7.45 (1/2)

Serafierre val Lischelle-Drakle was sick. No—

Dying. Her father sat by her bed. He had seen it before. He held her hand tightly. Too tightly; he realized he would have snapped a non-Vampire’s bones. He released his grip, but sat there.

Himilt Drakle had seen it before. In children. Adults. They passed like this, if disease or accident didn’t take them. And it was hard to kill a Vampire.

But this—this was how the curse Balmer spoke of took them.

“It hurts. It hurts!”

Serafierre was muttering, half-awake, half-unconscious. She writhed in the bed.

“What hurts, Fierre? What happened?”

Himilt waited, but Fierre was unable to speak. Her face—normally as pale as snow—was flushed. Her body was warm. For a Vampire—that was a fever. More than that, she was in pain.

She had vomited twice. Now—she grabbed at the sheets, shredding them as her fingers became claws. Her strength as she gripped Himilt’s hand was enormous. But whatever she fought, she was helpless. Her father sat there, until he heard from afar the sound of footfalls.

The rest of his family were silent and light-footed. The labored breathing, the voice—Himilt sniffed the air. He knew Ryoka Griffin had entered the old castle that was his family’s home and farm before she burst into the room.

“Fierre?”

Ryoka Griffin saw her friend lying in the bed, next to her father. Himilt was wearing dark, working clothes, full-body like the rest of his family to protect him from the sun.

Fierre was running a fever and a rash like Colfa’s ran up and down her body. She—cried out as Ryoka caught her breath. His neck was still puffy, the sign of thyroid cancer on Earth. Beyond that—he sat still, his red eyes fixed on his daughter. He barely glanced up at Ryoka as she took in her friend.

This morning, before dawn, Fierre had been full of life as she left the Unmarked Carriage. Now, she was comatose. Not even conscious.

“Colfa found you.”

Himilt looked up and Ryoka felt a chill. The Vampire’s eyes were very cold. He sat still, holding his daughter’s hand.

“Yes, I—”

Colfa val Lischelle-Drakle burst into the room. Ryoka had only gotten here first because Colfa and the other two Vampires, Bamer and Rivel, had been helping her buy potions and alchemical ingredients in Reizmelt.

“What have you done to my daughter?”

The first time Colfa had met Ryoka, she had put on airs, spoken vith the traditional accvent that was quite silly to Ryoka, and played at being Vampiric royalty.

Now—she dropped the accent. She sounded like Lupp, or another [Farmer], which is what she was. A Vampire [Shepherdess]—Colfa had been one of the Lischelle family, who were like royalty among herders and farmers—who had given away her levels and humanity to become a Vampire.

Her pretense was gone, now. Colfa lifted Ryoka up and slammed her into the stone walls of Fierre’s room. Ryoka felt a burst of pain and her head went white as Colfa’s claws dug into her skin, piercing flesh with ease.

The woman’s eyes glowed in the night and candlelight. Ryoka felt the Vampire pressing her into the wall. She could push Ryoka until the Human was paste.

That was a Vampire. Ryoka felt Colfa smack her into the wall and then shake her impatiently, like a doll.

“Well? Answer me! She said you cured her! What did you do? What did you give her—”

“Colfa. She can’t respond.”

Himilt rose. He grabbed his wife’s arm, and she tried to shake him off before she let him pull her back. They moved so fast. Ryoka dropped, stumbling, and caught herself.

“What did you do to her?”

Colfa inhaled. Ryoka gasped for air as Bamer and Rivel returned.

Four Vampires stood in Fierre’s room, over their stricken kin. They looked at Ryoka.

“We brought the medicine, Colfa. Herbs, iceweed—potions. Where do you want them?”

“Put them here. I need to mix them.”

Colfa answered distantly. She was waiting. They all were. Ryoka coughed, gulped. And spoke as she looked at her friend.

“I thought—I thought I cured her. Made her better. Cured her of whatever was making her sick, I mean. I gave her a panacea.”

“A what?”

Rivel snorted. Fierre’s older brother glared suspiciously at Ryoka. Bamer just shook his head. He was old—not related to Fierre. Someone who lived with Himilt, Colfa, Rivel, and Fierre and worked their farm.

“There is no cure. You gave her poison.”

“No! I’m sure it was—she was healthy the last few days! She took the medicine two—three days ago and she was fine. It made her stronger, faster. She said she felt better than she ever had in her life. She was more allergic to garlic though. And the sun nearly killed her—”

The Vampires in the room exchanged a quick glance. Himilt stirred.

“She mentioned that. She tossed you across the field, Rivel. She wasn’t that strong before.”

“Impossible. She was just a bit stronger.”

Fierre’s brother scoffed, but he looked conflicted. Himilt shook his head. He looked at Bamer, then Ryoka.

“She was telling us she fought Golems in this—island she went to. With her bare hands.”

“She did. She was so much better. And her cough disappeared. I thought…what happened?”

Colfa took a few deep breaths as she went to check on Fierre’s temperature. She looked up at Ryoka, her fury abated—at least for the moment.

“Fierre came just before dawn. She said you had given her some strange medicine and she’d been—cured. Of her sickness. She ran about and she was better! We were all astonished. She told us what had happened, some of it, said she’d taken your blood by accident, ate and drank with us, and then—felt poorly.”

“When?”

Colfa looked at her husband. Himilt scratched at his neck.

“Barely midday. She thought it was exhaustion at first, or the sunlight—it did burn her far worse than us when she was careless. She lay down—when I went to check on her an hour later, she was warm. She got worse and worse until Colfa went to find you.”

The young woman listened, trying to make sense of it all. Bamer scratched at his chin. His eyes flicked to Ryoka again.

“I didn’t believe it. A cure for Vampires? That’s the stuff of stories. I thought she’d just had a strength potion or something that made her feel better.”

“No. It was real. I’m sure of it. I—the person who gave it to me wouldn’t have lied. And he was one of the few people who’d have a cure-all.”

“Who? What was it? Tell us—”

Again, Himilt put a hand out.

“Colfa. Whatever the case, Miss Griffin, Fierre is ill. Do you have more of whatever you gave her? Do you know what ails her?”

“I don’t. She drank it all. Can I—can I touch her?”

Himilt nodded. The others stood back. Ryoka bent over Fierre.

“Fierre? Are you awake? Can you hear me? What happened?”

A groan was her only answer. Fierre’s eyes were open, and sweat beaded her forehead. She looked—Human. She even felt warm to the touch—just a normal person’s body head. But for a Vampire…

“Did she do anything strange? Did she eat or drink anything out of the ordinary?”

Ryoka looked at Fierre’s family. They all shook their heads.

“She did nothing out of the ordinary. We thought it had to be something that had happened on her trip.”

“Maybe…but what?”

Ryoka could imagine ten thousand scenarios where something in Valeterisa’s trapped mansion caught up with Fierre. But…why not Ryoka as well? It made no sense.

She was panicking, Ryoka knew. She slapped her cheeks.

The facts. Stick to the facts, you idiot. And the facts were—Fierre was sick. She had been cured. And now she was sick.

Something had made her unwell. Find what that was. Ryoka stood up. She looked around, meeting their eyes. Colfa and Himilt’s last.

“I didn’t do this. At least, not on purpose. I was sure what I gave Fierre would help. If I’m wrong, I’ll pay for it. But I don’t think I am. I think something happened to Fierre, when she got here or just before. We need to find out what that is. Cure Fierre, if possible. Have you given her a potion?”

“That was the first thing we tried! I bought what I could in Reizmelt—there are some [Healer]’s remedies that help us.”

“Okay. Okay. Then—can you show me where Fierre was? What she ate and what she did, step by step?”

“Why?”

Rivel glared at Ryoka. The young woman gave him an odd look.

“I need to see exactly what Fierre did. Each and every thing! Any one of those things could be the culprit here.”

It was a logical, orderly way of looking at the problem. Rivel hesitated and Himilt nodded. His eyes focused on Ryoka, searching her like the first time they had met.

“We can do that. I’ll show you around. Bamer—help Colfa. Anything you know, any old stories. Rivel, you stay with Fierre.”

“I still think it’s this ‘cure’. How are you so certain? Do you know what was in this potion?”

It was fair to ask. Ryoka felt flushed, as she looked down at Fierre.

“No. But I am certain.”

“Then who made it? What grade of potion was it? If you have no idea, how can you be so sure? Fierre is a—a Vampire. Not a Human.”

“I know that! But the person who gave it to me was certain it would cure anyone. He gave me a panacea. A relic-class potion. He—it was a Grand Mage of Wistram.”

The others traded looks. Colfa inhaled and exhaled as her eyes flickered.

“How do you kn—would that even—why d—baaaah.”

The ‘baaah’ made Ryoka jump. It hadn’t actually come from Colfa. Rather—just behind her and lower to the ground.

A sheep had wandered into Fierre’s room. A familiar sheep with a luxurious coat.

“Fluffles? Get out! This isn’t the time!”

Ryoka stared at the sheep as Colfa pointed. She forgot that Fierre’s family really were good, local farmers. And that their livestock had a habit of wandering indoors.

Fluffles the Sixth baahed until Colfa pushed him out of the room with her foot. She turned back to Ryoka, but Fluffles had reminded everyone.

“Be sure. I need to mix up a tonic. It—be sure! Himilt, deal with the Human. Bamer, come with me!”

She swept out of the room. Ryoka heard another baaah as the sheep was carried away. She turned to Himilt.

“I—let’s go. I need to know what Fierre did.”

“Are you sure her sickness came from here?”

The father looked at Ryoka. She didn’t.

“No. I need to make a list of everything Fierre did. She was almost never out of sight—we even slept in the same carriage. The carriage, damn. And the island…I’ll make a list. I have paper—no—”

Ryoka cursed again. No paper or quills or ink in her bag of holding! She’d tossed everything out to make room for the magical items she’d taken from Valeterisa’s mansion. The Vampire farmer shook his head.

“We have paper and ink. Come with me. Rivel—shout if Fierre gets worse.”

The two strode from the room. Ryoka was taking deep breaths. Focus. Write it all down. Be logical about this. It’s not bad. She’s just feverish. She’s going to be okay. Focus—

The two strode through the night. Himilt was quick and silent, Ryoka muttering. They saw light flickering through the old keep, distant voices from Colfa and Bamer, the sounds of the awake animals—just Fluffles, really.

Not much sound. House Lischelle-Drakle was silent. Ryoka felt like the living, noisy intruder. She hurried after Himilt as he passed by an open part of the keep, where the hallway’s wall had just—collapsed. Grass and nature had intruded.

“Ow!”

Himilt turned. Ryoka was hopping on one foot; she’d stepped on a burr. He eyed her bare feet. Then his head swung around.

“Wait. Someone is coming.”

He held up a hand. Ryoka froze. She didn’t hear or see anything at first. But Himilt’s senses were keen. And soon—she heard galloping hooves.

Figures raced up the road, talking loudly in the distance. Ryoka saw…four. Three people on horseback, one short, another with a glint of metal, and one on foot. Her heart sank.

The Silver Swords and Salamani. They dismounted as Himilt turned to Ryoka.

“Your friends?”

“The—the Silver Swords. And Salamani, a Courier. They must have followed—”

Ryoka saw Himilt’s face change. His red eyes flickered and he looked around. He spoke one word.

“Byres.”

He split from Ryoka as she ran outside, cursing. The complicated night got worse. Ryoka’s friend, a Vampire, lay sick of something. And here came a son of Vampire hunters.

—-

Earlier on the same day Fierre fell sick, Lord Tyrion Veltras was demanding answers of his family’s personal [Healer].

The woman was good. Level 36—the best of the region and a friend of House Veltras. She was especially adept at treating injuries that had been allowed to fester, a necessity for anyone who treated [Warriors].

But she was good at disease, and Tyrion had summoned her without fear when Sammial had fallen ill. He had expected her to pronounce the boy well—maybe with a resurgence of the shortness of breath he’d had when he was young.

Instead—Sammial had fallen into a coma where he struggled for each breath as his airways closed within a day. Something was terribly wrong.

“Lord Veltras. I can’t understand it. No disease outside of a magical one would work this fast. Did your son ingest anything? Touch some plant, for instance?”

The [Lord] turned to Ullim. The [Majordomo] shook his head.

“Lord Sammial stayed indoors all day, milord. Except for one point where he went to market…but I’d swear there was nothing out of the ordinary there.”

“Inquire if anyone was selling some rare item. We must be thorough, Lord Veltras. Your son is breathing, but if he has inhaled or touched something, I must know of it!”

The [Healer] was as close to the scientific method as most people who didn’t have Ryoka’s knowledge. Lord Veltras ordered Ullim and the [Majordomo] sent [Messengers] racing from the keep.

“What is wrong with him, exactly?”

“Closed throat—fever—he’s coughing, which makes it worse. It could be any number of things, Lord Veltras. You must stand back. If it’s infectious…I may need more of my supplies from my shop.”

“I will have whatever you need delivered.”

The [Lord] strode from the room and paced impatiently outside the hallway. He was a man of action. He did not like things like disease, which you could not take a sword to. Tyrion turned on the sixth back-and-forth in front of Sammial’s room.

“Jericha, my horse. I will go to the market and inquire myself.”

He snapped as he saw his aide striding towards him. Jericha, normally quick to anticipate his needs, didn’t nod or hurry off. She just stopped.

Her eyes were wide, and her face pale.

“Lord Veltras. You have a guest.”

Tyrion failed to take notice of her expression at first.

“Inform them I’ll meet whoever it is later. My horse—”

“Lord Veltras. You should meet with this person. She—she claims to be an [Assassin] from the Assassin’s Guild.”

The Lord of House Veltras spun. He reached for his sword and his mind flashed to an obvious connection. He snarled—until Jericha spoke again.

“Milord Tyrion. Forgive me. But…ten minutes before she arrived—Lord Hethon fell ill. He claimed it was a stomachache. I went to secure him after the woman arrived. He isn’t responding.”

Tyrion’s hand found his sword’s hilt as a cold certainty gripped him. He looked at Jericha, and her face.

“The [Healer]. Where is the [Assassin]?”

She told him. Then she yanked the door open to Sammial’s room. Tyrion walked through the halls of his keep.

His sword was drawn. Ullim, running to find him, saw the Lord of House Veltras walking past servants, guards—with one intent.

The [Assassin] was sitting in the first guest room, calm as you please. She looked up as Tyrion burst through the doors. He pointed his sword at her.

“What have you done?”

This hired killer did not come with any disguise or pretense. Ironically—that meant she wore a mask. It was painted a dark green, with only a single rose in the center, and two slits for eyes. She sat in dark clothing, fiddling with a dagger.

“Lord Tyrion Veltras. The Circle of Thorns is displeased.”

That was all the woman said. She did not rise, or flinch as Tyrion drew back his blade. The words came curtly from Tyrion’s mouth.

“What poison did you use? Where is the cure? Answer me, or you die this second.”

The masked face turned towards him. This [Assassin]’s voice was cool.

“I do not have the cure for the poison I gave your sons. Both of them, I might add. And if you kill me—one of them dies.”

The [Lord]’s arm tensed. It would be so easy to bring it down. So—he forced the blade away, grabbed for a ring.

“You lie.”

“I do not. I poisoned your sons. They will die without the cure. I do not have the cure. And the Circle will exact vengeance if my blood is spilled, or a single hair on my head is harmed.”

Each sentence the woman pronounced made her outline glow true in Tyrion’s vision. He hesitated.

“You know the poison.”

Her mask tilted the other way.

“If you are thinking of having me tortured, Lord Veltras, go ahead. Do you think my employers tell me the nature of the tools I use?”

That was neither lie nor truth. She might know. But—Tyrion hesitated.

If it was someone other than Sammial or Hethon, he might have taken her bet. But his sons. He had promised to keep them safe.

“What have you done? Does your Circle want to die that badly? If my sons die, I will raze your Guild—”

“Sheathe your sword, Lord Veltras. And sit down.”

The woman just stared at him. The [Lord]’s knuckles whitened on his sword hilt. After a moment, he made up his mind. He slammed the sword into its sheathe.

“Tell me why you came.”

“Sit down.”

She didn’t move. Tyrion’s jaw tightened with a creak.

“Lord Veltras?”

Ullim and Jericha had returned. Both were armed. Tyrion looked over his shoulder.

“Ullim. Secure Hethon and Sammial. Post every guard you have. Scour the keep for more intruders! Anyone you suspect—check their identities!”

“The [Healer]—”

“Do it!”

Ullim hurried away. Jericha didn’t leave. She had a wand and sword in hand. She looked at the [Assassin].

“Your servant may remain, Lord Veltras. Sit. Down.”

The [Assassin] didn’t care about Jericha. She just waited until the [Lord] sat. He stared at her, but even if looks could kill—she had warned him.

The [Assassin] did not beat about the bush after Tyrion had sat. She just sat forwards and put her dagger away.

“Lord Tyrion Veltras. The Circle of Thorns has elected me as their messenger to bring you a second…offer. Or rather, an exchange. Your son’s lives and your family and your people’s safety for your cooperation.”

“I gave them my answer. I do not deal with traitors of Izril and cowards.”

Tyrion’s voice was taut. The [Assassin] looked at him.

“And here is the Circle’s response. Did you really think you could interfere with their business with no consequences, Lord Veltras?”

He said nothing. The [Assassin] sat back and folded her hands behind her head with a sigh. The effrontery enraged Jericha. She pointed her wand at the [Assassin].

“What do you want? Speak your business!”

“Neither son will die of the poison I gave them today. Or even tomorrow. They may last a week, or a month at the most. But I have never known a full-grown man, Minotaur, or other species to live longer than that. And the cure is beyond your [Healer].”

The [Assassin]’s voice was quiet. Tyrion waited, tense. Now—his nerves were humming.

“I will find a cure.”

“You will try. But you will not succeed. The Circle will not allow you to cure your sons, Lord Veltras. No one will save your sons but our agents. Happily—the Circle is quite reasonable. Your sons need not die. Merely sign this contract I have been entrusted with and they will be healed, within the hour.”

A scroll was produced. Tyrion didn’t move; Jericha snatched it out of the air as the [Assassin] tossed it forwards.

“This is—a Blood Oath Contract? Ridiculous!”

Jericha recoiled. Tyrion knew what she was speaking about—vaguely. It was a grade of magical contract, enforced by blood magic. Extremely difficult to bypass, if at all.

“What does it say, Jericha?”

He hadn’t looked away from the woman. Tyrion was thinking. He heard Jericha read, mutter an oath.

“Lord Veltras—”

“Jericha.”

She gulped. Then she read, slowly.

“…It’s a simple contract, Lord Veltras. Without room to change the terms, which demand that you never raise your blade against or oppose the Circle of Thorns or any of their agents. That you fight and command the armies they give you. And you reveal no secret of theirs or their agents, again.”

“Three promises. The Circle would have let you swear a lesser oath and rewarded you for it before, Lord Veltras. Now—this is the terms of your lineage.”

The [Assassin] waited, calmly. She had been chosen to enforce this threat, and she waited to see what the [Lord] did. Rage against her, threaten her pointlessly; if he acted like a fool she had been empowered to punish him.

But Tyrion Veltras did nothing. He just sat there. And when he looked at her, his face was expressionless.

“So that is your threat? The lives of my sons for my obedience, like some leashed dog?”

She hesitated. She had been given to understand that Lord Tyrion’s one weakness was his family. But there was nothing on his face.

“That is the Circle’s ultimatum, Lord Veltras. You may try to find an antidote. But the Circle will—”

“I see.”

Tyrion stood up. He looked at the [Assassin], then towards Jericha.

“See this…woman out of my keep, Jericha. Don’t harm her unless she gives you a reason to.”

“Lord Veltras. The Circle will not be—”

Tyrion strode out of the room. The [Assassin] hesitated as Jericha looked at her. The retainer’s hand clenched the scroll tightly. The female [Assassin] pointed at it.

“I wouldn’t destroy that if I were you. That is your [Lord]’s only chance. Tell him that.”

Jericha hesitated. She raised her wand as she put the scroll in her belt.

“You heard Lord Veltras. Begone.”

The [Assassin] rose. A bit worried. She debated arguing—but Jericha had her orders. And the [Assassin] had given the ultimatum. Briefly, she considered that the Circle might have made a mistake. If Tyrion Veltras was willing to let his sons die, they would have removed their only hold on him.

But if he did hold any affection for them—he would sign the scroll. She was sure either way that Tyrion was calling for [Alchemists] or other experts even now. But this time—the Circle had accounted for that. She left the keep as Hethon and Sammial lay sick. Unaware that in the Circle’s game and designs—there was one last card to play. And that Tyrion Veltras reached for it now.

—-

One card if you were someone who liked card games. An extra die if you played dice. If you played chess…a queen in your back pocket or something?

Analogies were silly things. But it was fair to say it like that. Even the Circle of Thorns, even the plight facing Ryoka and afflicting Fierre—there was an easy solution, a cheap, almost unfair one.

Lord Tyrion didn’t know it—but he reached out to the person who could provide it now. And Ryoka went to the source.

Magnolia Reinhart’s family were famed for their use of poisons and the [Lady] was the most resourceful woman in all of Izril. Ryoka stood by Falene and begged the half-Elf.

“Please. Just send it. Say it’s from Ryoka Griffin and that my friend is hurt. I know he can help. He’ll listen to me.”

“Grand Magus Eldavin. You know Grand Magus Eldavin?”

The half-Elf [Battlemage] was frankly incredulous. She hadn’t been at The Wandering Inn to see the ‘Grand Magus’ in person, but word had spread. Ryoka nodded.

“I…I ran a delivery for him. He doesn’t owe me a favor—not exactly. But he’ll listen. Please.”

Himilt’s head rose slightly. He was standing in his fields, apart from the Silver Swords who had come with Salamani to see what had drawn Ryoka away. Dawil glanced at Ylawes and Salamani blinked.

The pieces came together. For other people. They came to the wrong conclusion for the right reasons.

Fierre’s cure. Ryoka’s strange, Erin-like connections. The rumors about her delivering to the High Passes, the Wyvern bounty.

A Grand Magus. Oh, the misunderstandings. Ryoka was oblivious to it as everyone else put the pieces together and kept their silence, redoubling their interest in the moment.

“Very well, I’m sending the [Message] as follows. ‘To Grand Magus Eldavin, sender: Ryoka Griffin. Urgent…’”

—-

So too from Tyrion Veltras as well, towards Magnolia Reinhart. It was the kind of thing the Circle of Thorns may have understood could happen. They might have figured on Magnolia Reinhart’s interference—even expected it after the assassination attempt.

But a Dragon? Dragons were cheating. On the [Messages] came, two for sickness and answers. They moved through the world at the speed of magic, which could be instantaneous or slow.

Instantaneous in this case. They travelled—and the spells disintegrated. Severed, before they even reached their target. After all—you could trace where a [Message] spell was received. So they never arrived.

“Two more in the interception net. Someone’s trying to trace you. Or me.”

Teriarch raised his head and narrowed his eyes. Magnolia Reinhart stood in his cave.

“Let them send [Messages] after I’m gone, Teriarch. The world will know soon.”

The Dragon lowered his head. He looked at the woman. Even now—she had yet to recover from the shock of it.

Sacra was dead. Her carriage had been attacked on the road, blatantly, and the best [Assassins] of northern Izril had nearly taken her head. The Dragon hesitated. He coughed into one claw.

“So. Ahem, I assume you will be well-protected once you leave my cave? As I said, interference…”

He trailed off. It was hard to make excuses after he had teleported her out of danger. But the [Lady] looked up at her friend.

“I will be safe, Teriarch. Until I arrive in Drake lands—I will be at sea. The Velistrane awaits me in harbor.”

“Hm. Well, that would do it so long as you keep your staff vigilant. Make sure of that, [Maid].”

The Dragon focused on Ressa. The [Maid]-[Assassin] just nodded. Her eyes flicked to the side.

“The carriage…”

“The primary version is destroyed. Or taken. Whoever took it removed the tracking spells. But your backup is fixed. I…reinforced some of the magic. As for your servant…”

Teriarch scratched at his neck. He looked past Ressa.

A [Butler] stood. Reynold looked down at his legs, his face blank. They were quite different. The Dragon spoke, almost apologetically.

“I didn’t teleport your legs, Human.”

He neglected to mention that he wasn’t about to give the man a potion that could regenerate his legs. That was frankly worth as much as Magnolia’s damn carriage, if not more.

“Lord Dragon, they are exquisite. Thank you.”

Reynold bowed precisely. He did not smile; his face didn’t move. He’d been like that since waking up after being saved. He paused, then looked up.

“Sacra’s remains…”

“I found nothing.”

“I see.”

“We will find them. This is not over, Reynold.”

Magnolia Reinhart stood there. She exhaled. Then she glanced up at Teriarch.

“Old man. Dear friend. It’s time for me to go. I fear I’ve been put on the back foot for now.”

“You—you’re sure you don’t need some help? Not that I’d give it, of course…”

The Dragon saw her smile. The [Lady] shook her head.

“It’s a poor thing to rely on Dragons too much. Someone quite crotchety said that.”

The Dragon exhaled hot air on Magnolia.

“I think it was quite a wise statement. As you wish. You will appear right outside the city gates as if it were a [Lesser Teleport] spell. As I’ve said—be wary of the Walled Cities. They’ve changed.”

“I will, Teriarch. Thank you.”

Magnolia Reinhart nodded. She smiled at Teriarch. He harrumphed once more. But she was right.

There was more that was said. But in the end—the Dragon cast a spell. The three vanished, along with the repaired secondary carriage.

Teriarch lay back down. He was tired. More mentally than physically—but a good deal of the latter himself. He thought about his actions, self-reflecting. Critiquing. Another [Message] spell came and was severed at the root.

Many of them, in fact. Teriarch could see the senders. Not the contents of the [Message], but the mages themselves.

“Some half-Elf…hah. Someone from Invrisil—that [Enchanter] fellow? Drake from Pallass—has to be that young Grimalkin. Wistram, Wistram, Wistram…”

He snorted as the senders found they were sending to nothing and their spells were collapsing. The Dragon sighed.

“I’ve been too active. Or rather, Grand Mage Eldavin has. Yes, too active by far. This is what interfering gets you. Busybodies like flies. Time enough for it to stop. I don’t need this. Time…for isolation.”

Magnolia had made her decision. She was going to the Walled Cities. He had helped her. Now, interest in him was too great. The Dragon prepared to cast a spell. A truly powerful one. He found an [Archmage]’s staff, snorted as he hunted around.

“Where’s that damn book? Let’s see. Staff here, stave there—”

Magical wands and other artifacts floated up like they were lesser components of a spell. The Dragon sighed.

Enough was enough. There were adventurers in the High Passes and while they wouldn’t break through his cave’s barrier that easily—there was a chance. This spell…had only ever been broken once.

“By that damn [Innkeeper]. But there’s a reason for that. Other worlds. Hah! At least those Winter Sprites won’t be getting in.”

The Dragon muttered. Once this spell was cast—nothing would reach him. Not allies. Not enemies. Seclusion absolute.

It was necessary. He was growing attached. Too attached by far. The Brass Dragon hesitated as he cast the magic, setting up the spell. He could leave a little loophole, after all.

For…a [Lady] or her servants. Or a young woman? The Dragon thought about this. He thought about himself. He thought about them.

He thought about how his kind died.

He left no loopholes for others. Only he could end the spell, or a power greater than the spell itself. The Dragon murmured old words of magic. Dozens of artifacts shone as he drew on their power, weaving isolation around him.

It was done. The Dragon lay, panting, as he sealed himself away from the world. No more aid. No more miracles. It had to be done.

He would devote himself to only one thing. The Dragon lay there, sighing, as he flipped open a tiny laptop. He clicked a few buttons. Then saw the screen flicker off.

The laptop shut down. He had no need of it for a while, and keeping it recharged was annoying, even for a Dragon. The other electronics went to a spot in his neatly-organized cave, pride of place, but stored for now.

“All done.”

Teriarch checked his cave one last time. He felt vaguely pleased, as someone who had finally sorted out an incredibly messy room felt upon seeing it brought to order. And of course—he was loathe to go and upset it again.

“No more Izril for a while. No Magnolia—no Griffin. They can take care of themselves. They must. This world neither needs me nor benefits from my interference. They can only rise by themselves.”

The Dragon told himself that. He thought of Ryoka’s grand plans. The Summer Solstice. Drat. He’d forgotten about that! He hesitated.

But it was too late. He’d cast the spell and breaking it would be problematic, even for him. So the Dragon lay there.

His breathing slowed. He rested his head on his claws.

Yes. It was for the best, even if accidental. He’d have delayed casting the spell if he recalled. But sometimes…you had to…let…

Teriarch’s consciousness dwindled. The Dragon’s body slumbered. He never heard Ryoka’s pleas, and Magnolia was in no place to help Tyrion Veltras.

So it was. The Dragon closed his eyes and slept.

—-

Grand Magus Eldavin opened his eyes slowly. He grimaced and felt at his back. It was an odd sensation to him. Lying on your backs. The things other species came up with.

“Let’s see. Body check. Hm. Hmm…”

The old half-Elf got up and stretched. He reached one arm up, experimentally touched his toes and swayed back and forth.

It felt good. Sensation was there, even pain when he poked himself.

No aches and pains. Well, what idiot would make a body for himself possessed by some venereal disease or afflictions? Eldavin felt sharp.

Limited, but sharp. After all, a half-Elf’s brain, however complex couldn’t handle a Dragon’s intellect. Let alone the need to disguise his magic.

Eldavin recalled Teriarch. But—in a while he’d not need to fear referring to himself as a Dragon or Teriarch. That was the danger with really good simulacra spells. You could lose yourself. But—the danger was far less with his body secure.

He did a few hops, nearly tripped over his robes, and cursed. The Grand Magus windmilled his arms, caught himself, and looked around swiftly to see if anyone had noticed. But no one had.

The half-Elf looked around as his eyes adjusted and his mind adjusted to the different way of seeing.

The secret laboratory of the Grand Magus was well-stocked. He’d put a number of lesser artifacts inside, completed the guise with some half-finished spells and some of the 2nd-edition books. He walked about, practicing the motion until it was effortless.

“Mm. Body check complete. Clothing check? Undergarments…yes. Do I wear…? No, brassieres are for females. Usually.”

He snorted. Eldavin scratched at his head, and then flicked his hand.

“Better cast some spell. Can’t have burglars breaking in. Now, if I wanted to go to a harbor—er…”

He was in the High Passes. So…the half-Elf pulled at one lip. North or south? Well, he’d have to make the journey on foot until he could hire transport. What a pain, what a pain.

The Grand Mage cast about with his senses. He felt no connection to his cave. The spell was working. He’d left no loopholes except for himself. And his entire self was right here.

He could have slept. A year ago, he might have. He’d been preparing for it after Erin Solstice had accidentally broken the enchantment last time. But the world had changed in a year.

Eldavin began tossing some things into his bag of holding. Gold, some books for the journey—

“Wrymblood and fire! I should have packed the laptop!”

He shouted as he threw a book down. And it was hidden behind more enchantments than he could break as a pitiful Grand Mage! The half-Elf kicked around his secret home and tripped over his robes again. He picked himself up, swearing.

“—beard. This is fine. I’ll manage. Let’s see. I might as well send a [Message] telling them I’m coming.”

He stood up, grabbed the bag of holding and stormed from the cave. He was leaving. And as Teriarch had concluded—the Dragon was done interfering with Izril.

But that did not mean he had removed himself completely. Grand Magus Eldavin was bound for one place he had not returned to in…well, ages.

Wistram Academy. They were at the center of this phenomenon affecting the world and something had to be done. The Dragon—no, half-Elf—had decided to put his claw—finger on the scales as it were.

“Time to go on a journey. They had better still have that buffet.”

The Grand Magus looked around the laboratory. He adjusted his robes and walked from his cave. Into the High Passes. He scared the living daylights out of a team of adventurers.

“Good day to you.”

Eldavin nodded to them. Todi’s Elites stared at the famed Grand Mage as he walked past them, oblivious. The half-Elf walked on, already getting used to the primitive method of locomotion. He hummed under his breath. It would be a pleasant experience, eating food, speaking, limiting himself this way. Finding company…well, that got old millennia ago. He wanted to see what Wistram was these days.

It was an adventure. The Grand Mage walked on. After a moment, he smiled as he shaded his eyes to look up at the sun. He reflexively cast a few privacy spells as he muttered.

“Reminds me of that movie-thing I saw.”

What was that quote about wizards that Erin Solstice and Ryoka Griffin kept repeating? Something about arriving? Well, Teriarch had meant what he said to Magnolia. But there was another saying he had.

“A Dragon can do what he damn well pleases.”

He walked onwards, looking ahead. Until he tripped.

—-

There was no aid from Dragons that night. Or in the desperate hours later. Ryoka knelt by her friend. Fierre was feverish. Muttering. She’d rejected the water, gulping it down, spitting it up—along with blood.

Something was wrong. But what? Teriarch wasn’t there to provide an easy answer. Maybe he’d heard Ryoka—but made good on his threat at last. She had been relying on him, going to him as the first resort.

But oh—this once? Ryoka whispered as Fierre groaned with pain.

“I’ve let too many people down before, Fierre. I promise, I’ll find out what’s wrong.”

She rose. Himilt was waiting. Ylawes, Dawil, Falene, and Salamani had no idea what was wrong, but Ryoka had put them on the wrong track—going into Reizmelt to search for clues about a ‘magical disease’ or some poison that Fierre might have run into.

“Let’s make that list, Himilt. I’ll do the carriage—you walk me through Fierre’s day.”

As the night deepened, Ryoka began to search for clues to unravel this mystery. She followed Himilt as he began walking his home with her.

Racing to find what was wrong with her friend with no idea of the time limit or the malady involved.

—-

Ryoka Griffin was at war with time. And time was not her ally. The sun rose too quickly as she worked, night turning into day.

The sun shone down brightly on a tree bordering a forest. A tree like any other.

Like no other. It was a Special Tree. Because it belonged to the one Antinium landowner the world had ever known. He clambered upwards, hopping from branch to branch and landing lightly.

He was a [Skirmisher], and he had a ring that allowed him to leap with ease. Now, he paused on a wide branch and found something.

A bird’s nest. The bird had evacuated the instant it saw the giant insect heading its way, abandoning its young in a shocking display of pragmatism or cowardice. Now, the Antinium’s antennae twitched as he checked the nest and found three eggs.

“Aha. The fruit of the land! A magnificent harvest!”

Ksmvr happily collected the three eggs into his bag of holding and investigated the rest of the tree.

His tree. He even had a deed to it. It was signed by Yvlon Byres, granting him the rights in perpetuity to the tree.

It…probably wasn’t legally binding, but Pisces was stymied from pointing that out by Ceria’s foot, which tended to hit his shins whenever he tried.

Now, the Antinium waved down at Pisces from the tree’s branches. The [Necromancer] waved back as he chewed on some cracked walnuts.

“Pisces, I have obtained a magnificent bounty of goods from my landed estates!”

“Wonders never cease, Ksmvr.”

The [Necromancer] felt Ksmvr land with a thump as the Antinium hopped down. Ksmvr saw Pisces’ snack.

“Comrade—”

He caught himself.

“Pisces, would you care to enter into a trade agreement for your produce? I have three eggs. I will trade one for your walnuts.”

Pisces thought about this. He handed over half his walnuts and received an egg.

“This trade agreement is struck. I have now concluded diplomacy. I must make war to enlarge my estate.”

At that, Ceria started laughing so hard she nearly fell out of the branches of the tree she’d been lounging in. She caught herself and swung to the ground.

The half-Elf was very nimble in the trees, having grown up in a forest herself. She landed next to Pisces. The descendant of apes had stayed put, thank-you-very-much. He slapped her hand down as she reached for some walnuts.

“Hey! As your captain, I order you to give me your walnuts, Pisces.”

The [Cryomancer] glared at Pisces. He edged away from her radiating cold.

“I respectfully decline.”

“I will give you my walnuts, Captain—I mean, Friend Ceria. And I will give you one egg for some ice cubes. I wish to crunch them.”

“Ooh! An egg! Sure thing, Ksmvr. How’s being a member of the landed gentry treating you?”

The [Skirmisher] stood tall, regarding his tree.

“The burdens weigh heavily, Captain Ceria. I have been plagued by fears of beavers, termites, and other calamities striking my tree last night. Yet I find the rewards to be fruitful. Here is your egg. Thank you for the ice.”

He happily crunched some of the ice cubes Ceria made out of water from her flask in his mandibles. Ceria took the egg, sniffed it, then cracked it and tilted her mouth. She ate the egg raw and saw Pisces grimace.

“What? You’re afraid of raw egg?”

“After the last time we got sick? Yes. And that’s a raw egg, Ceria. Haven’t you heard of frying your food?”

The half-Elf shrugged, licking her fingers. She chewed for a second before replying.

“I used to live in a forest. I ate bugs and raw eggs when I needed food. Er…Ksmvr, I don’t mind, but you know these aren’t cooking eggs? There’s birds in them.”

Pisces turned pale. He shoved the egg back towards Ksmvr, who tilted his head sideways.

“I rather thought the added meat was the increase in value, Ceria. Do you not want your egg, Pisces?”

“No! And here I thought half-Elves were civilized. May we go? I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

Pisces grumbled. Ceria shrugged. They had trooped out here this morning at Ksmvr’s insistence, to check on his personal tree. Now they walked back towards the Byres estates.

“I have a tree! I must exploit it somehow. I wonder if the sap is edible? Perhaps I can entice more birds to settle there. In exchange for the eggs.”

“But Ksmvr, if you eat the eggs, the birds can’t reproduce.”

The Antinium went still. Then he grabbed the two remaining eggs.

“I must return these to the nest! Excuse me! I should not eat my tenants!”

He raced back towards the tree. Ceria looked guilty as Pisces snorted. They saw the Antinium bounding upwards.

“He’s having so much fun with that tree. Don’t you dare tell him the contract’s invalid. Yvlon signed it anyways and her parents don’t care.”

“I just wanted to tell Ksmvr because a [Woodcutter] might fell it quite accidentally.”

“Well—we can ask Yvlon to have it marked or something! Look how happy it makes him!”

The two waved at Ksmvr, who was loudly remitting the unborn offspring back into the custody of the bird. He was…like a kid.

Ksmvr could be quite serious and pragmatic, but when he acted like this, you remembered that he was two—perhaps three—Ksmvr forgot when he was born.

The three Horns of Hammerad strolled back to the small keep surrounded by the moat. House Byres, an old, reduced family who were known for silver and their code of honor. It was something, even if it was a small noble house. After all, all three had adventured with Yvlon for a while and she talked about her heritage seldom.

“So…how hilarious do you think breakfast is going to be? Scale of one to ten?”

“Numbers fail to express the hilarity to me.”

Pisces smiled. He strode along, relaxed. Ceria was just as calm as she swung her skeletal hand up to scratch at her head.

For all intents and purposes, the Horns of Hammerad were on break. There wasn’t much to do in House Byres. Oh, they’d convinced a few Corusdeer to stop attacking a field in one of the rare non-violent encounters the Horns had ever had. They’d even performed a few other tasks with magic—but it was free work. They didn’t ask for money from Yvlon’s people.

“This really is a nice place. Not as developed as some woods, but it’s pretty safe. Not rich, but not poor. It’s…nice.”

Pisces nodded and Ksmvr happily looked around. House Byres was one of those places in the world where you didn’t have to worry about stuff like Rock Crabs wandering about, or was economically poor or interestingly magical.

“No wonder Yvlon wanted to get away from here.”

Pisces commented. Ceria scowled.

“Be nice.”

“Haven’t I been the model of politeness, despite the clear aversion Lord Byres has for me?”

The [Ice Mage] grunted. Pisces had been rather restrained.

“Keep it up. I don’t get why Yvlon wants to leave so b—good morning, Lady Shallel!”

The half-Elf broke off and waved to the [Lady] who was waving towards them at the opened gates and drawbridge of the keep. Shallel Byres, unusual because her name did not start with ‘Y’, nodded to the three adventurers as they walked across the drawbridge.

“Hello, Miss Ceria. Mister Pisces, and Mister Ksmvr. Breakfast is ready and Yvlon was asking after you.”

All three adventurers brightened. The Horns of Hammerad were united in that they liked food—if anything, it was their fourth member waiting in the dining room, Yvlon, who was the odd one out in that regard.

Certainly, this morning she only poked at her breakfast. Among the items was a boiled egg that Ceria regarded guiltily. But the food was hot, filling, made by a decent [Cook] who found satisfaction in being the personal employee of a minor noble house.

“Good morning to you.”

Yitton Byres sat at the table with his daughter, eating formally with silverware. His nod was a tad uncomfortable; not for Ceria, but rather for Pisces and Ksmvr. It was a tossup which he disliked more, the [Necromancer] or the Antinium. But Pisces had observed that Lord Yitton was unfailingly polite, if as distant as possible.

That was House Byres. Formality, honor, and silver. The [Necromancer] eyed the actual silver silverware. He resisted the urge to pocket a knife or two. He was above that, but he was still sort of tempted.

“I trust you’ve all slept well? And you—ah, Ksmvr—you seem to enjoy your tree?”

Shallel Byres was interesting to Pisces. She was clearly a [Lady]; posture, manners, and a few of her Skills had indicated that. It took a special sort of woman to smile at an Antinium as guilelessly as she did. Or maybe she was genuinely at ease around him, which made her even more unique.

Terandrian accent. Pisces sipped from some milk as Ksmvr spoke about the bird’s nest. When he got to Ceria eating one of his tenants, Yvlon nearly choked on her bite of bread. Yitton and Shallel looked at Ceria, and the half-Elf blushed.

“Er…sorry. I get peckish.”

Pisces nearly snorted milk out his nose at the unintentional pun. Ceria kicked him as hard as she could and his eyes watered up. Shallel had to have observed the slapstick, but she just smiled at Ceria.

“I’m familiar with half-Elf customs, Miss Ceria. You must have been from a more rural village, is that right?”

Ceria blinked with surprise and then smiled.

“That’s right! Well, sort of. I got kicked out so I lived more on the land. Do you know much about half-Elves, Lady Shallel?”

“Mother’s from Terandria, Ceria.”

Yvlon muttered. The first things she’d said all day since greeting her team. She looked…like she was sulking. Which delighted Pisces, frankly. He sat back, enjoying some butter on his bread as he listened.

“That’s right. I grew up in the big cities, but I knew a few half-Elves. As much as any Terandrian Human.”

“Oh right, you mentioned that. Then how did you get to Izril?”

Shallel sighed as Yitton coughed. There was a mischievous look in her eye as she replied.

“Well, I married into money of course! I was the daughter of a very minor noble house. Terandria has a…mm…a group of young [Ladies] whose entire purpose is to earn a large dowry or marry upwards, or to the right sort of gentleman. I’m sure you’re familiar with us, Mister Pisces?”

She directed that to Pisces. The [Necromancer] blinked.

“I am. Er—it seems that your marriage wasn’t entirely motivated by material wealth, though. Most [Ladies] wouldn’t marry outside of Terandria for any amount of gold.”

Shallel laughed.

“True. It was more of mutual affection when I met Yitton. But let’s not pretend I didn’t meet him out of purely romantic reasons. You had better watch out yourself, Pisces. And you, Miss Ceria. Mm…Ksmvr might be immune, but you are all three Gold-ranks. Lovely young men or women will be tossing themselves at you. Ylawes has done well, but Yvlon would delight me if she brought back someone suitable.”

Yvlon turned red, and Yitton coughed. He was a bit red across the ears himself.

“I think we’re drifting off-topic, Shallel.”

“As you like, Yitton.”

The woman smiled. She was far more conversational than the two more formal Byres. Pisces was already delighted at Yvlon’s discomfort so he added to it as best he could.

“I must say, for my part Lady Byres, I’ve been touched by your welcome. I truly feel as though Yvlon is family, and I must respect your willingness to let me, a [Necromancer], under you roof—”

Ceria’s kick this time was audible across the table. Pisces doubled over as Yitton stopped eating and Yvlon covered her face with her metallic hand.

Shallel didn’t blink.

“A teammate of Yvlon’s is not some random stranger, Mister Pisces. I’m told you saved Yvlon’s life multiple times and she speaks highly of you. We couldn’t simply turn away someone like that on the basis of his class, could we?”

It was Pisces’ turn to blush slightly as he rubbed at his leg. Yitton cleared his throat once more, avoiding looking directly at Pisces. He clearly had a different opinion.

“Yvlon’s accomplishments are certainly profound. Slaying an Adult Creler at her age? I can’t name more than a dozen Gold-rank teams who’ve accomplished the same. And as a Silver-rank…that’s the stuff stories are written of.”

“It was just a rank. We were already Gold-rank, father.”

Yvlon blushed as Yitton looked at her. Shallel smiled.

“Nonsense. Ylawes himself hasn’t ever gone up against an Adult Creler. He tells me all the time what an accomplishment it is. You even have a title from Rhir! Hell’s Wardens. You’re far too modest, Yvlon.”

“House Byres will boast about it for generations, certainly. It’s the kind of accomplishment I wish I’d had as a young man. But it’s one thing to dream, another to do it.”

Yitton nodded. He was sparing with Ceria, Ksmvr, and Pisces—speaking mostly to Ceria at the last few meals. But he wasn’t as recalcitrant with his daughter.

The young [Silversteel Armsmistress] herself turned crimson at the praise offered from both parents in front of her team. She shifted in her chair.

“It was a team-effort. Without the other teams—we’d have all died. I was just one adventurer.“

“But you did carve into the Adult Creler’s brain by yourself, Yvlon. I would place your combat contribution near the top, if not instrumental to our victory.”

Ksmvr added at the precisely wrong moment.

“Yes, we can’t overstate your bravery, Yvlon. You even told us all to run.”

Pisces drawled. Yvlon gave him a glare that threatened a punching.

“Not to mention you just lost your arm and you told Pisces to reattach it so you could keep fighting!”

Even Ceria joined in the teasing. Although she went too far—Yitton glanced at his daughter’s arm and Shallel’s smile wavered.

“You were exceptionally brave, Yvlon. Is it wrong to praise courage where we see it? Family or not—valor is valor.”

Yitton Byres nodded and Yvlon’s tomato-qualities increased. It interested Pisces no end.

Obviously, he and Ceria and even Ksmvr had been aware of Yvlon’s reluctance to go home. They’d speculated, but none of them had known quite why Yvlon wanted to avoid her family. And at least part of the answer was now clear: Yvlon’s parents, far from being the distant nobility, were dotingly proud of their daughter’s accomplishments.

More than even Pisces expected. As breakfast wrapped up and the plates were taken away by the few servants, Shallel turned to Yvlon.

“You and your team will have time to talk about all your accomplishments and laud the other contributors to your victory, Yvlon. We’ve asked Lenisa to come by to put your victory to verse.”

“Oh no. Mother—please. We don’t need—”

“Too late! I know how you are with the storytelling, Yvlon, but it’s not about you. The other villages and towns want to hear about your battle in details and I’m sure your teammates would enjoy it! Please send in Lenisa.”

Pisces blinked as an older woman in her late fifties was shown into the room. Lenisa, as it turned out, was a rather flashy woman with a flair for big gestures. She had a hint of dramatis that he respected. And she fit her class.

“I, am a [Storyteller] for House Byres. It is my role, honored adventurers, to put the deeds of Lord Ylawes and Lady Yvlon to verse! And such stories will go to every village and town under the aegis of House Byres—even further! They’ve reached even Invrisil. And I have no doubt that your victory as Silver-rank adventurers over an Adult Creler will be my greatest work yet!”

The woman had notes ready for the taking, and even an [Artist] to take portraits of all the Horns of Hammerad.

Pisces was delighted. Yvlon looked like she wanted to sit in Ksmvr’s tree and hide.

“What? Free advertisements? Yvlon! You didn’t say your parents had hired a [Storyteller] just for us!”

Ceria whispered to her friend. Yvlon gave her a wretched look.

“They didn’t. Lenisa is a family friend. They’ve hired her for every single victory I’ve ever won, starting when I was Bronze-rank.”

“W—really? That sounds great!”

“It’s not.”

But before Yvlon could elaborate, Lenisa had taken over the dining room.

“We’ll need individual accounts, but please, tell me everything. As many details as you have in you! What the Bloodfields look like, events leading up to the battle—I ah, understand we might need to take some narrative liberties here.”

She glanced at Yitton, and then Pisces. The [Necromancer]’s eyes narrowed.

“About what, pray?”

“Oh, the undead. I understand there was a bone—giant? Some undead…creation utilized in the battle?”

“You mean, the Frostmarrow Behemoth that saved our lives? Yes, Ceria and Pisces conjured it.”

Yvlon replied, glancing at Yitton. He affected not to notice. Lenisa scribbled a note on her parchment.

“Frost and ice? Well, we can emphasize the ice a bit. How about ‘a creation of frost and bone for dire purpose awoketh’…I can workshop that later. Now, Miss Byres, you know how I like to do things! Horns of Hammerad, it is such an honor to make a tale of Lady Yvlon’s comrades!”

The [Storyteller] beamed at the three Gold-rank adventurers and Yvlon. Ceria blinked. There was something—almost scary about how enthusiastically Lenisa said that. Not even a hint of the irony Pisces would have injected into every syllable.

When House Byres’ subjects claimed to love their noble family, they really meant it. Pisces, Ceria, and Ksmvr saw the admiring glances the young [Artist] kept giving Yvlon—as much awe as infatuation—as they gave an accounting of the battle. The Horns became modest almost as a defense mechanism; Lenisa exaggerated everything she heard until modesty helped them reach an almost-accurate truth.

“So…you do this for every battle Yvlon wins?”

“All of the major ones, of course. Why, haven’t you heard any of them? I sent Miss Yvlon the copies—I have everything here if you’d like to look! Here—this is the first story I ever ran, in verse! The Mothbear’s End and Yvlon Byres’ First Quest!”

She showed the Horns of Hammerad a small, bound, illustrated tale recounting a Bronze-rank Yvlon Byres with the Silver Spears slaying a Mothbear plaguing a village in the Byres lands. The illustration had a flowing-haired Yvlon battling a tremendously big Mothbear.

Pisces made a sound. Yvlon closed her eyes as Ksmvr clicked approvingly.

“With an enemy this large, Yvlon was no doubt deserving of at least this much praise! That is the largest Mothbear I have ever seen, nearly half again as large as the average member of its species. It must be fourteen feet tall. For a Bronze-rank adventurer, this is quite a feat.”

“It wasn’t that tall, Ksmvr.”

Yvlon replied in a low voice. Lenisa laughed.

“I exaggerated only a bit, Mister, uh, Mister Kiss-rem-vier. Is that how you pronounce your name?”

“No, not at all.”

Pisces and Ceria exchanged a look. They were enjoying this look into Yvlon’s life. To them, it was hilarious seeing the stoic, often serious member of their group squirm. They saw Shallel smiling as she watched the proceedings.

“When you three have the portraits done, we’ll add them to the gallery. It’s a shame you can’t stay longer or we’d pay for a mage-picture.”

All three adventurers looked up. Yvlon closed her eyes.

—-

Mage-pictures were almost completely-perfect images a [Mage] could capture. They could even move if you paid for them. It was expensive, but even a minor [Lord] could afford them.

House Byres had an entire gallery devoted to their three children. They told a fascinating story to Pisces. For one thing—he stopped finding everything so funny.

It might not be obvious to Shallel, or Yitton, the doting parents they were, or even Lenisa, but if you looked down the gallery, you saw something.

“Yvlon, Ylawes…and this must be Ysara, correct?”

Pisces pointed at the third, unfamiliar girl captured across the stages of her life up to early adulthood. Yvlon moved in one of the mage-pictures, swinging a sword, captured in perpetuity by the [Mage] or [Illusionist] or whomever had drawn the picture out with magic.

“That’s right. Ysara didn’t take to the [Warrior] class although she was the most gifted of the three, frankly. A genius with a sword—but she’s a [Merchant].”

Shallel looked just a hint uncomfortable as she passed by Ysara’s portraits. Indeed—they ended right as she seemed to be in her early twenties. But Ylawes and Yvlon had far more. It seemed that every year, their parents had paid for one picture, even if not a mage-picture.

It told a story. Ylawes was always the dutiful warrior, captured in some warrior’s pose—in later years, with a Griffin’s head, or his teammates, only the last few years being Dawil and Falene. Yvlon—

In her first pictures, she was an enthusiastic girl, swinging a sword with poor posture but energy. Pisces, who had been trained as a [Fencer], had seen Ysara’s almost-perfect form. He had no doubt she had been one of those geniuses you hated to meet on the dueling grounds.

Yvlon though—no. Until she was in her early teens, she was, like the others, practicing swordsmanship. Then—for about four years—she was holding books, smiling but not quite capturing genuine happiness as the mage-artist captured her in more thoughtful poses.

“She got back into her sword training when she was around seventeen. See?”

There the training resumed, but Yvlon’s smile turned more into concentration. Nor—did she turn up with her trophies, monsters slain, like Ysara and Ylawes. Except for one image.

She stood with her sword planted in the dirt next to a Mothbear’s head. A much smaller Mothbear than the illustration indicated. Yvlon didn’t smile, so the artist had made her more somber, reflective.

Pisces was certain Yvlon at that time had not been willing to smile, no matter how much coaxing she’d received. He looked at her now and saw a reflection from the pictures on Yvlon’s face.

Shame.

—-

“We’re delighted for you to stay as long as you like, Yvlon. Indeed—I hope you’d remain to perform some of the traditional rites. Ylawes has been absent so I put them off, but you’ve returned at a good time. Your companions are much welcomed as well. Miss Springwalker, we have you to thank for helping us build that dam so quickly.”

A while later, after Lenisa had gone away to put the battle with the Adult Creler to verse, Lord Yitton spoke with the others in the parlor.

“It was nothing, Lord Byres.”

Ceria smiled and waved a hand, abashed as he bowed slightly to her. A dam had nearly collapsed and Ceria had helped freeze the entire place up so it could be repaired.

“It is quite gracious of you nonetheless. As I said, your team is welcome to stay or work around House Byres as long as you like, Yvlon. I must ask that you refrain from even practicing with these…undead, however.”

Yitton turned to Pisces, bringing up the incident from yesterday at last. Yvlon frowned.

“It was just one undead bear, father.”

“Yes…”

The [Lord] looked at Pisces. The [Necromancer]’s smile was frosty.

“Quite under my control, Lord Byres. There was nothing to worry about. I apologize for alarming one of your people.”

“I quite understand, Mister Pisces. However. My subjects are terrified of the undead. I ask you as Lord of House Byres to not summon such monsters in my lands except at greatest need. I have heard Yvlon’s reassurances that you can control them. Nevertheless, I object personally and morally to their existence, as well as a class that utilizes them.”

The [Lord] met Pisces’ eyes. The [Necromancer] began to sniff, saw Yvlon and Ceria wincing out of the corner of his eyes, and surprised them all by bowing slightly.

“As you will, Lord Byres. Refraining from using my magic is simple enough.”

Yitton nodded to him and that was the second thing he said to Pisces all day. After he had gone, the Horns went for a walk. Yvlon needed it and they wanted to privacy to speak.

House Byres’ lands were nice. Picturesque, in that old knightly-way. You could just imagine some of the people working the fields looking up and seeing a [Knight] on his way to fight some evil monster.

“Ylawes must just fit in here.”

Ceria had been thinking the same thing. Yvlon just shrugged as she kicked around moodily. In the distance, children and people looked up, waving at Yvlon who had to wave back and staring at her arms. Everyone had been in uproar when they’d seen her new arms—but they’d accepted it with startling ease. Perhaps because it was a sign Yvlon Byres had stayed true to her house.

“Silver and steel, huh?”

The half-Elf glanced at Yvlon. The woman nodded.

“Honest as steel, pure as silver. That’s the Byres tradition.”

“Rude as a muddy toad slapping you in the face, you mean. You okay, Pisces? Lord Byres was pretty direct.”

The [Necromancer] shrugged moodily.

“He’s far from the first person I’ve met to hold such beliefs. And he was rather cordial about it; he could have been far ruder. I will live. You on the other hand, look quite unwell, Yvlon.”

He turned to the [Armsmistress]. Yvlon rubbed at her arms, clenching and unclenching her metal hands and staring at them as she did quite often these days.

“I—I’m sorry if I’ve been unsociable, everyone. But I really do want to leave as soon as we can without upsetting my parents.”

The others exchanged a quick glance. Ksmvr’s mandibles opened and closed.

“But why, Yvlon? Your parents seem very nice to me. I have no frame of reference for this statement, but I will make it anyways.”

Yvlon smiled.

“It’s—complicated, Ksmvr. Family often is. I like my parents, and Ylawes and Ysara, of course. It’s just that I’m not always at home around them. Do you understand what I mean?”

“No. But this is normal. You are not at home in your home.”

Ksmvr skipped ahead, thinking. The others waited; educating Ksmvr about the world was a full-time job they were all used to. He came back and looked at Yvlon and Ceria and Pisces.

“May I share my interesting observations, please?”

“Go ahead, Ksmvr. This should be quite illuminating.”

Pisces smirked. Ksmvr nodded. He tilted his head one way and then another and then spoke.

“I have never had a family. I was created to lead Antinium and replace Prognugator Klbkch. I was made to die and be replaced. It seems to me that families among other species treasure new life with an excess of value on the young. This is not a bad thing.”

The other’s smiles faded. That was Ksmvr for you. One moment he was childish, the next moment he stabbed you in the gut and let you bleed. Pisces looked at Ceria and Yvlon, at a loss, and it was the half-Elf who reached out.

“Almost right. You have a family now, Ksmvr.”

“Yes you do. And as far as I’m concerned, you could be my little brother. House Byres is your house, Ksmvr.”

Yvlon smiled and squeezed Ksmvr’s shoulder gently. He looked at her, antennae moving with suppressed emotion. He opened and closed his mandibles.

“…May I have two trees?”

Everyone laughed. Yvlon nodded.

“Why don’t you go pick one out?”

“I’ll help if you want, Ksmvr. I know good trees. We can find another bird’s nest.”

“Really?”

Ceria waved at Pisces and Yvlon, mouthing silently. She didn’t say anything specific, but it was more of a ‘I’ll go with him to make sure no one else freaks out or he doesn’t scare someone and have them attack him’, kind of thing. Pisces and Yvlon nodded as Ksmvr and Ceria ran off, babbling about bark or something inane.

“Well?”

The [Necromancer] turned to Yvlon as they strolled along. She grimaced.

“…If I complain, do you promise not to repeat what I said in front of my family?”

“Yvlon, Yvlon. I mock you, but I don’t reveal secrets.”

Pisces tsked, hurt. Yvlon rolled her eyes, but she relaxed a bit.

“Then—what do you think of my family?”

“To quote Ksmvr, they are ‘nice’. Quite proud parents. Very proud. One might say excessively so.”

The blonde-haired woman’s face said it all. Yvlon rubbed at the place where her metal shoulder merged with her skin.

“—If you tell them, or Ylawes, I’ll break your fingers. But I hate it here. You saw that collection of my ‘achievements’? They’ve always been like this. Me, Ysara, Ylawes—they’re so proud. Which is good. I was so happy—until I realized I didn’t deserve it. That Mothbear? Ysara killed an Ogre Chieftain and five Ogres in battle when she was my age. Ylawes fought a Griffin and beat it by himself to save a [Farmer].”

“Achievement isn’t an objective thing.”

Yvlon stopped walking and looked at Pisces.

“You’re telling me that, Pisces? You?”

His lips twisted.

“Very well. Say rather you stood in the shadow of two quite talented older siblings. That isn’t unusual.”

Yvlon ran a hand through her bright hair.

“I know. I know—but it’s been like this all my life. I lived in Ysara’s shadow, and then Ylawes’. His Silver Swords—I copied him, but I was never half as accomplished as he was. And my parents doted on both of us. I felt like I earned nothing properly—especially because I was always Lady Yvlon around here.”

She gestured at her chest, as if she wore the armor she was normally never without. At home she wore just an ordinary set of clothing and looked much smaller without.

“I got my armor and weapons from my family—even for my entire team! So I went south to Celum to actually achieve something. And you know what happened next.”

Pisces nodded. He had seen the covered image near the end of Yvlon’s gallery that Shallel had carefully not brought up. The original Silver Spears. Yvlon had spent a while there when she’d first returned home.

“Well, as you said, family is complicated. I find it all amusing of course—”

“Of course.”

“—but when we leave, we needn’t speak of it again except to humiliate you at our convenience.”

Yvlon glowered and raised a fist, but she smiled as Pisces edged away. She looked back at her home and nodded to him.

“I feel like a fool back home, that’s all. What about you, Pisces? You…do you miss your home?”

It was a loaded question. Especially because Yvlon knew a bit. Pisces hesitated. A while back he’d have side-stepped the question or lied. But he was working on keeping secrets. He rolled his shoulders and reached for the rapier he carried.

“Rather a different experience than yours, Yvlon. I was never good enough. Lazy, arrogant, a half-made [Fencer] who embarrassed his father at every turn…I rather feel he disliked me.”

Yvlon’s face changed as Pisces stared ahead. She coughed, and replied slowly.

“—I understand that my complaining wears thin, especially compared to other’s experiences. I’m sorry.”

Pisces sniffed. He hated genuine emotion. He made his tone light and careless.

“Well, I will accept your apology of course, but I rather feel as though I had the better deal of it. My father made it easy to ignore his condemnation. Your parents set the bar of Yvlon Byres’ accomplishments so high it was practically out of reach for the girl herself. That you touched it is worthy of praise.”

Yvlon blinked and eyed Pisces. Her lips quirked.

“Worthy of praise. Thanks.”

The [Necromancer] turned his head away, feeling the slightest of blushes and fighting it.

“You should find Ceria or Ksmvr to utter such praise. Or that [Storyteller], of course.”

“Naturally.”

Funnily, they understood each other fairly well these days, Yvlon and Pisces. Each of the Horns of Hammerad had their own relationship to each other. Yvlon and Ksmvr’s was as deep as Ceria’s and Pisces’ for instance, but the other connections had unexpected harmony at times. Yvlon looked ahead.

“Tell me more about undead, Pisces. You keep complaining that undead could make House Byres better. How?”

Pisces nearly tripped over a stone. He looked at Yvlon.

“You want me to expound on the undead? Here?”

She gave him a calm look.

“My father’s anti-undead. I’m not. My views on necromancy are different. Remember who fixed up my arms? You keep telling us about Khelt, which uses undead. What—would you make them mine silver or something?”

The [Necromancer] scratched at his messy hair.

“Well, silver is a rare problem. The metal would affect the spells, but I was uh, being more hyperbolic in my ire than anything. The truth is that I’ve seen undead employed as laborers and it isn’t a flawless solution. It would take some work to implement, actually. Previous iterations have failed.”

The [Armsmistress] looked sidelong at her friend.

“Really? Do tell.”

There was no help for it. Pisces sighed. They knew his last name, anyways. Pisces Jealnet, son of nobody famous in particular. He coughed into his sleeve, going back, deciding what to tell and what was still too personal.

“It’s nothing special. You know some of it already. I belonged to a…cabal in Terandria. While I was growing, before I left for Wistram. They were a group of [Necromancers]—and a few other irregulars with similar interests. They taught me necromancy. I ran away from home to join them. I don’t know—I doubt if they are still extant. I have never inquired. Some members may remain.”

“Mhm. And?”

Pisces scratched at his head. She didn’t even blink at him having been part of a [Necromancer] cult in Terandria. He almost missed the outrage and shock of the old days.

“We lived in hiding, learning, teaching each other, experimenting. And, well, among other things, we ran a—a sort of commune, you might say. And we even had a farm.”

Yvlon stopped again.

“You. Had a farm. Run by undead?”

She was trying not to laugh. Pisces folded his arms sullenly.

“Is it hard to imagine? Of course, we were emulating Khelt. And Az’kerash, who had created similar places in Terandria before he was reviled. Ours was quite small; only a few hundred undead at most. Undead tilled the fields, performed menial chores, even mined and cut wood. It was an experiment.”

“It sounds like it failed. What was the cause?”

“Er…”

“Wait, let me guess. Infighting? Undead going rampant? No—creating stronger undead by all the death magic?”

She had been listening to his lectures to Ksmvr! Pisces smiled. Then he was embarrassed again.

“Er…wild dogs.”

The blonde-haired woman just stared. Pisces threw up his hands.

“They’d attack the skeletons for bones! It got so that we had to ward the undead and patrol the commune. Zombies started rotting and attracted birds, insects, and so forth—we even lost a Ghoul to the wildlife one time. And the undead would lose their binding spells, wander off, or do something inane like cut down every tree in a ten mile radius until we caught up to it…”

Yvlon started laughing. Ceria and Ksmvr, who came back from finding his second tree, saw the warrior woman doubled over in mirth as Pisces glowered at her. They started laughing too, not even knowing why at first.

Yvlon Byres wiped tears from her eyes when she was done. Pisces was glowering.

“We were all low-level. Our best member was just reaching Level 30 when I left, and he was better at combat, mass-raising undead rather than customization. I could design a far better one now. It might even be useful. But I will desist while I’m on Lord Yitton’s lands.”

Yvlon fell silent. She nodded slowly.

“Thanks, Pisces.”

The [Necromancer] sniffed in reply and waved it away. He thought that was that. But the short conversation with Yvlon had clarified how she really felt. In a way—it was a mistake to let her unbottle her feelings. Because ‘you couldn’t put the skeleton back in the flesh suit’, as one of his former [Necromancer] friends had used to say. It came to a tipping point when Lord Yitton wanted them to participate in the first Byres tradition.

—-

“It’s just a minor custom, but House Byres always breaks and shares the first loaf of bread from a harvest among themselves. Yvlon, you should take part. It would honor the village to have a Gold-rank adventurer participate.”

“Not to mention you haven’t been back in nearly two years.”

Shallel added. Yvlon sighed.

“We’re just eating bread, father.”

“It’s traditional and it shows our appreciation.”

Yitton gave his daughter a stern look. Ceria broke in, smiling awkwardly.

“I’d love to come and wouldn’t mind having something to eat, right you guys?”

Ksmvr and Pisces nodded, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Yitton hesitated and glanced at the two. He coughed into a fist.

“—Perhaps it would be best if Yvlon were to come alone. It is a Byres tradition. More frankly—the presence of a [Necromancer] and one of the…Antinium would be disruptive.”

Ah. He was doing it again. Pisces rolled his eyes, but without real rancor; eating bread was only something Ksmvr enjoyed.

“Father. Pisces is part of my team.”

Yvlon’s brows twitched. It was a warning sign to anyone on her team. Shallel gave her husband a similar look.

“I’m sure the Horns of Hammerad would be welcome, Yitton.”

“But this is a traditional meal. The people know about Mister Pisces…they might feel as though the first baking were—unclean. With all due respect, Shallel…”

Pisces saw Yvlon raise one of her metal arms. She brought her fist down on the dining room table. Hard.

The thump made everything on the ancient wood surface jump. And—cracked the table itself.

Yvlon hadn’t meant to do that, Pisces was sure. She and everyone else stared at the impact and crack that had broken the family’s possible heirloom.

“Yvlon!”

Yitton went pale with fury. But Yvlon was already furious. Fury replaced her look of guilt.

“That’s enough, father! If you don’t want Pisces or Ksmvr around, you needn’t ask for me!”

She pushed herself up. Yitton hesitated.

“I am only explaining—”

“You’re insulting him to his face. That’s not honesty. That’s just rudeness! I know you don’t like [Necromancers]. But you could at least try.”

“Yvlon, really. I’m quite used to—”

“Shut up, Pisces.”

He put up his hands and backed away as Yvlon glared at him. She rounded on her father. Yitton looked startled at the confrontational note in his daughter’s voice.

“Yvlon, you’ve seen what [Necromancers] have done. Ylawes’ team has fought any number of them. Shallel told you stories about Az’kerash.”

“And? What does that have to do with my teammate? Not every [Necromancer] is evil, father! Pisces is a friend. He’s saved my life. He is not always honorable. But he has never been evil.”

The Lord of House Byres looked like he wanted to debate that point, but present company made him hesitate. He stiffly inclined his head to his daughter.

“…You have every right to believe that, Yvlon. But the fact remains that any incidents that occur will be your responsibility. Are you prepared for that? I have never seen an undead creation that did not seem to want me dead.”

He looked at Pisces. Yvlon ground her teeth.

“I’m responsible for any accidents that occur? Aren’t we all? If you want to talk about responsibility—what about you marching on Liscor with an army ready to slaughter the Drakes and Gnolls there?”

Ceria, Pisces, and Ksmvr’s head swung back towards Yitton. He hesitated.

“Yvlon. I did what I felt was best for the realm. I did not know you were there. Lord Tyrion’s motives were unknown to us all. On the face of it, we hunted a Goblin Lord.”

“And you did a fine job of slaughtering them.”

“You speak as if that weren’t the point. There was a Goblin Lord, Yvlon.”

“They’re not all monsters!”

Shallel made a sound. Yvlon glared around the table.

“They’re not. I’ve met some of them that spoke and thought and were—more honorable than some [Lords] and [Ladies] I could name! They’re a people. It took me meeting them in person to find that out. But why has no one else in the Byres family ever figured that out?”

Yitton was just shaking his head.

“You sound like Emperor Godart, Yvlon. This—this notion isn’t unique. But I’ve told him exactly what I will tell you: Goblins, individually…may have the ability to reason. They may have honor. But no Goblin King has ever made anything than unrelenting war. Velan was known as Velan the Kind before he broke every vow and forswore his honor to destroy nations.”

“That—may be true.”

Yvlon hesitated. Pisces wasn’t in this debate, but he reflected that Yvlon was arguing uphill. [Necromancers] and Goblins weren’t the best peoples to defend historically.

“The point is that you’re insulting my team! Pisces and Ksmvr because of their species and class! Not who they are! Enough, father.”

“I’m only pointing out dangerous elements in your life as I see it, Yvlon. No Byres in living memory has ever allied with a [Necromancer]. And the Antinium? Have you forgotten your history? Our House rode against the Antinium in both wars!”

At last, Yitton’s voice grew heated. Pisces slowly reached for his bag of snacks. Well now, Lord Byres was finally saying what he really felt.

“So the enemy’s always the enemy? No wonder we can’t make peace with the Drakes! You’re more stubborn than they are!”

“Yvlon! Mind your manners!”

Shallel spoke up, shocked. Yvlon turned her head.

“Why? Should I say how I feel politely? How’s this? I’ve never been more appalled by the slippage of House Byres’ morals when it comes to the hypocrisy I see in giving fellow Humans like Lord Tyrion the benefit of the doubt while castigating Pisces and Ksmvr!”

“That’s enough, young lady. You’re embarrassing yourself in front of our guests and your team.”

Yitton’s voice was cold as he looked at the Horns. Ksmvr waved at him. Yvlon flushed.

“They’ve seen worse! I don’t need to be perfect around them! And I’m not Ylawes, father! I’m starting to think Ysara was right! No wonder she left!”

The [Lord] stood abruptly. He strode from the room without another word.

“Yitton!”

Shallel got to her feet. She gave Yvlon a look with so many layers Pisces had to catalogue them and then hurried after Yitton.

Yvlon stayed where she was. Pisces saw her pale face turn red in the silence that followed. He chewed on a walnut. As family arguments went—that went right up with his altercations with his father. But he didn’t say that.

“—I think it’s time to go. Sorry you all had to see that.”

The [Armsmistress] muttered. She looked around at her team. She turned.

“Let me grab my things. We’ll just go and—”

“Don’t be silly. You can’t leave now!”

Ceria barred her way. The [Cryomancer] looked just as embarrassed at having Yvlon air her grievances in her presence, but she was firm.

“You can’t just run off. You will regret it, Yvlon. Take it from me.”

The woman looked down at the half-Elf. Ceria pointed towards where Yvlon’s parents had gone.

“You’ll regret it if you don’t talk to them.”

“You—er—you’re speaking from experience?”

Yvlon looked around, ears still red. Pisces shrugged. He’d been quite glad to walk away from his family, but Ceria had a different perspective. She nodded as she tried to turn Yvlon around.

“I ran off after shouting at my parents. I regret that. My parents are still alive…but I wonder if they remember I’m gone.”

“Remember you’re gone?”

The woman was sufficiently distracted by that to abandon her flight. Ceria nodded. She and Ksmvr tugged Yvlon back to the dining table and got her to sit down. Ceria smiled.

“Half-Elf village. Removed from time. They could be doing the same routine and still setting the table expecting me to come in. I’m from the Village of the Spring. Hence the name. Springwalker? There’s Springwaters, Everspring—half-Elves have stupid naming conventions. I…the last time I was there I stormed out and I was kicked out of the village a day later. I never got to say goodbye. You don’t want that.”

“I—I’m sorry, Pisces, Ksmvr. I only meant to get my father to stop insulting you. The rest of that…”

“Why don’t we go for a little walk again? You can speak with your parents in peace.”

Pisces spoke up at last. Yvlon gave him a grateful look and nodded. Pisces put away his snack and motioned with his head. The other two Horns followed him out.

Yvlon sat there, embarrassed, restless, guilty—looking at the cracked dining room table. It would need a [Repair] spell; hopefully the old wood could be fixed with magic. Sometimes, if the damage was too great or the material too advanced, the spell failed…