6.02 (1/2)

It was a cold evening when Octavia Cotton carefully lit a match. It was spring, but sometimes the cold days still remained. This was one of them.

The match sparked and the head flared into life. For most people in Celum, the city that Octavia had made her home for four years, the fire would have been a welcome sight, the heat comforting. But part of Octavia couldn’t help but flinch at the sight of the dancing flame. Even though the match was her creation.

She couldn’t help it. She was a Stitch Person after all. And fire was one of the ways her kind died. It was a horrible death, and Octavia was cautious to the extreme when handling fire. She’d rather juggle acids in bottles than risk a flame igniting with an explosive reagent. The match scared her, but she knew her cotton body wasn’t that flammable. Even so, the spark of fear in her heart was primal. Instinctive.

Still, there were some situations in which fire was quite useful. Like now. Octavia held the burning match up to a rag. Soaked in cheap alcohol. The rag ignited, and Octavia, swearing and moving quickly, grabbed it and whirled it around with the heavy weight it was attached to.

Molotov cocktails had not yet been invented in this world—at least not in the sense of using alcohol containers as makeshift incendiary devices. And Octavia didn’t buy alcohol nearly expensive enough to qualify in any case. The burning rag was tied to a brick. And as Octavia let go, it soared through the dim evening light and straight through the window of an [Alchemist]’s shop.

Not hers, obviously. Octavia heard the shattering of glass, an exclamation, and then a roar of outrage. She raised her head and shouted.

“Eat moths and die, Quelm!”

“Octavia! You half-wit [Boiler]! I’ll cut your stitches off and use you as coat!”

“You stole my matches!”

Octavia shouted as she backed up from the shop. She sensed movement from inside. Then a man, scrawny, but brandishing a club, raced outside. His fingers were stained and he wore an apron. She’d caught him in the middle of mixing something.

“Hah! I perfected your inferior design! I knew it wasn’t that complex! And I’ll be taking all your business thanks to my spark-dust igniter!”

The Stitch Girl hopped from foot to foot in rage. She shook a fist, wishing she’d brought two stones.

“You won’t get away with this! If it’s a trade war you want—it’s on!”

“I’ll bury you in sales! You’d better guard that shop! I’ve got a box of matches with your name on it!”

“Hah! I’ll have a dozen Drakes from Liscor stabbing you in moments if you do that! And unlike me, you won’t be walking away!”

Quelm the [Alchemist] roared and charged. Octavia turned and ran. She sensed a few shutters above her fly open as Quelm’s neighbors caught on to what was happening at last. They shouted insults at Octavia as she fled. But no one called for the Watch. Undoubtedly someone would, but they knew this was an [Alchemist]’s fight. Not worth sticking their noses into, in short.

It was two blocks before Quelm finally gave up chasing Octavia. She slowed, panting, and wiped sweat from her brow. Well, she’d delivered her message. Unfortunately, she doubted it would do anything. And now she…probably…had to pay for a broken window.

Still, it had to be done. Standards were standards. And Octavia, as one of four [Alchemists] in Celum, had to guard her territory. Not just in the physical sense; it was also about what each [Alchemist] sold. And in this case, one of her competitors, Quelm, had just figured out her match formula. And worse—he’d made it better.

“Damn it Quelm. Why couldn’t you have blown up your shop making those matches?”

Octavia kicked at a pebble as she walked down the street. She was already imagining how much business she’d lose. Not just because Quelm’s new ‘sparking matches’ ignited more reliably, but because he was charging less than she had. Before, Octavia had cornered the market and she’d inflated prices as much as she dared. That was coming to bite her now. But she’d really thought they’d have a harder time figuring the matches out!

The Stitch Girl got back to her shop and checked the boarded front. She still hadn’t replaced her glass window, and her shop looked rather run-down. But she liked to think it was a well-known spot, even if that knowing was mostly infamy rather than fame. Come to that, the boards might help if Quelm retaliated. She wished she actually employed guards—this could get nasty if the trade war escalated.

“If Quelm spreads his designs—no, if he partners with that bitch Mabel the Magnificent, or Jeffil—he won’t partner with Jeffil. But if they start learning their own designs—I’ve barely gotten orders from [Merchants] from the larger cities yet! I’ll lose access to the market, and that’s before they figure out a way to copy my designs in the larger cities!”

Octavia clutched at her braided hair, wondering if it was worth selling the recipe to her matches to an [Alchemist] in Invrisil—if she could even make the deal at anything approaching a profit. And then she wondered if it would come to violence. Quelm wasn’t as thuggish as Jeffil, or Mabel—but he did hold a grudge. And he was an [Alchemist]. Could she afford hired help? Maybe a few Bronze-rank adventurers?

Alchemy was a cutthroat business. In some cities, [Alchemists] worked together in harmony and got along fine, creating wonderful potions and other items for the good of everyone. Octavia had yet to find a city where this was the case, but she assumed there was at least one. But in most cities where there was more than one [Alchemist], they got along as well as a bag full of cats. On fire. Filled with bull feces.

It was mainly due to personality. It was a very odd type of person who became an [Alchemist]. Not only did you have to be keen on mixing various poisons and ingredients that might explode, melt, or create something entirely unexpected, you had to be part [Merchant] as well to obtain your ingredients and sell your products.

Most [Alchemists] were odd in some way. You could roughly divide them into two camps: the insane geniuses who just wanted to create and weren’t much good at interpersonal communication, and the ones who were business-savvy, and could sell as well and create. Octavia fell into the latter camp. She liked to think she’d made her store, Stitch Works, quite profitable. She liked to think that.

But if she was honest…Octavia sighed as she looked around her shop. She had potions on the shelves, goods on display, with her boxes of matches prominently featured right next to the counter. She had money in the little safe hidden in her bathroom—a good amount and almost all gold. All in all, she was running a good shop. An average shop.

Not a famous shop. Her potions were mid-tier at best. Octavia was a Level 21 [Alchemist]—she’d just reached the point at which she could consider taking on an apprentice, if one even wanted to work for someone of her level yet. Her store might be something in ten years if she reached Level 30—then she could move to a bigger city up north, or go south into Drake lands. Or she could stay here and be the top [Alchemist] in Celum.

If she was Level 30. If she had real potions to sell. But right now she earned her living selling cheap healing potions to [Guards], [Mercenaries], adventures, and mana potions to the low-level [Mages] who came by. Her profits came in silver, not gold. And while it was steady, it wasn’t much. Octavia had been a middling [Alchemist]. Until she’d met Erin Solstice. And Ryoka Griffin. And had made matches.

“Five levels in two months. Sales through the roof! And the pepper potion, the smoke bag, the er—exploding flour—all of it at competitive, but not too steep prices!”

Octavia puffed out her chest as she remembered the days when her shop had been filled with customers. Then she recalled each of her competitors stealing her designs, producing the same potions and finding ways to improve her formulas, taking her business. That was what [Alchemists] did. It was hard, very hard to come up with something that wouldn’t be stolen at once.

“But I do have something. A Haste Potion. Or—or a lead to go on. And the uh, peni-whatever.”

Octavia muttered to herself. She walked behind her counter and checked on her projects. Mold, growing on pieces of bread—and cheese, she’d expanded the set—in little jars. In all colors too. Octavia had been looking for the blue-green consistency Ryoka had told her was the right mold, but none of the molds she’d found had worked like Ryoka had said. She shook her head, and then looked at her most precious project, sitting in a little bottle in a hidden drawer right under her desk.

A tiny bit of potion. Glowing yellow, streaked with bright pink. It glowed, even the little bit of it as Octavia carefully held it up and regarded the liquid. Even after months of being in the sealed container, the potion looked as bright as it had on the day Ryoka had shown it to her. The colors were vivid, the liquid practically raced by itself. Octavia’s heart beat quicker as she imagined the [Alchemist] who’d made it.

“A high-grade potion of haste. Gold-rank adventurers would sell their hair for a potion like this.”

If she could replicate it—or the penicillin that Ryoka had talked about—Octavia would be rich. And famous. Healing potions were notorious for not working on serious diseases. In fact, they made them worse. An infection would spread even faster with a healing potion accelerating it. Healing potions couldn’t handle sickness; it was one reason why [Healers] were still needed. But if Octavia could distill the anti-disease agent Ryoka had wanted so badly…

Or make a potion of this caliber. The Stitch-Girl shivered and replaced the sample of the potion in her compartment. If she could do either, she’d finally make it. All her hard work, the years she’d spent apprenticing, moving from Chandrar to Izril, fighting for every corroded copper coin—it would all be worth it.

But she couldn’t do either. It was impossible. Octavia hadn’t been able to analyze the precious sample of potion or find which damn mold cured infection. And now she was fighting with the other [Alchemists] over matches.

“I could really use some new products. Or hired help. A few [Thugs] with bats, maybe? But I need coin. I’ve already spent too much on new equipment.”

Octavia cast a glance at the shiny new sets of alchemy gear—magical burners which could more effectively regulate temperature or even produce different flames for special ingredients, enchanted glassware to contain even the most dangerous reactions, retorts made by master [Glass Blowers] from Terandria, and so on. Octavia was willing to admit she’d splurged too much recently. But if she could get a new product on her shelves, something truly uncopyable—

Her eyes slid sideways as her fingers drummed restlessly on the counter. Octavia’s leg shook, tapping the floor. She looked down and frowned.

“Restless leg. I should check that.”

Absently, she sat on her stool and took off her leg. It was fairly simple; Octavia’s legs were secured to her body with black string. The [Alchemist] had to take off her pants to undo the leg, but as soon as she removed the stitching she felt her limb disappear. And a cloth leg, very detailed but cloth nonetheless, appeared in her hands.

It was a peculiarity of the String People. They had been made, and they made themselves. Their bodies were cloth; they could reattach limbs, or even redesign themselves at will if they had the right materials. In Octavia’s case, she was a String-Girl of the Cotton folk; hence her name.

Octavia Cotton. Not poor, but not rich by any means. Her body was functional, but it developed flaws over time. Like wadded up stuffing, or in this case, misaligned nerves. Octavia checked her leg thoroughly before sewing it back into her body. She felt her leg reattach; the restless shaking stopped.

A good enough body. The kind you wanted as an [Alchemist] anyways; cheap to replace. But what Octavia would have given for a body make of silk! Even really cheap silk! Or another precious material, like satin, or Griffinfeather cloth, or….

Again, Octavia’s eyes slid left. Towards something set into the left wall of her shop. A door.

It was a curious thing. Just a wooden door. It clearly, clearly did not lead anywhere since if you went through the wall you’d be exiting right into the alley and there was no door on the other side. And yet, the door did lead somewhere. It was magical, or the glowing gem set into the doorframe was. It was bright green and it connected the door, in theory, to a magical door a hundred miles south of here. To an inn located just outside the Drake city of Liscor.

Magic. And Octavia’s shop was the place this humble door was connected to. How incredible was that? How potentially lucrative? Some night Octavia lay awake in bed, practically salivating over the possibilities. She’d already secured a deal to sell her potions in Liscor’s market with a hard-bargaining Gnoll [Shopkeeper].

And she had a…friend? A person who lived in said inn who could give her everything Octavia needed. New ideas, an edge on the competition—maybe even a way to guard her now-perilous shop at night.

But—Octavia hesitated. Her fingers drummed faster on the counter. It wasn’t the time to go. She knew that. Not for business. Even Octavia had a heart. And yet, she wanted to go nonetheless. For reasons other than making a profit. Because—

She was at the door before she knew it. Octavia told herself she was just going to peek. Besides, if the door wasn’t set to Celum, it wouldn’t matter. It probably wasn’t anyways. Probably—

She opened the door a crack and her breath caught. Instead of stone wall behind the door, there was a dark wooden floor. A larger room than Octavia’s shop. The scent of cooked food, wood, and just the faintest whiff of something putrid. The Stitch-Girl hesitated.

She shouldn’t. She knew she probably wasn’t wanted. But she still pushed the door open wider a bit. She’d poke her head in, scope out the scene—

Octavia looked around The Wandering Inn. Her first glimpse of things was of a dark, dark room. Practically pitch-black, in fact. A tall ceiling looked down at her, and the room stretched ahead of Octavia. Impossibly far, like some kind of huge mess hall. Or a theater.

At the far end of the room was a stage. It was empty. And the chairs and tables leading up to it were deserted. It was dark. Octavia could barely make out the far end of the room. The only light came from a pair of big candles burning low on the tables closer to the front door and kitchen. There was no light from outside; not even moonlight. The shutters were closed so tightly nothing could get in. And the inn looked deserted.

Was everyone gone? Surely not. Octavia cracked open the door a bit wider. She stepped into the inn, half-closing the door to her shop behind her. She looked around, heart beating a bit fast. Where was everyone? Normally the inn would be full of life. True, given what had happened, Octavia didn’t expect that, but she’d assumed someone would be—

Click.

Octavia heard the gentle sounds of nails clicking on the hardwood floor. She spun. A small, white shape had crept up on her from behind. Two bright eyes stared up at Octavia. The [Alchemist] nearly jumped out of her stitches. Then she recognized the creature who’d appeared. Not an animal, but a person. A child.

“Mrsha?”

The white Gnoll looked up at Octavia. She sat cross-legged on the ground, staring up at the Stitch-Girl. Octavia passed a hand over her forehead.

“You scared the—hello! How’s my favorite match-seller doing? Ah, is anyone around? Are you alone?”

Mrsha didn’t respond. She just gazed up silently at Octavia. That wasn’t unusual in itself; Mrsha couldn’t speak. But Octavia noted the stillness of Mrsha’s form. Normally she’d be full of energy. Her tail, usually wagging, was still. She just sat and looked up at Octavia, a world of unspoken words waiting behind her eyes.

“Um—”

A creak. Octavia turned again, and saw someone walk out of the kitchen. Lyonette, a girl with red hair, paused as she walked out of the kitchen holding a saucer and smaller candle. She reached for something at her side the instant she saw Octavia—then relaxed. But her voice wasn’t too friendly as she walked over.

“Octavia? What are you doing here? The inn’s closed. IF you’re here to sell something—”

“What, me? No! Never! I mean, not right now!”

Octavia raised her hands and protested. She looked from Lyonette to Mrsha. Neither one was smiling. Both looked…quiet was the only word for it. Not just in words, but in action. They stood together, in the dark common room, staring at Octavia. She already felt like an intruder.

“I uh, was just coming over to say hi. And to check on how things were—were doing.”

“There’s nothing for you here. And don’t bother trying to get to Liscor; we’re not changing the magical door, and I’ve barred the front door.”

Lyonette put her candle on the table and crossed her arms. Octavia winced. Why did everyone think she only thought about money? Oh, right. Well, she wasn’t thinking of it in this case!

“I don’t want to sell anything. Honest. I’m just here to see—is Erin here?”

The word made Lyonette’s expression flicker. Mrsha looked from her to Octavia.

“Erin’s upstairs. She’s alive.”

Not the most reassuring of words. Octavia looked around and saw the staircase.

“I—I mean, I won’t if it’s not a good time, but I could say hi. Is she—how’s she doing?”

Lyonette hesitated. She looked at Octavia suspiciously, as if still suspecting that Octavia was here to make a deal or bargain for something. Then she shook her head.

“She’s not doing good.”

“Still?”

The two young women looked at each other. Lyonette nodded. Then she sat down. Mrsha crawled onto a chair next to her and leaned on her. Quiet. Octavia shifted from foot to foot, but she didn’t sit down. It felt empty in here. Empty and silent, like a graveyard.

Or a wake.

“She’s upstairs. Crying. I check on her a few times every day. She’s…it’s been six days and she hasn’t done anything.”

“I…I know that. I checked in the second day. When uh—six days? It feels shorter than that. I mean, I just heard about all of it. The door only came back when it was over. Obviously. And I was relieved to hear—I mean, I didn’t know until—”

Octavia babbled a bit. Lyonette just looked up at her. The [Alchemist] stopped.

“How bad was it?”

She hadn’t gotten a chance to ask before. Lyonette paused. She seemed to search for words.

“We were in the city. That was all. We didn’t see any of the fighting. We just saw the aftermath.”

“And was—”

The Stich-Girl got no further. The look in Lyonette’s eyes—in both hers and Mrsha’s eyes—was enough. They stared at Octavia in silence. The [Alchemist] paused. She looked around the empty inn in silence for a minute. She chose her next words carefully.

“I heard—in Celum, that is—that people were complaining that the Players of Celum weren’t putting on performances. Er, does that mean the inn’s…?”

“No one’s putting on performances. Erin told Wesle that. And there’s no point anyways. No one’s coming here.”

“No one at all?”

Part of Octavia wasn’t surprised. But it had been six days. She would have expected someone to stop by, if only for Erin. But she hadn’t understood what Lyonette meant.

“No one can enter the inn. It’s impossible for anyone in Liscor to come here, aside from the Horns, the Halfseekers…and me and Mrsha.”

“What? You mean the door’s locked?”

The [Alchemist] was confused. Lyonette shook her head as Mrsha reached out and tipped the candle, staring at the wax as it ran down one side.

“No. I mean, they cannot enter. Most can’t even leave the city if they want to get to the inn. Erin’s not letting them.”

“You mean—with a Skill?”

Lyonette nodded. Octavia blinked. She could do that? Of course, Octavia knew of Skills that could affect a shop’s popularity—like [Shopper’s Stop], or [Discerning Clientele], which could affect which customers you got or how much business came to you, but physically preventing someone from reaching the inn? That went way beyond what most Skills were capable of. Spells as well.

And no one? Lyonette just nodded when Octavia asked about that.

“No one. No one who was in Liscor. Or on the walls. Even people like Halrac or Typhenous can’t enter. And the rest…definitely not.”

“You mean, the ones who were there. Who watched and didn’t…”

“Yeah.”

The ones who’d watched the last battle of the Goblin Lord. Six days ago, two armies had fought here. Three, if you wanted to count the last part of the battle. Four if you included Liscor. But the two armies that had fought, one to defend Liscor, and the other to take it, had been Goblins.

The Goblin Lord’s army had advanced on Liscor, forced into the action by Lord Tyrion Veltras and an army of Humans intent on using the battle as a pretext to claim Liscor. They had been stopped and Tyrion’s plans foiled—by an army of Goblins who’d appeared to defend Liscor. Cave Goblins, a tribe opposing the Goblin Lord, the famous Redfangs of the High Passes, and the five Hobgoblins staying at Erin’s inn.

They had fought, placing themselves in the Goblin Lord’s way against impossible odds. For an [Innkeeper]. At her request. They had fought. And they had won.

And they had died. That was all Octavia knew. But it was enough. Enough, because she had seen the five Hobgoblins in Erin’s inn. Seen them, and known that Erin treated Goblins like people. And those people had been wiped out to the last. Not just by Tyrion Veltras, who had attacked both armies when he realized his plan would fail, but by Liscor itself. They had fled towards the city and been cut down. Repulsed by the city they had fought for.

It wasn’t something you heard about. All the [Criers] and [Messages] going back and forth were about the outcome of the battle. Tyrion Veltras challenging the Drakes to combat at the Blood Fields, the political fallout in the north thanks to Magnolia Reinhart. Little about the Goblins.

But here, in this inn, the Goblins were all that mattered. And Erin—Octavia shifted in her chair. No wonder no one from Liscor could come through. They’d watched the battle happen and given only a little aid to the Goblin’s side. And at the end…

“How come I can get through? I didn’t have a problem.”

She pointed that out to Lyonette. The young woman shrugged.

“Erin probably didn’t think of you.”

She elaborated at the hurt look on Octavia’s face.

“There wasn’t anything you could have done. The door to Celum was closed. But everyone else—”

“They really can’t get close?”

Octavia looked towards the door. It was shut, and the lock bar was in place. Windows closed…she wished that Lyonette would have at least opened a few windows. Maybe she was worried about crime at night? Or it could be chilly, true, but she could at least light a fire. It was too dark like this.

Lyonette didn’t seem to share the same opinion. She shook her head.

“They can’t get near. They can’t even get up the hill. Olesm tried for three hours yesterday. He couldn’t so much as take a step. I think Wall Lord Ilvriss could, or maybe Relc or Klbkch or one of the Gold-ranks—but they won’t try.”

“Wow.”

That was all Octavia could say. She looked at Lyonette and then glanced at Mrsha. The Gnoll was carving at the candle with one claw. Quietus.

“So Erin’s…”

“Upstairs.”

“Should I…?”

“If you want. I don’t think it’ll do anything. But I won’t stop you. You want to try?”

Octavia hesitated. But she had come this far and this was the reason she’d come to begin with. So she nodded. Lyonette stood up abruptly. She took the candle from Mrsha and nodded to the stairs.

“She’s in my old room. Mine and Mrsha’s.”

She led the way up the stairs. Octavia followed her, expecting the floorboards to creak. But they didn’t. They were new. She waited for sound. Movement. Anything. But the inn was so quiet it pressed down on her. Lyonette stopped before the first door she came to and knocked on it.

“Erin? Octavia’s here. She’d like to speak to you.”

There was no response. Lyonette knocked again, and then silently pushed the door open. Octavia peeked into the room and saw her.

A young woman was curled up on the floor. Her light brown hair was an untidy mess. She was facing away from them, towards a wall.

“Erin?”

Octavia’s voice quavered uncertainly as Lyonette stood to one side. The [Innkeeper] didn’t reply. Octavia coughed, and then she raised her voice brightly.

“Hey! Sorry to bother you, but uh, I was just in the area—you know, magic door—and I thought I’d say hi. I haven’t seen you in a while. It’s…I heard about what happened. I’m…sorry. But I came by to say that if there’s anything I could do—anything at all? I’m not asking for money. I just came by to say—I—I thought I’d just…”

Her voice trailed off. Octavia stared at the young woman’s back. She didn’t move. She didn’t seem to breathe, until Octavia saw her chest move slightly from behind. She walked forwards.

“Erin? Are you asleep? Can you—”

Octavia stopped. She saw Erin’s face. The girl’s eyes were open. Her hazel eyes stared ahead. Tears ran from her eyes. They dripped down her face. Ran onto her clothing. Erin didn’t move. She didn’t look at Octavia.

It had been six days since the death of the Goblin Lord. Six days since the final siege of Liscor. Six days since the death.

“Erin? I…”

“Erin? Octavia’s here for you. Mrsha’s wondering if you’ll get up.”

“Erin? I’m so sorry. Can I do anything?”

“We’re waiting for you. No one can enter the inn. Erin? Please say something.”

“Erin?”

She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. Not even when Octavia shook her. She blinked and breathed and that was all. Salt and water ran from her eyes. And there was little else there.

The tears wouldn’t stop. They would never stop. Erin curled up in her room and didn’t move. Eventually, Lyonette gave up her entreaties. She looked at Octavia and the two retreated.

“I didn’t know. I thought after six days she’d be at least—”

Octavia trailed off. Lyonette shook her head.

“She’s barely eats. She only eats because Mrsha stopped eating when she did. I thought so too. After six days—she’s lost friends before. But this time…they fought for her.”

“I know. No one’s talking about that. They just say the Goblins had a civil war. Or that they fought each other. No one’s talking about the fact that it was her.”

The two stared back into the room. Erin lay there. Mrsha padded into the room. She circled Erin. She reached out and stroked Erin’s hair. Then she lay next to Erin, silent. Lyonette stared at Mrsha. After a few minutes, the Gnoll child got up and walked back towards them. She reached up and Lyonette lifted her up, hugging her. Octavia watched the two silently. Jealous for a second as she saw Mrsha bury her face into Lyonette’s chest and hug her back.

“Let’s leave her alone.”

Lyonette closed the door. She looked at Octavia as they walked back down the stairs. For some reason she glanced towards the far end of the hall before she walked down. But she said nothing of it.

“She’ll move in a bit. She always does. But until then I can’t get her to do anything. Anyways, she shouldn’t really be up for this. It’s nearly time.”

“Time for what?”

Octavia was still trying to process Erin’s grief. But then she noticed Lyonette reached for the thing at her side. She stopped when Lyonette put Mrsha down in the common room and drew her sword.

It was a straight, steel blade. Unadorned, and unremarkable. The kind you could get from any [Blacksmith]. But Lyonette held it as if she meant to use it. She stared towards the door, then slowly moved towards a table. She placed the sword on the table and pulled up a chair. Then she looked at Octavia.

“They’re coming.”

“Who?”

The [Alchemist] looked at the sword, bewildered. But then she heard a sound. A faint shuffling. A bump. Steps from outside. And then a dull, quiet thump against the door. She jumped.

“What was that?”

Lyonette had just said that no one could come to the inn! So who was that? Octavia stared at the door, but Lyonette made no move to open it. She heard the thump again, louder. Something—someone was bumping against it. Insistently. And then there was another thump, this time from a window right of the door. And then another bump. Another.

Something was outside the inn. Somethings. Someone. And they were…colliding with the inn. Striking the shutters. Then Octavia heard a sigh, and the sound of something hitting the door with a dull, fleshy impact. And it clicked. She backed up, eyes wide.

“The undead.”

Lyonette nodded. She stared at the door as Mrsha huddled next to her. The Gnoll’s hair was standing up, but she didn’t look too afraid. She’d seen this before. Octavia was terrified. Her breath caught, and her eyes grew round as she stepped backwards, towards the door to her shop.

“Don’t worry, they can’t get in.”

“But the undead—”

It had to be them. Octavia was suddenly reminded of a fact of this world. When the dead gather, the undead rise. And while graveyards were purified to ensure the remains of the deceased wouldn’t become undead, there was a battlefield’s worth of the dead outside. And by the sounds of it, zombies were converging on the inn as night fell.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The sounds came from all sides now as the zombies ran into the inn, some attacking it with their arms and heads, others just running into it. And those were just the audible sounds. Octavia imagined hundreds of bodies, silently pressed against the inn, as if they could implode the walls just like that. And maybe they could. This inn was made out of wood, not stone. But Lyonette was focused. Grimly calm.

“Erin’s Skills will keep us safe. Just stay quiet and we won’t attract too many. They can’t do anything to get in. Just make sounds.”

The sound was rhythmic, eerie. And worse because the undead truly didn’t make many sounds. Of course, Octavia had heard the classic zombie groaning parodied to her, but these ones didn’t do that. They just sighed, made small sounds. It was terrifying.

“Are you just going to let them stay here? All night long? What if they find a way in? Where are the other adventurers?”

Octavia was unable to keep silent. She knew both adventuring teams! How could they leave Lyonette, Mrsha, and Erin alone? Mrsha looked up. Her tail was twitching each time something struck the inn. Lyonette pointed towards the door.

“The adventurers? They’re outside.”

“Out—”

Lyonette nodded.

“The Horns are out there. So are the Halfseekers and all the adventurers. They’re killing them by the thousands each day, but there are over a hundred thousand dead bodies out there. Closer to two hundred thousand, maybe. And more keep rising each day.”

“Two hundred thousand.”

Octavia felt like she was repeating everything Lyonette said. Her brown skin grew pale.

“They can’t get in.”

Lyonette reassured Mrsha and Octavia once more, but Octavia noticed that the sword was bared and never out of Lyonette’s reach. The thumping on the windows and groans grew louder as more undead joined the inn. Then the [Alchemist] heard a crash as something hit the door. Hard. She jumped.

“What was that?”

This time Lyonette stood up. She stared at the door as something hit it again, far louder than the zombies. She held up a hand and Octavia and Mrsha were still.

“Ghoul.”

The thing outside rammed the door three times. And then Octavia heard a sound that made her skin crawl. Scuffling. And then the sounds of scratching movement outside. From a window, then higher up.

“It’s climbing.”

She looked at Lyonette, terrified. But the [Barmaid] was still calm, if alert. She tracked the thing’s progress up the side of the inn.

“The roof’s sealed. We boarded it up and the Antinium say they’ll begin working on rebuilding as soon as the undead presence lessens.”

Still, Lyonette looked wary as she reached for the sword. The crawling thing outside scraped as it climbed higher and higher—and then Octavia heard a crash and a heavy impact. She looked at Lyonette, but the [Barmaid] was focused on the door. There were more impacts, of a different kind this time, from outside, and then a thump that Octavia felt in her bones. Silence—and then, to the [Alchemist]’s surprise and relief, a voice.

“Lyonette? Are you alright?”

It was Ceria. Octavia vaguely recognized the half-Elf’s voice. Lyonette called out.

“We are. Did you get it?”

“Yeah. It was a Ghoul trying to climb the inn. We got rid of the zombies too. Pisces is keeping his bear Bone Horror back here. Any sign of cracks? Damage?”

“None. We’re fine.”

Octavia heard another voice, muffled. Ceria replied, and then she raised her voice as the sounds of more impacts started up. Someone—the rest of her team probably—was fighting the undead.

“Okay. We’ll be back in an hour. Maybe two. There are more Ghouls tonight. Make sure the windows are closed and locked.”

“Got it.”

Ceria didn’t say anything more after that. Octavia heard faint footsteps, then silence. She looked at Lyonette.

“The Bone Horror’s here. You can’t hear it, but it will guard the inn. We don’t really need it.”

“Bone Horror?”

Octavia said the word uncertainly. She’d heard of such things, but those were higher-level undead. Lyonette nodded.

“Pisces made it. It can handle anything that appears. For now. That’s why the adventurers are trying to burn and kill as many undead as possible.”

Mrsha shivered. So did Octavia.

“Worse things than Ghouls appear?”

“Usually? No. But on a big battlefield? We can get Crypt Lords, Shamblers, and a lot worse in time. It won’t come to that. Liscor’s making sure the bodies are all disposed of.”

“Only Goblin bodies, though, right?. I heard they all died here.”

“Most of them did.”

Lyonette’s eyes were shadowed. She looked upstairs once more. And Octavia was glad that Erin hadn’t come downstairs.

The undead kept rising after that, but the Bone Horror that had been left was defending the inn, by the sounds of the occasionally heavy impacts from outside. Lyonette sat with Octavia and Mrsha, listening maybe. Both she and Mrsha were so grim. Octavia tried to liven things up, but she was no good. In the end, she just sat with them. At some point Lyonette roused herself.

“It’s about time for Erin to come down.”

“She’s coming down? To eat?”

That startled Octavia, given how unresponsive Erin had been. But Lyonette was already going into the kitchen. She came out with, of all things, a little bit of a stew in a bowl, some bread, buttered, and a few Yellats, fried on one side. The meal was warm and hot and it made Octavia realize she hadn’t had a decent meal since…breakfast. Yesterday. She’d just eaten whatever she had since then.

Lyonette noticed the rumbling in her stomach. So she went back and got Octavia another plate like it. The [Alchemist] ate hungrily, noticing Lyonette and Mrsha weren’t eating.

“We had an early dinner.”

And they weren’t much hungry, because Mrsha didn’t even bother trying to steal Octavia’s food. The [Alchemist] polished off her plate and then saw that Lyonette kept glancing towards the stairs. The first plate she’d put out was meant for someone, and sure enough, Lyonette heard a quiet shuffling. And then Erin Solstice walked down the stairs.

“Erin! You’re up!”

Octavia was stunned. She scrambled to her feet, but Erin didn’t so much as look at her. She walked downstairs, slowly, and she was still crying. Less, but her eyes were red and swollen. She looked at Lyonette. The [Barmaid] pointed.

“It’s right here.”

Erin went over to the plate. She took it, and rather than sit, she lifted it and turned right back around. She went towards the stairs, but Lyonette raised her voice.

“He must be in the basement again. I checked his room earlier. He wasn’t there.”

Erin turned towards the trap door to the basement. Octavia got to her feet. She and Lyonette hurried over and helped open the trap door. Erin maneuvered down the stairs, refusing to let them take the plate. She turned, and Lyonette handed her a lantern. Erin looked around. For the first time she seemed to come alive. Her voice croaked.

“Hello?”

Octavia heard a pained note in her voice. She saw a desperate look in Erin’s eye. The [Innkeeper] called out, coughing on her tears. She looked around.

“Hello? Are you there?”

For a second there was naught but silence. Erin looked around, and Octavia thought that if there was one thing keeping her together, even enough to do this much, it was this. Her hand shook on the plate. The lantern light wobbled as it moved across the basement. And then it stopped. A solitary figure was sitting against the back wall. The light illuminated it. Erin called out, desperately, her voice breaking.

And the Goblin opened his eyes.

—-

He had been dreaming. It was the same dream, played a thousand times. Ten thousand.

Somewhere on a hilltop, a Goblin stood. He stared up at the night sky. The stars shone down on him. The grass was soft underfoot. And he was smiling.

The Goblin was there too. He was there. They were all there. They filled the hill. It had no end. And neither did they. Male and female. Tall and small. Hobgoblin, Goblin. Children. Adults. Warriors and those who had picked up a sword. Cave Goblins. Redfangs. Goblins wearing black armor.

The Goblin Lord. From every tribe, they stood together, looking up. At the twin moons that hung in the night sky. At each other. A breeze blew soundlessly over the hill, making the grass ripple. The Goblin who dreamed could not feel it. But the Goblins looked up. And they walked off the hill and into the sky.

At first it was a handful. And then it was more. The waiting Goblins looked at each other. The Goblin looked around and saw a familiar face.

Headscratcher. Had he known him? It felt like he had. But in this place, all Goblins knew each other. He looked past him and saw a tall Hob crouching next to a Goblin whose eyes shone red. He looked sad, but as he turned, another Goblin walked up the hill. As tall as a legend. His teeth flashed and his red war paint stood out. Garen Redfang stood next to his brother.

Reiss. And Eater of Spears looked back. The Goblin knew him too. The Hobgoblin raised a claw. He spoke a word. And then he vanished.

They were leaving. Garen and Reiss were next. They looked back, straight at the Goblin. And there was a silent moment in which Garen raised his hand and made a fist, and Reiss bowed. Then they too vanished.

Like mist. Like memory, already fading. Headscratcher stared up at the stars. He looked back and more Goblins walked forwards and vanished. He smiled once. Softly. Regrets, sorrow, and a quiet calm ran through that one smile. He reached back and the Goblin reached for him. But Headscratcher just shook his head. He said something.

“Wait.”

And then he turned and walked ahead. The Goblin watched him go. More Goblins were disappearing. The hill was growing emptier. More faces turned back to him, some laughing, others calling out.

Wait.

But how could you wait? They were all going. Spiderslicer was next. Noears shrugged and pointed ahead, clapping his hands. Hobgoblins and children followed. Too many to count.

Tens of thousands of Goblins, walking past them. Vanishing into the air. A river, a torrent. And then a trickle. The last to go was a Hobgoblin who sat on the hill, staring back rather than ahead. He was reluctant. But at last, Shorthilt stood. And the Goblins who remained and watched him were two.

He was missing his sword. Shorthilt grumbled, but there was no help for it. He looked back and reached out. He touched both of them, clasping their arms. Wishing them well. Then, with infinite reluctance, he walked forwards. And he was gone.

And then it was just the last two of them. Pyrite and Numbtongue looked at each other. Which was which? For a moment they didn’t know. They had been everyone for a moment. Every Goblin on the hill. Only now, as the last one left, did they become themselves. They stood together.

Neither one showed the wounds they had taken. But they felt them. Each one, weighing them down. It didn’t hurt like pain. But it was a reminder. And with each second, the wind blew harder. Calling them away. But only one. The two met each other’s eyes.

They had never seen each other. But they knew each other. They knew everything in a moment. And Numbtongue smiled and Pyrite bent and tried to eat the grass.

“Good song.”

“Nice axe.”

That was it. That was all you could say. The two looked at each other. Then they grew quiet and looked up. The sky called them. Both wanted to walk into that oblivion. But they also wanted to stay.

They looked back. At each other. Numbtongue was so very tired. Pyrite lowered his head, and the weight of the world pressed down on him.

“I tried.”

That was all Numbtongue could say. He looked up at Pyrite.

“I tried. We did it. She lived.”

Pyrite nodded. He reached out and squeezed Numbtongue’s shoulder gently. The Hobgoblin wiped at his eyes. Pyrite looked towards the sky.

“Tell her I’m sorry. I’m tired.”

The two turned and began walking together. Off the hill. Higher and higher. At first they walked together. But then one fell behind. The other reached for him.

“Here. Take it with you.”

And they offered their hand. The Goblin reached for it and felt the warmth. He looked up—and he was alone. Alone, he felt himself falling. And then—and then—

He woke up. In pain. In darkness. A light, bright and mortal, hurt his eyes. The Goblin shielded his face.

“Hello? Are you there?”

A female voice, cracked and broken called out to him. He saw a figure standing by the stairs. Saw a lantern’s light. The Goblin tried to sit up. His body felt unfamiliar. Heavy. He looked up as Erin walked forwards.

“Hello?”

Numbtongue looked up. His red eyes flashed in the darkness, lit up by the lantern’s glow. He looked around, but Pyrite was gone. They were all gone. And he was there. Lying in a dirty basement.

The broken guitar lay at his feet. Erin stopped when she saw Numbtongue. Her eyes went to him. She was crying. Numbtongue stared at her. He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

The music was gone.

He was alone.

“Food.”

That was all Erin said. She bent down and put the plate in front of Numbtongue. He could smell it. He didn’t respond. Erin looked down at him.

“I—”

There was nothing to say. She turned away, tears falling. Numbtongue watched her go. He moved his legs.

Painfully. His body wouldn’t move right. There was a scar on his chest. A wound. A spear had gone straight through him. He should be dead. But he remembered a stranger telling him to live.

Live.

He drew his knees up to his chest. Numbtongue slowly began to rock back and forth. He tried to hum, but there was no song in him. No music. So he just sat there, rocking back and forth, staring at the untouched meal. Back and forth. Waiting. But no matter how many times the dream never changed. The memory endured. And Pyrite reached out.

“Tell her I’m sorry. I’m tired.”

The Hobgoblin closed his eyes. But he couldn’t cry. There were no tears. No words. Just him. Alone. So the Hobgoblin closed his eyes and went back there. To that living memory. Fading, faded with each passing second. And he tried to stop them. But they were already…

Gone.

—-

Night. And then day. The seventh day after the death of the Goblin Lord, a few Drakes gathered for a conference in Liscor’s city hall. They chatted quietly, looking out across the city.

“Cremation’s getting trickier without wood to fuel the fires. We’re taking from our stockpiles, breaking down a few wagons, but we’ve having to use magic rather than wood. The [Mages] are complaining.”

Watch Captain Zevara was speaking with Ilvriss. The Wall Lord was nodding as Olesm quietly wrote down the tallies of last night’s undead suppression by the adventurers and City Watch. Embria was absent; she was still out in the Floodplains, exterminating the zombies and gathering corpses to be burned with her soldiers.

“We have no choice. As for the smell—I know the residents are unhappy, but again, this is a priority task. We’re over halfway done as it stands.”

“That was my opinion as well. There’s not much to do other than rotate the [Mages] and tell the people we’re working as hard as we can.”

Ilvriss nodded.

“These things happen. Cleanup after a battle is never popular, Watch Captain. But I think any level-headed citizens will understand the need.”

“If I find any, I’ll be sure to appreciate that fact.”

The two shared a quiet chuckle. Olesm looked up, and then back down at his work. Ilvriss paused and glanced at the door.

“Ah. Shieldscale. Come in.”

A Drake saluted at the entrance to the meeting room. She strode into the room, walking with military posture. Olesm glanced up at her. Zevara noted the pair of wings on the Drake. She was unfamiliar. Her scales were a bright, almost too-bright blue. She was clearly a soldier and was armed as such. More importantly, Zevara noticed the acrid tang in the air as she drew closer.

If she was right, this Drake had the ability to breathe some kind of weapon—probably acid. That made her an Oldblood Drake, with both wings and a breath weapon. The rarest of all combinations. Zevara couldn’t help but stand a bit straighter as this Drake saluted her and Ilvriss.

“Watch Captain. Wall Lord. I have the official reports from the Walled Cities about the engagement at the Blood Fields. For your perusal.”

She offered a report, copied twice, to Zevara and Ilvriss. They read theirs as the Drake went over and gave Olesm a copy. Ilvriss read with distaste and then shook his head.

“Disgusting. Of course the Humans are calling it a victory. These numbers—and they’re claiming this is the official report? They’ve shaved off numbers.”

“You’re sure?”

Zevara studied the report with dismay. Reading it, you could infer that the losses weren’t that bad. But Ilvriss just looked disgusted.

“I read Salazsar’s report of the battle. We can count. In numbers alone, that damned Veltras won. We pulled back too many of our elites when it was clear Liscor wasn’t in danger. I told them that was a mistake. We sent three [Generals]—good ones, but hardly our best—and paid for it. His soldiers were more elite, and with the nobility and officers he brought—disgusting. And this is what we’re claiming? A ‘partial victory’?”

He tossed his report onto the table. Zevara sighed as she did likewise. She nodded to the Drake, who’d assumed a patient posture, hands folded behind her back.

“Thank you, um…Captain?”

Zevara had to guess, since the Drake wasn’t wearing her military insignia. Ilvriss looked up.

“Ah, that would be Major Shieldscale, Watch Captain Zevara. I think I mentioned her to you?”

Zevara vaguely recalled this particular Drake popping up in conversation a few days ago, as she herself had done. Ilvriss nodded.

“As I said, her lineage is a long-time friend of the family. She’ll be serving as my aide in a more…combative role than my other adjutants.”

“Where are you from, Major Shieldscale?”

“Salazsar, Watch Captain. Born and raised in the gemstone capital.”

Ilvriss winced slightly as the Major replied. Zevara nodded. That was Salazsar for you. She looked at the Wall Lord and he cleared his throat.

“Asrira here came with a detachment bound for Invrisil. When the siege was lifted, she elected to continue on alone while the rest of her unit was recalled. I needed support, and Major Shieldscale is an accomplished warrior who’s served with distinction for over half a decade.”

To Zevara’s knowledge Ilvriss already had nearly a dozen helpers. But she nodded. Wall Lords loved their retinues.

“Does that mean your sojourn in Liscor is coming to a close, Wall Lord Ilvriss?”

She couldn’t think of any other reason he’d be requesting reinforcements. Ilvriss nodded. And Zevara felt a pang. She might actually miss him. For all he had been difficult to work with at the start, it had been very reassuring to have a Wall Lord on her side.

“That’s correct, Watch Captain. I’ve stayed here far too long as it is. Not that there wasn’t need—but I am of Salazsar, and I’ve been away from home for too long.”

“It’s a long way from here to Salazsar, though. Will you be travelling via Pallass?”

“If it can be arranged. They’re still denying me entry, which I have every right to—but I’ll lean on them as much as I need to.”

Ilvriss grimaced.

“At this point I’m almost tempted to make the trip on foot rather than keep negotiating with Pallass. But the Blood Fields have just been fed, which makes a journey south quite unwise.”

“Indeed. Um, I expect the Council will insist on celebrating you before you go. You might want to give them the heads up—or leave before they can arrange anything.”

Ilvriss stroked his chin.

“I could hardly be so rude. And it occurs to me that a funded celebration would do Liscor good. What with…all that has occurred. Things are finally looking up, aren’t they?”

“It seems that way.”

The two Drakes fell silent. Major Shieldscale waited as Olesm continued to work. They looked out across Zevara’s city. And she agreed largely with what Ilvriss had said.

The siege of Liscor was over. Before it had begun, really. But all the stress and fear that had gripped the city was gone, and that was a relief in itself. She’d been preparing to fight to the last to hold Liscor. Now—well, the eastern gate was still destroyed and there were cracks in the wall that would have to be repaired and fortified before the spring rains came again, not to mention the undead still roaming about the Floodplains and the risk of so many bodies rotting…

But it was over. Liscor was safe. And its people were happy.

There had even been a celebration. A small one, but it reflected the mood of the city and that was one of relief. Yes, everything was looking up. Zevara thought about smiling. But it didn’t seem to quite come onto her face when she willed it.

Ilvriss looked speculative rather than in a good mood. He stared across the city as the sun rose, illuminating the bright rooftops.

“Only a few issues left, I should imagine. One of them being the trial. I assume your prisoner hasn’t given you any trouble?”

Trial? It took Zevara a second to remember what Ilvriss meant. Her brows darkened and her tail curled up a bit.

“Oh, the Minotaur? No trouble out of him. We’re preparing for the trial—we’d have done it earlier, but the witnesses needed time to rest and what with the Goblins…but we’ll start the proceedings soon.”

And that would be that. Zevara still had to deal with the dungeon, but she swore to herself that the Raskghar would never trouble the walls again. Nor would they ever reach them, not with the waters gone. In the mud, they’d have as much chance of taking the city—even in the daytime with the gates open—as Zevara had of flying.

“Good, good. I doubt I’ll be there for the trial unless I’m truly delayed, but I’ll provide any written testimony should it be necessary. As for the rest…it only remains…I suppose it’s just the inn.”

Zevara looked up. The quiet scratching of Olesm’s quill went silent for a second. Major Shieldscale kept staring ahead. But the other three Drakes paused. Ilvriss cleared his throat. He turned his case and looked east. The Wandering Inn wasn’t visible from here. But he looked nonetheless. And his tone was…different.

“I don’t suppose there’s been any word from the inn, has there? The doors are…?”

“It’s still closed.”

Olesm replied flatly. Ilvriss glanced at him. He nodded slowly. Cleared his throat again.

“It’s not that I mind, but she does have the one working door to Pallass. And I gather that these plays have attracted a good deal of interest from Liscor’s citizenry, especially now we’re no longer operating in a crisis. There’s talk of enlisting in the ah, acting troupe. It could be a new form of entertainment and revenue for Liscor, which is always to be desired.”

“That would be helpful.”

Zevara glanced at Olesm. But he was working again. She stared at the eastern wall. The inn was closed. Erin Solstice hadn’t been spotted in a week now, and no one could so much as get near her inn. And it wasn’t that Zevara wanted to see her. Her life was far, far easier when she didn’t see that blasted Human. And yet—

Seven days had passed. The city was upbeat, it really was. People were getting back to work, they were enthusiastic about the sun, relieved not to be dead or under siege—it was all great. But rather than call the mood jubilant, Zevara felt the same sensation that seemed to have gripped the city. That of…waiting.

Waiting. What they wanted, what a lot of Liscor wanted, was just to see the doors open. To hear that annoying voice saying something inane, see a bright smile. But the inn was silent. The doors did not open, no matter how long anyone waited.

Yes, Goblins had died. But in a way, they’d saved the day. And yes, bad things had happened. But Liscor had triumphed. It was good, in the end. It was a victory. Everyone knew it. The Human, that crazy [Innkeeper], Erin, would be sad. She might be angry, and she had every right to be. She could be depressed, grieve, but in time, she would return to normal. Liscor has triumphed. All would be well. And everyone knew that.

They were just waiting for her to confirm it.

—-

On the seventh day, Numbtongue looked up. He reached out and picked up the broken guitar. He looked down at it. Then he tossed it aside and stood up.

He didn’t feel any better. He still felt dead. A ghost. And he still dreamed that he’d see Headscratcher poke his head down from above and tell him to get moving. Hear Shorthilt stomp on the floorboards, or hear the chatter of Cave Goblins. But time had passed. And part of Numbtongue couldn’t even believe in that lie anymore.

It still hurt, too. With every passing second, Numbtongue thought the tears in his heart would open up and swallow him whole. They hurt more than his wounds. But still, he stood.

It wasn’t that he was better. It was just that he couldn’t sit any longer. Seven days he’d sat. It was enough. The pain wasn’t going away from sitting. It never would.

So Numbtongue stumbled forwards. He kicked something by accident, nearly slipped. The plate of food. It overturned and Numbtongue looked at it. He bent to pick it up and nearly fell over. He was dizzy. He hadn’t eaten in…

It didn’t matter. Numbtongue picked up the dishes. He wasn’t hungry. He slowly walked towards the stairs and trapdoor. He could hear voices from above. For a second he paused and hoped. But they weren’t the right ones. Goblins didn’t speak that much, anyways.

“—just disgusting work. It feels like I’m working in a suppression company in Baleros again. Why can’t you get your undead minions to handle all of it, Pisces? Or do that neck-snapping thing and settle things that way.”

Jelaqua was talking to Pisces as she slumped over her table. Lyonette was quietly serving breakfast. The adventuring teams—the Horns of Hammerad and the Halfseekers—were eating quietly. They were subdued. Even Jelaqua, normally energetic, was only partly invested in her conversation. The [Necromancer] she was addressing, Pisces, paused in dabbing his mouth with his sleeve.

“Two reasons. Firstly, because my undead cannot function long without consuming a great deal of mana. They were quite limited in number as well. Secondly, even if I broke the necks of every zombie out there, they would continue to rise. Breaking the bones of the undead stops them for a short time, but nothing short of immolation or pure destruction will—”

“I get it. I was just asking.”

Jelaqua sighed. She tried to smile at Mrsha. The Gnoll cub was eating breakfast quietly.

“Hey there. Sleepy, Mrsha? You’re not racing about.”

The Gnoll looked up and shook her head. Jelaqua’s grin faltered.

“Maybe we should let you run about in Celum?”

No response. Mrsha just went back to eating. Jelaqua looked around. Moore and Seborn, sitting at her table, gave her slow shakes of the head. The Selphid let it drop.

At the other table, Ceria looked at her companions. Yvlon, Ksmvr, Pisces…they were all quiet. A night of fighting had made them tired, but this wasn’t like them. But she couldn’t tell them to snap out of it. It didn’t feel right.

And yet they hadn’t grieved. Not like Erin was. Ceria hadn’t shed more than a few tears. She couldn’t, though she’d known the Goblins. And yet, she couldn’t smile either.

Ceria tried. Yvlon looked up to see Ceria’s attempt at a smile. She stopped eating. Ceria gave up. She looked around, but Erin hadn’t come down for breakfast again. Maybe today was the day to give her a kick and some tough love. She had to snap out of this eventually. How long was she going to be like this? She had to—

The trap door opened. Ceria turned. Her fork fell from her fingers. It clattered on the table. Pisces looked up. Then he turned as well.

The room fell silent. Numbtongue paused as he pushed the trap door up. He stared around. Slowly, he climbed up into the inn. He placed the plate and bowl on the table and looked around.

A red scar stood out on his chest. Half of his body looked…paler. The remnants of lightning. Aside from that, he looked like he had. Numbtongue. But it was Numbtongue. And the others were…

Numbtongue stopped as he stepped out into the light. He had been prepared for something. But this was worse.

It was the stares. All of them, adventurers, Lyonette, Mrsha—they all stared at Numbtongue. They froze, and gazed at him like they’d seen a ghost. That was painful, but it was the second look that cut deeper. Pity. He saw it reflected in their eyes. And he hated them for it.

Pity was even worse.

“Morning.”

Numbtongue could have laughed at the way their expressions changed. He almost did, but he didn’t. He looked to Lyonette.

“Here.”

He offered her the plates and bowl. Lyonette noticed the spilled food.

“Oh. Didn’t you like—”

“Tripped. Not hungry.”

“I can get you something else if you’d—”

“No.”

Numbtongue hated it. The awkward conversation, the painful misunderstandings and imprecise words. That was why he didn’t speak. And the way Lyonette clearly seemed to regret asking about breakfast. As if she should have said something about—about—

Numbtongue hadn’t seen them. He didn’t remember anything. Not after being stabbed. He didn’t know how it had ended. Until Lyonette told them. So he walked towards the door. It was closed.

“Whoa. Hey!”