#wizard false

Thankfully, the other two are more than happy to visit the forges of Coral Shores. Plus, it’s more time to themselves, and for Stress it’s more time free from the wretched rolling of Cleo’s ship. At this point, she’d rather walk across the water than get sick over the side of the sailboat. 

“So if you’re making more weapons, think you can give a look at my saber? I think she could use some fine tuning, a bit of that good Falsie touch.” Cleo bumps False on the shoulder, rounding the corner into the dry heat of the forgery area. Stress and Cleo recoil at every bang and explosion of fire from the mouths of the forges, like maws of dragons, but False never felt more at home than in the center of the chaos. She watches a bladesmith heat treat the blade of a battleaxe, fire bursting at the oil’s surface, before cooling as the heat travels from metal to grease. It comes out slightly bent, to which the smith races to fix before the metal sets. 

At the center of the forges, a warehouse of alloys operates as the hub. Smiths come and go, picking up all kinds of metals and materials for their craft. False joins the busy bustle, nabbing bars of iron and steel, even a few bearings and sheets. False prefers to make her own tools, and she knows she’ll need some rods and ball bearings to forge a new pair of tongs. The last one she broke when she fell asleep at the forge, and they melted beyond repair. She’d have likely perished as well had it not been for Wels checking in on his friend. 

When False returns, stowing the metal in her pocket dimension for later summoning, Cleo and Stress are staring at the ground. “What did you two find?” She questions, peering over their shoulder.

At the girls’ feet, a wanted poster catches on the cobblestone, the edges of the parchment singed black by wanton flames of the forges. It’s not something they haven’t seen before, a wanted poster of Doc. Even though his days of crime and revolt are mostly past him, every once in a while some arcane guard captain stirs up the reminder that Doc escaped jail, and they print a few new ones. 

But another paper catches False’s vision, this time bearing another familiar, all though very different face. xB. She stoops down, picking up the wanted poster. She flicks the undried paste from her hands, reading it aloud to the others. “Wanted for crimes against Lairyon, treason, political divide between kipling kingdoms and Lairyon, illegal congregation of a guild, and resisting arrest.” 

Stress has disappeared around the corner, but her gasp lures the other two to see what she’s staring at, wide eyed and shaking in her fuzzy boots. 

The entire wall of the tavern is covered in wanted posters. Every last face on each unique poster depicting every last hermit- including Jellie. Mumbo’s depiction is the most accurate, though his mustache is a little off. But whoever designed these sketches got the multi-mage’s constant look of concern down pat. They also notice who carries the heaviest price on their head. Grian, with almost a million rupees more than anyone else, his wings talking up most of the picture. 

False pulls down her own picture, tucking a blonde lock of hair behind the glass and metal of her goggles. She reads of the list of crimes she’s been charged with. Treason, theft, crimes against the Council and government, illegal congregation of a guild, resisting arrest, mercenary activity, illegal manufacture of weapons… the list goes on and on, more and more bullshit than the last. Most of these are laws she’s never heard of, or are so dated she’s sure they were dredged up from the early history of Lairyon. 

And at the bottom of every last wanted poster was the personal signature and insignia of the Magistrate of Lairyon. Dolios himself created these orders, and the Council approved them. She feels her heart stop, her head swimming, a sensation of vertigo as she realizes what this means. 

The hermits are wanted criminals. Not just lawbreakers, but Lairyon’s most wanted. “We need to get back to Eremita. Now.” 

“I knew things were going on with the Council, but I didn’t expect this.” TFC picks up his wanted poster, brushing out his beard and shaking his head. It’s clear the artist that drew this has no clue how to style dwarven hair. 

“I had heard rumors that there’s discord between the guildmasters of the Council. Do you think our work is affecting them?” Xisuma is half perched on the side of TFC’s desk, rifling through all twenty-something  papers in search of his. He pulls it out, looking at the masked face before him. His fingers brush the corner of the rendition where the mark of him and his brother would be, then runs his fingers over the scratched out metal on his face. 

“Perhaps Dolios is putting more pressure on them to maintain their power, to hinder us. Put enough stress on anything, and even a diamond will fracture.” TFC hums. “Well, as bad as this looks on the outside, we can also take this as good news.” 

“Good news? How in the world are we supposed to take being Lairyon’s Most Wanted as good news?” Cleos snorts, waving a green hand at the stack. Her’s is the only one that says ‘wanted undead or dead’. 

“Because it means it’s working. We’re backing Dolios into a corner. He’s threatened by us. It’s not just enough to deal with us on his own, now he wants all of Lairyon to do his bidding.” TFC stands, quite proud. All of their time spent breaking crystals, hunting down husks, and now discovering the monster in the forest is showing results. So much work, and it’s finally starting to crack his resolve. 

“What do we do about this?” Stress whispers. “The arcane guard and most of Lairyon will be after our heads. That’s a lot of money on each of us.” 

“We keep doing our work.” TFC walks out of the cave he calls home, standing in the sunlight and watching the other hermits train. “When isn’t the arcane guard after us? But the more work we do to stop Dolios and whatever he plans to do with that… abomination, the more we help the people of Lairyon, the less inclined they’ll be to turn us in.” 

“We’re already the champions of the Chimaera’s Cup.” Xisuma points out. Would people see their fall from grace as the pitfalls of victory, or would they read more into the lies spread by their leader. 

“And the Asklepions. Shellor, the other teams from the championship.” False straightens her shoulders, thinking of the people they’ve met so far. “They know we aren’t the villains of this story.” 

Through the open market, the two blonds make their escape into the heart of Alphasgard. The city traverses over multiple hills, and as the two flee down the slope, houses made of stone and terracotta turn to wood and clay, until the dry pathway becomes a sandy beach at the edge of the Ashioll fjords. Wels ducks between a cart towing raw iron ore and the loud cheering of an archery event along the shore. 

False gets ahead of the guards and Wels. She’s not wearing armor, not left to sink in the sand. But Wels gives himself a speed boost, and quickly catches up with her. Unfortunately, their chase through the beach did little to confuse and confound the arcane guard still after them. “We should split up, Wels. I’ll go over, you go through. Meet me at the Tower of the Blade.” 

“How long should I wait?” He questions, silently cursing having to split up. It’s just the two of them here in Alphasgard, among the square buildings and stout towers. Their magic deals in this physical combat, and they had hoped that just being the two of them would mean they wouldn’t draw the attention of the arcane guard. Fat lot that did. 

“Ah, give me an hour, then assume somethin’s gone wrong. But don’t do anything stupid, just get the supplies and report back to the Order. You know I’m no damsel in distress. I’d do the same if you get caught.” False tightens the weapons strapped to her, preparing to jump and climb. 

“I feel bad for the poor guards that would have to deal with you.” He snickers, before breaking off. The two flee into the city, two different directions.

False takes the high road. Clambering up a ladder made of driftwood, her boots clatter against the wooden roof as False runs across the flat planed shelters. She summons a set of daggers, and throws them into the clay wall, vaulting up the side of the home, each blade a foodhold. Her wild locks of blonde hair dance in the heated tropical sunlight, only tamed by her forging goggles, which sit secure to the crown of her head. 

Over her shoulder, she can hear curses and shouts as the guards struggle to chase after her. Over tall keeps and through windows, she feels almost like a bandit, just finding the best way across the city. Or an assassin, moving above where most won’t look. She clambers up a smooth stone pillar, and jumps from it’s crest to a tower, rising far above most other buildings. From this height, she can feel the cold wind from the fjord whipping at her cheeks. No other building in this district reaches quite as high. 

“Looks like you’re outta roof.” False turns around, her eyes catching on a cart full of palm fronds and a banner on the side of the tower, and faces the three arcane guard before her. The guard at the forefront twirls his shortsword. False can only scoff as she sees how shoddily made the blade is. It was quenched too quickly. One good hit and it could shatter on him. 

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” False snickers, shrugging and putting her hands up. Taking one step back, until her heel is drifting over open nothingness. “But looks can be deceiving. See you later, boys.” 

With a two fingered salute, she lets the other foot slip off, and she plummets towards the ground. Arms outstretched, she can’t help but laugh at the shocked and terrified faces of the guards above her. She continues to plummet, like an eagle diving towards it’s kill. When it seems like she’d be crushed against the sandy street below, False reaches out and slows her fall by digging her sword into the banner of the building, and buries into the cart of palm fronds. A second later, she hops out, unharmed but heart racing, and continues on her merry way. Leaving the guards shocked and stranded at the top of the tower.

Wels lost sight of False when she hopped over the large square building in the distance. But he has to deal with his own tails he’s kiting through the city. He runs through the crooked streets, somehow managing to squeeze his armored body between the flow of people, trying to keep his head low and disappear among the crowd. 

But the guards aren’t quite as gentle. They barge through people, knocking families apart and sending tailors stumbling for their bobbins and spools. It’s like a bull barging through, eyes trained on the red tassel that swings from his helmet. He can’t keep going straight, they’ll catch him. He has to be clever. 

In a sharp turn, he disappears into the open forges nestled beside an eclectic mix of drink stands. With the blasting ovens baking the smithers and the beating sun against the dry desert sand, the canteens are bustling with people. What Wels wouldn’t give for a sip of the bright blue drinks that are slid across the counters, the clinking of ice against the glass, refreshing as he sweats under his armor. But he doesn’t have time to stop. 

Until fingers wrap around his lion-like tail, and throw him into the ground. He rolls away from a blazing hot rod of unfinished iron. “I got em guards!” 

A bladesmith, mid heat treat, has halted Wels in his tracks. Alarmed by the scene before them, the crowd parts until it was just Wels and the guards. He has no choice now but to fight. Wels frees his blade from it’s scabbard, defending himself but refusing to deal the first blow. Hels would’ve cut down all three guards in an instant. Wels could easily destroy them. But he’s not Hels anymore. 

A guard breaks the silence, swinging his saber to cut down Wels. It’s a stupid move, and Wels easily blocks the attack, the thin metal caught in the twists and curls of his sword. From behind him, another guard shouts out his orders. “Cease and desist this instant! You are under arrest by order of-” 

“Yeah, I’m not really listening.” Wels sneers, twisting his blade and pulling the saber free from the guard. With a flourish, he points the tip of the sword at the shocked guard. “Anyone else want to give it a go?” 

Those words, spoken in a crowd among the city of combat, brought the chaos that Wels needed to escape. It was an invitation to anyone with a sword and a bit of stupidity to start a duel. And from the swarm of people, a dozen different weapons are drawn and brought into the ring. Among the chaos, Wels slips away, dipping behind a drink stand. He can’t help but grab a glass on his crawl past, but he makes sure to leave a few rupees- including tip- for the server. 

Escaping the crowded forge, through a weapon shop, Wels nearly runs face first into a cart full of palm fronds. His tufted yellow tail flicks to the side to balance him out, but someone takes his hand and keeps him from being stranded on his back in his armor. “Saved ya.” 

“False!” Wels grins, happy to see his friend and fellow swordmaster, safe and even smiling. “Looks like you lost your tails.” 

“And you kept yours.” At first Wels thought she meant his actual tail, but when he hears a crashing from the weapon shop he just emerged from, he realizes he hasn’t quite lost the arcane guard after him.Without wasting another second, the two take off towards the Tower of the Blade. The tallest building, rising above and towering over everything else in the city by leaps and bounds. 

It was their goal, not just because it was easy to spot all across the city, but was also a safe haven from the arcane guard and Dolios’s far reach. It was a place of training and bettering oneself. It was the masters of the dojos and training grounds that determined who could enter and who could find safety among their ranks. It was there that Wels found a new purpose in life, after being betrayed by his bandit gang. Here that a master brought him in, despite his dark past, healed him and gave him a reason to change. Even when he thought he was evil, she saw the good in him and trained him. 

It’s here they’ll be able to find solace, to get trained in being an army all their own, for False to learn new ways to forge new weapons, and for Wels to hone his skills with his magic. 

The two disappear down a thin passageway in between two buildings, hiding in the shadows and staying quiet. Wels casts a spell to better camouflage them, and they hold their breath. Seconds feel like hours, until they watch the arcane guard run past the alleyway they’re hidden in. The two don’t move for another few minutes, waiting to be sure that the guards are gone. Only then do they emerge from hiding, and continue on their way. 

In the shadow of the Tower, Wels finds he’s able to untense his shoulders. This was his home before the hermits. A place he found peace, stopped being Hels and welcomed Wels. It’s here he became the man he is now. How he became a hermit. They’re welcomed in, False and Wels splitting apart to learn their individual skills. 

False finds herself in a class on layering metal types, and quickly impresses the master bladesmith with her even heating and precise strikes of the hammer to make just the right curve in the blade. But with the master, she learns to create thick blades, axes and hatchets, cinquedeas and even patas. 

As she pulls the five finger wide blade from the oil it was treated in, False is grinning from ear to ear. “Let’s see how Dolios will handle our new toys.” 

The hermit bladesmith tosses the new weapon to Wels, and he finds himself in the sandy promenade, among a group of students learning the sword style of arnis- martial arts similar to that found in and around Shellor. Wels can’t wait to challenge Etho the next time they’re on Eremita. His blade may not be from this fighting style, but Wels wants to practice his flexibility among weapons. Not just his massive zweihander, but all weapons in all fighting styles. 

Wels is about to test the sharpness of the sword by cutting through a series of bamboo enemies, when an all too familiar voice- to only him- rings loud and clear in the vaulted halls of the Tower. “You never know when to quit, lionheart?”

The healing scar on Wels’s shoulder burns, but he turns around and faces the group of rogues. “And you never know how to keep your prisoners tied up. That was a pretty easy escape, if I say so myself.” 

It was this group of bandits that he was investigating before he returned to Eremita. They who captured him while he infiltrated their numbers, they who made him unable to respond to the hermits. They who scarred him, but he came out stronger. And he’s not running from a fight this time. 

“You’re so damn cocky, what I wouldn’t give to cut that stupid smile off your face.” The bandit sneers. 

“If you want to duel, you just have to say?” Wels turns his back, his nonchalant attitude and snarky remark infuriating his opponent. Across the promenade, Wels sees False draw her own weapon. He waves her off. So long as the rogue will play fair, they won’t have to become the center of False’s wrath. No person should dare be on her bad side. “I just learned a very unique style of fighting, you wanna see?”

The bandit leader, with a scraggly mess of brown hair hastily tied in a bun, pulls out his blade. Wels may not be a bladesmith like False, but even he can see the cheap craftmanship of the heavy weighted sword. The training grounds clear out at the scent of a duel, and both Wels and the bandit assume fight ready stances. Wels stands as noble as the paladin he is, feet firm in the soil, blade between him and his opponent, his other hand tucked behind his back. 

The bowlegged bandit spits to the side. “I’ll make the last scar we gave ya look like a paper cut.” 

The duel starts, and False can clearly see Wels is already ahead. The bandit stumbles to the side, his blade unbalanced as his stance, and Wels digs the thin pommel into the square of his opponents back. The bandit plays quick and dirty, and soon the two are locked in combat. But even when he has to retreat after the blade slips between his armor and wounds him, Wels is still ahead. Last time, he was outnumbered, not outmatched. 

This time, he has the upper hand, so long as his opponent respects the art of the duel. Respects the rules of the Tower. The battle continues, with each hit his opponent makes on him, Wels gets two. He retreats back, looking over his shoulder after admiring the craftmanship of his sword in comparison to the shoddy blade of his enemy. “This is one hell of a sword, False! Great job, friend!” 

His words, although kind, seem to only enrage the bandit. When Wels turns around, he’s no longer dueling the bandit leader. He’s back in that dark speakeasy, fighting off twenty or so of these rats before being overwhelmed and captured. The other bandits have joined in on the fight. “To hell with decorum, I just want to see your blood staining this entire place.” 

Despite the encroaching axes, clubs, spears, and swords, Wels can’t help but chuckle. He backs up, towards the forge. Towards his fellow hermit. “I hate to disappoint you, but you’re quite… False.” 

His grin only grows when the forge wizard appears before him, summoning a blade as hot as an oven’s flame. He brandishes the newly made weapon. Two hermits against ten or more bandits? 

Too easy. The rogues don’t know what’s coming to them, but False and Wels fight like dragons, as graceful and strong. They have each other’s back. If False gets into a pushing match, Wels gives her a strength buff, and she sends her opponent skittering into the dirt. If Wels is surrounded by rogues, False summons throwing knives, and Wels can step over the ambushing party to get back into the fight.

The rogues weren’t prepared for the strength between two hermits. Wels alone was a struggle, but they managed to overpower him. But Wels and False? The fight is over quickly. Any rogues left standing flee, leaving behind their peers and disappearing into the city. Wels sneers, remembering how he was once left that way. 

False runs a bloody, muddy hand through her hair. “Well, I think we got enough training in that one fight. What do you think of the cinquedea?”

He didn’t mean to say that. But the words that were on the tip of his tongue came out as what he was thinking. Damn truth spells, his words have done little except make the pilgrims feel worse! Impulse offers a meek smile, and hops over the husked thunderbird, a well-timed explosion tossing him over the enormous bird’s head. 

Ren’s hands cross, fingers symmetrical before snapping outwards, twisting and turning to summon his magic. “Let’s get this little birdy wrangled up, y’all.” 

With a chuckle, Ren casts his magic. The circle tightens, trails weaving into a braided rope. Just as he imagined, a lasso appears in his hand. Beside him, False calls out orders. Like the general of an army. “Tango, Impulse, keep it distracted for Ren!” 

“Hey Impy, think it’ll taste like chicken?” Tango laughs, fire blazing around him. He taps his heel against the cloud beneath his feet, and condensed water burns into steam, the floor falling away from the thunderbird. Together, the two keep the bird preoccupied, completely oblivious to the spinning rope of Ren’s lasso. 

Of all the cities the hermits thought would be safe from Dolios and his dark magic, surely the city in the sky would be. But the reports of unrelenting storms and flocks of broken-winged birds led them straight to the crystal. Nestled in the heart of a hot spring spa, in the depths of the clouds and open to the sky, False and Ren managed to destroy the corrupted crystal. But not before this thunderbird discovered them, and attacked with the strength of a hurricane. 

“I think he’s mad he didn’t do his job! Protect the crystal, kill any nosy townsfolk.” Impulse chuckles, snapping his fingers and blasting the flank of the bird. Ash of the husked form collapses, head rearing back and lightning crackling under the wings and feathers. Generated by the beat of the beast’s wings. But before it can release it’s thunderous caw, matched with the bolt of lightning, amber magic twists and wraps across the thunderbird’s beak. 

“Got’em, boys! False?” Ren grins, digging his heels into the cloud vapor. HIs ears tuck against his head, fur meeting hair as he struggles to keep the eagle from escaping into the sky. What Ren wouldn’t give for a buff from Wels right now. 

False doesn’t hesitate. She never does. She leaps onto the back of the bird, heels digging between feathers and flakes of the soulless, lifeless body, and raises her blade. The rippling metal turns bright red. As hot as freshly forged metal waiting to be doused in oil. Without wasting another second, she cuts the husk down. 

The form beneath her feet crumbles like fall leaves, ash and embers picked up by the winds of the cloud city, with False left to collapse onto the ground. For a place built in the clouds, her ass feels anything but cushioned. 

But she’s grinning all the same, accepting Tango’s hand to help her up and elbowing Ren in the stomach. “One less creepy beast in the world. And one more crystal in the books.” 

“I’d say we earned ourselves some rest and relaxation. Edenswell does have some of the best spas and retreats in Lairyon.” False lets her sword clatter to the cloud, pulling a hand through her hair and the clumps of blood and dirt from her locks. 

“I dunno about a spa, but I saw the Festival of Mimé is going on, and I wanna have some fun while we’re up here with our heads in the clouds.” Tango points out, which causes Impulse’s eyes to light up. 

“The festival of Mimé? That’s the biggest fireworks showcase in the kingdom! They have a contest every year to see who can do the best exhibition, and I’ve always wanted to see it.” Impulse has already turned towards the sound of music and celebration, in honor of the god of joy.

“Why not just watch it if you can join it, my dude?” Ren points out, stretching aching muscles, hands over his head and pulling them taut. Both Tango and Impulse stop dead in their tracks, and False only groans from her spot on the ground. 

“Ren, you mad genius. We’re going to blow that contest away. Literally.” Impulse’s toothy grin appears, matching his friend’s. False finally rises up, shaking her head. 

“You guys are adults, you do what you want. Just...don’t burn down the damned city.” False waves them off, and goes in search of somewhere peaceful to rest and recuperate. She could use some healing as well. That thunderbird did a number in battle.  Ren, Impulse, and Tango are left to their own devices. 

A dangerous thing. The three clamber over one another to be the first at the entrance to Mimé’s temple. At the mouth of the open courtyard, color blossoms across the grass in flowers, flags, and festivities. Kids run past dragging kites and blowing pinwheels, while adults are celebrating with their own joyous creations. As soon as the hermits are through the archway, flower crowns have been set upon their head. Impulse even managed to find ones that wouldn’t catch fire upon Tango’s hot head. Music and dancing fills the open air, surrounded by brightly colored food and even brighter laughter and crafts. 

Ren lets loose a low whisper. “Guess Mimé and Blumiere share one thing in common- creativity is joyous.” 

“We’re going to wake the ancient ones with our joyous fireworks show.” Tango grins, searching for the contest. But he notices another pageant going on. “Hey, Ren, look. A pet agility course.” 

Ren rolls his eyes, but his tail wags without his consent at the idea of running it. “I’m an imagination mage, not a dog. It was one mixup.” 

“One mix up that left you with ears, a tail, and a joy to chase carts.” Impulse snickers. “Come on,  RenDog, you’d be the most handsome dog in the whole pageant. And the fastest.” 

“What’s the harm? It’s all good fun, Mimé would want that. I dare you.” Tango’s words are all that Ren needs to hear, and the mage plods off to join the pet parade.

Tango and Impulse waste no time getting to work. A hellbound mage and an explosions wizard, teaming up to make the best fireworks ever seen by the entire kingdom.Mixing together all colors, all patterns, daring to go bigger and better than any other contestant, it’s Tango’s wild ideas and Impulse’s refined magic that allows them to slowly tune towards perfection. 

But not without a few mistakes along the way. Their first attempt at a spectacular sight turned into a show fit for ants, not for gods. And there aren’t even ants in Edenswell- it’s a city in the clouds, for Stratis’s sake. 

The next mistake was loud enough that even False heard it from the hero’s spring baths that healed her wounds. She peeked one eye open, seeing yellow and red blossoming in the open roof of the Hero's baths. She only sinks lower into the azure waters, shaking her head. They’re adults, she doesn’t always need to run in and be the S-Class mage. She’s going to enjoy this rest, dammit. 

After trial and error, error and trial, night falls on Edenswell and the fireworks shows begin. Sound mages ease the explosions to sensitive ears, allowing music to swell with the colors that blossom in the sky. Sincere shows, wishes in the sky, and large extravaganzas dazzle the crowd and illuminate the air in place of the sun. 

Tango and Impulse are last to show, and with each entry before them, they get more excited. Tango just wants to snap his fingers and light it up now, so everyone can see all the hard work they did. Ren disappeared hours ago, and they’ve only caught glimpses of his brown ears or colorful outfit since then. But at least False arrives just in time for the show. “Where’d you lose Ren?”

The two shrug, noticing that her wounds from this morning’s battles have already faded to scars and False looks more refreshed, ready to battle than ever. Whoever duels her next better watch out. “He joined the pet party or whatever. Seems like he was having a good time last we saw.” 

Tango laughs at Impulse’s words, still in disbelief their friend actually crashed a pet show. But that’s Ren for them, wild and innovative, and never backing down from a dare. “You ready to see the biggest, best, most awesome and perfect fireworks-ification you’ve ever had the honor to lay eyes on?” 

“I’m ready to see whatever it is you two have created.” False steps back, materializing a large shield, the blade pointed out and disk protecting her chest. “From a protected and safe distance away. I’m not making another cannon mistake.” 

“Oh, ye of little faith.” Tango grins, and snaps his fingers. Fire erupts at the base, dancing along an intricate, twisting sequence that False can only compare to Mumbo’s redstone lines. Fireworks blast off into the sky, dancing in spinning circles and straight lines, set off at the perfect time that when they explode, they paint the dark night with colors that twist and dance, intricate patterns flowing in seamless design. Music swells with the dazzling paint, the musicians inspired by the incredible sight before them. False is mesmerized, feeling the purples and blues and greens and whites light up on her face, the joy of watching such a show reminding her what it means to be a hermit. To see her friends create, to see the beauty of unrestrained magic. 

The finale blows the sky open with every color of the rainbow and then some, illuminating the entire city, but even under the crescending music False hears Tango and Impulse curse at the same time. The colors fade into streaks of light, embers falling to the city like a meteor shower. False shakes her head, realizing at some point in the show she put her shield down. She was too enamored by the fireworks. “Okay, I’ll admit- that was fantastic.” 

“But it wasn’t perfect.” Tango grumbles. “We messed up the pattern in the grand finale.” 

Ren bowls into the three, tail wagging and eyes alight. “Dudes, I could tell that was your fireworks, that was the coolest thing ever! Mimé must be stoked, he probably hasn’t seen something that epic since the ancients!”

“No, it really wasn’t.” Impulse kicks the ground. “We fucked up the end, it’s not what we imagined.”

There’s a loud thwap, sparks flying from Tango’s head while Impulse hisses, rubbing the crown of his brown hair. “That was the most incredible fireworks show i ever saw. You two are gifted with explosions- that I already know- and that was badass. Even if it wasn’t what you imagined, I thought it was beautiful. Because it was you two’s work, your heart and soul, even your mistake was a part of you guys.” 

“False is spitting truth, bros.” Ren adds, nodding his head. “That was so cool, you guys made your idea come to life! Wasn’t it fun making it?” 

Tango and Impulse pause, looking at the sizzling remains of their fireworks. The ash stained grass, a few chunks missing from the cloudcover. And they laugh. “It definitely was a blast.” Impulse croons. “I hope Mimé thought that was as cool as it was to make.” 

“I definitely think it was a joy to watch.” False hums. She rolls her shoulders, eyes roving across the festival. People’s eyes sparkle, conversations and fingers pointed towards the sky. “And I think others feel the same way. Congrats, hermits. No only did we save the day, you guys made it a little bit brighter here as well.” 

“And I won best in show!” Ren chuckles, showing off his medal. The others laugh, and he tucks it away. “None of you guys tell the others about this.” 

“You guys said something about taking back Lairyon?” Beef raises an eyebrow, looking over at Doc. “This isn’t your rebellious phase coming back, is it?”

“We’ll explain everything on the way. TFC has a lot to tell.” Etho wraps his arms around Hypno and xB, before disappearing into their shared shadow. 

The kipling laughs, shaking his head and looking around the island. “Some things never change. I see you haven’t fixed the hole in False’s forge either.” 

The hermits laugh, the entire group filled with life as they return to the guild hall. Joe and Cleo regale the missing hermits with the story of their victory at the Chimaera’s Championship. Their battles and challenges in the arena, facing off against the best guilds and winning the cup. They also tell Hypno, xB, and Beef about the heist, the discovery. 

“Why am I not surprised?” Hypno hums, tapping his fingers against the wood of the table that he sits down at. TFC pats the boys on the head, grabbing at Beef’s face and tapping his finger on a scar he sees. Beef shrinks away, concerned for a second, but the guildmaster only chuckles in response.

“I can’t wait to hear that story. It’s good to have you guys back.” TFC pats him on the back. “Treat you to a pint of beer next time we go to town.” 

“Let’s hear about this big job you’ve got planned for us first.” xB raises an eyebrow. In response, TFC rolls out his map.

The paper has changed since they first decided to go after Dolios and his creepy crystals. If there’s one thing an outlaw guild knows how to do, it’s to find new jobs through the grapevine. “Dolios has these tales silenced. I’ve heard of at least six other guilds being attacked or wiped out by unknown magic. Unfortunately, we’re too late to help them.” Team ZIT glance at one another, but focus on the here and now. “But there are places we can make a difference, as well as get information and better ourselves as a group.”

TFC motions to the Evernight forest. “An old friend of mine said there has been stories of familiars and companion animals going missing. No trace of where they went, except for a few patches of charred grass.”

“Charred, or drained?” Mumbo muses. To anyone, that sounds like the signs of a dragon ravaging Foresta, but after Mumbo’s duel with a draconic mage he knows dragons aren’t that dastardly. Nothing is as dastardly as Dolios. 

TFC grins, the newest member and the guildmaster sharing a knowing glint. “There’s also Shellor- which, I believe one of our hermits here knows quite intimately.” Etho gives a two fingered salute, rocking on the back legs of his chair until they fall out from under him, dumping him on the floor. Doc, Beef, and BDubs laugh at him. “There’s a few spies who’ve seen things Dolios has done, but the hard part will be earning their trust.” 

“Hmm, yeah. I don’t think I really left Shellor on a good note.” Etho grimaces. 

“That’ll be you, Keralis, and Grian’s problem. Meanwhile, we also need some help in the magical beings department. And if there’s one group that has mysterious, arcane magic on lock, it’s-”

“The fae!” Stress slams down her hands, a bright smile on her face. Iskall jolts upright and nearly hits the table again on the way down. “But where will we go? The fjords? The mountains? Heartbreak Trench?” 

“The flowerfruit fields. While you’re there, you and BDubs can gather ingredients that we’ve been running low on.” TFC glances at the map, running a finger over the lime green patch on the map. “We do have two confirmed crystal sightings, as well as Gildara. Edenswell seems to be falling ill to dark magic, and there’s reasonable belief that Dolios isn’t getting these massive rocks from nowhere- he’s using gems from the mines.” 

Heads peek over one another in an attempt to see the map. The charcoal diamonds and swirls. Gildara still sits untouched, and every hermit looks at one another. Do any of them want to return to the beginning of this all? Even to put an end to the dark magic plaguing the land, the memories of what they saw, what they experienced, still remain. 

Except for those that weren’t there. “I don’t think I’d mind checking out this hokey little town you guys keep talking about.” Beef grins, glancing over at Hypno and Wels. “We’ll have that place brimming with flaxen fields and green gardens all over again.” 

TFC grins, dipping his head in thanks to the returning hermits. He leans back, looking at the filled guild hall. “It’s been so long since we’ve all been together. If only it were on good terms.” 

“It feels good to return home.” xB ruffles his hair with a scaled hand, looking around for a second, then returning to speaking. “Even if it’s just for a short time, we should enjoy everyone being together again.” 

“What I’m hearing is we need to have our signature hermit celebrations.” Tango’s face splits into a devious smile. All around him, other hermits get a similar smirk on their face. Before TFC can agree to the idea, the hermits are gone. Cleo rushes to her wrecked pirate ship, hefting kegs of ale with the aid of Stress. Wels commandeers False’s forge to begin baking his favorite sweets, while Mumbo, Grian, and Iskall work together to fix the pennants, lanterns, and flags that decorate the guild hall in a myriad of colors. 

Tango snaps his fingers, and a small flame dances at his fingertips, jumping from his nails to the wicks of the lanterns. He ducks out of the way just in time to avoid being smacked in the face by a massive fish, tossed from the sea by xB and grabbed by Grian midair. The whirlpool mage disappears back underwater, back to hunting in the realm he was born in. 

The sun begins to inch towards the western horizon, turning the sky ablaze in a mosaic of pinks, oranges, yellows, and reds. A blue flag flutters against the ancient oak tree, catching on a branch. BDubs reaches out from his seat near the food platters, hardly even glancing away from the fresh baked goods, and with a flick of his wrist the branch bends away and the flag flies free again. 

False appears beside Wels, grabbing a brownie from the hot pan and sticking her tongue out at him as she passes. When Wels objects she’s quick to retort. “You used my forge. It’s rental payment, paladin.” 

Beef sets out plates, which are promptly ignored once Impulse and Zedaph have finished cooking the tuna xB caught. Music swells from a music box the creation of Ren, with the help of Mumbo, the upbeat songs written and composed with Joe and requests from the other hermits for their favorite tunes. 

The music thrums against the low roar of talking, the sound only broken by the common lilt of laughter. Hermits tell their stories, whether they be heard for the thousandth time or a new tale to tell. Beef causes Hypno to flush as he recounts the prank he pulled on the dream mage. Hypno turns bright red, quiet voice cracking over the tale. “I smelled like centaur shit for a week! It was awful, I’ll tell you that.” 

A raucous laugh erupts from that table, overshadowing the story of Mumbo’s duel to xB. “I swear on my life, I thought she was gonna swallow me whole. Or burn me like coal.” Mumbo shakes his head. “I don’t think I ever want to go up against a draconic mage ever again in my life.” 

“I’m surprised a kipling, a draconic mage, and a desert wizard were one team. That’s a strange group. I don’t think I’ve even met each of the others.” xB takes a bite of his fish, marinated in fresh fruits that Cub plucked from nearby islands. “But I’m sure that kipling gave you guys a run for your money. That magic she had… it’s rare beyond imagination. In kipling legend, it means a legendary hero is about to arise.” 

“He definitely kicked Ren’s ass. I don’t think I ever saw so much water moved at once.” Mumbo shakes his head, and stuffs a red jelly tart into his mouth. 

Keralis stands, tossing his woven hat from the brown curls of his hair, and inviting himself onto the open floor. “I love this song! Come on, my wonderful friends, let’s dance!” 

The setting sun casts a golden glow, bouncing off verdant leaves, twisting along the waves of the Ashioll sea. Laughter and music dance in the gilded light, playing in the curls of Zedaph’s hair as he joins Keralis. The two bumble around, drunk from Cleo’s ale but enjoying themselves immensely. 

Only one hermit wasn’t taking part in the festivities. Atop the canopy that protects the guild hall below, Xisuma watches as the stars appear in the sky. For a few moments in the day, the void and the sun share the space above. And he always thinks of the one person he knows he should forget by now. But he would’ve loved this, even if he’s constantly worrying about being caught doing something wrong. 

“Hey X, you gonna mope up there all day or join us?” Jevin grins below, one hand placed on his hip and the other waving Xisuma down. “Just because you’re a void mage doesn’t mean you have to a-void everything!” 

“Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Doc growls, tapping his fingers together into a triangle shape. “Regular magic just wasn’t enough. Regular power just wasn’t enough.” 

“So he’s using the crystals to gather energy. Like what we saw in Gildara, with the grey landscape. And when the crystals sap energy for him to steal, it leaves those husk monsters behind.” Cub is slowly piecing together the puzzle, coming to understand everything he saw with the others in the heist. 

“And he’s using the Chimaera’s championship to sap more energy. That’s why we feel so tired when we finish an event. He’s stealing our power, my dudes.” Ren shivers at the thought. His energy being drained, taken by some creepy crystal and fueling Dolios’s insatiable thirst. 

“And we’re going back in soon.” TFC hums. “We have the labyrinth challenge.” 

“We don’t have to go in- we got what we needed. We can leave, make a plan with this knowledge we have. Tell the king, tell the people. They’ll take care of it.” Etho leans back in a chair, tipping till it nearly dumps him backwards. 

“But we’ve come so far!” Grian whines. “We could win the whole games, prove to Dolios that he never should have messed with us! Wouldn’t you love to see that smug smile of his wiped off when we win?” 

Agreements rise around Grian, and even Etho can’t help but want to prove that bastard wrong. Xisuma steps in. “At least we know why we’re getting so exhausted. We’ll know to rest, calm down while we’re in the labyrinth. And...we can warn Team Crafted.” 

“And then we’ll tell the king, tell the people. They’ll have to listen to us, we’ll be the champions!” Iskall grins. They’ve got this labyrinth challenge in the bag. 

The group rises, walking out of the tavern and back to the stadium. All around them, Milliara is buzzing with excitement. The final challenge of the Chimaera’s championship, the end of the games, has come. A river of people flow along the raised streets, flowing like the canals beside them. Rushing towards the stadium. They pass by other guilds, who sneer and turn away. Angry they lost, especially to a team. Do any of them know that the Magistrate practices dark magic? That he’s killed entire guilds in his search for power? For what? Surely he doesn’t keep all of it. 

It’s no matter to the hermits. They found the truth, and once they pass on this knowledge, it’ll be out of their hands. Entering into the bowels of the stadium, the locker room they sit in is empty. Once full of dozens more teams, now only two teams remain.

The entire guild sneers at the sound of Dolios’s voice welcoming the crowd. It’s muffled by the thick stone walls, but they can hear him tell of the harrowing journey ahead. And the grand prize that awaits for the team that defeats the labyrinth. All they need to do is pour a single bowl of water over the statue at the center of the labyrinth. 

But between that and both teams were beasts, traps, and spells designed to slow them down. Perhaps even kill them, if they aren’t prepared. Across the way, Grian can see nerves crease across Quentin and Jerome’s faces. He can hear Mumbo muttering next to him. Anyone can walk into the labyrinth, but only the best teams can walk out. Grian isn’t going to let anyone die- not on his oath as a healer. Not from the hermits, and not from Team Crafted either. 

Grian stands, walking across the locker room and coming face to face with Sky. The leader looks up, an easy and golden grin meeting Grian. “Hey, you here to wish us luck?” 

“Not exactly.” Grian wrings his hands, looking over his shoulder, before dropping his voice. “Listen, Sky, we hermits discovered something… the reason we’re always exhausted?” Sky leans forward, his eyes looking out over the rim of his sunglasses. “The magistrate is doing something dark, and he’s taking our power for his own. If you see a crystal that’s pitch black, or a creature with soulless white eyes and ash grey bodies- run. It’s dark magic.” 

Sky’s eyes widen, and behind him Grian sees Jerome and Mitch coil and look out at where Dolios’s voice can be heard. But Jason looks less convinced. “Why should we trust you? You’re trying to get us to fail, huh?” 

Grian’s sighs, collapsing his head into his hands. “No, we’re trying to help you. Us illegal guilds have to stick together.” 

Team Crafted’s faces all exhibit a mix of shock, surprise, and hints of defiance at Grian’s suggestion. But he’s smarter than he lets on. Jerome is the first to speak up. “Thank you for the warning, I knew that man wasn’t to be trusted. Good luck, hermits.” 

With that, the stadium erupts in a roar. Team Crafted stands, and disappears into the field, disappears from view. A few moments later, the hermits are called into the spotlight. Just like the opening ceremony, TFC leads them out onto the pitch. 

Or, what was the pitch. Massive hedges of writhing vines and ivy twist around the guild, engulfing them into a thicket that fills the once open arena. A dark, misty haze swirls, thickening where the hermits know the crowd is watching. Despite no eyes, no bodies visible, they can feel being observed. And yet the entire field is eerily quiet. They feel alone, no voices or light, only the sensation of sight. 

In the distance, a grumbling roar pierces the mist. Captured by the damp air, it hangs and echoes around the hermits. Iskall hides behind Stress while False, Wels, and Etho draw their blades. But TFC is the one to break the silence. “No use standing here. Team Crafted already has a headstart, and I’m not letting them get any further. Cleo and Jevin, take point. If anything looks suspicious, or even if it doesn’t, Cleo can search for a soul. Jevin, can you whip up slime warriors to be our...ahem, bait?”

“You got it boss.” Jevin draws his circle, blue light dappling the misty grey and green. Blue bodies of slime morph to shape, awkward steps pushing the hermits forward. Deep into the maze. The mist engulfs the comforting stone wall of the stadium, and they were only among hedge and haze. 

They push past traps set off by the slime warriors, around chimaeras and banshees soothed by Zedaph and Cleo, and over illusionary spells meant to turn them back. At each intersection, Scar marks off the way they came by plowing a giant X in the ground. When they reach a dead end and turn around, he blocks it off completely. 

“I don’t remember the field being this big.” Impulse groans, feeling his body ache at the feeling he now knows to be the work of dark magic. They haven’t seen a crystal or a husk, which only makes the feeling worse. It’s coming from everywhere. 

“They must’ve used expansion magic to make this place bigger.” Xisuma hums, kicking his boot at the feeling of something on his head. And again. He turns around, glaring at BDubs. “Would you quit trying to flat-tire me? It doesn’t work on boot, ya know.” 

BDubs’s face causes X’s head to spin and his heart to drop. His eyes are wide, confused as to why X is yelling at him. “Tha-that wasn’t me, X. That was-” 

One moment, BDubs is clear in Xisuma’s vision through his mask. The next, he’s disappeared. However, it’s not hard to find him with all the screaming. Writhing on the ground, mist and vines wrapping struggling in a fight with the plant mage. No matter how many times he casts his magic, it doesn’t shake off the ivy that crawls and drags him towards the hedges. 

“Help! Help it’s got me!” BDubs screams, digging his fingers into the ground and rooting himself there He groans, the vines still pulling on him despite being an immovable object. “It’s gonna rip me in half!” 

False swings her sword, the sharp steel biting into the vines and severing it from the briars snaked around BDubs. From the split branches, a red ochre spills out. Blood. The entire hedge rumbles to life, two eyes appearing in the mist. A branch breaks through the fog, colliding with a shield held aloft by Wels. The limb of the plant monster crushes the steel, tossing the shield aside and depositing the paladin onto his rear. 

Glowing white eyes draw closer, and the twisted grey vines of the plant monster’s face appears in the dark mist. Vines grab for any limb the hermits aren’t watching, engulfing arms, pulling on tails, wrapping around heads. Xisuma traps a few of the thousand limbs in a blackhole, rolling away from the beast. Grian takes to the sky, dodging around the shoots that threaten to skewer him. He whips a blast of air, clearing the fog to get a better view below.

It’s not the whole labyrinth, but the beast has spread it’s vines in an intricate system among it. All which are slithering over the ivy, like snakes in search of the hermits. What he also sees in the sky, beneath the plant monster’s perch and dug into the ground beneath the pitch, was the one thing he’s learned to despise. 

A dark crystal. It’s controlling the plant monster, black smog wrapping around the roots of the beast like chains. It’s practically bursting with energy, all the power and strength taken by the crystal during the entire course of the games. Even flying this high, he can feel the effects of his magic being siphoned from his body. “There’s one of those-” 

Swatted from the sky like a bug, Grian crashes into the ground with a sickening thud. Scar and Mumbo race to help him up. Mumbo nearly throws up, hearing the sound of bones cracking under Grian’s feathers and skin. But nothing can keep the sky angel quiet. “The plant thing...it’s protecting the crystal, or powered by the crystal, I dunno.”

“Where is it?” TFC questions, eyes flicking across the battling guild. Stress freezes the blood and vines solid, while Cub severs the limbs with portal after portal opening and closing. 

Grian grabs his head, trying to steady the spinning sensation. The moving hedges of the false maze, the limbs of the beast, don’t help to ease his confusion. He points a shaking finger at about 2 o’clock, relieved to have support from Mumbo and Iskall back to his feet. 

“Should we run away from it? Obviously it’s going to try and take our energy- shouldn’t we stay as far away as possible?” Joe raises an eyebrow. His quill rushes across the pages beneath the tip, a rushed spell spouting forth. A million beetles emerge from the aged paper, tiny pincers digging into the plant monster and ripping it apart. Keralis plucks one from the sky, swallowing the beetle whole and feeling reinvigorated by the bug.

“If Dolios placed that there, he obviously intended for us to get close to it. If he knew we’d be going that way, that means the statue must be this direction.” Xisuma proposes, sending a ball of void into the chest of the many limbed vine creature. 

“We should...we should destroy the crystal.” Grian hisses, grasping at his ribs and gasping for air. “So he can’t steal any more magic from here.” 

“How?” Doc growls, despite plowing ahead. Towards the monster. Towards the crystal. “We could hardly put a dent in it last time!”

“We’ll figure it out. We’re pretty clever.” TFC hums, hopping over a whipping vine. He grasps a thin rod of corundum, steeling himself when another attempts to toss him into oblivion. The hermits battle their way through the shifting maze, but with each vine they cut down, more seem to spring from the bloody limbs and misty air. The attacks only grow more aggressive as they near the body of the beast, near the dark crystal controlling it. The air grows thick, hard to breathe and pressing down on the team. In the distance, they can hear the roar of a chimaera. Team Crafted. Hopefully they’re safe, as far away from this beast as possible. 

The crystal comes into view. Ashen roots are planted firm around the massive crystalline structure, the gem pulsing with energy. Energy it’s stealing from the hermits and Team Crafted. Right on cue, black mist swirls around the opaque crystal, natural defenses going up. The hermits leap aside, avoiding the crushing blow from a twisted cable of vines by a narrow margin of time and air. From across the writhing greenery, TFC’s voice booms out commands. “You guys on the other side distract the monster- or better yet, try to kill it! Us over here will do our best to break the crystal.” 

A cacophony of acknowledgements lets the guildmaster know they heard him, and he wastes no time scrabbling to his feet. He ignores the sound of fighting behind him, the cracks and groans of the beast or the screams of his guildmembers. He needs to focus on this crystal first and foremost. 

TFC is a mineral mage. He knows gemstones- but not corrupted gems. His stomach clenches as his fingers brush against the smooth surface, and his head aches at the mere thought of how it controlled him before. He still feels horrible, snapping at his friends. It’s too dangerous to use, even in regular magic. This twisted, barbaric magical conduit needs to be destroyed. 

But if there’s one thing he knows, all gems can only take so much energy before they cleave. And this crystal is practically brimming with stolen magic. “Let’s feed the beast then.” 

“Have a snack, you mega crystal of doom!” Iskall shouts, bolts of radioactive energy crackling from his magic circle to the crystal. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow his attack until he can hardly stand. The gemstone remains standing, half buried in the dirt. But then False steps up, the multitude of cinquedeas summoned around her imbued with magic by Wels. A flick of the wrist, and the blades dig into the crystal. Rusted, but protruding from the gem like spines from a dragon. 

“Yes! Focus the strikes on False’s swords! Use them like conduits!” TFC grins, leaping free as a rooted foot rips from the ground beside him. For a brief moment, he turns his attention back to the fighting hermits. He clasps his hands over his ears, the telltale shriek of Cleo’s banshee scream almost rupturing his eardrums. Impulse is on his back, protected by a weak bolt of lightning shot from Mumbo’s stuttering magic. But otherwise, they’re holding their own just fine. 

“We’ve almost got it!” Wels cheers, noticing the cracks forming along the gem’s surface. Black smoke pours from the fractures, grasping at their feet and attempting to steal their magic. Attempting to keep control of the plant monster that protects it. 

The ground beneath their feet rolls and rumbles, the dirt and hedges shivering and bucking against the hermits’ feet. Wels turns around, grinning when he sees what- or who- is the cause of the earthquake. Like a geyser of stone, a spike of rock pierces through the heart of the dark crystal. The mist around the hermits’ dissipates like morning fog chased off by the sun. Above the team, the plant monster erupts into ash, raining flakes of the husked creature with one final creak of wood and vine. 

And the dark crystal shatters. It blows the hermits back, sending them tumbling among the shards of gemstone. The black aura fades with the color- it’s just a regular quartz crystal, albeit destroyed into a million tiny conchoidal pieces. The depressing weight on their bodies, that left them struggling to breathe and their magic weak, falls away like shed skin of a snake. None of them have felt this invigorated since the start of the games. 

“Guys, there’s the statue!” Grian prods Mumbo in the back, both wincing as pain ricochets through both wounded hermits. A lush garden at the center of the labyrinth, gardenia and lilac flowers growing around a tall statue rising from a fresh, crystal clear spring. Carved in stone from the Lionheart mountains, the statue features each and every god in the main pantheon of Lairyon. From Echol to Limal, and Artyne- god of water.

Water, the symbol of life and magic in Lairyon. Water flows fresh, clean, and pure from the spring surrounding the stone gods. Two bowls rest untouched at the spring’s edge, carved from the very cyprus trees that inspired Milliara to be founded. Ren steps up, pausing and looking back at his teammates. Bruised, battered, broken. But urging him not to waste another second. This is it. 

Ren dips the bowl in the spring. He swears he can feel energy, deep ancient magic within the cool water, chasing away the aftereffects of the crystal. In the distance, he can hear shouts of encouragement from vaguely familiar voices. Team Crafted is almost here. He doesn’t waste a second, wading across the water and pouring the bowl over the stone statue. 

Everyone’s head snaps, following the bird’s path as it comes to rest on TFC’s arm. Searching for the guildmaster of the Order of Hermits. Scar slips closer, awed by the opalescent white wings of such a noble bird. “I thought alicantos were only found in central Lairyon.” 

“It’s from the capitol.” TFC states, pulling the parchment from the parcel on the bird’s back. The scroll is stamped with a symbol everyone knows, whether the hermit is from the distant poor swamps of east Lairyon or the rich crystal mountains of the southern Fartop Peaks in the Lionheart Mountains. 

The scrawling laurels and crystals of the magistrate’s office. The alicanto pecks at TFC’s metal gloves, searching for food in the form of silver or gold. But every member of the guild has completely forgotten their divine visitor. They’re terrified of the contents within the parchment carried upon it’s back. 

“Oh my word, this is it! We’ve been found!” Mumbo shrieks, feeling his head get dizzy and light. He’s hardly been here for more than a year, and he’s about to get arrested. Years of following the rules, and the one time he goes rogue he’s been caught. 

“The arcane guard must be on their way. This is their letter telling us to surrender.” Cub shakes his head, watching as TFC opens the wax seal. 

“If we surrender, will they be light on us?” Ren questions, biting his lip and adjusting his sunglasses as Xisuma brushes past. He can smell the ozone scent of void on the previous guildmaster, pacing back and forth across the grass of the training field. Muttering something about his brother. 

“I’m not surrendering. I’m not going back to jail!” Doc crosses his arms and turns his nose up and away from the letter in defiance.

The entire guild, twenty something strong, creeps closer to TFC as his eyes scan across the parchment. The entire island is holding their breath, waiting for their guildmaster to tell the guild what’s waiting for them. Etho turns, falling into the shadow of the group and reappearing from TFC’s. “What does it say?” 

“We...it’s a contract.” TFC rereads the words again, and again. Trying to make sure he has everything right. That he read everything correctly. “The magistrate wants us, all of us, to go to a town called…” TFC squints his eyes and tries to read the name, before giving up. “Whatever, somewhere in east Lairyon. There’s been a disturbance that requires our help.” 

“All of us?” Xisuma stops dead, pulling off his mask so he can be sure he’s hearing everything right. “What needs an entire guild to take care of a ‘disturbance’?” 

“Forget that, why would the magistrate request the help of an illegal guild?” Doc waves his metal arm out, catching the attention of the alicanto. It hops free of TFC’s shoulder and swoops onto the puppeteer mage’s arm. Immediately, it begins pecking and pulling on the delicate materials and magic that makes his prosthesis. “Isn’t his entire job to arrest groups like us?” 

“That is kind of suspicious.” Iskall pipes up, tapping a gloved finger on the brown beard of his chin. 

TFC clears his throat, taking a deep breath. He brushes the white braid along his face, collecting himself. He needs to be the man in charge, cool and calm. “The letter isn’t officially from the magistrate’s office. It’s stamped like one, but it’s on personal parchment paper. The magistrate needs us because he can’t send official guilds without raising alarm. He wants this done discreetly, and none of the other council members agree with his actions.” 

“But us?” Cleo can’t help but agree with Doc. They aren’t exactly law-abiding citizens. They’re a mercenary group, flying under the radar of the Council of Lairyon. Doing the work they refuse to do, helping towns too poor to pay the hefty fees legal guilds require. “What do we get out of this? How do we know this isn’t some trap to lure us out of the Ashioll sea?” 

“And how does he know about us?” Mumbo adds, wringing his hands. 

“I...I don’t know, but I guess our reputation precedes us.” TFC nods to the guild hall, rising above the training grounds of the island on a soft hill. Where they can all talk. No one wastes time filing in, hungry for answers and completely ignoring the leftover breakfast still set out on the tables. The alicanto notices the metal cups, and sticks it’s head in search of a treat. And getting it’s golden crested head stuck in the pewter mug. 

“Well? Tell us what it says!” Stress bounces in her seat, short brown hair bouncing along with her.

“This town, Gildara, has been having what the contract only calls a ‘disturbance’ for the past few weeks. The council refuses to send a scout group, but the magistrate here says he can’t sit idly by and let people continue to get hurt. If we take care of the problem plaguing Gildara, we can…” TFC takes a deep breath, the excitement starting to fill his own voice. Calm, he needs to be calm. He’s the guildmaster. “We’ll be given the title of official guild, as well as a hefty sum of gold. We’ll get our magic license.” 

The reaction of the guild is mostly positive. They had given up applying for their license ages ago- before Xisuma gave up his role as guildmaster. They were always rejected, and warned to disband every time. But the Order of Hermits only have each other. Leaving their island, leaving each other, was never an option. They’re a menagerie of people, of criminals and runaways, S-Class mages and academy flunkies. Some people are skeptical of such a proposal, others are ecstatic. All are curious.

“What an opportunity of the lifetime!” Grian whoops, his wings appearing with hardly even a thought. Magic overflowing through the sky angel wizard, held down by his robes by Iskall and Mumbo. “Did it really say for all of us?” 

TFC looks back down at the paper, before letting it fall so everyone else can see. The hermits butt heads trying to peak at the contract before them. Jevin shakes his head, slimy hair squishing and getting stuck against Ren’s wagging tail. “It’s really for us all. The whole damn guild.” 

“I never saw that many zeroes in my life.” Grian whispers, his voice quiet for once. “That could fix all the damage from our battle with those creepy creatures.” 

Mumbo looks back, seeing white bandages peeking out from the sleeveless red hem and blue cloak around his shoulders. They almost didn’t survive that- if it weren’t for Grian and his archangel aura they wouldn’t have made it. His train of thought is disturbed when False pushes herself in, hands planting with challenging eyes towards Tango and Impulse. “Maybe you two can finally fix that hole you blew into my forge.” 

“I quite like the cross breeze our...modification gave.” Tango rests a hand on his chest, a snickering smile appearing across his face. Mirroring emotions fall across Impulse and Zedaph at his side, peeking around his arms. 

“Then move out and make your own modifications!” False shouts, but a coy grin and sharp eyes appear across her features. This won’t be the first time False and team ZIT have gotten into a duel over their accidental explosion, and it likely won’t be the last. “Zedaph already has his own place.” 

“He lives in a barn!” Impulse moans. “I hate how pokey hay is.” 

“You say barn like it’s a bad thing. The sheep are great roommates, they don’t light their pillows on fire.” Zed stares up at Tango. Quips trade across everyone, ideas brought up and shot down as quickly as Scar’s terraforming magic, all what to do with the money offered before them. 

TFC snaps his fingers, the ruby in his other hand glimmering with the magic circle. Lighting up lanterns that hang from the copse of trees and nestle in rock outcroppings of the outdoor guild hall. The fire burns bright, blinding the order even in the midmorning sun. “We should decide whether or not we all want to do this. We’re a guild, we should vote.” TFC raises his right hand. “Anyone oppose this contract? Please answer honestly..” 

The hermits look at each other, but no one’s arm even twitches to put their hand up. The contract is too curious to deny. So much to offer, including an adventure. TFC nods, and lifts his left hand. “All in favor?” 

This is bigger than the hermits. This is bigger than Gildara, or Danes, or anything they’ve ever faced before. This is beyond a scope they can even understand. Why is Dolios doing this? How far has his corruption spread? Who can stop Dolios, the Magistrate and leader of Lairyon? If the king is silent, and the Council is a part of his cabal, then no one is able to stop him. 

The hermits take the news in different ways- though no one celebrates their victory. Not after nearly dying in Dolios’s dungeons they only believed were rumors. The training field is empty, except for False. Anger burns through her pain, her kukri digging into the slime dummies she had Jevin make until the bodies rip in half. She decapitates one with a swift swing and turns around, ducking and rolling, before throwing molten blades into the chests of three more. The slime sizzles and burns, as hot as her anguish. 

At the sidelines, Wels watches as he buffs out the dents on his armor. He scrubs the metal till he can see his reflection in it, and then a little more. Trying to rub out the memories of the chess game, the dark magic that had trapped them in the sick game. 

Zedaph, Impulse, and Tango are together as always. But rather than trying to find trouble, all three sit on a haybale, just watching the animals of Zed’s farm. Tango twirls a stick full of leaves, much to the annoyance of the goat at his feet, eyes distant. Zedaph has been having a sleepover in their part of False’s forge, not wanting to leave his friend’s side. Not after knowing who killed their last guild. He doesn’t want to lose them as well. Impulse has no energy to be his bubbly, happy self. He feels like a cannon with a wet fuse, unable to light up and explode outward. Instead, he just mindlessly runs his fingers through the woolen fur of the sheep chewing on his clothes. 

Grian and Mumbo sit on the open windows of the angel’s house. Just watching the sun rise into an afternoon sun across the sea. They say nothing, a rare silence from Grian and even Mumbo. The two friends have nothing to say. They won the championship, but Grian still feels the horror of watching Mumbo forced to move like a chess piece. A pawn, set forward and open to attack. He knew he should have trusted TFC, but in the moment all he could think of was losing his best friend. 

Exiting his cave, TFC feels the oppressive mood in the air. He feels like he’s underground in Gildara again. That sense of hopelessness, that dampening weight on his shoulders. The guildmaster looks around, looks at his team, his island. A storm rolls in the distance, likely to come by evening and bless the island with life giving rain. But the hermits are like wilting flowers. Crumpled, lacking the color and life they normally carry with pride. Even the rainbow flags of the guild hall look muted. 

TFC hates this feeling, this suspension. Waiting for something to break, something to happen. If it won’t happen, he’ll make it happen. TFC picks up a stone from the mouth of his cave home, feeling the weight of the stone as he wanders to Xisuma’s tower. It’s a good piece of granite, a nice heavy weight without being too strong or sharp. It’s perfect for his plan. He rests the stone in his dominant hand, looking up at Xisuma’s tower, the gleaming telescope at the peak of the building. 

And he throws the stone. It clatters against Xisuma’s windowsill, rattling the metal frame but not breaking the glass. The stone falls, and he does it again. And again. Halfway through reeling back for a third throw, the window finally opens. X ducks just in time to miss getting a rock to the head. “What in the name of the gods are you doing?”

“Group meeting. Round up the others.” TFC crosses his arms, looking up at the wizard in the tower. 

“What? Why?” Xisuma sighs, but pulls on his mask all the same. It’s too bright for him right now. 

“If no one else is going to change the world, then we will.” TFC growls, then walks away. He motions for team ZIT to follow, and even dares to get between False and her training to call her to the guild hall. The open air space, enclosed only by clawlike stones and a ring of younger oak trees beneath the massive, entangling branches of the centerpiece, quickly fills with hermits. Sitting at the tables, Cleo tries to ease some of the tension with her good mead. But even Cleo’s best brews taste like swill right now. 

The last to arrive was Grian. Iskall was practically dragging him by the cloak into the guild hall, across the wooden grains of the floor, across the twining knot of birch and dark oak. Once the architechs were seated, Iskall and Grian with their own mugs of mead, TFC looks at the guild before him. 

He sighs, shaking his head. “I know what we faced was grim. I couldn’t imagine what it felt like to be you guys, forced to be pawns in Dolios’s sick game.” TFC notices False’s hands ball into fists at the mention of his name. “Especially to be moved by me, I wish I could’ve thought of a better way to stop him. 

“But we went to Milliara to discover who the dark mage was. We did that, and more. Dolios thought he could scare us, silence us. Make us turn on each other, make us choose who was more important and who wasn’t. But we’re not just a guild- we’re a family. It was terrible, but we got through it only because we worked as a team.” 

Silence meets TFC’s words. None of the hermits answer him. Normally, he struggles to get his guild to stay quiet for more than a minute. He feels he would have better luck teaching toddlers than talking to this lot. And it makes TFC’s stomach burn like magma to be able to hear rustling leaves, the distant bleat of a sheep. 

“And he’s winning.” He growls, looking at them all. “Look at us! Silent, still! Wallowing in what’s happened while Dolios is continuing to steal magic for his own nefarious desires! He’s winning, because we are doing nothing!” 

“What can we do?” Jevin sneers, leaning back. “We’re nobodies. An outlaw guild of misfits. We don’t have the power like the king, the prestige like a legal guild.” 

“That’s exactly why we can do it! We have our freedom, our strength in being beyond all that. If no one else will stop Dolios, if no one else can stop Diolios, then we should. Look at us,” TFC waves around as hermits pick up their heads. “We’re victors of the Chimaera’s Championship. We have more power and strength in this one hall than most guilds have in their entire history. We have a variety of magic and the creative minds to wield powers. To weave unlike magics into something greater.” 

“Why us, though?” Even Xisuma is sitting up, though his voice still has a twinge of doubt and exasperation. 

“If we don’t, who will?” The guildmaster looks around, seeing a spark return to the crowd. Thank Artyne, they’re finally talking over him again. “We know who the dark mage is, we know how to break a crystal, we’re not afraid of breaking a few rules! We may not be the heroes Lairyon needs, but we’re the only ones who can do it.” 

The surge of pride and power shocks across the hermits. A coy grin parts Doc’s hybrid face, sharp teeth revealed and glinting in the hot summer sunlight. Ren’s tail is wagging so fast it’s smacking Stress and Joe with each hemisphere completed. And TFC knows he’s gotten them hooked when he sees angelic feathers plume out from a gremlin smirk on Grian’s face. 

TFC pulls out a map from the nook in a tree, brushing an acorn aside that was stashed along with it. Using now empty mugs from Iskall and Grian, he unfurls the map and gazes at the crescent shaped continent that is Lairyon. He pulls out a piece of charcoal, and sketches four marks on the map. One where Gildara was, a diamond shape that is matched with one in Milliara. But the one in Milliara is crossed out. Danes and their home island get swirls, neither crossed out. “We know of four events that for certain included dark magic. In Milliara, we were successful in breaking the crystal.” He taps on the x-marked diamond. “Unfortunately, we can’t be certain if those husk storms will reappear in Danes or here.” 

“We should gather information. Listen in to town gossip, meet with contacts, just try and find any stories that match what we saw.” Cleo hums, running her dead fingers along the map. “Go all across Lairyon, destroy any crystals and do our best to weaken Dolios.” 

“And try to find a way to stop his reign once and for all.” Doc adds, his voice growling.