms don’t make bargains, Amelia, she’d told her one day. We give gifts of song, and if they approve, they answer.

This was the hue of Millie’s thoughts as she counted three heartbeats to a strike on her drum. She had no words to sing. Her loyalty to the Battlemaster and his banner could not be swayed, no bargains could be made. I already gave my words away, she thought as she looked to the sky. I can’t sing you pretty songs. All I have is my drum. Is it enough?

The clouds had darkened the day to shadow just as the Deskren formation marched out of the lower tree line, dread Gendarmes in the lead. Standing on the wagon, Millie saw them before anyone save the Battlemaster himself, sitting tall on his charger. She raised her hand to the sky and waited, watching for the hand signal she knew was coming. Jacob Ward met her eyes and raised his hand to match hers as the winds died. The rumbles of thunder ceased, ushering in a moment of perfect silence. But the answering voice, the whisper that sounded in her mind and caused her eyes to widen in shock, was decidedly not from the Worldwalker.

Your drum has pleased Quinus, Harbinger of the Storm! The Harbinger arrives in the silence between the flash of lightning and the crash of thunder!

You have earned the Aspect of the Harbinger! May the Storm answer thy call!

The Battlemaster’s hand dropped with a sharp chopping motion, and Millie felt a tingling in her upraised hand. Sparks buzzed around the metal tip of her baton, arcing down to her gauntlet to dance along the outside of her chainmail, jumping from there to the iron bolts and metal bands on the wagon. Hett’s axe seemed to thrum as the old man broke into laughter.

“Soldiers,” said the Battlemaster in a tone that was almost jovial now that the wait was over. “We hold this line.” His voice carried across the rise without the man needing to raise his voice. “It’s time to stack bodies.”

Millie’s hand dropped as he nodded to her with the last words.

And thunder came with it.

Chapter 36: Thunder and Mud

Calvin Descroix looked through a spyglass at the refugee encampment. Practically a fort already, he thought, despite less than a quarter of a day to dig in. Angled trenches marred the direct upslope approach, the only one workable for his forces. Splitting to either side of the fortifications would expose them to withering fire from the Battlemaster’s mages and archers. Worse, the clearer terrain and broad, comparatively shallow slope would make an excellent killing field for his corps of lancers.

Even from this distance, the steady pounding of drums drifted from the center of the compound, their source a small, childlike figure standing on the largest wagon. As far away as Calvin was, he couldn’t make out more than outlines, but the outline beating its drum was too small to be one of the soldiers. Several days ago, the fleeing refugees had suddenly began marching much faster, and with the bard in sight, the reason was clear. She’s so young, he thought, closing his eyes against the sudden twinge in his chest. But I can’t change the Empire, and she’ll be collared with the rest of the survivors… A heartbeat later, he opened his eyes again. That is, if she survives. Mercy wasn’t a virtue often afforded to the Empire’s commanders, but in the chaos of a pitched battle, perhaps an “accident” could be arranged to spare the child a much grimmer fate in the breeding pens of Nouveau Deskra. Bards were rare enough as it was; one with added military skills would be put to use in attempts to create more.

Moreover, this bard appeared to have skills beyond even the military; with every beat of her drum, the clouds overhead darkened. The air began to cool, and shadows deepened all along the rise where the refugees had dug their defenses.

He shook himself out of his thoughts, watching in silence as nearly two thousand Luparan Gendarmes entered formation at the bottom of the distant slope. He turned to the hulking Panthren awaiting orders next to him, the massive leonine form of the Shackled beast-man standing almost as tall as Calvin’s horse. “I don’t see another way around it, Commandant Golthen. We need your battalion to break their lines before we can commit the Hoplites.”

The beast-man rolled his shoulders, the golden glint around his neck just peeking out when the curls of his light brown mane shifted. “That’s why we were sent.” The words were almost a snarl, bitten off around oversized canines, with only half-human lips to refine the shape of the sound

“The one on the wagon seems to be calling up this storm,” he said as thunder rumbled ominously above. “Some form of bard or mage. Take them out, and it should be a demoralizing blow, Commandant. As soon as your Gendarmes clear a path, the Hoplites will follow. You know better than I just how bloody this will be…”

“By the emperor’s command,” replied the half-lion with a savage grin, seemingly eager for the bloodshed. Golthen loped forward to join his soldiers, tightening his heavy, clawed gauntlets before securing his helm. As if by unspoken agreement, the rains began just as the Gendarmes began their charge.

Millie Thatcher struck her drum, and the blast of thunder stilled the wind and caused every soldier and civilian on the rise to freeze for one single moment. The growing storm above had cast dark shadows across their position, but as the lightning flared, stark white light momentarily drove them back. The lightning dimmed, but stayed, dancing around her chainmail and gauntlet in jagged blue-white arcs, and buzzing around the metal pieces of the wagon and the gleaming head of Hett’s axe. Her baton beat a stuttering tremolo against the stretched hide of the drum, a rapid, flickering drumroll, before she slid the metal baton along the iron rim. The sparks stretched out between the baton and the edge of the instrument when her hand withdrew, and similar tracings of energy began to arc along the armor and weapons of every soldier under the Battlemaster’s banner.

The Deskren Gendarmes, uncowed by the dramatic display, rolled up the slope, the wolfmen surging forward in an unstoppable tide of tooth and claw. Rains lashed against the encampment as the storm broke free, but the defenders were unmoved. The soldiers set down their tools and took up their weapons, waiting for orders. Millie kept her drumbeats light and steady, though her cadence had quickened: still three heartbeats to a strike, but that heartbeat had started to race.

When less than a third of the distance between the attackers and the first row of spiked trees remained, the Battlemaster spoke, and at his word, Millie struck the drum once more, then held the baton against the head, arm quivering.

“Now.”

Over a hundred Deskren crossbows let go with one collective snap, and the front line of Gendarmes crumpled just a hundred paces shy of the defenses. Taken when the lancers had surprised an enemy supply convoy, The General had insisted all of the soldiers practice with the weapons, regardless of class or existing skills. Now that insistence paid off; very few of the projectiles missed. As the bolts struck the wolfmen, they exploded in lightning and thudding rumbles of thunder borrowed from Millie’s drum. The first line of Gendarmes fell and died, and those behind howled in a fury that drove back the rain. Then they reached the makeshift barricades and trenches, and the battle devolved into a grand melee of shield, spear, axe, and sword.

Jenna Tillersen stood up and wiped the sweat from her brow, back aching from stooping down at her age. As a [Water Witch], she’d never gone adventuring, spending her years helping the villages in the southern region of Weldtir. Between finding water, drawing it up, and a few healing skills, she always had worthwhile work to do. She even helped with delivering babies from time to time. All those things, together with the fact that she’d never really felt the urge to fight, had yielded a life filled mostly with peace and comfort—until the Deskren came. She’d certainly never thought she’d be running from a war, let alone actually fighting in one. Yet here she was, another page turned in her Story, as she did her part in the preparations for unleashing destruction on a scale that turned her stomach.

“That’s the last section, Miss Erin,” she said, turning to glance at the Worldwalker. “Davin and the others have set the Earthbreaker Runes, and when they go off, my magic will freeze the water that seeps in.”

The General’s Wife looked out over the levee that held back the River Weldt, a weary expression on her face. Jenna and every other able body with a speck of magical talent who could be spared had been sent, and even then the [Hand of Solace] had been obliged to refresh their magical reserves in order to engrave so many hundreds of runes across the base of the levee. She led them back to high ground, then turned to face them.

“Now we wait for the signal.”

“It won’t matter,” a smooth and shadowy voice said. A man on horseback melted out of the tree line, flanked by dozens of Luparan Gendarmes. From the distant encampment, thunder rolled across the shallow valley, where storm clouds had darkened a section of the horizon to near pitch blackness. The man spoke again as lightning flashed from within. “Whatever his game was, it ends here.”

“You’re free to think that,” the Worldwalker said, raising her hand to stop Jenna and the other mages from readying their magic. She could feel Erin’s Mana rise to the surface, but only in a small current, too weak for her to discern her intent, beyond that it was Life magic.

“I’m Excruciator Selunj,” rasped the thin man with the harsh face. “I’m going to break you personally, then share you with my Gendarmes. Once you’ve learned true obedience, I’ll send you after your own husband. If he survives the battle.” He laughed, a dark, cruel sound.

Erin’s face didn’t even flicker at the man’s pronouncement, even delivered as it was with all the certainty of the headsman’s ax. “Hm. It’s lucky for you, then, that I’m far more merciful than he.”

Suddenly Selunj made a choking noise. Jenna gasped as the [Hand of Solace]’s magic flared, and she ripped the life out of almost a hundred foes at once without changing expression. Blood poured from the Gendarmes’ snouts, and as one, they collapsed, weapons thumping to the dirt after falling from nerveless hands. There on the ground, the bodies looked almost pristine and untouched, save for the reddened ground beneath them.

“Wha—”the Deskren overseer gasped before sliding off his horse with blood pouring from his nose and down his face.

“The human body—any living body, really—is an amazing thing,” said Erin Ward, lowering her hand as the excruciator gasped his last breath. “We can survive terrible trauma, lose an entire limb and recover, or we can die from something as simple as a nosebleed, if it’s bad enough.”

“You call that merciful?” Jenna asked, as a bright light rose over the distant trees, a flare to illuminate the countryside for miles.

“Indeed, it was merciful. Had Jacob heard what he said, the man would have been days in the dying. Ask my husband about Vlad Tepes sometime when he isn’t busy.” The Worldwalker looked up at the signal flare with a smile, then turned and, with a pulse of power, activated the runes on the levee.

“Vlad Tepes? Is that a place? Or a name?” the [Water Witch] responded as magic surged and the bottom of the levee began to crack apart, flash-frozen water ruthlessly widening the gaps opened by the Earth magic.

A new thunder rose. The ground beneath their feet began to tremble, with larger chunks of stone tumbling down, pushed out from the wall by the incomprehensible pressures locked behind them. The runes did their work, and as the entire structure gave way to unleash a wall of water over ten feet high and almost a mile wide, the Worldwalker smiled.

“He was a man. A much kinder one than Jacob, should he ever find reason to be truly angry.”

Millie Thatcher beat her drum with all her might, heart pounding with fear-tinged exhilaration. This was a new kind of fear, however—before, she would have huddled in the wagons and only fought when bandits tried to climb inside. Now, this fear galvanized her, steadying her mind and arm as she called down thunderbolts with every strike.

The first line of sharpened pikes in the ground had merely slowed the Gendarmes, and they’d learned quickly that it was the girl on the wagon calling down the lightning instead of mages in the back lines. The Battlemaster had swung around with a dozen lancers and trampled one group of wolf-men who had broken through and charged her position. The reprieve was brief, for a massive Panthren Lion had taken a small number of beastkin lucky enough to survive the initial assault right through their lines. The lion-man roared, pushing her storm back long enough for the wolves to close.

Their advance met its end at the head of old man Hett’s axe, the man cackling with sadistic glee as the broad, cruelly sharp blade flashed down, splitting one wolf from helm to groin. The mules, eager to prove themselves, pulled their weight, bucking the Gendarmes away. With an equine scream of rage, one even took hold of an unfortunate Gendarme by the shoulder, shaking it like a bulldog would a rabbit, its strained howls tapering off to squeals and barely audible whimpers as it died.

One Gendarme rose over the side of the wagon, finding his feet before advancing on her, a triumphant gleam in his eye as he raised his weapon. Without thinking or even missing a beat, Millie struck her drum and, on the backstroke, lashed out to strike the oncoming foe’s chestplate. At the moment of contact, Millie felt her Mana reserves drain precipitously, but she certainly couldn’t argue with the effect: immediately the wolfman seemed to liquefy, blowing out the gaps in his chestplate. A pair of armored legs toppled away from the wagon, joined by his very messy upper half.

She actually did miss a beat after that, unprepared for the awe-inspiring nature of her attack and its disgusting results. After the wolf’s remains fell to the ground, she felt something new:

You have gained the Skill [Battle Beats]! Shock and awe, and force unrelenting! Devastate your enemies with the solid waves of sound itself!

Still somewhat shaken, she glanced down at Hett, still laughing as he corralled his mules. Smiling, the Battle-Bard started playing again as the brassy note of Deskren war horns sounded the charge of the Hoplite reserves. The captain of the Gendarmes, seeing his troops fail, roared once more and charged the wagon.

His charge met its end at the tip of the Battlemaster’s lance. After his earlier sally, he’d picked up a lance from somewhere and circled back on the wagon, the blackened, blunted end making devastating contact with the Panthren’s chestplate. The lance shattered under the force, and both the captain and Battlemaster fell away. Suddenly absent its rider, his charger committed itself to the fray as Jacob rose to his feet. Millie redoubled her efforts, fighting down a sudden wave of panic: his sword was still attached to his saddle, now a world away.

The lion-man stalked forward. One armored foot lashed out, and Millie’s heart stopped as abruptly as that foot did: Jacob’s steel-clad hand had clamped itself around the warrior’s shin, crushing the armor into his leg with a sickening crunch.

There the Battlemaster stood, steady as a mountain in the face of the enemy. “Mister Hett!” he called. “They’ve committed their reserves; the signal, if you would!”

As Hett reached into his coat to withdraw a small rune-covered rod, the Deskren captain roared again, this time in surprise and panic as the Battlemaster heaved, his face twisting as the captain rose into the air, then smashed back to the ground, crushing a Luparan soldier under his weight. Hett pointed the rod to the sky, and with a pulse of magic, a ball of light shot upward, through and past the storm clouds to detonate in a brilliant false dawn, chasing away the shadows, and casting the Battlemaster in terrible relief.

He strode for the front lines where the fighting was the thickest, dragging his impromptu hammer behind him, still protesting his treatment. “Soldiers!” he roared, and now he did sound angry. Watching from the comparative safety of the wagon, Millie thought it was an even more terrifying prospect than the entire battle up to this point had been.

“I said!” He swung the lion again, in a vicious horizontal arc, sending three Gendarmes tumbling away.

“We hold!” Raising his foe to the sky, the Battlemaster broke the captain’s shoulder against another knot of Deskren.

“This line!”

Thus did the Battlemaster stand among his troops, beating the enemy to death with their own commander.

Calvin watched through his spyglass, disbelief playing across his face. Captain Golthen had almost closed with the bard on the wagon, only for his entire elite unit save himself to be wiped out—the last falling to the one-armed bard. The thought was barely credible—but not, he forced himself to admit, outside the realm of possibility. His forces had been chasing and harrying the refugee caravan for months, and just as his own army gained levels and experience, it was inevitable that survivors among the enemy would grow stronger, as well.

It wouldn’t be enough, though. Even with the drummer calling thunderbolts from the sky, numbers would drag them down in the end. It would be a costlier battle than even his most pessimistic estimates, but even with his losses, the Gendarmes still outnumbered the defenders over three to one. He nodded to a messenger, and the signal went up to commit the Hoplites, shifting those numbers even more in his favor. He raised the spyglass once again as a bright flare of light lit the battlefield.

The Hoplite reserves charged into the fray. The Gendarmes had pushed up the slope and broken through the defenders’ ranks, and there were now gaps in the enemy lines. Their grim banner still stood, looming ominously over the one-armed form playing the drum from the back of the wagon. Golthen, standing alone after the old man and his mules had savaged his force, rushed the wagon, his furious roar carrying above the din of battle. Calvin swung his spyglass down to observe the Hoplites’ advance before returning his focus to Golthen and the bard.

Where he’d felt disbelief before, now abject shock held him frozen. The enemy commander was no longer on horseback. Instead the man, clad in mismatched heavy armor, stood shrouded in power as he swung Golthen like a sack of potatoes. Holding onto the captain’s leg, the Battlemaster lay about with enraged abandon. Where he struck with his makeshift weapon, Gendarmes were broken and smashed, and his soldiers fought with similar fervor, spurred by their leader’s example.

The thunder seemed to intensify, the bard on the wagon wreathed in more and more dread lightning gifted from the sky itself. Bolts of it began to rain down among his soldiers, and even the iron resolve of the enslaved-from-birth Gendarmes began to waver. It took Calvin several heartbeats to realize not all the thunder came from the storm. His horse stumbled as the ground began to shake.

Earthquake? No, a storm-bard doesn’t have that power…

Then the thunder rose to a roaring crescendo, a continuous rushing sound, and Calvin realized it wasn’t coming from the sky or the ground, but rather from the trees to the north. The bard-summoned storm above made it hard to see, but the flashes of lightning illuminated the swaying of the taller trees just before many of them began to fall.

Calvin Descroix had just enough time to activate his enchanted shield pendant before the wall of water arrived, tumbling boulders, trees, and mud ahead of itself.

Millie Thatcher leaned against the sideboards of Hett’s wagon, too exhausted to even turn and unstrap her drum and find a place to sit. She looked out over what remained of the battlefield, nose numbed to the stench. Instead of a broad, flattened valley, all she could see below the sloping rise was a frothing, muddy lake. Over ten thousand Deskren had been washed away in one fell swoop, and her faith that the Battlemaster had a plan was vindicated, though she had no words to give voice to that satisfaction. Hett had actually fallen asleep on the front bench of his own wagon after the battle finally ended. A rooster stood beside him, obviously having gotten loose during the battle. It clucked its annoyance at the noise Hett made, and was pecking him, to no avail. Millie giggled at the display, the most sound she was capable of making.

The Battlemaster had allowed the soldiers no rest after the battle ended. The Luparan Gendarmes had stopped fighting once their masters were gone, and simply knelt on the field to await their fate. She found the sight disturbing at first, as troops still caught in the battle fury had kept killing their now-defenseless foes until The General had ordered them to desist. Instead, the surviving Deskren—a few hundred Hoplites and nearly a thousand wolf-men—had been corralled in ranks on the rise some distance apart from the refugee wagons. Disarmed and docile, they awaited the Worldwalker’s judgement.

“Who speaks for you?” he asked from the back of his horse.

Hett sat up, suddenly awake, and answered, “Iffen the overseers were washed away, none do. They’ll sit like that ‘til they die, iffen ye don’t feed ‘em.”

“Overseers?” asked Jacob.

“Hold the leashes. They use the kill command when they’ve lost. Seems they must all be gone now, or these’uns’d all be dead already.” The old man’s drawling accent was difficult for Millie to grasp sometimes, but she understood the gist of it. Without their masters, the Deskren slaves had no idea what to do.

The Battlemaster paced his horse along the line of kneeling Deskren, his face grim and thoughtful. He ordered soldiers through the lines with tools, cutting the black collars from around the prisoners’ necks. Finally, one of the older Luparan mustered enough courage to speak after the collar fell away.

“There is nothing for us now. The Empire holds our kin,” he growled, “and our northern brethren would never take us in. We’ve never known the ways of the Tribes.”

“I cannot promise to free your kin,” he began, as his gaze settled on the self-appointed spokesman, “but if it’s in my power, I will make it happen.”

“All we know is battle,” said another wolfkin, this one with a softer voice. Millie was sure it was a woman, even though her form was every bit as large and muscled as the others. “Kill us or command us, we are as the dead either way.” The voice was bitter and mournful. “Our children are already the same as dead, left in the Empire’s lands.”

“You would serve, even alongside those who were just killing you?” The Battlemaster’s tone held no judgment, only curiosity.

“In peacetime, the emperor pits us against each other in battles to the death as spectacle, even against our own families and children. How would fighting alongside these soldiers be worse?” growled the male again.

Jacob nodded at that remark. “I see. The Empire keeps weighing down the scales of judgment with every fact I learn about them.” His horse pranced in place with a snort. “I’ll force no one to swear to the banner. I’m marching these civilian refugees to Possibility to take shelter in the City of Prophets. Then I intend to destroy your old empire. If you march with me, you may die.” He let his mount pace slowly in front of the line of kneeling soldiers.

“All I can promise is, if you die under my banner, it will be to accomplish the mission, and not on the whims of some worthless crown.” He stopped to let his gaze pass across the entire line. “Those who don’t swear to the banner? I won’t kill you, but you’ll be left here without weapons, and we’re taking the food. The choice is yours.”

There was no hesitation, merely the span of a single heartbeat for the wolfmen to understand what the Worldwalker offered. One howl ripped forth from nearly a thousand throats, and in it, Millie heard the death of an empire.

Chapter 37: Reunions

Morgan Mackenzie found herself in a dream. She knew it was a dream. She stood at the entrance to Dina’s Diner, the same tiny shop where her parents had taken her to lunch every Sunday through her entire childhood, the same place where her father had continued to take her to lunch every week after her mother had finally succumbed to the ravages of a cancer the doctors couldn’t save her from.

The creaky sign hanging below the awning, swaying in a late-morning breeze; the faded paint and antique windows which characterized the building’s facade; the familiar smells of carefully-prepared food; they all soothed her, and she knew they couldn’t exist on Anfealt, but they weren’t what told her she was dreaming.

She knew it had to be a dream because she was wearing clothes, and her tattoos no longer stood out on what skin was still exposed. Her reflection in the diner’s glass door was missing the enchantment across her eyes, and her hands and arms, as she reached toward the door, were once more bare and pale. After so many months au naturel, the experience was jarring, every bit of fabric against her skin an uncomfortable irritant she couldn’t ignore. From the socks squeezing her feet, to the pants and the blouse settled on her like a pall, the clothes made for a numbing barrier between her skin and the sky. It was like suddenly being in a cage, and the underwear was the worst—not that the sensation was unbearable, she simply couldn’t help but be aware of it.

She hastily peeled the blouse over her head and let it drop to the ground, then stood there in shock as it vanished from the space between her hand and the steps in front of the diner, only to instantly reappear on her body. She spent nearly a full minute futilely struggling to remove the offending garments. No sooner did a shoe, blouse, or bra leave her hands than it flickered back to its original place. Finally, lightly panting with exertion, she resigned herself to her discomfort, stepping forward and crossing the diner’s threshold.

The familiar jingle of the bell was as soothing as the scents coming from the open kitchen, where a sturdily-built, matronly woman with an apron stood before a griddle, while deftly using the tools of her trade to flip pancakes and tend to skillets sizzling with sausages and eggs. Morgan turned to the far corner of the diner, approaching the figure she’d somehow known would be there.

She felt small again, and safe, gazing across the restaurant at the man sitting in the back corner booth. There was more grey at his temples than she was used to, but otherwise this could have come from any scene in her memory: he sat, as always, with his back to the corner, affording him clear sight to every exit and window. He was dressed in the same work boots, jeans, and flannel shirt she always remembered, and the set of his body was identical: ramrod-straight, shoulders back, the gun just barely peeking out of the old leather jacket keeping him just off the back cushion. The weapon had been in his family for two generations before him, and she’d never seen him without it.

As Morgan approached, Max turned his attention to the familiar spread of food, setting down his coffee. As it had always been, it consisted of bacon, eggs, biscuits and gravy, with a side of hominy grits. A waitress dressed in a nondescript uniform with features Morgan somehow couldn’t focus on slipped around her and approached the table, the dream seeming to snap into greater focus as she set down her burden across from the man: one egg, sunny side up, on its own platter, next to a plate with a single biscuit, opened in halves and slathered in country gravy. Three pieces of crispy bacon and one piece of wheat toast finished the ensemble, together with a small glass of orange juice: the same meal she’d eaten every Sunday since she’d grown enough to place her own order.

She sat, suddenly nervous. A dozen questions tried to make their way out of her mouth, but her father simply pointed at her food.

“Eat first. Then talk. We don’t have long, but it should be enough.”

Morgan didn’t argue the point. The food smelled delicious, like memories of a happier, safer time in her life, and the comforts of bygone days. The fork and knife didn’t fall from her fingers, and the glass of juice was perfectly cold in her hand. She wasted no time, enjoying the luxury of actually eating and drinking like a normal person for the first time since she fell through the portal.

It had always been this way, as far back as she could remember. Every Sunday, the family would go to the diner for a family meal, followed by a trip into the city to do the weekly shopping and other errands, before piling back into the old, but well-maintained pickup truck to return along the winding roads to the Mackenzie homestead. The ride had grown crowded as her older brothers had grown, then was very suddenly not crowded enough following her mother’s death. The void left by her passing had left the cab of the truck empty, and had very nearly put an end to the tradition.

Max Mackenzie had insisted the tradition continue, however, and stood fast, an immovable foundation through the grief, as his children had grown. Morgan’s brothers had graduated from school and enlisted, but she’d continued meeting her father every single Sunday, even after she’d moved into the city and started classes at the university. They’d never missed a single week, until she’d found herself in another world. As always, the Mackenzie patriarch allowed no conversation until the meal was properly done. He tucked into his own food as she devoured hers, flagging down the waitress for a refill of his coffee to wash it down. They ate in silence, focused on the meal before them. It wasn’t until the plates were stacked at the end of the table for the waitress to reclaim when she brought them another refill that Max finally spoke.

“You first,” he said warmly. “I’ll tell you my side after.”

“I—” she stammered. “I’m not sure where to even begin…”

“Start from the beginning, of course. I knew something was wrong when you didn’t show up on Sunday.”

She took a deep breath to steady her whirling thoughts. “Well, I had a horrible day at work. Stuck with a double shift, then caught my boyfriend cheating on me—” She paused as his expression went momentarily blank, then flickered with amusement, before returning to his normal attentive gaze. “I’d decided to go out and have some fun to get over it all, went to take a bath, and the bathtub fell through a hole in the world.”

As if finally saying it opened a floodgate, she told him everything. How she’d landed in the tree, how she’d made mistakes with her first few levels and nearly starved to death in a matter of minutes. She spoke of how she’d eaten the fruit, and how delicious it had been. He nodded at that, and then slid more napkins across the table to her as she recounted burning alive. She hadn’t even realized the tears were running down her face. He waited for her to compose herself before prodding her to continue the tale.

He smiled along with her when she recounted her triumphs and achievements, both against monsters and when she’d learned magic. He waited patiently as she struggled to recount her mistakes and heartaches. As she told her Story, the sleeves of her blouse began to fray and disappear, heralding the slow return of the tattoos along her hands and arms. The runic patterns slowly etched themselves back onto her skin, the dream-place giving way to the reality of how she now perceived herself. By the time she’d finished, she was bare once more. Thankfully, the dream did allow her to drink from her glass with her own hands, a much-needed point of comfort as she told her tale.

“And then that asshole put that thing around my neck.” She seethed, her expression twisting angrily. “I’m gonna finish killing him when I wake up, for that, and for that nice mage, too.”

Max smiled, a feral grin that showed no disapproval for his daughter’s newfound tendencies toward violence. “Your puffball friends already saw to that. The little necromancer lost his lunch, but I thought it was one of the more entertaining things I’ve seen in my life.”

“Pffff—!” She almost managed to keep from snorting orange juice across the table. “Exfoliation? Lulu’s vicious when she needs to be!” she exclaimed with a grin.

“Not your Lulu, the little necro’s green one. Wuffle, I think he called it.”

“It must be a species trait,” she said, still grinning. “I feel so much better. But now you. How? You know what I mean…” She trailed off, making a waving gesture with her hand at the dreamworld diner.

“Well, when you didn’t show up that Sunday, I was concerned.”

“Hah! Typical ‘Gunny Mack’ understatement. You don’t have to say it nicely for my sake, Dad.”

“Wasn’t going to.” He nodded as he continued, “I checked your apartment first, then went asking around. I started with your boss, then I worked over your boyfriend real good. What clued me in that something wasn’t normal was the tub.”

“The giant clawfoot? That was the entire reason I rented that apartment,” she replied, sipping her juice.

He nodded. “I remember. The landlord had remodeled the apartment, and the antique tub was too big to take out through the door after that. But it was gone. So I went back to the apartment. I was a mite upset by then, and apparently that was enough for the Le Fay blood to do what it does.”

“Doesn’t explain how you’ve been here for fifteen hundred years!”

“It explains everything.”

She just looked at him, the same smugness she used to find so irritating now a happy thing for her to see. “Please elaborate.”

“It had been nearly a week since you vanished. Whatever planetary, solar, or galactic alignment allowed the portals to form, things weren’t lining up right anymore. But I saw you land in the tree, and I jumped. The portal couldn’t send me to the same place at the same time, but it sent me to the same place in a different time.” He paused to take another drink of his coffee. “I landed a few years after Arthur died, and the Kingdoms of New Breton had fallen to civil war looking for the Sword, so someone could claim his crown.”

“Wow.” She could only stare while that information sank in. “So…Moghren really is the one from the legends?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “and our distant ancestor. Be careful around the old witch. She isn’t evil, but her motivations aren’t always necessarily good, either. She made bargains, the same as we did. She’s the one who planted the tree, as well.”

“I don’t remember making any deals…”

“You traded your modesty for power. I’m guessing there’s a catch, too.”

“What? You mean the stuff the other version of me talked about when I got my class?” Morgan’s thoughts spun as she tried to remember. She hadn’t seen it as a bargain at the time, but it certainly was one now that she actually considered it. “The catch is, I can’t ignore ‘soul crime’, and I think I’m starting to figure out what that means…”

“Yes.” Max grinned. “As much as I hate to see you roped into it, at least that’s a worthy cause to be bound to. Just be very careful about any such agreements you might make in the future.”

“The woman with the bow, Terisa. I could feel the gem shatter, and hear the soul inside screaming. I have to find a way to help!” Morgan’s runes flared on her skin, the magic responding to her emotions even in the dream.

“Calm down,” her father said. “I’ve been stuck here for…” He sat back, concentration lining his forehead. “I’m actually not sure. As The Titan, I wander, clearing disturbances from the Ley Lines in service to the Tree. I sleep for decades or more until something comes up; that was part of my bargain, so I could stick around long enough to be sure I’d be here when you arrived.”

“It would have to be at least fifteen hundred years, if Moghren told the truth about when the ‘Titan’ arrived. I’m pissed she didn’t tell me about you, though, if she apparently knows you.”

“She never lies, but she doesn’t always tell the whole truth, and you should never trust her. But my point is, I’ve lived long enough to see and learn many things, and there are options available to help the soul trapped in the gem.”

“So what are we waiting for?” It was as if knowing there were ways to help triggered some instinct in her own soul, the urge to help a victim of something the System itself considered the only sin.

“I said wait,” her father almost snapped, the stern warning in his voice an all-too familiar signal that he had important things to say. “You aren’t the only one who made bargains, and if you want to make sure I don’t eat your newfound friends, you need to listen before we rejoin the waking world. Communication is difficult for me out there.”

“Oh.” Properly chagrined, she waited for him to continue.

“The gem is shattered, and as we speak, the Huntress is trying to bully the necromancer into binding her sister’s soul. She has the best intentions, but if he does that, more than just the spirit in the gem will be passing through the veil. If The Titan rages, you and I will be the only survivors.” He delivered the statement as a matter of fact, voice flat and without inflection. “The Titan exists as a corrective contingency. If lines are crossed, and I can sense it, I restore the natural order in the most old-fashioned way.”

Morgan’s eyes widened. “Eep! You mean—”

“I kill and eat everything that offends the balance. Not always in that order.”

“Oh,” she said again, quiet for a moment. “So the story Terisa told, when those kids said you ‘ate the bad men’…”

“Truth.”

She could feel her food trying to come back up when he made the admission with no hesitation, but regained her composure after drinking from her glass.

“So how do we help the poor soul in the gem?”

Max paused once again, waiting politely as the waitress refilled his coffee and Morgan’s juice. Only after another few sips did he continue. “First, you’ll have to get Terisa to calm down. If it weren’t for the love of her sister that she’s trying to make the necromancer do this, I’d have already eaten her. You might have to kick her ass real good, beat some sense into her.”

“After that?”

“Then we need the necromancer to do what his kind are supposed to do. Prepare a path for the soul to pass on peacefully. Not all Soul Magic is bad; far from it. You can’t beat a good necromancer when it comes to settling spirits and wraiths. It’s only the bad ones who are a problem.”

“Is passing on the only way we can help Terisa’s sister?”

Max shook his head, holding up a finger in admonishment. “No, but the option must be presented. We can offer her a choice. But only the Soul itself can make that choice. If she chooses to pass into the after, that choice will be respected!” His fist slammed into the table with the last words, a sharp, thudding impact adding power to the declaration.

Morgan nodded in understanding. “I can get behind that. So what’s the other option we offer?”

“Well, the Huntress keeps cradling the pieces of a bow along with the bag holding the shards of the gem. Her sister must have somehow been trapped in the Soul Gem, and at some point that was used as the core of a weapon.”

“I think I can see how that would work,” Morgan agreed. “I’m not very familiar with Soul Magic, but I do know some of my Skills like [Mana Link] use it, and some of my runes.”

He nodded, finishing off his coffee. “Well, seems to me if the soul in the gem was the core of a weapon before…” He reached into his jacket, drawing his sidearm and setting it on the table, fingers trailing over its frame. “This was my father’s before me, and his father’s before him. I can’t use it out there, and neither can you. But with the necromancer’s help…and your talent with crystal…” He looked up from the gun, meeting his daughter’s eyes.

“I think I see where you’re going with this,” Morgan replied with a sudden grin.

“Then it’s about time to wake up, I think, before the woman manages to twist that poor fella’s arm until he does something truly stupid.”

She smiled. “That sounds like a good plan.”

“I’m glad we got to visit,” he said, suddenly somber once more. “We won’t be able to do this again, unless you intend to make a habit of exhausting yourself and nearly dying.” He stood, flipping a few bills onto the table to pay for the meal.

“I sorta got the feeling it was gonna be like that,” she replied, standing up and turning toward the door. “I’m more surprised you haven’t yelled at me for being naked.”

He stopped, halfway to the door, and glanced over his shoulder. “You were born that way.” He shrugged. “You seem more than capable of slapping down anyone stupid enough to get handsy, so that’s your business. For now, though, we’re out of time.”

He strode through the door and vanished, with Morgan following close behind.

Morgan Mackenzie woke up feeling more refreshed and rested than she had since arriving in the Wildlands. The benefits of talking to someone and just letting it all out were not to be understated, even in a dream. She wasn’t given much time to savor the feeling, as tense, angry shouting soon intruded on her thoughts. She sat up and looked around, pushing herself up from a bed of vines and moss. Lulu hopped up her arm to resume her rightful place on Morgan’s shoulder with a contented purble. The Titan rose to his feet behind her with a low rumble, and she grinned up at her father before hopping down to the ground and approaching the extremely distraught Terisa. The Huntress was struggling, restrained by the half-Ursaran, Foz. Her husband, if I remember right, Morgan thought as she approached.

“I know it’s forbidden!” the woman yelled at an uncomfortable looking Biggles, straining against Foz’s iron grip. The Necromancer had backed away from Terisa, who seemed on the edge of violence as she continued, “I said I would pay the price!”

“It doesn’t work that way!” Biggles responded, a disturbed Wuffle on his shoulder. The pale green scrubby didn’t seem to know why its friend was upset, but it could tell something had the Necromancer agitated. It noisily puffled its disapproval from its perch. “It would still be my magic, and I would suffer the consequences, too. I do not bind souls!”

Terisa seemed to sag in Foz’s arms. “Then—” she choked out, clutching the leather bag with the shards, where Morgan could still sense a soul in the throes of agony. “Then let me take her place, like she took mine…”

Biggles shook his head, a pained expression on his face. “All that would accomplish would be your death. She’d wear your body like a cheap suit, and she’d still be suffering.”

Morgan cleared her throat loudly, stepping between the two and interrupting their disagreement. “My dad has a solution, I think.”

“No. Binding,” The Titan said in his low bass, staring down at the squabbling pair.

“Yeah, we get that,” Morgan replied to the giant, waving her hand up at him before turning back to Terisa. “So, like he said, no binding, or everyone dies. And the odds are pretty even as to whether he eats you or I burn you first. That’s not negotiable.”

“That’s also not a solution!” Terisa snapped.

“It’s not just a question of if it should be done,” Biggles said. “Even if I were willing, we’re not in my workshop; I don’t have what I’d need. That’s a problem, for more reasons than you realize! If we don’t cleanse the spirits of the fallen, we’ll have wraiths or geists within three days from the Shackled who died.”

“What?” Morgan asked, her instincts flaring with the new revelation.

The Necromancer slowly waved his hand toward the bodies stacked against one wall of the fort, something the survivors must have done while Morgan was out. “The scrubbies and your um, father, devoured most of them,” he said. His face paled and he shuddered at the memory. “But they seemed drawn to the ones who were already corrupt in spirit. Nessara and these others were merely victims, Nessara especially. Damaged souls have trouble crossing the veil.”

The Titan rumbled his displeasure, but confirmed Biggles’ statements.

“Sad thing. Hurt souls. Suffer.”

“Exactly. I need to prepare a cleansing circle,” the man said, looking up at The Titan. “But when I send the others to the after, Althenea will be drawn with them without an anchor. I don’t have the tools to make one.”

“Hence my father’s offer,” Morgan said as the giant raised one oversized hand to his side. “I can help with the magic, and he’s got an anchor I think might be suitable. We need you to give her soul a choice, though.”

Terisa had finally calmed down and stepped away from Foz, who’d warily released her. “What do you mean, a choice?”

“She has to be free to pass on, or stay,” answered the [Skyclad Sorceress]. “That part isn’t negotiable. No binding.”

The Huntress seemed on the verge of protest, but Dana, who’d been standing nearby, pulled her aside with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “A choice is better than most get,” the armored Engineer said, voice soft with compassion. “She’s suffering; all of us can feel it, not just the mages.”

“I remember you.” The Titan had turned to observe Terisa, lowering his bulk to speak more directly to her. “Badger’s pupil.”

“Yes,” the woman replied. “Kamaga tried to stop the others from attacking you my first trip out here.”

“They chose. Their fate.” Even through his inhuman tone, the lack of remorse was clear.

“Yes, they did. Thank you for not chasing the rest of us down.”

His hand pushed into his side, crystals crunching along with bark and bone. It pulled away holding a chunk of obsidian larger than Morgan’s head.

“A gift. For Huntress. And Sister.”

Morgan felt her father work magic then, familiar in tone to her own, but not as volatile as her Fire or as wild as her Earth. It was merely an expression of The Titan’s will, overlaid on reality. The black and grey crystals that made up his armor reshaped themselves, separating and flowing back into his hand as easily as water. As the last shards retracted and he pulled his hand away, Morgan saw the familiar shape of his Colt pistol reveal itself. As it left the range of The Titan’s own aura, Biggles staggered back, as did everyone else, save herself and Terisa. The weapon pulsed with a threatening aura and a naked lethality, declaring its killing intent to all and sundry. Dana and Kojeg were the first to recover, both struck dumb at the sight.

“Death,” croaked Biggles, nearly cowering before it. “H-how many lives has that weapon taken?” His voice quivered in awe and barely restrained fear.

“It was his grandfather’s service weapon, then his father’s, and then his,” said Morgan. “It would have gone to one of my brothers if he hadn’t come to Anfealt.”

“I don’t understand how this helps,” Terisa muttered with a dejected expression. “I don’t even know what that is; all my Skills revolve around my bow.”

“Then learn more,” Dana replied easily. “I can teach you the basics, and you’d be surprised how quickly you pick it up. If not, you can still carry her with you, and use another bow.”

“If. Soul. Chooses.”

“Don’t forget that part,” Morgan continued. “Althenea has to choose for herself.”

Terisa reached out, taking the pistol in both hands, then bowing to The Titan. “I accept. If Biggles can manage it, I’ll abide by Althenea’s choice.”

“Morgan. Can help.”

“Yep!” Morgan put her hands on her hips, grinning at Biggles. “What do you need to make this happen, Mister Necromancer?”

Biggles seemed much more relaxed now that the prospect of bindings had been removed from the discussion. “For something like this, we’ll need at least two seven-pointed circles. I’d prefer three, but we don’t have—”

He stopped mid-sentence as Morgan’s magic flared, and with an almost casual expression of magic, a circle of dirt and stone nearly thirty paces across flattened itself in an instant. Purple flames licked along her arms, heating the surface as she compressed the material as densely as she could without [Spell Surge].

“So, three circles?” Indigo sparks leapt from her hands, jumping to the flattened earth that was now as smooth as glass. She waited, looking to the Necromancer for direction.

He shook his head wonderingly, clearing the shock from his mind. “Most would need hours of meditation to inscribe a single circle, and special tools to prepare the ground. It’s been a long time since I worked with a sorcerer of any sort.”

She grinned back at him. “It has its advantages. So, three equal circles? You need ‘em powered off ambient Mana, a permanent investiture that fades, or what?”

“Not equal size. One large circle,” he said, pointing to the middle of the flattened area. “Seven points for anchoring the array, and since we aren’t binding anything, it just needs to hold magic, not direct it.”

“So the big one is for the shards and the soul?”

“Yes.” The Necromancer nodded. “Then one smaller circle, but no anchoring links. I’ll inscribe the three runes that will allow her to pass through the veil if she chooses that path.”

Terisa waited almost reverently as Morgan and Biggles went about their work. The Sorceress noticed the other Worldwalker, Dana, watching as well. The helmet of her suit had reconfigured into a thin visor, and the woman seemed to be trying to understand and quantify what was happening. Morgan didn’t mind, simply happy to be putting her magic to use for something she hoped would actually be helpful to someone, and not just destruction. It was even more satisfying to her than building her stone house campsites, although she would probably never give up that particular hobby.

As she worked, she watched the Necromancer fish a pouch out of his robes. He poured a strange grey powder into his hand and chanted in a language Morgan couldn’t understand, the words somehow blurring together into a continuous stream as he worked a strange magic. Sidling over to him, she inscribed a smaller circle near where he stood, barely touching the central one. He shook the powder out of his hand, which drifted down to cling, as if magnetized, to the lines she’d inscribed.

This must be Death Magic, she realized. It felt similar to Life Magic, but even though it didn’t assail her senses like the collars’ binding magics, it was by no means a comfortable sensation: it felt like a denial, a negation. Maybe it’s not evil, but it’ll never be my thing, she mused.

Biggles finished his spell while she watched, his necromantic skills empowering the smaller circle. Above the enchantment, a roughly spherical area of space seemed to darken and thin, gently rippling in the air. Even with her [Mana Sight], her eyes wanted to slide away from it.

“The veil is softened here. If she chooses, the soul can pass into the after without pain or regret,” said Biggles. His tone was quiet, almost reverent, as if to speak loudly would disrespect the event. He turned to Terisa, eyes soft. “There is no binding here,” he continued. “I’ve merely opened the door. It’s her choice whether to step through.”

Morgan had finished anchoring the seven equidistant stabilizing runes around the larger circle. The enchantment was already holding ambient magic, and a faint glow of soft, pink light seemed to fill the space above. “What do we need for the other circle?”

Biggles walked around the perimeter of the large circle until he stood across from the—Doorway I think is the only word for it—through the veil. “Here we need a one-way barrier to hold something in. Not a binding, but a temporary containment, long enough for the larger anchoring circle to take effect.”

Morgan nodded slowly. “I think I can do that…but not with a seven-point circle.” She frowned, glancing down at the stone. “Three-pointed triangle?”

“Just so,” Biggles responded, “but do not link them yourself. That would seal the circle. What we need is, think of—”

“A magical panic room!” Morgan exclaimed, clapping her hands. “So she can link them if she wants to!”

The Necromancer appeared impressed. “Exactly! Where did you get your sorcery training?”

“Oh, nowhere,” she replied. “I’m just winging it.” She grimaced, rolling her shoulder. “Least I haven’t blown my arm off yet…”

The Necromancer gave her a questioning look, and Dana giggled knowingly from outside the flattened area of dirt. Morgan gathered more magic, drawing a circle with three equidistant runes on its edges. Biggles walked up to Terisa, holding out his hands.

“Now we need the shards, and the weapon,” he said, his voice low and reassuring. She handed the Colt to the Necromancer without resistance, but clutched the small leather bag, reluctant to part with it. Biggles led her forward instead of trying to take it from her, the pair stopping just outside the larger circle. He held the pistol out over the ‘panic room’, and Morgan felt his magic rise as he activated the runes. The gun floated gently in the air, held in place by the magic when he retracted his hand.

“As soon as you’re ready, put the pieces of her gem in the circle,” he told Terisa gently. “Her own animus will activate the magic, and she’ll be able to choose.”

The Titan shuffled forward almost gingerly, leaning down and sniffing at the magical array as Terisa stood in silence.

“No bindings. Good magic.”

The hulking form backed away from the group, nodding down at Biggles and baring oversized crystal tusks at Morgan in a proud smile. The Huntress stepped up to the central circle. Gently, she opened the leather pouch and poured the shards into her hand. The original gem had shattered into dozens of tiny pieces, but she’d only been able to recover several large fragments. Almost reverently, Terisa pushed the shards into the circle. They floated above her hand for a few moments, then began to drift toward the center as the seven runes began to glow.

What happened next Morgan would remember as long as she lived. The gem fragments flared with a bright, opalescent light, hues of color she’d never seen before flickering deep in their depths. When they glowed bright enough to rival the sun, they suddenly crumbled into tiny, scintillating motes. Terisa sobbed into her hands as the motes spun, swirling in complicated patterns Morgan could never hope to describe, before pulling into the center of the circle. A pulse of magic rippled outward, a sensation Morgan had only ever felt from her own [Soul Anchor].

Suddenly, in the space of a heartbeat, the figure of a woman appeared where the motes had been. She almost seemed as a statue, one made of colored glass, chipped in places and shot through with cracks. Everyone stood silent—even Terisa—and held their breath.

The figure inside the circle was silent, too, but not for lack of trying—the barrier within which she stood blocked what were clearly desperate, agonized screams, the woman arching her back and clutching her head as the cracks across her body raced along her form, spiderwebbing into tiny fissures.

“What’s wrong?” Terisa demanded, rounding on the Necromancer, eyes rimmed with red.

“The shard was broken, and so was her soul,” he replied gently. “But look, she’s healing,” he continued, taking her arm and turning her back to the center.

Indeed, the damage to the figure suddenly began to smooth over and disappear, working backward from the finest fissures to the largest chips. Terisa let out her breath in a great sigh as her sister finally appeared to relax. Her hands fell away from her head, and she looked up.

Althenea had been beautiful in life, Morgan realized. Standing slightly taller than her sister, with wavy brown hair she permitted to fall, unbound, to her waist, rather than wearing it bound in a braid. She must have been in there for decades, she realized. She’d been told the day before that Terisa was the younger sister, but persisting in the soul gem had spared Althenea the ravages of time, and Terisa no longer bore her sister’s youthful features. I think, though, they must have been twins. Something in the eyes, and the set of their features…

Althenea had moved to stand opposite her sister; Morgan took the opportunity to further compare them. She had reformed wearing what she must have worn when she died; where Terisa wore simple hide and linen in sylvan tones of brown and green, Althenea stood in exquisitely worked, well-fitted leather. The thicker parts of the armor over her chest and shoulders were embroidered in green and gold, shot through with the memory of protective magic that Morgan would have dearly loved to study, had she the time. Ghostly daggers were strapped to the woman’s thighs, and hints of metal peeked out from under the edges of her bracers.

Terisa reached out, fingers and hand flattening against the barrier that separated the living and the dead. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I stopped paying attention, I turned my back for just a moment.”

Biggles withdrew, allowing the Huntress and her sister this moment together. He turned to Morgan and murmured, “Give her a moment, then link the three circles together. That’ll let her make the choice.”

Morgan nodded, then stepped back as well. For the first time since arising, she glanced at the rest of the Expedition’s survivors, aimlessly milling about the wagons. Most of them seemed too overcome by a combination of fear and awe to approach, averting their gaze whenever she looked their way. Only the beastkin seemed unaffected.

Her father had lumbered back to the wall of the fort, leaning against the stone and picking his teeth with a broken tree limb almost as big as a wagon axle. A piece of something she was certain was the leg bone of some unfortunate human came loose, only to be popped back into his mouth a moment later.

“Eww,” she said, looking up at the hulking form. “Remember your manners, Old Man!”

He made a noise she thought was a burp and continued chewing. She could faintly hear Terisa talking to Althenea, although the barrier let no sound return from the spirit.

“The choice is yours. Just like the first time, when the Oracle helped us, you can go, or you can stay.”

Althenea seemed to have already made up her mind, though, pressing her hand against the barrier and smiling at her sister. Then she turned toward the circle that held the Colt, approaching it warily. The appearance of the item seemed to confuse her at first, and she paused halfway across the circle, but the unmistakable aura of death surrounding it clearly identified its purpose: it couldn’t be anything but a weapon, and the spirit, recognizing that, confidently stepped forward.

“Oh,” said Morgan, hurrying to link the circles together. The spirit shivered as the aura of death intensified, only sparing a dismissive gesture toward the portal as she drew closer.

“Choice made. Fighter spirit!”

“Yes,” Terisa said with a faint smile. “She was always fierce. Is fierce.”

Whatever Morgan thought she expected, she didn’t expect Althenea to dissolve into mist and flow toward the Colt. She certainly didn’t expect the Colt to reject her, the woman’s spirit falling to the ground in the middle of the circle and looking mightily confused. Biggles, Terisa, and Dana all spoke up at once.

“What?” “Wha—” “How odd.”

Althenea just looked confused, dispersing into mist once again and making another attempt. This time, the weapon glowed a deep, angry red, cracks spreading along the surface before the spirit was once again returned to the central circle. Confusion gave way to irritation, and she cast a look at those assembled.

“Biggles, what’s happening here?” Morgan asked.

“I’m…actually not sure,” he replied with a note of curiosity, stepping forward to inspect the Colt. “The weapon is steeped in so much death, so much history and killing intent. There’s not enough there, I think, to contain all of that as well as her soul.”

“Well, how do we fix that?” Terisa asked, frowning. Althenea tried again to enter the Colt, and was again rejected. As she was returned to the center of the circle, part of her mist floated away, toward the opposite side—where the Veil sat, maw open, ready to devour her. The spirit struggled and eventually reformed, her expression panic-stricken. “How do we fix that quickly?” she amended.

“By adding more mass to the array!” he replied, fumbling in his pockets. “A-a wand, a sword, something!” In the circle, Althenea had turned to face the Veil and was pressing herself against the barrier, staring with naked fear.

“Anything?” Dana interjected, staring intently at Biggles. Morgan turned to face her.

He turned to look at the Engineer. “I mean, a bow or crossbow would be ideal, but, yes, any sort of weapon will do, if Morgan can help put it across the barrier.”

Dana immediately turned and started away from the circle. “Kojeg!” she shouted, quickly abandoning bipedal locomotion in favor of a two-wheeled approach. Terisa shouted something from behind, something incomprehensible. “We need to amend my agreement with the Thuns!” She raced up to her workshop, which obligingly opened at her approach.

“Oh, I dinnae like the sound of that,” the dwarf grumbled. “Old Kadrass will flay me alive as quick as he will you, lass!”

Something inside the workshop thumped and clanged, as if Dana were throwing things around. She backed out the door, grunting and heaving what looked like a suitcase, if a suitcase were the length of a man.

“Ye knew the bargain,” he admonished. “Unless ye give the Thanes summat of value, ye can no give weapons to anyone! Weren’t nae exception for—”

Dana heaved, hauling the case upright and leaning it against her shoulder. “Oh, stuff your exceptions!” she yelled back. “I’ll build the dwarves a goddamn flying ship!” She started walking the case back toward the circle.

“You what?” Morgan demanded. “I just chewed you out over a nuke!”

Kojeg simply stared, unable to respond, as The Titan laughed.

“Good. Trade. Soldier.”

“Glad you approve, Devil Dog, but we need to hurry,” Dana replied. Terisa shouted again; looking back, Morgan saw Althenea beginning to lose ground, struggling to push herself away from the Veil, which seemed to have grown darker and hungrier. Dana dragged the box back to where the pistol hung, then let it thump to the earth. She knelt down, popping several clasps down the length of the case, then stood and flung the lid back.

Morgan whistled. “Is that a—”

“Based it off the Barrett M95, yeah,” Dana replied. “Details later; can you help me get this in the circle?”

“…” Morgan stood dumbfounded for a moment. Seeing her father’s Colt had been enough of a culture shock; seeing this even more modern weapon was something else entirely. “Uh, yeah, just, uh…Huh. Yeah, I can open the circle and hold it together, but…there may be complications if she’s stuck between the weapons.”

“If she still chooses it, we can fix it once she’s safe, can’t we?” Terisa asked.

“Should be able to,” Morgan replied; Biggles nodded in agreement. She reached out to the circle with her magic once again, and this time she could feel the pull from the circle connected to the veil. She could only barely feel it herself, but its effect was clearly more intensely felt by the soul within. “Okay,” she told Dana. “Put it in the circle while I keep the barrier from breaking apart.”

The Engineer lifted the rifle out of the case, then turned and carried it toward the circle. As Dana pushed the weapon through the barrier, her hands were briefly wreathed in the Sorceress’ glowing, purple energy. “That stings,” she complained, shaking her hands. “Like my hands were asleep.”

“Sorry about that. Almost everything I do gets a touch of Lightning with the Mana.” Morgan restored the seal holding the circle, and everyone stepped back.

This time when the spirit crossed into the circle with the weapons, nothing went wrong. I think it’s working, at least, Morgan thought. Althenea, once again in her mist form, seemed to sink into the metal of both weapons. She could feel the woman’s soul and the magic it contained, inscribing tiny runes across the grips and the barrels of both guns. The process happened so rapidly that even with [Mana Sight], Morgan could barely tell anything more than that the spirit seemed to be doing something to the weapons, but what that something was lay beyond her understanding.

Almost as quickly as it began, it was done. Once the mist-form of Althenea had disappeared entirely into the metal, both the Colt and the Barrett glowed briefly, lit from within by a silvery light. Then between one heartbeat and the next, all three circles winked out, and both weapons fell to the ground.

“So…” Dana’s voice trailed off as everyone stood staring. “Did it work?”

Chapter 38: Impact Duality

Terisa Aras lay prone on the top of the western corner tower above the walls of Castra Pristis, propped up somewhat comfortably on the bed of a wagon that had been temporarily commandeered for Dana’s current endeavor. The Worldwalker was attempting to teach Terisa how to use something she’d called a rifle, and Althenea’s new form was proving less than easy to adjust to for both parties involved. Her sister’s soul was no longer emanating agonizing pain and suffering, but confusion and indecision had taken their place.

She quieted her mind, trying to slip into her usual focus while looking through the device Dana had called a scope. Unlike the far-sight spyglasses Terisa was familiar with, this one had no magical qualities of its own: instead, it seemed Althenea provided them. This lack of control was beginning to play merry hell with her own class- and skill-related vision enhancements, which she’d come to rely on by instinct over the course of decades. Adding to the problems, Althenea’s soul seemed unable to maintain its presence in the rifle, only able to animate it for minutes at a time before it flowed back to the other weapon as water flows downhill.

The Colt, by contrast, was much easier for Terisa to manage. She’d long been familiar with various crossbows in use by the different peoples of Anfealt, and while there were differences in the function, the basics of aiming and pulling a trigger were the same. The problem facing them was that Althenea appeared unable to occupy both weapons at the same time. Whichever of the two her sister resided in glowed visibly, strange lines and runes which both Dana and Morgan had claimed resembled what they called “circuitry”, and which both women also declared to be cool. Her sister seemed determined to remain in the rifle as long as she was able, only returning to the Colt when forced to do so. But with a little patience, when the Huntress waited for just the right moment, the Barrett was simply amazing. The runes along the stock and barrel glowed, and, more by instinct than thought, she exhaled just as Dana had instructed and squeezed the trigger.

The kick against her shoulder had been enough to stun even Terisa the first time she’d fired one of Dana’s projectiles. This second time, she was better prepared, and she felt a visceral satisfaction in the weapon’s response, similar to her first attempts at learning to shoot her bow. The entire weapon seemed to push itself back against her, and the supersonic crack set her ears to ringing. The far side of the gorge, she knew, was just about three miles distant; as she watched through the scope, she counted six heartbeats before she saw the small plume of dirt and dust marking the impact. As she lay there, the echoing thunder of the shot rolled back over her.

She slid the bolt up and back, ejecting the spent shell from the chamber. The acrid, smoky scent of the weapon’s discharge stung her nose, but not in an entirely unpleasant manner. “It smells different from dwarven cannon smoke,” she observed. “Sharper, almost tangy.”

“Yep.” Dana crouched next to her on the top of the tower, spider-like, with her suit’s limbs arching out from her back and planting themselves in the stonework. The Worldwalker had declared herself Terisa’s “spotter” for the interim, while the Huntress familiarized herself with Althenea’s new form. “It’s a different formula than what the dwarves use. Has to be; this application needs different properties. So, what do you think?”

Terisa began easing the bolt forward to load another round, but as she was doing so, the glowing runes along the rifle’s frame faded, and she felt her sister’s presence flow back to the Colt, riding in its holster at her hip. She frowned, pushing herself back from the weapon. “I like it, in theory, but Althenea is having trouble, and I don’t like that.”

Dana retracted the strange, single-eye spyglass that was built into her suit’s helmet, turning her head to look back over the main courtyard of the fort below. “I’ve been thinking about that. Morgan uses some kind of spatial magic; I know she does. She has to be keeping those crystals and who knows what else in some kind of pocket space like the bags of holding you guys use.”

“There may be some workable solution in that kind of magic,” the Huntress allowed, “but Biggles is a Necromancer, not a mage.” Terisa pushed herself back up to her heels, folding the rifle’s bipod back up against the barrel and returning it to its case. She looked out from the walls toward the forest to the south. The Titan had been kind enough to move to the tree line before his uncontrollable drain on magic became a problem to the Expedition. Or, more importantly, before it became a problem for his magically supercharged daughter, she thought. “As for Morgan…” She narrowed her eyes in thought. “She’s already helped me enormously, and now I have to worry about the price for that before I ask for more help with this.”

“I don’t think she thinks that way,” Dana replied. “She’s wilder than she realizes, and I think she just genuinely wanted to help—as much for her own entertainment as anything else. There’s no harm in asking if she knows of something useful for your sister’s current troubles.”

The naked subject of their discussion was currently down in the courtyard, once again speaking with Biggles. Terisa couldn’t make out the words without using her skills, and didn’t feel the desire to pry. The work of the day was obvious, in any case: the bodies of those killed by Deskren infiltrators had been wrapped in what little cloth the Expedition could spare, and then placed on small biers of wood. Terisa and Kojeg had prepared Nessara’s remains together, one of the last comforts they could extend to her. Chadwick’s belongings had revealed no clues as to when the mage had been taken, much to the dismay of the survivors.

As the person in charge of the Expedition and responsible for its well-being, Terisa felt the sting of failure more sharply than anyone else. Despite the grief shared by all, she had more pressing concerns than a funeral pyre. She looked across the rows of tents and wagons, considering their options once more.

“We can’t rebuild the bridge before winter, and there’s no other way to cross the gorge.”

“What’s the shortest way around it?” asked Dana.

“There isn’t one,” Terisa reluctantly admitted. “It’s only mapped out for a few hundred miles to the southeast. To the north, it continues all the way to the ice fields, easily two thousand miles from here.” She sighed in resignation. “There’s no crossing that would get us back to the pass before the snows.”

“So we’re stuck here? Without any way to help the city? Or even find out if he was lying just to needle us?”

“If we can’t get out of the Wildlands before winter, we’re dead. The Sorceress and her father might survive, but they can’t protect or feed this many people.”

Terisa rose to her feet, hefting the case containing Althenea’s rifle form, still surprised but not encumbered by the weight. At least high levels are good for something, she thought to herself. Out loud, she continued talking to Dana as they traversed the top of the wall. “Have you given much thought to how you’re going to deliver on your promise to the dwarves?”

“Not as such,” she admitted. “I’m working on a solution for Althenea’s little split personality problem right now,” replied the Worldwalker, tapping on the metal armor of her left arm with her right hand. An image of both the Barrett and the Colt were suddenly projected within a hovering sphere in front of the two women as they walked. “I think I have an idea that will appease them and get us out of the Wildlands at the same time, but we really need you at full effectiveness as fast as possible.”

“I fail to see how you can help my sister, but I’m willing to try almost anything at this point.”

“That’s where our new friend comes in,” Dana replied as they descended the steps toward the courtyard. “Have you seen how things vanish and reappear in her hands? She’s got spatial enchantment runes on her uh, belt tattoo. But my sensors can’t get a read on anything more than that, because she’s so freaking fast with magic!”

“So you want to do what, exactly? Some sort of spatial storage like a bag of holding?”

“Exactly that, yes.” The Worldwalker made a pinching gesture at the image of the two guns, and they merged together briefly before the rifle shrank down and disappeared into the form of the Colt. “If Althenea can’t be in two places at once, then maybe she can just be one weapon at a time, and switch back and forth.” The image of the pistol blurred as she finished speaking, melting outward to flow back into the form of the rifle.

“I think we can do that!” Morgan agreed, suddenly appearing from nowhere right beside Dana, staring at the image.

To her credit, Dana almost managed to not jump three feet in the air. She turned to face Morgan, and suddenly the air around her glowed, four electric-blue arcs of hard light held in her extra limbs. Terisa had sensed the Sorceress’ disappearance from the courtyard, and her high-level tracking skills allowed her to sense her approach. Dana, however, had no such ability, and had been oblivious to her approach.

Morgan thrust her arms out ahead of her in a warding gesture, laughing. “Ha! O-okay, don’t stab me, please.” Dana withdrew her blades, stowing them back in her limbs. “Man, I was actually hoping you had something like that. Now all we need is for you to call me General Mackenzie.”

The Engineer recovered from being startled with admirable speed, suddenly adopting an entirely different stance and brandishing all four of her blades in a far showier display. Terisa glanced from one giggling woman to the other, entirely nonplussed. “Is this some form of greeting on your world?”

Dana took a moment to catch her breath, putting her limbs away as the Sorceress answered with a laugh. “No, just a pop culture reference. Her fusion blades look a lot like the swords from one of our most popular fictions.”

“Different sound effects, though,” the Engineer remarked. “I never did figure out how to replicate that sound.”

“So, how can I help you and Althenea?” Morgan asked, returning to more serious matters. “Biggles is getting ready to put the spirits to rest; I think he said he wants to do it at dusk, something about the symbolism being important. But it might be a quick fix; if we get started now, we should have time before I have to help him out.”

Dana nodded, fixing Morgan with a gaze. “I know you have spatial magic runes. I want to build a spatial displacement framework into both of Althenea’s forms so she can swap between them without having to bounce back and forth like she does now.” Dana led the other two women toward her workshop as she talked, the hatch before them opening up as she approached. “I don’t have any skills with spatial magic, but I can etch the runes into the metals, if you can help with the actual spellwork.”

The mobile workshop continued to shift, plates retracting as the side opened up. A worktable seemed to extrude itself from the wall as segments reconfigured, and Dana’s armored limbs divided again into her more spider-like form. With her hands, she pulled several rectangular objects out of slots along the open wall of the shop. The ends of the metal limbs detached with smooth clicking sounds, and the rectangles folded themselves into different tools, which soon graced the ends of the shiny appendages.

At Dana’s prompting, Terisa drew the Colt and placed it carefully on the table before turning to open the case of the Barrett once more. “It would be much easier to just have to carry one. The rifle is unwieldy for close combat, and I can’t use both at once.”

“I can’t change the total mass,” Morgan said, “but the weight…”

“The only bag of holding I saw at Thun’Kadrass made things lighter, but if you swung it, you could still feel how heavy things were. It was weird,” Dana said as the Sorceress trailed off.

“Yep. My own storage runes offset a lot of that in some way, but they don’t move.” Morgan turned to present one perfectly shaped hip and thigh, tracing with her finger one of the circular runes that stood out against the tattooed belt arching over her hipbone. “I’m not sure how the magic handles the inertia, but I can carry several times my own weight between all the runes. I think that’s a skill effect, and I’m almost certain I can’t reproduce it.”

“I can handle the weight.” Terisa put action to words, hefting the Barrett with one hand before placing it on the table as well. “It’s simply not suited for quickness, like the Colt.”

Morgan stared down at both weapons, idly gnawing on one sparkling, crystalline fingernail. After a few moments, she said slowly, “What we can do…and the only way I think I can get it to work…” She frowned. “What we need to do is construct a storage lattice around both guns separately, and then link them—when one is active, the other isn’t.”

“Bags of holding don’t take any Mana to work, they’re simply there. Passive. How do you activate a storage enchantment?” Dana asked.

“I’ve seen it done,” Terisa answered. “Quite often. What you saw of Expedition’s fortifications was limited; there’s been no need to bring everything up in several years. Many of the towers along its walls contain much more than what’s normally seen from the outside.”

Dana looked almost hurt, frowning. “I’ve been trying to get someone to teach me spatial magics since I got here! The dwarves won’t, and you just tell me this now?”

“The dwarves don’t do much with spatial magic,” Terisa replied. “They’re more about reinforcing stone and metals. Stormbreak Academy or the Magisterium could teach you, but if you don’t have the talent for actual spellcasting, it’s nearly impossible to get into either. Everyone else keeps their secrets close.” Terisa eyed the metal-suited Worldwalker. “You know this better than anyone else here.”

“I know, I know,” she sighed. “It’s just frustrating!”

“I don’t know if I’m the best choice for a teacher,” Morgan admitted, while tracing several runes onto the metal table with one lightning-tipped finger. “I’ve had to figure things out as I go along. I can’t push my magic into the guns; that might hurt Althenea. But this is the most stable spatial enchantment I’ve been able to work out.” She tapped the rune shapes she’d inscribed.

“I can etch them into the metal easily enough where there isn’t crystal already inlaid,” Dana replied, looking down at the patterned circles. “Did it hurt her when you worked on your bow before?” she continued, glancing up at the Huntress.

Terisa shook her head. “Before, she was simply inside the gem, not part of the bow. That was actually the third bow I had made since her soul was trapped. Now, though…it’s different, and I don’t think she can be taken apart like that without killing her.”

“That may be true for the Colt; it’s got The Titan’s crystal threaded through everything on a molecular level.” Dana held out an instrument of lenses, holding it over the metal slide of the pistol’s action. Terisa could see the pearlescent glow pulsing like hair-thin wires through the metal, evidence of her sister’s presence. “But the Barrett is only that dense with runic patterns through the upper receiver and barrel. You can still at least partially take that one apart—and you’ll need to learn how to, anyway, to clean and maintain it. Trust me, Althenea will appreciate it. The bolt and chamber can get gunked up in a bad way if you don’t.”

“Mm.” Terisa nodded. “Another thing. The Colt doesn’t need—‘ammunition’, did you call it?—but the Barrett does. Do you have more?”

“Don’t worry about ammo for the Barrett,” Dana replied, waving her hand dismissively. “I have plenty of standard rounds in the workshop, and we can work out enhanced ammo later on. Kojeg and his brothers may be upset, but I’ll deal with them. If I’m building flying ships for them, ‘they owe me’ doesn’t even begin to characterize our little agreement.”

Terisa nodded, watching as the Sorceress traced more runes into the table. “I’ll speak on your behalf before the Thanes if you need,” she reassured the Engineer. “I’m indebted to you both for this. Speaking of, Sorceress…” Terisa turned to Morgan, shifting her weight. “You haven’t named a price…”

The woman seemed baffled for a moment. “I, uh…never thought about it?” she offered. “I wanted to meet people and find civilization. But I had no clue how far I’d have to go, so I figured it might be next year before I made it far enough west. I guess if you want to repay me, you can just help me get out of the Wildlands, and maybe help if I have to fight these guys with the collars.”

“It wouldn’t have taken you a year if you’d found the bridge before winter, but it was the only crossing I know of. Dana seems confident she can build a flying ship, though.”

“That’s not confidence, it’s a certainty,” the Engineer said. “The only question is the timeframe. We’ll need a safe place to bunker down for a few months, and you told me not even Castra Pristis is safe in the winter.”

“Nothing is safe in the winter,” Terisa replied, “but we can talk about that later. Althenea is getting agitated again, I can feel it.”

Her words were proven correct as the runes on the Colt flashed and faded, glowing once more along the surface of the Barrett. They pulsed, then flickered back to the pistol, before flowing back and forth in rapid succession.

“Okay,” Morgan said, drawing one final circle around both weapons. “If you can copy these runes onto the Colt, I can work on the Barrett. The pistol’s patterns are too small and fine for me to risk it without messing with Althenea.”

“So these are spatial stabilization runes?” asked the Engineer.

“Yes. I broke a lot of clay pots before I figured out you even needed them, but it’s really just like building houses, like my dad taught me. The stronger the foundation, the stronger the house. And if you think about it, this is actually Althenea’s house we’re building.”

Dana leaned in to inspect the runes more closely. “These look more like…circles of several runes?”

“They are!” Morgan confirmed. “Seven spatial anchors in a circle, with the spatial folding points in between. What we’re making is basically two spatial storage enchantments that can invert themselves, I guess you’d say, then we link them. When one is out here, the other will be inside its own pocket space.”

“That is…” Terisa blinked, leaning in to study the runes as well. “I don’t think any mage I’ve ever heard of has even thought of such an arrangement…but I’m no expert,” she hedged. She fell silent, watching as Morgan reached out to touch the barrel of the rifle. Gossamer threads of purple light glowed in faint patterns along the woman’s hand, then flowed down across the metal. The purple stayed between the lines of silvery light that marked Althenea’s presence, carefully tracing their way along the metal to form circular etchings where her sister’s own runes left space on the surface.

Dana was likewise occupied. Two of her metal limbs had folded out into a delicate frame holding up the Colt, and the Engineer was biting her own tongue in concentration while tiny needle-like tips raced in sharp, precise motions to inscribe the even smaller workings on the handgun. Althenea seemed even more agitated at first, as evidenced by the frantic flashing and pulsing of her silvery glow. But as the enchantments began to sink into the metal of both weapons, light began to bend around them both, like heat ripples on a hot day. Almost as if she could sense the two women’s intentions, Terisa could feel her sister calm down. Indeed, Althenea appeared to radiate curiosity, eager to see what the result of this new work would be.

The Sorceress and the Engineer worked in silence as the sun crept closer to the horizon. Less than an hour remained until sunset, and they’d gained an audience. Biggles and the beastkin younglings had finished the preparations for the evening’s cleansing ritual and had gathered, as well as Kojeg and Foz. Morgan’s tattoos were eye-catching, glowing in pulsing patterns like fluttering heartbeats painted in flashes of light. Her brow wrinkled in concentration as she neared the end of the spell working, her rune tracings requiring finer detail and smaller circles around the stock and grip of the Barret where Althenea’s runes were more dense.

Dana grunted, risking a brief glance at Morgan. “The spatial runes here—they’re trying to pull inward, I think,” she said through gritted teeth, sweat beading on her forehead. “We need to link them before they shatter!”

A brief flash of worry caused Terisa’s heart to skip a beat, but the Sorceress grinned as magic pulsed palpably in the air around them.

“That’s supposed to happen,” Morgan said with supreme confidence as the last of the runes on the rifle came together in one contiguous pattern. “Leave the linking to me.”

As Dana inscribed the final portion of the rune shape into the Colt’s frame, a writhing contortion of space twisted around both weapons, and she barely snatched her hands and tools back in time before threads of violet and indigo connected Althenea’s two halves. The [Skyclad Sorceress] extended one hand toward each half, her eyes blazing with intensity as the weight of magic before her became a nearly physical thing. “Just…like…” she breathed as the Colt and Barrett floated into the air, suspended by twisted space and violet magic. With a whump of displaced air and a brilliant flash, both weapons disappeared in the space between two heartbeats.

“—that!” she finished triumphantly, the pistol suddenly reappearing atop the table as if it had never left. The rifle was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly the pistol’s runes flared, purple and silver in concert. Another flare of light, and suddenly the Colt was gone, replaced by the Barrett. Once more, and the pistol returned. The runes’ glow pulsed twice, and Terisa felt an almost overwhelming sensation of rightness radiating out from the small gun.

To her credit, Terisa’s hands barely shook at all as she took up the Colt, that sense of rightness saturating her entire being through the contact. At her request, she suddenly found her hand wrapped around the grip of the rifle. Once more, and she once again held the pistol. Rightness gave way to joy, nearly intense enough to drive the seasoned Huntress to tears.

She slowly returned the Colt—her sister—to her holster, patting it lovingly while giving the two Worldwalkers a broad grin. “This…I cannot thank you enough. This changes everything.”

Chapter 39: Dirt

“That’s awesome!” Morgan clapped her hands with satisfaction, dancing in place after seeing Althenea switch between her forms several times. The discordance and sense of confusion no longer radiated from the bound soul, and Morgan relished the lack of sensation. It had been an unscratchable itch since she’d first attached Althenea to the weapons, constantly echoing across the [Spell Resonance] link; the annoyance alone would have driven her to help, even if it weren’t for her own compassion and her desire to do something ‘cool’.

Dropping a mountain on the swarming things her friends had called ‘skitterlings’ had been impressive enough to see, certainly, but from a magical standpoint, it hadn’t been especially challenging—or even all that fun. Once the deeper layers of earth and stone had been lifted up, all she’d had to do was stand back and let gravity and inertia take their courses. It had required most of her magical reserves, but it had been a matter of brute force rather than skill. Helping Althenea, however, had been satisfying in a deeply visceral way, and posed a fantastic test of her skill with enchantments.

The woman with the amazing suit of armor, Dana, was grinning as well. Morgan was extremely interested in the enchanted—‘circuitry’ is the only word I can think of—that threaded from hundreds of points along her spine into the metal she wore. There were layers to the spellwork she didn’t think Dana was even aware of; based on their conversations, she felt certain her [Mana Sight] provided far more insight into the magic driving the Engineer’s prosthetics than the sensors the Engineer had.

She sensed heavy footfalls behind her and turned to see the massive half-Ursaran, Foz, looming close. “Gratitude,” he said in a deep, bassy rumble. “A favor is owed when you call.”

Almost out of reflex, she gave a slight bow. “It really wasn’t a big deal, but I won’t argue,” she said. The bear-like man radiated a sort of solidity and strength to her senses, and he’d prepared excellent food. Good manners don’t cost me anything, she thought to herself as Terisa’s husband lumbered back toward the other beastkin youths.

Noting a distinct absence on her shoulder, she looked around for Lulu. The fort and its temporary denizens seemed to have attracted hordes of the scrubby’s brood and descendants, although none were as large and poofy as their matriarch and progenitor. Faint wurbling tones permeated the background noise of the fort, and she could see loofahs scrubbling their way around on almost every surface in sight. More seemed to arrive with each passing hour, drawn by the massive expenditures of magic and the scent of blood in the air around Castra Pristis.

She found Lulu next to Wuffle, the necromancer’s pet. The necromancer himself was solemnly pacing circles around the funeral biers, and Morgan’s mood was dampened by the reminder. It had been self-defense, but her fires, once turned loose, made no distinction between friend and foe. One shrouded figure lay on a slightly taller bier of stacked wood than the others. She’d hoped to have the opportunity to speak with Nessara about magic, and possibly learn new skills or spells. Learning that the woman couldn’t have been saved once she’d been taken hadn’t assuaged her guilt very much, and the memory of the mage thanking her as she died twisted the knife even deeper.

“She was a good woman, and a good friend,” Terisa said, stepping closer to Morgan. The inquisitive audience of Althenea’s transformation had dispersed as the evening’s darkening skies heralded the approaching time of the funeral. “We were once a merry band of naive ambition, her and Kojeg and I, following in my sister’s footsteps looking for adventure.” The Huntress rested one hand on the Colt’s holster, seeming almost apprehensive.

“How did she—? Your sister, I mean…” Morgan didn’t quite know how to phrase the question, but the other woman understood.

“She left home and earned a name for herself while I was still a child, and I sought the same fame and glory.” Terisa spoke softly, watching as Biggles continued to thread his way in circles around the shrouded bodies. The magic of spirits and the cycle of life and death felt different to Morgan than her own elemental affinities, but still equally potent. “It was just Nessara and me at first, and we met Kojeg soon after heading out on our own. We worked as guards for merchant caravans, chased down bounties, or took on other contracts. But we never could seem to reach the same heights Althenea had, so I always pushed us to take harder jobs.”

“My brothers compete with each other like that, always trying to outdo each other,” Morgan replied.

“Foz had joined us by then, although we hadn’t married yet. The four of us took a contract to look into some disappearances in the southern forests of Weldtir. We thought it might have been slavers or just regular banditry, so we didn’t wait, and went in by ourselves.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow at the Huntress. “Neither, I assume?”

Terisa’s grim smile was all the answer she needed. “Warlock. Not a dabbler getting their toes wet, either. A full-fledged demon-binding warlock, and a [Soul Mage], or some variant. The [Oracle] had already informed the Rangers of Forvale, but Althenea didn’t arrive in time to stop us. She got there just in time to kill him before he could kill me, but he was crafty, and had a spell on a deadman trigger, set to go off when he died. It destroyed her body and trapped her in the gem. She took my place. And now you’ve saved her.”

“It was the least I could—”

“No.” Terisa’s voice, hard-edged, cut Morgan off, her flat gaze boring into the other woman’s. “I owe you a debt.”

“I don’t know what to ask in repayment,” Morgan exclaimed, exasperated. Lulu had returned while they were speaking, and hopped back up to Morgan’s shoulder, sensing her distress.

“Think on it,” the Huntress replied. “Dana tells me you can’t repair the bridge, so Foz and I, at least, will travel with you until we get out of the Wildlands—however that may happen. There’s time.”

Morgan shook her head, rubbing the back of her neck. “It’s not that I can’t fix the bridge; I just can’t do it before winter. There’s a ley line running along the bottom of the gorge, which means we’d have to work slow and careful. It’s not like a nexus or a node where two or more lines meet; there’s no extra Mana being given off.” Morgan shrugged in resignation. “If there was a nexus like at my valley, I could use the excess magic and get us across in just a few days. But if I tried that here, the flow of magic would pull mine in instead of giving me a boost, so I can’t tap into it. My dad could, or at least I think he could. But he protects the lines, he doesn’t mess with them.”

The Necromancer, having finished his ritual, quietly approached as the two women talked. “It’s done,” he said, weariness tinting his voice. “Give everyone some time to make their peace with lost friends before lighting the fires.”

“Was that soul magic?” Morgan asked. “I could feel something, but it wasn’t like any of my own magic.”

Biggles looked almost offended at the comparison. “It’s not magic. Not in the way of mages or sorcerers. Not quite prayer, either.” He leaned on his staff, catching his breath. “Necromancers, we talk directly to the spirits, although talk is really too strong a word. Some can impart enough Mana to them to allow for manifesting words, but in my case it’s a matter of images and feelings.”

“I don’t know how much Dana’s told you about our world,” Morgan said, “but necromancy doesn’t exactly have a nice reputation in our stories. At all.”

Terisa chuckled. “The stigma is one they all face. Biggles here is one of the better ones.”

“Much is misunderstood about my craft, it’s true,” he agreed. “A few bad seeds ruin it for all of us. Using necromancy to bind souls to empower the caster or their constructs, or raise corpses, is a shortcut to power for the greedy and stupid. I find it much more effective to bargain on equal terms.” He shook his head vigorously. “The other methods come with a whole host of problems, not least of which would be the [Oracle]’s attention.”

“Oracles have their own reputation in Earth’s mythology; most of them are insane,” Morgan replied. “I think I follow what you mean about necromancy, though. Probably not the kind of magic I’ll ever be into.”

“An [Oracle] most certainly can go insane; it’s happened before,” Terisa added, “but they usually have other problems. Going blind is common, or being driven to suicide by their visions. It was the [Oracle] who helped Althenea the first time, offering to send her to the other side or let her stay with me.”

“Sounds powerful,” the Sorceress said.

Biggles shook his head again. “They can be, but they’re an extreme example of powers and prices. The [Oracle]’s authority depends on a lot of things only the [Oracle] herself knows. Where she has authority, it’s absolute; where she doesn’t, she’s powerless.”

“The [Oracle] saw you when you arrived,” Terisa continued. “She saw all the Worldwalkers. Her vision was announced at every temple and chapel, from Stormbreak all the way to Eastharbor. They call Dana ‘The Broken’, and you’re ‘The Burning Woman’.” Terisa sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Nessara was supposedly sent by the Magisterium to look for sign of you…that might even be true, depending on when she was taken.”

Morgan grimaced and shuddered. “I really don’t like that I killed innocent victims. The Deskren have a lot to answer for.”

“If you intend to go against the Empire, you’ll need help, and I’ll get to pay off that debt all the sooner,” the Huntress said. “I owe a debt to them, as well, and I intend to pay it. I bounced Nessara’s children on my knee, and I don’t look forward to my next visit to Stormbreak to tell Kanessa what happened.”

Dana had lagged behind the others, growing more agitated as they talked. Morgan turned as the other woman’s suit buzzed and whirred through several configurations before returning to a normal-seeming armored form.

“It’s all bullshit!” The Engineer seemed on the verge of screaming. “Four hundred years and nobody’s done anything about them?” The outburst was as much a demand as a question.

“We’ve fought several wars with them,” the Huntress retorted. “I was in the last one myself.”

“That’s bullshit, too,” Dana shot back. “None of you have been to war. You’ve just fought them off when they go on raiding campaigns to take more slaves.”

“Uh, oh…” Morgan murmured, backing away from the other two women as tempers flared.

“Careful, lass.” Kojeg tried to step between Dana and the Huntress, but the Engineer rounded on him next, a tempest in her gaze. He continued in a softer tone, “The Empire are no’ the only ones we’ve fought against. An’ you just gave Terisa a weapon of war from your own world.”

“I’ve skimmed enough of your books to get an idea,” Dana spat. “You march twenty thousand onto a field and think it’s a mighty host. A hundred thousand in one army? I can count the number of times that’s happened in Anfealt’s history without needing the toes I don’t have!”

“Your world may have better technologies than ours, but we’re no strangers to destruction, Dana,” Terisa said calmly, refusing to rise to meet Dana’s anger. “It isn’t as simple as marching to the Empire. Nothing can cross the Elemental Desert, not since the battle at Oasa that ended the First Deskren War. Dead sands stretching farther than any two of the northern nations added together, and it was a jungle before the war.”

“Half a million people died in that campaign, most of them on that very day or the weeks that followed,” Biggles added almost meekly.

“That may be true, but it isn’t an excuse for that!” she said, pointing at Nessara’s bundled form on the funeral bier. “Four hundred years, and that still happens?”

“What would ye have us do?” Kojeg asked. “Kings, queens, thanes, and high councils need to see to their own people and borders before all else.”

“I’m gonna build us an airship to get us out of the Wildlands, and your Thanes are going to owe me for that. What’s built once can be copied.”

“For summat such as that, by my beard ye can name price to the Thuns and they shall pay it.”

Dana crossed her arms and stared at Kojeg. “My price is that you stop hiding in your tunnels and actually fight, like the other nations are gathering at Possibility to do.”

“The Stoneborn have no part in the Bargain of Kings,” he replied, shaking his head.

“That’s an excuse for cowards!” she exploded. “If no one else was fighting them, you should have been leading the way!”

Kojeg froze, muscles tensing, expression turning frosty. “Lass,” he said slowly, “be very careful of your next words.”

Dana stalked from side to side, shaking her head. Her suit went from two legs, to four, to six, spider-like motions taking over her gait. “You want to know how we make war, Kojeg? My people? What’s different about it, and what it means?”

“If it helps ye calm down? By all means, educate me.”

She turned and lunged, planting one hand in the middle of Kojeg’s broad chest and shoving him back a step. The front legs of her suit shot out and slammed into the earth, holding her fast. “We take your dirt. You were standing here—” she pointed down, to where her legs were anchored—“and now this dirt is mine.” Kojeg glanced from the ground to Dana, confused. She raised her legs from the ground and stepped forward again, pushing Kojeg back another step. He moved back, a frown flickering across his features. “Now this dirt is mine, too. It’s no longer yours.”

Kojeg opened his mouth to make some protest; Dana shoved him back, driving her legs into the ground again, and scarring the earth anew. “Again.” Once more, Kojeg’s protest was interrupted. “And again. It’s not about killing; that’s just a side effect.” Anger burned in Dana’s expression, and her suit creaked as she advanced. Another push, and Kojeg had been crowded back almost to where Morgan stood with Biggles.

“It’s your dirt we’re after. We take it, and it becomes ours. And we don’t stop.” She shoved again, grunting with exertion. Kojeg took another step back. “Not until you’re broken. Beaten. Exhausted! Until you have no more dirt. No place to retreat. No shelter. No rest.” Each sentence was punctuated with another shove, another step, and another pair of holes in her wake. She crossed her arms, seemingly done making that point. “You think half a million dead is war?” she asked, scoffing. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. We’ve lost that many in single battles that lasted weeks, months! A hundred times that many in a single war spanning years! A hundred thousand dead with a single bomb! And we dropped two!”

Kojeg seemed lost for words; Terisa fared no better. Both looked rattled and confused. Dana still looked angry, but it had cooled. Morgan spoke up, then, to fill the sudden silence.

“She’s not wrong. It really was that bad, maybe worse. And she’s telling the truth about the way the Army approaches warfare, at least the way my dad tells it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Terisa.

“The Marines kick in the door. The Navy rules the seas. The Air Force commands the sky. And—”

“—the Army takes your dirt,” Dana finished. “I’m sorry, Kojeg,” she said, letting out a heavy breath. “I shouldn’t take it out on you—but Nessara was a friend, and I don’t have many of those!”

“If ye wish to join the fight against the Deskren with the surface nations, I’ll be right there with ye, lass. But to ask the Thuns to march?” Kojeg stroked his beard, considering. “It may be a flying ship t’would spur the Thanes. I cannae say.”

“It just doesn’t make sense. A dozen nations and kingdoms, the Beast Tribes, the Gnomes, and the Dwarves, and nobody’s put an end to this empire.”

“The southern continent is larger than the north, and more populous. It’s a bigger task than you think, when the desert’s in the way and any invasion would be by sea,” Terisa offered gently.

“Airships will make that excuse worthless,” the Engineer said.

“Tis a hard thing to believe, a flying ship,” Kojeg said.

Dana looked to Morgan. “If her valley is a safe place to stay for a couple of months, I can do it. Maybe…four months, depending on materials, if everyone pitches in for labor. I’ll need lots of witchwood, the taller the trees, the better.”

“Nowhere is truly safe in the Wildlands, but my place is safer than most,” the Sorceress answered. “And I’d love to see a flying ship,” she said with a grin.

The last rays of the evening sun faded from beyond the walls of the fort, torches and campfires painting ominous, dancing shadows upon the tents and low stone buildings. As the day gave way to night, the Necromancer spoke up with a voice that seemed to have grown in power as the light faded away.

“It’s time, Miss Morgan. You offered a gift of fire to cleanse this place of death, and the spirits have crossed with the dusk.”

She nodded, suddenly solemn once again, before turning to the stacked pallets of wood and their grim decorations. Lulu wurbled softly from her shoulder as she gathered her magic. A funeral pyre? she thought to herself. I’ll give them one to remember!

With a thought and a negligent gesture, seven mana crystals appeared from her storage runes, floating around her. Drawing deeply on her Mana reserves, they flared into brilliantly incandescent purple light, driving back the shadows and bathing the area in their glow. Terisa and Kojeg stepped back, covering their eyes, as Dana’s helmet visor took on a dark tint. For a moment, Morgan could hear murmuring from the gathering crowd, before the rising hum of her magic filled her ears.

She sent threads of fire snaking through the piles of stacked wood, throwing embers skyward as she took hold of them. As she leaned into the task, faint shimmers appeared in the space around the pyres as the air heated.

Then she activated [Spell Surge], raising her arms skyward as pillars of flame rose up to engulf the fallen. A dozen spears of indigo and violet shot into the night sky, reaching nearly a hundred paces high. Waves of heat rolled out from the courtyard, breaking over those assembled. After a moment, she lowered her arms, releasing the magic. The spears faded, followed by the violet incandescence as the crystals returned to her storage belt, leaving the crackling flames to provide light. She stood quietly for several minutes, unsure of what she was expected to do next.

“Thank you,” Terisa spoke from her elbow. Morgan hadn’t heard the Huntress approach.

“It was the least I could do. I wish there’d been a better way.”

“You didn’t put the collar around her neck, but you freed her from it before she died. Few of those so enslaved ever get to say the same.”

“Hopefully more will by the time we’re done,” Dana said from her other side, now composed and calm once again. With her helmet fully retracted, the Engineer stood next to Morgan and Terisa.

Updrafts from the flames stirred the winds, whipping dust into the air on currents the Sorceress could feel tugging at her mane of hair. Lulu wurbled and hopped up and down on her shoulder, earning an affectionate pat. “I’m looking forward to seeing exactly how you plan to build a ship that can fly,” she said to the other Worldwalker.

“There’s a couple different options,” came the response, but she was interrupted as Lulu bounced insistently up and down once again.

The scrubby seemed to be trying to jump higher, wurbling and warbling, and Biggles’ own Wuffle followed suit. Then the rest of the loofahs around the wagons and tents joined in as the winds quickened. Suddenly Lulu sprang upward into the wind with a mighty hop, leaving a trail of foamy soap bubbles in her wake before one big bubble formed around the precocious puffball. The scrubby wurbled frantically in panicked surprise as the winds drew it upward, before the bubble gave way with a pop to return a frantic Lulu to her mistress’s arms.

“Actually, that’s the method I was leaning toward, simple air bags and displacement for lift…” Dana trailed off as hundreds of scrubbies were suddenly airborne, riding the wind currents into the sky.

“Lulu!” exclaimed Morgan. “What did you do!?”

Chapter 40: Coronas Judicas

For once Millie Thatcher rode on horseback, instead of on the back of Hett’s wagon. It had been nearly a month since the battle the soldiers had come to refer to as the Day of Thunder and Mud, and they were finally approaching the City of Prophets. There had been no more encounters since the day the Battlemaster had moved a river to defeat the Deskren, but The General hadn’t allowed the convoy to slow their pace. Millie, once stuck at her tenth level for weeks, had more than made up for lost time under the training and discipline Jacob Ward demanded. Her skills had improved, as well, and she’d gained several new cadences—which the Worldwalker had immediately put to use.

[Double Time] was the standing order each morning after the breakfast meal when the column first started moving, with Millie tapping the beats and relentlessly driving everyone onward. At first she could only sustain the skill for half a bell, but within a fortnight, her Stamina had vastly improved. Now she kept the fast march going almost until noon before exhaustion and strain laid her low in Hett’s wagon. After the noontime meal and water, though, the Battlemaster had her march on the ground without her drum to build her own strength. It was good training, she had to admit; with only one arm, she couldn’t perform the same drills and exercises as the other soldiers, but Jacob refused to let her fall behind.

The civilians complained about the pace, of course. It had only taken a handful of days without pursuit before they began voicing their displeasure, but the Battlemaster and his troops had simply continued to march. The stragglers always caught up by dusk, fearful of being left behind. They’d lagged behind the banners for the first half of every day, until they’d finally reached a massive bridge spanning a glimmering river. Hett had told her it was the famed River Swift, and there was a Guild that used magically powered ships to travel between the Sea of Possibility and the Western Sea. That was what gave High Bridge its name: its bed and arches were set high on ornate stone columns to give ships plenty of room to pass underneath. Once the gleaming white stone of the top of the structure began to peek visibly above the horizon, the refugees had needed far less prodding to keep up with the march: knowing they were close to their destination had renewed their vigor.

The surviving former Gendarmes, while they’d had no such trouble keeping the Battlemaster’s pace, suffered their own challenges: tensions between them and some of the convoy had been high enough they were almost palpable. The nobles and more fearful refugees had been understandably shy about travelling with the very same terrifying enemy that had once hunted them so relentlessly. That fear had been eased somewhat when Jacob had divided the Luparan beastkin into smaller pack units to augment his own scouts. Most of them now ran as advance pickets alongside their lighter horse, and having fewer of them loping alongside the column made the rest of the caravan much less nervous.

The Beastfolk themselves had only a few discipline issues, falling into snarling fights for dominance within the first few days of being free from the collars. Millie had been afraid some of them would kill each other, but Hett and Jacob had both reassured her that they were simply a different kind of people, and had to sort things out in a different kind of way. The Battlemaster let them sort out their own ranks as long as they followed his orders. And follow they did, although several Hett had called ‘alphas’ within her hearing did seem more aggressive than the others, especially toward their new human leader. Millie dreaded the eventual confrontation from that. She’d seen Jacob Ward angry only the one time, and wasn’t looking forward to seeing it again.

Normally Millie rode on Hett’s wagon when she wasn’t marching on foot. Now that they were approaching the city, however, Jacob had requested she ride in the lead wagon along with himself, Miss Erin, and several others. Hett had protested leaving his wagon to the terrified teamster who had to dodge his mules to take the seat on the wagon to drive. The man grumbled quite loudly, but a stern glance had quieted the man to infrequent mumblings about saddles and jewels. What saddles had to do with jewels, or why he’d be angry about that, she didn’t know—and as she had no voice to ask Miss Erin or Lady Jenna to explain, she resolved to write it down the next time the two women were overseeing her handwriting practice.

She’d been born left-handed, and learning to write with her remaining hand was as frustrating as the fact that The General insisted she do it in the first place. I’m a soldier, not a scribe, she’d protested. But soldiers followed orders, and the order had been given. So it was that she swallowed her indignation and obediently copied her letters after every evening meal, while Lady Jenna or Miss Erin oversaw one of the camp children in cleaning her gauntlet and chain mail. That particular task had simply proven impossible with one arm, although the [Hand of Solace] assured her the General would see to getting her a new one at the first opportunity. She longed for that day, albeit less for the prospects of cleaning armor, and more for keeping up with her fellow soldiers without feeling like a mascot instead of a military professional.

Her musings were brought to a halt as they crested the highest point of the bridge, bringing the City of Prophets into view. Once, a fair while ago, she’d travelled with her father and brothers to the city of South Hollows to sell grain and potatoes; she remembered thinking at the time that it was a large and wonderful city. When she looked at the vista before her, she realized how naïve she’d been; set against the brightly decorated buildings stretching from the glimmering sea to the east, and wrapping around gently sloping hills to the west, South Hollows might as well have been a dirt hovel. To the north above the city, the Temple stood on the bluffs, overlooking both the waters and the section of the city with the largest buildings and paved streets. Millie focused on the far end of the bridge, where a man sat on horseback between the two far bridge towers. He was waving a white cloth; clearly, the man they were to meet. Jacob raised his fist to call a halt over a dozen strides away from where the man sat, his own charger clopping forward a few more steps.

“Well met, Battlemaster,” he called, loud enough for all to hear, but not quite a shout. “I’m Jargo, and the [Oracle] has witnessed your journey. She bids you welcome, and asks that you join her at the Gathering of Kings.”

“It would have been nice of her to send reinforcements while we were running,” Jacob Ward remarked neutrally.

Jargo shook his head. “She has no reinforcements to send; she doesn’t rule, nor does she command. Her burden is to stand witness, save for the circumstances outlined in the Bargain of Kings. The price of knowledge is to be powerless to use it.”

The General sat silently on his horse for a long moment. “I have soldiers sworn to my command. Will they be welcomed as well?”

Hett answered before Jargo could speak up, spitting off to the side of his own horse. “The Gathering of Kings is peacebound. No one will attack unprovoked, lest the [Oracle] yank the crowns from their heads and give their lands to their enemies.”

Millie could almost hear Jacob’s eyebrow raise. “So not entirely powerless, is she?” he said.

“Not when people break the rules,” the grey-bearded old warrior replied. “Long as everyone plays nice, she can’t do a thing. We just have to make sure we all play nice.”

“I make no promises,” Jacob said, flicking the reins of his horse. “Lead on, Mister Jargo. The [Oracle] awaits.”

“As you desire, Battlemaster,” Jargo replied, turning his horse.

Thus did the Banner of the Black Lance march into the City of Prophets.

Rella stood next to Wyatt Reinholt, the Worldwalker who was not yet her Champion. It wasn’t a thing she could demand, even if he were ready to be asked. Such a role couldn’t be forced upon someone, and she would never have tolerated an unwilling protector in any case. Every future she’d seen where she tried to impose the duty upon him had been disastrous, turning him against her personally, and by extension causing The Twins to dislike her severely. The possibilities as they stood seemed evenly split between him becoming her Champion and not, and for the moment, she needed to be content with those odds.

What drove him was the desire to protect The Twins—his sisters, Sophie and Sonya—and he’d followed when they joined the [Oracle] to receive training in their own divination talents. While younger even than Rella, they were perceptive and wise beyond their years, and had seen right through to the fact that she barely knew any more than they did. In truth, all three young women were learning more together than she was teaching the other two.

Today, however, was not a day for teaching. Rella, The Twins, and their ever-watchful protector stood on the dais in the center of the grand plaza outside the Temple of Remembrance. They were surrounded by more pageantry and pompous frivolity than had graced the City of Prophets in Rella’s entire lifetime, and it nearly made her sick. As perceptive as ever, Sonya spoke up when Rella’s own composure slipped.

“A sour stomach?” the girl asked. “This looks like one of those Renaissance Faires our mom liked to go to.”

“Yeah,” her sister interjected, wrinkling her nose, “but those didn’t smell like so much horse poop, and people actually took showers. This place smells like Porta Potties.” Sophie had proven of sharper tongue than her twin, although both could be acerbic to an alarming degree. “I get why rich people use so much incense in this world now.”

“I’d have thought you’d be used to it by now,” Rella said, grateful for the distraction so she could turn away from the assembled nobility milling in the courtyard to rub at her right eye. She still wasn’t used to the itchy covering, but the eye she’d gained in the dreamworld was very unsettling to look at, in addition to being hypersensitive to light. “And I take a bath at least twice a week!”

“It’s nearly noon,” Sophie said, “and it’s getting hotter. What’s everyone waiting for?”

“Don’t you remember all the stuff from the faires?” Sonya answered the question with a question. “There’s all sorts of tradition and etiquette to any meeting of nobility.”

“She’s right,” Rella said. “The last Gathering happened over fifty years ago, and they’ll use this as an opportunity for the crowns to meet under enforced peace. War or not, while they’re here, kings and queens can talk without the worry of messengers or anyone else getting in the way and causing problems. Most of them have never met their fellows.”

“One of them keeps looking at us,” Sophie said. “The woman with the shiny armor that matches her crown.” She stared back with the defiance only a teenager could muster.

“That would be Mette Weldt, the Warrior Queen of Weldtir,” Rella answered. “She’s angry, and has every right to be. The southern half of her home has been overrun, and now parts of it flooded, and she resents the obligation of the Gathering. Her duty demanded she come here instead of defending her own lands.”

“I thought The General was coming here. Are they going to fight, since he broke the levee you told us about?” Sonya’s eyes shone, and she seemed almost eager to see confrontation.

“They might,”—Rella shrugged—“but I don’t think either of them want to, and it did break the Deskren incursion into the south. She understands pragmatism, even if she doesn’t like it. A bigger problem is King Aomhar Valence of Forvale. He’s upset The General crossed his border with what amounts to his own private army.”

“And he couldn’t do anything about it because he had to come here?” Sophie was as curious about the politics as her sister was enamored of fighting.

Rella shook her head. “None of them could. The Bargain of Kings means they all had to come here, by today, or I’d be freed from neutrality. None of them want me telling the future to the others.” She gave a wan smile. “No ruler misses a Gathering and keeps their crown for very long.”

As if the thought of The General pulled on her mind, she could suddenly sense the people approaching the city. Jargo was now escorting The General and a small group through the city, down the main avenue. The bulk of the troops following the banner had halted neatly outside the city, and she’d already dispatched requests for aid and supplies to be provided to the weary refugees. While the future of those accompanying him was relatively simple to predict—at least in a broad sense—thanks to her eye, that of the man himself remained infuriatingly difficult.

It wasn’t that Jacob was indecisive or confused in his thoughts, as she might find with the insane, or those plagued with self-doubt. He simply held so many possibilities in his mind at once that only the vaguest outcomes, the broadest strokes, were visible to her Sight, no matter how she focused. When the Battlemaster gave an order or committed to a plan, the futures quickly solidified, but until then, he remained opaque—most of the time.

In this moment he stood out to her mind’s eye, a nexus of grim potential. He’d paused on the main boulevard near the center of the city. Rella felt the futures shift as the man dismounted, halting the entire procession of horses in the middle of the street to approach a figure in a black coat with a white collar. The man—the Worldwalker known as The Preacher—had spent most of his time on Anfealt tending the poorer neighborhoods and helping to feed the impoverished. The entire docks district had been put to flame by the Deskren on Purple Night, so there’d been no shortage of homeless, hungry, and children to feed.

The odds of two Worldwalkers who didn’t arrive together actually knowing each other previously were infinitesimally small, but Rella couldn’t think of any other reason for the shock of recognition that had crossed Jacob Ward’s face. Father Albert, as Albert Magnus had insisted she call him upon their single meeting, was an unassuming and kindly man who had been more interested in helping the needy than most people she’d ever turned her Sight upon. Even in her deepest meditations, no dire fates or crises had appeared that involved the man, so she’d left him to his own devices out of respect for his age and the shock he’d endured upon finding himself in a world other than his own.

Something started to hum in the back of her mind, millions of possibilities rushing past her, glittering flashes of possibility washing her vision away as the Sight took over. Yet The General stood in perfect clarity, even as everyone else save The Preacher faded to grey and were lost to her. As the two nexuses of potential drew together, their words came at once blurred and crystal-clear, shouted through rushing water and right next to her ears.

“Last thing I thought I’d see here, Father, is that collar.” She could hear the smile on his face, though she couldn’t see it.

The Preacher blinked, straightening. “You’re one of the flock, then? From Earth?” His voice swelled with growing excitement.

“Yes, Father,” The General replied. “I grew up in the Church…but this is a long way from St. Peter’s in Nebraska.”

The words made no sense. She didn’t know what a St. Peter’s was, nor a Nebraska, and she couldn’t spare a single thought about their meaning as the rush of possibilities grew more tumultuous until, suddenly, they stopped short, as if scythed off with an abruptness that clutched at her heart and quickened her breath as the Preacher spoke.

“Have you come to spread the Word, my son?” A dreadful spark burned to life behind The Preacher’s eyes, and in that moment, Rella’s world fell away.

A rush of blood washed over the future, over all the futures around her. First the Deskren, and then the rest of the nations of Anfealt, vanished in a crimson tide so thick she could taste it—and then, faintly, she realized she’d bitten through her tongue. She choked not only on her own blood, but the blood of the future as she saw The General raise a new banner, a terrible banner, his lance motif crossed with a spar of brilliant vermilion.

One by one the futures around her vanished, burned away from Fate’s tapestry. Lives ended in numbers beyond counting, their phantom screams echoing back across space and time. She saw massive ships raised, setting sail under that new banner for lands unseen, beyond even her Sight. She saw temples razed, gods torn from slumber and put to the sword, and new churches raised in their place, all to a single deity. Her Sight twisted, and she saw the world fall into centuries of chaos under a new, terrible lash.

The pressure of Fate’s warping closed in on her mind, and she could feel the [Oracles] within the mantle weeping in abject horror as the weight of this new, terrible future bore down on them all. As if from miles away, she dimly recognized that even those others in the plaza around her could feel it. The Twins moaned as one, clutching their heads, and The Fortress moved to stand before them, raising his shield against an unseen, unseeable foe. Servants collapsed to the stonework, and even kings and queens found themselves submitting.

Rella felt a True Vision rising, as fearsome and implacable as the fate she foresaw. Unbidden, her body drew breath to Speak—

“No.”

Suddenly, with that single word, Rella could breathe again. He carried on his conversation with The Preacher, ignorant of the horrible fate that single syllable had spared the entire world. Their words faded into incomprehensibility as her attention returned to her body.

No, Rella thought with sudden realization. Jacob Ward knew better than anyone what sort of weight lay behind such a question. He’d shouldered its full weight in the span of a heartbeat—and shrugged it away. That any man could so casually consider and then utterly dismiss such terrible glory without even reacting left her utterly stunned.

“My Lady,” spoke a rough but feminine voice. Mette, the warrior queen, had crossed the plaza while Rella was indisposed. “I can’t help but feel something dire almost happened—oh, and you’re bleeding.”

Rella dismissed Mette with an annoyed wave of her hand, letting her mind go back to Jacob after wiping the blood from her mouth with a cloth one of The Twins offered her. Something had most definitely almost happened, and she’d have to make up for her rudeness later—but she had to return to the two Worldwalkers.

“Perhaps that is best,” the priest was saying with a gentle smile. “There’s been enough bloodshed back home over such things to sate a hundred worlds.”

“Truer words,” Jacob replied, closing his hand around the other man’s upper arm. “I do have one thing I hope to discuss with you, though.”

“Really?” The Preacher asked, cocking his head. “I thought the [Oracle] would be waiting for you with all the other pompous fools calling themselves noble.”

“Aye, the [Oracle] can wait. I’d like to take confession, if you have a moment.” Jacob’s expression grew serious, and The Preacher nodded as he stepped away from the children to whom he’d been handing out bread. He passed the basket to an older street urchin before turning and gesturing for Jacob to continue. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been…” Jacob trailed off, confusion writing itself across his face.

The priest chuckled. “We’ve been here in this world for nearly ten months, by my best reckoning,” he said softly.

“It’s been some time before that since I last…”

Their words faded as the priest made the same gesture Rella had seen him perform quite often, touching his forehead, then his chest, then each shoulder. She pushed harder with her Sight, feeling whatever was being spoken was of great import, and then—

The Preacher halted, his shoulders stiffening as if he knew he was being observed. He seemed to step out of himself and turned toward Rella, his imperious gaze freezing her in place. The rest of the world, too, seemed to still, leaving The Preacher and Rella alone.

Through her Sight, he looked her directly in the eye, golden flames dancing behind his irises as he Spoke:

“The sanctity of the Confession is absolute.”

Despite the distance between them, those Words came as clearly as if they’d been spoken directly into Rella’s ears, for her and her alone. As The Preacher returned to The General, Rella felt her Sight turned aside with a feeling of near contempt. She gasped, thrown back into her own body, and her shock rippled through the souls residing in the mantle. Places like the Wildlands or the Elemental Desert could obscure or confuse her Sight, but never before had anything simply denied the gaze of the [Oracle].

The sound of boots on stone brought her back to her senses, The Fortress having stepped around her to raise his shield against Queen Mette’s closer approach. The queen raised a placating hand before saying, “Peace, Protector; I mean your Lady no harm. Is everything all right?”

“I…don’t know…” Rella’s voice trailed off as she considered the consequences of what had just happened, although she smiled with the realization that the queen’s word had struck a chord in the mind of Wyatt Reinholt. The possible futures where he didn’t become her champion had just dwindled to a narrow few when she called him her protector. It was a balm to soothe the nervousness she felt at someone being able to so completely block her Sight.

Millie didn’t understand what was so important about the strange man in the black coat with his white collar. Taller than Miss Erin, and thin, but with a kind face, he’d been handing out food to children even younger than herself. Millie certainly approved of anyone who fed hungry brats; after all, she’d been able to count herself among their number until she became a soldier. He wasn’t as tall as the Battlemaster, barely coming up to the commander’s armored shoulder plates, yet Jacob held obvious respect for the stranger. He’d removed his helmet and greeted the man like a friend, and Miss Erin had even bowed slightly! The General’s Wife didn’t even bow for Lord Davin from South Hollows, the highest-ranked noble in the caravan.

She didn’t need to understand what had just happened. Both Jacob and Erin Ward had spoken quietly with the funny looking priest, and both Worldwalkers seemed much calmer and more relaxed the rest of the trip to the large pavilion where the [Oracle] waited with the kings and queens of Anfealt. Much of the weariness and exhaustion seemed to have been lifted from their shoulders, and they both smiled more. At least, they did until they passed a large field where many fancily dressed people were drinking, shouting, and playing games. Jacob’s smile melted back to the familiar scowl that usually meant people were about to die. Millie hoped not; she didn’t like not having her drum when fighting happened.

The man leading them—Jargo, she remembered—led them the rest of the way through the sprawling city. There were many piles of rubble and burned-out buildings, though those blocks were outnumbered by the new construction. The City of Prophets hadn’t sat idle since the Deskren attack, and Millie was reminded that more than just the caravan had suffered. Her belly growled at the scent of sweet breads and pastries. Over their long march, the food stores they’d started out with had dwindled to austere rations of plain dried meat and biscuits, washed down with water, and the pleasant aromas from the city proved very distracting.

They halted before a series of broad stone steps that led up the bluffs overlooking the city. She could see flags at the top, most of them bright and colorful. None were as grim as the Black Lance, the flag carried by Mister Davin, Miss Jenna’s husband. Jacob sat still as everyone else dismounted, looking up at the flamboyant display. A cool breeze from the sea made the flags and banners dance, but the Battlemaster’s banner hung unmoving, weighed down by the black collars sewn into the bottom like so many tassels. Hett sighed loudly with relief at being back on the ground, shrugging his shoulders to settle the axe on his back.

“A lot of pompous jackassery up there for a bunch of kingdoms facing invasion,” Jacob said, before finally dismounting from his massive charger. The horse stamped one foot and simply looked at the stable-boy who tried to take the reins “He won’t move until I tell him,” The General said to the boy. “Leave him be, I doubt we’ll be here long. At least, not if I have any say.”

“Easy, lad,” Jargo told the boy, flipping him a copper coin. “The lady up top told me this would probably happen; just have some water and feed brought up here for the horses.”

Erin helped Millie dismount, the horse being slightly too tall for the girl to manage easily on her own with one arm. Hett and Davin likewise helped the last of their party to the ground. Calvin Descroix had been pulled from the mud, caught in the top of a tree by the floodwaters before his shield had collapsed. Bound but not mistreated, Jacob had ordered the prisoner brought along. He kept his head up, however, captured but not cowed or cowardly, and Millie could respect that, though she didn’t really like him. Jacob pulled a small brown satchel out of a saddlebag, tucking it into his sword belt, and they began to ascend the steps without fanfare or announcement.

Mette Weldt, Queen of Weldtir, eyed her royal counterparts warily as the sun neared its zenith, all of them waiting for the [Oracle] to officially convene the Gathering. She had little respect for most of them, and Aomhar of Forvale least of all. Tensions had been growing between their nations since the odious man had claimed his father’s throne, two centuries of peaceful trade and history cast aside when the new king repeatedly raised transport fees at several river crossings. Her spies could never prove it, but a drastic increase in river piracy and banditry had the scent of privateering.

As angry as she was at this Worldwalker General for destroying the northernmost levee and flooding several towns and a vast tract of farmland, she had to admit that the new position of the river would, in time, be a boon to Weldtir and her family’s ancient holdings—as soon as the floodwaters receded, and the river became passable once more. As much as she hated being obliged to ride north while the southern half of her homeland was under attack, the Gathering hadn’t been entirely useless: she had in her belt pouch a sealed agreement from King Lamon Dale of Meadowspire. Grain from the Golden Meadows meant her people wouldn’t starve before the land recovered, and with the river now bordered on both sides by Weldt lands, she could repay the debt far more quickly than before. Aomhar was incensed at the loss of crossing tariffs and shipping fees, and that loss was Weldtir’s gain.

Nine small shaded pavilions encircled the ancient courtyard: one for each Crown, and one, in the middle, for the [Oracle]. The courtyard itself was vast enough that one could have raised a small village within its expanse, if one would have dared entertain the thought. Not all of the pavilions were occupied; these were set more for tradition’s sake than anything else. Arctern, the northernmost kingdom, had had no ruler for centuries, and Glenhollow, the southernmost, had collapsed into a squabbling, infighting mass of lordlings and aspirants following the first Deskren War. It had never recovered, or remained conquered long enough for one dynasty to cement its rule, which Mette found profoundly sad. The forests and hills of the Glens had once provided rich and profitable trade, but South Hollows had been its last, true city. There wouldn’t be much left once the Empire was driven out.

Desena Kos, the queen of the far eastern monarchy of Kosala, was an enigma. Extremely reclusive, the Kosalans traded mostly with the Dwarves of Thun’Kadrass: dwarven cannon and military support, in exchange for the bounty of the eastern seas brought in by Eastharbor’s massive fishing fleets and mercantile reach. They had barely a token ground force of their own beyond the various city guards, but they rarely suffered Deskren raids, simply by dint of geography and the Empire’s utter lack of any real naval presence. The Gathering was probably the first time the diminutive and quiet queen had ever left her own capital, and would probably be the only time she did so.

One ruler she did respect nodded back at her from across the pavilion when his eyes met hers. Hanz Geremas of Drakenth was by far the oldest and most grizzled of the assembled monarchs. The Drakengard Sky-Knights had once been known across the breadth of Anfealt before the bulk of their order had been wiped out in the disaster that had been the Battle of Oasa. It had taken three centuries for their numbers to recover after losing so many breeding pairs of Drakes, only to be brought to the brink of extinction once again during the Steel Crusade. What few they had left now never left the high reaches of Drakenth’s mountain ranges, save for risky patrols a few times a year across the Wildwall to make observations near the Silent City. This was more to discourage would-be adventurers than anything else; the golems of the Ruined Kingdom stayed in their city unless disturbed, and no one sane would risk provoking them ever again.

The queen turned her attention to the central pavilion and its four occupants. She thought the new [Oracle] showed signs of promise, and resolved to watch her closely. Close-shorn tawny hair and an eyepatch contributed to her mystique; while Mette was curious about its necessity, to pry would have been unseemly. She certainly didn’t lack for the requisite boldness, having claimed a Worldwalker as bodyguard, and two more as personal attendants. Or perhaps as apprentices; Mette’s own eyes and ears had found precious little information in that regard. As always, the [Oracle] was impossible to track when she chose to be, and this Rella with no family name had vanished from the temple during the Purple Night only to reappear in Brackholt over a month later. She’d promptly snatched up The Fortress and The Twins and vanished with several more of the town’s guardsmen, and no one knew for sure where they’d travelled before showing back up at the Temple of Possibility just in time for the Gathering of Kings.

The Fortress and his sisters were a bit easier to understand in some ways, Worldwalkers or not. Teenage girls were teenage girls, regardless of origin, and they seemed to be making the best of being in a new world. It was just as well, Mette considered, the [Oracle] found them first. Much could be gleaned of new magics and technologies just from what such people knew of their homelands, and not all peoples of Anfealt would have been kind in the asking.

The boy was certainly impressive, though. Tall and not done growing, he stood in his armor as if he’d been born wearing it. A crooked nose and scarred face sat below eyes that never stopped moving; he’d never be pretty, but he had his charm, and the queen had noticed the way Rella glanced at him when she thought no one was paying attention. The girl would have been hard-pressed to find a more suitable protector, abilities with the Sight notwithstanding.

Her thoughts had been confirmed when the [Oracle] had suddenly gasped and rose up on the balls of her feet as if entranced. The young man had stepped between Rella and the crowd to interpose his shield between them, and the movement had been as natural and fluid as it had been preternaturally quick. He had the makings of a born defender the likes of which Mette had rarely seen, and, though young, he already had a solidity of presence to rival veterans of a shield wall. You’ll need that strength, she thought, especially with another Deskren War on the horizon.

A clamor by the steps leading down to the city distracted her, Aomhar and his guards protesting as one of the [Oracle]’s guardsmen led a group of newcomers into the pavilion. Mette feared the whisper of steel being drawn as a man in black armor nearly as tall as an Ursaran strode between the columns at the entrance despite the protests of the Forvalen King. He was followed by a brown-haired woman, much shorter of stature, and a grizzled old man with an axe strapped to his back. The figure tugged at her memory, but Mette had no time to linger on the thought. On the warrior’s other side walked a girl with one arm, little more than a child. She had black hair cut almost as short as a boy’s, and her single arm was encased in a gauntlet of exquisite workmanship matching the chain mail over her plain brown breeches and polished boots. A red chevron decorated the shoulder plate where her gauntlet was secured to the rings of the mail. As disturbing as the tall warrior, the girl’s red eyes bespoke a terrible capacity for violence, chained by absolute discipline. I know a soldier when I see one.

Behind the man, whom she realized—with a flicker of impotent rage at the destruction he’d caused—could be none other than The General, walked another couple. Of middle age they seemed, both weary from the road and wary of their surroundings. They seemed especially wary of the man they led between them, hands bound in front with rope. This man she knew very well, at least by description, and Mette’s hand drifted toward the blade at her side. Calvin Descroix, under close guard or not, was hardly a welcome guest at the Gathering. Is The General insane? she raged internally. Bringing one of the heirs to the enemy throne was almost certain to end in bloodied steel, Gathering or not.

Before the grumblings could turn into something more physical, the sun reached its highest point overhead to cast perfectly aligned shadows from the pillars around the circle. Then, the [Oracle] Spoke.

“By the ancient Bargain of Kings, this Gathering is convened.”

Chapter 41: Unending Duty

Rella felt the words reverberate in her chest. Speaking with the full voice of the Mantle was unnerving at the best of times, and while never actually painful, it still took her several moments to recover. A Gathering was an occasion that occurred only once or twice a century, and traditions stronger than law dictated the reactions of everyone, save the Worldwalkers. Her proclamation snapped Aomhar’s jaw shut, and though his expression was sour, he returned to the slightly raised flagstone in front of Forvale’s table. The rest of the rulers did likewise, leaving Jacob Ward standing at the top of the steps near the edge of the circle. He didn’t quite have a scowl on his face, but it was close.

“Weldtir stands by the Bargain,” Mette said.

“Meadowspire stands by the Bargain.” Lamon Dale seemed almost bored by the theatrics, though he hadn’t been born at the time of the last Gathering.

“Forvale stands by the Bargain,” Aomhar said, more politely than his expression would have indicated.

“Kosala stands by the Bargain.” Desena Kos was by far the youngest of the group to wear a crown, and eyed the others warily. The young queen had never left her homeland until now, but Rella knew the nervous outward demeanor hid a mind as shrewd as any other. Bound to neutrality, she couldn’t have spoken of the scheming games the girl had played to discredit her aunts and uncles to clear her path to rule even if she’d been so inclined to reveal that Story.

“Drakenth stands by the Bargain,” Hanz Geremas coughed.

“The Five Crowns have answered. The Bargain is upheld!”

That is so unpleasant! I know the words; you made me memorize them! thought Rella at Koma’s echo, floating just beneath the surface of the Mantle.

This is part of our job, came the wry response. You know the rest; you have to get them to agree before our last guests arrive.

Koma wasn’t referring to The General. Jacob Ward stood just outside the circle, and she silently thanked him for his patience. The man was angry, but held his emotions in check, bound in an iron grip as disciplined as any warrior she’d ever met. Someone with lesser self-control would likely have completely disrupted the Gathering, ending any chance of her binding the Crowns together in a unified agreement to make war on the Deskren. Another Worldwalker yet approached, however, so the young [Oracle] knew time was running out. How The General would greet The Hammer was a thing not even she could predict.

There were many formalities that could come later. A peaceful Gathering would have been called years in advance, heralded by weeks of festival and revelry before attending to the business of introducing the new [Oracle] to the kings and queens of Anfealt. Circumstances being what they were, though, such things were a bit more hurried. Rella felt a kinship with Jacob Ward in this moment; she, too, had little regard for the usual pleasantries. She rushed through most of them, carefully weighing the risk of insulting the nobility against the constant wear on even the Battlemaster’s patience.

“Blood has been spilled in the City of Prophets. Blood has been spilled in the Temple of Remembrance.”

Mette responded first, “Weldtir is engaged with the enemy as we speak. I am accompanied by two of my legions; the remainder are helping my people recover from the flooding and reinforcing my borders against Deskren incursions, but they stand ready to march at my command.”

Desima Kos was next, straightening and casting aside her meek facade. “Kosala has no vast armies to offer, Your Grace. Unless you foresee a need for our fleets, supplies and shipping are all we can offer.”

“That’s not impossible,” Rella said with sadness. “The city of Expedition will be under siege in four days, and will fall in forty if not relieved. If they take the fortress, the path is clear to Eastharbor, and then Ko’Salana itself.”

The young queen’s face paled. “Surely the Huntress will return and drive them out.” It was almost a whisper from the woman, a faint hope.

Rella shook her head. “I saw them enter the Wildlands. I don’t see them returning. Nothing is certain except that they’re beyond my Sight at this moment.”

“The Drakengard are diminished still,” Hanz rasped. “Barely a dozen breeding pairs, and fewer than a hundred half-trained Sky-Knights. All we can provide are scouts and messengers.” The old man didn’t embellish or make excuses; he simply spoke the weary facts. “The lowlanders will have to do the actual fighting.”

“Infantry moves slowly,” said the measured voice of Lamon Dale of Meadowspire. “Thanks to the Storm Breakers, the harvest hasn’t been disrupted in the Golden Meadows this year. None of our armies will want for bread, but it will take more than forty days to reach Fort Expedition. Fifty days, at least; more if you want the Magisterium’s battlemages in any condition to fight. I don’t need divination to know that having to retake the fort will be worse than losing it in the first place.”

“If Expedition falls, the paths will be open for the enemy to march on Kosala or Forvale,” Rella said as she turned to face Aomhar Valence. “You’ve had the Rangers shadowing the Black Lance since the day of Thunder and Mud. Can you not send them to Expedition?”

The sour-faced king, confronted with the possibility of danger to his own lands, wiped the arrogant expression from his face. “If Forvale is truly at risk, I have to strengthen my own borders…but I think I can spare the Rangers,” he allowed, rubbing his chin. “Few would be as well-suited to slipping past the Deskren.” After another moment of consideration, he nodded. “It shall be done, and extra supplies sent alongside—so long,” he said, raising a finger, “as recompense is paid. Forvale lacks the grain fields of Meadowspire or the great cattle herds of Weldtir.”

“Remember honor, whelp,” Hanz admonished. “If they get a foothold in Kosala, you’ll lose your kingdom come spring when their reinforcements arrive.”

Rella kept from smiling, but only because she’d been distracted by the pieces falling together as Fate wove its web. So it was that she had a bare second of warning before Jacob finally interrupted.

“You need to keep Expedition from falling in the first place,” the Battlemaster interrupted, striding into the middle of the pavilion.

Aomhar’s expression regained its contempt at the interruption, but Rella remained silent to allow the fool his blunder. “Who is this outsider giving advice? Tricks with a levee won’t march troops nearly two thousand miles in forty days, General.” The Forvalen King nearly spat the last word as he matched Jacob’s steps to close with him near the center of the circle.

“Are you the asshole who refused to allow the farmers and traders to sell us food under threat of imprisonment?” the [Hand of Solace] inquired.

“We don’t do business with invaders.” Aomhar sneered, and Rella stepped back a pace, pulling Sophie and Sonya back with her. “Your wench should keep her mou—”

Crack!

The back of Jacob’s hand interrupted the king’s outburst, the impact so vicious that Aomhar lost his footing, shoulders and head striking the flagstones before his backside. His crown clattered to the masonry, tumbling away as blood spattered the stones. Two of his guardsmen rushed forward, and Wyatt appeared, shield raised, in the span of an eyeblink.

“I’m not peacebound, and you’ll watch your tone when addressing my wife,” Jacob said as calmly as if musing about the weather, while the king’s servants called out for a healer.

“I can heal him,” Erin said, stepping forward and ignoring the drawn blades of the Forvalen Guard. “I think he’s learned his lesson. If not, my husband can continue his education.”

Jacob turned back to Rella, and she steeled herself for what was to come. The prisoner he’d brought, and the terrible thing he carried in the pouch at his side, were a burden and a trial she knew she must face. At least we can get this part over with before the rest of them arrive, she whispered to the others within the Mantle.

“I’ve come to make a bargain,” the Battlemaster said. “This world seems fond of them. I’ll help you with your little slaver problem, but I have a price of my own.” He reached to his belt, tossing the pouch onto the stones before gently pushing Calvin Descroix forward a step.

The pouch opened, spilling its contents onto the stone. A collective gasp rose from the crowd, and everyone flinched back as the glittering gold loop of the Collar tumbled onto its side at Rella’s feet.

Millie Thatcher took a half-step forward after the Battlemaster sent the rude king tumbling, her hand raised and outstretched, fingers poised to snap, when the guardsmen rushed forward. Jacob waved her down as Miss Erin stepped forward to heal the foolish man. The pretty lady with the eye-patch had to be the famous [Oracle] Millie already knew of, but she’d thought it would be an older grandmother, not a young lady. The woman had stepped back with two other girls just before The General struck, and so avoided the blood that spattered across the paving stones.

Before the [Oracle] could respond to Jacob’s statement, the foolish king stood. Now healed, thanks to Miss Erin’s magic, his expression was still comically angry enough that Millie had to suppress a giggle. She didn’t like laughing; her lack of speech rendered what sounds she could still produce into softer versions of themselves, which Miss Jenna and the other women had all declared to be “cute as a button”. Now is not the time to be cute, she thought to herself.

“If you’re not bound by the Peace of the Gathering,” he snarled, “then neither are you protected by it. I’ll have your head for that!”

“Yer pappy weren’t half the jack-ass you are, boy,” Mister Hett drawled. “Iffen ‘e was here, ‘e’d have ye up by one ear and whipped on down the hill for embarrassing yer family line. You just settle down, or I might take a mind to do Old Man Valence one last favor, since I missed his funeral.”

The man turned purple with rage, his hand dropping to the fancy jeweled sword at his side. Hett didn’t move, nor did he bother reaching for his axe, which lay strapped across his back; Millie knew how fast the old mule-driver could move, and she had no doubt that, were he to draw his blade, not a second would pass before Forvale would need a new king.

“If that’s not Obadiah Hettle, I’ll eat saddle leather,” boomed a man that looked almost as old as Hett. His voice was gruff and tired, but his eyes twinkled with life below a crown of thin black wire woven into a band.

Hett seemed to forget all about the red-faced Aomhar, as the other rulers and their guards stepped back even further from his shaggy form. They know him! she thought. He’s more than just a man with some mules! He turned with a grin, rubbing his beard.

“Hanz! Hanz Geremas!” He laughed, slapping his thigh. “I thought for sure you’d have fallen off your drake by now!”

“Mister Hett, a pleasure as always,” Rella interrupted the two old men with a half-bow and a conspiratorial smile. She winked her one eye at Millie before continuing, “But I’m afraid you let your accent slip! The country farmhand disguise is ruined!”

“Aye, lass. There’s a time and a place for affectation, but I had to step in before Anfealt lost another king. The Battlemaster has more important things to speak with you about.”

“Indeed he does,” said the one-eyed [Oracle], turning to face Jacob and the collar he’d thrown on the ground. “Do you realize what you’ve brought here? The Deskren have always managed to reclaim or destroy any of the Soul Shackles before they could be brought to me, even if it cost them entire legions to do so.”

“It’s said in my homeland,” croaked the prisoner, Calvin Descroix, “it’s said that should the [Oracle] lay hands on one of the Shackles, it would cause another Oasa, and the Dead Sands would take us all.”

“The Elemental Desert wasn’t caused by the [Oracle]. She let the first emperor put the collar around her own neck knowing the Mantle may not be Bound. Her sacrifice rent the world itself, and the gods, in newfound humility, gathered together to seal the tear before it could swallow the world.” She bent down, pulling a linen kerchief from a pocket in her dress to gingerly pick up the collar as if holding a venomous snake.

“Those who bore the Mantle before my time,” she started almost reverently, “schemed and planned, offered riches and titles without end…sacrificed of themselves, and sometimes sacrificed themselves entirely…did their best to lay hands on one of these, or to commune with the elves.” She turned the collar in her hand, staring at its glittering surface, and let out a long sigh. “But the gods slumber still, and the elves have long since fled for distant lands, much diminished.” Sadness, and a grim smile, washed across her face. “Yet here you stand today, throwing it at my feet. Today we can finally take the first steps to right that ancient wrong.”

“That’s quite a lot of information to take in.” Jacob’s voice was gruff and to the point. “You need to save Fort Expedition. I can do this if I have a free hand and enough supplies. Of elves and gods and holes in the world, there you’re on your own.”

“No one can march that far that fast, Worldwalker,” spoke the armored queen. “Nineteen hundred miles, nearly two thousand, to pace the southern shore of the Sea of Possibility. Fifty days if we emptied all our treasuries for alchemical enhancements for an army. And that’s with fair weather and no battles on the way there. Today’s the last day of summer; you’ll hit the snows a week’s march before you even reach the lower end of the pass. You’d never cross the Wild Waters in time once you got there.”

“I didn’t ask if it could be done,” Jacob replied. “I said I can.”

“And to which crown will you swear fealty?” This one Millie thought of as the Tall King, younger than the old man Hett had called Hanz, but older than the Foolish King or either of the queens. “You lead a mercenary company with neither charter nor sanction, bound by neither oath nor blood. Yet you seek leave to travel as you will through our lands? Impossible.”

“My oaths have already been sworn,” Jacob almost growled, not quite with contempt for the rulers before him. “They still bind me, even in this world. I won’t swear to any crown.”

“To whom, then, are you sworn?” Hanz asked, pulling a pipe from his pouch, and lighting it with a faint spark from his thumb. Millie found that the most interesting thing she’d seen today, with the single exception of the warrior queen’s arms and armor, and resolved to ask Miss Jenna about the Drakengard the next time she practiced her letters. “If you’re sworn to no crown…” He let the statement hang, and Millie didn’t like the feeling his words left in the air.

“Freedom itself.” Jacob looked the kings and queens in the eye, each in turn. “I have no interest in your crowns, not the ones on your heads, or any left laying about. If you failed in your duties as monarchs, your own people would see to resolving that—either through uprising, or by weakening your own nations until you fell, you would lose those fancy crowns if you were truly bad at the job. But those,” he spat, pointing at the collar held up by the [Oracle]. “Those are inexcusable. A person has the choice to overthrow a tyrant, or at least to try. Those things are an abomination, and the fact that you’ve let them exist for four centuries means I’ll never swear to any of you.” He swept his gaze back across the nobles, only to refocus his gaze on Rella as she spoke up again.

“Will you destroy them?” the young woman asked without looking up from the worked golden circlet in her hands. “You say you serve freedom.” She looked at The General. “Would you take on this duty, to seek them out, these insults to the very idea of free will? Until the last one is gone, would you set yourself to this task?”

“Lady,” Jacob said gruffly, “I already have.”

“And after?” she pressed. “Would you stand watch, lest the like of these one day come again?” Clouds had begun to build in the distance to the northwest, a cold breeze punctuating the question. Millie thought the clouds looked strange, but saw no way to interrupt the conversation without making a fool of herself and embarrassing her commanding officer.

“Until the last day, and then one more.”

At that, Rella straightened as if shocked, and drew a deep breath to Speak:

“The bargain has been struck! Five Crowns stand as Witness!”

The woman’s voice nearly knocked Millie down, and, in fact, did send several servants in various royal livery tumbling outward from the circle. She stumbled, but didn’t fall, bracing herself as the [Oracle] continued to Speak, while thunder not of Millie’s making rumbled in the distance.

“The Black Lance marches ever onwards. Let those who aid his banner be blessed with fortune, and those who impede him be trampled underfoot, so long as he holds to his duty without end. The Duke of the Endless March rides forth! Should he stray from his path, let Fate forget his face!”

Jacob reeled back, but didn’t fall, cursing as the weight of the decree fell upon him.

“What—a Title—?”

The [Oracle] merely smiled. “You should have learned by now to have better care with your words in this world,” she said, glancing aside to share a smile with Millie.

“A title won’t get you to Expedition Pass any sooner,” the Warrior Queen said. “Nothing I know of will make armies march that far, that fast.”

“That,” the [Oracle] said as she held up the Golden Collar, “is simply a matter of sufficient motivation to sufficient numbers of the right people.”

Mette Weldt stepped back as the [Oracle] spoke, an eerie, silver light glowing within her remaining eye. The winds picked up again, a bitter cold that carried a wild scent in the air that tickled her memory. The younger woman stepped toward the captive Descroix man, but her attention was caught by Hanz Geremas. The ruler of the high passes of Drakenth was sniffing the air, like an animal who’d caught a familiar scent. No, she thought. Like a Drake. There was nothing of fear or apprehension in the old man’s bearing, merely intense curiosity. Her own interest was further piqued when Rella spoke once again.

“We have more guests arriving soon; I see some of you have caught their scent on the wind. It’s of no import to the Gathering, so let us proceed with our own matters first.” She turned to the newly titled Duke of the Endless March. “You’re absolutely right, it’s inexcusable that this filth has persisted for so long. Allow me to set in motion the righting of that wrong, here and now.”

“That I’ll be happy to see,” the Duke said, “although I must leave today if we’re to save this city, Expedition.”

“For that I require the blood of the original Emperor Descroix, or one of his line.”

Jacob glanced at Calvin, then back at Rella, his gaze suddenly wary. “All of it? He’s been a cooperative prisoner, and a wealth of information on the Empire.”

Mette’s spine tingled as the [Oracle]’s silvery laugh chimed across the stone circle. “By rights I could demand it, though I’ve seen his misery, as his duties conflict with his wishes. This one dreams of peace, but it is not to be.” Rella tilted her head to one side in thought. “No, for this a drop will do.”

The armored queen gasped as one of the girls standing behind the [Oracle] vanished in a ripple of dispelled illusion, reappearing next to Calvin Descroix before stepping back to hand a bloody dagger to Rella. A thin line opened up on the man’s cheek, and a single drop of crimson stained the tip of the blade.

“Thank you, Sonya,” the [Oracle] said with a prim smile.

Mette suppressed a grimace, and by the looks of the other rulers, they had the same thought as her. The crown of Weldtir, like most other symbols of rule, was actually a powerful Artefact. I should have seen through her illusion! Only Hanz seemed unfazed, letting loose a guffaw.

“Blind children, all of you. You shouldn’t rely on old relics. If you’d been paying attention, you would have seen her image go perfectly still without breathing or blinking.” The old man nodded with respect at the girl. “Excellent form, but remember to let the illusion breathe and fidget.”

The young Worldwalker nodded, taking another step back to stand next to her twin sister.

Rella drew a long breath, bracing herself for what she meant to do. The others within the Mantle murmured with unease, but she hastened to explain herself. It’ll hurt to craft this seal. But we may never get another chance, and I need something to motivate the people! A mere bounty of experience won’t get them moving! she thought urgently within the dreamscape. Her forebears protested, but saw her reasons. The Battlemaster might have had his own reasons to destroy the collars, but she knew he could never succeed unless she could spur everyone else in Anfealt to act, as well.

There will be consequences, warned one familiar voice: her direct predecessor and the previous [Oracle]. We will be quite busy in the coming years, as will whoever takes up the Mantle if you should fall.

I’ll still be busy even then, you know! Rella smiled inwardly as the others laughed.

“Mister Hett,” she said out loud. “If I could have your assistance? Our other guests are almost here, and we must hurry so the Duke can make for Expedition.”

“I’ll be taking our new friend Descroix here when I go. His insights and knowledge of the enemy will be invaluable.” The Duke looked at her as if daring her to challenge him, but Rella had seen this outcome and had no issues with it. For what she was about to do, executing the man would have been nearly as pointless as watching the other rulers squabble over who deserved the honor of playing headsman.

“As long as you take responsibility for him, he’s yours,” she replied. “No one will bat an eye if something happens to him elsewhere under your watch.”

“Fair ‘nuff,” he replied with a nod, replacing the darkened steel helm on his head.

Rella returned to her current business, her will twining together with that of her sisters dwelling within the Mantle. Threads of silver light spun from her fingertips, weaving a net around the collar. No single mind could have traced the delicate patterns, but thousands of minds handled it together almost like an afterthought.

She let the Threads of Fate sink into the metal before tossing it to the ground between herself and Hett. With a careful, flicking motion of the dagger, a single drop of Descroix blood fell into the web. No turning back now! She felt almost exultant, despite the pain she knew would come later.

“What was done so long ago, one single act cannot fully undo. But now we set our feet upon the path of justice! Let it be declared from the steps of every Temple and the heights of every Tower: by the power of this Seal, I declare a bounty upon this Golden Shackle! Let any who destroy these blasphemous chains gain a Level as their reward!”

As her ringing voice faded into silence and the light of the Seal flared into brilliance, Rella fell back into Sophie and Sonya’s waiting arms. Her legs felt weak, and she could no longer hold herself upright. She felt herself being lowered to the ground, her every breath a battle with exhaustion. The Seal’s light crawled along the pavilion’s flagstones, threads of silver and gold reaching and then climbing the massive columns that encircled the Gathering. At their apex, the light dimmed for a moment before pulsing outward in a massive wave that threw off the coming storm’s shadows as it spread from horizon to horizon.

“Mister Hett!” she wheezed with great effort. The Duke, and all of the kings and queens, stood in shock. Experience bounties had been declared from time to time in the past: rare, yes, but often enough to be known. A Level Bounty had never been mentioned in any records written anywhere, and Rella knew her declaration had been the first in the history of Anfealt.

The old man needed no more prompting: he unstrapped his axe and raised it high, the blade flashing in the light before he brought it whistling downward to slam through the collar, burying itself in the stone with thunderous impact.

He froze in place as golden light rippled from his head to his shoes. His hair, gone past white to the yellow of the last days of old age, began to darken. His shoulders stooped less, and his legs grew slightly straighter. He took a deep breath, his chest still heaving, but without the elderly rattle he’d had before. The regen from gaining a level wouldn’t stay with him for very long, not at his age, but Rella knew he’d have several weeks of feeling young once more.

“Ninety,” he spoke, no longer rasping or drawling his words, “three.” He continued, turning a slow circle to eye the monarchs upon the hilltop, stepping back toward Rella with a truly frightening grin. “Do you know what you’ve set in motion, girl?”

“An ending,” she whispered. “Long overdue.”

Howls interrupted them then as Rella thanked the others within the Mantle for helping her finish her tasks in time. A rush of wingbeats filled the evening air, along with snarls, yips, growls, and roars. From the north and the west they came, and blades were bared as startled guards and rulers withdrew as one to the other side of the pavilion to flank the [Oracle] where she lay, propped up on the ground.

“It’s all right,” she whispered to Sonya and Sophie, but it was the Battlemaster who heard her first and called for everyone to halt. His booming voice cut through the chaos, and he turned back to her.

“Who—what—? There are thousands, hundreds of thousands!” He seemed truly unsettled for the first time since he’d appeared in Rella’s Sight.

“They are—” she began to respond, but was interrupted by a reverberating growl that shook the stones.

“We are the Children of the First Beast. The Alpha has come, and we have followed.”

The voice came from all around the pavilion, from hundreds of different throats. Some chirped like birds, some yowled like cats, others growled or yipped. A massive shadow strode into the circle of stones, a canine silhouette thrown against the flagstones. It shrank as its owner drew closer to the center, eventually shrinking to match the size of its owner: a young man dressed in hide breeches tied with strips of leather, barefoot and bare-chested. His unkempt hair drifted in the autumn breeze, and the jagged scar across his chest stood out, raw and red, against his otherwise pale skin.

“Hello, Adrin Holt,” Rella managed to say with something that almost resembled a reasonable volume. “Or should I call you The Hammer?”

“They call me the Alpha, but it’s nice to hear my name.”

“Who are you, boy? And why are you here?” Hanz rasped, unfazed and unintimidated, or at least old enough to not show it.

“I’m Adrin Holt, and I’ve brought the Children of Ka’Na Oko to repay their debt to the [Oracle].”

“This is the Gathering of Kings,” Mette interjected, her voice carrying a hard edge. “The beastmen have no part of it, or of the Deskren!”

“They have millions of our brethren in chains; you know we have a part of that,” the young man replied, “but the Debt was old before there were kings to Gather.” The man turned back toward Rella, where Wyatt had placed himself with shield up. Adrin made a strange bow, dropping halfway to one knee and turning his head to the side as if baring his throat. “Lady Prophet, we have come to repay the Debt.”

“I see you, Adrin Holt, and I see the Children of Ka’Na Oko.” She weakly nodded her head toward Jacob Ward. “This man marches against my enemies. Will you, as well?”

Jacob, who’d been carefully surveying the massed shapes outside the Gathering, turned back to the pair as he was addressed, laughing and shaking his head wonderingly. “How many did you bring?”

Adrin glanced at him with a shrug. “All of them.”

Epilogue: Winds that Whisper

Morgan Mackenzie savored the sensation of the valley winds against her skin. The trip back to her valley had taken almost two weeks, and would have taken much longer without The Titan to help clear the path for the wagons and Dana’s mobile workshop. One disadvantage to her father’s current form she now understood to be similar to her own reliance on food: he had to eat a lot, and frequently. Fortunately, Maxwell Mackenzie had been an extreme example of pragmatism even on Earth, and he wasn’t picky about the origin of his nutrition.

The Titan’s eating habits had been disturbing, at first, for the travelers with the Expedition to see. The vines that trailed down his back writhed and roiled as he lumbered along. Trunks he uprooted and cast aside to clear the path caused hordes of smaller wildlife to flee, and his vines danced a remorseless rhythm. They speared outward as if they had minds of their own, lancing into [Tyrannorabbits], [Murdersquirrels], and dozens of other species Morgan hadn’t yet learned the names for.

The Titan had fed as he walked, Morgan riding on one shoulder. She’d stood tall, balancing herself against a massive spike of crystal, reminding her of the times she’d perched on her father as a child, laughing gaily. Time had changed them both—him more than her—so the nostalgia was short-lived, but welcome. Their trek hadn’t gone uncontested, either. Even with the massive form of The Titan leading the way, smaller creatures fled and larger creatures were drawn to his hulking form.

Such larger creatures had suffered the same fate as their smaller brethren, finding their way into that impossible, ogrish maw with the same ease he consumed everything else. Morgan now understood all too well why so many hordes of beasts fled his wake to cause what the others had told her was known as a “migration year”.

Letting the Expedition into her valley had been a bit of an ordeal: The Titan’s prodigious caloric needs had faded upon crossing the threshold of her magical barriers, once she’d convinced him not to just walk through and wreck her enchantments. It seemed he simply needed energy, and the prodigious concentrations of Mana in her valley worked just as well as meat to sustain him. He’d stood near the shore of the small lake, looking at her spire for what seemed like hours, vines and roots working their way into the earth. She watched with no small degree of nervousness; if her workings reached down too close to the ley lines, she knew he’d tear it down. So it was to her relief that, with a bassy rumble, he’d finally declared it good before lumbering down the shore to wallow in the mud.

“Is he using a tree for a backscratcher?” Dana had asked as she approached, still looking green around the gills from the excess Mana in the atmosphere of Morgan’s valley. It had been almost a full day, and most of the Expedition still hadn’t acclimated. Biggles had informed her that it would likely pass in a few more days’ time, especially as the work began on the airship.

“Yeah, he is…” Morgan responded. “Are you sure you want to do this? Build them a flying ship, I mean…”

The metal-clad woman looked back down the valley, where several dwarves were overseeing the construction of scaffolding from fresh-hewn timber. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, unfazed by the more serious turn of the conversation. “It changes a lot of things, but I realize now, it was inevitable. There are more Worldwalkers than just you and me, and it was only a matter of time before we started to really shake things up.”

“Why does that make you so sad?”

“It means I can’t go back to Thun’Kadrass,” she explained. “You’re good with magic, and the one they call The General is some kind of military officer, I’m sure of it. There’s no telling what The Twins, The Hammer, or The Shadow can do, but sure as shit, you can bet The Dreamer is gonna give stuff to the Deskren.”

Morgan thought in silence for several moments. “But you build things, weapons, and now a flying ship. Everyone will want you.” Another thought came unbidden. “And me, too.”

“They’ll want to control us, and if they can’t do that…”—Dana frowned—“they’ll want to kill us. The ship is merely the beginning of an arms race. Magic and science together? There’ll be no way to just skate by once things get rolling, Morgan.”

“Can you do it? Can you stay ahead of this arms race?”

Dana shook her head. “It’s not about staying ahead. That’s only possible in the short term. Once we fly across the mountains, it’s game on. A few years, maybe a decade. Two decades would be some really long odds.”

“Not following you here,” Morgan said, shaking her hair back to make room for a wurbling Lulu, who had just hopped back to her shoulder.

“We don’t have to stay ahead forever. After things trickle out, and the other nations get a hold of it, they’ll start iterating on my work, and it becomes quantity over quality.” The Engineer spoke absentmindedly, sketching on a clipboard while she rambled. “The real trick is to stay alive and free until we’re less valuable to the different nations, and that’s gonna be hard until that iteration starts happening. It means becoming powerful enough that nobody can challenge us head on, and doing that fast.”

“And the airship is the first step?” Morgan asked.

Dana raised a finger. “Ships, plural. I’ve done some research, and you’d think a magical world would have this kinda thing already.” Dana drew more lines on her parchment with broad, swift strokes, filling out a design Morgan couldn’t quite make out. “This is just the first one, a working prototype—big, ugly, and slow, but I can get us off the ground. You can make witchwood really strong with simple enchantments, and I think we can even use the leaves to weave the gas bags.” She paused in her efforts, glancing up at Morgan. “Flight is one of those things, y’know? It’s like the wheel, or electricity; it’s one of the big game changers, when you can point to the timeline of history after the fact and see huge jumps in civilization and progress.”

“And war, too.”

Sighing, Dana went back to her clipboard. “Yep, and war. Sad thing is, war and conflict drives the most progress, and the nations are going to war whether we help out or not. It’s not just the tech we give away that’s going to change things, either. Just by seeing a flying ship, others will work to copy it and learn how to do it. Same with anything. If not the dwarves or the northern countries, the Deskren will, for sure. We have to deal with them, even if it means arming everyone else.”

Morgan shuddered her agreement. “Those collars are sick. Disgusting!”

“So, yeah,” Dana said, flipping her clipboard and parchment around. On it was a rough sketch of an ugly, boxy-looking barge of a ship with several globes that resembled hot air balloons nestled in a row down the center, like peas in a pod. “It’s big, nearly six hundred feet long, to get all of us on board with the necessary supplies and food. It’ll be slow unless we catch a good tailwind, but I can get us out of the Wildlands, and then we need to find a way to not get stuck working in a shop for some king or queen while I work on better designs.”

“I can help you work out the enchantments, and my dad can drag as many trees as you need up here. But I think I’ll be leaving in a week or two, especially after this little chat…”

Dana’s mouth dropped open, and she tapped her clipboard with her pen. “What? We just got here, and it’ll take a month just to lay the keel and frame out the structure! We need you!”

“Once the magic is worked out, you actually won’t need me, and there’s something I need to do,” the Sorceress answered, her words punctuated by the chill northern winds.

Dana simply stared, at a loss for words, before Morgan continued.

“It’s time for me to get some wings of my own.”

Over a thousand miles away from one very naked Sorceress and her newfound friends, a massive, inky-black shape descended from the evening sky. A giant raven, talons outstretched, flapped its wings with lazy nonchalance as it dropped the last few feet to the flagstones of an ancient courtyard before the feathered shape dwindled, resolving into the form of an old woman leaning on a gnarled wooden cane. Smaller feathered forms flapped and screeched, fighting for space to perch upon the surrounding stone rooftops and the few sparse trees populating the bits of bare earthen gaps in the paving stones. Moghren chuckled, pacing forward with her stick for balance as she approached a stone table nearly thirty feet across.

Shadowy forms darted back and forth above the courtyard, filling the air with their mournful cries. Shards of midnight drifted down like dark snow in their wake to land on the table. “Yes, little ones,” the old crone said, “we know she’s coming back.”

Upon the table lay a framework wrought in sinew and bone, to which Moghren added a small piece pulled from a satchel at her waist. It had been an engaging task, consuming the bulk of her attention over the past summer. The fruits of her efforts lay before her, and she paced a circle around the table, observing it.

“Learn and grow, we told her,” she said to her companions.

Around her the ravens cawed, and eerie echoes of her words were cast back at her from the shadows. Far from being unsettled, the woman seemed to draw comfort from the sound. From another pouch she produced a tiny bone needle, wickedly sharp, and threaded it with a strand of inky-black hair from her own head. She worked through the last light of the day and well into the night as the two moons rose in the east, casting dappled shadows across the table. One by one, more feathers joined those already stitched to the framework, slowly revealing itself to be a pair of great wings. She stepped back some hours later, looking at the nearly finished appendages.

“It still needs…something more, I think.”

With a blur and a wave of power, a giant raven stood where the woman had been. A few moments of cold regard through inhuman eyes looking down at the construct of bone and feathers, and the oversized corvid shook its head before burying its beak in its own feathers. A few jerks of its head and a mighty, disgruntled caw later, several feathers fell, many times larger than those gifted by its smaller relatives. Another shiver of power rolled through the courtyard, and Moghren once again stood in the same place, stooping down to reverently retrieve the feathers from the ground.

“A gift, a price, and a bargain. Which do you think she shall choose?” she wondered, returning her attention to the wings.

The croaking and caws of the ravens were her only answer, but Moghren thought that was well enough.

Belka Torm cast an apprehensive eye toward the clouds far to the northwest, weighing his options as his hired hands readied the wagons and prepared to break camp after another night on the road. They’d left Fort Expedition in haste when word of the approaching Deskren had reached the city. They’d been on the road for just over two weeks with no sign of Deskren forces, but still, he slept with one eye open. He likely wouldn’t rest well until they crossed the border into Forvale and pulled his wagons in behind solid stone walls, but even that was doubtful.

The storm worried him. The cool winds of autumn were no trouble, but the approaching winter meant that pleasant breeze could turn bitingly cold at the drop of a hat, with no warning. If it weren’t for the invading slavers, he’d have turned his wagons off the road to wait out the storm. As it was, fear drove him to continue another few days at least, hoping to reach a settlement in the eastern reaches of Forvale where he could hunker down and wait.

Sudden shouting from the covered wagon where his wife still slept drew his attention. The morning was early yet, and it would have been another hour before they were ready to actually move. He’d let her sleep, as dreams of ill omen had been troubling his spouse since before they left Fort Expedition. It was there, in the dream, that her nascent talent at divination manifested best, which had been what had spurred him to abandon his profit and flee the city.

“Get everyone off the road!” Laren Torm was panicked, suddenly screaming at everyone. “Belka! Get the wagons off the road! We have to get out of the way!”

“We’re just about ready to get moving, what are you on about now!?”

“Get. Off. The. Road!” she screamed in his face. “They won’t stop for us! We’ll all be trampled!”

Belka Torm was many things, but a fool, he hoped, wasn’t one of them. His wife’s dreams had led him to many a profitable venture, but more often had helped him dodge disasters. He wasted no more time, joining his workers in leading horses and their wagons off the road into the grassy fields to one side. They’d barely cleared the road when the winds picked up, storm clouds suddenly darkening the skies. Thunder rumbled in the distance, strongly enough he could feel it through the soles of his boots more than he could hear it in the air.

“That’s not thunder,” Laren said, standing nervously beside him. “Or at least it’s not just thunder. They’re coming.”

“Who?”

Laren shook her head helplessly. “Red eyes and one arm, thunder under the banner; the dream wasn’t any clearer than that, except that we’d have been crushed if we stayed on the road.”

Belka didn’t argue with her. His wife didn’t have true dreams often, but when she did, he knew better than to invite tragedy by protesting. They didn’t have to wait long; the low, scudding clouds drew closer, shadows deepening in the hills to the northwest, as the thunder he could feel under his feet finally grew loud enough for him to hear.

“It’s not thunder. Drumbeats. And hooves.” The clouds above flashed, lit from within by grim lightning, and the shadows on the road gave way to reveal a banner in the distance. Underneath it he could just make out the shape of a wagon. As it bore down, he saw the face of a grizzled, bearded old man at the reins of a pair of mules. The grass in the fields swayed and bent before the frenzied wind, and the sound of thunder and drumbeat grew louder. The darkness deepened almost to midnight, the morning sun hiding its face from that awesome banner, and the soldiers who marched under it.

As above, so below; the lightning dancing through the clouds was mirrored by sparks of electricity leaping from the hoofstrike of every horse in the caravan, as wagons continued to melt out of the darkness. Soldiers marched alongside and among the wagons, their hobnail boots hitting the ground in near unison. Their gaze was fixed straight ahead, and their pace never faltered, as if by their stride they demanded the earth itself surrender to their will. They marched, the wind howled, but their banner remained immobile. A rough black stripe split the fabric in half, and collars dangled beneath it, tassels weighing it down.

Lightning finally did crash then, a burst of light that drove the shadows back to reveal a towering, armored form on an even larger horse, his lance couched and held upright. He came to the side of the road as the caravan continued rolling past, and his stallion stamped and pawed the ground as if eager to return to its head. Two hulking wolfmen, small next to the horse, slunk out of the shadows to flank him.

“What do you carry?” rasped a voice as dry and cold as the autumn winds that had preceded him.

Belka stood there a moment, finding his voice. “Stamina potions, healing tonics, and a wagonload of mana crystals bound for Forvale from Fort Expedition. We got out ahead of the siege, and…” Belka’s voice trailed off as the apparition tugged a pouch from his belt, tossing it at his feet. The renowned symbol of the City of Prophets, an eye in a white circle, decorated the bag in embossed stitching. Belka retrieved it, and his hands shook as he tipped several rectangular chits of silvery metal into his palm.. “This…is this mithril?”

“We’re buying your wagons.”

“But this is too much—” Belka protested, before Laren dug her elbow into his ribs. “Wait, what do you mean the wagons?”

“Your goods, your wagons, your men…all of it.”

“But we just left Fort Expedition barely two weeks ago!”

“Yes, and? Now you’re going back.” Thunder crashed again as the man spoke, the last soldiers in the column marching past. “Fall in, and keep up.”

Everything was red. Red light—red like heat, red like fire—burned through her being. Even the scent in her nostrils felt red. She was inundated by the light, subsumed by it. Eventually she became the light, the all-consuming hue defining her existence, until it slowly faded into blessed darkness.

She woke with a gasp, jerking upright from the cold stone upon which she lay. She rose to her feet and looked at the space she was in. Tall gothic arches surrounded an atrium, and in the center was what looked like…

“Is this an altar? Or a crypt?”

“Six of one, half dozen of the other,” came a voice from her left. She spun to look, but limbs rendered unfamiliar by the redness betrayed her, and she fell back to the floor.

“Now, now, no need to panic,” a second voice said, and the woman pushed herself up from the floor with weary arms that only reluctantly obeyed. Her eyes met three pairs of feet, one in armored boots, one with comfortable looking sandals, and another pair bare on the floor. Three women stood before her, looking down on her, on hands and knees, clothed in a plain white shift.

“Where are—? What—?”

Her eyes traced up the women in front of her. The one on her left was dressed in scuffed, battle-worn armor. She looked to the side, toward the other two, and clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “She’s forgotten so much, Ruga. Are you sure we should be bothering with this instead of letting her pass back into the cycle?”

“Hush, Koma. You know she’s earned the chance to make this Choice,” said the center woman, her figure and bearing much softer and more open than the harsh, closed-off Koma, with her hard eyes. She’d been afraid of the armored Koma instantly, but this Ruga was a kinder presence. The third had yet to speak, but even in her silence, she was confusing, her clothes flickering from one outfit to another every few heartbeats.

“What choice do you mean?” she choked out. Her lungs ached, as if breathing were a burden, and she found she couldn’t remember her name or how she got here. That made not knowing what was happening even worse.

“So sad,” said the third woman with the shifting clothes, with a sad shake of her head. “She always wanted to enter the Temple, and now that she’s finally here? She doesn’t even remember.”

Temple? The thought was familiar and mournful.

“Don’t taunt her, Ingra,” the middle woman admonished before turning back to kneel before her. A small basin of water and a washcloth appeared in Ruga’s hands, the latter of which she offered with a comforting smile. “She’s sacrificed enough.”

“Sacrifice? What did I do? Who am—? Who are—?” she sputtered uselessly, confusion rising once again.

“Shhhh,” Ruga said, helping her wash her face. “Yours was a long and twisting story, and there will be time enough to help you remember.”

Koma snorted with amusement. “I’ll say, you don’t see one such as her sacrifice themselves. Ever.”

“So that brings us here. You did an impossible thing,” Ruga said gently, “and the reward for a job well done has ever been more work to do.”

“If you’ll take the job,” the last woman said, her clothes shifting from blouse and breeches to a scandalously sheer silk gown that covered little and hid less. “You’ve earned the Choice, to pass on, and forget, and start again.”

“Or you can stick around with a new job, maybe help some more people,” said the woman in armor.

“Maybe help lots of people,” Ruga said, helping her to her feet.

“How can I help people? I don’t know who I am!” she complained, finally finding her feet.

“You’ll get those memories back if you choose to take the job. You won’t need them if you choose to pass on,” replied Ruga.

“That’s not—”

“Fair?” Ruga supplied. “You’re right, it’s not. Nothing in life, or in death, ever is. But the Choice is before you: you can choose to keep doing good, or you can choose to pass on. None will fault you, whichever you choose. You’ve already died, girl.” Ruga pulled her close suddenly, a gentle hug that soothed her mind, small comforts against the confusion. “Most only do it once, but you’ve managed to go and do it twice.” Ruga stepped back, holding her at arm’s length while looking in her eyes. “If you could remember, it would sway your choice. That’s why you’re held apart from your memories. You have to decide from down here in the dream, the person you are, not the person you were.”

“Everything was red…” the woman said softly.

“We can’t tell you any more than we have,” Koma said gently, “but if you choose to stay, I promise you, it will be worth it. If you want to help people. Not easy, but worthy.”

“You’ll have to travel a long way, from this island temple all the way to the middle of the mainland.” Ingra’s clothes still shifted, now luxurious robes of purple with oversized golden loops hanging from her ears.

“…How will I get there?” she asked, looking from one woman to the next.

Koma suddenly smiled. “I think she’s choosing to stay if she’s worried about that!” She laughed.

“I’ll tell you, if that’s your choice,” Ruga replied with a smile.

“I think I’d like to help people, if I can.” She nodded at the women, strength slowly returning to her limbs.

“In that case, you’ll get to the mainland with these,” Ruga whispered, this time stepping close and reaching behind her. She could feel a strange sensation in her back as the other woman’s arm pulled something out to the side, holding a wing draped in feathers of brilliant white. Its mate twitched behind her.

“Regain your strength and recover your memories…Zizael, Herald of Redemption.” Zizael gasped and shuddered, strength suddenly flooding her body as her memory began to trickle back to her.

“You’ve got a job to do, and people to save.”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1: The Drop

Chapter 2: Survival, with a side of screaming.

Chapter 3: Fruits of Thy Labors

Chapter 4: End of an Age

Chapter 5: Climb Down

Chapter 6: Enchantment

Chapter 7: Aspect Locked

Chapter 8: Crystallized

Chapter 9: Run, Fight, or Die

Chapter 10: Know Thyself

First InterLulude: Defend!

Chapter 11: Storm Break

Chapter 12: [Skyclad Sorceress]

Chapter 13: Sympathetic Reflex

Chapter 14: Blood Burns True

Chapter 15: First Raven’s Roost

Interlude: The Broken

Chapter 16: [Mage-Eater]

Chapter 17: Living Runes

Chapter 18: Terrakinesis

Interlude: The General

Chapter 19: Experimentation

Chapter 20: Eye of Madness

Chapter 21: Glimmers and Glimpses

Chapter 22: Incineratus

Chapter 23: Expedition

Chapter 24: Bitter Tears

Chapter 25: Wanderings

Chapter 26: Territorial Disputes

Chapter 27: Shattered Fates

Chapter 28: Crimson Ruin

Chapter 29: Bounty of the Wilds

Chapter 30: Entrenchment

Interlude: The Dreamer

Chapter 31: A Slight Miscalculation

Second InterLulude: Hello!

Chapter 32: A Fireside Chat

Third InterLulude: Filth!

Chapter 33: Under Ashen Skies

Chapter 34: The Devil’s Drum

Chapter 35: Aspect of the Harbinger

Chapter 36: Thunder and Mud

Chapter 37: Reunions

Chapter 38: Impact Duality

Chapter 39: Dirt

Chapter 40: Coronas Judicas

Chapter 41: Unending Duty

Epilogue: Winds that Whisper