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. 

No time to explore the implications of that. Not after all the training, all the resource gathering they’ve done. No, there’s no more time to waste, no more preparing they can do. Today, no matter what happens, they will find out what Magistrate Dolios is hiding. 

TFC tries to psych himself up, despite every fiber in his old bones telling him not to go in. Ever since he was a boy, almost every story he was told warned him not to enter the Hangman’s Playground. The stories never quite explain what happens within these woods, but the tales of those who dare enter only got more horrifying as he got older. 

Grian, on the other hand, walks straight through the bushes and into the forest, much to the shock and horror of everyone else. He knows the stories, true and legend, he just doesn’t care. Soon after, Etho follows in, then Tango, Joe, xB, and Jevin. One by one, following after the cheerful angel, until only TFC and Mumbo are left at the forest interface. TFC places his hand on Mumbo’s back. “I wouldn’t recommend being last, with your back to the forest and all that.” 

It’s enough to get him moving, running to catch up with Xisuma. The Forest of Memories swallows the hermits whole, trees letting in only dapples of light across the ground. The smattering and ever changing light plays tricks with the hermits’ heads, flashes of things that shouldn’t be here appearing in their eyes, sounds that don’t belong in a forest playing distantly with the wind. 

They do their best to stay directly atop the red hued leyline of dark magic, Ren every so often recasting his spell to keep from losing the trail. They pass by a herd of goldhorns, grazing in a clearing alongside a wild herd of shleep. The night sky wool wisping into the air and playing in the distorted light. Zedaph almost runs off to join the shleep, were it not for Impulse holding him by the capelet. `Turuls and Anzus flit between full crowns of trees, the latter spitting water and breathing fire as it plays. 

It was a perfectly normal forest. But between every twitter, there was a scream. Behind every dappled ray of light, there was a world long gone. The Forest of Memories is sinking it’s teeth into the hermits. 

A flash of light blinds Stress, and she’s no longer in the calming, quiet forest, hiking with her fellow hermits. The sounds of birds and the breeze replaced by a low roar of voices and lush music. The snug, warm, and durable robes of her outfit is gone, rather feeling sterile, starch silk shift across her legs. She feels so exposed in the rich, beautiful dress. And when the light fades from her eyes, she’s standing in a grandiose ballroom. Her parents’ ballroom, full of people, all wearing similar dresses and suits. All wearing the same smile.

“What do you think you’re doing?” A shrill voice Stress immediately recognizes as her mother shouts. The tight bun of brown hair, the same shade as Stress’s own, leans down and hauls her skirts up. “These shoes are peasant wear! And look at your posture!”

“But mother,” Stress whimpers. 

“Don’t talk back! You are a lady, act like it!” 

“I don’t want to be a lady! It’s borin’, mother! I don’t want to use my magic to make swan sculptures,” She waves to the side, knowing that an ice waterfowl is just nearby. Of course she knows- this is her memories. “I wanna make something grand and beautiful! Something no one has ever made!”

The ball fades for a moment, like fog in the night, and her mother has been replaced by a different face. A face she knows, though is much, much younger. But his voice betrays the illusion. “Stress, stress! Snap out of it!”

Mumbo’s face regains his mustache, matching the grownup voice of her fellow nobleman, and something cold, smooth is pressed into her hand. The talisman fights away the illusion, until the mist has dissolved in the summer sun and her true family stands before her again. Twenty something concerned faces, BDubs and Iskall helping her stay standing. “I...I was back in Milliara, in ma family’s manor.” 

Xisuma shakes his head. “You were here the whole time. It must be the forest. It’s like what Queen Erlea mentioned, the forest uses our mind against us.” 

“Such a peaceful forest,” Cleo whispers. “Yet it harbors such dangerous magic.” 

“It felt so real. I knew it was a memory, but in the moment….” Stress shakes her head. “In the moment, I was trapped as a lady again.”

She runs her fingers over the talisman, then pulls it over her head. With the help of her friends, her true family, she regains her step and they move forward. But every shimmer in sunlight, Stress’s fears only grow. 

The forest isn’t after her. Xisuma is always the logical one. He’s deduced that the forest seems to play off people’s memories, latching onto their emotions. The ghost in Addows mentioned that she only thought happy thoughts, and the Forest didn’t have control over her. So Xisuma thinks happy thoughts as well, simple and to the point. He thinks of his fellow hermits, building his beloved tower. 

He built his observation tower with Ex. And just like that, the forest has found his weak spot.  He’s not standing among the trees, but rather in front of his observation tower. And only one other person was with him. Standing, hackles raised, was his brother. 

Ex’s white hair was luminescent in the sunshine of the Ashioll sea, red cloak discarded and tucked beside the wall of fresh, unweathered, and unblemished stone. No burn marks from Tango or Impulse, or mismatched windows after Grian would throw a rock just a bit too large. No, there were only two people on Eremita. 

Not anymore. “We can’t let any random person on our island! We hardly know anything about this poet guy, he could be working for the Council!” Ex waves his hand in the general direction, where their newcomer is tapping the end of his quill against his chin. Leaving an ink stain. “This is a place to hide, for us to be free, brother. You’re too trustworthy!”

“And you’re a coward!” X’s voice rises over his mask, forged by his brother to protect him from the sunlight. “You’ve blinded yourself with your own light, and you can’t see that we’d be stronger, safer with more. We can’t be a guild with just two brothers.”

“I never wanted to be a guild.” Ex surges till the twins are nose to nose, the supernova mage’s eyes burning with the heat of a thousand stars. Xisuma’s are as dark as night. “I just wanted somewhere for us to be free, aren’t I all you need?” 

The words fall from X’s mouths, stinging as he says them this time around. He should’ve never said them, but now he’s being forced to relive this horrible moment all over again. “I don’t need you, I never needed you!” 

Xisuma finds himself on the ground, his mask knocked loose. But the sunlight wasn’t the only thing burning his eyes. Blood falls across his face, perpendicular slashes oozing red ochre, and the same dripping from the end of his brother’s staff. 

In his foolishness, blinded by the sunlight, by his brother, Xisuma fights back. He summons his magic, and hurls twin lashes of void at his brother. Knocking him over, grasping against the frozen burns across his own face. Xisuma stumbles to find his mask, ignoring the blood. “An eye for an eye. You aren’t my brother.” 

The pain feels real, the sensation of the blood running down his face, the scent of ozone in the air feels real. But Xisuma remembers that day clearly- the worst day of his life. The day he lost his brother. And he knows he wasn’t crying. 

It’s not real. Xisuma reaches up, and feels the wet stain. It doesn’t coagulate like blood, the tears that run from beneath his mask. It’s an illusion, Xisuma.

Logic is Xisuma’s strength. He wasn’t logical that day, but he is now. And he cries, for the loss of his brother, his best friend. He focuses in on those teas, something the forest can’t hide from him. He closes his eyes, feeling the guilt and sorrow. Wishing he wasn’t so cowardly to reach out and make amends. 

Distantly, he feels someone touching his arm, his hand. But it doesn’t feel like his body. A cool metal band slips around a finger, and he can finally find his way out of the illusion.

When he opens his eyes, he’s in the forest again, the illusion shattering and sparkling like starlight in the sun. Like the tiny stars his brother used to make when they were boys. Xisuma jumps out of his skin when a hand lays on his arm, feeling all too real. Joe stood next to him, other hand retreating from the moodring on Xisuma’s finger. The first newcomer to the island. He offers peace, but Xisuma can’t find it within himself. 

The forest is in his head, twisting his memories and reminding him of all his wrongs. Turning his mind against him. He can only focus on walking, follow the line of hermits before him. Wishing for the horrible thoughts to end. And wishing for his brother to be at his side. 

Xisuma isn’t the only one who lost his family. But at least his is alive. Zedaph, Impulse, and Tango tried to steel themselves in preparation of what they knew the Forest of Memories would bring up. They thought they were prepared, able to fight off the Hangman’s Playground. Both physically and mentally. Even Zed thought he’d be able to shepherd away the intrusive thoughts.

The forest is smart, however. And it goes for him before the others. Zedaph feels the heat against his face, and closes his eyes. He will not see that night. Zedaph hears the screams, of his own guild dying around him, and he hums to himself. He will not hear that night. He tries to block it out, to block out the forest, to refuse it access into his head to hurt him further. 

“Go, Zed!” The voice is so crisp, so real, it’s not just an echo of a memory. He can’t help but look up, searching for his guildleader. 

And he sees scicraft burning. He watches as the fire hurls across the sky, and ash coats the massacre in a fine layer of dust. But he realizes, experiencing this night all over again, that it’s not just ash dancing in the air. Mixed with the burning embers are the fragmented pieces of husks- those attacking the guild. Husks before he even knew dark magic existed. 

Zedaph collapses to his knees, alerting the other hermits to his vision. Impulse falls victim next, his face red as the sensation of burning is played through his head. As, in his illusion, he’s running through the fire. Calling out for the other guild members, even though he knows there’s no hope. He’s trapped in the past, forced to relive the day he lost his family. Until all he had left was Zed, Tango, and a memory. 

Tango rushes to try and retrieve a potion, liquid happiness that was brewed to perfection by Stress. He digs his hand through the bag of supplies, until his fingers close around...fabric. Tango retreats his hand, no longer digging through his backpack, but rather digging through the ashen remains of his guild. He’s holding a torn, burnt cape, stained in blood. 

In one fell swoop and one horrible shared memory, all of Team ZIT is in the clutches of the forest. It plays with their mind, their memories. Turn them on themselves, blaming themselves for the loss. Survivor’s guilt. The other hermits try to snap them out of it, placing talismans on them and forcing potions across their lips. 

It’s not until Doc takes control of Zed, and uses his friend’s magic to dispel the thoughts are they able to get ZIT in any state of relief. Doc feels horrible, but it was a necessary evil. The ZIT trio hold each other close, the thoughts lingering like mist in the morning, whispers of the forest still controlling them. 

xB’s circle appears, followed by a rush of water over Grian’s body. Like someone dropped an entire tub of water on his head. His feathers ruffle and splash the nearby hermits, who voice their displeasure, but the stains disappear from his skin, wings, and clothes. 

Except now he’s wet. Mumbo and Stress groan and clasp their heads. They’re about to meet the elder of Fielville, one of the last few towns that still have an elder council. And of course Grian had to be.... Well, Grian now of all times. The rural village orphan, playing in dirt as they enter this tradition filled hall. 

The scorpion guards stand at attention, waiting for the crew of hermits to stop their bickering. Impulse blasts Grian with a heat explosion, fixing the wet problem but creating a whole new issue. Now Grian’s hair is blown back in a thousand different directions, and his clothes pressed in odd angles. 

Honeycomb shaped doors open, guards bowing with tails arched over their backs- stingers dripping with venom as they point towards the hermits. Down the cavernous nest, insectia crawl up the wall from floor to floor, flying and walking. Town square one level up, the marketplace in another wing of the hive. But the ground floor was where the queen ruled. Following the guidance of mantis advisors, they wander down until they reach the rise in combs. Standing atop was the queen bee.

Literally. A bee insectia stands at the podium, antennae swiveling with curiosity. A mantis clambers up and whispers in her ears, while the hermits attempt to bow and curtsy to their best ability, following all protocols and tradition they can muster up. The bee flutters her wings, peering over the podium. “You wish to know about the Hangman’s Playground? What for?”

TFC steps up, as the leader of the guild it’s tradition for him. “Queen Erlea, we… We believe something dangerous is being hidden in those woods. We are the only ones who have any understanding for this mission, we’re the only ones who can go in search.”

The queen’s transparent wings flutter, her hums sounding more like a buzz. Black and yellow locks of hair fall over ebony eyes. “Yes, that dangerous thing is the whole forest. Nothing is more dangerous than the Forest of Memories, and none of you are ready. I can sense it in each and every one of you.” 

“But we’re ready!” Grian shouts, and the entire hive fills with gasps, including from Mumbo and Stress. Speaking out of line isn’t tradition. Shouting is not tradition. 

“I am reluctant to tell such an ill prepared, unadvised, incapable guild about the Forest of Memories. No one should go wandering in there- perhaps whatever this danger is should be left within the Forest. You will hear nothing from me, and by my order none shall enter.” Queen Erlea juts her chin out, dismissing them as she seats herself beside the podium.

Tango isn’t about to go that easily. “We’re going in, whether we have this information or not!” 

His voice is backed up by Impulse and Zedaph. Mumbo feels as if he’s about to have a panic attack, eyes wide and alarmed. None of this is tradition, and the queen bee’s legs uncross beneath her long, honeycomb styled dress. He can’t tell the queen’s emotions through her eyes- dammit, why didn’t he study body language of insectia before?

Silence falls over the hive, the queen staring at the hermits. There’s a soft click of stingers surrounding them, as if the whole hive is ready to defend their queen. Defend their tradition. Until laughter falls over the blanket of quiet. 

The queen titters, before collapsing into a full chested guffaw. Pollen escapes from her long hair, dancing along the lace and puffs of her gown. “Finally! Finally, someone with enough gusto to talk back. Do you know how boring it’s been to never be spoken back to for so many years?” 

The clacking of stingers stops, and the hermits’ nervous laughter follows. Keralis notices an interesting looking beetle skittering down the hall, but is only halted by Xisuma and a firm grasp to his collar. Now’s not the time for a snack. Zedaph raises an eyebrow. “So… will you help us?” 

“Help you? After that show, I simply must! I will tell you all I know of the Forest of Memories. I have entered there many times, and my fellow Fielville peers are quite knowledgeable as well. If I do not know your answer, surely they shall.” 

Joe pulls out his pen, licking the tip and ready to jot down notes. “What is it about the Forest that is so dangerous? Is it monsters, traps? Magic? Magical traps with monsters?” 

“Nothing that you can fight. The Forest of Memories shall test you mentally and emotionally, it shall dredge up your worst fears and greatest pains, but only if you expose that side of yourself to it. Enter the forest with any negative thoughts, and it will destroy you.” 

“But if we enter with only positive thoughts, it’ll be easy?” Mumbo questions, biting his lip. Maybe he shouldn’t go on this mission. 

“Precisely. Lady Cielle, for example-” Queen Erlea reveals a book from her frocks, the very book that brought them to the ghost. “Her beloved Nellaime had just proposed to her before she entered the forest. She had nothing on her mind but her soon-to-be wife.” 

“So just go in thinking good thoughts, that’s not too bad, it’s like a kids play!” BDubs scoffs. How is it that bad if all it takes is thinking good things and saying ‘i believe’?

“Not so simple, bubble boy.” The queen titters. She sits down on the risen honeycomb, legs swinging from beneath her dress. “The forest is like a parasite, and it feeds on your emotions. Negative emotions are as sweet as honey to it. Even if you hide those feelings, it will draw them out, and use them against you. So you will have to go in prepared to face your darkest demons.” 

“I’m not even ready to face my lightest demons.” Keralis’s eyes are wide and terrified, no longer thinking of all the bugs around him. 

Queen Erlea nods. “It would be wise for you to supply yourselves.” She taps her finger against her chin, antennae flicking as she thinks. “Potions to ease your fears and hinder the effects of the Forest of Memories, as well as amulets and talisman to ward it off in the first place. They won’t stop attacks from the forest all together, but it will provide armor.” 

“No better place to gather magical supplies than Redland.” Etho raises an eyebrow, grinning beneath his mask.

“Will we be able to afford all those supplies?” Scar knows much about the magical capital of Lairyon. And he knows better than anyone how expensive the merchants will sell their goods. At least, his family did. Even then, as many potions and amulets as they’ll need will be a costly necessity. 

“We have money from the championship!” Grian remembers the chalice full of gold that they just abandoned in the guild hall. They were so focused on the revelation that Magistrate Dolios was the dark mage that they left the winning gold and trophy just sitting in the alcove of the guild tree. 

“As for the actual forest- the Hangman’s Playground is a thicket of brambles, thorns, poisonous plants and carnivorous flowers.” Erlea nods her head to False’s blade.”You will need an arsenal of diverse weapons- the Forest will learn and adapt against you. It is alive- it will fight back. Your magic will be useless compared to physical blades. So better start training.” 

TFC bows his head, gloved hand pressing at his heart. “Thank you, your majesty. This information could be lifesaving.” 

Erlea hums. “Thank me when your guild returns safe, sane, and alive.” 

The hermits all bow, and allow themselves to be guided back to the hexagonal doorway, back out into Fielville, among the druids and insectia beyond the beehive of a castle, townhall, marketplace- just about anything, built by the insectia people to protect against the elements. Especially rain. 

The three hermits wander the streets, walking through the midday mist, watching as buildings appear from nothing and disappear once again. Joe gets distracted every once in awhile on a witch’s shop, books older than the kingdom, apothecaries with all kinds of rare materials, and about a dozen different colored candles. And lots of rocks. TFC would have a field day. 

But after what feels like both hours and seconds of walking down the twisting streets of the ancient city, they finally arrive where they need to be. A building so old that the rain and forest has weathered it down, and a whole new layer of detritus has turned to dirt, ferns, trees, and vines growing down the massive stone pillars. In the weathered carving, the purpose of the ancient building remains the same. It’s a library, the largest in all the kingdom and filled with the most extensive, the most knowledgeable, and the most ancient of works. In languages long dead and unrevivable, written by ghost writers that now haunt these halls, and recounted by the living and the dead that wander the stacks. 

“And a delightful young adult section with some of my favorite works for young readers.” Joe hums. “Anything, and I mean anything-” He pauses, letting Xisuma and Cub fill in what he means, “can be found in the national library of Addows.” 

“That means if there’s anywhere that will tell us how to handle the Forest of Memories, or what could be hiding in there, it’s here.” Xisuma wanders down the stacks. All three hermits itch to reach out and pull books of their favorite genres or authors. Cub wants to dive into the deep end of the ancient ones history. Xisuma wants to study the great works of the best astronomers. And Joe wants to read the most mind boggling pieces that make absolutely no sense. He loves that feeling of being left confused about what he just read. 

They search the tomes, from geography to history, history to science. They search every section- even the young adult section. Cub resorts to portaling around rather than running the worn stone stairs, but to no avail. In the end, all three of the hermits are sitting in an alcove of ferns and vines, staring out over the thick misted city. 

“It wasn’t in anything. Has no one ever written about the Forest of Memories?” Xisuma grumbles, pulling off his mask. It’s not like there’s any sun, he doesn’t need his brother’s creation. 

“Someone had to. It’s been around for eons and is nestled in the heart of Lairyon. I can think of so many epics that could rely solely upon those two aspects.” Joe speaks with his head on his hands, looking over the library. Where haven’t they checked? “I’m starting to think it’s not even real, just a bunch of folktales.” 

Silence, until Cub’s eyes light up. “Folktales! Where do you put everything that you don’t know or understand?” 

“In the trash bin?” Joe’s dry humor is not lost on Xisuma, but Cub is too excited. 

“The folklore!” Cub summons his magic, a portal opening between the hermits, taking them to the very entrance of the library. The beginning of it all. He jumps through, skidding into a cracked pillar, but the stone is held fast by roots of the forest. Joe and Xisuma follow after, the portal collapsing behind them. 

“Forest….forest...forest…” Cub whispers, running his fingers along books, scrolls, even just tablets of stone. “Forest, Evernight. Nope. Forest, Creation of. No…” 

He stops, fingers coming to rest on a manuscript. Two wood planks pressing fabric pages together. It has no written title, but the front of the book is a tree with it’s branches intertwined like that of a brain. Cub grabs the manuscript, opening it with fervor. “Godsdamnit.” 

“What’s wrong now?” Xisuma sighs, peering over the portal mage’s shoulder. But the symbols scrawled on the fabric are meaningless to them both. Not even Joe, who purveys in ancient and useless knowledge, has no ability to read the book. 

“Ahh, The Journey to the Center of Lairyon’s Mind. A very good work. Quite dense.” All three hermits shriek, echoing in the quiet library as a misty head appears through the bookshelves. They should have been prepared for a ghost, but in the heat of the moment, they forgot they were in the most haunted city in the kingdom.

“H-have you read this? Can you r-read this language?” Joe holds the book out. 

The ghost steps through the shelves, her hand becoming solid enough to hold up the piece. “It’s old kipling. Before they integrated into one oceanic script. Back in the early days, when Lairyon was just a bunch of warring nations. Ah, the oceans were so peaceful in comparison.” 

“What does the author say? What does this mean?” Joe points at the fine print of a page that the kipling opened. 

“It’s the dedication! It’s to me!” She laughs, ghostly fin ruffling with joy. “My wife was such a wonderful author, she is still curious to this day.” 

Xisuma surges up to the ghost, no longer afraid. “The author, she’s still here? Where is she?” 

“Why, I’m sure she’s moping around our gravestone, waiting for me to come back so she can tell me more stories that she picked up from the other ghosts.” The kipling ghost pauses. “Would you like to meet her, or rather just read through this dingy old book? Why not meet the real adventurer Cielle DuNord? Bravest woman ever, only person to enter the heart of the Forest of Memories and come back sane. At least...only recorded person.” 

From the oldest library, the hermits follow the bouncing kipling down the street to the oldest cemetery. Sometimes they lose sight of her in the fog, her ghostly figure becoming a part of the mist and disappearing. But it just takes a laugh and a call from Lady Nellaime, her dress swaying like kelp in the waves, and they’re back on track. The misty glen opens to reveal ancient tombs and stones, but Nellaime waltzes through the historic graveyard as she would saunter through a flower garden. 

Despite the spooky feeling, it’s not scary. The hermtis feel a sense of calm respect among the gates. Rare flowers bloom at the entrances of mausoleums, trees sprouting from burial mounds. Candles provide light along the well cared pathway, and a child runs by, smiling as he trips and hugs an ancestor’s gravestone. 

From the mist, a glowing form appears, hugging the boy back. The ghost settles down in the grass, chatting with the family. Nellie continues past, deeper into the heart of the graveyard, seemingly bigger on the inside. The tombs age the deeper they walk, until Nellie stops at a raised crypt. Carved in the ancient coral stone, two smiling faces rest on their backs, the women’s hands intertwined at the center. Nellie skips onto the tombstone, knocking on the nose of the other kipling. “My sweet Cielle, you have visitors! More fans of yours!”

The eyes blink open, misty blue lashes fluttering. A noncorporeal form drifts from the stone crypt, dress flowing from existing to not, strong arms reaching over and hugging her wife. “You always make friends so fast. Living or dead, you just make people smile. Just like lighting up my life, my little ghost light.” 

“Not in front of guests.” Nellie giggles, her fins fluttering from the sweet kiss. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of such…” Cielle looks the three up and down. “Unique visitors upon my grave?” 

“Are you really the only person who has made it out of the Forest of Memories alive?” Xisuma wastes no time, which causes both ladies to titter.

“No, though I know Nellie here likes to be hyperbolic. Quite a few people have gone into the Forest without going crazy. But you have to be prepared to enter in.” Cielle leans forward, tugging a ghostly finger through Xisuma’s hair like a mother combing a child’s hair. 

“Prepare? What kind of spells do we need? Weapons?” Cub flips through the pages of the book, but it’s in a completely unknown language to him. 

“You can prepare yourself physically as long as you like, but it won’t do much. You have to prepare yourself mentally.” Cielle taps her head, and giggles. “See, for me, all I had to do was think about my fiancee back in Corelpi. I dunno how, but it was like a walk through a garden.” 

“But there is one place that knows all about the Forest of Memories. Where the most people have entered and returned relatively sane.” Nellaime grins, a few locks of hair falling from her messy bun. Cielle reaches over and fixes the loose locks. “Fielville!” 

“Of course,” Xisuma slaps his hand on his head, leaving a bright red mark on his skin. “Druids, insectia, the oldest traditions from the ancient ones are still practiced there.” 

“I mean, we are winning right now, but...I really wanna win them all.” Mumbo’s had a taste for competition, and now he wants more. “But I’m not so worried about the guilds as I am the other teams that are tied.” 

Iskall looks over his shoulder, seeing Avon observing the distance between where she stands to the target down the field. “I think she’s all bark and no bite. I’m gonna show everyone the power of iskallium after today.” 

“What kind of mage even is that?” Mumbo questions, noticing the massive black wings on his opponents back. “Is that like Ren’s misfired werewolf mimic?” 

“Nah dude, don’t you know anything?” Iskall spikes his iskallium rod into the ground. “That’s a draconic mage.” 

“Are they rare? Like...rare as Grian’s sky angel magic or my multi-magic?” Mumbo has never heard of a draconic mage, though he never really learned things like this from his parents. His mood immediately sours at the thought of them. He hopes they’re not here, watching. Or does he? 

“Eh, in a way. Not quite like you guys. It’s more of a… finding the right teacher kind of problem.” Iskall sees Mumbo’s confusion only grow. “They have to learn from dragons, dude. Not exactly the most trusting beasts, those big lizards of doom. But don’t worry about that- it’s not like you’ll have to face anything like that.” 

“Good luck, Iskall.” Mumbo whispers, retreating as the event starts. He was the only hermit willing to wake up this early for the event. Most are still somewhat drunk from celebrating their victories yesterday. No one imagined they’d do this well. Though, a few were dizzy, and Tango even struggled to get out of bed. 

One by one, down the line, wizards use their magic to strike the target. Everything from flecks of dirt to pillows shot at the haybales. One art mage even draws up their own arrows and sends them flying. Some strike near the bullseye, others don’t even reach the target. It was a close match for the former. The drawn arrow was almost perfectly center, just millimeters from landing a perfect score. 

Iskall knows he has to be better. He gets three shots. Three tries. His emerald eye flicks across the field, measuring the distance between himself and the target. Three shots and he’ll win. He feels the wind in his hair, blustering for a second and ruining a shot of the person next to him. Three shots and he’ll prove he’s a mega sharpshooter. 

It’s his turn. He draws out his rod of iskallium, his own element of creation. It’s radioactive, but he’s immune to it. He can feel the power, the energy within the rod. Energy he plans to use to make a clear, perfect shot. He reels his arm back, and throws the first rod. As soon as it’s airborne, he releases a burst of radioactive energy from the projectile, sending it burying into the target. A near perfect hit. 

His next shot is almost identical, though the wind as his rod nears the target pushes it slightly off center. His shoulders sag, a weight pressing down on him, pressing in on his lungs. As long as he doesn’t miss the center ring, he’s got the event in the bag. 

He doesn’t miss. Iskall offers a coy smile beneath his beard, though inside he’s freaking out. He’s currently winning a championship event. He stays calm, but in his mind he’s already celebrating. Doing his own little dance in the sand at his feet. 

Until a barb whizzes down the field, burying into the center ring. He opens his eye, staring at Avon beside him. Her eyes are trained on the target, like a predator stalking it’s prey. Her wings are slightly ajar, counterbalancing her weight from throwing the poison barb forward. She straightens, another projectile appearing in her fingers. He can see purple toxin dribbling from the tip of the barb. The gaze never falters, determination locking her in. She twists around, launching the barb like an arrow in the wind. It digs into the hay-filled target, the larger base of the barb brushing against her first target. 

“No...way.” Iskall whispers. The wind picks up. Surely that will mess her up, right? He was Iskall, deadeye of doom. Nothing can stop him. The last barb flies in slow motion, her throw slightly curved against the wind. Letting the breeze push it to center. 

The tip of the barb splits through the first shot. A perfect bullseye, not once but twice. Iskall has no ability to be bummed that he only got silver- that was mega awesome. Avon seems calm, collected even as she receives her medal, albeit tired. Exhausted physically, but never betraying what she’s thinking or feeling. 

Mumbo and Iskall are still talking about the sight when Grian and a few other hermits join them in the stands. “So, how’d it go?” Grian sings, trying to be as bouncy as usual despite sleep still holding his eyes. He notices the silver medal hanging off Iskall’s neck. “What?! How’d you only get second? You’re like...the best shot i’ve ever seen, Iskall.” 

“Those three wanderers, bro. I’ve never seen a least conspicuous group ever...but wow.” If it wasn’t for their lack of members, they’d give the hermits a run for their money. At least they have that going for them. “So G-man, you ready to prove your true talent?” 

“Flying? You bet.” Grian flicks his arms out, and his angelic blue and white wings unfurl from nowhere, appearing like clouds in the sky. “That pageant was just a warmup.” 

He hops onto the railing of the seats, before taking off into the air. Flying among other winged wizards, the hermits can already see his mastery of the sky. On the ground, Etho is warming his muscles as obstacles rise above the stadium. Pillars and rings teeter into the sky, caves and ravines digging in the ground, the dual events taking place at the same time. Neither Etho or Grian were the only nonguild wizards- Ecto is back, snacking on a cactus as she watches the course construct before her. In the air, the basilisk mage, Ty, is testing his wings against his short, lanky body. 

“I don’t know who to watch!” Mumbo whispers, glancing from one course to the next. A firework crackles in the air, and in both the sky and the sand wizards take off. Across the obstacle course. 

“You watch Grian, I’ll watch Etho.” Iskall chuckles, observing as the shadow ninja disappears through a shadow, reappearing in the lead. He bounces off a wall, dropping onto a raised bar and flipping across a pit of acid. Who even made that pit? Seems dangerous. But danger means nothing for Etho, and his incredible agility across the course. 

Mumbo is biting his lip, watching as Grian brushes against a pillar of stone in the sky. Grian’s flying is risky, even in the best of times. The amount of heart attacks Grian gives his best friend on a normal day is spectacular. Today is even worse. He loses a year of his life watching the sky angel plummet from the sky, wings snapping open just in time to fly through a ring, pulling into the lead. Mumbo swears he can see a blue feather sheared off Grian’s wing as his friend squeezes between two rocks. 

“Oh no, not again!” Iskall’s groan turns Mumbo’s attention to the ground. Ecto and Etho are both at the finish line, huffing and puffing as they clasp hands and congratulate one another. Mischievous eyes glimmer and grin, sharing quips and laughing. The two look at the other contestants, but based on Iskall’s outburst Mumbo knows who won. Again. 

“Grian’s winning though!” The two look up, a shadow passing over their seats in the crowd. He’s got a heavy lead, while Ty and a gryphon wizard battle for second. Ty takes the lead, his scaly wings fluttering in the wind and ducking low to go under a blockade. The guild mage flies over, swinging his arm. Magic shoots out, aimed directly at Grian. 

“Is that allowed?” Mumbo gasps, standing up. Grian’s almost at the finish line. He can’t let himself get hit by whatever spell the mage just cast. 

“Go Grian!” Iskall shouts. “Watch out!” 

Grian looks back, eyes widening as the golden magic hurdles his way. He’s so close...he’s not going to lose this. Grian curls his wings, tightening them against his body. He plummets from the sky. Wind whistles across his ears, feathers fluttering and the ground quickly rising up to meet him. But so is the finish line. A blast at his back pushes him into terminal velocity, the guild wizard’s magic blossoming into an explosive barrier. He needs to open his wings, to slow down. But he’ll become a target. So what does he do? 

He closes his eyes. And crashes into the ground. Bouncing off the grass and hurtling over the finish line, Grian wins first place. Blood and bruises quickly appear on his skin and face, but he’s conscious and sitting upright as the coliseum erupts into cheers. Iskall and Mumbo only sigh. For the healer of the guild, he gets himself hurt more often than anyone. 

Once on the sidelines, Etho helps Mumbo wrap bandages around Grian’s wounds. Mumbo shakes his head, prodding a bruise. “That was totally an illegal move, that explosion.” 

“The guilds are pissed that we’re winning.” Etho hums. He tries to manipulate a shadow to cover him against the sun, but frowns when his magic refuses to appear. “You should’ve heard the wizards in the agility course. They think we’re cheating. They don’t get how a bunch of misfits are winning in almost every event.” 

“It’s just cause we’re that much mega better.” Iskall chuckles. “They don’t have the awesome teamwork and diverse wizards like us.” He leans back, watching Joe standing before a sphinx. It’s the riddle event. “Maybe if they stopped worrying about money and status they’d do better.” 

Grian hisses in pain, only for Etho to hush him. From the field, the sphinx stalks Joe. “I am alive, but without breath. I am as cold as life in death. I’m never thirsty, though I always drink.” The feminine voice purrs from the sandy skin of the sphinx’s human face. Feline haunches roll and rock under feathered wings and fur, but Joe only looks to the sky, his glasses hiding the emotions in his eyes as he thinks. “What am I?” 

The hermits hold their breath, watching Joe in the lion’s den. His lips curl up, and his clasps his hands behind his back. “You’re a fish.” 

The sphinx pauses, then dips her head. “Well done, poet. How about this? What can you break, even if you never pick it up or touch it?” 

Joe snickers. “Easy, a heart.” 

“How very poetic, Joe of the Hills.” The creature pauses directly in front of him. “But not what I was looking for.” Teeth snarl and claws glisten, and the embroidered fabric of Joe’s cape is flung across the field, glasses clattering to the side. The hermits collectively wince, even Grian feeling the ache in his bones that Joe will feel come tomorrow. “The next contestant. Ian.” 

The engineer mage bounces to the mark, completely unconcerned by the vicious lion-bodied creature before him. He wipes his brow, leaving a trail of black oil across his forehead. “I’m ready for whatever you got, miss sphinx!”

“Hmm, alright then.” She chuckles, sitting on her haunches. A lion’s tail, with feathered tips, flicks like a clock against the grass. “What can bring back the dead; make you cry, make you laugh, make you young; is born in an instant, yet lasts a lifetime?”

“Memories!” Ian quips, grinning proudly. “Let’s see if you got any better.” 

The sphinx growls. “Alright, engineer.” She offers another riddle. And another answer. Iskall leans forward, biting his lip. The current leader has only two correct answers- Joe and another wizard were the only ones clever enough to come up with correct answers with enough time. One final question. And one final answer. The sphinx stands up after Ian responds, shoulders rolling. “Congratulations, Ian of the Crafted. You have won my challenge.” 

“At least it wasn’t a guild that won. I don’t think we’ve heard the end of it.” Mumbo whispers, sitting back. Grian winces, pulling his arm against the sling it’s in, to which Etho swats him to keep it still. 

“Stress is next!” Iskall grins, exciting to see his friend perform. Stress chose this event herself, and no one dared question her claim. And as she stands among the other wizards, she’s easily the most out of place. Surrounded by large men and mages of strength and muscle, many hardly wearing much more than whatever their guild deems necessary and often glistening in oil, Stress crosses her legs and pats the warm material of her ice blue dress. She casts a quick spell, and her short brown hair caresses pale cheeks as an icy wind cools her down. Iskall leans back, shaking his head. “She’s going to freaking crush this.” 

And crush it she does. No one, not even the audience is prepared to watch the short, dainty ice wizard lift more weight than any oiled, burly man around her. Her magic, and her own strength, easily lifts the shelled form of a tarasque, a hydra, and a baku in one wall of ice. Not just lift the still living creatures, but doing so with enough care that each beast is left unharmed and even cradled by the ice rink beneath their feet. As soon as the creatures are back on their feet, Stress is immediately cooing- ignoring her gold medal in lieu of praising the hydra’s many heads for all their work helping her win. 

Truly a strange mage for the strength event. 

__________________________

“Are you sure they’re not here just to compete? You really think they’re here to...stop him?” A black cloaked figure whispers, eyes following the ice wizard as she skips to her friends. From the nosebleed section, the brothers can hardly see each individual person. But the hermits are easy enough to pick out. They stand out, unlike the other guilds. Each person with a unique outfit, unique features. 

“If I know my brother, he can never take anything sitting down.” Red fabric moves as the white haired wizard talks, sharp eyes never leaving their target. A mask like that can be seen from a mile away. “And his friends aren’t much better.” 

“They’re incredible!” The third figure, clad in a white cloak to hide his mop of rainbow hair, stands to get a better look. His friend grabs him by the arm and pulls his rear back to his seat. “These people are the true heroes we nee-”

“Can’t you be quiet for a minute, loudmouth?” His brother seethes, glancing at their contact. They’ve only just met him today, despite being in contact for much longer. 

“I don’t know if I’d call them ‘heroes’, but they’re all Lairyon has.” The contact pulls his cloak’s mask up over his nose, tugging on the long white hairs stuck in between. 

“A ragtag team of criminals, rejects, and outcasts is the only hope for Lairyon. Great.” The black cloaked brother huffs, setting his head on a propped up hand. 

“How much different is that from us- or, I mean, the crown and his advisor?” The white robe lowers his voice after his brother slaps his arm, sharp gaze daring for him to try that again. “Lairyon needs light to return, and I think these hermits are exactly what we need.” 

“I hope you’re right, your majesty.” The contact tugs on his long white ponytail. “They’ll need more help if they expect to survive. Which is why I came to you.” 

“This is outrageous!” Exactly on cue, Dolios is cut off by the voice of his own Council. Idelens stands, brushing out the golden tassel of her robes so that they’re perfectly placed. She is a beacon of perfection- even the angry creases in her face are situated just so to exemplify her emotions. “Magistrate Dolios, your wise leadership has gone too far! An illegitimate group of street rats, winning the Chimaera’s Championship? They are not even a guild!”

All around Idelens, the other councilmembers voice their own displeasure- except for Apatia, who seems to be too lazy to stand. “Magistrate Dolios, you have led our kingdom into an age of prosperity and strength unlike those ever seen before.” Gadai bows as he speaks to Dolios, earning a humble smile from the bearded leader. “But it was only through your laws to organize guilds and streamline all of Lairyon’s power that this age has been ushered! This...this horde of troublemakers is the exact opposite of the prideful guilds that have spent years training and preparing for this day! A team like this has no place among the Chimaera’s Championship, much less winning! The cup, the gold, the glory should go to a real guild like mine!’

“Do you realize how hard our guilds trained?” Sidero hisses, eyes boring through the hermits. “I’m gonna-”

The entire council goes silent the second Dolios raises a hand, his red sleeve falling in a cascade of gold trim and wine fabric. Glittering eyes close, his head shaking. Brown curls of hair, tied back in a well kept ponytail, dance across the blue capelet resting on the Magistrate’s shoulders. “This is not about gold, or glory, or guilds, my dear council friends. The Chimaera’s Championship is a show or unity, of joy, of creativity for Lairyon. It is something we all love, whether it is the common farmer or richest guildmaster. Virtues this team here proudly exemplifies, a team we should be proud to call victors.” Dolios turns his gaze, which sharpens as he lays eyes on the hermits. “Though they may not be a guild, but rather a conglomeration of independent wizards working together solely for this event, they are champions nonetheless.” 

Ren and Mumbo have to cover their ears at the raucous roar that erupts from the mass of spectators around them. Cheering for Team STAR, cheering for Magistrate Dolios. His warm and charismatic smile never falters while the hermits step up to take their prize. He remains standing from his chair, above King Sor’s empty throne and above the council’s throng. 

The crowd shuffles, going quiet as heads and bodies bow. Bowing to the hermits, the champions of the games. Days of grueling competitions designed to push them to the limit and test their attributes against the best of the best. Common folk winning a game that has been dominated by only the most elite guilds for the past decade. It was a sign of respect and reverence to the gods the games were dedicated to, even their fellow non-guild teams bowing. Though Ecto was snickering the whole time. Only one person refused to lower his head at the introduction of the winners. 

Magistrate Dolios. He remained firm, not even blinking as the chalice full of gold and gems is handed off the guild. He raises his chin slightly at the mention of the gods, of the dragon spirits, the noble guardians in the sea. Grian’s skin crawls, feeling Dolios’s gaze burn into him. The charismatic glimmer in the magistrate’s eyes turns frenzied, the smooth edges of his smile become hard and cold. But all of that is gone when the crowd rises. The only remaining proof that any of it happened is the unnerving sensation left in Grian’s body. 

Cub does the next most sensible thing, knowing his fellow hermits- he portals away all the riches and the chalice back to Eremita. And he feels great, none of his magic sapped away. He feels like he could teleport all the way to Kilton right now, his excitement and freedom bubbling inside him. 

The hermits scrabble back to their inn as quickly as possible. Funny enough, as soon as they're out on the streets, out among the crowd of spectators, no one seems to notice they’re walking besides Chimaera Champions. Is it that they don’t look like a team, or they don’t act like a winning guild would? Maybe it’s that, among the busy streets, no one’s going to notice one or two hermits traveling just a few paces behind the next bead of the string. The only stranger to congratulate them was the tavernkeeper, ordering rounds on the house of their best ale- whatever taste that would be. 

TFC feels a weight press around his body, cold metal against his back and his entire weight lifted off the ground. TFC isn’t a heavy man, but he’s got the bones of any good miner. However, Jason in his cyborg form could easily pick him up, hugging him with one arm while grinding a human fist into Zed’s hair. “Congratulations, hermits! You really gave us a run for our money. But don’t be expecting us to go easy on you next time, twerps!” 

He lets go of the two he’s captured, inviting the whole group to sit with him. Grian bounces into the seat beside the automaton man. “Where’s the rest of your team? Did you guys get out alright in the labyrinth?”

Jason waves off his worries. “We were crushing it until we got to this real nasty chimaera. Should’ve known they’d be there, it’s literally in the name! The rest of those idiots are upstairs packing.” 

“Invite them down!” Iskall laughs, grabbing hold of the tankard placed and taking a large swig. Curiously, the ale is actually quite good, the mead having a fruity flavor and even the froth light and almost marshmellowy. 

“Get the wanderers too, they should get in on this celebration!” Joe adds, prompting Mumbo to be the soul to find them all. 

“The wanderers left already.” Jason has already finished his first round, and is going in for another. 

“Were they that disappointed in losing?” Xisuma questions, pulling his chair to face backwards and crowd in the ever growing table. 

“No, they were quite happy when you guys won. But they left suddenly, following after some guy with long white hair in a ponytail.” X nearly chokes on his drink, but Jason continues. “As soon as they left, we did get this lovely letter from the Council.” 

“Oh, great. Official hate mail.” Cleo sneers. She’s the first to pick up the paper, reading over it’s contents. “Ugh, it’s nothing even interesting. Just reminding all three teams that we are to disband immediately. We aren’t legal guilds, in case any of you didn’t remember.” 

“How could we forget?” Doc sneers. 

“We should leave sooner rather than later.” TFC hums, picking up the paper and reading across the elegant handwriting. All seven council members signed it. “Just in case the arcane guard decides to remind us again.” 

Xisuma recovers from his near death experience with his beer, eyes watering but otherwise back to his normal calm personality. “I have to agree with our guildmaster. We should get out of Milliara as soon as possible. I don’t think I want to be near here when the magistrate discovers our...intrusion.” 

“What about telling the king?” Impulse tips his head to the side, nearly catching it on fire with how close team ZIT is sitting. All three are still holding onto the mark of their dead guild, despite the joy of winning. Some scars never fade. Across the table, Jason just drinks away his confusion. 

“We can easily send a message from the Ashioll sea to the king. At least on Eremita we’re safer, it’s harder to reach us, but we can still message the king. Phoebe’s a good bird.” Grian still feels unnerved about how Dolios stared at him. 

The team shares one more drink, this time with all of the members of Team Crafted, before waving them off. It’s their turn to pack. Days of clothes strewn across beds, floors, and furniture. Gathering supplies, from hair brushes to gemstones, even Tango’s hair gel to keep the flames for locks from burning his pillow. 

They know they’re ready to leave when Scar tumbles down the stairs, his medals clattering against one another like a bell. His monstrosity of packing left much to be desired, but the hermits always knew they had everyone when Scar arrived- he was always last. With everyone gathered, they can finally leave Milliara. 

Coming to the city, they only hoped to leave with information on who attacked them. They didn’t expect to win any of the events- the Championship was simply a guise. But now, walking through the canal lined streets on their way home, they would return as champions. People pointed towards them, smiling and even cheering at the sight of Team STAR. Would they cheer if they knew they were an illegal guild? 

Passing through the nobility district, unfortunately in between them and the western gate, a crowd has already gathered in a wide plaza. At the sight of the arcane guard, the Council’s personal military, the muscles in every hermit tightens. They were warned to disband- this must be the legion here to make sure they do so. 

The throngs of people part, revealing the one person no hermit wanted to see. “Ah, I’m so thankful I was able to catch our victors before you returned to the countryside.” 

Magistrate Dolios stood before a large, ornate fountain. Gilded statues of various species and wizards, water casting up and down steps and terraces in the crescent shaped cascade. The water captures the torchlight of the evening air, dancing across Dolios. Shadows cast across his body, illuminating him from behind and hiding most of his features. The only defined part of him is the golden, sun shaped clasp holding his cape, light bouncing off the lustrous material. Among the group, a short scuffle breaks out. Tango and Zedaph are barely able to hold Impulse back, to keep him from blowing the magistrate off the face of this kingdom. The whole plaza was watching. 

“Hello, Magistrate. For what do we owe the...honor?” TFC steps up, putting himself between the dark mage before him and the team behind him. That magnetic smile never wavers, Dolios’s eyes sweeping across the cityfolk around them. 

“I came to congratulate you all personally. And to invite you all to capitol hall for a feast in your honor. It’s not every day that a non-guild team wins the Chimaera’s Championship. You are exactly the reason why I opened the games to teams, and you proved me right in doing so.” Dolios waves his hand. “Please, join me for a feast, champions.” 

The magistrate’s eyes flick to the side, quickly running across the faces of the people around the hermits. TFC follows his gaze, at the hundreds of people standing around them. Waiting for their answer. He can hear them whispering, the honor to be invited to dine with the leader of Lairyon. The hermit guildmaster can feel the pressure to agree. Turning down such a proposal would be like turning down a gift from the gods. 

A flash of metal catches TFC’s eyes, as does the fearful faces of the hermits. The arcane guard, initially holding back the watching crowd, has moved in on his guild. While the swords of the guards remain sheathed, he can clearly see the sharp, shear edges of hidden knives held at the backs of each hermit. The carrot and the stick, laid out clearly before TFC. He has no choice. “We are so grateful for such an offer, I simply can’t refuse.” 

The delighted smile on Dolios’s face does not mask the hungry gleam in his eyes, and the magistrate walks away from the fountain. TFC can clearly see his face now, the smooth brown hair of his beard and well tamed curls of his ponytail. “Let us feast, in honor of the gods, the ancient ones, and the good people of Lairyon that have made this kingdom wonderful.” 

Guards close around the guild, moving between the townsfolk at hermits like they’re trying to protect them. But every hermit can feel the cold, sharp metal against their backs. They’d be safer in a pit of afanc than here among the arcane guard. They have no choice but to follow Dolios, away from prying eyes. They travel up the steps of the capitol hall, the ornate doors of the building swallowing them whole and closing it’s lips with a heavy wooden slam of the doors.