Diego considered this moment with the utmost importance. Nothing would ever compare to it. Not his family’s death. Not Ostian’s unforgiving oppression. Not the headsman’s demise. 

She was still warm in his arms. Black hair unraveling from the updo she kept it in.

“Do you do all your business meetings in a bathhouse?” He stood there, utterly entranced as Dijaam Onêlys lounged within the large basin of water. The steam barely hid her assets.

He never expected the contact to be a woman. The most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. Copper skin sheened from the water and her black hair held high to keep from getting wet. Her crimson lips curled up at the sight of his gaping face.

Dijaam chuckled at him, batting her long lashes, “Depends on the business. Are you getting in or not?”

He caressed her cheek, those long lashes no longer moving. Diego leaned back against a log, her body in his lap as he held her like he would a sleeping babe. The area around him was quiet with a river inlet to his right and the ocean stretching before him. A statue of jade, the Green Scarabeaus, lay on its side in the sand. An afterthought in the aftermath.

A rattling noise stirred him from his stupor, and he glared at the perpetrator. 

“I don’t have anything against him, really. It’s just ...” Dijaam eyed the skeleton then shook her head, “so what’s his… or her… name?” 

“Dood.”

She raised a sculpted brow at him, “Dood? Really?”

Diego cocked his head, ”... Yeees?” He smiled. Though the other denizens in the Undercity don’t seem to take as kindly and give them a wide berth.

“You, uh, trust it?”

“More or less. He protects me at least, even if he doesn’t like to help me clean.” 

That didn’t seem to soothe her in the least, “I don’t think he was, ahem, summoned to be a maid.” The notion was absurd enough to at least make her smirk.

“He was summoned to help. Sometimes he is just a poor busybody.” Diego adjusted the noble’s hat on Dood’s skeletal head, making the warhammer wielding undead that more outlandish.

She still looked skeptical but regarded Dood with a tight smile, “Alright. I’ll leave you two to it then to get that evidence. Alright? I trust you both. And … thank you.” 

Dood stared back at Diego with black, empty sockets. In his current form, did he understand what he did? The gravity of his action in striking her down? The emptiness in his skull truly empty or always with intent? The one time he had hoped for his friend to follow command and stop attacking...Despite the fact the Dijaam acted with the intent to kill him. The poison from her blade was gone. But he still felt the cuts. The weakness in his limbs. Or was that simply from holding her this long? Dood simply did what he was apparently meant to do. You cannot blame the headsman for simply swinging his axe. Just the ones who gave the order. But when that order is not followed…? He pulled her close, buried his nose against her hair.

Then...was it really his fault? 

“So what do you think of this fine Kiléan dancing?”

Diego had no idea what to think. The dancer stretched and kicked and twirled to upbeat music. Arms swayed gracefully in arcs. He thought she was mimicking some sort of swan taking flight. A flailing swan taking flight.

“It’s uh...interesting?” though he preferred to look at the woman standing beside him.

“That could mean anything.” She grinned at him and then motioned for him to follow. They shared a drink at the bar. He stared at her crimson lips as she passed on her rags to riches story. A story like his own minus the religious zealots and rolling heads. Dijaam reached over and touched his arm when they finished, “It was a pleasure, Protector,” purred and drawn out that only seemed to make his chest flutter. “Until next time.”

A cold wind picked up, the fire at their campsite long extinguished. No more talking. No more ‘until next times’ or jaunts through the Ark crypt. No more her.

“Dijaam? You’ve been staring at that thing for over an hour. What do we do now?”

She stared at the Scarabeaus, the firelight cast green reflections against her skin. Entranced by the sculpture of jade. Dood remained in the shadows, the clatter of his bones occasionally breaking the silence as he wandered the perimeter.

“Dijaam?”

“... what?”

“Black market? Would the Coalition be willing to-”

“We are not selling it to those scum,” she hissed, then reigned herself in and cleared her throat. “It...it wouldn’t be a good idea. After what they did.”

Diego nodded in understanding, “Yes yes...you’re right. My apologies.”

She shook her head, “No … no you are trying to help, but,” she looked to the sky, the moon above full. He looked with her. “I do know many people in Kilé that I can try and sell it to. Then we split it, fifty-fifty, like we agreed. I can send you the payment after I sell it.” She paused and ran her fingers through her hair, “I could catch a boat at that miner town… Duneville, right? Then take the next boat to Kilé.” 

Diego fidgeted in his spot and moved closer to her, “Getting the money here would take awhile...“ His mind reeled at the implications. He may never see her again. She could die at sea. She could leave but never contact him again. The Coalition could kill her as soon as she walked through their doors. There could be a pirate attack. Payment be damned; it wasn’t truly worth it.

“We could...find a seller here?” The question tumbled out of his mouth. There was a sudden shift in the air. Something sharp that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. 

“What?”

“I know a lot of fences in the Undercity. Quick and easy! What if something happens in the boat?” His own experience on The Morning Dew reared its ugly head at the thought. “It wouldn’t be a good idea …”

“You worried that I won’t share?” She lashed and he recoiled, feeling wounded.

“No, no! Just...something could happen to you if others found out you had the Scarabeaus,” he pointed at the statue of jade, looking unassuming and glittery in the light.

Dijaam inhaled sharply through her nose, “I appreciate your chivalry, but I think I can manage after all of this.”

Diego shimmied closer to her, reached and slowly took her face in his hands. She let him. Let him gaze into her beautiful dark eyes and dark lashes. He swallowed, “I want to help you. What do I need to do?”

Her gaze softened and she exhaled shakily. “Saaras’Joodule ... you’ve done more than enough.”

He shrugged and grinned, “For you? Worth it.”

His nose caught whiffs of jasmine and sea water. Her arms wrapped around him. He returned it immediately, pulled her in close and squeezed. It would all work out. It would-- 

Her lips brushed his ear and sent his heart racing, “Fine...I’m sorry.”

No one could say that Mayor Jugar Featherwall did not love his wife. It hurt him down to the soul as Matilda cried out in her sleep.

“No! I didn’t--please!” the woman rolled and groaned within their bed, tears streaming down her face.

“Matilda--“

He thought of that woman. The one that came the day before. Unlike the Apothecarius and that Tarhutie woman in town, she seemed more optimistic to try and help. If not even the best healers could, then what could an outsider do? Jugar shook his head and sighed. Another quack, he reckoned. 

But nothing gained, nothing lost. All he could do was watch, wait and hope. 

“Ah...Ah...”

Matilda stopped. Her face, once twisted in pain and fear, eased into calm. At first, Jugar thought it was just a rest between episodes but the closer he looked...She wasn’t tense from strain. Color returned to her pallid face. In his excitement, he went to find his brother. 

“Meldor? Meldor! Something happened, where are you?” Up and down he searched, even stepping outside of his house. Rain pelted his face, the sudden splash of cold sent him spluttering back inside.

Gone. Where had he gone? He returned to Matilda and studied her intensely.

What...what happened?

His answer arrived a few hours later. Rain continued to fall outside and the woman he called a quack before stood before him now, soaked to the bone but with a weathered smile on her face.

“The episodes...they stopped,” he told her in amazement. Relief flooded through him and he returned her smile.

“But...where is Meldor? What happened?”

The woman’s smile faltered. Her yellow eyes seem to dull, as if to recount a memory. It took another moment before she spoke and her answer set a weight in his gut.

“Meldor and Matilda were having an affair. The fisherman that died? Caught them one day and Meldor hired a mercenary to keep him quiet.”

The fisherman? He had no idea that such a detail could have led--

“The wife committed suicide when Pentas died, right? Her spirit latched on to Matilda. That’s why she was being tormented. It was...”

“That’s enough.”

Jugar swayed in his seat. The woman’s hand steadied him. When he looked at her again, her eyes were shining and her smile was tight and sympathetic.

“I’m sorry. I thought it was best to know the truth.”

“I…” he gathered his thoughts then cleared his throat, “thank you. To think that Meldor and Matilda were…” his mind halted and he cleared his throat again, “Well. What matters now is that Matilda is getting better. And Meldor…?”

The strange-eyed woman shook her head and the pit deepened. Yet his heart soared at the same time. He took a key from his pocket and pressed it into her hand.

“There’s a casket downstairs, whatever is in it, is yours.”

She nodded and mumbled her thanks. Before she left however, he asked, “Why? Why help? You did not ask for a reward, I won’t ask how you succeeded but--”

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” she said, “it’s just a shame Meldor didn’t decide to take that chance.”

“Did you--”

She shook her head. Another pause.

“I suppose someone gave you that second chance?”

“Third,” she corrected and her smile widened though it didn’t reach those eyes, “And as they say, third time’s the charm, right?”

And with that, she was gone.

Jespar blew hard on the whistle. The Myrad above roared in response and began its descent.  

The good thing about the Myrad Tower was that the platform had only one way up. But it was twofold. There was no escape either. Nehrimese soldiers noticed their presence and surged to them like an angry wave against the rock. They’d be forced to cone in but who knows how long until their sheer numbers overwhelmed them.  

“Fuck!” Tharael sprang to the top step and slashed away at the soldiers. “That thing better hurry the fuck up!”

Calia jumped in, broadsword in hand, and cleaved where Tharael’s twin blades couldn’t reach. Soldiers already pooled and piled down the stairs; others were knocked off entirely, plummeting into the street or ravine beneath the tower.

Jespar blew the whistle again, then grabbed Lea’s bow. He was better with throwing knives but there weren’t nearly enough for the fuckton of soldiers attacking them. Arrows sunk into a wood by his feet and he swung the supple bow towards the enemy archers. Even missed hits would still make them scatter if it meant buying more time.  

Finally, strong gusts of wind buffeted their backs until the myrad landed behind them with a heavy, wood splintering thud.

Jespar shouldered the bow, “Everyone up! Now!”

He picked up Lea and threw her on the myrad’s neck. Tharael was beside him in an instant and clambering up the myrad to secure her.  

“Keeper! Come on!” Jespar called to Calia who was still cleaving the soldiers. Enough bodies piled to make a small, waist high wall but still the soldiers clawed over their fallen comrades like animals. He could see the shadows flicker around her form. She heaved a final push against some soldiers with the flat of her blade, making them careen and flail back down the stairs. They only had a few precious seconds.

Jespar climbed on and took the helm. Lea’s body heavy against his back. Despite the hard fighting, her breathing was even and deep in sleep.

“Calia!”

What was she doing?! She stood, motionless, sword bloodied and slack in her hands.

“I-“

“Ark, Enderal, is lost! We stay here and we’ll die too!”

Jespar grit his teeth. The soldiers clambered to their feet. The Myrad shuffled restless beneath them and roared at the offenders. An arrow struck the myrad’s leg. A soldier reared back to strike Calia. An arrow sent the attacker reeling and shook the Keeper from her paralysis. Her savior was Tharael, taking over with Lea’s bow and a snarl on his face.

“For fuck’s sake, we will leave you behind!”

Calia finally scrambled on behind Tharael as the Myrad’s wings rose, then bore down with a mighty rush. Jespar hoped everyone clung on for dear life as the Myrad took off from the platform. He could hear someone below screaming, “Shoot them down!” but the arrows bounced off the feathery hide. For a terrible second, he could see sickly green light in the distance. The entropist.  But in a few, tense moments, they rose above the city.  

Then they headed west. West. And away.

***********

This isn’t real.

There it was. That voice. But it was…her voice. She looked around the Golden Queen’s throne room. Nobles, mages, and eunich’s in silken garb filled the space, but, non spoke in the urgency that the voice, her voice, spoke.

You need to wake up.

“Why? What do you mean?”

One of the mages beside her with a golden piercing through his nose and an oily beard looked at her with furrowed brows. She shut her mouth and quickly turned away.

They can’t hear me. Only you.

“What do you want? Who are you?”

Lea spoke in hushed whispers, trying to act nonchalant as the party mulled around her. She lost sight of Jespar and it was a unique moment to herself not to be prodded with questions regarding Enderal.

Isn’t it obvious? I’m you. The real you.  

************

Lea bolts upright; for a moment, all she heard were jumbled voices and a violet “rush” like waves crashing against rock.

Pain, white hot as the sun, flared through her entire body. Gods, she was on fire.

She screamed and screamed until her throat and lungs gave out.

The locals made it known they hated her lying, cheating ways, tan skin and accent. A madness was spreading through the common folk like wildfire. And undead apparently roamed anywhere that wasn’t the main city or its neighboring towns like it was a roaring party of the afterlife.

But she didn’t care about that. She’d come for one purpose: retrieving the Jade Scarabeaus. The symbol of her home country Kilé.

Saras’Joduule. Being chained in Ark’s dungeons was ten steps backwards in the grand scheme of things. But she had turned herself in after the Golden Sickle’s leader decided to make himself scarce, scaring the guard and immediately pointing the blame. It was the truth, though, that she had no idea what happened to him. She didn’t care for the man and thought he was a giant stick in the mud with that stick shoved way up his ass. But she did care enough not to do anything to him. He was responsible for the Scarabeaus getting stolen, though. And it seemed her interrogators only cared about where she came from, if the beatings had been any indication.

Saras’Joduule! She turned herself in to prevent more bloodshed! What happened in the Golden Sickle’s trading post—it wasn’t meant to happen like that!

It really wasn’t.

Her thoughts turned to her new partner. A non-local. Someone from Nehrim of all places. Dijaam genuinely hoped that they were okay. After shoving the other woman back down into the crypts so as not to get caught as well, there was a familiar coil of worry in her gut. Not for herself but for the other woman. It was such an odd thing that she laughed out loud.

The guard to her cell yelled at her to shut up. She called them coinless shits.

When no response came, she felt momentary satisfaction. It disappeared when she heard hurried footsteps and the jingle of a key to her door. She steeled herself for another round of interrogation, only to be met with someone she wasn’t expecting. Granted, a rescue was a long shot but Dijaam wouldn’t turn down any chance she had to get out of here. With the Scarabeaus of course.

Bright yellow eyes widened with shock and within a few minutes, Dijaam was out of her shackles. I’ll be damned. Right now, this woman, this tiny woman, was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Even if she was covered in grime, blood and smelled like death.

It doesn’t cripple. Not yet. But she can’t stop staring at the sky. Silken wisps bent in unnatural angles rising to a white flare.

Not like the others moaning and whimpering at her feet. The dead and the dying will have their last moments in an eternal fire. Unless, she snuffs them all out in a single stroke. After all, no one truly knows what happens when you become a higher being.

The Prophetess keeps her eyes on the skies. Only looking upon her friend in her final moments. She touches her marked cheek and makes a promise. One she can keep, even if it was skewed.

She wonders if her companion will make it. Then wipes the doubt for her mind. It smears into others. She tries. But they don’t fade away.

The Grandmaster’s sword is heavy. She isn’t accustomed to heavy weapons; hers since long gone in the deep ice where the Black Guardian formerly resigned. Panic momentarily sinks in. Her limbs shake and the blade falls with a dull clang on the stone.

Where would she go, after this? Certainly not these ‘Eternal Paths’. Where would they go? Is a nothingness better? Would they wander ruins, forever burning, forever trapped?

Was that her choice to make? She looks at the Grandmaster, curled and crippled in front of the Beacon. Was it his?

But if there was any time to be strong. It has to be now. If there was a time to find out, it was now. If there was a time to finally take matters into her own hands…it is now.

She cries. And it burns.