#rinnywrites

Lungs burning and sweat at his brow, each hard strike against the ground reverberates through his body. But there is one thing he can’t outrun, and it is housed between his ribs: Lariel’s sword, the light of heaven, bright as the sun and searing as a drought.

He runs faster.

Relying on memory and dumb luck to guide him, making decisions on a desperate whim, but somehow he trusts the way he is going, though he has no particular reason to do so. It’s as if someone is guiding him.

He remembers they took a left here, and he recognizes that pattern of mushrooms there. He knows there should be a sharp incline around this bend—and there it is!

Flanked by rhapsodic light and color he runs until he can’t run any longer. Until his vision swims, and he drops to his knees in a panting, shuddering heap. The weight of his present circumstance hits him then, all at once, as he collapses.

Was it enough? Was he followed?

The cave is silent, save for his labored breathing.

He lays there for a while, preternaturally aware of his own heartbeat, of the tiny rock digging into his elbow, the little twitches in his spent muscles, like strings being plucked in his legs. A stalactite hangs directly above him, suspended overhead.

It all serves to remind him that he is a creature of flesh and bone. He is fully in his body, a body that he’d so long taken for granted. And as he considers this, his senses seem to expand, and he becomes aware of the mountains of earth above him and beneath him, and the blessing of air in these tunnels, the different minerals that abound here, the dark. And then, in that perfect dark, he finally begins to think about what needs to be done.

“Eight,” he whispers to himself, lips barely parting against the words. “There are eight schools of magic. Abjuration, to protect and counter. Conjuration, to create and destroy. Divination, to reveal and occlude. Enchantment, to convince and to dissuade. Evocation, as pertains to matter and energy. Illusion, as pertains to light and shadow. Transmutation, as pertains to static and dynamic.”

He pauses, and then finishes.

“Necromancy. As pertains to life and death.”

Think, Nereo.

Surely some clue is in the vision he received from the angel. It had been so laden with emotion, but more telling was the way the angel’s thoughts and feelings had mingled freely with his own. It was no illusion, then, rather a part of Lariel’s very essence as he had died. And the blade had persisted beyond the angel’s span, but so had a fragment of his memories and thoughts… but had it been his goal? How much intent was truly behind it?

Abjuration, perhaps, rooted in divine magic.

Do they even think of magic the way we do?

His wound lights up again, as if the sword can sense that it is the subject of Nereo’s pondering. It is far too bright. He screws his eye shut against the light, and holds his hands over his face. Squinting through his fingers, he sees the shadows cast by his arms projected upon the cave ceiling above him. His limbs, long and graceful, take on an uncanny appearance in their shadows.

“Enough,” he says, brow furrowed. “Stop this!”

After a moment the light recedes, but the discomfort remains seated deep in his core. Nereo feels his stomach clench, but he can’t tell if it’s because he’s hungry, or because he’s full of that much dread. He curls into himself, holding onto his knees and scowling bitterly.

“I am not for you to just use however you want,” he whispers into the dark. “I’m my own. My own! I’ll die before I become anything else.”

~

He walks the rest of the way, drafting the spell in his mind as he goes.

Magic is no simple matter. There are entire tomes dedicated solely to the nature of a single charm. A spellcaster can spend months or even years mastering a tricky rune. His own education on the subject occurred in fits and starts, advancing whenever he managed to steal a book away from the temple.

In those days he was ravenous for them. He would read anything he could get his hands on. He would eavesdrop on the witch-hunters, watch the clerics work in the graveyard, pester his own guardians with endless questions. He’d always found himself drawn to knowledge—especially that of corpse magic, the precise subject that was most forbidden to him. And all the more tempting, of course.

All the books in the temple had dealt with various means of countering necromancy; laying ghouls and undead to rest, resisting rays of enfeeblement, and so on; yet with the framework he was slowly constructing, it had been a simple task to think in reverse, and, by learning how to dispel necromancy, learn how to wield it instead.

If his early years were otherwise a torment at least they gave him that much.

Caught up in reminiscing, Nereo abruptly comes to a stop. There, at the end of the cavern, is what he’s been searching for.

With a breath to steady himself, he moves to kneel beside Aravashnial’s corpse.

Nereo can still sense a trace of death lingering over the body. The first insects have already found their way to his ripening flesh. He sweeps these away with gentle hands, little graveyard harvesters, tiny beetles with shining wings. They’ll have their fill soon enough.

“Would that I could burn incense for you, and send you off with the proper rites,” Nereo murmurs, peering into Aravashnial’s cold and empty face. “Your last moments must have been so… agonizing. I don’t know what land you hailed from, or what faith you followed, if any… but I wish you peace on your journey. May your judgment be merciful. And I thank you,” he adds somberly. “For what you are about to do for me. Could you ever forgive me, I wonder?”

There is no answer. Of course not.

First he needs to clear the setting.

He searches Aravashnial’s pockets and finds them empty. Then he moves on, checking the lining of his waistcoat, and the insides of his boots. He is very thorough, taking his time, and he is glad for the extra precaution when he pulls a scrap of paper from a pouch sewn into Aravashnial’s shirt.

“An abjuration spell,” he says, reading the scrap with interest. “And a rather complex one, at that. You must have been a wizard. Probably a better one than I.” He smiles. “As a fellow spellcaster, you understand why I’ll be keeping this. I don’t need it interfering with my magic.”

He sets the scrap well out of the way.

Now he must construct the spell which already exists in his mind.

This is where he starts to get nervous. Fidgeting with his sleeve, he sits beside the corpse, wondering how to go about this. Things don’t always translate well from his thoughts to paper. Or, in this case, stone.

But there’s no other choice. Resolute, he calls again upon the sword, and it answers, burning, burning in him for what he hopes is the last time.

He grabs the handle. Is it his imagination, or is it fighting him this time? Is he tiring already? With a grimace, he draws it out of himself, little by little. With a cry, he finally pulls it free.

He cuts his finger deep on the blade. A bead of dark blood wells at his fingertip and the sight strikes him with a profound fury. He isn’t sure why. It lasts only a moment, but the feeling shakes him. It’s the sword, damned thing. It moves him so easily.

Loathsome thing, he thinks. I will soon be rid of you. And you of me.

He begins.

An abjuration spell with a matrix based in necromancy. He can’t be sure it’s ever be done before, but he is confident in his theory.

His blood is dark as wine under the sword’s radiance. He writes quickly, smearing his blood into the stone, pausing occasionally to bite at the cut and coax forth more blood. Ironic that the light of heaven should illuminate his efforts to extinguish it.

He is pleased to find that after all these years, it is still easy. His mind gradually acclimates itself to a receptive state where the runes come to him freely, like a hound answering its master. It goads him on, this feeling of shaping the magic with only his will. His hand burns around the hilt of the sword, and his eye burns under the brightness of the light, and the wound on his chest burns, and he is transcendent in pain and knowledge.

This rune will anchor the sword. This one will counter the divine magic. This one will bind the threads of death to the barrier.

Nereo furrows his brow, his vision slipping in and out of focus. It is tiring, this work. More and more runes, hundreds of them. Layers of spellwork all serving to stabilize, to support, to guide and to channel the forces of life and death into a single outcome. The last rune is the most important one. It will sever the connection the sword has to him, once and for all.

Death is a powerful energy, the great beginning and end.

It will work. It must work.

The air grows heavy, and the hour long. Nereo feels sluggish as he moves around the corpse, the spell lapping at his heels. For a moment his perception of the physical world lapses. He feels like he’s standing in a dark and shallow ocean. He sees a glimpse of the truth.

So this is what he is. Necromancer with shining blade in hand. He tastes salt. Is it sweat? Tears?

Pharasma forgive me, he thinks, but he’s not contrite enough to offer a genuine prayer. He’s done plenty wrong in his life, and he’s sick of asking forgiveness when he’s never had a say in the outcome.

The arcane ocean recedes from his imagination. All is quiet.

Nereo lets out a weary sigh. It’s done.

He pulls himself up, and he stands over the corpse, hooves planted firmly on either side of the body. The hair on the back of his neck rises, a shiver runs down his spine. He’s exhausted.

He looks at the sword, and at the dead man, and he feels like he should say something. Something final.

“Well.” He smiles, half-delirious. “Toodles.”

He draws the final rune on the back of his hand. It lights up with an ominous green glow, he can feel it pulling in his chest already, the magic cascading all around him.

With a flourish, he raises Lariel’s sword and plunges it into Aravashnial’s corpse.

The rebuke comes swiftly.

The runes take on a fierce shining darkness. Divine retribution. Righteous anger. Every rune lights up, gleaming, the pressure of so much magic energy sending a shudder through the stone. But Nereo holds fast. He pushes against the hilt, willing the blade into the waiting corpse.

The magic sputters and misfires, heavy and ancient.

It happens so fast that Nereo barely realizes things have gone terribly wrong, before the misplaced energy sends him flying back against the rock, knocking him out.

~

He comes to with the sword still inside him, and the heaviness of disappointment in his throat. But that’s not to say the spell didn’t do anything.

He feels different.

Worse.

Nereo brings his hands, clumsy and uncoordinated, to his chest. The wound has opened again, seeping darkly into the fabric of his tunic. He presses on it, mapping its shape through pain. It has grown larger, and his skin is warm and tender around the edges. And the sword…

He lets out a sharp hiss. The sword feels angrier somehow.

He’d thought it unbearable before; it was nothing compared to this. The enmity he holds for his unwelcome visitor is now amplified. The feeling of revulsion is mutual.

He thinks again of that old prayer, ruthless to the malign.

Ruthless indeed. He challenged the light of heaven and he failed, and this will not soon be forgotten, nor forgiven.

Just knowing he is the subject of the sword’s enmity is terrible enough. But knowing his own foolishness… that’s salt in the wound. He takes a long moment just to sit with it.

He has cowered under such a feeling before. At the time he would crouch and hold his hands over his head, protecting his neck and face from a blow so imminent, it’d be kinder if it would just happen already, instead of leaving him on tenterhooks, waiting to be struck. But if the gods are going to smite him, they seem to be holding back, at least for the time being.

More urgently, Nereo turns his attention to the sound of a bowstring being drawn.

Grimacing, he lifts his gaze and finds himself facing the half-reptile man from before. He is aiming an arrow directly at him.

“Oh, hey, buddy,” Lann says momentarily. “You’re awake. I’m so glad. We were worried sick.”

Nereo frowns. It’s not just the sharp arrow that is currently trained on him; the man’s voice is sardonic and grating, full of expressive vocal tics, and barely restrained hostility.

Where are the others? It seems they are alone.

“We figured maybe you got lost,” Lann continues as Nereo struggles to piece things together. “These caverns can be pretty disorienting to newcomers. Your people are safe now, by the way—though we had a hard time convincing that paladin gal to stay in the village. Since Wenduag and I know these caverns better than anyone, we split up and went looking for you.”

He pauses. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure what we’d find. But I never could’ve expected…”

Lann breaks off in a frustrated growl that bleeds into his next question.

“What did you do to that man?”

“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m not even sure what I’m asking!” Lann replies hotly. “Gods! All that blood! A-and the scary writing, everywhere?”

There’s a frantic confusion in Lann’s voice. Nereo attempts to sit up, but even that small action sends his world spinning. This would be a lot easier without feeling like the gods themselves are about to hunt him for sport.

“Didn’t do anything to him,” he says, every word a battle. “I swear.”

“So how do you explain this? He’s mutilated! He’s in some kind of magic ritual circle!”

“I know,” Nereo insists, thinking fast. “That’s why we need to leave. Whoever did this could still be down here.”

“Whoever did this? Are you hearing yourself? It’s just mongrels and cave bugs down here! What, you think a centipede performed blood magic on that guy?”

“I’m trying to tell you,” Nereo says slowly, “it is the work of demons.”

Finally, Lann lowers his bow, casting a nervous glance at their surroundings.

“Demons?” he repeats, blinking a transparent eyelid over his mismatched yellow eye. Nereo nods earnestly.

“When the others and I fell here…” Nereo explains in labored syllables. “Some of Deskari’s forces fells into the caverns, too. They’re hunting down the survivors.” With a flash of inspiration, he adds, “They’re after the sword.”

“You… sensed all this, somehow?”

“Yes! I sensed something… something evil in the caves. I came to investigate. But I was too late. And then I… woke up here, like this. I can’t…”

Nereo conjures up the lie, bit by clumsy bit. He finds it a great deal more difficult than conjuring magic, but as Lann listens to his words, his bow relaxes. The string goes slack.

Lann truly seems a gentle sort. An idealist. Ready to trust a simple fairy tale about an angelic sword against the forces of evil.

We are both fools, Nereo observes, hoping he is believed.

He is.

“Then …we need to hurry,” Lann says, stowing his bow on his back, convinced. Or at least, not quite ready to kill him.

“We gotta tell the others. If what you say it’s true, then it’s more important than ever that you show Sull the light. We’ll convince him to gather the tribes, and make for the Maze. Thank goodness I found you in time!”

“Thank goodness,” Nereo echoes, woozy at his own gall, at his brazen and wanton dishonesty. There is no hope for him, none at all.

With a flick of the blade, she cuts once, then again. Pausing thoughtfully, she peers into the dingy reflection, then looks up at the trimmed lock of hair, comparing it to its neighbor.

“Hm.”

“Do you usually have a proper mirror and a pair of scissors when you do this?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you suppose it might reflect badly on me to have my lover looking unkempt?”

“Most likely.”

Shadowheart grins. She holds out her hand and is relieved when Zirahuén accedes, and hands her the dagger.

“I’m no professional mind,” she says, “but I did cut my own forelock not too long ago, and altered the color, too, so I think you are in decent hands. My knowledge is fresh.”

“Knowledge?”

“Karlach showed me! She cuts her hair using a dagger.”

“I see. She is a sharp one. Nice hair, all the time.”

“Now, stay still for me, please.”

Shadowheart moves to stand behind her. Zirahuén smiles, tail curled politely at her side as she sits up straight and closes her eyes expectantly.

Shadowheart begins by running her fingers through her curls a few times, mindful of the dry skin, the flareups around her ears. She is sure this is why Zirahuén is leery of seeing a barber in the city, so she wants to make her comfortable.

Zirahuén tips her head back, lips pursed. Shadowheart meets her with a chaste kiss before correcting her posture, grabbing her head and moving her back into a more suitable position.

“Stay still,” she repeats with a laugh.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s more like it.”

Shadowheart begins by making things even. Tidying up the first cut Zirahuén made, she moves around and takes into consideration how the woman’s hair curls, how it moves about her horns. She begins to give it quite a lot more thought than she expected. She begins to picture her with a bolder look, and her heart takes much interest.

“So,” Zirahuén prompts after time has passed. “How is it coming along?”

“Very well,” Shadowheart says, hoping she is unbiased. But Zirahuén always looks good to her. “How short did you want to go? Have I cut enough?”

“I’ve always thought I looked better with shorter hair,” Zirahuén says thoughtfully. “I find that long hair… weighs me down. And I’m heavy already.”

“You are fine,” Shadowheart dispels smoothly. “I wonder, how short is too short?”

Zirahuén falls silent. After a moment she admits, “Short is fine, so long as it is enough to hide my inflamed skin. I do tend to get patches of it here.” She reaches to touch the top of her head. “Perhaps the sun bothers it.”

“Got it. A little length at the top. Short at the sides?”

Zirahuén is quiet. Smiling. Uncertain. It strikes Shadowheart that she’s never considered her to be self-conscious, but she must be sometimes, after all. Who isn’t? She leans in over her shoulder and presses a kiss above the collar of her tunic. “I think you’d look very dashing,” she whispers.

“Then I am entirely in your capable hands,” Zirahuén replies.

Shadowheart smiles and gets to work. The blade comes very near Zirahuén’s skin, but it is well sharpened and she is nimble enough to do a fair job. Perhaps, later, they can ask Karlach to tidy it up a bit. But for now, this will suffice.

Shadowheart is quite pleased when she is done, and she stares at the warped reflection upon the shield. For a moment she scarcely recognizes the women there; Zirahuén’s hair cut so short, and her own, colored like bone.

“There,” she whispers.

Zirahuén turns and looks up at her with a smile.

Without the locks of hair framing her cheeks, her smile is incandescent. Shadowheart gives the dagger’s handle a squeeze, her eyes darting over Zirahuén’s new look. Color rises to the tips of her ears, she can feel herself blush. Warm.

“Oh, I rather like it,” she whispers, gazing down at her. “It suits you.”

“Yes? How do I look?”

Shadowheart leans down to kiss her. It is far less chaste this time.

Dagger in hand, her long braid sweeping over Zirahuén’s shoulder, Shadowheart kisses her and feels the tiny sharp points of just-trimmed hair on her skin. She slides her free hand through Zirahuén’s hair and grabs a handful, tugging her back. As she does she dips lower still, kissing her jaw, and then the softness of her neck, and nosing the collar of her tunic aside, and kissing under the fabric.

“Handsome,” she whispers, before returning to her ministrations.

“I’m sorry.” Seelah groans. “Maybe we could just… rest for a minute. Feels like we’ve been down here for days…”

“Only about nine hours,” Camellia replies.

“It’s alright, Seelah,” Anevia says, setting a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve done more than anyone could ask. We’ll rest for a while; we could all use a break. My leg is killing me.”

Nereo drops back on his haunches. He curls his tail beneath him, resting on it as the others find a spot on the cave floor. He knows he is a mess, covered in mud and cobwebs (such cobwebs down here! he would not like to meet the architects).

He considers that they are probably going to die here, and with that thought, all his other concerns suddenly matter less. So what if Kenabres is lost, along with his memories? Who cares that their new acquaintance is probably a murderer? What if they meet a dead end? What if they end up in Nar-Voth?

He just doesn’t see any reason to be optimistic. And he is too tired to care, anyway. The bones fall in a spiral and sometimes the spiral lands you 100 feet underground.

Then again, perhaps not.

As their eyes grow accustomed to the dark, something peculiar happens: nebulous shapes begin to form around them. A trick of the eye? No, Nereo can recognize three of these shapes as his companions: Seelah, hunched over and exhausted, Anevia with her splinted leg held straight out, and Camellia, sitting a distance from the others, rapier in hand. But he can only see them in a sidelong manner. When he tries to focus, the figures blur, like those meager little stars in the night sky that are best viewed indirectly.

“Do you guys see that?” Anevia asks.

“I… see something, yes. There must be light down here!” Seelah says.

The shape that is Camellia walks cautiously towards the cave wall. She extends her gloved hand, feeling at the edges of the passage, then pulls something loose.

Whatever she’s found, it is glowing. She crushes it in her hand.

“Bioluminscence,” she declares.

“Some kinda mushroom!” Anevia gasps. “They glow in the dark?”

“And they’re getting brighter,” Seelah observes with a laugh. “Our eyes only needed to adjust. Thank the Inheritor!”

Nereo observes the cave around him, teeming with previously unnoticed life. The mushrooms cluster in colonies that spread across the cave walls, providing a uniform, if meager, source of light. They are mostly green, but here and there he spots hints of blue and even purple.

~

Having rested, they press on, now aided by the cave’s natural light.

The further they go the more mushrooms they find, vast colonies of them covering the stone. The passage they are in also changes; it widens until they find themselves in an open area, where the rock formations take on curious shapes, huge stalagmites protruding from the ground like fingers about to close around them.

The others are in better spirits. Pretty mushrooms aside, however, Nereo remains unconvinced of their odds.

He runs scenarios through his mind: starvation, dehydration, attacked by giant spiders, falling again (into a deeper pit; there is always a deeper pit). He thinks of Nar-Voth, that strange subterranian land in the books he’d read in his youth. The world had seemed so vast when he only knew it through pages. But if he had to pick, he’d pick the spiders.

He bumps into a stalactite, hanging low enough to knock into one of his horns.

“Careful there-” Seelah says. But then she stops mid-word and mid-stride. A moment later, he sees why.

Someone—or something—is down here with them.

Nar-Voth is home to many curious beings, this he knows: the frightening dero, xulgaths, and hryngars. Moldfolk and dark fey.

The figure in the distance is incongruous, blue and many-limbed. It is as if these nostalgic recollections from his childhood books have taken physical form. Its movements are measured and careful. Cautious? Dangerous?

“Hey,” Seelah says, hesitant at first, then much louder, “Hello? Who’s there?”

A head swivels toward them. A pair of cat-eyes shine in the dark.

In an instant the figure dips low to the ground, crouching in a predatory posture. Its spider-like legs splay about it, and it dashes toward them with startling speed, growling with a warning timbre as it moves; it is a sound that viscerally screams stay away.

Eagle Watch instincts kicking in, Anevia tries to reach for her sword, but no, she cannot defend, not in her current state. She loses her balance, falls, and a pained cry escapes her as her leg strikes the ground.

“Anevia!” Seelah draws her sword and steps between the figure and her friends. Even Camellia holds her rapier at the ready.

Then the figure stops, and laughs. The sound is husky and ragged. But not quite animal. No.

“Made you flinch.”

The words come out slow and mocking, spoken by a woman who appears to be wearing a spider’s exoskeleton as armor. That’s not the only peculiar thing about her: her skin is blue as midnight, and her ears are pointed like a cat’s. Suddenly she extends one of those spider legs towards Seelah, perfectly articulated, and covered in tiny hairs.

“Frightened uplanders,” she says, in that ragged voice.

“Wenduag!” A second voice calls from deeper into the cavern. “Did you find it?”

“I found something, alright,” Wenduag replies curtly.

Seelah, not quite ready to sheath her weapon just yet, speaks with as much calm as she can muster. “We are not here to cause trouble. Wenduag, is it?”

At the sound of her name, the blue woman growls again. Her lips pull back, displaying a row of sharp teeth lining her mouth.

“Wenduag, who are you talking to?”

The man comes to a stop just a few feet behind Wenduag. He regards them, wide-eyed, as if surprised to see them. He himself looks as improbable as his companion: a single horn on his head, a patchwork of skin and scales forming his face and the rest of his body.

“Uplanders!” he marvels. “Oh, goody.”

“Yes!” Seelah says, thinking quickly, “Yes, we’re ‘uplanders’… we fell down here during the attack. We’re looking for a way back to the surface. I’m Seelah. Tell me, please: Can we put away our weapons?”

“Oh? Are you so weak-willed as to not decide for yourself when to wield your weapon, See-lah?” Wenduag asks with a hoarse little chuckle.

“Wenduag, maybe they can help us,” the man says, coming up to press a hand onto her shoulder. “They can at least tell us what’s going on up there! Stay your swords, uplanders. I am Lann, and this is Wenduag. You mentioned an attack?”

With a sigh of relief, Seelah lowers her guard. She returns her sword to her belt, where it hangs free, since she’d given her scabbard to Anevia.

“You truly do not know?” she asks. “Demons are laying waste to Kenabres as we speak. Deskari himself leads the charge. We need to reach the surface, we need to help-”

“And how much help will you be, tired and injured? This one here cannot even stand.” Wenduag steps near enough to give Anevia’s boot a deliberate kick.

Anevia grits her teeth and fixes her with a glare. “Back. Off. There is plenty I can do to you, even with just one working leg.”

Wenduag smiles.

“That’s for us to worry about,” Seelah says firmly. “Rest assured, we have the strength and the spirit to fight. I realize that you must have your own troubles, I do. But people are dying. Please, show us the way to the surface! We have been here too long already!”

Lann fixes Wenduag with a curious look. He raises a brow, and gestures to her with a tilt of his head, something only they understand. Then they move a distance away and confer together in hushed voices. Whatever the subject of their conversation, it seems to be trending towards disagreement. Wenduag lets out a frustrated grunt, before raising her voice.

“I care not what happens to the uplanders’ city! The fact that they have found themselves here proves they are not worthy of the very fight they seek to rejoin! But the Shield Maze…”

“Demons, Wendu,” Lann says emphatically. “If what they say is true, then it’s all the more reason to hurry.”

“So you will help us?” Camellia asks, speaking to the strangers for the first time. Wenduag hisses in response.

“We’ll help,” Lann adds, with an affirming nod. “But first, we’ll need to ask for something in return.”

“Of course you do,” Camellia laughs. “How very typical. Even down here, people are all the same.”

Wenduag glances at her through narrowed eyes. “Still your wagging tongue. You and I are nothing alike.”

“Yes, you are quite right,” Camellia replies with a smirk. “It was generous of me to say so, and I see now my generosity was misplaced. You are not the same as people.”

“Let’s settle down,” Seelah interrupts. “What are your terms? What do you need help with?”

“Lann, this is a waste of time,” Wenduag says with a lazy shrug of her shoulders. The motion rolls gracefully through her many, many legs, which click like hollow bones striking together. “They will not help us.”

Lann grimaces. “I hate to say it. But do they have a choice?”

For a moment, no one answers. The air hangs heavy with tension and uncertainty. Then Wenduag sweeps her critical gaze over to Nereo.

“You all have much to say, and none of it impresses me. What about this one?” she asks slowly. “Does it even talk?”

“I talk,” Nereo says, bristling. “When I am inclined to talk.”

“It talks when it is inclined to talk…” Wenduag repeats. She shakes her head.

Nereo looks squarely at Wenduag. Until now he’s allowed the others to take the lead; diplomacy is not his strong suit, after all. But he can hardly make things worse, and the matter of his own survival is important to him, if only to leave, and run far, far away, once they are out.

“We need to get back to the surface,” he says. “We’ll either succeed, or die trying. Perhaps you can help us. Perhaps we can help you. But we will only have a problem if you try to stop us. Are you stalling, I wonder? Do you mean to keep us from reaching our goal?”

The question is met with a thoughtful silence. Then, Wenduag chuckles. There is almost a forced nonchalance to the sound, and she looks away from him as she answers. “We do not care enough about you to stop you.”

“Good,” Nereo nods. “Then we have no quarrel. And our offer of help stands. What will you ask of us?”

“Stupid,” Wenduag mutters, still looking away.

“We’re looking for something, see.” The patchwork man licks his lips, mulling over his words before he speaks. “A sword. A very special sword.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Seelah says. “Tell us about this sword.”

~

Lann explains everything, patiently dispelling their disbelief. By his telling, the cavern they find themselves in is in fact an ancient hall. The stalagmites interspersed through the uneven ground were once mighty pillars, now eroded by the passage of time. It is even harder to understand that the neathfolk have lived in these caverns for nearly a century, ever since the forces of the first crusade swept through Mendev. And the bit about the angelic sword seems nearly to good to be true.

But Lann tells it all with such rapt attention, it feels true, and worthy, his eyes bright in the dark. His bow safely stowed away on his back, his quiver untouched, he recounts how the first crusaders became trapped here and gave rise to descendants plagued by Abyssal corruption.

Mongrels, he says, though Wenduag scowls at the term.

“So you are not tieflings,” Camellia clarifies.

Wenduag rounds on her so abruptly, for a moment it seems a fight will break out. Camellia’s hand darts to her rapier and she holds Wenduag’s gaze, waiting.

“Tieflings,” Wenduag spits out the word, “are the descendants of fools who sullied themselves by mating with demons.” She aims a venomous glance at Nereo, taking in his hooves, his horns and red eye. “Our ancestors would never sink so low! They suffered the consequences of demonic corruption to protect Mendev. How quickly the uplanders forgot the sacrifices they made!”

Nereo remains completely impassive, until Wenduag, with a frustrated scoff, turns and storms ahead.

“Oh. My sincerest apologies.” Camellia giggles, watching Wenduag go. She settles into an amused grin. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, anyway. Mortal, mongrel, or tiefling, the sword of a fallen angel would loathe to be wielded by such impure hands as ours.”

“I’ll carry it in my teeth if I have to,” Lann mutters from up ahead. He seems wholly accustomed to Wenduag’s mannerisms, not even flinching as she pushes past him.

“But why,” Seelah asks, “do you need the sword now?”

Lann sighs. Now comes the next part of the tale. “There’s this… old story,” he begins.

“A prophecy?” Seelah asks.

“A- a story.” Lann holds up a hand, as if intimidated by such a profound word. “See, our chief believes that we have a purpose. That we are a sort of military reserve in the endless fight against the demons. Story goes, one day things will start to go downhill up top, and that’s when we’ll emerge on the surface and, well, save the day, as it were.” He clears his throat. “But when the tremors started, and parts of the cavern began to collapse, a group of our youngins took off for the Shield Maze. They figured the time had come.”

Seelah fixes him with an exacting gaze. “Do you think the time has come?”

“I… well, I dunno.” He laughs, a nervous sound. “Chief Sull isn’t convinced… but once he sees the sword, I’m sure he’ll change his mind. Even if he doesn’t, we have to go after those kids. Of that, I’m certain. We can’t abandon our own! As for whether I believe the time has come…”

“He does,” Wenduag chimes in. “There is a legend among our people that when the walls of the Shield Maze fall, it will signify the beginning of the final confrontation against the demons. I have been in the maze myself,” she says, a hint of pride in her voice. “Nobody has ventured further than Wenduag. The further I ventured, the fresher the air became. Make no mistake, it leads to the surface. But it is ancient and treacherous. Even I have not mapped it in its entirety. I warned them of this.”

“So the maze is that dangerous?” Anevia asks. “It sounds like you’ve explored it for years, and only scratched the surface of its depths! We don’t have that amount of time. Are there other ways to the surface?”

“None nearby,” Wenduag says airily. “And those have surely collapsed in the tremors. Does that frighten you, human?”

Anevia presses her lips into a thin line for a moment, but the weight of this information strikes her hard. Again, Nereo gets the impression that she is hurrying toward something. Something vital to her heart.

“I need to—sit for a second,” she says. Her features are sullen, uncharacteristically so. Seelah helps lower her to the ground.

“Such weaklings,” Wenduag observes. “Leave the crippled one here. Let’s split up and search.”

“Yes, go,” Anevia says, all the fight gone out of her. “Please, go, hurry. Find the sword. We don’t have a choice, right?” A bitter laugh bubbles form her throat. “We don’t have a choice.”

~

At Wenduag’s insistence, they do split up.

As Nereo searches, he tries to picture those men and women of the First Crusade, trapped down here, just like he and his companions now are trapped. What is most curious is that the structures here do not appear to have been built by those crusaders. In fact, the weathered stone tells a story far more ancient. Those crusaders were merely hermit crabs, moving into an old shell. Who lived here, untold ages ago?

He’s no scientist or archaeologist, so his musings are limited to half-formed thoughts. He scarcely can focus on what he’s supposed to be doing. His stomach growls. Sword, yes. Find the magical angel sword. He snorts.

“We’ll never find this damn thing,” he says to himself, glad the others are out of earshot. “I wonder if the glowing mushrooms are edible…”

Solitude has always suited him best. He hadn’t realized it until now, but the constant company of the others has begun to wear on him. It is taxing to share space, even as he acknowledges that would never have made it this far alone.

Wenduag and Lann are particularly unnerving to him. He isn’t sure whether to trust them. They certainly don’t seem to trust him or the others.

The ground below him gives way suddenly. Slick with a layer of sand, his hoof skitters and slips, and he stumbles into a stalagmite.

“Ugh,” Nereo seethes. Sharp rock digs into his shin, drawing blood. As he tries and fails to find his footing, he tumbles forward gracelessly, now going over a ledge—yes, of course, why not? there’s always a deeper pit, gods damn his luck—

It’s a short fall, just a few feet.

With a thud, he lands on his back.

“AH!”

He lands on something sharp.

Pain occludes his senses for a moment, pain greater than he’d felt when he woke up in the caverns, greater than what he’d felt back in the festival square, when Terendelev healed him. He looks down. Dark blue blood blooms into his tunic. The blade of a sword, radiant and golden, sticks out through his chest.

Cold panic settles in first. Disbelief. Cold metal, hot tears brim in his eyes, blurring his vision. But the sword is also hot, blinding, burning, full of wrath… is this happening?

It cannot be happening. Surely he can’t survive this? Surely he’s not alive for this? Oh gods, it burns. It reopens the wound, as it cauterizes the wound, as it reopens the wound again. And it is in dialogue with him. And it reviles him. He knows it with striking certainty, a rise of loathing in his gut.

It hurts. It breathes, it grieves. What is happening?

“H-help!” A strangled cry, unbidden, rises to his lips. Wordless, feral with death-panic. “Help!”

Mustering his strength, he tries to pull himself up. He cuts his hands, grasping at the blade helplessly, oh no. It can’t. Please.

Nereo didn’t want to be the Commander tonight. That was obvious.

So, Woljif suggested the tavern, and with an admirable display of boldness, my place after?

Like stepping off a cliff’s edge, you just had to do the damn thing, and hope for a soft landing (and Nereo was all soft landings). There was really no reason to be nervous, yet Woljif’s stomach was in knots and his heart was making a fuss in his chest. It felt strange at all to term this a ‘first date’ when they’d already bypassed so many of the typical steps of courtship, and seen each other through tremulous lows and eclipsing highs.

The Half Measure didn’t have private tables, anyway, just a space in the very back under the staircase, which Woljif had bribed the tavern keeper to clear up and shove under a curtain. And the front room was so loud—it’d really come back to life in the months since they’d returned—they were scarcely noticed as they entered through the kitchen. Nereo ordered a bottle of some expensive liquor, then sent Fye off with instructions not to allow any interruptions.

And he’d smiled at Woljif, his gold fang catching the light.

“All good, actually,” he said. “I know we’ve all been thrown into things so suddenly since coming back. But I feel…” He paused, thinking carefully about his words. “Optimistic.”

“That’s a relief,” Woljif said slowly. “I keep thinkin’ you seem kinda tired since we got back.”

“Oh, exhausted,” Nereo replied. “Seems everyone needs something, and none of it can be simple.”

“This is what happens when you’re the guy with all the answers,” Woljif sighed. “I keep tellin’ ya to delegate! What’s the point in bein’ in charge if you can’t shove things off on someone?”

“Can’t delegate everything,” he laughed. “I fear you vastly overestimate my options in that regard.”

A heavy set of footsteps fell across the stairs above them, making them both pause.

“Anyway,” he beckoned Woljif closer once the interruption had subsided, “having all the answers isn’t all bad. I got you a gift.”

“Hm?” Woljif looked up, immediately interested, the butterflies in his stomach doing a celebratory lap. “Hold on, I didn’t get you nothin’, chief. Didn’t say we were doin’ gifts!”

“I think it’s a gift for both of us,” Nereo said cryptically. “Hold out your hand. Close your eyes.”

He didn’t have to say it twice. Woljif grinned broadly, then stretched out across the table’s surface, elbows on the wood, and palms upturned. He shut his eyes and waited, and when a small item was deposited in his hand, he recognized the smooth polish and shape of a ring before he even saw it.

“Holy shit.”

Woljif laughed, slipping it onto a finger immediately, turning it here and there to examine it in the warm torchlight. It was a gold signet ring, bearing the Commander’s emblem. As to its purpose, he could only guess, in half-formed stammering shock.

“Chief, what-? Is this-? Why-? Are you-?”

“Will you let me explain?” Nereo asked, laughing at his reaction. “It’s my seal! It’s so you can visit me without any of the castle staff turning you away, asking you to make an appointment or to explain why you’re even there. You can go anywhere, Woljif,” he said, and, with a satisfied smile, took Woljif’s hand in his own. “Don’t lose it.”

“Never! Nereo, this is the best!”

Woljif beamed at their linked hands, noting Nereo’s own matching ring. He didn’t dare think…

It felt tremendously significant. He added in a quiet whisper, “Now all of Drezen is mine…”

“Not quite,” Nereo said, pleased his gift was well received. “You can’t give orders or make decisions, you can just come up to my quarters anytime.”

“Well, you’re sort of like the mayor ‘round here, so-”

“Not true.”

“King, then. The big shot-”

“I had to convince three of my advisors to even allow this.”

“Really? This is so ritzy!” Woljif continued, giddy and impressed. “Shit. I’m gonna need to tidy my image. I need to get a top hat.”

“What? Why?”

“And a cane. Damn. I love this, chief. Really. You had to run it by the council?”

Nereo fixed him with an appraising look. He nodded, then he brought their hands near, pressing a kiss to the back of Woljif’s.

They’d kissed before, many times. But that simple gesture sent a shiver through Woljif’s back, straight to the tip of his tail.

Because, more importantly, if he was giving Woljif full access to the fortress, and standing by it, defending that decision to everyone! Who wouldn’t melt? Had he really earned this level of trust?

“You sure know how to charm a guy,” Woljif said, all his energy somehow stilled with his hand in Nereo’s. He felt calm, even as his heart and mind raced, and oh, his thoughts were bookin’. Nereo trusted him. He’d told him as much, many times, but words were cheap; actions were what got Woljif going.

“Well, I want people to treat you right,” Nereo said. He slid his thumb back and forth, gently rubbing at Woljif’s knuckles, over the skin he’d just kissed. “Last time you stopped by, the guards tried to send you off like you were a random visitor, and not my personal guest. I didn’t like that.”

“Yeah, these new folks that came in while we were gone are a pain… but, still. All this, for my sake!” Woljif laughed haphazardly.

“Not just your sake,” Nereo said, softly. “It’s… it’s good for me, also, Woljif. Having you near is good for me.”

Woljif let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. “I can’t tell ya how glad I am to hear it. ‘Cause, I mean, you’re entirely too good for me, chief. Really, you are.” The admission came out plain, as if he were stating an obvious fact, and he looked at Nereo squarely as he said it. “Everyone can see it. I sure can. But to tell the truth… if you don’t mind, then I don’t mind, ‘cause,” he grinned roguishly, “I’ve been a thief my whole life. Takin’ stuff that ain’t meant for me comes easy. Make no mistake. It’s more’n I deserve. Thank you.”

Nereo smiled at him, in a way that made Woljif feel like every piece of him, good and bad, was being regarded and met with endless benevolence. Finally he leaned towards him conspiratorially.

“But what if this is meant for you, Woljif?” he asked, voice scarcely above a whisper, low and deep. “What if… it’s already yours? What if you don’t have to work for it? What if you don’t even have to ask?”

Woljif leaned over the table, and grabbed him by the collar of his doublet, and drew him into a kiss.

Nereo met him with a little sigh of relief or want or Woljif didn’t know what, only that, finally, that gold fang dragged against his lower lip, a sharp tug that he’d dreamed of for longer than he’d care to admit. Nereo, showing him in every way that he could have this, that he was worthy, was a pleasure he’d never tire of gorging himself on.

He kissed him, ‘til he felt breathless. He didn’t want to pull away. The hard edge of the table dug into his abdomen, but he scarcely felt it. He felt heady and warm. The sounds of the tavern’s revelry faded to nothing, blood rushing loud in his ears. Impossible to think that the tavern existed behind that thin curtain; it may as well have been on another plane.

Then he felt, beneath the table, the soft sweep of Nereo’s tail over his thighs, sending sparks over his skin, even through the leather. He looped his own tail around its length, felt his stomach clench with want, and with not enough.

Another heavy sound of footsteps running down the stairs above them. Woljif broke away with a startled laugh.