“King Sormena, when should we make the turn into one of the fjords?” Cleo questions, turning to face the monarch. Sor is gripping the railing to the wheel tight, fear and panic evident by the purple and yellow tones of his hair. 

“Search for the one with the frozen waterfall! And just Sor is fine!” He doesn’t really feel like a king right now. Not when his teeth are too frozen to chatter and his knuckles have turned as white as snow from fear. 

“We can hardly even see the shoreline!” TFC’s grey hair traps the snow and ice, forming like crystals. Even he was terrified for his life as they beat on through the storm. 

There was only one other hermit who didn’t fear the freezing temperatures. Stress, though nervous about Cleo’s sailing, was used to the biting chill of the cold. It just gave her all the reason more to bundle up in soft cozy clothes and snuggle under blankets by the fire, drinking warm drinks. She was not immune to the cold, but she welcomed it, and could feel the strength of her powers grow with the blizzard around her. She felt like lightning, full of energy and power. And she can see through the storm, see beyond the white out. “Up ahead! The next finger has a humongous waterfall!” 

Cleo and the other hermits squint, daring to ebb closer to the spiked shoreline. Sure enough, frozen water cascades from the top of a mountain, turning to a solid sheet across an archway over the fjord entrance. In the few warm months, the water must fall freely from the overhang, all the way into the waves, a curtain between the ever rough Ashioll  sea and the supposed city beyond. But for now, it’s suspended half way, half drawn. 

Turning into the thin finger through the mountainous, rocky shores, Cleo bites her lip as they drift under the frozen fall. The peak of her mast scrapes against the blue ice, chipping and scratching with a horrible screeching noise, but never disrupting the jagged teeth of the fjord’s maw. 

Entering the belly of the beast, the waves die back and the wind stops howling. Within the fjord, the hermits and their ship are protected from the elements by the mountains surrounding. The tide pushes them further in, silent as the snow that drifts to the wooden deck. The hermits are slow to recover from the sea, but no one dares think about the fact they’ll probably have to leave the same way. “I can see why the Ancient Ones chose this place.” Doc states. “It’s so well protected. No one in their right mind would sail through that.” 

“Actually this place wasn’t always as frozen as it is now. The harsh cold probably occurred around the same time the magical mist in the lower Ashioll sea appeared.” Sor points out. “According to my studies with my brother, this place was quite lush.” 

“Do you think it had something to do with why the Ancient Ones disappeared? Or did the Ancient Ones cause it, King Sormena?” xB questions, flicking his fins to rid the ice from the scaly appendages. 

“Please, just call me Sor.” The king smiles weakly. “But I’m not sure. We don’t know why, how, or even when exactly the Ancient Ones disappeared. It’s an unfortunate gap in our history I hope this expedition will help fill.” 

“But I don’t even see a city!” Iskall points out. The hermits look across the rocky shoreline, but only find trees and boulders. No sign of the carved buildings and stone aqueducts that the Ancient Ones were known for. Were they in the wrong fjord? Everything looked undisturbed, pristine wild forests. Everything looked normal. 

Except for a crystal, sitting in the center of the water, peeking out from the surface and resting on a stone platform. Every hermit’s hairs stand on end at the sight of a crystal- and some even draw weapons and circles in preparation for destroying one of Dolios’s corrupted gems. But as they dare to sail closer, slow and with bated breath, they realize the gem is blue rather than black. Glowing faintly, rather than absorbing all the light. Cleo’s ship bumps against the stone platform, floating on the freezing fjord, but the platform doesn't move. 

Grian is the first to escape the rocking vessel, praising Stratis for being freed. Basking on the solid rock in the center of the water. Stress, False, and Ren help tie Cleo’s ship to the stone dock while TFC eeks closer. His curiosity gets the better of him, and almost like a child, he can’t help but reach out and touch. The rest of the guild, except Sor, flinch. Preparing for some sort of dark magic attack, or for the crystal to take over TFC like it did so long ago. 

But nothing happens. The only shift in the fog around them is from the wind, only the creaking of Cleo’s ship speaking into the silent air. Bolstered by the reactionless crystal, TFC raps his knuckle against the blue, glowing stone. Gazes deep into its luminescent core. Even licks it. “I think it’s chalcanthite. But what use would a crystal like that have out here?” 

“What are its properties, T?” Ren questions, circumambulating the stone. 

“Uh, give me a minute. This is a pretty unusual gem, and this old mind isn’t what it used to be.” The dwarven wizard rubs his temples, massaging the information to bubble to the surface. “It...it deals in time, removing obstacles within time by…” 

TFC goes quiet, staring out at the waters. The surface is calm, but its nearly opaque as he attempts to search the murky waters. What is hiding beneath the waves, disappearing beneath as time eroded it away? TFC’s thoughts are running a mile a minute, piecing together all the information presented before him like a puzzle. Creating a story in his head. 

So lost in the gemstone and history, he doesn’t hear Xisuma call for him to return to the present. Not until X shakes the guildmaster, bringing him back. “What does it do, TFC?” 

“Chalcanthite deals in time, the shift from present to past.” TFC continues to ramble, trying to piece together everything in his mind. But explaining time travel through magical crystals is hard, and then adding on the history of the Ancient ones? 

Most of the other hermits aren’t listening. Some are bouncing in place, trying anything and everything to stay warm, while others are talking through chattered teeth. Including Grian, and King Sor. 

“Why in the world did your guildmaster lick the gem?” Sor questions, shaking his head. His frozen locks of hair tickle at the base of his neck. 

Grian shrugs in response, summoning his wings and fluffing his feathers in an attempt to gain warmth. Blue and white ruffled in a cocoon. “Hey, King Sormena. I dare you to hit the stone.” 

“Please, for the love of the gods, just Sor is fine. And why on earth would I do that?” What did the crystal ever do to deserve being hit? Grian’s only response is another shrug, this time matched with a mumbling series of noises. 

“Cause why not? Do it, Sor, I dare ya.” If it wasn’t for Sor getting to hear just his name, his nickname, fall from Grian’s lips, so casual and friendly, but he’s been conditioned by his brother never to say no to a dare.

Sor walks up behind X and TFC, the former much more confused than the latter, and gazes into the crystal. SOmething about the power within it, so strong and ancient, tugs on Sor’s own magic. Not like it’s trying to steal it, but rather- amplifying it. Strengthening him. Sor breaks out of his trance at the whispered encouragement, the egging on of Grian. 

Before Sor, or any other hermit can think about what he’s doing, he smacks the crystal with the palm of his hand. 

Despite being king, Sor is just about as clever as all the other hermits. He probably shouldn’t have hit the gem so hard his hand stings and goes numb, much less make the ringing sound he can hear in his ears. 

It’s not just in Sor’s ears. The low toll can be heard, slowly rising higher in pitch. It echoes across the fjord, silencing the wind, the creaking ship. Freezing everything for one brief second as the crystal glows brighter. 

The blue gem pulses, and rippling from the lattice, a bubble of light engulfs the hermits, the stone circle, the ship, and the entire fjord. Too bright, the hermits are all forced to avert their gaze, closing their eyes and praying for the chance to open them again. No one dares to attempt until the ringing has disappeared, fading off into the mountains and distant snowstorm

Grian, used to the idea of potentially waking up dead at this point, opens his eyes first. 

They aren’t alone in an empty fjord, freezing to death. There is no snowstorm, and the entire fjord is filled- not with ice floes or soft waves. 

No, it’s filled with a city. 

Stone buildings, floating on the water like driftwood, so tall they challenge the mountains to touch the top of the world. Vines, carefully tended, creep down the building sides, and people- hundreds of thousands of people- take stairs, vines, water tunnels- just about any and every mode of transportation to get around the city. The stone and the greenery are one and the same, the people just as alive as their own buildings and streets seem to be. A group of children run by, kipling and naga and human and bacca, laughing and screaming as they play some kind of game within their own imagination. A few people watch the hermits as they stand there, just as confused as the team. 

TFC is so deep in his explanation to Xisuma, he doesn’t even notice time has already shifted around him. At least, not until a leaf flutters past, bright green and broad. Not any of the pines that they saw daring to grow in the rough terrain and even rougher weather. Both X and TFC watch the leaf drift between them, before landing on a roadway a short distance off. Revealing to them where they are. When they are. 

But it’s not just that Mumbo is from the city. He also knows his best friend's brain will turn his memories, his thoughts, his actions against him. It couldn’t have been any other hermit, one that wasn’t so insecure about their position among the guild, their ability to be a mage. It had to be Mumbo, the newest, the most fearful. It attacked him knowing he saw himself as the weakest link. And it made him believe it, see it. 

“We have to go after that spoon.” Grian states, standing. He wobbles like a newborn shleep, falling to his knees. 

“Hold up, Grian. You literally just had 300 million volts use your body as a lightning rod, I know you’re the guild healer and all but you can’t go running after him.” Cleo holds him down, keeping him from trying to run off into the woods. “Grian stop! You can’t run off on your own, or the Hangman’s Playground will turn your thoughts against you. We’ll go together.” 

“How will we even know where he’s gone?” Keralis questions, reaching out to pet a shleep that had wandered into the clearing. The second the bug mage’s fingers sink into the galactic wool, red bolts of static zap him with a yelp. 

“I think he went that way.” BDubs points, seeing other shleep going to the east, static bolts of red energy dancing between swirls of starry fur. Zed is positively delighted to have the company of the shleep in the terrifying forest, and he makes sure to keep the ruminants spirits high to help with the sanity of the rest of the group. 

Iskall helps Grian to his feet, letting the angelic being rest lean on his shoulder, his friend stumbling along with the group. Joe casts a spell which enchants a compass that Wels had, pointing the direction of Mumbo. Though the poem rhyming ass with compass was a bit much. 

The longer they spend within the Forest of Memories, the longer it’s effects linger and worm their way through their defenses. Stress’s amulet shatters, breaking in a burst of darkness. Immediately, the memories of her life before the hermits flood back in. She ignores the laughter, the empty parties and emptier people, running forward and grabbing another amulet to protect herself. They’re all fighting off their own demons, but the knowledge that Mumbo may be fighting his alone keeps them moving forward. 

Ren tips his head up, sniffing the air and wagging his tail. “I smell a change in the air, I think we’re close.” 

“You can’t possibly smell Mumbo, he’s not that stinky.” Iskall jeers, pushing a copse of brambles out of the way. 

“It’s not Mumbo I smell- it’s his magic. It smells like ozone.” Ren disappears through the green foliage, though his tail gets stuck on the way out. He yanks it free a few times. 

“Why would magic smell like oz-” Iskall’s cut off when he gets his answer. A bolt of lightning burns the grass at his feet, red lightning branching and crackling through the sky. 

Grian let’s go of Iskall, stumbling forward. “Mumbo…” 

Hovering in the air, surrounded by bolts of lightning striking at random intervals and places, the multi-mage is lost within his own magic. A power surge, fully realized, and well beyond Mumbo’s control. He was alone, with no one to calm his fears, to help him reign in his magic. Mumbo’s eyes are open, though glowing and crackling with energy. His arms hang limp, his feet at least a meter off the ground. 

Mumbo’s in a power surge. TFC tries to step closer, but with every forward step any hermit takes, they’re forced to retreat two lest they be struck down like Grian was. He’s not even conscious enough to realize what he’s doing. And the surge is getting stronger. Lightning begins to burn the trees around them, setting the wood on fire. The shleep that were following Zed scatter, their wool turning a misty black. 

“He’s going to destroy everything!” Beef warns, jumping back and stomping out a fire started by the lightning. 

“He’s going to destroy himself!” Xisuma adds. “But how in the world are we going to get close enough to talk him down?” 

Iskall and Grian look at one another. They’re Mumbo’s best friends, if there’s anyone that could bring him back to reality, it’s Iskall and Grian. The architechs. Iskall casts his magic, his own radioactive iskallium negates the energy of Mumbo’s magic, and Grian wraps his arms around Iskall and flutters into the air, within shouting distance of Mumbo. He struggles with his wounds, but refuses to drop Iskall. At least, not this time. “Mumbo? Mumbo!” 

Grian’s shouts fall on deaf ears, the hollow form of Mumbo possessed only by magic. Iskall and Grian look at one another, then back at Mumbo. “Mumbo, look! Grian’s fine, it’s not the worst wound he’s ever gotten, you know that!” 

“Mumbo, I know you think we don’t want you.” Grian ducks, his hair standing on end as a bolt of lightning nearly hits him again. “But that’s not true! You’re a part of this family, you’re a hermit! We aren’t like other guilds, we aren’t like your parents were. I asked you to join us because you were fun, and unique, and different. That’s what this guild is for.” 

“You’re so strong Mumbo, because no matter how many times things don’t seem to work out, or your magic is just out of reach, you still keep trying! We all admire how no matter what happens, you still get right back up and try again. I mean, Grian and I have mega thrashed you before, and you just stand up and go for it again!” Iskall notices Mumbo’s eyes blink, and the loud roar of cracking lightning and thunderous roars begin to deafen. 

“Yeah, Mumbo we know you’re strong! You’ve beaten us before, and we’re two S-class mages! But we also understand your struggle. We see how hard you work.” Grian floats toward the ground, following as Mumbo’s feet touch down on the grass. Iskall kneels beside Mumbo, Grian wrapping his wings to coo and comfort all three. “Mumbo, we want you around. You are a hermit and you are a part of this family.” 

“You aren’t our weakest link, man. You’re our best friend.” Iskall breathes. He watches Mumbo blink once, then twice, and on the third time they can see his grey eyes once again. The last of the lightning fades away, Mumbo collapsing into his friends’ arms. 

“I’m so sorry, I hurt you.” Mumbo whimpers, turning his head. Embarrassed to look at Grian. He hurt his best friend. He could’ve killed all the others. 

“You know me, Mumbo.” Grian chuckles. “Nothing can keep me down for long.”

The other hermits join the architechs on the ground, reminding Mumbo how much he means to them. How he’s made their lives better, brighter, more fun. 

And the Forest of Memories can’t hurt them. 

The dark shadows lurking in the foliage instead show the dappled light of the sun through the trees. Rather than focusing on the negative, they see the light. Sunshine burns away the voices of those who wish to tear each hermit down. Doubtful family members, cruel guildmasters, even the voice of Magistrate Dolios himself is eradicated by the group’s sentimentality of each other. 

Instead, the Forest begins to play the best moments of their times together. Mumbo and Grian meeting, Team ZIT meeting TFC on the side of a road, the day Cleo beached her ship on an island that should never exist. Days spent basking in the sun, too hot to train, playing on the beach and in the waters of the Ashioll sea. Cheering on and betting during duels, but always there for both the winner and the loser. Training feeling more like play with the hermits, dinners are bright and happy even in the dark, the island flourishing with life during festivals as the hermits grow excited. Even when it rains, they can be the happiest days on the island. Huddling close to warm fires with mugs of cider, blankets wrapping around friends. Playing in the puddles, dancing in the rain, enjoying every second of their lives. 

“But we don’t even know where Dolios took him. He could be anywhere in Lairyon, or even beyond. Without any way to know his whereabouts, we’re searching for a feather in a forest.” Cub shakes his head. If he knew where Grian was, they could easily portal there and mount their rescue attempt. But they don't know. They have no clue where he is, or what Dolios is doing to him, or why he targeted Grian in the first place. For all they know, Grian could be dead. They could already be too late. 

Mumbo’s lips quiver, pressing into a thin white line. He fights back the fear, the pain, the anger, every emotion welling up inside of him. Abruptly, he stands, so fast he knocks his chair backwards. “We aren’t just going to sit here and do nothing though. Searching is something, rather than just sitting on our asses and letting Dolios have Grian!” 

The anger in Mumbo’s voice surprises his fellow hermits, even Wels raising an eyebrow and leaning against the metal of his backplate at the outburst. He’s neer seen Mumbo so passionate, so sure. In fact, he can even see motes of redstone dancing in the air around him, like dust after cleaning the house. “Well, we can always ask our informants, ask townsfolk if they've seen Dolios around. But...who knows how long that could take.” 

“Running around like cockatrices with our heads cut off won’t do anything to help either.” False adds on, tapping her fingers against the aged wood of the table. “We have to be rational.” 

The silence returns, except for the measured steps of Mumbo pacing the floor. Even though Grian was the one captured, the rest of the hermits can't help but feel trapped. Unable to move forward, but the idea of being stagnant even worse. He has their queen, and now they’re in check.

TFC stands, opening his mouth and raising a finger. Any words that come from him are drowned out, however, by the heavy crash of a rogue wave against the island’s shore. The seawater splashes all the way to the guild hall, like rain falling upon the dining tables and hermits. Seaweed drapes across the sand and rock. But it’s not the only thing that has washed ashore. A low groan alerts the guild of their visitor, as the kipling slowly shifts to his knees. 

Apatia’s chest heaves, his face flushed pink and lips part with each gasping breath. He attempts to stand, but his legs give out from under him at the first step forward. xB catches him with a wave of water, keeping him from collapsing to the ground. 

“What is this guy doing here?” Doc growls, face jeering at the sight of the guildmaster. Ren, Iskall, and Cub, on the other hand, dare to press closer to the leader of Dream’s End. Ren and Iskall both wrap and arm around Apatia, attempting to guide him to the infirmary- even though they’ve lost their healer. 

But Apatia bats away their attempt to help. He collapses to his hands and knees, long, straight navy hair falling across a determined maroon gaze. “He’s got him, the winged guy. He took him to the dungeons.” 

“Of course! Why didn’t we think to go there immediately?” Cleo questions, though she shivers at the memory of being in there. That horrible game Dolios played with their lives. 

Apatia shakes his head. “Below even that. If you think you know every one of Dolios’s secrets, there will always be another beneath it.” 

“We have to go now, we have to rescue Grian.” Mumbo starts for the shoreline, despite having no way to cross the sea, and Xisuma grabs Mumbo by the scruff before his feet meet the sand. 

“Lets hold on, think this through. And Listen to what Councillor Apatia has to say.” Xisuma hums. 

“Why should we trust him though?” Tango growls, his hair burning bright and hot, spooking the visitor. “He knows where we live, he could just be luring us into a trap. And Grian’s the bait.” 

“I trust him.” Cub states, his voice low and calm. Always calm. “He knocked out Dolios when he was trying to kill Flaryn. He saved us,the wanderers, and the Dragon of the East.” 

“But why now?” Tango questions, eyeing the kipling as he sits down in the guild hall. Exhausted, on the verge of passing out. It looks like he’s never swam this far in his life. Would the laziest man alive really swim all this way for a trick? “Why, after Dolios did so much, did he decide to grow a spine now?” 

Drowsy eyes are lidded closed, and for a second all the hermits stare in disbelief. Did Apatia really just fall asleep? Sitting up, in the middle of the guild hall, when every second is a second longer with Grian captured? But he snores just a little bit, and Hypno can even feel the inkling beginning of a dream forming beneath the mop of long blue hair. 

Tango’s had enough. He slams his hands down on the table, spilling metal mugs and sending tableware clattering. “All the times before, and you let Dolios get away with it. Sending us to our doom in Gildara, attacking a healer’s guild, stealing magic from competitors in the most important game to Lairyon, using us like pawns in a sick game of chess, and murdering so many guilds? Killing our first guild?” 

Tango waves to Zed and Impulse, who sulk while Tango burns with fury. Apatia waits until Tango has let off his steam. He may be lazy, but that also breeds patience. “I have let horrible things slip by, my own sloth letting Dolios and the other councilmembers do horrible things. I know that. I have no excuse for my action- or lack thereof- from before. 

“But when I saw your guild willing to risk anything to save that one-” He points to Doc, who sneers back. “-I realized that there is one thing worth making an effort for, one thing to get up and do something about. To have a family like you all are, to protect and care and fight for one another, that’s what’s worth standing up, fighting back. And when I saw what you would go through to save him, I knew what Dolios is doing is wrong.” 

Silence. Apatia lowers his head, twiddling his thumbs. The hermits observe him, some with sympathy and understanding, others still wary of their enemy at their doorstep. Furious to have a councilmember sitting among them. He takes another deep breath. “I'm tired of sitting by. I can’t fix what I did before, but i can start on the right track now. And we don’t have much time until Dolios has stolen Grian’s power.” 

“He’s turning him into a husk?” Stress gasps, her voice and hand shaking as she covers her lips. The thought of such a bright, happy person reduced to a flaking grey crust is horrible. 

Apatia shakes his head. “No, it's worse. He’s taking his magic for himself. It’s a much more cruel process, to sap the life force and magic from a person and use it for himself. It's also much slower. We don’t have much time, but Grian should still be alive.” 

“How do we stop it? What should we do?” Iskall posits. 

Apatia goes quiet, and for a second the hermits think he’s fallen asleep again. But after a minute, he responds. “I can get you into Milliara, even into the dungeons. While you all are down there, I can even hold off the arcane guard. But if you want any hope of saving Grian, not losing him to Dolios, you’ll have to sever the connection between him and the crystals that are transferring his magic to Dolios. And I don’t think Dolios will let you guys do that without a fight.” 

“We’ll need every hermit then. With Apatia’s help, we can sneak back into the death dungeons, but once we’re there, it’s going to be a fight not just for Grian’s life, but all of ours.”  No hermit dared consider not saving Grian. They’re a family, and no one in this family is left behind. They always stick together. 

The hermits and Apatia make their plan. With the aid of xB, Ren, Scar, and Apatia, they would swim to the mainland on the crest of a tidal wave, as fast as they could possibly go. They’d make quick work across the countryside in any way they possibly can. Apatia would bring them through Milliara by using the canals that flow through the city, bypassing the guards and bringing them right to the capitol’s doorstep. Putting the guards to sleep and Apatia’s knowledge of the secret entrance to the forgotten dungeons, it will then be up to the hermits to find the subchamber. And from there, depending on the severity of Grian’s suffering, they will attack.

TFC and Apatia lead the charge, off the island. Even though some hermits still despise Apatia, they’ll do anything for their family. Even working with the enemy And so they leave Eremita, hellbent on one thing- 

As soon as Cub opens a portal, the wanderers are the first through. Following them is Iskall, already brandishing a spear of iskallium. Ren volunteers as well, offering up his dynamic, versatile magic. Three hermits, plus the three wanderers, set off through the portal, from the dark wooden bookstore to the verdant evergreen forests around the eastern fjords. Arriving beneath the pine canopy, someone was already waiting for them. 

“I got your message,” The long, ebony black haired sorceress reaches out, taking hold of Red’s hands and holding him close. Prolonged, pointy ears rise from the black curls like rocks from the sea, and deep purple eyes gaze upon the small group. “What’s going on?” 

“I don’t know, Selene.” Avon growls, brushing past everyone present. Her eyes wander across the tall mountains, covered in snow as they slope to the waters below. “Things just feel...disturbed. Out of balance, like a rockfall about to collapse.” 

“You called your master Flaryn, correct?” Cub questions, boots crunching heavy in the snow. Ren realizes he’s wearing sandals, and uses his imagination magic to conjure up a pair of boots. “You don’t mean to tell us that the dragon you learned your magic from is a dragon spirit? Flaryn, dragon of the east, guardian of balance, master of flame?” 

“Why does a dragon need that many surnames?” Iskall huffs. Cub’s eyes only widen when Avon gives a curt nod. Cub has gotten used to his fellow hermits being from incredible or strange backgrounds, but to master a magic from the very spirits that aid the gods? 

“Well, go big or go home, I guess.” Cub chuckles. “So...if something really is wrong, why don’t we go to Flaryn’s roost and check for ourselves?” 

“Because Flaryn lives at the top of that mountain,” Selene, now carrying Red through the snow as tall as the kipling, interjects. “And that isn’t just a mountain. That’s a fucking active volcano.” 

As if to prove her point, a low growl escapes the peak of the mountain, and smoke roils free like the maws of a dragon. And within the smoke, a massive shadow, wings outstretched, appears. Bigger than Avon’s dragon form, so big that even this far away the hermits can tell it’s great size. This was a dragon above dragons, a beast that could bend nature to it’s whim. 

And it was under attack. The dragon banks hard within the smoke, dancing with embers and tendrils of flames as lava erupts from the mountain peak. From the bottom of the mountain, the hermits can’t tell who is attacking, though they can make an educated guess on who would possibly have that much hubris to take on a messenger of the gods. 

If it wasn’t Dolios, then surely it was one of his council members. A roar shakes the ground at their feet, sending snow tumbling from trees. Selene uses her magic to create a shield, brushing aside the snow like it was little more than a gnat. Shield magic must be her power. Avon takes point, guiding the team up the mountain to the peak. Where she learned to control her magic.  A battle continues at the caldera, fire blazing from the mouth of Flaryn and strikes of magic shooting from the ground. 

A wayward breath of fire misses the combatant, orange flame burning down the mountain. Barreling for the team. Avon opens her wings to block the flame, but is little more than raising a hand to stop an avalanche. Iskall squeezes his eyes closed and waits to be burnt to a crisp by the superhot flame. 

It never comes. He waits a second longer, still braced and prepared for death. Still nothing. Iskall dares to open his eye, about to ask where his untimely death has gone. He finds it, instead, under the control of Selene. She’s ensnared the fire, dancing with the stream like it was little more than a ribbon of silk. When she’s gained full control of the flame, she turns it back up the mountain, aimed directly at the distance figure they’re approaching. 

Iskall blinks, stunned and confused. “I thought you were a shield wizard. Are you a multi-mage as well?” 

Avon doesn’t stop, leaving the others to follow. “I’m not a multi-mage, but I can do multiple forms of magic.” 

“How so?” That’s impossible. Most wizards only have one form of magic, as unique as their personalities. Multi-mages were an exception, as if the gods themselves couldn’t decide what magic the wizard would excel with. 

“Ever heard of a learned mage?” Red questions, falling into the snow and clambering through. It’s as high as his chest. When all three hermits shake their heads, he continues. “Learned wizards are born without magic, but with enough time and dedicated study are able to gain the understanding of powers and use it themselves.” 

“I had no innate magic. But I didn’t let that stop me. I’ve since learned more than twenty varieties of magic, and can perform them as well as wizards born with it.” Selene looks over her shoulder, a coy grin appearing on her face when she sees the stunned expression on the hermits’.  

Ren opens his mouth to ask a question, but the words that rise from his throat are lost to the wind, the thunder of the dragon above. It wasn’t an angered roar, not like those before, when Flaryn fought the intruder. Rather, it was more of a cry, higher pitched, sharper. Grating against their ears. Alarmed, Avon takes off, leaving the rest behind to join her mentor in the sky. Her trident is already in hand, flame erupting in a blossom of purple.

The distant figure turns, curly brown hair falling across his blue capelet, a scowl creasing the charismatic expression. “And i thought you’d be too busy handling your criminal friend to get in my way.” Dolios sneers. He attempts to blast Avon out of the sky, but the draconic mage dodges in the nick of time. “You flying lizards have always been such a pain, but imagine the honor of being the person to slay a dragon spirit.” 

“You’ll have to go through us first.” Avon hisses, then attacks. Dolios casts his wisping magic circle, corrupted by his dark magic. Just as unstable as the man that controls it. A heavy wind picks up, snapping the tops off trees and tossing Avon aside like she was little more than a leaf. With her out of the way, Dolios turns back to Flaryn. Another circle, this time summoning a swarm of wasps. The mottled monstrosities swarm the dragon, stinging and paralyzing the spirit. Forcing Flayrn to land as wings become overwhelmingly heavy. 

Iskall lets out a war cry, and plows through the deep snow, to the peak of the mountain. He shoves his shoulder, all his weight into Dolios. The two both go sprawling against the ground. Iskall can feel the heat of the erupting volcano, burning at his cheeks in waves of intense heat. 

“I think it’s time for you to meet your doom, you mega bastard.” Iskall growls, wrestling the magistrate. Dolios isn’t very strong, it turns out, all his attention focused on keeping Iskall from throwing him into the lake of lava. 

“Do you know any other adjectives except ‘mega’ and ‘doom’, or are you just too dense to learn a thesaurus?” Dolios hums. His words spark an angry fire in Iskall, frenzying him. 

Exactly how Dolios wanted it. With a swift repertoire of hand movements, Dolios casts his dark magic, and grabs hold of Iskall’s arm. Fingernails puncture under Iskall’s pale, exposed skin. Like venom from a wyrmbite, poison seeps under his skin, sending Iskall writhing backwards in pain. 

Red catches Iskall before he falls all the way down the volcano, while Selene casts not one, or two, but three different spells at once. Despite the uncertain predicament Dolios finds himself in, he’s more interested in the magic that’s trapped him rather than the fight. Through all of this, his nonchalant, charismatic smile never leaves, and never fails to infuriate the hermits. “It seems we have something in common here. Though one of us definitely chose the harder route.” 

“We are nothing alike, you asshole.” Selene hisses, reeling back and casting her magic. In the split second between the spell being summoned and taking effect, Dolios uses his own spell.. A concussive blast, just like he used in the chess match so long ago, sending the hermits and wanderers tumbling down through the snow. The mountain rumbles, snow shifting and threatening to collapse into an avalanche. To sweet away the rescue team.

“Well, at least now I have an audience to witness the beginning of a new sport.” Dolios rights himself, brushing the snow from his robes and turning back to the wasp covered, incapacitated dragon. “Dragons are so dangerous, only the strongest, bravest mages would dare slay a dragon. Think of the honor to be in such an exclusive group.” 

“Fucker!” Avon shouts, launching herself free from the snow, unleashing every once of her magic, as well as her trident, against Dolios. But he bats it away, and grabs the draconic mage from midair, hands wrapped around a wing and tipping her towards the explosive volcano below. 

“Well, if none of you are going to be a gracious audience, why not become willing participants as well? I may not have gotten the joy of seeing that criminal burn before my eyes. But I will relish in wiping you all from existence, right alongside this monster.” Dolios’s gaze turns wild, frenzied as he raises an arm. The sleeve of his robes falls back, wine red fabric and trimmed gold seams fleeing from the swirling black mist. The power of his dark magic grows stronger, more violent. Even from this far away, the hermits can feel the deadly, life draining energy that he harnesses. 

Dolios lines up the shot, so that every last hermit, every single wanderer, and eastern fire dragon is in the line of fire. A maniacal smile grows on his face, thirst for death and the feeling of pure control and power overwhelming him. The angled fingers turn, ready to snap together and release enough dark magic to destroy every living being in the line of fire. His thumb rests on his middle finger, pressing down. 

Then his eyes roll backwards, hand and body falling limp into the melting snow. None of the hermits, the wanderers, even Flaryn breathe for a second, realizing that Dolios is passed out. Not dead, unfortunately. But how? Did he overexert his dark magic? 

Another person is on the crest of the volcano. Long blue hair, straight and flat as if it had been slept on. Mostly because it was. Tired, bored eyes sparked with a hint of determination, and finned ears flick aside the pyroclastic ash from the eruption. His chest rises and falls, body exhausted from overusing his magic. 

“You don’t have much time.” Apatia breathes, body slumped. About to pass out as well. “I did as much as I could to keep him knocked out as long as possible, but his mgic took the brunt of my own. You leave, I’ll make sure the dragon spirit is okay.” 

The councilmember steps forward, offering a hand to the hermits. Ecto recoils, preferring to sink deeper into the snow she hates than be anywhere near Apatia. “Why should we trust you? You’re a part of his crony gang. You’ve been letting him, helping him do horrible things!” 

Apatia’s shoulders slump, and he looks as exhausted mentally as he is physically. “I don’t have time to explain everything. He’s going to wake up soon, and he won't fall for that trick again. Let’s just say I… I’m tired of just letting bad things happen to good people.” 

Red’s the first up, the two kiplings looking at one another. Apatia offers a soft nod, some unspoken conversation between the two. Avon does her best to ease the pain and help her mentor from the wasp attack, while Cub opens a portal. 

“Can’t we just drop him into the volcano?” Ren questions. “This could finally all be over.” 

“It won’t stop his work, not with Eurynomos in the forest. Waiting.” The hermits glance at one another. Eurynomos. Is that the name of the beast they found? “Just...send him back to Milliara. We can’t have people wondering what’s happened to their beloved magistrate as well.”

“Just one stab?” Avon questions, still furious he called her a monster. “He deserves more than what we’re letting him off with.”

To Cub’s chagrin, he knows that Apatia is right. As much as he’d love to finish Dolios off now, to get this over with, nothing is ever that easy. Once Dolios is gone, there team of rescuers step through their own portal. The wanderers first, and the hermits following after. 

“Maybe if you weren't’ such a spoon and wake up this wouldn’t happen. Iskall and I heard something. It was getting closer, so he went to look.” Grian chuckles, and can’t help but give Mumbo another scare. He lets go of the multi-mage, but only for a second. Less than that, before he grabs hold of Mumbo by the pits. His cackle is only as loud as Mumbo’s scream, and they both return to the ground. 

The nice, safe, hard ground. Mumbo is still trying to reclaim his heartbeat, though the sound of lightning crashing nearby does little to help. A second later, Iskall runs from the brush of the forest. “It’s a husk, a nue.” 

As if in response to Iskall’s words, an eerie cry bounces off the bark and through the canopy. All three architechs are attracted to the bonechilling noise, the magic of the beast calling them closer. “We have to find it- there has to to be a reason a husk would be here.” Grian states, picking up the pace, following the noise through the forest. Leading him deeper. “Maybe there’s a crystal, or something that Dolios is doing here.” 

Iskall chases after Grian, after the noise, and Mumbo stumbles after them, taking up the rear. Sometimes he catches just a glimpse of the beast, the grey and black stripes or the snake tail passing between brambles and bushes. He can’t stop himself from following the beast, the whimpering cry luring them all deeper and deeper into the woods.Until the trees part, and the moonless sky opens up. 

And sitting in the center of the clearing, an enormous, ebony gem eeks it’s black tendrils into the verdant grass. Iskall peers into the darkness, noting how little the crystal has spread the dark magic. “It’s brand new. It was just placed here.” 

“Perhaps the nue was it’s first victim.” Mumbo shakes his head. 

“Or it was sent with the crystal to protect it as it made root.” Grian adds, stepping forward. His wings ruffle, the feeling of being watched a second too late. 

“Neither, as a matter of fact. It was purely to lure you in.” His voice is so clear, so crisp, running ice down their spines. They turn, eyes settling on Magistrate Dolios and his charismatic, calm smile. He’s sitting on a rock, resting against the boulder like it’s a throne, cheek pressed against the palm of his hand and legs crossed. He almost looks bored, would it not be for the easy smile, the hunger in his eyes. The nue appears beside the magistrate, smoke and ash billowing from the fragmented figure. Dolios reaches out, fingers running from the glowing white eyes of the monkey head, running down the spine, before twisting the cobra tail between his fingers. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? A fresh crystal, ready to gather as much magic as it can hold.”

Iskal summons his magic, iskallium energy ricocheting up his arm as he stands ready for battle. “I’m going to destroy that crystal. Then, we’ll destroy you.” 

Dolios’s smile never fades, even as he shakes his head. “You never stop, do you? These past few weeks, you and your band of heathens have been going all over Lairyon, destroying all my hard work. These crystals are important to me, you know. I can’t just replace every last one in the blink of an eye. It takes time.” Dolios stands, striding past the three. The purple fabric of his robes dance along the grass, sauntering to stand before the crystal. “But I’m quite proud of this one. It took me weeks, and you get the honor of being the first people to see it work.” 

Mist swirls from the stone, then strikes out. Like whips, they bend around their master, who continues to smile with his hands tucked behind his back. Grian bowls to the side, knocking Mumbo out of the way before the magic can take hold. Iskall lets loose the ball of energy, sending it flying into the mist. Dispersing it, and crashing into the crystal. Another attack, this time with Grian warding off the magic. In a heavy beat of his wings, slashing the air with wind, he skips above Dolios and the gem, flanking him from the side. 

Dolios shakes his head, not focused on Grian or Iskall. His eyes remain trained on Mumbo, who’s  struggling just to summon his magic. “So much magic, wasted in such a pathetic form. You don’t even know what to do with it all. I don’t need your magic- just the power.” He looks over his shoulder, stepping aside when another sheer wind threatens to even ruin his hair. “The angel, on the other hand. What I wouldn't give for his magic in my repertoire.” 

“You’re no  multi-mage!” Iskall shouts, throwing a rod of iskallium at Dolios’s feet. Giving Mumbo a second to flee, to focus on his magic. “You’re just a mega thief of doom!” 

“Quite the hyperbolic speech, young man.” Dolios snickers, grabbing Iskall by the arm with nothing more than his mind. No matter how hard iskall fights, he can’t get free. “An S-Class of your caliber is quite enticing as well. This whole team you’ve got is stronger than most of those idiots that call themselves the Council.” 

Iskall continues to fight for his freedom, while Grian is battling off the mist that threatens to engulf his friend. Dolios is so focused on capturing Grian, on draining Iskall’s lifeforce that he’s completely ignored Mumbo. Why would he bother? Mumbo can’t even summon his magic at will. 

But if there’s one way to bring Mumbo’s powers to fruition, it’s hurt his friends. Black mist squeezes past the winds that flow from Grian’s wings, striking through Iskall like an arrow through the chest. Iskall stumbles, skin growing grey and pale, flaky. He continues to fight through the pain, despite his strength being sapped. 

Mumbo’s shaking hands go through the motions of summoning his magic. Palms out, coming together and fingers blooming like a flower- or a redstone circuit. Driving his magic from within, organizing it in a way he can control, until the circle glows bright and lightning appears in his hands. 

No one hurts Mumbo’s friends. He gives Dolios a taste of his own medicine, sending the bolt of lightning straight into his chest. Dolios stumbles backwards. Red appears beneath the blue capelet, burn marks and blood crawling from the magistrate’s neck. He turns, eyes boring into Mumbo’s soul, and for a second Mumbo worries if Dolios can drain his power just by looking at him- like a gorgon or something. Dolios only chuckles, brushing his hand and waving the mist away. “I knew it was in there somewhere. You’re just too weak and naive to find true power. Unlike me.” Dolios summons his circle, dark magic coursing through each skittering line and curve. “Don’t make me waste my time on you, I still have to steal the angel’s magic. Just become a good, useful husk alongside your fri-” 

The sound of cracking silences Dolios. The magic circle disappears, the magistrate whipping his curly ponytail around to see what is going on behind him. 

He was so busy berating Mumbo, he didn’t notice Grian and Iskall. Despite Iskall’s weakened state, looking almost husklike, the two S-Class wizards pool together their magic, and launch it into the iskallium spike thrust into the core of the gem. 

It shatters to pieces, fragments raining down over Mumbo and Dolios. The dark magic fizzles and dies, the energy stored in the gem returning to the earth. Where it belongs, rather than trapped in Dolios’s machinations. 

But with each crystal fading back to it’s milky quartz color, the magistrate’s eyes grow darker. An anger fills his eyes, turning his smile into a sneer, lips curling and bearing perfect white teeth. Iskall laughs, whooping and dancing. He already feels so much better, the rosy color returning to his cheeks and the brown of his beard flourishing. “Take that, creep!”

Dolios stares at the broken crystal, then drags his gaze to the architechs. “Do you know how long that took me to corrupt? And you two cretins destroy it on it’s maiden voyage?” He chuckles and closes his eyes. Sts a hand against the sun-shaped clasp at his throat. “I’ll admit, there’s more power in you than I thought, Iskall. Your strength would have been so filling for me and my creation, you’d make such a good husk. Shame I have to kill you now.” 

His eyes snap open, the hungry fervor for blood filling the ambered blue eyes. A predator stalking it’s prey, cornering it for the final blow. His smile holds no joy, none of the calm, charming light it masked the monster with. Now it was a cold snarl, teeth baring for his quarry.

Without a snap or a wave of his hand, Dolios’s circle appears and is cast. Power surges around the magistrate. He crosses the length of the clearing in two long strides. Grabbing Iskall by the collar and pinning him against a tree. “Why don’t you just hang awhile, Iskall?” 

Dolios steps back, a branch has grown through Iskall. Bloodsoaked leaves and wood snagged through clothes. Iskall no longer struggles. He no longer spits curses or taunts. His head is limp, eyes closed. 

Horror is written across Mumbo and Grian’s face. They knew Dolios was a murderer, a monster that was leading all of Lairyon behind a veil of prosperity, but to see it in action…

And he wasn’t done. He turns, and advances towards Mumbo. Grian tries to stop him, blowing gale force wind, but Dolios raises his hand. The blades of grass grow, forming a wall between him and Grian. Not even the feather shaped throwing knives could penetrate the greenery. 

A scream echoes the clearing.

Then the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. From behind the grassy screen, Dolios steps over a limp hand, redstone mixed with blood. The grass shrivels and dies, revealing Mumbo’s body. Despite the blood on his throat, Mumbo’s mustache was still perfectly combed. “Mumbo?” Grian whimpers, “Mumbo wake up.”

A weak whimper escapes Grian, forced to stare at his two best friends dead before him. And him- the guild healer- was unable to stop it. Grian’s vision turns red and purple. Dolios digs his shoes into Grian’s gut, sending him sprawling across the ground. “Now that they’re cared for, let’s get onto more important matters.” 

“I’ll cut you down!” Grian shouts, rising to his feet. Not a thought in his head, singularly focused on one thing- avenge his fallen brethren. One moment, Grian is halfway across the clearing. The next, his fist is colliding with Dolios, the force of a hurricane behind him. As his hand collides with Dolios, a crack of thunder echoes from the storm above. Summoned by Grian’s magic, the anger boiling with his blood. 

Lightning cascades from the sky. Ripping through the air, directed towards the magistrate. Volts of electricity barreling to destroy him where he stumbles back from the punch. 

The lightning strikes. 

Not Dolios. A shimmer of light ripples between the bolt and the magistrate, magical shield turning the lightning back on it’s wizard. The bolt bounces off the light shield, and strikes into Grian’s chest. One second Grian is standing, ready for any battle that Dolios offers. The next, he’s on the ground, body spasming against the shocks that run across his nerves, burns spreading from the impact. “You’re different from the last angel.” Dolios muses, snapping his finger. The husk nue, disappeared in the night until needed by it’s master, presses massive clawed feet onto Grian. Dragging sharp claws into his back and wounding him further. The primate face snarls, foaming for the hope to rip Grian to shreds. “At least you had the dignity to stand and fight. But in the end, I always get my quarry.”

Dolios turns away, flicking his hair over his shoulder and peeking back at Grian. And he starts to walk away. The shadow beast disappears, returning to it’s master’s side. Grian struggles to rise. “Where...get back here! I’m not done with you!” 

“No, but I am done with you. You’ve lost, little bird. You know where to find me- make it easier for yourself, and come without a fight. You’ve lost, just accept it.” Dolios turns away, stepping out of the clearing. 

And Grian is left alone. Left in the destruction, the death. Left in the shattered pieces of the crystal and his life. Left with himself, the only living soul, surrounded by his dead friends. Tears mix with blood, his chest aching and pain growing as he  heaves a sob up his throat before ripping across his lips. They lost. They may have destroyed the crystal, but Dolios got away, leaving only destruction and death in his wake. Like the very magic he spreads across Lairyon. 

Grian stumbles to his feet, his muscles refusing to work against the pain of the lightning bolt and the overwhelming grief. Blood falling from his back, strength sapping away. But this doesn’t have to be the end. Not for Grian, not for Iskall or Mumbo. Grian is a sky angel- a healer beyond all mortals. He just has to be fast enough, strong enough. 

He pulls Iskall free, collapsing under the weight and sorrow. Rolling his friend over, he places his hand on Iskall’s chest and focuses in.

 Light radiates from Grian, and halo appearing over his matted, bloody hair. His wings triple, spreading wide and exuding blinding energy. Each feather is alight in a holy flame, rays beaming from the halo and glowing white eyes opening. The angelic magic twists and dances down from Grian’s wings, running over his own wounds from battle and pulsating through to Iskall. 

Pain sears up Grian’s body, but he ignores it to focus on Iskall. Beneath his hands, Grian feels the wound close. Shrink until all that’s left is a raised scar. And then a heartbeat. Iskall’s chest rises and falls, shallow at first but growing deeper with each new breath. From the clutches of death. Iskall bolts upright, his dying cry falling from his lips. Faced with the sight of Grian’s archangel aura blinding him. 

Grian doesn’t pause, wings beating against the air and ground. He rises into the air, swooping over to Mumbo. Hands shaking, placing gentle fingers against the wound on Mumbo’s neck. Light sweeps from wings to fingertips, cascading across Grian’s own mortal wounds. Light as bright as the noonday sun, ebbing from Grian’s body and flowing into Mumbo’s corpse. 

A gasping breath rasps through Mumbo’s rattled body. He aches, his throat burning like he just choked on something dry and was whipped by a mishappen hand against his adam’s apple. Bright light blinds him. He blinks away the spots in his vision, hand reaching for his throat.

The last thing he remembers is something sharp against his skin, and the Magistrate’s cold, sharp grin in his vision. He doesn’t even know what happened to him until he sits up. Iskall nearly barrels him over, voice swirling around Mumbo but never really reaching him, just a din of death and decay. 

He died. Dolios killed him. Killed Iskall, then him. Cut them down without ever easing his smile. So how is Mumbo still alive? He and Iskall both look around, searching for their healer. They discover Grian crumpled between them both. The halo above his head shatters, light fading and feathers falling apart in the wind. Blood pools beneath Grian, his breath faint, eyes closed. Mumbo presses shaking, pale, cold fingers on the fallen angel’s chest. 

Nothing. No, wait. It’s still there. But faint. 

Iskall and Mumbo don’t waste a second. With Iskall carrying Grian, the architechs flee the forest. Begging for Grian to hold on, just a little longer.

------------------------------------------ 

Walking away from the clearing, Dolios smiles. That cool, calm smile he knows all of Lairyon is addicted to. Deceived by. He doesn’t need to deal with dragging Grian back to the nearest crystal- he’ll give himself up. Just like they all do, when their hopes are crushed and left with only giving up. Giving in to Dolios. He’ll turn himself in, and save Dolios so much time and effort. 

And Dolios cannot wait to finally have angel magic. He won’t waste such rare, unique abilities by simply sapping Grian’s lifeforce, turning him to a husk. No, he intends to take the magic for his own. Leaving nothing left but sky angel magic. His to claim, growing his repertoire. 

Dolios laughs, and places two crossed fingers over the golden sun that clasps his cape together. “That cretin that calls himself an angel is being quite the nuisance. But alas, I will succeed in taking his magic. And you would want me to succeed, right dear friend?”

He may have won this battle, but the war is far from over. Dolios’s smile fades. They’re getting too strong. Even with those three out of his way, he needs to deal with the hermits. 

“The top of the mountain, isn't it? I-I’m not sure, I’ve never gone here. But this weather...my word is it dangerous!” Mumbo stutters out his words, but he’s not sure if it’s because he can’t remember for sure or because he can feel his breath freezing in this throat. A heavy gust of wind catches on Mumbo and Cleo, sending the two stumbling towards the cliff face. If it weren't for TFC grabbing their collars, they’d be meeting Natasiel in person. 

“Nothing is as dangerous as me!” Iskall booms, raising his voice above the weather. “You can’t take me down, mountain! I am an S-Class nuclear mage, I take your nature and turn it on it’s head with my magic!” 

TFC shakes his head, continuing forward. In his frozen, gloved hands, he grips the tattered banner as tight as possible. He’s not losing such precious cargo entrusted to him. It’s time to lay them to rest, to give the guild long gone some peace. 

Zedaph handed the banner to TFC before they left, fingers tightening for a second before letting it go. “This belongs somewhere better than that bastard’s office. Can you take this to Hanshaa’s mirror? Let Natasiel take care of them.” 

Of course TFC took the banner, took the route to the tallest mountain in Lairyon. Mount Hanshaa, the crown to the Queen of Death. And at the peak, the Shrine of Natasiel. TFC has only been up here a few times before, to pray to Natasiel and thank her for her work. To protect those alive, and care for those who have moved on. 

And of course Iskall has to challenge everything. Whether it's a creature on the side of the road or the mountain itself, he can never back down from a challenge. TFC lets go of Mumbo and Cleo, and climbs higher into the sky.  They’re almost there, he can already feel the soothing calm of Hanshaa’s Mirror. 

“I...I don’t think I can do this, TFC. I can hardly breathe, and it’s so cold. I’m not cut out for climbing this, or any, mountain.” Mumbo complains, hands shaking when they clasp onto the guildmaster’s. He hauls the newest member of the guild over the lip. Just one more face to climb, and they’ll be there. So close, and he wants to give up. Cleo, on the other hand, refuses his offer to help, her green skin digging through the ice, snow, and rock and pulling herself forward. 

“We’re almost there, Mumbo. You’ve already made it.” TFC breathes, lowering his voice as the wind lowers it’s howls. A sense of calm washes over TFC, watching the snow settle. “Just one more climb, I know you can do it.” 

Over the lip, and there on the peak. On top of the world, the Evershade mountains tumbling out beneath them. The winds are quiet, playing with flecks of snow and dancing down the mountain. Peace comes from the fierce bite of snow, and at the center of the peak, the Shrine of Natasiel sits. 

Despite it being well below freezing, the round pool has not a single vein of ice in it’s waters. Perfect and calm, not even snowflakes breaking the mirror. In the reflection and around Hanshaa’s mirror, the shrine opens. Multicolored flags flutter in the wind, stone statues resting beneath the pennants. Intricate carvings in stone and wood, offerings to Natasiel, poems of love and loss, food for friends and family, and blankets against the cold. At the center of the shrine, the guardian of Hanshaa stands. A stone monument, intricately carved feathers and fur of Natasiel’s griffin, with it’s head tucked and eyes closed, watching the world unfold before it and the shrine guarded by it’s gaze.

Sprouting from the snow and rock, against all odds of survival, delicate blue flowers glow in the low light of the snowstorm. Petals as thin as paper, bursting from the ice, opening their white pistils to the thin air. The rarest, the most beautiful flowers in all of Lairyon, fighting the harsh climate at the top of the world, growing around the goddess of the dead’s shrine. Finding life in the cold, the death, rising in the meditative peace at the water’s edge.

A calm and quiet washes over TFC, Mumbo and Cleo. But Iskall finds no sense of reverence upon seeing the shrine. He does notice the flowers, and stoops down low. Fingers wrapping around the slight stem, gripping and tugging on the hardy plant. Silence is broken by a loud, harsh shout that nearly teeters Iskall off the edge. “Don’t pick it!” 

It’s TFC, one hand crossing Iskall’s torso and pushing him back, the other still gripping the tattered banner. The snap was severe, but not aggressive. Enough to make Iskall stop, but not enough to scare him. “Why not dude? It’s just one itty bitty flower among hundreds.” 

TFC lets go of Iskall’s arm, turning back to the griffin statue. Open eyes watching them as the guildmaster kneels in the snow. He gazes at the old banner, the embroidered symbol frayed and color faded. A guild long gone, murdered for power. Massacred for control. He’s here to lay them to rest, to give Zedaph, Impulse, and Tango the peace they deserve. “It’s not about that.” He whispers, looking over his shoulder and boring his gaze into Iskall like a mole in the dirt. “It’s about respect.” 

Iskall steps back, his foot scraping off the ledge of the mountain. His heart leaps into his throat, the wind picking up just enough to cause him to teeter. Just one gust, and he’d be plummeting to the earth. Falling from the top of the world, and no way to stop it. No one can fight gravity- even Grian will eventually plummet if he doesn’t counteract it. In that heart pounding moment, no way to stop a gust of wind from sending him over, he realizes that there's one thing he cannot fight. He cannot challenge. Life and death, and that thin line between it. He has to respect that. 

And he has to respect life and death. Especially in the presence of Natasiel’s shrine, the goddess of death’s realm so close. The wind dies down and Iskall can regain his footing. He stumbles forward, away from the mountainside, side stepping from the flowers and sitting beside TFC. All four hermits take in the silence, the sound of the strung flags flying in the wind the only commentary to the world. It’s an eerily calm silence, a reverence and connection to those who passed on. Iskal looks down at the banner, ZIT’s first family destroyed by Dolios. He may not be able to challenge life and death, but he will challenge dark magic. And win. “Can...can I put it up?” 

TFC raises an eyebrow, but when his eyes lock with Iskall’s, he can only see respect glimmering back in his green eye. Even the blue jewel shines with the same calm TFC feels in his body. He offers the ensign to Iskall, who picks it up as gently as he would an unstable rod of iskallium. Fingers tight enough to keep from losing the fabric, but laid out between his arms. 

He stands, walking past the pool, watching the water reflect the sky and himself. Careful not to step on a single flower, he approaches the guardian of Hanshaa’s Mirror. The guardian of the shrine, protector to the entrance of the underworld, Natasiel’s griffin companion. Strong, stony eyes watch Iskall as he approaches, climbing up the podium and avoiding the precarious rock cairns stacked around the statue. A cold brush of wind causes Iskall to shiver, fingers sapped of heat by the stone statue. 

“It’s mega cold up here, but you still keep watch.” Iskall wraps the banner around the stone statue’s neck. He folds the insignia out for all to see, and knots the tattered ends together. “Watch over them, for our friends. They’ll keep you warm.” 

He steps back, watching the gold and blue press against the stone, blocking out the wind. Behind him, he hears Mumbo sniffle, tears freezing on his cheeks and at the corners of his eyes. TFC reaches out, patting Iskall on the back. His son, if not by blood then by guild. And a soft expulsion of breath escapes Cleo, mist dazzling in the air. “I can feel souls here...they’re at peace. It’s so calm, so content.” 

They remain in silence for a little longer. Just taking in their time at the top of the world, in between life and death, at the shrine to the goddess of death. Watching the glassy pool, the snow drifting in the air and waltzing through the flowers. TFC stood first, one hand over his heart and whispering thanks to the guardian before turning around, eyeing the descent they must make now. Mumbo stands beside him, tucking his fingers under the pits of his arm. “I can’t believe we climbed all of that to make it here.” 

“You have more strength than you give yourself credit for, Mumbo. You climbed the tallest mountain in Lairyon, you are one of the strongest mages I’ve ever met. Just because a task seems daunting, you shouldn’t doubt yourself. You are more than the sum of your parts, Mumbo Jumbo.” TFC glances over his shoulder to the others, then begins his descent. And all but Cleo accept his help. 

-----------------------------------

From the tallest peaks of Lairyon, to the depths of the kingdom are where the group find themselves next. Swallowed whole by the mouth of the Golden Hearth mines, they follow a set of hastily drawn directions marked on a scrap of leather. The dwarven miner they had interviewed was more interested in returning to his mining than telling a bunch of mages where they noticed missing gems. 

And for the first time ever, the hermits see TFC lose his parental demeanor. He’s a kid in the candy store, bouncing from deposit to deposit. He pulls free a chunk of amethyst, admiring the deep purple hue with glittering excitement in his eyes. The deeper they go, passing miners and other mages connected to the earth, he can’t help but pick up a pickaxe of his own and mine out a few crystals to add to his collection. Kyanite as dark as an unlit cave, pyrite that lusters against the illuminating energy from an iskallium rod. 

Cleo strides ahead, plucking a torch from the wall. “This way. Come on, we have to find Esten’s Spring.” 

“Hold up, Cleo, take a breather.” TFC pauses, grabbing at her shoulder and forcing her to stop. She can’t keep running through the mines this way. “Esten’s Spring is deep, one of the deepest parts of the mine. It’s hardly been explored, and the underground river leaves it unstable.” None of them know how to explore caves like TFC does. They didn’t grow up playing in caves, didn’t spend their early years mapping out the crystal mines. They can’t read the seams in the stone, the rolling of rockfalls. 

Cleo raises the fire, distracted by the ores and geodes that gleam against the light for a second before returning to her trailblazing. She doesn’t need anyone’s help but herself, she is strong and clever. She knows the way all by herself. She’s independent, even in a group. She’s the captain of her own ship.

The narrow passage opens up to a deep, yawning chasm with only a broken wooden bridge to cross the immense drop. Cleo looks over the edge, biting her lip as she notices sharp stalagmites piercing through the darkness, teeth of some ancient stone beast waiting to swallow an unsuspecting miner whole.

Beside her, TFC hums. “Let me rifle through my bag, see if-” 

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Cleo strikes her saber between a stone pillar and the ground, tipping it forward and pressing a magic circle against the stone. The rock erodes, decaying to sand at her fingertips, and with one swift yank of her blade it falls across the canyon. She flashes a smile over her shoulder, and struts across the bridge. 

She got lucky, TFC knows that. She did that all on herself, but had the rock fallen the other way, they all could have been crushed. She could have hurt herself. As strong as she is, no mortal can withstand the crushing blow of the very earth itself. But Cleo just keeps moving, on her own journey deeper into the caves. 

Whether crawling through gaps, jumping across chasms, or skirting across ledges, Cleo was always ahead of the others, doing things her own way, and refusing help. She doesn’t need help. She’s strong, she doesn’t need anyone’s help. 

TFC stops, hearing the sound of water dripping through the teeth that rise from the ground and fall from the ceiling. He clambers through the mouth, stepping between the stalagmites and into the open well. “Here we are. Esten’s Spring.” 

For a moment, the only light within the cave is the luminescent rocks, a soft glow that ricochets across the smooth stone, casting shadows along the walls and turning the cavern ceiling into a reflection of colors. Arches and ledges run along the side of an underground river, crystals beneath the water illuminating and rippling all around them. 

To any person, Esten’s Spring was a godly sight. Gems as tall as buildings and wide as tarasques growing from the earth. But for a mage like TFC, who’s magic draws from the earth and it’s shimmering gifts, it was enough to bring tears to his eyes. Rare stones buried deep in the belly of the earth, all collected together and growing in one mutually exclusive place. Stones that would never be seen in any other place at once, all here. But with such beauty also comes danger. “Watch your step, hermits. The ground is unstable.” 

Cleo hardly hears TFC’s warning. She’s already charging ahead, like a ship into battle. She notices a mar in the earth, dirt overturned and scraped aside. And the rusty, dusted ground turned grey like ash. “He’s been gathering them from here.” 

Dolios was here. Multiple times, if the marks and stains of darkness were any indication. All across Esten’s Spring, the ground has been uprooted, entire clusters of crystals missing from their perches. Of course he would create the crystals here. In the depths of the mines, the dangerous passage deterring even the bravest miner from wantonly exploring this deep. And here, among the rarest, strongest crystals in all of Lairyon. They were ripe for his corruption, and for TFC to know he’s stolen them from here is heartbreaking. 

“He has no respect.” TFC grumbles, picking up a broken quartz stone. Spared from the staining of dark magic, left shattered on the ground. He takes without remorse, without respect for the mountains or the land. Mining isn’t just about taking. It’s about giving back as well. Thanking Lairyon and the Earth god, Esten, for such amazing creations. He feels Iskall’s hand come to rest on his shoulder, a knowing gaze on the mismatched eyes. Even Iskall knows to respect nature now.

“To think, we’ve gone to the highest peaks and the deepest abysses, and no matter where we go, his darkness still follows.” Mumbo breathes. To think that he’s made it to both places, he’s still not entirely sure how. It’s like TFC said, he has to believe in himself, even when he thinks he couldn’t do it. 

Cleo’s shoes skitter as the ground beneath her feet collapses, the lip of the ledge falling into the underground river. She doesn’t have time to deal with the past, and whatever the boys are up to. If they hope to stop Dolios, they need to cut off his supply of crystals. Stop him from making more, and for TFC to round up more crystals to use in his spells. 

A dim corner catches her attention. All along the cavern, shadows are cast from stalagmites and stalactites. But the purples, greens, blues, yellows, and reds of the incandescent crystals turn even the darkest corners into a misty glow. But down a passageway, one place is devoid of all light. As if the rock swallowed it whole. 

Or the crystal within it. Cleo scrabbles across an arch, careening off the rock wall and ignoring the light shower of stone dust in her hair as she comes face to face with the gemstone. It’s taller than her, the faceted edges a milky white, rising like a tower with thin lines perpendicular to the ground. Except for the peak of the tower, which was darker than night. Night still has light, color, whether from the moon or the stars. This is pure darkness, empty of all color, all light. 

Dark magic. Dolios must have been trying to corrupt this gem, to use it to siphon magic like the crystal in Gildara, at the championship. “Cleo? Where’d you run off to now?”

She turns, slapping her hand against the crystal. “I found one in the works!” She yells, her voice making droplets of water fall from the cavern ceiling. “I can take care of this myself.” 

TFC looks up, eyes following Cleo’s bright orange hair, the white crystal, and the cave wall that it rests against. And he sees the seam in the rocks, the thin planes of stone on the precipice of gravity. The soft shower of dirt, sprinkling like pixie dust in her locks. The dust turns to pebbles, pebbles to rocks. “Cleo, look out!” 

The cavern roof collapses inward, and TFC has less than a second to react. His hand is already digging into the depths of his  bag, pulling out a jasper and clasping it in his gloves. By the time the rocks have turned to boulders, he’s already summoned his magic and is casting the spell. He pushes his hand forward, and Cleo stumbles back. 

His last sight of her is that bright red hair, pale green skin and fear written across her face. Boulders ricochet into a pile, cutting Cleo off from the rest of the hermits. Mixed with the clattering of rock, the soft sound of bone cracking and skin scraping. Iskall and Mumbo race forward, but TFC grabs them both. 

“We have to help her! She could be buried!” Iskall howls, fighting against TFC. 

“Hold on! The rockfall is still unstable.” He huffs. It kills TFC to have to wait as well, but rushing in will only lead to more disaster. “C-Cleo, can you hear me?” 

“I can hear you! There’s a boulder, it’s pinned me to the ground.” A soft chuckle escapes, but it’s strained and high pitched. “Better my leg than the rest of me.” 

TFC steps forward, brushing past Mumbo and Iskall. One of which is about to succumb to his nervous jelly knees, the other racing alongside their guildmaster. “Just stay calm, Cleo, we’ll get you out of-”

“I can do it myself!” Her voice snaps through the stone wall. “I don’t need to wait if I just-” 

“Cleo no!” The rockfall shifts, growing thicker. Boulders roll towards the boys, and a stifled yelp can be heard through the cracks. 

“S-see? I freed my leg. Now I...now I just need to break this wall.” 

“Stop, Cleo! You’re going to hurt yourself.” TFC’s voice is strong, but soft enough to make Cleo pause. “Let us help.” 

“I don’t need your help! I’m strong enough on my own!” TFC and Iskall leap backwards, a boulder narrowly crushing them both. 

“But true strength is knowing when to reach out for help instead of letting it destroy you!” TFC shouts, his voice echoing across Esten’s Well, causing droplets to fall from stalagmites and ripple across the underground river. His harsh breath is the only voice, and TFC brushes back his hair, his braid. “Cleo, you’re one of the strongest hermits in all of the guild. We all know that. How many other of us are literally too strong for death to hold us back? But sometimes there are things that can’t be done alone. No one is stronger than the mountains themselves. It takes an army of dwarven miners to take on the earth. Each one of them strong on their own, but stronger together. Let us help you, let your family help you.” 

Silence fills the cave, thick and hot against the stale air of the deep chasm. TFC’s ears prick at the sound of fabric shuffling through the wall of boulders. His shoulders fall, believing that Cleo is attempting to do it on her own again. That is, until her voice calls out. “I will come back as a ghost if you three crush me. I will come back and break your legs.” 

Iskall grins, neon green magic reflecting off the glittering gem for his eye, meeting Mumbo’s worried expression. And together, with Cleo’s commands, they free her from the stone tomb. As Mumbo clasps Cleo’s hand and helps her stand, TFC notices a pale blue gem laying at his feet. Stooping low, he picks up the crystal. Iskall peeks over his shoulder, seeing the rock. “Whatcha got there, T?”