prologue

Clara did not sneak; sneaking implied shame. There would be no hint of shame. On this night, she was doing her Lord’s work.

​This moment was the culmination of centuries of patience. Empires had risen and fallen while she waited, yet she regretted not a single second. Her Lord had granted her extended life as a necessity for his favored consort. Clara had accepted the gift, the burden, and the purpose. Now the vault of the Silent Order would open, and history would remember whom it had tried to bury. 

​She moved through the vault of the Silent Order with the lethal grace of a woman who had memorized the blueprints a lifetime ago. Her crimson-and-ebony armor caught the flickering magelight. 

​"Hurry," she hissed to her subordinates. "The wardens stir."

Around her, acolytes of the Lucasian Temple shattered glass cases and gathered relics into bags of holding. This was not theft; this was reclamation. History had been buried here, and Clara had come with a shovel. 

​She stopped before a massive central pedestal. Resting atop it was a jagged, crystalline prison. Inside, a dark, swirling smoke pulsed with a heartbeat of pure chaos.

​Nethyua. Her Lord. Bound, but alive.

​"I have you," Clara whispered, her hand trembling as she reached out.

​The moment her skin touched the crystal, the world screamed. Wards flared red, and the air pressure dropped so sharply her ears popped. The crystal shattered into dust. Smoke convulsed into something almost shaped: horns melting into flame, eyes opening where no face had settled, armor forming and unforming around a heart of ash. Malice older than the Order that had chained him filled the vault.

Her Lord had returned.

​She dropped to a knee, head bowed. "My Lord," she choked out, her voice breaking.

A hand shaped itself from smoke and cooling magma, unsteady yet deliberate, and cupped her chin.

“You kept your vow,” Nethyua rasped, each word scraping itself into shape, rising and sinking as though his voice could not decide what throat it belonged to. “You have done well.” 

​“Seal the chamber!” a voice boomed from the entrance. 

​The heavy iron doors blew inward. Silent Order wardens flooded the chamber, weapons glowing with binding light. Behind them, armored sealers moved in lockstep, chains and sigils rattling with every step.  The thunderous rhythm of armored reinforcements echoed down the corridor.

​"We must go!" Clara shouted, hurling an orb of convulsing fire to buy them seconds.

Nethyua paused. His form flickered, unable to hold a single shape. Centuries of sealing had hollowed him to embers. He looked at the charging wardens. He could slaughter many, yes. But not enough. Not before they buried him in chains again. 

​His gaze shifted across the forest of pedestals crowding the vault: demons in glass, cursed weapons under seal, bound gods reduced to trophies. 

​A thought curled through his mind like his own swirling shape. The Silent Order believed itself the world’s jailer. For millennia, it had buried every horror it could not destroy.

Nethyua smiled.

Why not empty the graves?

“If I cannot rule this world today,” he sneered, “neither will you.”

He aimed.

With the last of his strength, Nethyua turned his wrath on the vault. Spiraling fire spilled from him. A blazing command. Reality split open around the pedestals. 

​"Disperse," Nethyua commanded.

The relics obeyed. Glass prisons cracked. Chains snapped. Seals screamed apart. One by one, the buried things vanished into the wounds between worlds. A cursed sword to a bandit camp. A demon to a noble’s court. A god to a place that had forgotten how to pray. Chaos, sown across the world in a single heartbeat. 

​A spear of white binding light erupted from the warden line, aimed directly at Clara’s exposed back.

​She braced for death, but it never came.

​Nethyua moved with a speed that defied his weakened state. He stepped between her and the light, his form absorbing the white fire with a hiss of agony. He grunted, smoke pouring from his shoulder, but he did not step aside. He would not lose his investment so soon.

​"Hold on," he growled.

Darkness wrapped around them, and they dissolved just as the wardens’ next volley scorched the spot where they had stood.

​Somewhere Else

​Thousands of miles away, deep beneath the twisted canopy of the Weeping Pine Forest, the air rippled.

​A tear in reality opened, sickly green and sounding like a cathedral bell cracking. It spat out a single object.

It struck the mud with a dull thud, and frost webbed through the damp earth around it. It wasn't an entity like Nethyua. It was something older. Something colder.

​A simple band of black obsidian, pulsing with a faint violet glow.

​The Ring lay in the dirt, its consciousness recalibrating from the forced teleportation. It reached out, its senses expanding. It felt the damp earth. It felt the primitive wildlife.

​And then, it felt a signal.

​A mind. Structured. Logical. Stubborn.

​It was a stream of thought bleeding through the thin veil of reality.

It checked all the boxes on the list.

​Resonance.

​The Ring did not ask for permission. It locked onto the signal.

​It pulled.

Chapter One

CLANG.

​The sound of iron punishing iron echoed through the empty gym. There was not a soul around but him. Sweat glistened against his dark skin, running in rivulets down his face.

​"Last set."

​Siurad rose from the bench. Standing at 6’4”, he cast a long shadow over the rack of dumbbells. He was a mountain of a man, his muscles still tight from a shift bouncing drunks out of the local club.

He grabbed a towel, wiped his face, and pulled his thick dreadlocks back from his forehead. The mirror gave him the usual inventory: broad shoulders, tired eyes, locs hanging past his shoulders, a body built for removing problems from doorways.

He did not smile.

For Siurad, the gym was not a hobby. It was maintenance. The life that actually felt like his was waiting at home.

He grabbed his gym bag. It was time to log in.

​Siurad dropped into his gaming chair with a heavy creak of protesting leather. The blue light from the monitor illuminated his small, quiet apartment. He cracked open a beer, the hiss of the tab the only sound in the room, and booted up his sanctuary. The only place that still made sense to him.

​Cassalia: Whispers of the Void.

​He was deep into another run of Cassalia, chasing the same kind of mastery that had kept him returning for years. Most players avoided the forbidden schools of Death and Shadow. They were slow, punishing, and unforgiving. Siurad loved them for exactly that reason.

There was a rhythm to shadow magic that made sense to him: pressure, timing, sacrifice, reward. It was not flashy. It was not clean. But in the right hands, it turned impossible fights into solved problems.

Tonight’s problem was the Arch-Lich Morthos.

Morthos stood at the center of a ruined cathedral, all bone, frost, and theatrical menace. Siurad had killed him before with fists, fire, and holy light across half a dozen abandoned playthroughs. None of those victories had satisfied him like this one.

“One more blast ought to do it.”

His fingers moved across the keys with practiced ease. Shadow tore through Morthos, unraveling the lich into bone fragments and violet static.

“Sit down,” Siurad muttered, taking a sip of beer. “Now show me the bracers.”

The corpse should have dissolved. The loot window should have opened. Instead, something black appeared in the ruins of the lich’s ribcage.

A chest.

It was not rendered like the rest of the game. Its edges jittered against the screen, too sharp, too dark, glimmering with a violent violet light that made the monitor hum.

Siurad leaned closer. “That... isn’t normal.” He hesitated for half a second.

“New patch?” he muttered.

He knew better.

He clicked it anyway.

​It exploded.

​A blinding violet light radiated from the screen; it reached out, physical and heavy, extending like a hand. Before he could push his chair back, the light swallowed the room.

​"What the f—"

​The light vanished, replaced instantly by a sensation of absolute zero. It was a piercing cold, like diving naked into a frozen river. It bypassed his skin and went straight for his soul. 

​The fear finally hit him. It was tangible, heavy in his gut. He scrambled up from his chair, intent on running, on fighting, on doing something.

​It was too late.

​A sound like a lightning strike reverberated through the apartment, shattering his windows. Black tendrils of smoke coalesced around his arms and legs, binding him. His computer monitor exploded in a shower of sparks. A tearing wound in reality opened beneath his feet.

​The last thing he saw was the floor rushing up to meet him. Then, total darkness.

​He awoke face-first in the mud.

​The smell hit him first, wet earth and pine needles. The cold wind bit at his exposed neck. Groaning, Siurad pushed himself up, wiping muck from his eyes. His locs

 were heavy with mud, clinging to his face.

​He wasn't in his apartment. He was in a forest. Endless rows of ancient, weeping pine trees stretched out in every direction, shrouded in mist.

​"Where the hell..."

​A sudden, rhythmic pulsing throbbed against his hand. He looked down.

​There was a ring on his finger. A simple band of black obsidian on his right ring finger, pulsing with a faint, violet light against his dark skin.

 It wasn't his. He'd never worn a ring in his life. He grabbed it with his other hand, his fingers fumbling, and tried to pull it off. The ring wouldn't budge. It was fixed to his finger as if it were part of his very bone. He pulled harder; it would not budge. 

“The fuck is this shit?”

Then he panicked, his cyclical thoughts cut short by a new sensation. A cold, vast, and impossibly ancient intelligence that was inside his own mind.

​​'...FINALLY A  SUITABLE VESSEL.'

​Siurad scrambled backward, clutching his head.

​"Suitable what? I'm going crazy. What is this? Are you a demon? Am I possessed?" The thoughts came one after another like a caravan of accursed premonitions.”

'...YOUR QUESTIONS ARE CHAOTIC. THEY ARE IRRELEVANT, VESSEL,' the voice stated, its cold power settling over his mind like a shroud. '...OUR PACT IS SEALED.'

Get out of my head!" Siurad yelled, clawing at his ears. He looked at the ring again. The obsidian band seemed to be throbbing in sync with the voice. "I'm dreaming. I fell asleep at the keyboard. This is a lucid dream. Wake up, Siurad. Wake up!"

​He slapped himself in the face. 

Hard. 

It stung, but the forest didn't dissolve into pixels.

​'...YOU  ARE NOT DREAMING. YOU ARE RELOCATED.'

​"Relocated to where? Narnia? The Matrix?" Siurad laughed, a frantic, hysterical sound. "I was in my apartment! I was raiding!"

​'...THE GREAT WORK MUST CONTINUE,' the voice stated, ignoring his outburst. '...TIME HAS BEEN WASTED. CENTURIES… MILLENIA OF STAGNATION. WE MUST BEGIN THE UNBINDING.'

Get the hell out of my head," he whispered, his voice trembling, a desperate plea. "Are you going to take my soul?"

He felt a sensation that was almost amusement—a cold, dry, and humorless thing.

'...SOUL IS A CONSTRUCT, A CHAOTIC VARIABLE. I DO NOT TAKE VESSEL. I UTILIZE.' The voice was sharp, corrective. '...THE RING ON YOUR HAND IS A PRISON OF MY POWER. IT IS YOUR FOCUS. IT IS MY SHACKLE STAND, VESSEL. WE HAVE WORK TO DO.'

"I don't know what you're talking about! I'm a security guard! I pay rent! I don't do Great Works!"

​The pulsing in the ring stopped for a second. The silence was heavy, judgmental.

​'...YOUR DENIAL IS TEDIOUS.'

​Then, the volume dial in Siurad’s head turned from a manageable five to a deafening eleven.

​'...LISTEN TO ME.'

​The words weren't just sounds; they were pressure. Siurad gasped, dropping to his knees in the mud. He clamped his hands over his ears, but it was useless. The voice was bypassing his eardrums and shouting directly into his mind. It felt like a migraine having a baby.

​"Stop! Stop it!" Siurad screamed, curling into a ball.

​'...FEAR IS NOT AN  ACCEPTABLE SOLUTION,' the Entity boomed, the sound rattling Siurad’s teeth. '...PANIC IS ILLOGICAL CEASE.'

​Siurad groaned, his forehead pressed into the wet dirt. "Okay! Okay! I'm listening! Sweet baby Jesus, just turn it down!"

The pressure receded instantly, leaving a high-pitched ringing in his ears. Siurad panted, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He wiped mud from his mouth, staring at the ring with a mix of terror and awe.

 It was an impulsive decision, but he decided he would not move. His mind, still reeling from the shock, blurted out, "Naw fuck this! I need answers!"

'...THE GREAT WORK IS  UPON US, VESSEL.'

"Work? What work? What are you?" Siurad panted, clutching his head as the entity’s presence roamed through his mind, sifting through his memories with the chilling detachment of a data miner.

'...WHAT I AM… WHAT I AM  IS ORDER. WHAT YOU ARE IS CHAOS.'

“Chaos?!“ Siurad replied, his voice laced with defiance, “Look, I've seen enough anime and movies to know if you just kill me now, whatever the plan is can't be done, so guess what? 

You're gonna have to off me. Get it over with! I'm not gonna release the antichrist or be responsible for setting loose the world-ending demon, nope, not me, not today.”

'...I HAVE SUMMONED YOU. YOU POSSESS THE NECESSARY RESONANCE. YOUR MIND UNDERSTANDS. THE VOID STIRS.'

​"The Void?" Siurad whispered, his voice hoarse. "Am I in the game?"

​'...A GAME? A PRIMITIVE SIMULATION. THIS IS NOT A GAME,' the Entity corrected sharply. '...THIS IS THE AUTHORITY,' the voice rumbled. '...THE  GREAT WORK. THE FINAL STRUCTURE. THE WORLD AS IT SHOULD BE. A REFUGE FROM THE FLAW.'

The world vanished. Siurad was suspended in a void, watching a vision unfold in his mind's eye. A feeling of being pulled, of falling through an unseen space, preceded the new sight.

'...BEHOLD,' the voice pulsed, the words vibrating against the inside of his skull like a heavy bass line. '...THE DESIGN. THE CITADEL'

A reality bloomed before him; it seemed a memory.

He was floating above a metropolis carved from endless, seamless night. It was a city of obsidian glass, rising high like a jagged mountain. 

It was Geometry Divine.

Massive spires pierced the sky. The architecture was aggressive in its perfection, sharp angles, absolute symmetry, and surfaces so polished they reflected a violet sky that had no sun, only a soft, omnipresent glow.

'...THIS IS THE AUTHORITY,' the voice rumbled, the pauses between the words feeling like the ticking of a cosmic clock. '...STRUCTURE WITHOUT EROSION STONE WITHOUT DECAY.'

The vision zoomed in, sweeping toward the highest balcony of the central Citadel.

Two figures stood there, looking out over the perfect world they had built.

On the left stood a man made of sharp angles and pale skin, the Architect. He held a ledger, his ink-stained fingers tracing the lines of the city below, checking the math of existence.  

Beside him stood a woman in terrifying black plate armor, her eyes glowing with violet fire, the General. She didn't look at the city; she looked at the horizon, daring the chaos to approach.  

They stood shoulder to shoulder. The logic and the force. The blueprint and the sword.

'...THE MIND,' the Entity pulsed, a wave of cold, heavy nostalgia washing over Siurad. '...AND THE HEART THEY WERE THE PILLARS A PERFECT CLOSED LOOP.'

Then, the image flickered.

The two figures dissolved into smoke and ash. The balcony was empty for a heartbeat.

Then, a new figure stepped forward to take their place.

It was Siurad.

He saw himself clad in the same black armor, a heavy cloak billowing in the wind. He wasn't a security guard anymore. He wasn't a gamer. He was a shepherd of order standing at the helm of a machine that ran forever.  

'...THEY ARE GONE,' the voice stated, the nostalgia replaced by a cold, demanding weight. '...THEY FAILED. NOW THERE IS ONLY YOU, THE VESSEL, THE HEIR.'

The vision shattered. The obsidian city fractured like a broken mirror, replaced by a gritty view of a different reality.

His reality.

Siurad saw his own apartment. But through the Entity’s eyes, it wasn't home. It was a cell of Chaos.

He saw the dirty laundry piled in the corner.

'...INEFFICIENT RESOURCE ALLOCATION.'

He saw the stack of overdue bills on the counter.

'...SYSTEMIC FAILURE.'

He saw himself, sitting in the dark, the blue light of the monitor reflecting in his tired eyes.

'...A VESSEL WASTING POTENTIAL ON A SIMULATION.'

The Entity ripped through Siurad’s memories with surgical cruelty. It showed him the job applications he never sent because he was afraid of rejection. 

It showed him the nights he spent doom-scrolling, paralyzed by the infinite, screaming choices of the modern world. It showed him the loneliness he buried under 100% completion runs.

'...YOU SUFFER,' the Entity stated. It wasn't an accusation; it was a diagnosis. '...YOU EXIST IN A SYSTEM OF ENTROPY. YOU FEAR THE CHAOS, AND YET YOU DROWN IN IT.'

The vision swirled, blending the two worlds. The image of Siurad on the balcony returned, superimposed over his cramped apartment. A promise of control.

'...I DO NOT ONLY OFFER POWER, VESSEL,' the voice deepened, hooking into that dark part of Siurad that just wanted things to be simple.

'...I OFFER THE SOLUTION, I OFFER THE END OF THE NOISE. HELP ME REBUILD, AND YOU WILL NEVER BE HELPLESS AGAIN.'

The vision evaporated.

Siurad slammed back into his body, gasping for air, his hands clutching the wet roots of the weeping pine. The silence of the forest felt deafening compared to the humming perfection of the city he had just seen.

He was terrified. The Entity was a tyrant; that was obvious.

But for a split second... the idea sounded like salvation.

'...YOU HAVE ONLY KNOWN SUFFERING,' the entity stated, its voice resonating with a deep, ancient, bottomless rage. '...THE WORLD IS DEVOID OF ORDER CHAOS BREEDS PAIN.'

'...THE FLAW IS PAIN,' the voice in his head said, receding to a cold weight in the back of his skull. '...WE WILL CORRECT IT.'

The entity's logic was terrifying and tyrannical... and, in a dark, secret part of his mind, seductive.

"You... you want to build that... here?" Siurad managed.

'...WE WILL REBUILD,' the voice declared. '...THE AUTHORITY WAS BROKEN FROM WITHIN. BOUND BY THE HEART, THE MIND, MY WILL BOUND TO THIS ORNAMENT.'

'...YOU HAVE ANSWERED THE CALL YOU WILL BE MY HAND, MY WILL, MY HEIR.'

Siurad looked down at his hands, his dark skin covered in mud, the black ring stark against it. It pulsed with a faint, internal chill, a subtle hum that vibrated against his skin. "I can't," he whispered. "I'm... not capable of …of this."

'...YOU ARE STRUCTURED LOGICAL A MASTER OF SYSTEMS YOU UNDERSTAND THE DARK. YOU ARE ENOUGH.'

You are enough hung in his mind, a seductive whisper. It sounded so good to hear, but from whom was he hearing it? The phrase resonated with a deep, hidden part of him that craved validation, a counterpoint to years of self-doubt.

The voice did not fade. The sales pitch was over, and the voice simply... settled. It retracted its thunderous presence, shrinking to a cold, constant, observing weight in the back of his mind. It wasn't gone. It was watching.

'...YOUR PANIC IS CHAOS,' the Entity stated, its voice now calm and analytical, like a professor disappointed in a student. 

'...IT IS INEFFICIENT. WE WILL FIX IT. THE PACT IS SEALED.'

'...YOUR PRIMITIVE SIMULATION IS GONE. TOGETHER WE WILL FIX IT ALL.'

'...THEY WILL KNOW CORRECTION. THEY WILL KNOW OBLIVION. THEY WILL KNOW AUTHORITY.'

'...YOU MUST LEARN, GROW, OBEY.'

Siurad stood alone in the alien woods, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was terrified, lost, and possibly insane. But he was not alone. 

Processing the implications of those words, he felt the seductive pull of the vision come to a sudden, jarring stop.

"Obey?" Siurad bristled, his voice sharp with defiance. "Let's get something straight: I am no one’s slave. If we’re going to have a working relationship, we’re doing it my way."

He raised his right hand, his fingers tracing the obsidian band. The stone was unnervingly cold, a physical reminder that, regardless of his words, he was already bound.

With his options exhausted, he began to accept the inevitable. The Entity’s pitch had been effective, after all. A reality stripped of suffering, defined by flawless order, what was the true cost of such a vision? Besides, Siurad had never been one to leave a task unfinished; he had always been a completionist.

"Fine," he whispered, directing the word into the vast silence of his own mind rather than the surrounding woods. "Fine. What’s the next move?"

He let his eyelids fall, and the Entity’s response echoed through his consciousness:

'...WE WALK.'

Chapter Two

Siurad was many things, but an outdoorsman was not one of them.

​The walk was miserable. The forest floor was a sludge of decaying pine needles and freezing mud that sucked at his expensive gym sneakers with every step. The wind cut right through his sweat-dampened tank top, turning his perspiration into a layer of ice against his skin.

​Around him, the forest was offensively loud, crickets screaming, branches snapping, and the wet squelch of his own misery. He was cold, he was hungry, and he was pretty sure he had stepped in something that wasn't mud.

​The Entity, meanwhile, was not offering comfort. It was offering a critique.

​'...THIS PLACE IS UNTIDY.'

​The voice boomed in Siurad's skull, vibrating against his molars. It was the heavy, resonant tone of a cathedral bell tolling deep underground.

​'...THE TREES GROW WITHOUT SYMMETRY. THE MUD HAS NO STRUCTURE. IT IS DISGUSTING.'

​"It's a forest," Siurad chattered, hugging himself for warmth. "It's nature. Nature is messy."

​'...NATURE IS A FLAW,' the Entity corrected, its tone dripping with ancient arrogance. '...IT REQUIRES PAVING.'

​Siurad ignored the landscaping advice. He scanned the treeline, his mind instinctively looking for patterns, for paths, for the optimal route he would look for in a game. But there were no glowing arrows here. Just trees.

​'...WE REQUIRE ELEVATION,' the voice continued. '...I DO NOT RECOGNIZE THIS FILTH. WE MUST LOCATE THE CITADEL.'

​"So," Siurad stammered, ducking under a low-hanging branch that dripped ice water down his neck. "What do I... ch-ch... call you, anyway? If we’re going to be roommates in my head."

​The Entity paused. The silence felt heavy, like the air pressure dropping before a storm.

​'...I AM THE ANCHOR. I AM THE FINAL WORD. I AM THE VECTOR BETWEEN FIRST MOTION AND LAST STILLNESS. I AM THE WILL THAT BINDS THE—.'

​"Yeah, that's a mouthful," Siurad interrupted, stepping over a rotting log. "You're an Obsidian ring. I'm calling you Obi."

​The ring on his finger didn't heat up. It went cold, an instantaneous drop to absolute zero that burned worse than fire against his skin.

​'...INSOLENCE.'

​The voice dropped an octave, becoming dangerous.

'...I AM ENTROPY, VESSEL. YOU DO NOT GIVE ME A PET NAME.'

​"It's efficient," Siurad countered, rubbing his freezing hands but standing his ground. He used the Entity's own logic against it. "You like efficiency, right? 'The Will That Binds Whatever' takes four seconds to say. Obi takes one. I'm saving us time."

​There was a long, cold silence in his head. Siurad could almost feel the Entity processing the audacity, weighing the insult against the logic.

​'...INEFFICIENT NOMENCLATURE,' the Entity finally grumbled, sounding like a grumpy old man who refused to admit he was wrong. '...BUT ACCEPTABLE, FOR NOW.'

​"Right. Glad we agree, Obi," Siurad muttered. "Now, look, I'm happy to be your... vessel... but this vessel is currently freezing to death. My place is about to be a frozen corpse. Can your magnificent, dark-willingness do anything about that? Like a magical fire? Or at least spawn me some dry socks?"

​'...I AM NOT A NURSEMAID,' Obi scoffed. '...SUFFERING BUILDS CHARACTER. AND YOU HAVE VERY LITTLE CHARACTER.'

​"Great," Siurad sighed, his breath pluming in the air. "I have a god in my head, and he's a micromanager who hates socks."

​'...WALK  VESSEL,' Obi commanded. ... '...WE HAVE WORK TO DO.'

​Siurad looked at the dark, endless woods. He looked at the ring. He realized he didn't really have a choice. He was player one in a game he didn't yet know the rules to.

​"Fine," Siurad muttered, forcing his frozen legs to move. "We walk. But I'm complaining the whole time."

He took three whole steps before mud swallowed his shoe up to the laces.

“My Jordans...” Siurad said, his voice thick with a genuine, tragic sniffle.

​The freezing cold was bad enough. The magic kidnapping was worse. But the systematic destruction of his mint-condition retros was a war crime. If there was unimaginable power at the end of this rainbow, his first decree as dark lord would be to pave this entire forest.

​The silence stretched, heavy and judgmental. The ring on his finger hummed with a low, cold vibration that felt suspiciously like it was rolling its eyes.

​“Soo,” Siurad said, the quiet scratching at his nerves. “Tell me about this... Authority. Are you a ghost? A demon? You keep saying Entropy, but you sound like a disgruntled architect.”

​The ring pulsed, a sharp, cold throb against his bone.

​'...YOU TALK TOO MUCH VESSEL.'

​“Hey, you chose me,” Siurad countered, crossing his arms and tucking his hands into his armpits for warmth. “I was perfectly fine eating Doritos and grinding dungeons. You’re the one who dragged me into the mud.”

​He looked down at the obsidian band.

​“Besides,” he muttered, “it's not like I can take this damn thing off. We're roommates now. You might as well talk.” 

“We're basically partners.”

'...PARTNERSHIP IMPLIES EQUALITY,' Obi noted dryly. '...YOU ARE A COMPONENT. WALK.'

​"Yeah, yeah. I'm walking," Siurad grumbled, pulling his feet out of the sucking mud. "But if I'm a component, I'm a component that needs temperature regulation. Seriously, Obi. No fire? Not even a little spark? I'm freezing my assets off here."

​'...FIRE?'

​The voice dripped with cosmic insult.

'...DO I LOOK LIKE A HEDGE WIZARD TO YOU?'

​"I don't know what you look like. You're a ring."

​'...FIRE IS ALCHEMY. IT IS A CRUDE CHEMICAL REACTION. I AM THE VOID. I DO NOT CAST SPELLS.' 

​"Great," Siurad sighed, his breath pluming in the air. "I have a god in my head, and he's too bougie for a campfire."

​He trudged forward, pushing aside a wet pine branch.

​"So what can you do? Can you navigate? Can you—"

​"Help! Please!"

​Siurad froze. The voice came from the path ahead.

​A man stumbled out from behind a thicket. He looked rough, with a stained tunic; he was limping, clutching his side. He saw Siurad and his eyes widened with relief.

​"Oh, thank the gods," the man wheezed, hobbling closer. "Traveler... please. My cart... the wheel broke... my leg..."

​Siurad’s eyes narrowed. He stopped walking. He wasn't a hero; he was a bouncer. He’d spent ten years watching drunks try to talk their way past the velvet rope, and he knew a hustle when he saw one.

​The man’s limp was on the wrong leg from where he was holding his side. His eyes weren't scanning Siurad’s face for sympathy; they were scanning his pockets.

​"Back up, chief," Siurad said, his voice dropping into his time to leave the club register. "I ain't got nothing for you."

​"Just a hand," the man pleaded, getting too close, too fast. "Just lend me a—"

​The man lunged. The limp vanished instantly. A rusted shiv appeared from his sleeve, thrusting upward toward Siurad’s ribs.

​It was a classic shank move. Fast, dirty, lethal.

​Siurad didn't panic. Muscle memory took over. Block the wrist. Control the center.

​He slapped the man’s wrist aside with his left hand and grabbed the man’s collar with his right, intending to just shove him back to create distance.

​He shoved.

​CRACK.

​It didn't feel like shoving a full-grown man. It felt like shoving a child.

​The bandit didn't just stumble back. He flew.

​The man’s feet left the ground completely. He sailed ten feet through the air, crashing back-first into a pine tree with a sickening, bone-rattling thud. He hit the ground and didn't move.

​Siurad stared at his own hand.

​"What the..." he whispered.

​He was strong back home, you had to be to break up fights at 2 AM, but he wasn't that strong. That was wire-fu. That was superhero stuff.

​'...ADRENALINE,' Obi noted, unimpressed. '...A PRIMITIVE STIMULANT. BUT EFFECTIVE.'

​"That wasn't adrenaline," Siurad muttered, flexing his fingers. "I barely touched him."

​"Get him!"

​The shout came from the trees.

​Siurad looked up. The ruse was over.

​Three more men burst from the underbrush. These weren't faking injuries. They were big, they were dirty, and they were armed. One held a woodcutter's axe; the other two held short, jagged swords.

​They looked at their unconscious friend slumped against the tree, then at Siurad. They didn't look scared. They looked angry.

​"He broke Tarl's back!" the leader roared. "Gut him!"

​Siurad’s confidence faltered. He could handle a drunk. He could apparently toss a mugger like a frisbee. But three men with killing intent and poking sticks? That was different math.

​"Wait," Siurad said, backing up, his hands raised. "Look, I don't want trouble. I just—"

​They charged.

​This wasn't a bar fight. This was a slaughter.

​'...PATHETIC,' Obi hissed in his mind. '...YOU ARE THE HEIR, AND YOU COWER BEFORE VERMIN?'

​"I don't have a weapon!" Siurad yelled, dodging a swing of the axe that took a chunk out of a tree bark next to his head.

​'...YOU ARE THE WEAPON. RAISE YOUR HAND.'

​"I'm not a mage!"

​'...I TOLD YOU, VESSEL. WE DO NOT CAST. WE OPEN.'

​The leader swung the sword. Siurad had nowhere to go. His back hit the rough bark of a pine tree.

​'...OPEN THE GATE FEEL THE VOID.'

​It was a subconscious decision. It was an instinct he didn't know he had. Siurad thrust his hand forward, palm open, screaming in terror.

​"Get Away!"

​He didn't speak a spell. Something from within pushed.

​The ring flared a violet light. The air pressure dropped. The temperature plummeted.

​THWACK-CRUNCH.

​A jagged spear of solid, obsidian black shadow erupted from his hand. It skewered him.

​The spike punched through the man's chest armor like it was wet paper, pinning him to a tree.

​The bandit gurgled, looking down at the black shards protruding from his chest, and went limp.

​Silence fell over the forest.

​The other two bandits skidded to a halt, staring at their leader, then at the black spike that was slowly dissolving into smoke.

​Siurad stared at his hand. It was smoking, black vapor rising from his skin.

​"Oh god," Siurad whispered, the bile rising in his throat. "Oh god, I just..."

​'...EFFICIENT,' Obi noted coldly. '...TWO REMAIN. CORRECT THEM.'

The two remaining bandits froze. They looked at the hole in their leader's chest, then at the man who did it. For a second, the math didn't add up fight the wizard or run?

​But fear is a volatile variable. It doesn't always make men run; sometimes, it makes them stupid.

​The one with the axe let out a scream a jagged, desperate sound meant to scare away the monster he thought Siurad was. He charged, his heavy boots churning the freezing slush into a spray of black dirt.

​"Die, you cultist bastard!"

​Siurad’s bouncer instincts kicked in. He took a quick step back, trying to distance himself from the aggressor.

​It was a terrible error.

​His right sneaker, smooth-soled, expensive, and utterly useless in the wild, hit a patch of slick, wet pine needles. Friction left the chat.

​Whoosh. Thud.

​Siurad’s legs went out from under him. He hit the ground hard, the air driven from his lungs in a wheezing gasp. Cold mud instantly soaked through his shirt, freezing his skin.

​Panic flared, and he scrambled backward on his elbows, shoes scrabbling for steady ground that wasn't there.

​The bandit loomed over him, axe raised high, a silhouette of dirty death against the grey sky.

​Siurad stared up at the rusty blade. I'm going todie because I slipped. I'm going to die because of fucking Jordans.

​The ring pulsed. It wasn't a warning; it was a critique.

​'...YOUR CENTER OF GRAVITY IS OFFENSIVE.'

​Obi’s voice was calm, contrasting the axe swinging down toward Siurad's face.

​'...YOU ARE PRONE. THE POSITION IS INEFFICIENT. FIX IT.'

“No shit,” Siurad yelled. Raising his hand, Siurad looked up at his attacker and yelled, “Shadow Spike!”

The words did nothing, but Siurad felt the same sensation from a moment ago. A tether connected to his soul. It was like having a phantom limb. Something felt but not seen.

The shadows quickly coalesced around his wrist, traveling to his palm. Twirling in a wispy ball of black clouds. The shadows began to take form. Jagged and sharp edges began to protrude through the cloud. His arm felt heavier, the shifting energy gaining a sudden density. The jagged spoke burst forth just as the man was bringing his blade down.

The spike ran right through the man's skull. The sound of cracking bamboo rang through Siurad's ears. The man's head jerked back in a violent motion, but it did not stop his momentum. He fell in a heap right next to Siurad. 

Siurad stared at the man twitching in the mud. He felt sick. He felt powerful. He felt sick about feeling powerful.

The last remaining bandit dropped his weapons in surrender. “Please, I was only following orders,” his desperate pleas growing ever louder.

"I... I was just following orders! Let me go! I won't say nothin'!"

​Siurad looked at the man. He looked at the rusted sword lying in the mud. The fight was over. The threat was neutralized.

​"Get out of here," Siurad rasped, wiping sweat and tears from his eyes. "Go. Run."

​The bandit scrambled to his feet, eyes wide with a mix of terror and opportunity. He turned to run, splashing through the puddles.

​'...NO.'"

​The voice in his head was a gavel strike.

​'...HE IS A VARIABLE. IF HE ESCAPES, HE RETURNS. CORRECT HIM.'

​"I'm not executing a guy running away, Obi," Siurad hissed, watching the man retreat into the gloom. "We're done here."

​'...DO THE MATH, VESSEL.'

​Obi’s voice was cold, devoid of anger, purely analytical.

​'...YOU ARE LOST. YOU ARE EXHAUSTED. IF HE RETURNS WITH TEN MEN, THE PROBABILITY OF YOUR SURVIVAL DROPS TO ZERO. IS YOUR MORALITY WORTH YOUR LIFE?'

​Siurad watched the bandit's back retreating. He imagined the man finding a camp. He imagined arrows coming from the trees in an hour. He imagined dying in this cold, wet hell because he hesitated.

​The logic was brutal. It was undeniable. But it wasn't Siurad.

“I am not a murderer,” Siurad said defiance taking hold.

'...YOU FOOL!'

'...YOU WOULD ALLOW THIS SCUM TO ESCAPE?'

​'...TO REPEAT THIS CHAOTIC PROCESS ON MORE INNOCENT PEOPLE?'

​'...THIS ONE DOES NOT DESERVE LIFE!'

​Siurad, stunned by the outburst, thought back, "Remember? We were gonna have rules! I'm not going to kill people who don't deserve it!"

He paused for a moment, the bravado spilling from him slowly, then he sighed.

"Let him go," Siurad whispered.

​The bandit crested the hill and vanished into the treeline. He was gone.

​'...FOOLISH,' Obi pulsed, the ring vibrating with icy disappointment. '...YOU HAVE PLANTED A SEED OF CHAOS. DO NOT BE SURPRISED WHEN IT BLOOMS.'

​"I guess I'll deal with it then," Siurad muttered.

​The adrenaline finally crashed.

​The silence of the forest rushed back in, heavy and wet. Siurad looked down at the man at his feet, the one with the caved-in skull. The Shadow Spike had dissolved, leaving a gruesome, impossible wound.

​He looked at the leader, whom he pinned to the tree. Then his gaze moved to the man he tossed like a rag doll.

​Dead. All of them.

​Siurad’s knees gave out. He sat down heavily in the mud, right next to the corpse.

​He stared at his hands. They were shaking. Not a little tremble a violent, uncontrollable shudder.

​"I killed them," he whispered.

​'...THEY WERE FLAWS,' Obi stated flatly. '...THEY INITIATED THE CONFLICT. YOU RESOLVED IT.THEY WERE CORRECTED.'

​"They were people, Obi. Shitty people, yeah. But people."

​Siurad rubbed his face, smearing mud and sweat across his skin. He felt nauseous. In Cassalia, killing was just clicking. You pressed a button, the health bar dropped, and the ragdoll physics took over.

​Here... there was a smell. The iron tang of blood mixed with other bodily fluids. The sound of the breath leaving the body.

​"I didn't think it would feel like this," Siurad said, his voice hollow. "I thought... I don't know. I thought I'd feel cool. Or heroic."

​'...HEROISM IS A NARRATIVE CONSTRUCT,' Obi lectured. '...SURVIVAL IS BIOLOGICAL. YOU SURVIVED. THAT IS THE ONLY METRIC THAT MATTERS.'

​"It matters to me," Siurad countered weakly.

​'...THEN YOU ARE STILL WEAK.'

​The ring pulsed again, slower this time.

​'...BUT YOU ARE ALIVE, AND THEY ARE NOT. LEARN TO LIVE WITH THE DIFFERENCE.'

​Siurad sat there for a long moment, the cold seeping into his bones. He realized Obi was right about one thing: he was freezing. If he stayed here staring at the bodies, he'd join them.

​He looked at the dead man's boots. They were sturdy leather. Caked in mud, but whole.

​He looked at his own feet. His expensive, limited-edition sneakers were ruined, torn, soaked, and useless.

​"Sorry, Jordans," Siurad muttered, a dark, humorless chuckle escaping his lips. "You were too beautiful for this world."

​He reached for the dead man's laces.

​"It's just loot. Press E to equip."

​He pulled the boots off the corpse. They were warm.

​He stripped the thick fur cloak from the leader. It smelled of stale smoke and sweat, but it was dry.

Next, he took the man's sword and belt before turning to put on his cloak.

​As he fastened the cloak around his neck, he looked back toward the hill where the survivor had disappeared.

​"He's going to come back, isn't he?" Siurad asked.

​'... INEVITABLY.'

​Siurad adjusted the stolen sword on his hip. He felt heavy. Tainted. But warmer.

​"Fine," Siurad said, turning toward the first bandit. "Let him come. Next time... I won't hesitate. Let's get the hell out of here…quickly."

​'... PROGRESS,' Obi noted.

​Siurad walked over to the bandit, who was still slumped against the pine tree.

​“This is gross,” he muttered, trying not to look too closely at the hole in the man's chest.

​Scanning the crumpled form, he spotted a large leather satchel tangled in the man's mangled body. He yanked it free. It was in rough shape, stained with sweat and age, but as he lifted it, he heard a distinct clinking noise, the telltale sign of loot. He checked inside: copper and silver coins with a few crumpled letters, a shirt, and a pair of pants.

​He shoved the satchel over his shoulder and moved to recover the short sword dropped by the bandit who ran.

​Now he was juggling two rusted blades and a bag. Even with the belt, carrying the weapons wasn't the cool, dual-wielding aesthetic he had imagined; it was just cumbersome and sharp.

​"Great," he thought, adjusting his grip on the cold steel. "Inventory management sucks."

​He looked North.

​"Let's get this show on the road."

Chapter Three

Siurad felt like a monster, a warm monster but monstrous no less. They headed north through the dense pine forest. The consensus was to stay off the main road. Just in case the bandit he let live returned. 

Trudging through the darkness, it wasn't long before the scent of woodsmoke started to take over his senses. 

A town Siurad, thought it was a perfect time to find their bearings. He stepped out of the woods and onto the path.  A weathered wooden sign hung from rusted chains. Pine Haven: two miles ahead.

The two miles to Pine Haven felt longer than the marathon sessions Siurad used to pull on raid nights. The adrenaline had faded, leaving him with sore muscles, a pair of too-small boots that belonged to a dead man, and a cloak that smelled like a wet dog had rolled in a campfire.

​He trudged along the dirt path, the lights of the town flickering ahead like a promised land.

​"Okay," Siurad muttered, adjusting the itchy fur collar. "We need a game plan. We can't just walk in there announcing that I'm the Heir and you're the God of HOA Violations. I need a cover story."

​'...HOA?' Obi’s voice pulsed, cold and approving. '...A COMMITTEE FOR ENFORCED AESTHETIC UNIFORMITY. AND PROPERTY VALUE MAINTENANCE. YES. THEY UNDERSTAND ORDER. I APPROVE.'

​"Of course you do. Anyway, look at me." Siurad gestured to his stolen ensemble. "I'm wearing a dead guy's coat and a tank top, I'm carrying a rusted sword. I look like a bandit who got lost."

​'...YOU LOOK LIKE A SCAVENGER,' Obi corrected. '...WHICH IS ACCURATE. TELL THEM YOU ARE A MERCENARY.'

​"A mercenary?" Siurad snorted. "Obi, look at these arms. These are gym muscles. They’re for looking good in a tank top, not swinging a sword. If I get into a real fight, I’m going to pull a lat."

​'...THEN DO NOT FIGHT. INTIMIDATE. YOU WERE A SECURITY OFFICER. USE THE GLARE.'

​"It's called The Look," Siurad corrected. "And it works on drunk college kids trying to sneak a flask into a club. I don't know if it works on fantasy town guards."

​'...SEMANTICS, TRY IT. AND STOP SLOUCHING. THE HEIR DOES NOT SLUMP.'

​Siurad straightened his spine, rolling his shoulders back. "Fine. Mercenary. A mercenary named... Silas. No, that's too edgy. Bob? No. Siurad. I'll stick with Siurad. It’s weird enough to blend in."

​As they got closer, the details of Pine Haven came into view. It wasn't exactly a metropolis. It was a cluster of wooden buildings huddled together in the dense Weeping Pines Forest. A weathered wooden sign hung from rusted chains, confirming their location. The town was surrounded by a wooden palisade that looked like it would fall over if a stiff breeze hit it.

​'...INEFFICIENT,' Obi noted immediately. '...LOOK AT THAT FENCE. THE POSTS ARE UNEVEN. THE GATE SAGS. WHO DESIGNED THIS? A BEAVER?'

​"It's rustic," Siurad defended, though he didn't know why. "It has charm. It's a small logging town."

​'...IT HAS TERMITES. WE WILL PAVE IT.'

​"We are not paving this town," Siurad hissed. "We are getting a burger and a bed. Do you sleep? Or do you just vibrate on my finger all night?"

​'...I DO NOT REQUIRE SLEEP. I CONTEMPLATE GEOMETRY.'

​"You count corners?"

​'...I PLAN THE RESTRUCTURING OF THE AUTHORITY. AND YES. I COUNT CORNERS. THERE ARE NEVER ENOUGH.'

​Siurad shook his head. "You're a riot, Obi. A real party animal."

​They reached the gate. There was no guard in a booth, no ticket taker. Just a bored-looking man leaning on a spear, chewing on a piece of straw. He looked Siurad up and down, the mud, the blood-flecked cloak, the general air of exhaustion.

​Siurad channeled his inner bouncer. He squared his shoulders, narrowed his eyes, and gave the man a nod that said, I belong here, and if you check my ID, it's going to be a hassle for both of us.

​The guard blinked, spat out the straw, and shrugged. "Kitchen's closed at the inn. Don't cause trouble."

​Siurad walked past him, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

​"See?" Siurad whispered once they were inside. "The Look. Works every time."

​'...HE WAS APATHETIC,' Obi countered. '...HE SAW A LARGE DIRTY MAN AND DECIDED PAPERWORK WAS NOT WORTH THE EFFORT. A LOGICAL CHOICE.'

​Siurad scanned the muddy street. "Okay, genius. Where's the inn? You have cosmic awareness, right? The sign back there said something about a Boar's Den."

​'...I SENSE YEAST,' Obi pulsed. '...AND DESPAIR. FOLLOW THE SMELL.'

​"Yeast and despair. Sounds like my old apartment complex."

​Siurad followed his nose, which mostly smelled woodsmoke and sour bodies, passing by a general goods store with a sign reading Limmel Exchange. He finally found a building with a sign swinging out front: The Boar's Den.

​"Here we go," Siurad adjusted his stolen sword belt, which kept sliding down his hip. "Time to interact with the people. Don't say anything weird."

​'...I AM THE VOICE OF ORDER. I AM NEVER WEIRD.'

​"You're a talking ring that hates nature," Siurad muttered, pushing the door open. "You're the weirdest thing ever created."

‘...CREATED.’ 

Siurad felt what could be best described as irritation.

He ignored it.

​Then he stepped inside. The warmth hit him instantly, smelling of ale and mildew. It was heaven. The tavern was small, populated mostly by local workers likely from the logging company.

​'...THE FLOOR IS STICKY,' Obi observed immediately. '...BURN IT.'

​"No burning," Siurad thought back firmly. "Just eating. Be cool."

​He walked to the bar, trying to look like a hardened mercenary and not a guy who desperately missed his ergonomic gaming chair. Behind the counter stood an older woman with grey hair beginning to sprout from the roots. Her unyielding expression sent a silent message: she wasn't one to tolerate any foolishness.

​"We made it," Siurad thought. "Phase one complete."

​'...CONGRATULATIONS,' Obi droned. '...YOU WALKED. TRULY A FEAT FOR THE AGES. NOW ACQUIRE SUSTENANCE. YOUR STOMACH IS MAKING CHAOTIC NOISES.'

​"It's called hunger, Obi. It's a biological flaw."

​'...INDEED.'

​Siurad leaned against the bar, ready to start his new life. Or at least, get a sandwich. "Hey," he said to the woman. "My name is Siurad, I'm new in town. And I have money."

​'...SUBTLE,' Obi sighed in his mind. '...LIKE A BRICK.'

​The woman stopped scrubbing a mug that looked like it had been dirty since the dawn of man. Her hands went still. She looked Siurad up and down, taking in the stolen, blood-flecked cloak, the crude swords at his hip, and his muddy boots that were currently ruining her floor.

​"You're not from around here, are you?"

Siurad felt a jolt of surprise. A South Park scene immediately played in his head, and he mentally prepared for a crowd of locals to swarm out from the back, screaming, "THEY TOOK ER' JOBS!"

​'...WHAT IS A JERB?' Obi asked, genuinely confused.

​Before Siurad could facepalm at his own thoughts or explain meme culture to a cosmic entity, the woman added, 

"The kitchen closes every night at 9:30, sir. It's well past that. All the locals know this. Breakfast starts at dawn."

​She tapped the counter with a rag that smelled like old ale. "A room for the night will cost you 6 copper.”

​Siurad fumbled with the bandit's pouch, his fingers stiff from the cold. He dumped a small pile of coins onto the sticky wood.

​"Keep the change," he muttered, sliding a silver piece across. "Just... hot water. Please. I smell like a swamp."

​The woman eyed the silver, then him. "The bath is a tub in the back. You haul your own water. Don't drown,” She paused for a moment before adding,  “Name's Irma, don't start no trouble, and keep my floor clean."

Siurad gave the woman a thumbs up before making his way towards the bath.

He stared at the steaming tub of water. It looked like salvation.

​Then, his eyes drifted to his right hand. To the black band of obsidian fused to his finger.

​The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water.

​"Wait," Siurad whispered, horrified. "You're stuck on me."

​'...A FACT WE HAVE ESTABLISHED.'

​"I'm about to get naked, Obi. Completely naked."

​'...HYGIENE IS MANDATORY. PROCEED.'

​"Yeah, but... can you see? Like... everything?"

​'...I PERCEIVE MATTER. I SEE THE FLAWS IN YOUR CELLULAR REGENERATION.'

​"That's not a no! Are you going to be watching me scrub my... areas?"

​The ring pulsed with a cold, dry vibration that felt suspiciously like a gag reflex.

​'...YOUR BIOLOGICAL FORM IS A MEAT SACK DRAPED OVER CALCIUM.'

​'...IT IS AESTHETICALLY NULL. AND YOUR SYMMETRY IS LACKING.'

​"Hey! My symmetry is just fine!"

​'... BELOW AVERAGE, JUST WASH, VESSEL. I WILL STUDY THE TILE GROUT.'

​"You better," Siurad muttered, stepping into the water. "Pervert ghost."

​'...I MAY HAVE CHOSEN WRONG.'

​An hour later, Siurad, feeling marginally more human after scrubbing off the tiny manbits of the bandit he’d exploded, descended into the common room of The Boar's Den.

Siurad looked less like a swamp creature and more like an exhausted traveler in his new attire: a pair of bandit’s trousers and a spare tunic from the satchel, though the latter was a bit snug across his chest.

​The tavern was quiet, populated by a few tables of locals nursing their drinks. They looked like loggers, rough hands, smelling of sawdust and resin.

​"Okay," Siurad thought, leaning against a wooden pillar that Obi had already designated as structurally unsound. "Phase two. Intel. We need to find the Authority. Or at least... where we are."

​'...INTERROGATE THEM,' Obi commanded. '...DEMAND THE COORDINATES OF THE CITADEL.'

​"I'm not demanding anything," Siurad thought back. "I'm going to work the room. Be charming. Blend in."

​'...YOU ARE SIX FOOT FOUR. YOU DO NOT BLEND.'

​Siurad ignored him and sauntered over to a table where three older men were playing cards. He put on his best friendly neighbor smile. It felt unnatural on his face.

​"Evening, gentlemen," Siurad said, his voice booming slightly too loud in the quiet room. "Nice night for... cards."

​The men stopped playing. They looked up at him. They looked at his arms. They looked at each other.

​"It's raining," one of them said slowly.

​"Right. Yes. Liquid sunshine," Siurad finger-gunned. He instantly regretted it. "Anyway, I'm just passing through. Wondering if you fellas knew anything about... local history?"

​The loggers stared.

​"History?"

​"Yeah," Siurad leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know. Old ruins. spooky castles. Specifically... huge cities made of black glass that ruled the world with an iron fist? Maybe a Citadel of Eternal Order? Ring any bells?"

​The table went dead silent. A cricket chirped in the corner.

​'...SMOOTH,' Obi droned. '...YOU SOUND LIKE A CULTIST.'

​"I'm establishing context!" Siurad hissed internally.

​"We chop wood, son," the oldest logger said, gripping his tankard. "We don't look for glass castles. Best you finish your drink and go to bed."

​"Right. Wood. Trees. Nature," Siurad nodded vigorously. Love nature. Big fan. Well... good talk."

​He backed away slowly, bumping into a chair and nearly knocking it over. He caught it, gave the room an awkward thumbs-up, and retreated to a dark corner.

​'...THAT WAS PAINFUL,' Obi observed. '...I HAVE SEEN MOLLUSKS WITH BETTER SOCIAL SKILLS.'

​"Shut up," Siurad groaned, putting his head in his hands. "I'll try again at breakfast. When they're less... judgey."

​'...UNLIKELY.'

He blew out the candle and collapsed onto the bed.

Crunch.

The mattress didn't so much accept his weight as it did surrender to it. It was a sack of straw on a wooden frame, possessing the structural integrity of a damp crouton.

'...THIS SURFACE IS A CHIROPRACTIC DISASTER,' Obi observed immediately. '...YOUR SPINE IS CURVING IN SHAPES THAT OFFEND ME.'

"It's a bed, Obi. It beats the mud." Siurad shifted, trying to find a spot that didn't jab him in the kidney. "Go to sleep. Or... power down. Or whatever it is you do."

 '...I DO NOT POWER DOWN. I OBSERVE, FOR EXAMPLE, I AM CURRENTLY OBSERVING THE ARACHNID.'

Siurad froze. Every muscle in his body went rigid.

"The... what?" he whispered, his voice pitching up an octave.

'...THE ARACHNID. IT IS BUILDING A WEB DIRECTLY ABOVE YOUR FACE. ITS GEOMETRY IS SUPERIOR TO YOURS.'

Siurad scrambled out of the bed so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, backing into the far wall with a thud. He fumbled in the dark, his heart hammering against his ribs harder than it had during the fight with the bandits.

"Where is it?!" he hissed, frantically patting the table for a candle match. "Is it big? Is it one of those furry ones? Obi, I swear to god!"

'...IT IS SMALL. IT EATS MOSQUITOES. IT IS EFFICIENT. WHY ARE YOU VIBRATING?'

"Because spiders are the spawn of Satan, that's why!" Siurad finally got the candle lit. He thrust it toward the ceiling, scanning the rafters with wild eyes.

There it was. A small, harmless house spider spinning a web in the corner. To Siurad, it looked like a raid boss.

"Kill it," Siurad commanded, pointing a shaking finger. "Shadow Spike it. Anything. I don't care. Delete it."

'...NO.'

"What do you mean, no?!"

'...IT IS NON-HOSTILE AND WASTING COSMIC ENERGY ON A BUG IS BENEATH MY DIGNITY. GO TO BED, COWARD.'

Siurad glared at the spider. He glared at the ring. He dragged the heavy wooden bed frame two feet to the left, away from the drop zone.

"Fine," he muttered, climbing back onto the straw sack, keeping a wary eye on the corner. "But if that thing descends, I'm burning this tavern down."

He lay back, the adrenaline of the spider-encounter slowly fading, leaving behind the heavy, crushing weight of the day.

The silence of the room stretched out. The sounds of the tavern below, the muffled laughter, the clinking of mugs, drifted up through the floorboards. It felt normal. Mundane.

But the forest outside was still there. The cold mud was still there.

"Obi," Siurad whispered into the dark, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling corner.

'...YES, VESSEL?'

"Back in the woods... You said you wanted to fix the flaw. You talk a big game about order and chaos." Siurad rolled onto his back. "But really... what are you? And what happened to you?"

A cold, profound silence seemed to fall over the room, heavier than the night air outside. The entity's presence in Siurad's mind felt impossibly vast and ancient.

When it finally spoke, its mental voice was not a boom, but a cold, quiet pressure, like the deep ocean.

'...YOU ASK WHAT I AM? I AM THE ANSWER TO THE FLAW. I AM THE WILL THAT SEES A BROKEN, CHAOTIC WORLD AND DARES TO DESIGN A PERFECT ONE.'

The voice was resonant with a cold, cosmic certainty.

'...BEFORE THIS RING I WAS….'

The ring pulsed, a slow, cold throb against Siurad's knuckle.

'...I WATCHED THIS WORLD FOR TIME BEYOND COUNTING. I WATCHED IT WRITHE  IN THE CHAOS IT SO LOVES WAR, PLAGUE, FAMINE, GRIEF. A CONSTANT, SCREAMING, ILLOGICAL CYCLE OF SUFFERING.'

'...I WATCHED RAIMI, THE ONLY ONE WHO COULD HEAR ME, DIE OF OLD AGE, AND I LEARNED OF A FLAW. THE MOST PAINFUL FLAW.'

Siurad could feel the entity's grief, hardened over millennia into a diamond-sharp rage.

'...I VOWED TO FIX IT. TO BUILD A NEW, PERFECT STRUCTURE. A WORLD WITHOUT CHAOS. A WORLD WITHOUT THAT FLAW. WE CREATED THE OBSIDIAN AUTHORITY.'

"And what happened to it?" Siurad asked, his voice barely a whisper.

There was a long pause. When Obi spoke again, the cold grief was gone, replaced by a chilling, absolute contempt.

'...IT WAS MURDERED. POISONED FROM WITHIN.'

'...I GAVE MY POWER TO TWO VESSELS, TO BE THE ARCHITECTS OF THIS PERFECT WORLD. XARA, MY HEART, WAS CONSUMED WITH RAGE, THE PERFECT AGENT OF CHAOS FOR ORDER. LYSANDER, MY MIND, WAS A COLD, PERFECT LOGIC TO BUILD THE STRUCTURE.'

Siurad sensed a sudden shift.

'...THEY WERE MY FAM…..INSTRUMENTS, BUT THE FLAW THE MORTAL FLAW ALWAYS FINDS A WAY. XARA, MY HEART, LET HER RAGE BE TEMPERED BY TIME SHE GREW OLD. SHE GREW WEAK. HER SOFTNESS, RETURNED. SHE BEGAN TO DOUBT THE MISSION.'

"And Lysander?"

'...MY MIND. MY ARCHITECT. HE WAS SO PERFECT, BUT HE WAS STILL MORTAL. STILL FLAWED. BROKEN BY THE VERY CHAOS WE SOUGHT TO CONTAIN.'

'...IN THEIR WEAKNESS, THE AUTHORITY, MY AUTHORITY, WAS AMBUSHED. THEY LET A TRAITOR INTO OUR MIDST. THEY FAILED. THEY WERE A FLAW IN MY DESIGN, AND THE ENTIRE STRUCTURE COLLAPSED.'

The entity’s voice was a blade of ice.

'...THEY ALLOWED ME TO BE TRAPPED IN THIS… THIS TRINKET. THE WORK OF CENTURIES, UNDONE BY THE WEAKNESS OF THE VERY MORTALS I TRIED TO SAVE.'

Obi’s presence flooded Siurad's mind, a wave of cold, righteous fury.

'...THEY ARE GONE. ALL OF THEM. THE AUTHORITY IS DUST. MY HEART IS ASH. MY MIND IS SILENT. ALL THAT REMAINS IS THE WILL. I AM THE WILL, VESSEL. AND YOU, YOU ARE THE HAND THAT WILL REBUILD MY DESIGN, FREE OF THE FLAWS OF THE PAST.'

Siurad lay there in the dark, the weight of this revelation pressing down on him. A betrayed god. A failed utopia. And he was now the only one left to pick up the pieces. 

The silence returned, but this time, Siurad’s mind drifted away from the cosmic tragedy and settled on the mud.

He thought about the bandits.

He closed his eyes and saw the spike erupting from his palm. He heard the wet crunch of the man’s skull.

It had been... easy. Too easy.

Back home, as a bouncer, he’d broken up fights. He’d thrown punches. He’d seen blood. But he’d never erased someone.

Is it the ring? He wondered. Is it making me numb? Or... was I always capable of this?

He thought about the one he let go. The runner. Was that mercy? Or was it just a different kind of weakness?

His mind drifted further, past the forest, past the game screen. He thought about his apartment. The hum of the refrigerator. The rent that was due next week. His gym bag sitting by the door.

Is this real?

It felt real. The straw poking his back felt real. The throbbing in his hand felt real. But a part of him, the gamer part, was still waiting for the game over screen or the alarm clock.

Am I ever going back?

The ring pulsed again, interrupting his spiral. It wasn't a cold pulse this time. It felt... contemplative.

'...REGRET IS A LOOP, Obi stated, his voice lower, almost quiet. IT CONSUMES PROCESSING POWER WITHOUT YIELDING RESULTS.'

"I killed two people today, Obi," Siurad whispered.

'...YOU SURVIVED, Obi corrected. AND BECAUSE YOU SURVIVED, THE WORK CONTINUES.'

The ring vibrated, a sensation like a teacher rapping a ruler on a desk.

'...BUT YOUR TECHNIQUE WAS SLOPPY.'

"Excuse me?"

'...YOUR CONTROL OVER THE VOID IS REMEDIAL. YOU SCREAMED. YOU SLIPPED. YOU WASTED ENERGY.'

'...TOMORROW, Obi commanded, WE BEGIN CORRECTIONS. THERE IS MUCH TO LEARN. AND YOUR COMPETENCY LEVEL IS QUITE FRANKLY EMBARRASSING.'

Siurad let out a short, dry laugh in the dark. "Thanks, coach."

“Okay,” Siurad said, his voice shaking but resolute. “Okay, Obi. What do we do first?”

'...FIRST, WE FIND THE REMAINS OF THE OBSIDIAN AUTHORITY. LYSANDER, FOR ALL HIS FAILINGS, WAS A METICULOUS RECORD-KEEPER. HIS RESEARCH, MY RESEARCH MUST STILL EXIST.' 

The entity’s will pressed into Siurad, a sudden, desperate urgency.

'...WE MUST FIND THAT KNOWLEDGE. IT IS THE KEY TO RESURRECTING THE AUTHORITY. IT IS THE ONLY WAY TO LEARN HOW I WAS BOUND SO I CAN BE UNBOUND.'

"Great," Siurad muttered, closing his eyes. "Treasure hunt. My favorite."

'...SLEEP, VESSEL. THE SPIDER IS FINISHED. IT IS A VERY NICE WEB.'

"Goodnight, Obi."

'...GOODNIGHT.'

Chapter Four

Sunlight stabbed through the warped slats of the small window, hitting Siurad directly in the face.

​Still here, he thought, shielding his eyes. Not a dream. Fantastic.

​He sat up, and a shower of dry hay and dust cascaded from the mattress. His spine popped audibly as a dull, grinding ache settled deep in his lower back. No HUD, no logout button, just a stiff neck and the smell of old straw. The thought settled in his mind. This is all real.

​His eyes darted to the corner of the ceiling. The spider was still there, motionless in its web.

​"Morning, Obi," he croaked, his voice thick with sleep.

​'...YOU HAVE EXCEEDED OPTIMAL STASIS PARAMETERS.'

​The Entity’s voice didn't just sound; it vibrated against the inside of his skull like a subwoofer playing static.

​"Can we not? Right now?" Siurad groaned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "It is way too early for this shit."

​'...INEFFICIENT, Obi pulsed, the mental tone dripping with judgment, BUT FITTING. CHAOS DOES NOT WAKE WITH THE SUN.'

​Siurad shoved the irritation down. He didn't have the caffeine levels required to argue with a God of Order.

​He pulled on his clothes, wincing as he tugged the looted boots onto his feet. They were high-quality leather, stolen from a dead bandit, but they pinched at the toes as a constant reminder that he was walking in a dead man’s shoes.

​By the time he reached the dining hall, his stomach felt like a hollow cavern.

​"I need bacon," he muttered to himself, visualizing a diner menu. "Pancakes. French toast. Anything that hasn't been boiled."

​He approached the counter. Irma was already there, leaning over the wood with a rag, looking like she’d been awake for hours and hated every minute of it.

"What'll it be, big man?" Irma didn't look up. She scrubbed a stubborn circle of dried ale into the wood grain as if trying to erase the memory of last night's patrons. "Kitchen's cold. I got oat porridge that's mostly solid, or I can heat up the leftovers from the stew."

​"Stew," Siurad said immediately. Porridge sounded like giving up.

​Irma grunted, finally looking at him. Her eyes narrowed, scanning his face, then dropping to his hands. She noted the ring. She noted the way he stood with his shoulders back and his weight balanced.

​"You ain't a merchant," she stated flatly. It wasn't a question. "And you ain't a guard. Guards are too loud, and merchants are too soft."

​"I'm a traveler looking for work," Siurad lied, leaning his elbows on the bar. The wood was sticky.

​"Travelers leave," Irma said, turning to ladle a greyish slump of stew into a wooden bowl. She slammed it onto the counter with a spoon that looked like it had been chewed on. "Work is at the Krupp yard. East edge of town. If you got a strong back, they're hiring. If you got a mouth on you, don't bother. Lexaris likes his trees quiet."

​Siurad stared at the stew. It was thick, brown, and smelled vaguely of wet dog and onions.

​'...CALORIC DENSITY IS ACCEPTABLE. Obi pulsed TASTE IS IRRELEVANT. FUEL THE VESSEL.' 

​"Thanks," Siurad muttered. He reached into his pouch.

​He pulled out a handful of coins he’d looted from the bandit the night before. Copper. Dingy, bent, low-grade copper. He counted them out. Seven coins.

​Irma watched him count. Her expression hardened.

​"You covered the room for last night," she said, swiping five of the coins. "This covers the stew. You got one copper left, big man. Better hope Krupp is feeling generous."

​Siurad looked at the single, lonely copper coin in his massive palm. In Cassalia, he had millions of gold. He owned a fortress. He had a vault filled with souls.

​Here, he couldn't afford a second bowl of stew.

​He shoveled the food into his mouth. It tasted like salted mud.

​'...THE LOCAL ECONOMY IS PREDATORY,' Obi noted, his voice vibrating in Siurad’s chewing jaw. '...LABOR IS EXTRACTED. COMPENSATION IS MINIMAL. IT IS A CLOSED LOOP OF INEFFICIENCY.'

​"It's called capitalism, Obi," Siurad whispered around a chunk of gristle.

​'...IT IS CHAOS,' the Entity corrected. '...ORDER REQUIRES BALANCE. THIS SYSTEM IS TOP-HEAVY. IT WILL TOPPLE.'

​Siurad swallowed the last of the stew, grimacing. "Yeah? Well, until it topples, I still need money.”

​He stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. His looted boots pinched his toes again, a sharp bite of pain with every step.

​"Krupp yard," Siurad said to Irma. "East edge?"

​"Follow the sound of misery," Irma said, returning to her scrubbing. "And don't let Limmel sell you his premium axes. They snap if you look at 'em wrong."

He looked at her, his expression not quite a smile. Something told him this was as close as he was going to get to her being protective.

​Siurad stepped out of the dim tavern and into the blinding morning light of Pine Haven.

​The town wasn't much to look at. It was a collection of rough-hewn log cabins and mud streets, carved aggressively out of the dense treeline of the Weeping Pines. The air smelled of pine resin, woodsmoke, and body odor.

​But Irma was right. He didn't need directions. He could hear the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of axes echoing from the east, an industrial heartbeat that shook the ground.

​'...QUEST ACCEPTED, Obi droned, mocking Siurad's gamer instincts. OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE THE GRIND.'

​Siurad adjusted his shirt and started walking. He had a god in his pocket and one copper to his name.

​Time to go to work.

​Siurad pushed open the door to Limmel’s Exchange. A bell jingled overhead, a weak, tinny sound that grated on the nerves.

​The shop smelled of rust, wet fur, and the distinct, metallic tang of desperation. The shelves were cluttered with adventuring gear that looked suspiciously like repurposed farm tools.

​"Welcome, traveler!" Limmel beamed from behind the counter. He was a wiry man with a smile that showed too many teeth and eyes that immediately calculated the weight of Siurad's coin purse.

​"I hear you're heading to the yards," Limmel said, leaning over a display case filled with knives. "You'll need steel. Good steel. Krupp’s loaners are garbage. Iron rot. Splinters."

​He reached under the counter and pulled out a hand axe. He laid it on the velvet cloth as if it were a holy relic.

​"The Woodsman’s Friend," Limmel whispered reverently. "Tempered steel head. Hickory haft. Balanced by a master smith in the capital. For you? Five silver."

​Siurad picked it up.

​To his gamer brain, it looked like a standard axe. Maybe worth more if the lighting was generous. But as he turned it over, he felt a sudden, cold pressure against his mind. The Ring was looking.

​'...LOOK AT THE GRAIN, Obi’s voice rumbled, vibrating with deep, aesthetic offense.​'

​'...IT CROSSES THE STRESS POINT. IF YOU SWING THIS, THE HEAD WILL DEPART THE HANDLE.'

​Siurad paused. "It feels a little... light."

​'...IT IS NOT LIGHT,' Obi corrected, his tone dripping with disdain. '...IT IS LAZY. TORIAN WOULD HAVE USED THIS FOR KINDLING. AND LYSANDER.'

​The Ring pulsed with a sharp spike of irritation.

​'...THE ANGLE OF THE EDGE IS OFF BY FOUR DEGREES. LYSANDER WOULD VOMIT. DO NOT PURCHASE THIS INSULT.'

​Siurad set the axe back down. He looked at Limmel.

​"Four degrees off," Siurad said, channeling his inner distinct lack of charisma. "And the grain is wrong. This isn't a 'Woodsman's Friend,' Limmel. It's a lawsuit waiting to happen."

​Limmel’s smile vanished. "Listen here, you drifter. I don't know who told you about grain, but—"

​"Pass," Siurad interrupted. "I'll take my chances with the loaners. Better to use garbage I didn't pay for than garbage I did."

He started toward the door, then stopped.

A polished black sword hung behind the counter, half-hidden between a rack of hunting spears and a dented breastplate. Siurad glanced down at the two rusted short swords hanging awkwardly from his belt. He had almost forgotten about them. Looting corpses had seemed practical in the moment. Carrying the results around town was starting to feel less inspired.

“I’ve got two swords for trade,” he said. “What’s the offer?”

Limmel followed his gaze to the black sword, and the grin returned. Not friendly. Hungry. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Siurad produced the two rusted short swords he had taken from the bandits.

Limmel looked them over for half a second, then set them on the counter with theatrical disappointment.

“Four copper,” he said. “Final offer.”

Siurad stared at him. “For both?”

“Generous of me, really. Rust has disposal costs.”

'...HE IS ROBBING YOU,’ Obi observed.

“Yeah,” Siurad muttered. “I caught that.”

But pride didn't buy breakfast, and he was tired of the rusted iron dragging at his belt. In Cassalia, he would have held out for a better merchant. Here, he just wanted his inventory space back.

"Fine," Siurad sighed. "Take them."

Limmel’s smile widened into a predatory beam. He swept the blades behind the counter with practiced speed, sliding four dingy copper coins onto the wood in their place.

Siurad scooped them up and turned toward the door, the little bell jingling mockingly overhead.

'...UNACCEPTABLE DEPRECIATION OF ASSETS,' Obi complained.

Vendor trash, Siurad thought back, stepping out into the cold mud of the street. Sometimes you just have to clear the inventory.

​Siurad stepped back onto the muddy street, the noise of Pine Haven washing over him. He adjusted his collar against the chill, his looted boots pinching his toes with every step.

​"You mentioned someone," Siurad muttered under his breath, dodging a cart filled with turnips. "Back in the shop. Torian."

​He felt the Ring hum—a different sensation this time. Not the cold, sharp geometry of Lysander or the burning rage of Xara. This felt... softer. Like wool.

'...THE WEAVER,' Obi replied.

​"Another General?" Siurad asked. "Did he break mountains, too?"

​'...NO,' Obi said. HE KNIT, AND HE KEPT THE OTHERS FROM BREAKING.'

​Siurad waited for more, but the presence in his mind grew quiet, retreating into a memory that felt surprisingly heavy for a being made of void and math.

​"A knitter," Siurad mused, stepping over a puddle. "Great. So I have a Warlord who wants to correct the universe, an Architect who vomits at bad geometry, and a knitter who hates bad axes. I'm really traveling with a dysfunctional crafting guild, aren't I?"

​'...THEY WERE PERFECT,' Obi snapped, a flash of defensive heat warming Siurad’s finger. '...THEY WERE THE FOUNDATION.'

​"Alright, alright," Siurad held up his hands in surrender. "Touchy subject. Noted."

​The conversation died as the smell hit him.

​It was the scent of raw sap, sawdust, and sweat. The rhythmic, thundering crack of axes biting into timber echoed through the trees, growing louder with every step. The mud on the road turned into a slurry of woodchips and dirt.

​He had arrived.

​The Krupp Logging Yard was less a place of business and more a scar on the face of the forest.

​It was a mud-churned clearing where the majestic Weeping Pines went to die. Siurad walked up to the main gate, a simple gap in a fence of jagged, uncut logs.

​A massive man stood by a table, checking off names on a clipboard. He had arms the size of beer kegs and a beard that looked like it housed small wildlife. This was Lexaris, the Foreman.

​"Name?" Lexaris grunted, not looking up.

​"Siurad," he replied. "I need work."

​Lexaris finally looked up. He scanned Siurad’s strange clothes. The shirt that was a size and a half too small, the pants that didn't fit quite right, the boots that were clearly two sizes too small. He snorted.

​"You look soft," Lexaris judged. "City hands. You ever fell a tree, boy?"

​"I've cleared forests," Siurad said. Technically true. He had leveled a wooded zone in Cassalia with a single Death Cloud spell. But manual labor was a different beast.

​"Sure you have," Lexaris scoffed. "Where's your axe?"

​"Don't have one. Limmel tried to sell me painted tin."

​Lexaris paused. He actually grinned, a flash of yellow teeth in his beard.

​"Smart lad," the Foreman grunted. "Limmel’s a crook. But smart don't chop wood."

​He gestured to a barrel behind him filled with tools that looked like they had been salvaged from a shipwreck.

​"Loaner fee is two coppers a day, deducted from your pay. Break it, you bought it. And if you drop a tree on my crew, I'll bury you under it."

​Siurad walked to the barrel. He reached in and pulled out an axe.

​The handle was grey with age and rough as sandpaper. The head was pitted with rust, the edge dull and chipped.

​'...THIS,' Obi noted, his voice flat. '...IS A CRIME AGAINST METALLURGY.'

​"It's a start," Siurad muttered, gripping the rough wood. He felt a blister forming already.

​"Hey!" Lexaris shouted, pointing toward a grove of massive, dark pines at the edge of the clearing. "Sector Four. The knotty ones. Get moving. You don't get paid for standing around looking pretty."

​Siurad shouldered the rusty axe. He looked at the massive trees. He looked at his pathetic tool.

​"Alright, Obi," Siurad thought, stepping into the mud. "Tutorial's over. Let's see if 'Order' can chop wood."

​'...INEFFICIENT,' Obi grumbled. '...BUT NECESSARY.'

​"Zeus!" Lexaris bellowed over the roar of falling timber. "Fresh meat for the grinder!"

​A man stepped out from behind a stack of stripped logs. If Lexaris was big, this man was dense. He wasn't just tall; he was built like a stone watchtower that had been left out in the sun to cure. His skin was deep bronze, shiny with sweat and sap, and his arms were covered in scars that looked suspiciously like claw marks.

​He carried a double-bitted felling axe over one shoulder as easily as if it were a fishing rod.

​"Zeus," the man grunted, extending a hand the size of a shovel.

​"Siurad," Siurad replied, shaking it. It was like gripping a tree root.

​"City hands," Zeus noted immediately, echoing the Foreman but with less malice and more observation. He looked at the rusty tool in Siurad's grip. "And a trash axe. Lexaris likes to test the new guys. Wants to see if you quit or complain."

​"I don't plan on doing either," Siurad said.

'...LIES,' Obi added.

​Zeus nodded. "Good answer. Follow me. We’re clearing the ridge."

​They walked through the chaotic mud of the yard.

'...THE NAME IS INACCURATE,' Obi pulsed against Siurad’s knuckle. '...ZEUS WAS A DEITY OF LIGHTNING. THIS MAN HAS THE KINETIC SIGNATURE OF A LOADED CART.'

He moves fine, Obi, Siurad thought back, stepping over a root. Just observe. And how do you know that anyway?

'...YOUR RECOLLECTION IS IRRELEVANT. I HAVE ACCESS TO THE ORIGINAL INPUT.'

Siurad stopped walking for half a second.

You can see everything I’ve ever seen?

'...OBVIOUSLY.'

That’s not obvious. That’s horrifying.

They reached the ridge it was a dense patch of Iron-Bark Pines. The wood was notoriously hard, known to shatter lesser tools.

​"Pick a tree," Zeus said, leaning on his own axe. "Show me what you got. Don't worry about speed. Just drop it."

​Siurad walked up to a medium-sized pine. He rolled his shoulders.

​Strength wasn't the issue. He was six-foot-four and had spent years in the gym before coming here. But more than that, ever since he’d put on the Ring, he felt... amplified. A low level static hummed in his blood, making him feel lighter and his grip feel like iron. 

​He gripped the handle tight. He planted his feet. He summoned that unnatural surge of power that allowed him to crush skulls with his bare hands.

​"Hah!"

​He swung. It was a massive, powerful blow.

​THUNK.

​The axe buried itself deep into the wood... and stuck. The impact vibrated up the handle, rattling Siurad’s teeth. The tree didn't even shudder. It just ate the blade.

​"Ow," Siurad hissed, trying to yank it free. It wouldn't budge. All that supernatural strength, and the tree was winning.

​'...PATHETIC, Obi droned instantly in his mind. '...THE ANGLE OF INCIDENCE WAS FORTY-FIVE DEGREES. YOU NEED THIRTY. AND YOUR ELBOW WAS FLAPPING. LIKE A DYING GOOSE.'

​"Stop pulling," Zeus called out calmly. "You're fighting the wood. The wood always wins."

​Zeus walked over. He didn't look impressed by the raw power Siurad had just displayed; he looked disappointed by the waste of it.

​"You're strong," Zeus said, examining the cut. "Stronger than you look. But you swing like you hate the axe."

​"It's a dull axe," Siurad defended, finally wrenching it free with a shower of bark.

​"It's a wedge," Zeus corrected. "It works if you let it."

​The big man stepped up to the tree.

​"Watch. It's not about hacking. It's about the arc."

​Zeus raised his own axe. He didn't tense up. His grip was loose. He slid his top hand up the handle near the head.

​"Start high. Slide the hand down as you swing. Use the handle as a lever."

​Zeus swung. It didn't look hard. It looked fluid.

​CRACK.

​A massive wedge of wood flew out. The cut was clean, smooth as glass.

​"See?" Zeus pointed. "Top cut. Bottom cut. Make a V. You're trying to cut straight through. That's friction. You want separation."

​'...HE IS CORRECT,' Obi admitted, sounding begrudgingly impressed. '...THE VECTOR WAS OPTIMAL. LYSANDER WOULD AGREE THE V-CUT IS THE ONLY LOGICAL APPROACH TO THE DESTRUCTION OF TIMBER.'

​"Try again," Zeus commanded, stepping back. "Loose hands. Let the weight of the head do the work. You're just guiding it."

​Siurad took a breath.

​Loose hands. Slide the grip. V-cut.

​He raised the rusty axe.

​'...ADJUST YOUR FEET,' Obi interrupted. '...WIDEN THE BASE. YOU ARE TOP HEAVY. IF THE AXE GLANCES, YOU WILL AMPUTATE YOUR OWN KNEE.'

​Noted, Siurad thought dryly. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

​'...IT WOULD BE HILARIOUS, BUT INEFFICIENT.'

​Siurad widened his stance.

​He swung. He slid his hand down the shaft. He felt the weight of the iron head accelerate, assisted by that subtle, dark hum in his veins.

​THWACK.

​A sizable chunk of wood popped out. Not as big as Zeus’s, but clean. No vibration in his arms.

​"Better," Zeus nodded, crossing his massive arms. "Again. Don't stop until you find the rhythm. Chopping isn't a fight, kid. It's a heartbeat. Thunk-crack. Thunk-crack."

​Siurad swung again. And again.

​'...THIRTY DEGREES,' Obi whispered, coaching him like a spectral geometry teacher. '...LOWER. GOOD. NOW THE UPPER CUT. PRECISE.'

​For the next hour, the only sounds were the axe biting into the wood and the duet of instructors, one standing beside him with folded arms, and one living in his head, critiquing his geometry.

​By the time the tree finally groaned and crashed to the forest floor, Siurad was sweating, but his back didn't hurt.

​"Not bad," Zeus grunted, handing Siurad a canteen of water. "You learn fast. Most city boys take a week to figure out the slide."

​"I had good teachers," Siurad said, taking a drink.

'...I DID MOST OF THE WORK,' Obi projected smugly.

​You yelled numbers at me, Siurad thought back. I did the lifting.

​Zeus clapped a heavy hand on Siurad’s shoulder. "Keep that up, and you might actually make enough coin to buy a real axe. Now, strip the branches. This ridge ain't gonna clear itself."

​The sun was bleeding out over the horizon by the time Lexaris blew the whistle.

​Siurad stumbled out of the treeline, dragging the rusty axe like it was a fallen comrade. He was covered in sap, sawdust, and mud. His hands were raw blisters despite the calluses he’d earned in his previous life. His back felt like someone had replaced his spine with a bag of crushed gravel.

​He queued up at the foreman’s table.

​"Axe returned," Lexaris grunted, checking the tool. "Still in one piece. Miracle."

​He reached into a heavy sack and tossed a handful of coins onto the table. They scattered in the dirt.

​Siurad picked them up. He counted them.

​Twelve copper pieces.

​He stared at the coins. He did the math.

​A meal at the inn was five copper. A room was ten. If he ate and slept, he would be in debt by morning.

​"Twelve?" Siurad rasped, his throat dry. "I cleared the ridge. Zeus said I did the work of two men."

​"Newbie rate," Lexaris shrugged, not looking up. "Probationary period. You want more? Stick around for a month. Prove you aren't going to quit when your blisters pop."

​Siurad stared at the foreman.

​It’s a scam, he realized with a jolt of indignation. 

​'...ECONOMIC EXPLOITATION,' Obi noted, his voice vibrating with disdain. '...THE LABOR VALUE EXCEEDS THE COMPENSATION. WE SHOULD CORRECT HIM.'

​"Not today, Obi," Siurad muttered, pocketing the insultingly light coins. "Today, we just survive."

​The walk back to Pine Haven was a blur of pain.

​Every step sent a jolt of agony up Siurad’s legs. The looted boots, which were definitely a size too small, were now actively trying to murder his toes.

​The town was quieting down. Lanterns were flickering to life in windows. The smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat wafted from the Boar’s Den, making Siurad’s stomach cramp with hunger.

​He was just passing the alleyway behind Limmel’s shop when the Ring pulsed. It wasn't a gentle hum; it was a sharp, biting cold.

​'...STOP.'

​Siurad stopped, leaning heavily against a rain barrel. "What? Did I miss a loot chest?"

​'...THE DAY IS NOT OVER,' Obi commanded. '...YOUR FORM WITH THE AXE WAS EMBARRASSING. YOUR MANA CHANNELS ARE SLUGGISH.'

​The air in the alley dropped ten degrees. Shadows began to lengthen, curling around Siurad’s boots.

​'...WE WILL TRAIN. THERE IS A CLEARING BEHIND THE STABLES. WE WILL PRACTICE THE VOID STEP. TEN REPETITIONS.'

​Siurad laughed. It was a dry, cracking sound.

​"Train?" Siurad asked, looking at his shaking hands. "Obi, I can’t even feel my fingers. My stamina bar isn't just empty; it’s broken. It’s blinking red."

​'...FATIGUE IS A VARIABLE,' Obi lectured. '...EVEN THE TRAITOR XARA TRAINED UNTIL SHE BLED. SHE TRAINED UNTIL HER BONES CRACKED. THAT IS HOW SHE BECAME STRONG.'

​"Xara was a monster," Siurad groaned, pushing himself off the barrel. "I'm a guy who just chopped wood for ten hours for the price of a sandwich. I'm not doing magic drills."

​'...IF YOU DO NOT TRAIN, YOU WILL BE ERASED,' Obi warned, the pressure in Siurad’s skull increasing. '...THE WORLD IS FULL OF VARIABLES. NETHYUA IS A NUISANCE, BUT EVEN A NUISANCE CAN KILL A SLOTH.'

​"Nethyua? Well, that is a problem for another day, Obi," Siurad said, resuming his limp toward the inn. "Right now? I'm going to eat a bowl of stew that tastes like dishwater, and I'm going to pass out."

​'...YOU LACK DISCIPLINE,' Obi seethed. '...LYSANDER WAS A FOOL, BUT HE NEVER COMPLAINED ABOUT HIS FEET. DO NOT MAKE ME REGRET CHOOSING YOU.'

​"Yeah, yeah," Siurad muttered, waving a hand dismissively as he pushed open the door to the inn. "Put it on my performance review. We train tomorrow."

​'...I WILL WAKE YOU AT DAWN, Obi promised. WITH ICE.'

​"Goodnight, Obi."

Chapter Five

​The dream was nice. Siurad was back in his apartment. The air conditioner was humming, a fresh pepperoni pizza was steaming on the desk, and he was one click away from the platinum trophy in Cassalia.

​Then, the air conditioner broke. Or rather, it turned into a blizzard.

​Siurad shivered in his sleep, curling tight under the thin, scratchy wool blanket of the Boar’s Den. The temperature in the room plummeted. His breath puffed out in white clouds. Frost began to creep across the wooden headboard.

​Then came the touch.

​It wasn't a hand. It was thin, spindly, and cold. It brushed against his cheek. It skittered across his upper lip. It tickled the tip of his nose with the distinct, hairy precision of an arachnid leg.

​Siurad’s eyes snapped open.

​"SPIDER!"

​He flailed, slapping himself in the face with a frantic, uncoordinated hand. He scrambled backward, tangling his legs in the sheets, and fell off the bed with a loud THUMP.

​"Shadow Spike it!" Siurad screamed at the empty air, scrambling for a weapon that wasn't there. "Obi! Kill it! It's on my face!"

​The room was silent. There was no spider.

​There was only a single, thin tendril of shadow hovering in the air where his head had been. It gave a little wiggle, almost a wave, before dissolving back into the ring.

​'...INCORRECT,' Obi’s voice pulsed, cool and amused. '...IT IS NOT AN ARACHNID. IT IS DAWN.'

​Siurad sat on the freezing floor, clutching his chest. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He looked at the frost on the bedpost. He looked at the Ring.

​"You..." Siurad wheezed. "You made a shadow thing... just to scare me?"

​'...FEAR IS A STIMULANT,' Obi lectured. '...ADRENALINE IS EFFICIENT. YOU ARE AWAKE. THE METHOD WAS SUCCESSFUL.'

​"I hate you," Siurad groaned, rubbing his bruised elbow. "I hate you so much. I could have had a heart attack. Then where would you be? Stuck on a corpse in a Motel 6."

​'...THEN I WOULD FIND A VESSEL WHO DOES NOT SCREAM AT DUST,' Obi retorted. '...GET UP. THE SUN HAS NOT RISEN. WE HAVE ONE HOUR BEFORE YOUR SHIFT.'

​Siurad dragged himself up. The room was freezing, Obi’s presence pressed close.

​"It's too early," Siurad complained, reaching for his boots. He winced as he pulled them on; his toes were still tender from yesterday. "And it's freezing. Can't we just do mental drills? Visualization?"

​'...THE BODY MUST LEARN,' Obi commanded. '...LYSANDER CALCULATED THAT MUSCLE MEMORY DEGRADES WITHOUT REPETITION. MOVE.'

​"Fine," Siurad muttered, grabbing his hoodie. "But if I see a real spider, you're killing it. No arguments about mana efficiency."

'​...IF IT IS LARGE ENOUGH TO POSE A THREAT, I WILL CONSIDER IT.'

​"Great. Thanks."

​Siurad opened the door and stepped out into the dark, misty morning of Pine Haven, grumbling about sadistic jewelry the entire way.

The walk to the clearing was quiet in a way that felt unnatural.

​Usually, the dawn chorus of Pine Haven involved birds, wind, and the distant barking of dogs. But around Siurad, the world was mute. The mist didn't drift; it hung suspended, terrified to move. The cold radiating from the Ring created a buffer zone of silence that followed them through the wet grass behind the stables.

​They reached a small, enclosed paddock surrounded by rotting fence posts. The ground was a slurry of mud and straw.

​"Eerie," Siurad muttered, his breath pluming in the chill. 

​ '…THE WORLD IS LISTENING,' Obi corrected, the ring pulsing a faint violet. '...IT RECOGNIZES THE AUTHORITY. NOW STAND STILL.'

​Siurad stood in the center of the mud. He felt ridiculous a grown man in a too small shirt fighting hypothermia in a horse paddock, waiting for a magic lesson from jewelry.

'...LESSON ONE,' Obi droned. '...WHAT IS YOURS, AND WHAT IS MINE.' '...YOU HAVE MANA. EVERY MEAT SACK IN THIS WORLD DOES. IT IS BLOOD'S QUIETER COUSIN, A BIOLOGICAL TRICKLE. ON ITS OWN IT COULD WARM A CUP OF TEA. IT IS NOT POWER. IT IS WIRING.' 

"So….mana bar," Siurad said, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "Resource management. Got it." 

'...IF THAT CRUDE LITTLE PICTURE LETS YOUR MIND HOLD STILL, KEEP IT. THE HEDGE WIZARDS BELIEVE THE WIRE IS THE MAGIC. THEY SPEND THEIR LIVES SHAPING IT. THEY ARE CHILDREN PROUD OF A PUDDLE.' 

'...YOU WILL NOT SHAPE YOUR MANA INTO ANYTHING. YOU WILL PUSH IT,  DOWN YOUR ARM, INTO THE RING, AND USE IT AS THE ROAD THE VOID WILL TRAVEL. THAT IS ALL IT IS. THE ROAD.' 

"And you're the traffic," Siurad muttered. 

'...I AM THE VOID.' The Ring pulsed harder; a wave of heavy, dark pressure rolled over Siurad. 

'...I AM NOT A POOL YOU DIP FROM. YOUR MANA IS THE THREAD THAT REACHES ME. I AM WHAT COMES BACK DOWN IT.' 

'...PUSH TOO HARD AND THE THREAD BURNS. THE WIRE MELTS. YOU BECOME ASH. I AM THE VALVE.' 

"Don't redline the engine," Siurad summarized, sweating despite the cold. "Got it. You hold the throttle." 

'...NOW. OPEN THE VOID, MAKE REALITY BEND TO YOUR WHIM, USE THE SHADOWS,'  Obi commanded.

“Open the void and make what exactly?”

'...YOUR WILL,' Obi lectured. '...THE SHADOW IS YOUR TRAINING WHEEL, USE IT TO SHAPE REALITY, THE VOID….YOU WILL OPEN IT, AND INFORM REALITY THAT SOMETHING SOLID IS THERE NOW. REALITY IS SLOW TO ARGUE.' 

​Siurad reached out with his mind. Like reaching his arm into a deep lake.

​"It's... strange," Siurad grunted.

'...HARDER. YOU ARE ASKING. ONE DOES NOT ASK THE UNIVERSE FOR PERMISSION. ONE INFORMS IT.' 

'...THESE LAWS ARE MERE SUGGESTIONS TO US.'

​Siurad bore down. He poured his innate mana into the Ring, letting Obi be the valve, the commanding frequency.

​The temperature dropped.

​The shadow rippled. Then, with a sound like tearing canvas, it coalesced into shape. It didn't form a cool spike or a sleek blade. It formed a jagged, lumpy blob of black ice that looked vaguely like a mutated potato.

​It hovered for a second, vibrating, then fell into the mud with a wet thud.

​'...UGLY,' Obi judged instantly. '...BUT TANGIBLE. A PASSING GRADE FOR A TODDLER.'

​"It worked," Siurad breathed, staring at the black lump. It was slowly evaporating back into smoke. "I made matter. I made a rock."

​'...YOU MADE A LUMP,' Obi corrected. '...XARA COULD UNMAKE ARMIES. BUT WE ARE LIMITED BY YOUR INEFFICIENCY.'

​'...NEXT, MOVEMENT. THE VOID STEP.'

​Obi didn't wait for Siurad to recover from his potato triumph.

'...YOU THINK OF MOVEMENT AS A LINE FROM ONE PLACE TO ANOTHER. DISCARD THAT. THERE IS NO LINE. YOU WILL OPEN HERE, AND DECLINE TO EXIST FOR THE DISTANCE BETWEEN. THEN YOU WILL OPEN THERE.' 

"Like a wormhole?" 

'...LIKE A STITCH,' Obi said. '...FIND A SHADOW, IT WILL ACT AS YOUR GUARD RAIL FOR NOW. TETHER TO IT. PULL.' 

​Siurad looked at a large oak tree about ten feet away. Its shadow stretched toward him across the paddock.

​Ten feet. Easy.

​He focused on the tree's shadow. He felt the connection, a thin, cold line snapping into place between his mind and the darkness.

​"Tether secured," Siurad whispered.

​'...PULL.'

​Siurad yanked.

​The world inverted.

​For a microsecond, there was no light. No sound. No gravity. He felt like he was being squeezed through a drinking straw made of ice water. His stomach dropped out of his body. His inner ear screamed that he was falling up, down, and sideways simultaneously.

​POP.

​Sound returned with a thunderclap.

​Siurad slammed into the bark of the oak tree, face first. He scrambled for purchase, his knees hitting the dirt.

​He was ten feet away from where he started.

​"I did it," he gasped, spinning around, euphoria rising. "I—"

​His stomach caught up with him.

​Siurad doubled over and violently threw up into the bushes.

​"Oh god," he groaned, wiping his mouth. The world was spinning. The trees looked like they were breathing. "Why... why does it feel like I just rode a rollercoaster?"

​'...NORMAL,' Obi dismissed, sounding bored. '...THE HUMAN VESTIBULAR SYSTEM HATES NON EUCLIDEAN GEOMETRY.'

​"You could have... warned me," Siurad spat, leaning weakly against the tree.

​'...THE VOID HAS QUIRKS,' Obi said. '...YOU WILL ADAPT. OR YOU WILL BUY MINTS.' 

'...AGAIN.'

​"No," Siurad wheezed, clutching his stomach. "Not again. I need a minute."

​'...TEN SECONDS,' Obi countered. '...THEN WE TRY TWENTY FEET.'

They tried twenty feet. Then thirty. Then forty.

​By the time they hit fifty feet, Siurad’s stomach had settled into a permanent, low grade rebellion, but his aim was true. He could look at a patch of mud fifty feet away, step into the void, and appear right on top of it without stumbling. It was clean. It was precise.

​"Fifty fucking feet," Siurad noted, panting, his hands on his knees. "Fifty feet. I can put a sword in a goblin's eye from fifty feet."

​'...PUSH IT,' Obi commanded, sensing the complacency. '...EIGHTY THAT, FENCE POST.'

​Siurad wiped sweat from his forehead. He focused on a rotting fence post eighty feet away near the water trough. He felt the tether. It felt... thinner. Stretched.

​He pulled.

​The slide through the Void was longer. Slippery. He felt himself drifting, like a car losing traction on black ice. The destination wavered in his mind.

​POP.

​He didn't land next to the post. He landed ten feet to the left, ankle deep in a murky puddle of rainwater.

​"Drift," Siurad cursed, shaking his wet boot. "Precision drops off hard after fifty. Eighty feet is a gamble."

​'...TRY ONE HUNDRED.'

​"That feels like a bad idea," Siurad muttered, looking at the distance. The far wall of the paddock was a hundred feet away.

​'...IS THAT FEAR?'

​Siurad sighed. He found a target, a large boulder near the wall. He focused. He pulled.

​This time, it wasn't just a slide, the drifting sensation remained but what accompanied it was the feeling of propulsion.  It was a launch.

​The Void grabbed him and screamed. There was no control. No up or down. He was a ragdoll in a hurricane. Speed he hadn't summoned threw him forward, the momentum multiplying in the vacuum.

​He exited the Void not standing, but flying horizontally at terrifying speed.

​He missed the boulder entirely and plowed into a hay bale with enough force to shatter the wood pallet beneath it.

​CRASH.

​Siurad lay in the straw, groaning, staring at the spinning sky.

​"Cap... is... one hundred," he wheezed. "That was awful."

​'...AT ONE HUNDRED, YOU ARE A PROJECTILE,' Obi agreed, unbothered by Siurad's pain. '...USEFUL ONLY IF YOU INTEND TO BE THE AMMUNITION. DO NOT EXCEED THIS LIMIT. EVEN WITH MY AUGMENTATION YOU MAY LIQUEFY.'

“Augmentation?” Siurad asked, confused by the admission.

'...THE VOID ENHANCES WHAT YOU ARE.'

“So the wire-fu was you?”

'...YOUR ABYSMAL MANA POOL, YOUR STRENGTH, YOUR DURABILITY. YOUR FORTITUDE ALL BENEFIT FROM MY PRESCENCE.'

Siurad stayed in the hay. It was comfortable. As he mulled over these words he came to a profound realization "I'm done. Class dismissed."

​'...LESSON THREE,' Obi droned, ignoring the complaint. '...'THE MELD.'

​"I'm lying in hay, Obi. I'm practically dead."

​'...NO YOU ARE ALIVE AND VISIBLE. BECOME INVISIBLE. ENTER THE VOID.'

​"What?"

​'...THE SHADOW.'

​Obi’s presence shifted in the ring, becoming colder, stiller.

'...USE THE SHADOW AS YOUR TRAINING WHEELS. DO NOT STEP THROUGH IT. SINK INTO IT. USE IT TO ENTER THE VOID.'

​Siurad frowned, concentrating. He felt stealthy. He felt one with the night, despite it being morning. He held his breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and willed himself to vanish into the darkness of the barn's overhang.

​"I did it," Siurad whispered, opening one eye. He looked down. He couldn't see his legs. A surge of pride swelled in his chest. "Obi, check it out. I'm gone. I am the night. I am the wind."

​'...IMBECILE,' Obi’s voice was flat with disappointment. '...YOU ARE JUST PARTIALLY COVERED IN HAY. I CAN SEE YOUR ENTIRE TORSO.'

​Siurad looked down again. Indeed, he had just scooted backward slightly, and a large pile of loose straw was obscuring his shins. His upper half was still very much visible, acting as a beacon of failure.

​"Oh," Siurad said, brushing a stalk of wheat off his shoulder. "Right. False start. Strategy adjustment."

​'...LET THE VOID DO THE WORK,' Obi corrected, sounding exhausted by his student. '...STOP BEING SOLID BECOME ABSENCE.'

​Siurad rolled over into the long shadow cast by the hay bale. "Become absence. Got it."

​Siurad closed his eyes. He stopped trying to move. He imagined the cold mud wasn't under him, but around him. He stopped fighting the chill of the Ring and let it in. He let himself sink into the void.

​It felt like falling backward into a pool of ice water.

​The world went grey. The sound of the wind muted, sounding like it was underwater.

​He opened his eyes. He wasn't looking at the paddock. He was looking at a monochrome, high contrast version of it. Colors were gone, replaced by shades of obsidian and ash. He looked down at his hands. They were translucent, made of grey smoke, blending perfectly with the darkness of the hay bale.

​He was in the shadow. Not traveling through it, but existing within it.

​'...GOOD,' Obi whispered, his voice echoing loudly in this quiet place. '...YOU ARE HIDDEN. BUT DO NOT STAY LONG. THE VOID CONSUMES, AND UNTIL YOU LEARN TO ANCHOR YOUR MIND, YOUR WILL IS A PAPER DAM.'

​Siurad felt it. The cold wasn't just physical; it was mental. He felt his name slipping away, becoming irrelevant. Why be Siurad when you could just be... nothing?

​Panic flared.

​He surged up, gasping, willing himself solid.

​He popped back into reality with a gasp, shivering violently. The colors of the world rushed back, blindingly bright.

​"Cold," he chattered, wrapping his arms around himself. "So cold."

​'...A BRIEF RESPITE,' Obi said. '...BUT USEFUL. YOU WILL LEARN TO ENDURE THE STILLNESS .NOW GET UP. WE PRACTICE THE SPIKE.'

​​Siurad groaned but pushed himself up from the hay. His limbs felt stiff, like he’d been sleeping in a freezer.

​"Okay," he said, shaking out his arms. "Spike. Projectile weapon. Ranged DPS. I can do this."

'...THE PRINCIPLE IS SIMPLE,' Obi instructed. '...YOU WILL USE THE SHADOW TO MANIFEST A SPIKE. YOU REACH THE VALVE, OPEN IT, AND INFORM THE UNIVERSE THAT A SPIKE IS NOW PRESENT. THE VOID WILL HANDLE PROPULSION.'' 

"Like a bullet," Siurad muttered. 

'...LIKE A VERDICT,' Obi corrected. '...SHARP. ALREADY DECIDED. IF IT ARRIVES BLUNT, YOU HESITATED, AND HESITATION IS JUST A HAMMER.' 

​Siurad looked around for a target. He spotted a rotting fence post about thirty feet away. It was already leaning precariously. Perfect.

​He raised his right hand, palm facing the target.

​"Okay. Void, show me what you got."

He focused on the long shadow pooled near his feet. He used it like guard rails, Obi's words snagged in his head, inform it, so he reached for that patch of dark and simply insisted, the way you'd insist on a fact, that a spike belonged there. The shadow conformed; it agreedto his will. A black shape was suddenly there, the way a word is suddenly spoken. 

​It wasn't a sleek spike. It was more of a jagged, slightly curved cone. It looked like a very angry unicorn horn made of charcoal.

​'...AERODYNAMICS ARE LACKING,' Obi critiqued. '...BUT IT IS SHARP. NOW…..'

​Siurad grunted and thrust his arm forward, physically throwing the motion like he was casting a fireball in a VR game.

​"Go!"

​The spike launched.

​But because Siurad used his arm muscles instead of the Void to propel it, the heavy shadow moved with the speed of a gently tossed softball. It arced slowly through the air, wobbling.

​Bonk.

​It hit the fence post with a dull thud, bounced off, and landed in the mud.

​"Well," Siurad said, staring at the pathetic projectile. "It hit the target."

​'...PATHETIC,' Obi pulsed. '...YOU THREW IT. WITH YOUR ARM. LIKE AN APE WITH A STONE. THE SPIKE DOES NOT TRAVEL FROM YOUR FORCE, VESSEL, THE INSTANT YOU OPEN. YOUR SHOULDER IS IRRELEVANT. STOP PERFORMING MAGIC AND START STATING FACTS.' 

​"Right. Facts. Not baseball logic."

​'...TRY AGAIN.'

​Siurad took a deep breath. He shook out his hand.

​He formed another spike. This time, he focused on making it thinner. Sharper. He imagined it spinning.

​"Okay," he whispered. 

​This time he didn't move his arm. He kept it steady, aiming with his palm. 

​He released his hold.

​THWIP.

​There was no recoil on his arm, but the air cracked. The spike vanished.

​A split second later, the fence post exploded.

​Splinters of rotten wood rained down on the mud. The top half of the post toppled over, severed cleanly. The shadow spike was embedded deep in the tree trunk behind it, vibrating with kinetic energy before dissipating into smoke.

​"Whoa," Siurad breathed, eyes wide. "That... was fast."

​'...BETTER,' Obi conceded. '...BUT YOU HESITATED. IN COMBAT, HESITATION IS DEATH.'

​"I blew up the fence post, Obi! Give me a little credit!"

​'...THE FENCE POST WAS NOT MOVING. AND IT WAS NOT TRYING TO STAB YOU.'

​'...AGAIN. FIVE IN RAPID SUCCESSION.'

​"Five? Damn it Obi."

​'...THEN YOU WILL LEARN EFFICIENCY. FIRE.'

​Siurad stumbled back onto the main road of Pine Haven just as the sun crested the treeline.

​He looked like a wreck. His hoodie was covered in hay and mud. His boots were soaked. He was shivering violently from the lingering effects of the void, and he felt nauseous from the teleportation drills.

​To anyone watching, he looked like he’d spent the night in a ditch after a bender.

​”Obi…fuck you”.

Mana: Empty.

Stamina: Critical.

Mood: Homicidal.

​'...EFFICIENT SESSION,' Obi noted cheerfully in his mind. '...WE INCREASED YOUR THROUGHPUT BY 4%.'

​"I feel like death," Siurad croaked, heading towards the inn to grab his axe before his shift. "I have to chop trees all day, Obi. How am I supposed to swing an axe when I can barely lift my arms?"

​'...PAIN IS DATA,' Obi replied. AND BESIDES. YOU DO NOT NEED ARMS. YOU HAVE LEVERAGE. REMEMBER ZEUS, REMEMBER THE V-CUT.'

​Siurad groaned. "I hate the V-cut. I hate geometry. I hate you."

​'...THE FEELING IS MUTUAL, VESSEL. NOW WALK FASTER. WE ARE LATE.'

​Siurad trudged toward the lumber yard, dreading the moment Lexaris saw him looking like a swamp creature. It was going to be a long day.

Chapter Six

​The axe hit the wood with a solid, resonant thwack.

​It was barely noon, and Siurad felt like he was moving through molasses. His limbs were heavy, his mana reserves were dangerously low from the morning’s training, and his head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. He wasn't physically tired, at 6'4" and 240 pounds, swinging an axe was just warm up cardio, but the mana exhaustion made his bones feel like lead.

​He leaned against the handle of his axe, wiping sweat from his brow.

​"You look like death warmed over, big man," a deep voice rumbled.

​Siurad looked up to see Zeus watching him. The massive lumberjack was resting his own axe on his shoulder, looking fresh despite having felled three trees to Siurad's one.

​"Rough night?" Zeus asked, eyeing the dark circles under Siurad's eyes.

​"Something like that," Siurad muttered. "Insomnia. Bad dreams."

​'...WEAKNESS,' Obi helpfully supplied in his mind. '...YOUR RECOVERY RATE IS SUBOPTIMAL.'

​Zeus grunted. "Well, you're swinging better than yesterday. Form is tighter. Less wasted motion. I'm impressed. Most guys your size just try to muscle through it, but you're actually learning the leverage."

​"Thanks, Zeus. I'm trying."

​"Come on," Zeus said, gesturing to a stump. "Lunch. My wife packed extra. Said a man your size needs fuel, not excuses."

​They sat on the stump. Zeus handed Siurad a bundle wrapped in wax cloth. Siurad opened it to reveal thick slices of dark bread, sharp cheese, and a slab of cold roasted venison seasoned with rosemary. To Siurad, starving from mana exhaustion, it looked like a feast fit for a king.

​"Thank you," Siurad said earnestly, tearing into the bread. "Seriously. Thank your wife for me."

​Zeus watched him eat for a moment, chewing on a piece of jerky. "You've got potential, Siurad. You're strong, but you're careful. That's a rare mix."

​He pointed his thumb toward the darker, denser part of the forest where the sunlight struggled to reach the ground.

​"There's a patch of iron bark pine about a mile deep. The wood is denser. Harder to chop, but Lexaris pays double for it. We head in there, fill the cart, and we can call it an early day. What do you say?"

​Siurad looked at the dark woods. His instincts, and Obi, screamed danger. But his wallet screamed rent and food.

​"Double pay?" Siurad wiped crumbs from his mouth. "Lead the way."

​The air in the deep woods was stagnant and smelled of damp earth and sweet rot. The trees here were massive, their bark grey and metallic looking.

​They worked in rhythm for an hour. The Iron bark lived up to its name; every swing sent a shockwave up Siurad's arms. But he used the V-cut. He used leverage. He let gravity do the work.

​'...EFFICIENT,' Obi noted, sounding bored. '...BUT SOMETHING APPROACHES.'

​Siurad paused. "Zeus?"

​Zeus stopped mid swing. The forest had gone silent. No birds. No wind.

​A low, clicking sound echoed from the canopy above them. Like a thousand knitting needles tapping together.

​"Down!" Zeus roared.

​He shoved Siurad hard. Siurad hit the dirt just as a blur of chitin and legs slammed into the spot where he had been standing.

​Siurad scrambled up and stared in horror.

​It was a centipede. But not a normal one. It was sixteen feet long, its segmented body as thick as a barrel, covered in iridescent purple armor. Wings that were transparent and buzzing like a dragonfly sprouted from its back. Its mandibles dripped with a sizzling green venom.

​"Chilovolaticus!" Zeus shouted, backing away and raising his axe.

​"Chilo volata what?" Siurad yelled, scrambling for his own axe.

​"Run, boy!" Zeus bellowed, his voice tight with fear. "It's an Alpha! Axe won't cut that shell! Go!"

​The creature screeched a sound like tearing metal, and lunged at Zeus.

​Zeus swung his massive axe. It connected with the creature's head with a spark of metal on chitin, but the beast didn't even flinch. It reared back and swatted Zeus with its tail.

​The impact was sickening. Zeus, a man who looked like he was carved from granite, was launched twenty feet through the air. He slammed into a tree and crumpled, his axe flying from his hand.

​"Zeus!" Siurad shouted.

​The creature turned its many eyes toward Zeus’s prone form. It chittered, mandibles clicking, preparing to feast.

​Siurad took a step back. His brain screamed run. He was still drained from the morning training session.

​'...THE VARIABLE IS DOWN,' Obi said calmly. '...FLEE WE CANNOT WIN YOU ARE EMPTY.'

​Siurad looked at Zeus. The big man was groaning, trying to push himself up, blood trickling from his forehead.

​"No," Siurad growled.

​He gripped his axe.

​"Hey!" Siurad yelled, picking up a rock and hurling it. It bounced harmlessly off the creature’s carapace.

The beast pivoted toward him with a sharp hiss. It unfurled its wings, the air vibrating with a violent buzz as it lunged. Its elongated frame snaked through the forest, pulverizing saplings and undergrowth in its wake. It moved with a speed that defied its size.

"MOVE," Obi's command echoed in his mind. "VOID STEP NOW".

Siurad didn't hesitate. Locking onto the shadow cast by a downed tree behind the predator, he grabbed the metaphysical tether and pulled.

POP.

The centipede's jaws clamped shut on nothing but air. Siurad appeared ten feet to its rear. Nausea rolled through him, making him lurch, but he forced it down; he had successfully flanked the monster.

The creature let out a confused shriek, its massive body twisting as it searched for its vanished prey. Realizing it had lost its advantage on the forest floor, its wings began to blur as it sought the sky.

"IT IS LEAVING THE GROUND," Obi warned with sudden urgency. "IF IT FLIES, YOU DIE. GROUND IT. TARGET THE WING JOINT. USE THE SPIKE".

"Shit," Siurad grunted.

Discarding his axe, he hoisted his right hand. He could feel the absolute dregs of his mana, a hollow ache at the bottom of his reserves.

​He focused on the blur of the creature's right wing joint.

Command reality, he thought.

​"Shadow Spike!"

​He thrust his palm forward.

​THWIP.

The shadow spike whistled as it cut through the atmosphere, sailing wide of its mark.

"Dammit," Siurad spat, his frustration mounting.

High above, the massive winged terror spiraled, its plated tail carving through the air. It swept low over Siurad’s position before banking sharply back toward the forest roof.

As he scrambled back to a standing position, he projected a thought to Obi: That hurt.

'...TRY AGAIN,' the Entity’s voice rang out with cold authority.

Raising his arm once more, Siurad summoned another jagged shard of darkness. He calibrated his aim and loosed the strike. This effort struck true, burying itself into the creature’s translucent wing joint with a sickening, wet snap.

The Chilovolaticus let out a piercing shriek as its lift vanished, sending its gargantuan form into a violent descent. Its armored tail lashed out like a massive iron bar during the fall.

The impact hit Siurad directly in the sternum. By any standard of human biology, the sheer kinetic force should have pulverized his ribcage and destroyed his organs. Instead, though the strike propelled him twelve feet across the mud and knocked the breath from his lungs, his body remained intact. The unnatural chill anchored in his skeleton simply would not allow his frame to break.

'...STAND,' Obi’s command was frigid and absolute. '...THE TARGET IS DOWN, BUT THE THREAT REMAINS.'

Despite a staggering, all-encompassing ache that threatened to pin him to the ground, Siurad’s legs drove him upward. He stood before the pain could even finish registering in his mind. A short distance away, the grounded behemoth lunged, intending to use its immense bulk to flatten him into the earth.

Reacting on instinct, Siurad snatched up the fallen logging axe and set his feet firmly into the mire.

He drove the axe straight up into the creature's snapping mandibles and locked his elbows.

The collision was like catching a falling boulder. The beast's momentum should have folded his arms backward and put the shaft through his own chest. It didn't. His elbows held. His boots carved two long trenches through the mud as he gave ground, but he gave it slowly, and then he stopped giving it at all, forcing the creature's clattering head up.

'...THE NECK.' Obi commanded. '...THE SEAM WHERE THE PLATES PART. YOU HAVE CUT THIS JOINT A HUNDRED TIMES THIS WEEK. IT IS SHAPED LIKE A TREE.'

And it was. Siurad shoved upward, the creature's head went back, off balance, and in that half second, his eye did the thing Zeus had drilled into him. It found the grain. Not the broad, armored curve of the neck, the plate that would turn any blade; the seam. The thin dark line where one chitin segment met the next, where the armor became a hinge instead of a wall.

He ripped the axe free and stepped into it.

He swung for the line, the same economical, leveraged stroke he'd put into tree trunks, hips and back and shoulders flowing through one point. The V-cut. The first bite split the seam wide. He let the axe rebound, rolled his wrists, and brought the second stroke down into the exact same groove without looking, because by now his hands knew the motion better than his eyes did.

Thunk-crack.

The head came free and dropped into the mud. The massive body went rigid, shuddered once down its entire sixteen-foot length, and was still.

Silence returned to the forest.

​"By the gods..."

​Siurad turned, chest heaving, wiping green slime from his face. Zeus was leaning against the tree, clutching his ribs, staring at Siurad with eyes wide as saucers. He looked from the dead monstrosity to the greenhorn who had just teleported and cast a shadow spear.

​"You..." Zeus coughed. "You're a Mage?"

​Siurad dropped the axe, his legs shaking as the adrenaline crash hit him. "Something like that." He rushed over to Zeus. "Are you okay? We need to get you some help."

​Zeus groaned as Siurad helped him up. "Ribs are cracked. Maybe broken. Amphara’s temple isn't far."

​They began the slow limp back to the cart. Zeus leaned heavily on Siurad, his breathing ragged.

​As they reached the edge of the deep woods, Zeus paused. He looked back at the massive carcass of the centipede.

​"Boy," Zeus whispered, a pained grin breaking through his grimace. "We're coming back for that."

​"For the bug?" Siurad asked, disgusted.

​"The venom sacs," Zeus rasped. "And the chitin. Alchemists pay a fortune for Chilovolaticus parts. You just made yourself some coin, kid."

​'...PROFITABLE,' Obi noted with satisfaction. '...ACCEPTABLE OUTCOME.'

​Siurad just laughed.

​The walk back to the cart was a slow, agonizing shuffle.

​Zeus was heavy. The big man was built like a draught horse, and with his ribs cracked, he leaned almost all of his weight on Siurad.

​"So," Zeus wheezed, breaking the silence. "That magic. Teleportation. And you're working for copper in a lumber yard?"

​Siurad winced, adjusting his grip on Zeus’s belt. "It's... complicated."

​"Complicated," Zeus repeated, spitting a glob of blood into the ferns. "Usually, 'complicated' means I'm running from the law, or I owe money to a guild.”

​He looked at Siurad sideways, his eyes sharp despite the pain.

​"That wasn't normal magic, kid. I've seen Mages. That was different, you... you just punched a hole in the air."

​"It's hedge magic," Siurad lied quickly. "My grandfather taught me. It’s messy. Unstable. That’s why I threw up."

​"And the black spike?"

​"Mining trick," Siurad improvised. "For... cracking rocks."

​Zeus snorted, which immediately turned into a groan of pain. "Right. Rock cracking. That decapitates flying nightmares."

​'...HE IS SUSPICIOUS,' Obi’s voice cut in, cold and detached. '...HE HAS SEEN TOO MUCH. THE VARIABLE IS A RISK.'

​Siurad stiffened. Don't start, Obi.

​'...SILENCE HIM,' Obi advised.  '...AN ACCIDENT IN THE WOODS. NO WITNESSES, NO QUESTIONS. IT WOULD BE EFFICIENT.'

​No, Siurad thought back furiously. He's not a variable. He's a coworker.

​'...HE IS A LOOSE THREAD. XARA WOULD HAVE CUT IT.'

​Xara didn't have a guy who shared his sandwich, Siurad countered. The pork was seasoned, Obi. You said it yourself. Caloric density.

​'...THE PORK WAS ACCEPTABLE,' Obi conceded, sounding almost pained by the logic. '...BUT SENTIMENT IS A FLAW.'

​"You okay?" Zeus asked, feeling Siurad tense up.

​"Just a cramp," Siurad muttered. "We're almost to the road."

​Zeus was quiet for a moment. Then he clapped a heavy hand on Siurad’s shoulder.

​"Look," Zeus said quietly. "I don't care if you're a hedge mage or the King's bastard. You saved my life. In the lumber business, that wipes the slate clean. I won't ask questions if you don't want to answer them."

​"I appreciate that," Siurad exhaled, feeling the tension in his chest loosen slightly.

​"But," Zeus added, a greedy glint returning to his eyes. "You are helping me harvest that bug tomorrow. I don't care how magical you are; nobody walks away from a gold mine."

​"Deal," Siurad promised.

​They reached the cart. As Siurad helped Zeus into the back, the Ring hummed, a low, satisfied vibration that warmed his freezing finger.

​'...FINE,' Obi grumbled. '...LET THE VARIABLE LIVE. FOR NOW.'

​Generous of you, Siurad thought sarcastically.

​'...HOWEVER,' Obi continued, the tone shifting to something that sounded suspiciously like pride.

​'...THE CORRECTION OF THE VERMIN. THE VECTOR WAS PRECISE, AND THE USE OF LEVERAGE.'

​The Ring pulsed warm against his skin.

​'...IT WAS ADEQUATE. PERHAPS YOU ARE NOT ENTIRELY USELESS.'

​Siurad suppressed a smile. From a cosmic entity, adequate was basically a standing ovation.

​"Thanks, Obi," Siurad whispered into the wind. "Now shut up. I need to get us to a healer."

The sun was dipping below the tree line when they reached the yard gate.

​Lexaris was still there, counting logs on a wagon. When he saw Siurad practically dragging a bloodied, limping Zeus out of the darkness, the Foreman dropped his clipboard.

​"What in the hells?" Lexaris marched over, his face purple with instant rage. He zeroed in on Siurad. "I knew it! I knew you were useless! You dropped a tree on him, didn't you? You city handed moron!"

​Siurad opened his mouth to defend himself, but Zeus squeezed his shoulder hard.

​"Back off, Lex," Zeus wheezed, forcing himself to stand straighter. "Wasn't the kid. It was a Widow maker. A dead branch snapped in the high canopy. Came down like a hammer."

​Lexaris stopped, eyeing Zeus’s caved in side. "A branch did that? Looks like you got kicked by a mule."

​"Big branch," Zeus grunted, sweat rolling down his nose. "Kid pulled me out before the rest of the tree came down. He did good."

​Lexaris squinted at Siurad, looking for a lie. Siurad kept his face blank, channeling the same social Stealth he used on the guards in Pinehaven.

​"Fine," Lexaris spat. "But if you can't work tomorrow, Zeus, you're not getting paid. And you..." He poked a sausage-finger at Siurad. "You finish his shift tomorrow. Double quota."

​"Understood," Siurad said quietly.

​"Get him to the temple," Lexaris waved them off, losing interest now that he knew no equipment was broken. "And try not to bleed on the road. It scares the investors."

​As they walked away, Zeus let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-whimper.

​"Why lie?" Siurad whispered. "The bug killed you. Not a tree."

​"If I told him about the Chilovolaticus," Zeus hissed, "Lexaris would have a salvage crew out there within the hour. That chitin belongs to the company if we report it. But if we find it on our own time... it belongs to us."

​'...GREED,' Obi noted approvingly. '...A USEFUL MOTIVATOR.'

​

​Aphara’s Temple bore little resemblance to a majestic cathedral. Instead, it was a modest wooden longhouse, where the pungent aroma of dried sage mingled with the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol. In its practical design and atmosphere, the structure functioned more as a medical clinic than a traditional house of worship.

​The healer was a bored looking acolyte in green robes who clearly dealt with lumberjack injuries daily.

​"Cracked ribs. severe bruising," the acolyte droned, his hands glowing with a soft, verdant light as he pressed them against Zeus’s side. "And... trace amounts of neurotoxin in the blood?"

​The acolyte looked up, suspicious. "A branch had venom?"

​"Poison ivy," Siurad interjected quickly. "Nasty patch of it where he fell."

​The acolyte rolled his eyes but didn't push. 

"That will be five silver for a salve and set," the acolyte said, his tone practiced and indifferent. "Or two gold for Apharas’ divine light."

Two gold. Two thousand copper. It wasn't just a price; it was a gate kept securely locked against men who felled trees for a living. Even the mundane option of five silver was a devastating hit. It was fifty days of scraping by on a logger's surplus wiped out in a single breath.

"Five silver," Zeus grunted. He dug into his worn leather pouch, pulling out the coins and tossing them onto the wooden table. The metal clinked, heavy and finite.

The acolyte swept the silver away without a word. He reached under the counter, not for glowing light, but for a foul smelling jar of pungent paste and a roll of coarse, unbleached linen.

Zeus bit down hard on a strip of leather. His face drained of color as the acolyte stepped close, burying his hands into Zeus's side and aggressively shoving the cracked ribs back into alignment.

Siurad winced at the dull pop and the sickening squelch of the bones being manually forced into place. The acolyte smeared the paste over the bruising flesh, binding the ribs so tightly that Zeus's breath hitched. There was no divine intervention here. Just the bloody, mundane reality of what a working man could afford.

The temple doors shut behind them, cutting off the scent of incense and leaving them in the cold, muddy street. Zeus didn't walk so much as he dragged his right side. His breathing was shallow, strictly measured against the tight linen bindings already darkening where the pungent paste seeped through.

Siurad stepped close, offering a shoulder. Zeus looked at it for a long second, then grunted and slung his heavy, tree-trunk arm over Siurad's neck. They started the slow, agonizing trek away from the temple district.

The evening air felt colder than it had before. Siurad looked around at the rough-hewn buildings and the dark tree line pressing in on the settlement.

"You should’ve taken the light," Siurad said, looking at the older man struggling just to put one foot in front of the other.

Zeus gave a short laugh, then immediately regretted it with a sharp hiss. "And spend two gold so I can swing an axe tomorrow instead of next week? I’m not rich enough to be stupid."

"You got hurt doing the job."

"Aye."

"So shouldn’t the yard pay?"

Zeus stopped walking. He looked at Siurad like he had just asked why the sky charged rent. "You really are new."

"Yeah," he admitted. "I am. New enough that I don’t actually know what country I’m standing in."

"You serious?"

"Unfortunately. I never actually asked," Siurad said, keeping his voice low to match the quiet street. "Where exactly are we?"

Zeus let out a breath that caught sharply on his cracked ribs. "Pine Haven. Logging town." He pointed a thick, calloused finger down the dark road toward a small, rusted sign. He shot Siurad a sideways, pain-tightened look. "Where did you think we were?"

"Honestly? I stopped guessing after the giant centipede."

Zeus managed a dry, wheezing chuckle that ended in a wince. They started moving again. "Pine Haven is on the smaller side of settlements," Zeus said between jagged breaths. "We are in the Kingdom of Vildris."

"Vildris," Siurad mouthed, nodding his head.

"Kingdom in name, headache in practice," Zeus said. "Nobles own the timber contracts. Krupp owns half the men who swing axes. Temple takes the coin to keep the rest breathing. Coin is the true king around these parts, lad."

"Have you ever heard of the Obsidian Authority?" Siurad asked.

"Can't say I have, sounds like the kind of name a man's better off not having heard," Zeus wheezed. "What is it to you?"

"I have to find it, or what is left of it."

"This relating to that mining magic?" Zeus gave him a worried stare.

"You could say that."

'...YOU TALK TOO MUCH, VESSEL.'

Shut up, Obi, Siurad thought.

"My advice, kid? Be careful who you speak to about that sort of thing."

Siurad nodded. They walked in silence for a while before turning down a narrower street, finally stopping before a small, sturdy cabin. It was modest, the roof patched but holding, and a warm, low light spilled from the front window. A small face peeked over the windowsill, eyes going wide at the sight of them before vanishing. The sound of hurried, small footsteps echoed inside.

Zeus leaned heavily against the doorframe, slipping his arm off Siurad’s shoulder. He looked exhausted. The weight of the five-silver deficit hung over him just as heavily as the physical pain. Fifty days of surplus labor, wiped out in a few minutes, with a family waiting on the other side of that door.

"Go back to the Boar's Den," Zeus rasped, gripping the iron latch as the door began to open from the inside. "Get whatever sleep you can. But be at the tree line at first light."

Zeus looked back at him, his eyes hard and completely uncompromising.

"We are going back for that Alpha. Every plate of chitin, every mandible. We're stripping it to the bone, and we're getting my silver back."

Siurad nodded, stepping back into the street. "First light."

​

​Siurad slept like the dead. No spider pranks. No cold wake-up calls. Even Obi seemed to respect the absolute emptiness of his mana reserves.

​He woke before dawn, not because of a nightmare, but because someone was banging on his door.

​He opened it to find Zeus. The big man was bandaged, pale, and moving stiffly, but he was grinning. He held a large canvas sack in one hand and a pry-bar in the other.

​"Sun's up, partner," Zeus whispered. "Let's go get our bonus."

​'...THE SCAVENGER IS PUNCTUAL,' Obi observed as Siurad grabbed his boots. '...I TOLERATE HIM.'

​"Let's go," Siurad said, grabbing his axe. "Before the flies get to it."

The woods were quiet in the grey light of dawn, save for the buzzing of flies.

​Siurad and Zeus moved quickly through the underbrush, the big man moving with surprising grace for someone whose ribs were cracked less than twenty-four hours ago. They pulled a handcart behind them, a sturdy, iron-rimmed thing Zeus had borrowed, without telling anyone,  from the shed.

​When they reached the clearing, the smell hit them first. It was a mix of copper, nectar, and spoiled meat.

​The Chilovolaticus was still there. It hadn't moved, but it wasn't alone. A few wolf-sized beetles were picking at the exposed neck meat.

​"Scavengers," Zeus grunted, picking up a rock. "Get out of here! Go on!"

​He hurled the rock. It clattered off the carapace of the nearest beetle. The scavengers hissed, looking at the two large men, then decided there was easier meat elsewhere and scurried into the ferns.

​The Chilovolaticus did not yield its treasures easily.

​In Cassalia, looting a mob was a sterile affair. You clicked the glowing corpse, a menu popped up, and the items transferred to your inventory with a satisfying shing sound.

​Real life, Siurad was discovering, was wet and sticky, and it smelled like burning sulfur.

​"Leverage," Zeus grunted, jamming the iron pry-bar under the creature’s massive, iridescent dorsal plate. "On three. One, two... heave!"

​Siurad gripped the bar, his boots sliding in the mud. ​With a sickening, wet tear, the plate popped free, exposing the pulsating grey meat beneath.

​"Gods," Siurad gagged, turning his head away as the smell of meat and rotten eggs intensified. "That is foul."

​'...ORGANIC MATTER IS INHERENTLY DISGUSTING,' Obi pulsed in his mind, his tone practically curling a metaphorical lip. '...IT DECAYS. IT STINKS. STONE NEVER SMELLS.'

​"Not the time, Obi," Siurad muttered, wiping sweat from his eyes.

​"You talking to the bug?" Zeus asked, pausing to wipe his own brow. He looked pale, the adrenaline of the previous day fading to reveal the pain of his freshly knit ribs.

​"Just... hyping myself up," Siurad lied smoothly. "Okay. The plate is off. Where are the sacs?"

​Zeus pointed his skinning knife toward the base of the creature's neck, where the chitin met the soft tissue. "Deep inside the throat gullet. Two of them. Green. Volatile. If you puncture one, the acid will melt your hands off before you can scream. I’ve seen it happen."

​Siurad stared at the mess of alien biology.

​"Great," he sighed."Operation: Don't Melt Hands. Commencing," Siurad sighed.

He reached in. The flesh was still warm, slick with a foul smelling ichor. He couldn't see anything. He had to rely entirely on touch.

'...HIGHER,' Obi commanded, suddenly becoming a backseat surgeon. '...TO THE LEFT. PAST THE TRACHEA.'

Siurad shifted his hand, his arm elbow deep in the beast.

'...STOP.'

Siurad froze.

'...DO NOT SQUEEZE. YOU ARE HOLDING THE VALVE. IF YOU PULL IT, IT RUPTURES.'

"Obi says... I mean, my instinct says I need to cut the valve first," Siurad told Zeus, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

"Your instinct is right," Zeus said, looking pale but impressed. “Careful.”

'...USE THE KNIFE,' Obi instructed. '...MAKE A THIRTY-DEGREE INCISION. SEVER THE DUCT.'

Snip.

He felt the tension release. Gently, slowly, he pulled his hand back.

He withdrew a pulsating, translucent green sac the size of a cantaloupe. The liquid inside swirled with a violent, glowing energy.

"Jackpot," Zeus breathed, his eyes wide. "That's pure grade. A quart, easy."

'...A POTENT SOLVENT,' Obi noted analytically. '...XARA USED TO DRINK DILUTED DRAMS OF IT. SHE SAID IT TASTED LIKE ANGRY LIMES.'

​Xara was insane, Siurad thought back, carefully placing the sac into the padded crate Zeus had brought. And I'm never drinking angry limes.

​They worked for another hour. By the time the sun fully broke the tree line, they had harvested all they could reasonably take.

Zeus had promised to strip the Alpha to the bone, reality had renegotiated the terms.

His ribs would not let him bend for long, the carcass stank worse with every cut, and half the plates were cracked from the fight. What looked like a fortune in the mud became a smaller, uglier calculation once they had to pry it loose and carry it home.

“I thought we were taking everything,” Siurad said.

Zeus spat into the mud. “I also thought breathing wouldn’t hurt this much. Plans change. We take the pieces that pay best and we get out. We can't haul this whole thing and I can't be limping past the foreman's window with a cart full of poached monster." 

Siurad just nodded and continued packing.

They loaded the handcart, covering the illicit cargo with a layer of scrap wood and burlap.

​"We look like garbage collectors," Siurad noted, surveying their muddy, blood-stained appearance.

​"Rich garbage collectors," Zeus grinned, slapping Siurad on the back. "Now comes the hard part. The haggle."

ChapteR SeveN

​Pine Haven didn't have a High Alchemist. It had The Mortar & Pestle, a cramped, windowless shop located in the basement of the general store.

​It smelled of dried sage, rubbing alcohol, and something that smelled suspiciously like cat urine.

​The proprietor, a wizened old man named Varkas with spectacles that magnified his eyes to disturbing proportions, looked up as they entered.

​"Shop's closed," Varkas croaked, mixing a bowl of something grey. "Unless you're dying. In which case, pay first."

​"Not dying, Varkas," Zeus said, closing the door and bolting it. "Selling."

​He nudged Siurad. Siurad stepped forward and placed the crate on the counter. He opened the lid.

The green glow of the venom sacs illuminated Varkas’s face. The old man stopped stirring. He adjusted his spectacles, leaning in until his crooked nose nearly touched the glass jar.

"Chilovolaticus," Varkas whispered.

Then he scoffed, pulling back and pushing his spectacles up his nose. The awe vanished, instantly replaced by the cold, calculating mask of a rural fence.

"And butchered by amateurs," Varkas sneered, pointing a stained finger at the crate. "The connective tissue on these sacs is bruised. Half the chitin plates are cracked from blunt force. You didn't harvest this, you mangled it."

"They're fresh," Zeus grunted, shifting his weight off his injured ribs. "And they're intact."

"They are poached," Varkas countered sharply, his magnified eyes darting between them. "From Company land. If Lexaris or the Krupp overseers catch you with this, you don't just lose your jobs. You hang. And if they catch me buying it, I hang right next to you."

Varkas wiped his hands on a rag, shaking his head with theatrical disappointment. "It's too hot. The risk is immense. Four gold. For the lot. And that includes my disposal fee for the mess you made."

Four gold. Four thousand copper. To a working logger, it was a staggering sum, more than a year's savings. But for the crown jewel of an Alpha predator?

'...INSULT,' Obi hissed, the Ring turning ice-cold on Siurad’s finger. '...THE ENERGY DENSITY IN THOSE SACS IS SUFFICIENT TO MELT A CASTLE GATE. HE OFFERS PENNIES FOR A NUCLEAR WEAPON. INTIMIDATE HIM.'

Siurad stepped closer to the counter. He let his bouncer mode take over, the silent, heavy stare that made college kids rethink their life choices.

"Four gold," Siurad repeated, his voice dropping an octave. "For two quarts of Alpha venom? And plates of pristine chitin?"

He reached into the crate and pulled out one of the serrated mandibles. It was as long as his forearm and sharp enough to shave with. He tapped it gently against the wooden counter.

Tak. Tak. Tak.

"This mandible alone can cut through standard-issue iron plate," Siurad said, channeling Obi’s knowledge. "The venom creates a fume that paralyzes the nervous system in three seconds. You aren't buying ingredients, Varkas. You're buying a siege weapon. We want eighteen gold."

Varkas actually laughed, a dry, hacking sound that rattled in his chest.

"Eighteen gold? You must have hit your head on a branch, boy," Varkas spat, completely unfazed by the giant leaning over his counter. His economic leverage was his armor, and he wore it well. "I don't care if it can melt a gate. I can't sell it to a gate melter tomorrow. I have to store this highly volatile, highly illegal contraband in my basement. I have to distill it before it degrades. I have to find a guild buyer corrupt enough to take it, and pay smugglers to transport it."

Varkas leaned over the wood, meeting Siurad's glare. "You're holding a rotting liability, woodman. Eight gold. Final offer."

"Then we'll take it somewhere else," Siurad bluffed, reaching for the crate. "I'm sure the merchants there pay full retail."

"Go ahead," Varkas sneered, crossing his arms. "Haul a cart reeking of Alpha blood thirty miles down the King's road. See what the Road Wardens do when they inspect your cargo. They’ll confiscate it, brand you as poachers, and throw you in the deepest hole in Vildris. You need me, boys. Not the other way around."

Siurad paused. The old man was right, and they both knew it. Siurad had raw muscle and raw goods, but he didn't have a supply chain. He couldn't punch his way into a better black-market distribution network.

"Twelve," Siurad said, his voice hardening into an uncompromising register that made the glass vials on the shelf rattle. "Twelve gold.” Siurad looked at the jars nearly stacked on the shelves. “And potions and you don't say a word to Limmel or Krupp. You'll make your margin on the backend, Varkas. Don't be greedy enough to lose the inventory."

Varkas stared at the giant. He looked at the glowing sacs, the mental math furiously calculating the distillation yields, the transportation bribes, and the eventual assassin guild payouts.

Varkas sighed, the heavy, pained sound of a merchant parting with his hoard.

"Twelve gold. A few extra provisions. You're robbing a poor old man, you know."

Siurad looked at Zeus. Zeus gave a subtle, wide-eyed nod.

"Deal," Siurad said.

Ten minutes later, they walked out into the sunlight, Siurad carrying a heavy purse in one hand and the canvas medicine roll under his arm.

Twelve gold.

Back in Cassalia, twelve gold would have been mid-tier mount money. A number on a screen. Here, in Pine Haven, he could feel the weight of it changing how his hand sat at his side.

Zeus stopped walking. He stared at the purse like a man looking at something he wasn’t supposed to be allowed to want.

“Twelve,” Zeus said quietly. “Gold.”

Siurad opened the purse. He counted out six coins and held them out, the even split.

Zeus looked at the gold in Siurad’s palm. He did not move to take it. His hand stayed pressed against his bandaged side. His breathing did something complicated.

“Four,” Zeus said.

“Zeus—”

“Four,” he repeated. His voice came out rougher than he meant it to. He cleared his throat. “I sat against a tree, bleeding, while you killed a nightmare. Take the eight. Buy a sword that doesn’t rust. Four fixes my roof. Four fills the larder. Four keeps Martha from looking at me like that for the whole winter. We’re square.”

Siurad looked at the four coins he was being asked to give. He looked at Zeus, who was under the bandages and lumberyard dust, a man trying very hard not to let his face do anything embarrassing.

“Four,” Siurad said.

He pressed the gold into Zeus’s calloused palm.

Zeus closed his hand around it. He did not look at the coins. He looked, briefly, somewhere off past Siurad’s shoulder.

Then he cleared his throat again and made it back to something practical.

“Go get your gear,” Zeus said. “Sword that doesn’t rust, like I said. Boots that don’t leak. Whatever else that crook Limmel hasn’t drowned in dust.” He squinted at the sun, calculating. “I’m going to wash the bug off me before Martha throws me out of my own house. Then I’m going to sit down for the first time in a day and a half.”

He clapped Siurad on the shoulder—gently, because of the ribs.

“Boar’s Den. Sundown. You owe me a drink, partner. Real ale this time, not the logger barrel Irma pretends isn’t mostly rainwater. We split the bug right, we drink the bug right.”

“Sundown,” Siurad agreed.

Zeus nodded once. Then he turned and limped off toward the residential district, the four gold still closed inside his fist.

​'...THE VARIABLE IS GENEROUS,' Obi noted. '...INEFFICIENT, BUT USEFUL.'

​"Yeah," Siurad muttered. "We're going shopping."

Limmel’s Exchange was just as dusty and desperate as before, but the dynamic had shifted.

​When Siurad kicked the door open this time, he didn't walk in as a muddy drifter begging for scraps. He walked in as a customer with gold in his pocket and a God of Order in his ear.

​The bell jingled. Limmel looked up, his smile oily and practiced. "Ah, the woodchopper returns! Come to buy that 'Woodsman's Friend' after all? I held it for you, you kn—"

​"No," Siurad interrupted, walking past the display of garbage axes. "I need real gear. And I'm not haggling with trash."

​He went straight to the back wall, behind some hunting spears and a dented chest plate, where a single, polished, black blade hung behind a locked grate. It was a longsword, forged from dark, folded steel. The cross-guard was simple, angled geometry. No jewels. No gold filigree. Just cold, efficient iron.

​'...THAT ONE,' Obi commanded instantly. '...IT IS OLD BLACK STEEL. THE BALANCE IS CORRECT.'

​"Open the cage," Siurad said.

​Limmel’s eyes widened at the gold coin Siurad dropped on the counter. "Excellent eye. Truly."

​While Limmel unlocked the grate, Siurad grabbed a pair of sturdy, black leather boots that actually looked like they could survive a hike, and a set of heavy, dark leather clothes to replace his blood stained rags.

"And a map," Siurad added, testing the weight of the sword. It felt like an extension of his arm. "Of the continent. Rekalia."

Limmel rummaged behind the counter and produced a rolled parchment, yellowed with age. "Detailed cartography. Imported from the capital. For the bundle... let's say, ten gold."

Siurad paused. He did the math. In Cassalia, this loadout was maybe fifty silver at most. Limmel was gouging him.

'...HE IS PARASITIC,' Obi noted dryly. '...CORRECT HIM.'

Not yet, Siurad thought. "Six gold, and you throw in a few access—"

"Accessories?" Limmel paused, surveying the massive man and the gold coins on his counter. "Nine gold and a belt," he countered.

"Six gold and a belt," Siurad said.

"Woodsman, I believe you misunderstand the dynamics of our current setting. Allow me to educate you." Limmel offered a wry, greasy smile. "You need things. I supply things. Follow me? I happen to be one of the few places in Pine Haven where you can purchase anything, let alone armor and weapons. If you don't like my prices, you are more than welcome to trek twenty miles to the nearest outpost."

'...THIS VARIABLE SPEAKS OUT OF TURN. SHOW HIM HIS ERROR. SHOW HIM THE END.'

I'm not showing anyone anything, Siurad thought back.

"Seven gold, a belt, and give me a—" Siurad looked around the shop for anything he deemed worth the humiliation he was currently enduring. "—cloak. I'll take the black cloak."

Limmel raised an eyebrow. He gritted his teeth, tapping his fingers aggressively against the counter. "Maybe I wasn't clear, you thick-skulled timber lout. The price is eight gold. Take it or leave it."

The temperature in the shop plummeted. Candles went out instantly.

Limmel stopped tapping. He could suddenly see his own breath pluming in the air between them. The shadows pooled in the corners danced like fire in a hurricane, and for a split second, a violent, piercing violet flared deep within Siurad’s eyes.

And then.

Just as quickly as it started, it ended.

The shadows receded. The oppressive cold vanished.

Limmel blinked, wondering if the giant's eyes had ever changed color at all. But he couldn't deny the quickly evaporating last echoes of fern frost creeping across the edges of his shop window and the extinguished candles smoking along the shelf.

'...YOUR MORALS HAVE LIMITS,' Obi observed.

Siurad ignored him.

"Seven gold, two silver," Limmel stammered, his eyes darting from the frost back to Siurad.

"Deal," Siurad replied.

'...AND YET YOU ARE STILL BEING ROBBED.'

I need the gear more than I need the justice right now, Siurad thought, handing over the coins with a grimace.

He paid the man. But as Limmel quickly counted the gold, careful not to meet his eyes again, Siurad made a mental note. 

A new quest log entry, just for himself:

​Quest Added: The Fuck You List.

Target 1: Limmel.

Objective: Return later. Reclaim funds. Burn shop (optional).

​"Pleasure doing business," Siurad grunted, grabbing his gear. He walked out feeling heavier, better armed, and entirely ripped off.

He stepped out of Limmel's shop into the fading afternoon light, the heavy black cloak settling over his shoulders. The air was already starting to chill, but for the first time since he had woken up in the woods, Siurad didn't feel it. He had a solid, balanced blade at his hip, leather boots that didn't leak, and exactly eight silver coins left in his pouch. 

​The tavern was busier than usual for midday. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and rank brutes. Siurad stepped up to the counter, his new boots thudding solidly against the floorboards.

​Irma was there, scrubbing a mug with her usual scowl. She looked up, eyeing his new clothes and the black steel sword at his hip.

​"Moving up in the world, big man?" she asked, not stopping her scrubbing.

​"Moving on," Siurad corrected. He reached into his pouch and slid a few silver coins across the sticky wood.

​"For the hot water," Siurad said quietly. "And the stew. Even if it tasted like wet dog."

Irma stopped wiping the counter and stared at the sum for a moment. She cracked a smile, a terrifying, rusty thing.

“Don’t get dead out there, drifter.”

Siurad pressed a hand to his chest. “That is the sweetest thing you have ever said to me, Irma. Thank you.”

He sniffed once, deeply moved, then turned and leaned against the bar, scanning the room.

​Then, he felt eyes on him.

​Sitting three stools down was a woman he hadn't noticed before. She was nursing a tankard of ale, watching him with an intensity that made the hair on his arms stand up.

​She had striking, fiery-red hair tied back in a messy bun and wore leather armor that looked worn but well cared for. But it was her eyes that caught him. They were sharp, predatory, and dancing with an amusement he didn't understand.

​She stood up and slid onto the stool next to him. She moved with a fluid, uncanny grace, no wasted movement, no sound.

​"Nice sword," she said. Her voice was a raspy drawl, laced with a playful energy. "Black steel. Old make. A little heavy for a woodchopper, isn't it?"

​Siurad tensed, his hand hovering near the hilt. "I'm retired."

​The woman grinned, revealing teeth that looked just a little too sharp. "Retired? Or just... changing professions?"

​She leaned in, smelling of ether, fermented grapes, and wildflowers.

​"The name's Yona,  Moeru Yona," she said. "And you look like a man who's trying very hard to look boring. It's not working."

​ '...CAREFUL,' Obi’s voice cut in, sharp and sudden. '...THIS ONE IS A MERCURIAL VARIABLE. A KITSUNE. CHAOS RADIATES OFF HER.'

​A Kitsune? Siurad thought, his gamer brain firing. Fox spirit. Illusionist. Trickster.

'...NOT A SPIRIT A BEAST-KIN'

Noted, he thought back.

​"Siurad," he replied, keeping his voice even. "And I'm just passing through."

​"Are you?" Yona asked, her grin widening. "Because word around the campfire is that there's a butcher in the woods. Someone who impales bandits. Someone who walks with a limp."

​She looked down at his new boots.

​"You upgraded. Smart. Harder to track. But I saw you limping into town yesterday. And those three men found dead? They didn't do that to themselves."

​Siurad stared at her. She knew.

​He looked around the tavern. Irma was scrubbing the bar a few feet away. A family was eating stew at a nearby table. If he fought her here, the collateral damage would be messy. Irma’s place would be wrecked.

​"This place is too loud," Siurad said, his voice low. "And Irma just cleaned the floor. If you want to talk about butchers, let's take a walk."

​Yona raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Considerate. I like that. Lead the way, butcher."

Siurad’s face twisted into a grimace as he cast a final, sweeping glance over the tavern’s interior. His eyes searched the crowd for Zeus one last time before he turned and pushed through the front doors of the Boar's Den, leaving the noise behind.

​​They walked out of the town and toward the tree line, neither speaking until the sounds of Pine Haven faded behind them.

​The woods were quiet. The sun filtered through the canopy in dappled patches of light and shadow.

​Siurad stopped in a small clearing. He turned to face her.

"Alright," Siurad said, his hand resting on his sword hilt. "We're alone. So talk. What do you want?" 

"Want?" Yona leaned against a tree, unhurried. "Nothing, yet. I was hired to find you. That's all. Finding's the easy part." 

​"Hired?"

​"By the friends of the men you pasted," she said. "They wanted the monster of the woods. Well, I found him. And frankly? You're way more interesting than they described."

​She pushed off the tree, walking in a slow circle around him.

​"You smell like something, Siurad. You smell like mud, sweat, bad decisions, and something I don’t have a name for. You aren't just a drifter with a heavy hand. You're something else."

​"I'm a guy who wants to be left alone," Siurad said.

​"Liar," Yona grinned. "You're on a mission. I can smell it. And I—"

​CRACK.

​The sound of a branch snapping cut her off.

​Yona stopped. Her ears twitched.

​Siurad spun around.

​Stepping out from the dense underbrush were five men. They were heavily armed, wearing mismatched leather armor and carrying weapons that looked cruel and well-used.

​Leading them was a man with a scar running down his cheek and a smile that showed too many yellow teeth. It was Borin, the Bandit Lieutenant.

​"Well done, Yona," Borin sneered.

​He marched into the clearing, his thugs fanning out to surround them. He pointed a dirty finger at Siurad.

​"I thought I recognized that description. Big. Dark. Ugly." Borin spat on the ground. "You killed Garret and his boys. Did you think we wouldn't find you?"

​Siurad drew his black steel sword. "Self-defense."

​"Theft," Borin corrected. "You took their coin. You took their cloaks. And now, you're going to pay."

​He looked at Yona. "Grab him, girl. Earn your keep."

​Siurad glanced at Yona. She didn't move. She just sighed, a dramatic, put-upon sound.

​"Sorry to tell you, Boss-man," Yona said, examining her fingernails. "But our contract is over."

​Borin blinked. "What?"

​"I was hired to find the monster," Yona said. "I found him. And frankly? He's way more interesting than you."

​She looked at Siurad and winked.

​"Your services are no longer required," she told Borin. "Run along now."

​Borin’s face went purple. "You... you wretched woman! You will learn your place!"

​He drew a jagged, rusty scimitar. "Kill them both! Gut them here!"

​"Finally," Yona laughed, a manic sound that echoed off the trees. "A little fun."

​Yona didn't draw a weapon. She simply raised her hand.

​A small, bright blue burst of light, no bigger than a firefly, appeared on her fingertip.

​"Boo," she whispered.

​She blew.

​It exploded outward, splitting into four streaks of blue light that zipped through the air with the sound of angry hornets. They slammed into the four thugs on the left.

​The men screamed as the blue light engulfed them. Frost exploded across their armor, locking their limbs in ice. They fell like statues, crashing into the bushes.

​Borin roared, charging Yona.

​"He's mine!" Siurad yelled.

​He didn't think. He reacted.

​... 'THE' ... 'V-CUT,' Obi commanded.

​Siurad stepped into the swing. He didn't hack; he flowed. He met Borin’s rusty blade midair.

​CLANG.

​The black steel sheared through the bandit's weapon like it was made of tin. Borin stumbled back, staring at his broken sword hilt.

​He thrust his free hand forward. A lance of solid darkness erupted from his palm, catching Borin in the chest and pinning him to the trunk of a massive oak tree behind him.

​The bandit leader gasped, his feet dangling off the ground, the black spike holding him fast.

​Silence fell over the clearing.

​Yona whistled low. "Okay. That... was cool."

​She walked over to Siurad, stepping over a frozen bandit.

​"So," she said, her eyes glittering with excitement. "You're a mage. A Necromancer? No... that felt older."

​She looked at the Ring on his finger.

​"Shadow magic," she mused. "No, looks like shadow magic but different."

​'...SHE KNOWS,' Obi warned. '...SHE IS DANGEROUS.'

​"Yeah," Siurad breathed, looking at the carnage. "She is."

​"I like you, big guy," Yona grinned, extending a hand. "I was getting bored working for these idiots anyway. They pay in copper and complain too much."

​She looked at the pinned bandit leader, then back to Siurad.

​"You're not a drifter. You're on a mission. And judging by the way you fight... It's going to be a loud one."

​"I'm looking for something," Siurad admitted, his heart still pounding from the fight. "Knowledge. About the Obsidian Authority."

​Yona blinked. Her manic energy paused for a second as she processed the name.

​"The Obsidian, what?" she asked, tilting her head. "Is that a cult? Or a really fancy rock?"

​"It's... an ancient organization," Siurad said, realizing she had no idea what he was talking about. "Lost history. Powerful artifacts."

​Yona’s grin widened. It wasn't the smile of recognition; it was the smile of greed.

​"Lost history," she translated. "Which means forgotten ruins. Which means unlooted ruins."

​She clapped him on the shoulder.

​"I don't care what you call it, Shepherd. If you're hunting lost treasures and killing bandits, I'm in. 50/50 split on loot. I handle the tracking, you handle the... scary shadow stabbing."

​Siurad looked at her. He looked at the chaos she had caused in seconds. He felt Obi’s grudging respect for her efficiency.

​"Deal," Siurad said, shaking her hand.

​"Great," Yona said. "Now, let's loot these idiots. I think Borin has a map to their main camp."

​As they began to strip the frozen bandits of their gear, Siurad realized two things.

​First, his life had just gotten significantly more complicated.

And second... the Great Work finally had a party.

​

Chapter Eight

​Borin wasn't dead yet. He was slumped against a tree, wheezing for air.

​Yona whistled as she rifled through his pockets, ignoring his groans. She pulled out a heavy coin purse and tossed it to Siurad.

​"Silver," she noted. "Not bad for a lieutenant."

​She dug deeper into his belt pouch and pulled out a crumpled, stained piece of parchment. She unfolded it, her eyes scanning the scrawl. Her grin faded.

​"Well," Yona said, her voice losing its playful edge. "This isn't a treasure map. It's a receipt."

​"Receipt?" Siurad asked, stepping closer.

​"From Scrap Iron Kel," she read. "The boss of this outfit. It says: 'Deliver the tracker payment. Return to the Main Camp by sunset. Must depart for Silverspire tomorrow to deliver the cargo.'"

​"Cargo?" Siurad asked.

​Yona looked at the pitiful husk of a man. She grabbed his chin and forced his head up.

​"Borin," she said, her voice dangerously sweet. "What cargo? You guys poaching timber? Rare pelts?"

​Borin spat blood at her boots. "Rot in hell, witch."

​Siurad stepped forward. He didn't shout. He didn't threaten. He just let the Ring pulse. The temperature in the clearing dropped twenty degrees. A spike materializing mere inches from the man's face.

​Borin screamed.

​"The cargo," Siurad repeated, his voice vibrating with Obi’s cold authority.

​"Kids!" Borin shrieked. "It's kids! Orphans! We rounded them up for the Lord! They're in the cages at the Main Camp!"

​Silence fell over the clearing. The birds stopped singing.

​Siurad felt a cold, hard knot form in his stomach. He looked at the paper. Buyer arrives tomorrow.

​'...A FLAW,' Obi’s voice cut through his mind. It wasn't the arrogant voice of a god demanding worship. It was the cold, lethal voice of a judge passing sentence.

​'...THE STRONG PREYING ON THE WEAK SYSTEMIC CHAOS.'

​ '...THEY ARE BROKEN COMPONENTS,' Obi continued, his will pressing against Siurad’s mind.  '...DO NOT LEAVE VARIABLES. CORRECT THEM. ALL OF THEM.'

​Siurad looked at Borin. Then he looked at the four bandits Yona had frozen in the bushes. They were still alive, trapped in the ice, their eyes wide with terror.

​"Slavers," Yona spat, wiping her hand on her pants. "I thought they were just bandits. I don't work with slavers."

​She looked at Siurad. She saw the look in his eyes. It wasn't the look of an adventurer. It was the look of an executioner.

​"We're going to the Main Camp," Siurad said, his voice hollow. "We're canceling that delivery."

​"Agreed," Yona said, her hand resting on her sword. "But what about the trash?"

​She gestured to Borin and the frozen men.

​Siurad drew his black steel sword.

​'...FINISH THE WORK,' Obi goaded. '...MERCY TO THE GUILTY IS TREASON TO THE INNOCENT.'

​"We correct the flaw," Siurad whispered.

​He stepped up to Borin.

​"Please!" Borin begged. "I was just following orders! Kel runs the show! I can take you to him!"

​"We have a map," Siurad said coldly.

​Thunk.

The black blade severed Borin’s head in a single, clean stroke.

Siurad didn't stop. He walked over to the brush where the four frozen bandits were trapped. They couldn't move. They could only watch him approach, the dark steel dripping.

The first bandit lay shivering inside his icy prison. Siurad hesitated for a fraction of a second, a brief flicker of recognition passing behind his eyes.

'...THE SEED HAS BLOOMED.'

Siurad didn't answer. He just brought the blade down.

Thrust.

He moved methodically. Efficiently.

Thrust.

Thrust.

Thrust.

He didn't make it painful. He just made it final.

​When he was done, he wiped the blade on the grass and sheathed it.

​Yona watched him, her expression unreadable. She wasn't horrified; she lived in a brutal world, but she was respectful. He hadn't hesitated.

​"Remind me never to piss you off," Yona muttered.

​"Let's go," Siurad said, turning toward the north. "We have a camp to burn."

For a brief moment he thought of Zeus, sitting in the Boars Den with two cups of non rain water ale. Then he walked though the tree line.

​The sun was beginning to dip below the tree line, casting long, bruised shadows across the path to the north.

​Siurad walked in silence. He wasn't looking at the map. He was looking at his hands. They were clean; he had wiped the blood off, but they felt heavy. Numb.

​Yona walked beside him, her manic energy dialed down to a thoughtful hum. She glanced at him every few steps, chewing on a piece of dried fruit.

​"You're quiet," Yona said finally. 

​Siurad didn't answer immediately. He adjusted the strap of his pack, the weight of the looted coin pressing against his hip.

​"It was too easy," Siurad whispered.

​"The fight?" Yona shrugged. "You caught them off guard. And you have a magic ring. Of course it was easy."

​"No," Siurad said, stopping in the middle of the trail. He looked at her, his eyes dark and troubled. "Not the fight. The... the end."

​He gestured back toward the clearing where he had executed four helpless men.

​"I didn't feel anything, Yona. No revulsion. No hesitation. I just... deleted them. Like I was clicking a button. Delete Trash. Empty Recycle Bin."

​He rubbed his face, his voice trembling slightly.

​"I'm from a place where... you don't just kill people. Even bad people. There are laws. There's a process. But back there? I looked at Borin, and I didn't see a man. I saw a variable. A flaw. And fixing it felt... satisfying."

​He looked at the Ring.

​"I don't know if that's me," he admitted, his voice hollow. "Or if I'm losing myself to Him."

​'...YOU ARE BECOMING EFFICIENT,' Obi’s voice pulsed in his mind. It wasn't mocking. It was calm. '...EMOTION IS LATENCY. YOU REMOVED THE LATENCY.'

​"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," Siurad muttered to the Ring.

​Yona watched him for a long moment. She stopped chewing. The playful mask slipped, revealing the tired, dangerous woman underneath.

​"Look, Siurad," she said softly. "I'm not a philosopher. I'm not a good person either. But I do know beast."

​She stepped closer, poking him in the chest.

​"A beast kills because it's hungry. A monster kills because it likes it. You? You killed them because they were going to sell children to a monster."

​She looked him in the eye.

​"You're scared you liked it. I get that. But I watched you. You didn't smile. You didn't laugh. You did it, and you hated that you had to do it. That's the difference between what you call a correction and a murder."

​She turned back to the path, adjusting her sword belt.

​"As long as you're asking the question, am I a monster?, you aren't one yet. The moment you stop asking... then I'll worry. And then I'll stab you."

​Siurad let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

​"Thanks," he said. “I think.”

​"Don't mention it," Yona smirked, the levity returning. "Now, pick up the pace. We have a delivery to cancel, and I don't want to miss the look on Kel's face when you correct him."

​Siurad nodded. He was still afraid of the cold logic growing in his heart. But Yona was right. The children were waiting.

​"Right," Siurad said, his stride lengthening. "Let's go."

​'...SHE IS PRAGMATIC,' Obi noted, sounding almost impressed. '...FOR A CHAOS AGENT.'

​Shut up, Obi, Siurad thought, but there was no venom in it this time. Just... shut up.

​The forest was quiet again, save for the low hum of Yona.

​Siurad watched her move as they walked. Now that he wasn't fighting for his life, he noticed the subtle wrongness of her movement, too fluid, too light.

​'...THE KITSUNE IS TIRED.'

​"You move quiet," Siurad said. "For a Kitsune."

​Yona froze. Her hand, halfway to her dagger.

​She turned slowly. The playful, manic grin was gone. Her eyes were slits of cold, dangerous amber.

​"What did you call me?"

​"A Kitsune," Siurad said, coming to a stop. "Fox woman. Obi spotted it the moment you sat down."

​Yona stared at him. "Nobody in these backwoods knows what a Kitsune is. They call us beast-kin or live stock. You knowing that word... that's specific. That's odd."

​She watched him, her eyes flicking from his face to the black ring on his finger.

​"I thought you were just a treasure hunter looking for ruins. But then I watched you pin a man to a tree with a spike of solid night."

​She took a step closer, the air around her crackling with ozone.

​"That's not magic, Siurad. That's something else. The Obsidian Authority, what is it?"

​The question hung in the air, cold and sharp.

​"You... you're not just looking for it, are you?" she asked. "That shadow spike... that ring... Gods... you're part of it, aren't you?"

​Siurad’s mind raced. He had no idea how to answer her.

​Match wits? With her? he thought. That sounds like a terrible idea.

​Be totally upfront and honest? 'Yeah, I'm the boogeyman's new intern, how's it going?' Just as ridiculous.

​He had one asset. He deferred. Obi... ole buddy... what should we do here?

​The entity's reply was immediate and cold. '...WE' ... TELL HER NOTHING. SHE CANNOT BE TRUSTED. SHE IS A UNKNOWN VARIABLE. SILENCE HER.'

​Siurad recoiled internally. Woah. A bit much there, buddy.

​This was a problem. Obi's solution was insane. It was paranoid. It was... flawed.

​He looked at Yona, who was still watching him with that terrifyingly serious, unblinking stare. She was dangerous, yes. But she was also one of the few people who hadn't tried to kill him on sight.

​So he trusted his gut. And he decided to tell the truth.

​Siurad took a deep breath, the cold, disapproving silence from Obi screaming in his mind. He ignored it. He had made his choice.

​He looked Yona in the eye and unloaded his proverbial guts.

​"Okay. Look. This... this is gonna sound insane," he started, the words tumbling out. "So…. I'm not from here. Like, at all. I woke up in those woods a few days ago, in different clothes, with this ring on my finger."

​He held up his hand. The obsidian ring seemed to drink the light, pulsing with a cold, silent fury that only he could feel.

​'...VESSEL!' Obi’s voice thundered in his skull, laced with a paranoia that bordered on panic. '...I COMMAND YOU TO CEASE! YOU ARE COMPROMISING THE MISSION! THIS IS 'BETRAYAL!'

​Too late, buddy, Siurad thought back, his resolve hardening. You wanted a partner, you got one. My gut says this is the way.

​He turned his focus back to Yona, who was listening with a new, sharp intensity.

​"The ring... it talks. In my head," Siurad continued. "He's... well, he's kind of a jerk, but he's... a cosmic entity. A god, maybe. The Will of the Obsidian Authority. I call him Obi."

​Yona’s eyes flicked from Siurad's earnest, panicked face to the ring, and then back. She was connecting the dots.

​"He's the thing you feel," Siurad said, his voice dropping. "He created the whole thing. And someone, or something, betrayed him thousands of years ago. Destroyed the Authority, and trapped him in this ring. He's been... asleep, or just waiting... for a long time. He's furious. And he's paranoid."

​"So... we're on a quest," he finished, feeling breathless. "He wants to find out what happened. We're looking for... God knows what. From his old architect, a guy named Lysander. We need to find him..or his….notes so we can figure out who betrayed him, how he was trapped, and... how to release him."

​Siurad finally ran out of air. He stood there, exposed, having just confessed to being the vessel for boogeyman. He fully expected Yona to draw her sword, or just turn and sprint in the other direction.

​For a long, tense moment, she said nothing. She just stared at him, her face unreadable.

​Then, a slow, dangerous, absolutely joyful grin spread across her face.

​"So," she said, her voice low. "Let me get this straight."

​She started to pace in a small, tight circle, like a wolf sizing up its... partner.

​"You're not from this world. You're bonded to a trapped, boogeyman god. You execute people with shadow magic. And your plan is to walk around places literally blind, and go looking for the secret notes of a dead, magical architect."

​She stopped pacing and looked at him, her eyes glittering with a wild, manic light.

​"This is," she said, her voice trembling with pure, unadulterated excitement, "the stupidest, most suicidal, greatest goddamn plan I have ever heard in my entire life."

​She lunged forward and clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble.

​"I'm in!" she shouted, laughing. "A hundred percent! This is so much better than tracking bandits for chump change. We're either going to be legends or we're going to be paste, and I honestly don't care which!"

​She was still beaming, high on the sheer adrenaline of the concept. "So, 'Obi'!" she called out, tapping the ring on Siurad's finger with her own. "You in there, you paranoid old ghost? Are youyou listening to this? You as crazy as he is?"

​The ring did not pulse. It did not throb. It just grew impossibly, terribly cold. A wave of pure, concentrated fury and contempt rolled off it, so potent that even Yona felt the temperature drop.

​"Ooh," she said, pulling her hand back, her grin widening. "He doesn't like me."

​"Uh... yeah," Siurad managed. "He's here. And he's... he's really not thrilled with this conversation."

​"Perfect!" Yona beamed. "He's got taste. I like him already. Now, partner... which way to the impossible, suicidal, boogeyman-god-quest? I'm bored."

​Siurad could feel Obi bristling, retreating into a sulk of cosmic proportions. He figured he had time to smooth that out later.

​"Look, Yona," Siurad pressed on, needing to solidify this madness. "Whether you think it's a fairy tale or not, I need to know where the old Obsidian Authority ruins would be. I believe that's my best chance of finding any information to help Obi. Anything you know that could help? Anywhere we could go that wouldn't instantly get us murdered would be nice."

​He paused, the next part feeling awkward. "Also... if this is gonna work, Yona, I have to know I can trust you. I'm sure it won't come overnight, but I hope with time we can prove to each other that we're... ride or die."

​Yona’s manic smirk returned. "Ride or die?"

​"Yeah, it's a... it's a term," Siurad fumbled. "It basically means when shit hits the fan, we... we..." He thought for a moment. Did they even have fans in this world? Fuck.

​"What I'm trying to say is," he powered through, "we fight together or we die together."

​Once the words left his mouth, he winced, realizing how incredibly culty they sounded.

​Yona, for her part, started laughing again, a genuine, sharp bark. When she finally finished, she wiped a tear from her eye. "I get it, 'big guy.' I get it."

​She slung her wineskin to her front and took a pull. "Here's the deal. I'm not sure exactly where we can find this... boogeyman research... without ending up on everyone's radar. But I'm sure we could start at a few libraries, and I... may have a few... less-than-reputable people I can ask."

​She gestured north, toward the Deadwoods.

​"But first," she said, her eyes turning cold as she thought about the ledger. "We have a delivery to cancel. Let's go liberate some cargo. If we survive that... we can worry about finding your ghost's diary."

Chapter Nine

The conversation had shifted the ground beneath them. There were no more secrets, just a suicide pact, and a ledger stained with blood.

​They moved north, the trees growing gnarled and gray as they crossed the threshold into the Deadwoods. The canopy here was thick, choking out the late afternoon sun and plunging the path into a premature twilight.

​Yona didn't lead him down the main road. She took him through deer trails and dry creek beds, moving with a silence that Siurad now knew was supernatural.

​"So," Yona whispered, sliding over a fallen log without making a sound. "Your world. No magic?"

​"None," Siurad replied, his boots crunching softly on dead leaves. "Just machines. And a lot of people."

​"Boring," she assessed. "No wonder you picked up the boogeyman gig. A guy your size needs a hobby."

​She stopped, holding up a fist.

​They had reached a ridge. Below them, nestled in a bowl-shaped depression of the forest, was a clearing. It was ugly, mud churned into a slurry by heavy boots, trees hacked down to form a crude palisade wall. Smoke rose from a central bonfire, carrying the scent of roasting meat and body odor.

Siurad crouched behind the ridge, his eyes scanning the layout. He counted. And then he counted again.

​Twelve men by the fire. Two at the gate. Two on the makeshift palisade. And he could hear more voices inside the large main tent.

​"Twenty," Siurad whispered, the blood draining from his face. "Maybe twenty-five. Plus a boss."

​He pulled back behind the tree line, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

​Three bandits in the woods was one thing, he thought. A giant bug with a predictable attack pattern was another. But twenty-five armed men in a fortified position? That’s not a fight. That’s a raid wipe.

​He looked at his hands. They were shaking slightly.

​Obi, Siurad projected, his thought frantic. We need to rethink this. This isn't a skirmish. This is an army.

​'...AN ARMY?' Obi’s voice was dismissive, bordering on insulted. '...IT IS A GATHERING OF RODENTS.'

​Rodents with bows, Siurad countered. Rodents with spears. I have limited mana. If I walk in there, logic says I’m dead in six seconds.

​'...YOU ARE THE VESSEL. YOU HAVE THE AUTHORITY.'

​I have a sword I bought three hours ago and a ring that drains my battery if I use it too hard! Siurad snapped back internally. Remember the bug? I almost passed out after one spell. If I am low on mana, I can't cast a spike. If I teleport, I can't fight. The math doesn't work, Obi.

​He looked back at the camp. He saw the gleam of steel in the firelight. He saw the heavy timber of the gate.

​We should retreat, Siurad thought, the survival instinct screaming at him. We go back to town. We get the guards. We get Zeus. We get help.

​'...THE GUARDS ARE CORRUPT. ZEUS IS BROKEN. AND BY TOMORROW.'

​Obi paused. He directed Siurad’s gaze away from the armed men and toward the shadows on the far side of the camp.

​Toward the cages.

​'...BY TOMORROW, THE CARGO IS GONE.'

​Siurad saw them. Small hands gripping rusted iron bars. Huddled shapes under dirty tarps. He saw a guard walk by and kick the cage, laughing as the children flinched.

​The hesitation in Siurad’s chest didn't vanish, but it hardened. It turned from the flighty panic of a prey animal into the cold, heavy weight of a decision.

​"The math is bad," Siurad whispered aloud.

​"Terrible," Yona agreed, crouching beside him. She was checking the edge of her daggers, her face grim. "If they rush us all at once, we're paste. Pure and simple."

​She looked at him. She saw the sweat on his forehead. She saw the way he was gripping his sword hilt like a lifeline.

​"You scaring yourself, big guy?" she asked quietly.

​"I'm doing the calculations," Siurad muttered. "And the probability of survival is... low."

​"Single digits," Yona confirmed cheerfully. "But that's why we don't fight fair."

​She pointed to the east side of the palisade, where the logs looked uneven.

​"I slip in there. I circle around to the cages, make sure they are alive, and pick the locks if I can. If all goes well, I get the kids into the woods. But if I can't, then I'll secure the perimeter. The problem is I can't do that if twenty eyes are watching me the whole time."

​She turned to him.

​"I need them looking at you, Siurad. I need them terrified. I need them to think an entire legion is knocking at the front door so they forget to watch the back door."

​Siurad looked at the gate guards. He looked at the twenty-five killers inside. He looked at the cages.

​He took a deep breath. He stopped thinking about the odds. He started thinking about the objective.

​"I'm the aggro," Siurad said.

​"You're the distraction," Yona corrected. "But yeah. Aggro works."

​She stood up, keeping low. "Give me five minutes. When you hear the owl scream... bring the pain. And Siurad?"

​He looked up.

​"Don't die," she said. "I hate looting partners."

​She melted into the underbrush, vanishing like smoke.

​Siurad sat alone in the darkening woods. He checked his mana; it felt full, a deep well of cold water in his chest. But he knew how shallow that well really was.

​Five minutes.

​'...MATH IS IRRELEVANT,' Obi whispered, sensing the shift in Siurad's resolve. '...FEAR IS A VARIABLE CONTROL IT.'

​"Easy for you to say," Siurad muttered, standing up and adjusting his cloak. "You're the jewelry. I'm the meat shield."

​He stepped onto the path. The hesitation was still there, buzzing in his ear like a fly, but he pushed it down.

​Thud. Thud. Thud.

​He began the walk toward the gate.

​The rhythmic thump of Siurad’s heart felt less like a drum and more like a countdown timer ticking toward zero.

​The plan was simple: Pull aggro. survive.

The execution, however, was something entirely different.

​He stood in the shadows, waiting for the signal, running through strategies in his mind like a player cycling through hotkeys. Spike the leader? Maybe. Crowd control is the priority.

​'...THE VOID STIRS.'

​The Ring pulsed against his finger, pulling Siurad’s attention away from his panic.

​"The fuck does that mean?" Siurad hissed under his breath. "Now isn't the time to be cryptic, O Great One."

​'...THE DARKNESS IS OUR ADVANTAGE.'

​A tremor ran through Siurad’s hand, fear, anticipation, and a heavy side-order of regret cocktailing in his stomach. He looked at the twenty armed men by the fire.

​"Tell me how that's going to help us get out of this alive," Siurad whispered.

​The Ring grew cold, stabilizing his shaking hand.

​'...THE FOX WITCH IS STRONG. CHAOTIC.'

​'...AND YOU, YOU WIELD THE VOID.'

The truth struck Siurad as he neared the gate.

​For days, he had been lamenting that this wasn't a game. But as he looked at the guards, he realized the inverse was also true: This wasn't a game.

There were no admins to ban him for glitching through walls. There were no patch notes to nerf his build.

​Which meant there was nothing stopping him from using every dirty exploit he could think of.

​He felt the connection to the Void hum in his blood. The nerves faded, replaced by the cold steel of resolve. He thought of the cages. He thought of the cargo."

​'...IF VARIABLES TURN CRITICAL, WE ABANDON THE CARGO AND THE FOX.'

​"Class act, Obi," Siurad muttered under his breath. "Real class act."

​Mike Tyson once said, " Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” Tonight, the proverbial mouth-punch came in two forms: Mother Nature and terrible acting.

​Hoo-hoo-hoot.

​A perfect owl cry echoed through the night sky.

​Siurad took this as the sign. Go.

Pop.

​He Void Stepped from the tree line, reappearing directly behind the first guard. There was no hesitation. He drove the black steel sword through the man's leather armor. It penetrated with a wet shink, quick, efficient, and silent.

​The second guard turned, eyes widening as his partner slumped. He opened his mouth to scream.

​Siurad raised his free left hand.

​"Shadow Spike."

​Thwip.

​A jagged lance of darkness erupted from his palm, catching the second guard through the throat. The scream died before it was born.

​"Kobe," Siurad mused to himself.

​Then, gravity took over.

​The shadow-spiked guard dropped from the gate, hitting the packed dirt with a loud, armor-rattling THUD. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet camp.

​Heads turned by the bonfire. Shouts began to rise.

​And then, just as the chaos started, a second sound drifted from the east woods.

​Hrr-rr-awk-wheeze.

​It sounded like a chicken suffering from emphysema.

​Siurad froze. The realization washed over him colder than the Void.

​The first signal, the perfect one, had been a real owl. The second one, the dying chicken, was whatever the hell Yona was impersonating.

​He hadn't timed it perfectly. He had moved too early. And worse, there were two sounds. Two directions. The camp wasn't just looking at the gate anymore.

"Intruder at the gate!" a bandit screamed. 

"Something in the east woods!" another shouted. 

"Flanking!" 

The flap of the main tent threw open. Scrap-Iron Kel stepped out, roaring orders. He read the noise the way a man reads a battlefield, two signals, two threats, the cargo unguarded between them. 

"We're being raided! Archers, on the gate!" He spun toward the fire. "You two! Get to the cages! If it looks like we're losing, kill the cargo! They don't take what's ours!"

​Siurad’s blood ran cold. The two executioners drew their swords and sprinted toward the back of the camp. They were over a hundred feet away, well beyond the safe range of a precision teleport.

​Yona was still in the bushes. She couldn't reach them in time.

​'...THE CARGO IS CRITICAL,' Obi warned. '...THE DISTANCE IS TOO GREAT.'

​"Distance is just velocity," Siurad muttered.

​Obi, he thought. That thing at Limmel's with the candles. can we do it bigger?

'...SCALE,' Obi answered, the Ring pulsing once. '...IS A MATTER OF WILL.'

Siurad fixed his eyes on the bonfire and let the leash slip.

The Void answered. The air around him went still and cold. Shadows peeled away from tents, crates, and stumbling bandits, folding inward around the bonfire like a fist closing around a candle. The firelight bent, guttered, and was swallowed.

WHUMP.

The flames died mid roar.

The camp plunged into lightless dark.

​"I can't see!"

"Where is he?!"

​In the sudden void, Siurad turned his focus to the far end of the camp, where he had last seen the runners.

​He judged the distance. One hundred and twenty feet.

​Lesson Two: At one hundred feet, you are a projectile.

​"Target acquired," Siurad whispered. "I am the ammunition."

​He focused on a spot five feet to the right of the lead runner. He felt the tether snap into place, stretched thin, vibrating with dangerous energy.

​He pulled.

​BOOM.

​The Void launched him. He exited reality with a scream of displaced air. For a microsecond, he was weightless, a ragdoll in a hurricane.

​He re-entered reality, not standing, but flying horizontally at the speed of a car crash.

​He slammed into the lead executioner like a wrecking ball.

​CRUNCH.

​The impact was sickening. The bandit didn't even have time to scream; he just folded, bones snapping, and was launched ten feet into the mud, unconscious before he hit the ground.

​Siurad tumbled, rolling violently through the dirt to bleed off the momentum. He came to a stop, gasping, his world spinning. He was bruised, dizzy, and wobbly, but he was there.

​The second executioner skidded to a halt, staring into the darkness, terrified by the sound of his partner exploding next to him.

​"Who's there?!" the bandit screamed, waving his sword blindly. "Show yourself!"

​Siurad was on his knees, ten feet away. He was too dizzy to stand. But ten feet?

​Ten feet is easy.

​'...STEP,' Obi commanded.

​Siurad reached out. Void Step.

​Pop.

​He appeared instantly behind the second man. Before the bandit could turn, Siurad’s arm snaked around his throat.

​It wasn't a technique. It was a vice.

​Siurad clamped his forearm against the man's windpipe and squeezed. The bandit thrashed wildly, dropping his sword, his fingernails clawing uselessly at Siurad’s armored sleeve.

​Siurad could feel it all through the contact. He felt the frantic, rabbit-fast thumping of the man’s pulse against his wrist. He felt the terror vibrating in the man's throat as he tried to scream but could only manage a wet gurgle. He felt the desperate, flailing energy of a living thing realizing it was about to die.

​'...FINISH,' Obi pulsed.

​Siurad tightened his grip, channeling the unnatural strength of the Vessel.

​CRACK.

​The sound was dry and brittle, like stepping on a wafer. The struggle stopped instantly. The body went heavy, a dead weight in his arms.

​Siurad let the corpse drop to the mud.

​And then, it hit him.

​It wasn't nausea. It wasn't regret.

​It was a rush. A sudden, electric jolt of cold satisfaction that started at the base of his spine and shot up to his skull. It felt good. It felt like solving a puzzle. It felt like... power.

​Siurad stared at his hands, horrified. What the hell was that?

​'...EXCELLENT,' Obi purred, the Ring pulsing with a warm, dark approval. '...THE LATENCY IS GONE. YOU ARE ADAPTING.'

​Siurad wheezed, pushing the dark feeling down into the pit of his stomach.

​The camp was in chaos. Bandits were shouting, swinging torches wildly, trying to find the intruder.

​"Find him!" Kel roared from the center. "He's in the dark!"

​Siurad could tell his mana was low. The Cannonball maneuver had drained him. He couldn't fight twenty men head-on.

​Then, from the darkness behind the cages, a soft whistle cut through the air.

​Hoo-hoo.

​A real owl sound this time.

​"I can't get to the kids," a voice whispered from the tree line. "Cover your eyes, Partner."

​Then the sky turned a blinding green.

​"Hey, ugly!" Yona’s voice rang out from the top of the palisade wall.

​Kel looked up just in time to see a small figure standing on the logs, her hands wreathed in roaring green flames.

​"You forgot the fox," she laughed.

​She snapped her fingers.

​Hellfire.

​It was a thermal bomb. A wave of emerald plasma exploded from her hands, raining down on the clustered bandits in the center of the camp.

​The heat was instantaneous and absolute. The mud in the center of the camp flashed into steam. The iron armor of the bandits began to glow cherry-red in seconds.

​"ARGH!"

​Bandits screamed, diving for cover as the unnatural heat blistered the paint off the tents and turned the night air into a blast furnace. It was the consuming, hungry heat of a star.

​"Now, Siurad!" she yelled, her face illuminated by the inferno.

​Siurad stepped out of the shadows, the heat washing over him, clashing with the cold Void radiating from his skin.

​"Round two," he growled.

As the blazing flames began to recede, Scrap-Iron Kel was the only one left standing.

​The Bandit Lord justified his name, he was a walking fortress of mismatched iron plates, riveted together in a chaotic mosaic of rust and steel. In his hands, he swung a massive two-handed flail, the spiked ball whistling a low, deadly note as it cut through the smoke.

​He charged through the fading blue flames, roaring like a wounded bear.

​"Witch!" Kel screamed, the sound muffled by his bucket helm. He swung the flail at the palisade wall where Yona stood. The iron ball smashed into the timber, sending splinters the size of daggers flying into the night.

​"Too slow, rusty!" Yona laughed, backflipping off the wall. She landed lightly in the mud, her eyes gleaming with malice.

​She raised her hands, palms glowing with a emerald sheen.

​"Let's see how good that iron really is," she whispered.

​Hellfire.

​She unleashed a concentrated stream of green plasma. It hit Kel dead center in the chest. The Bandit Lord screamed as his breastplate began to glow, dull red, then bright orange. The rivets popped and hissed. He staggered back, the heat radiating off him in shimmering waves that distorted the air.

​"Now!" Siurad yelled, stepping out of the shadows to strike.

​"Wait!" Yona commanded, holding up a hand.

​She cut the fire. Instantly, she snapped her fingers. The air temperature plummeted.

​Flash Freeze.

​A cone of cold slammed into the superheated metal.

​CRACK.

​The sound was louder than a gunshot; it was the shriek of physics breaking. Steam exploded off Kel’s chest in a violent cloud. The glowing orange metal turned instantly, chalky grey. The thermal shock had done what a warhammer couldn't, it had ruined the temper of the steel. The armor was no longer solid; it was a spiderweb of microscopic fractures. It was brittle as glass.

​Yona stepped back, hopping onto a crate to get a better view. She crossed her arms and grinned.

​"I cracked the shell," she called out to Siurad. "You scrape out the meat. Show me what you got, partner."

​She was sitting this one out. She wanted to see the Boogeyman fight.

Chapter Ten

​Siurad stood ten feet away. He didn't need status bars to tell him he was in trouble. His lungs were burning, his limbs felt heavy as lead, and the cold well of the Void in his chest was scraped dry. He was running on fumes.

​Kel recovered from the shock. He looked down at his cracked, steaming armor, then up at Siurad. His eyes, visible through the slit of his helm, were bloodshot and filled with the desperate rage of a cornered animal.

​"You think magic scares me?" Kel roared, his voice cracking. He began to spin the flail again. Whoosh. Whoosh. "I've killed mages before! I'll crush your skull like a melon!"

​He charged.

​The ground shook with each heavy step. Kel moved like a freight train. He brought the flail down in a crushing overhead arc meant to turn Siurad into paste.

​Siurad didn't try to parry. You don't parry a flail.

​He dodged left.

​He wasn't fast enough.

​The spiked ball missed his head, but the heavy iron chain whipped around and clipped his shoulder. The impact was sickening.

​CRUNCH.

​It felt like being hit by a widow maker. Siurad grunted, stumbling back, his boots slipping in the mud. Pain exploded in his shoulder, radiating down his arm in a blinding white flash that nearly made him drop his sword. His vision swam.

​'...DAMAGE SUSTAINED,' Obi hissed, the Ring pulsing in anger against Siurad's finger. 

'...HE TOUCHED US, SUCH FILTH. THIS IS AN INSULT. DISMANTLE THIS SAVAGE MAMMAL.'

​The pain cleared Siurad’s head. The exhaustion faded, replaced by a surge of cold, focused aggression. It was the same feeling he used to get working the door at club in Chicago when a drunk patron pulled a knife.

​It wasn't really fear; it was more like the toggle switch flipping from de-escalate to terminate.

​"Okay," Siurad growled, rolling his injured shoulder. It popped sickeningly, but the arm still moved. "You want to trade hits? Let's trade."

​Kel swung again, a horizontal sweep meant to take Siurad’s legs out.

​Siurad stepped in and tethered to the shadow of Kel's own form.

​Void Step.

​Pop.

​He teleported three feet forward, inside the lethal arc of the flail. The chain wrapped harmlessly around his back, but the ball missed him entirely.

​He was now chest to chest with the bandit. He could smell the burnt metal and the sour reek of Kel's sweat.

​Kel’s eyes went wide behind the visor.

​Siurad dropped his sword into the mud. He grabbed Kel’s helmet with both hands, ignoring the heat still radiating from it.

​WHAM.

​He slammed his forehead into the faceplate.

​The metal was brittle, the faceplate crunched. The iron crumpled inward, driving jagged metal into Kel's nose.

​Kel staggered back, stunned, arms flailing.

​Siurad didn't let up. He grabbed the bandit's collar and drove a massive knee into the brittle breastplate.

​CRACK.

​Shards of frozen iron flaked off like dry clay, exposing the leather gambeson underneath.

​Kel was knocked breathless. He tried to bring the flail handle up to block, but Siurad was faster. He grabbed Kel’s wrist and twisted against the joint.

​SNAP.

​Kel screamed as his radius bone shattered. The flail dropped into the mud with a heavy splat.

​Siurad stepped back, breathing hard, his own forehead bleeding from the impact. He stooped and picked up his black steel sword.

​Kel was on his knees, wheezing, clutching his broken wrist. The center of his chest was exposed, a jagged hole in the armor where Yona’s magic and Siurad’s knee had done their work.

​"Wait," Kel gurgled, holding up a shaking hand. "Mercy. I have gold—"

​Siurad looked at the exposed chest. He didn't see a bandit. He saw a tree trunk with a notch cut in it. He saw the weak point.

​'...THE V-CUT,' Obi commanded, his voice vibrating with anticipation. '...SHATTER HIM.'

​Siurad swung.

​Not as a swordsman, it was a lumberjack's swing, full rotation, hips engaging, gravity assisting.

​THUNK-CRACK.

​The blade hit the brittle armor at the edge of the hole. The remaining plate exploded inward. The sword bit deep, shearing through compromised metal, leather, and ribs with terrifying ease.

​Kel gasped, blood spraying from the vents of his crumpled helmet. He collapsed backward, the heavy armor dragging him down into the muck.

​Siurad stood over him, wrenching the blade free. Ready to strike a finishing blow. He raised his sword.

'...HALT,' Obi’s voice cut through his rage, cold and vibrating with a different kind of malice.

​Siurad froze, the blade hovering inches from Kel's neck. "What? He deserves it."

​'...DEATH IS A RELEASE,' Obi hissed, the Ring pulsing with a heavy, vantablack darkness that seemed to suck the light out of the air. '...IT IS TOO CLEAN. TOO QUICK.'

​Kel looked at the pulsing ring, his eyes widening in primal terror as the temperature around him dropped further. "What... what is that?"

​'...FOR VERMIN OF THIS CALIBER, WE DO NOT GRANT PEACE,' Obi continued, the voice echoing in Siurad's mind. 

'...WE GRANT OBLIVION.'

​'...WE CAN OPEN THE DOOR,' Obi whispered to Siurad. '...THE VOID CONSUMES ALL. LET IT FEED.'

​Siurad looked at the dying bandit, then at the Ring. The hot anger in his chest cooled into something darker. Something final.

​"Fuck it," Siurad said.

​He stood over Kel, his eyes reflecting a violet light.

​"To the void with you," Siurad whispered.

​Kel's rant cut off into a single, high pitched shriek. He began to flail once the shadow beneath him stopped being shadow.

It thickened around his boots, black and cold and impossibly heavy. His heels carved trenches through the mud as it dragged him backward by inches. He clawed at the ground, then at his own armor, then at Siurad.

The darkness did not rush. It did not need to.

It simply made less room in the world for Scrap Iron Kel.

​​The only thing left was his axe, clattering onto the empty dirt.

​It was clean. It was silent. It was efficient.

​Yona stared from her crate, her mouth slightly open. The playful smirk was gone. She looked at the empty patch of dirt where a three hundred pound man had just ceased to exist, then up at Siurad.

​"Remind me," she whispered, "never to piss you off."

​"Yona," Siurad said, his voice level, though his hands were shaking as the adrenaline crashed. "Get the kids."

​Yona didn't move immediately. She sheathed her sword with a sharp shing and stalked toward him, her boots crunching in the mud. Her face was a mask of wariness, excitement, and something else. Fear.

​"Okay," she said, stopping five feet away. "We need to talk. Ride or die, or whatever you call it, is one thing."

​She pointed a bloody finger at the empty patch of dirt.

​"That... was boogeyman stuff, Siurad. That was suck you into the floor stuff."

​She took a step closer, poking him hard in the chest. "So you tell me, right now. Was that you... or am I now traveling with the spooky shadow god full time?"

​Siurad looked from her finger to her face. Her eyes were deadly serious. She wasn't asking if he was dangerous. She was asking if he was gone. 

He then opened his mouth and found he didn't have the answer. Because he wasn't sure. The cold had felt like his. The decision had felt like his. But the part of him that had watched a man dissolve into the dirt and felt nothing, was that him, or was that the thing wearing him like a coat? 

He didn't know. And that scared him more than her finger did. 

​"He was keeping children," Siurad said, his voice hollow. "It was a... correction. I... I couldn't allow..."

​"Don't," she snapped, her voice low. "Don't you ever use that correction talk on me. I'm not a flaw, big guy. I'm not a variable to be solved.” Her eyes glittered in the firelight. "I'm your partner. And partners don't absorb each other into the ground. Are we clear?"

​'...HER FEAR IS A FLAW, HEIR,' Obi's voice pulsed, cold and immediate. '...SHE IS COMPROMISED BY EMOTION. SHE WILL BETRAY YOU. ELIMINATE THE VARIABLE.'

​Siurad's rage, a reflex now, spiked at the command. He shut Obi out, slamming a mental door on the god, and focused entirely on Yona.

​"You're my partner, Yona," he said, his voice sounding steadier than he felt. "And I don't eat partners."

​Yona held his gaze for a long, tense second. Then, slowly, the manic, bloodthirsty grin returned.

​"Good," she breathed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Because that was the most terrifying, amazing thing I have ever seen, and I am so in. Nine hells, big guy, you're going to be fun."

​She turned, her levity back,  "Right. So, what's the plan for the... 'uncorrectable cargo'?"

​She looked at the huddle of terrified shapes. "I'll handle them. I'll get the locks off, give them some food, and point them toward the main road. The King’s Guard patrols that route. They’ll be picked up by morning."

​"No," Siurad said, straightening up.

​"No?" Yona paused. "Siurad, we can't drag fifteen kids on a dungeon crawl. They're baggage."

​"Leaving them... that's just a different kind of failure," Siurad said, the logic forming in his mind as he spoke. "An incomplete correction is still chaos. Leaving them to die in the woods is a flaw. The Great Work isn't just about destroying chaos. It's about replacing it with Order."

​He looked at the Ring.

​"Our Order."

​There was a long, cold silence from the jewelry.

​'...YOUR LOGIC IS INTERESTING, HEIR,' Obi's voice said, laced with a new, unnerving curiosity. '...PROVE IT.'

​Siurad walked past Yona, toward the cages.

Siurad approached the cages. The metal was rusted and cold, and it smelled of misery. Inside, fifteen children huddled in the furthest corner, a trembling knot of rags and terror.

They weren't looking at Yona. They were looking at him.

They were looking at the six foot four nightmare clad in black leather, stained with mud and blood, who had just fed a man to his own shadow.

Oh god, Siurad thought, his stomach dropping. I look like the final boss. I look like the guy the heroes kill in the cutscene.

He tried to smile. It felt unnatural, like his face was made of cracked plaster.

Don't smile, he corrected himself frantically. You're covered in gore. If you smile, you’ll look like you enjoyed it. Be... comforting. Be safe.

He knelt, his knee crunching loudly in the wet mud. The sound made the children flinch as one, a collective gasp of pure fear.

"You are safe," Siurad said.

He meant for it to sound gentle. Instead, his voice came out deep, rough, and vibrating with the lingering resonance of the Void. It sounded less like a reassurance and more like a tectonic plate shifting.

The smallest child, a boy with tear streaked dirt on his face, buried his head in an older girl's shoulder and started sobbing.

I am failing, Siurad panicked. I am traumatizing them. I have zero Charisma. 

'...THEY DO NOT NEED A FRIEND,' Obi’s voice thundered in his skull, cold and dismissive. 

'...FRIENDS ARE CHAOTIC. THEY NEED STRUCTURE. THEY NEED AUTHORITY.'

I am not an authority, Obi! I’m a guy who worked security at a nightclub! I don't know how to talk to kids!

'...THEN ACT, VESSEL GIVE THEM A NARRATIVE.'

Siurad looked at the terrified faces. He realized Obi was right. He couldn't be the nice guy right now. He was too scary for that. If he tried to be soft, they wouldn't trust him.

But if he were, authority... maybe they would feel protected.

He took a breath. He shoved the panic down into the pit of his stomach. He put on the mask.

"Silence," Siurad said. The word carried across the clearing, and dropped the temperature in the air. The crying stopped instantly, choked off by the sheer, physical weight of the command. 

"The men who took you," Siurad preached, his voice echoing off the trees. "They were a Flaw."

What am I saying? his internal voice screamed. I sound like a cult leader. I am literally quoting the villain from a video game.

"They were Chaos," Siurad continued, rising slowly to his full height. “And Chaos... is inefficient. It is cruel. It allows the strong to prey upon the weak."

He gripped the iron bars of the cage, he tore the door off with a casual twist of metal, tossing it into the mud.

Please don't run. Please don't scream.

"We are not saviors," Siurad lied, channeling every ounce of quest Giver energy he had. "We are the Correction."

He swept his hand toward the carnage of the camp, the smoking craters, the broken bodies..

"You were not saved," he intoned, his voice devoid of doubt. "You were liberated by the will of the Obsidian Authority."

The children stared. The terror in their eyes was shifting. It wasn't gone, but it was changing into something else. Awe. Confusion. They were listening to the structure of his words, clinging to the certainty in his voice because it was the only solid thing in their world.

It's working, Siurad realized with a sick lurch of guilt. They don't want a hug. They want to know that the monster who saved them is bigger than the monsters who hurt them.

"Remember this night," Siurad said, leaning in, his dark eyes scanning the group. "When the world tries to break you... remember that order found you. Remember that the flaw was removed."

He stood back, gesturing to the open door.

"You are not victims. You are survivors. Stand up."

Slowly, hesitantly, the eldest girl, Mara, stood up. She looked at him, really looked at him. She didn't see the panicked gamer wondering if he was doing the right thing.

She saw the avatar of order.

"The Authority..." she whispered.

'...EXCELLENT,' Obi purred, the ring pulsing with a dark, satisfied heat. '...THE SEEDS ARE PLANTED.'

I feel like a fraud, Siurad thought miserably as the children began to file out of the cage, moving with a newfound, eerie discipline. I feel like I'm lying to them.

'...THE TRUTH IS A VARIABLE,' Obi corrected. '...YOU GAVE THEM PURPOSE. THAT IS BETTER.'

"Right," Siurad muttered out loud, turning away so they wouldn't see his hands shaking. "Let's move out. Two columns. Keep it efficient."  

Chapter Eleven

​The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, heavy silence that pressed against Siurad’s eardrums. He stood still, his breath pluming in the night air, watching the fifteen children huddled near the dying fire.

​They didn't look like people. They looked like a singular, trembling organism made of rags and terror.

​A cold thought struck him, sharper than the winter wind: If I hadn't been summoned... if I hadn't stumbled into this specific patch of woods... would anyone have come for them?

​He looked at the empty cages. He thought of Kel being sucked into the earth. And worse, what would have happened to them once they reached Valerius?

​The thought raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck. He was the only thing standing between these kids and a horror he couldn't yet name.

​Behind him, the sound of tearing canvas and shattering wood broke his spiral.

​Yona was dismantling the camp. It sounded less like looting and more like a high speed eviction. She moved with terrifying efficiency, darting between the tents and the supply cart, extracting value from the carnage with a surgeon's precision.

​She trotted back to him a moment later, hauling a heavy, clinking sack over one shoulder and wiping blood off a coin pouch with a wicked grin.

​"Payout," she announced, tossing the heavy bag at his chest. Siurad caught it with a grunt, it was dense. "Eighty gold. Split down the middle. Hazard pay."

​She didn't stop there. She dropped a large bundle of rough, grey fabric at his feet.

​"And the real jackpot," she said, kicking the bundle. "Wool blankets. Slavers stole 'em from a merchant caravan, looks like. They smell like wet dog, but they’re warm. We've also got three barrels of salted pork and a medical kit that actually has clean bandages."

She tapped a bundle of crumpled letters tucked into her belt. "And... I found the paperwork. Kel kept records. Names, locations, a whole list of people holding resources that don't belong to them." She fanned the pages with her thumb, and the dangerous mischief was already sparkling in her eyes. "People we could pop in and... audit."

​Then she stopped on one sheet, and the sparkle went out of it.

​"Huh." She read it again, slower. "This one's a manifest. Payment on delivery, fifteen head of cargo. Kel was just a middleman. The buyer's a name." She turned it toward him. "Lord Valerius. Silverspire."

​Siurad's blood ran cold. The name from the empty cages. The place the children had been bound for.

​"You know him," Siurad said. It wasn't quite a question. The look currently on Yona's face, wasn't quite fear, exactly, but the careful stillness of someone who had just found a bigger predator's tracks crossing her own.

​"I know of him. Cattallus Valerius. Sits on the Silverspire Council." She folded the manifest along its crease, precisely, the way you put down something you don't want to be holding. "Word in the trade was textiles. Wool and dye. Respectable money, not children. People don't get that wrong about a man unless he wants them to."

​The ring on Siurad’s finger flared with a sudden, intense heat against his bone.

​'...THE FOX-WITCH UNDERSTANDS THE DESIGN,' ... Obi pulsed, his mental voice vibrating with cold satisfaction. '...APPROVE HER PROPOSAL. EXPAND THE DEPARTMENT.'

​Siurad looked from the gleeful thief to the approving entity in the ring. "Great," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Now there's two of you. File that under administrative nightmares for later. Right now, we have a logistics problem."

​He gestured to the huddle of children. "We can't stay here. But where do we go? Back to Pine Haven? No... that's stupid. Irma isn't equipped for fifteen kids. Maybe Zeus and his family could help... but no. I’m not dragging them into this mess. If Valerius sends people looking, I won't have that on my conscience."

​'...STOP OVERTHINKING,' ... Obi cut in, sharp and impatient. '...HESITATION IS INEFFICIENT. MOVE THE ASSETS.'

​"You in there, big guy?" Yona asked, waving a hand in front of his face, her expression twisting into slight concern.

​"Yeah. Fine. Just having a staff meeting with my roommate," Siurad sighed. "So tell me. What the hell do we do with them? Where is the nearest safe place that isn't a hole in the ground?"

​Yona hummed, tapping her chin. "Well, if we just leave them by the road, I'm sure a patrol might pick them up... eventually."

​Siurad shot her a look that could curdle milk.

​"Kidding. Kidding," she raised her hands. "Okay. Let's see. Brookshire. It's about three days travel on foot. Not very big, but not tiny either. It's a trade hub for wool and grain. Just big enough to house some orphans without arousing too much suspicion, but tiny enough that they probably won't have too many visitors from the capital."

​She paused, weighing the words. "They have a Temple of Ceuci there. Goddess of crops and homes …or corn something like that. Usually, small temples take people in. In exchange for labor, mostly."

​"Labor?" Siurad’s voice dropped an octave. "We are not trading one set of chains for another, Yona. We are not making these kids slaves."

​Yona sighed, the wrinkles scrunching up the bridge of her nose. "I would never do that to children, Siurad. Who do you think I am?"

​"A slightly neurotic, homicidal fox lady?"

​"Fair," she conceded with a shrug. "But I'm not a monster. It’s not slavery. It’s... strict. They work the fields, they get fed. It’s the best option we have. Unless you plan on breastfeeding them yourself?"

​"Look," Siurad said, rubbing his eyes. "We're short on time. We go check it out. But if it’s not up to snuff, if I see one collar, one cage, or one starving kid, we boogie. And we take the temple apart. Deal?"

​Yona grinned, that predatory glint returning to her eyes. "Deal."

​She patted the pouch of letters at her belt. "Besides, if the paperwork I found is accurate... it just so happens there's an interesting person in town ripe for the audit regardless."

​Siurad looked at the children, then back at the dark road ahead. He hefted the sack of loot.

​"I got no choice anyway," Siurad said, his voice hardening into the tone of the shepherd. "Let's move the flock."

​The logistics were a total nightmare.

​Siurad had anticipated the fear. He hadn’t anticipated the sheer, physical clumsiness of moving fifteen exhausted children through a root snarled forest floor in the pitch black. 

The camp raid had provided them with the necessities, heavy wool blankets and rations, but dragging the flock off the main roads presented a unique, ankle twisting set of challenges.

​"Stay in formation," Siurad hissed, guiding a wandering child back toward the group. Yelling would carry too far in the silent woods. The children were tired, hungry, and traumatized, stumbling over every uneven patch of earth as they tried to put distance between themselves and the ruins of Kel’s camp.

​'...THEY ARE INEFFICIENT VARIABLES,' ... Obi pulsed against Siurad’s finger, the mental voice vibrating with irritation. '...THE PACE IS UNACCEPTABLE.'

​They are children, Obi, Siurad thought back, gritthing his teeth. Not cargo.

​He jogged up to the front of the column where Yona was scouting, her silhouette barely visible against the trees.

​"Yona, do you think we've gotten far enough?" he whispered. "They’re stumbling. I'm about ready to call it a night myself."

​Yona didn't even break her stride. "Sure thing, big guy. When you wake up hog tied with a slaver's knife at your throat because your precious wittle feetsies were hurting, don't blame me."

​Siurad stopped, letting out a long, ragged sigh. "You could have just said no," he muttered under his breath.

​Yona’s ear twitched. "What was that?"

​"Nothing... nothing at all."

​A stifled sob broke the rhythm of the march. A small boy near the back had stopped walking, his shoulders shaking as he began to cry.

​Before Siurad could react, Mara was there.

​She offered no hug and no comfort. She grabbed the boy by the shoulder of his oversized tunic.

​"Quiet," she said. Her voice was brittle and absolute, an authority unbecoming of her age. "Back in line. Now."

​The boy sniffled, looked at her steely expression, and instantly obeyed, shuffling back into formation.

​The ring on Siurad's finger hummed, a low, resonant note of approval.

​'...THAT ONE IS DIFFERENT,' ... Obi pulsed, the ring humming with cold interest.

​Siurad didn't have time to process the assessment. Yona, ten paces ahead, suddenly froze. She didn't turn around; she just raised a closed fist, the universal sign for stop.

​The silence of the woods changed. The crickets stopped. In the quiet, a new sound emerged: a wet, rhythmic sniffing coming from the darkness to their left. It sounded like a child whimpering, but wrong, distorted, as if mimicking a sound it didn't understand.

​"What is that?" Siurad whispered, his hand drifting to his hip.

​The underbrush exploded.

​Four creatures burst into the clearing. They were hideous, massive, pale bodies that moved with the loping grace of lionesses, but their heads were elongated, equine skulls with human like eyes and rows of jagged, donkey like teeth. Their bellies dragged low to the ground, swollen and raw.

​"Grief Mares!" Yona shouted, shoving the nearest child behind her. "Defend the rear!"

​Siurad reacted on instinct. He raised his hand, reaching for the Void, willing a Shadow Spike to pierce the lead beast.

​Nothing happened.

​A dull, hollow ache throbbed in his chest and his veins flared with heat. The well was dry. The events at the camp where he had opened the void to absorb Kel into the earth, had taken everything he had left. He squeezed his fist, but nothing happened.

​Shit. Out of gas.

​The beasts were closing in. Siurad grabbed the hilt of his sword, the heavy black steel blade he’d carried since Pine Haven. He drew it with a metallic scrape, the weight of it familiar now, an anchor in the chaos.

​"Get back!" he roared, stepping between the monsters and the flock.

​One beast lunged for Mara. Siurad swung.

​It was a clumsy strike, fueled by panic rather than the leverage Zeus had taught him. The beast ducked effortlessly, snapping its jaws at his leg. Siurad stumbled, his balance gone, and slammed into the mud.

​The beast was on him instantly. It was heavy, smelling of sour milk and rot. Its claws raked across his leather armor, shredding the straps.

​Siurad didn't panic, not entirely. In his old life, he’d been a bouncer. He knew how to handle bodies. He knew how to wrap up a drunk who was swinging wild and pin them to the floor.

​He dropped the sword and jammed his forearm into the creature's throat, treating it like an unruly patron.

​But this wasn't a drunk.

​The creature felt... wrong. Its skin was loose and oily, shifting over muscles that didn't connect where they were supposed to.

​Human leverage doesn't work on things with too many joints, he realized with horror.

​"Get... off!" he grunted, heaving upward with raw strength.

​He managed to flip it, pinning it beneath his weight not with technique, but with brute force. The beast shrieked, a sound like a woman screaming, and thrashed, its claws digging into his back.

​Siurad abandoned all attempts at fighting.  He grabbed a jagged rock from the mud. It was rough, covered in slime, its edges biting into his palm.

​He brought it down.

​THWACK.

​The rock connected with the creature's equine skull. The sound was the wet, dull noise of meat slapping stone. Skin burst. Black blood sprayed across Siurad’s face, hot and metallic.

​The beast shrieked, thrashing harder.

​Siurad hit it again.

​CRUNCH.

​This time, he felt the bone give. The vibration traveled up his arm, jarring his shoulder, but he didn't stop. The sharp edge of the rock sliced into his own fingers, mingling his red blood with the monster's black ichor, but the pain felt distant. Muted.

​He hit it again. And again. And again.

​SPLAT. CRACK. SQUELCH.

​The screaming stopped, but Siurad didn't. He was panting, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but beneath the exhaustion, something else was rising.

​A thrill.

​With every impact, the fear in his gut dissolved, replaced by a dark, electric heat. It felt... good. It felt righteous. It felt like popping a blister, like scrubbing dirt from a floor. The wet ruin of the creature's face wasn't disgusting anymore; it was progress. It was a correction.

​He raised the rock for another strike, his muscles burning, a snarl twisting his own face that felt terrifyingly natural.

​"Dead," he whispered, the word tasting like copper. "Stay dead."

​He brought the rock down one last time into the pulp of what used to be a head.

​Silence returned to the clearing.

​Siurad sat there, straddling the corpse, his chest heaving. He stared at the unrecognizable mess beneath him. He stared at his hand, the rock was still gripped tight, fused to his skin by drying blood.

​The thrill faded, leaving a cold, hollow pit in his stomach.

​I enjoyed that, he realized, the thought hitting him harder than the monster had. I didn't just kill it. I wanted to unmake it.

​He dropped the rock. It landed with a wet plop in the mud. He scrambled backward, crab walking away from the carcass, wiping the blood from his eyes with a shaking hand.

​He looked up.

​Yona stood in the center of the clearing. The three mares she had engaged were scattered in pieces, frozen and shattered by her ice magic. It was clean work.

​Siurad’s work was a slaughter.

​Yona walked over, kicked his sword back toward him, and sheathed her own weapon with a crisp click. She looked at the pulped head of the grief mare, then at Siurad. She didn't look impressed. She looked grim.

​"You fought like a drunk ox," she said, her voice devoid of humor. "You have the strength of a giant, Shepherd, but you grapple like you're trying to hug it to death. And that..." She pointed to the mess. "That's messy. That’s inefficient."

​' ..AGREED,'  Obi pulsed, cutting deep. '...BRUTALITY WITHOUT PRECISION IS JUST CHAOS. YOU LOST CONTROL.'

​Siurad picked up his sword, his hand shaking violently not from fear of the monster, but from fear of himself. He realized then that relying on mana was a death sentence, but relying on his own rage might be worse.

​"Teach me," he wheezed, looking at Yona, desperation in his eyes. "I need... I need to know how to do this right."

​Yona looked him up and down, seeing the blood, the shake, and the fear behind it. She nodded, a grim smile touching her lips.

​"We start tonight. Before you sleep. Now... let's move before the mother comes looking for her pack."

Chaptwe Twelve

The Grief-Mares, despite being dead, had left a lasting impression on the flock. The children, terrified that straggling meant being eaten by a horse skulled nightmare, marched in lines so geometrically perfect they would have made a Roman legion jealous.

'...ACCEPTABLE FORMATION,' Obi noted, the ring pulsing with a rare, low hum of satisfaction. '...FEAR IS AN EXCELLENT SURVEYOR.'

They broke through the tree line as the moon hit its zenith, spilling out onto a wide, rolling prairie miles from the main road. The grass was waist high and silver in the moonlight, a stark contrast to the suffocating gloom of the woods.

"Camp," Siurad announced, his voice raspy.

The single word was like a spell breaking. The rigid lines dissolved into a huddle of exhausted relief. Yona had a fire going in minutes, feeding it with dried scrub and deadwood.

The camp was primitive, a collection of wool blankets looted from Kel’s supply cart spread over the flattened grass, but to the traumatized group, it was a palace. 

The firelight flickered against the dark, casting rhythmic, dancing shadows that reminded Siurad, for a fleeting, surreal moment, of the strobe lights at the club back home. But instead of bass, there was only the wind.

The children ate their rations in silence and were asleep before the crumbs hit the ground.

Siurad, however, did not get to sleep.

"Up," Yona commanded, tossing a heavy, knotty branch at his chest. "We’re burning daylight. Or... moonlight. Whatever."

Siurad groaned, catching the wood. "Can't we just do theory tonight? My soul hurts."

"Your soul is fine," Yona said, hefting her own cudgel. 

"Your sword arm, however, is a tragedy. Let's fix it."

The dimly lit embers of the campfire illuminated the periphery of the sparring circle. Siurad was on one knee, breathing hard, nursing a fresh bruise on his ribs.

"Again," Yona shouted, waving her cudgel side to side like a metronome. "You can't just depend on magic! You have to get good with that stick of yours. Right now, you swing it like a drunk goblin trying to kill a fly."

Siurad groaned, forcing himself up. He knew she was right, but training was hell. He was already bruised on the entire left side of his body. The problem was that his bouncer experience, grappling, shoving, and using weight, didn't translate to steel. 

He tended to flail the sword like a baseball bat, looking for a home run instead of a kill.

They squared off again.

Siurad tried to focus. He watched her shoulders. He watched the stick. It was made infinitely harder by the ever-present color commentary in his skull.

'...YOUR STANCE IS INEFFICIENT,' Obi’s voice boomed, vibrating against Siurad’s molars. 

'...RAISE THE ELBOW. WIDEN THE BASE. NO, NOT THAT WIDE.'

It was too much data. He hesitated.

WHACK!

The force of Yona’s cudgel smashing into his shoulder sent him reeling back into a tree. The bark scraped his cheek as he slid down.

"For fuck's sake, Obi!" he hissed, clutching his shoulder. "Shut up and let me focus!"

"You’re thinking too much," Yona said, standing over him with a smirk. "You have to be natural. Your body is telling me what you’re going to do three seconds before you do it. If you keep this up, you'll be dead. Then who am I going to watch feed people to the shadows?"

"Okay," Siurad wheezed, holding up a hand. 

"Break. I need a break."

'...PATHETIC,' Obi chimed in.

Siurad sat by the fire, nursing his wounds, deep in a doom spiral of thoughts.

How the hell am I ever going to survive this?

In the movies, in the anime he watched back home, this was the easy part. There was a montage. Some upbeat music played, the hero chopped some wood, carried some water, and five minutes later, he was a badass.

Reality, it turned out, lacked a soundtrack. Yona had been beating him nightly, and he felt like he had made negative progress.

Yona watched him stew for a moment, then kicked the sole of his boot.

"Off your ass," she commanded. "We go again. This time, ignore King Boogey. Ignore the pain. Just watch me."

Siurad rose to his feet, every joint protesting. 

They went again.

This time, she attacked with fury. Each strike connected with his already over stimulated bruises. It hurt, but he didn't waver. He forced himself to stop thinking about the block and just look.

'...CORRECT THE ANGLE!' Obi seethed. 

'...STRAIGHTEN THE SPINE! XARA WAS NEVER THIS INEPT!'

Siurad tuned him out. Obi was the ultimate backseat driver, but tonight, Siurad was listening to the engine.

He watched Yona. She was elusive, a blur of motion, but he started to see it. The Pattern.

It was just like a boss fight. She couldn't hide the telegraph completely. Her ankles twisted inward ever so slightly when she was loading up for a left swing.

There.

She pivoted. Her ankle twisted.

Siurad heaved his aching arms up to the left.

CLACK.

Wood met wood. The impact vibrated down to his toes, but he held it.

It worked! A surge of pure gamer euphoria hit him. 

Holy shit! Obi, did you see that? I blocked the…

WHAM!

Yona spun with the momentum of the block, reversing her grip and slamming the pommel of her cudgel into his ribs. Siurad folded like a lawn chair and face planted into the dirt.

"Whew," she whistled, spinning the stick. "You okay, big guy? You actually blocked the first one. I'm impressed."

"I’m okay," Siurad groaned, his voice muffled by the grass. "I’m just slowly dying of internal bleeding. No biggie."

'...MEDIOCRE,' Obi judged, bringing an end to the physical portion of the evening.

Yona sat down on a log opposite him, wiping sweat from her forehead. She tossed the cudgel aside.

"Alright," she said, her tone shifting. The drill sergeant was gone; the teacher was here. 

"You're getting better with the stick. Slowly. Glacially. But we need to talk about the other thing."

She pointed to his hand. To the Ring.

"The Grief Mares," she said. "You tried to cast a spike. It failed."

"I was empty," Siurad defended, sitting up and wincing. "I used everything on the camp, it took a lot out of me."

"Exactly," Yona said. "You drive your magic like you drive your fists. Full throttle. Maximum output. You try to solve every problem with a nuclear explosion."

She picked up a small, smooth stone from the ground and held it up.

"Siurad, tell me. How much mana did you spend to kill Borin? To absorb Kel?"

"A lot," Siurad admitted. "Most of it."

"And what happened when the Mares showed up? You had to use a rock. You had to get your hands dirty because you spent your entire wallet on the first store you saw."

She leaned forward, her amber eyes catching the firelight.

"Magic isn't a hammer, Shepherd. It's ink."

'...HEDGE WIZARD TALK. YOU ARE NOT—'

We don't cast, we open, I know. Shut up, Obi.

"Ink?"

"You have a limited amount in the bottle," she explained. "Right now, you're splashing the whole bottle on the canvas to paint one picture. It's messy. It's wasteful. And when you need to draw a second line? You're dry."

She tossed the stone to him. He caught it.

"We're going to practice control," she said. "I don't want you to make a spike. I don't want you to teleport. I want you to cover that stone in shadow."

Siurad looked at the pebble. "That's it? Just cover it?"

"Not a cloud," Yona corrected. "A skin. I want you to paint it black. Thin. Precise. Use as little mana as possible. If I see a single wisp of smoke coming off it, you fail."

Siurad focused. He called on the Void. Usually, he opened the valve and let it rush out. This time, he tried to trickle it.

It was excruciating. It was like trying to fill a thimble with a firehose.

He pushed the power into the stone. A massive plume of black smoke erupted from his hand, engulfing his entire arm.

'...SLOPPY,' Obi critiqued. '...EXCESS DISCHARGE IS 90%.'

"Fail," Yona said simply. "You just wasted enough mana to blind a guard, and all you did was make a fog machine. Again."

Siurad dissipated the smoke. He took a breath. He tried again.

And again.

For the next hour, there were no explosions. No teleporting. Just a man staring at a rock, sweating with concentration.

The next morning, Siurad drifted toward consciousness, stirred by a gentle, almost loving caress against his cheek. For a hazy, blissful second, his brain reset to factory settings: he was back in Chicago, in his own bed, safe and sound.

​That illusion lasted exactly two seconds.

​He cracked one eye open, and the sun assaulted him immediately, an offensive, blinding glare that no curtain existed to block. Reality rushed back. He wasn't home. He was in a field. To his left lay the huddle of sleeping orphans. To his right, a noise that sounded like a diesel chainsaw idling in a library.

​It was Yona, face down in the grass, snoring with a violence that defied her small frame.

​Siurad went to lazily brush the stray strand of hair from his face. His finger snagged. It wasn't hair. It was sticky. It was tensile. It was a web.

​The realization hit his brain like a tactical nuke. He wasn't being caressed; he was being colonized.

​"GET IT OFF!"

​Siurad roared, scrambling upright in a panic that completely bypassed his dignity. A single, silky line ran from his ear to his shoulder like a suspension bridge for some invisible, eight-legged monster.

​He tried to tactical roll away from the enemy, but his coordination hadn't booted up yet. His boot caught the log he’d been using as a pillow.

​CRASH.

​He went down hard, face planting into the dirt and taking a stack of firewood and a metal cooking pot with him. The metallic clamor echoed across the silent prairie, loud enough to wake the dead or at least anyone within a two mile radius.

​The crash had the immediate effect of a bomb going off.

​Fifteen children snapped awake instantly, terror etched across their faces. They scrambled, huddled together in a defensive knot, eyes darting around for the monsters they assumed were attacking.

​Yona detonated.

​She sprang from her prone position to her feet in a single, fluid motion, emerald hellfire already roaring in her palms, her eyes scanning the tree line for threats.

​"CONTACT!" Yona yelled, her voice vibrating with lethal intent. "WHERE ARE THEY?! LEFT FLANK? RIGHT FLANK?"

​She spun around, ready to incinerate an army, only to find... nothing.

​Just the morning mist. The terrified children. And Siurad, lying face-down in the dirt, tangled in a blanket, with a cast-iron cooking pot covering his head like a helmet.

​The green fire in Yona’s hands sputtered and died. She blinked.

​"Siurad?" she asked, her voice dropping from mercenary to confused. "Are we... are we under attack, big guy?"

​Siurad slowly pulled the cooking pot off his head. He sat up, brushing wood chips from his hoodie, trying desperately to summon a shred of the shepherd’s dignity.

​"No," Siurad wheezed, tossing the pot aside. “No attack."

​He stood up, dusting off his knees, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

​"I was just... checking our combat readiness," he lied, his voice cracking slightly. "Reaction times were... acceptable. You passed. Efficient. Carry on."

​The campsite was dead silent. A cricket chirped.

​'...YOU ARE AN IDIOT,' ... Obi pulsed, the mental voice heavy with cosmic embarrassment.

​We all can't be as esteemed and infallible as yourself, O Great One, Siurad thought back, rolling his eyes so hard it hurt.

​He cleared his throat, clapping his hands together to break the awkward tension.

​"Right. So. Yona," he said, turning to her with forced casualness. "You ready to get this show on the road?"

​Yona stared at him for a long beat. She looked at the scattered firewood. She looked at the cooking pot. Then, a slow, shark like grin spread across her face.

​"Sure thing, big guy," she drawled, leaning against a tree. "But we probably should feed the cargo first. You know, unless you want fifteen malnourished children passing out before we hit the mile marker."

​Siurad paused. He looked at the children, who were watching him with wide, fearful eyes, likely wondering if their savior had finally snapped.

​"Right. Food. Logic," Siurad muttered, rubbing his temples. "Another test. You passed with flying colors."

​"Uh-huh," Yona smirked. "This partnership is going to be awesome."

​Siurad grunted, turning to the looted supply cart. He cracked open the barrel of salted pork. The smell was strong of brine and cured meat, but to the children, it must have smelled like a banquet.

​He used the black steel sword to slice the meat into even rations, handing them out with the same solemnity he used to dispense corrections.

​"Eat slowly," Siurad commanded, his voice dropping into that deep, resonant register that seemed to bypass their ears and speak directly to their instincts. "Gorging causes sickness. Sickness is inefficient."

​The children, who had been eyeing the food like starving wolves, instantly slowed down. They chewed methodically, eyes fixed on him, obeying the authority because it made them feel safe.

​'...CALORIC DISTRIBUTION OPTIMAL,' Obi noted, sounding bored but approving. '...THE FLOCK REQUIRES MAINTENANCE.'

​Yona watched him from the edge of the clearing, chewing on a piece of dried apple. She wasn't smirking anymore. She was watching the way he checked the bandages on a girl’s knee, the way he organized the lines not with cruelty, but with a rigid, protective structure.

​"You're good at that," she said quietly as he passed her to take point.

​"Good at what?" Siurad asked, adjusting his pack.

​"Herding cats," she said, pushing off the tree. "Ready, partner?"

​Siurad looked at the map Limmel had sold him. He looked at the sun rising over the treeline. Three days to Brookshire. Three days of walking, training, and keeping fifteen traumatized souls alive.

​"Ready," Siurad lied.

​He turned to the column.

​"Move out."

​The flock began to march.

The forest was alive in a way that made the high definition graphics of Cassalia look like finger paintings.

​Siurad found himself constantly scanning the treeline, infatuated with the world's alien biology. Pixies, no bigger than his thumb, buzzed around glowing wildflowers like iridescent hummingbirds. Rodents scurried through the underbrush, but they weren't squirrels, they were six legged things with fur that shimmered like oil on water.

​To Siurad, it was a world straight from imagination, rendered in terrifyingly real fidelity.

​The atmosphere smelled strangely sweet, like crushed berries and honey another reminder that he was foreign to this reality. Yet, compared to the blood and mud of the previous day, the march was peaceful.

​Siurad looked back. The children marched in two perfect, single file lines. They moved with purpose, their fear sublimated into discipline.

​Yona walked beside the column, spinning a dagger idly in her hand, humming a tune that sounded dangerously cheerful.

​"So, Yona," Siurad said, looking over his shoulder.

​She didn't stop humming. "Yeah, big guy?"

​"Why?"

​She caught the dagger mid spin. "Why what? Why is the sky blue? Why do you snore like a dying bear?"

​"Why are you... doing this?" Siurad clarified, gesturing between himself and the flock. "You're a Kitsune. A mercenary. You could have taken your cut of the gold and vanished. Why stay? Why follow a guy with a boogeyman in his head?"

​A strange look passed over her face, a flicker of something old and tired, before her usually sly smile returned, sharp as glass.

​"I invest in the interesting, Shepherd," she drawled, sheathing the blade. "Most people are boring. They live, they work, they die. But you? Tall, dark, spooky, and carrying the literal god of order as a fashion accessory?"

​She winked, her amber eyes glinting.

​"Seems like the only bet worth making. Besides... if I leave, who's going to keep you from tripping over your own feet?"

'...MORE LIES.'

Shut it Obi.

​As they walked through the woods adjacent to the road that led to Brookshire, Siurad could see that everyone was miserable. Yona looked bored out of her mind, spinning her dagger with lethargic rotations. The line of children moved with a mechanical efficiency that made Siurad’s skin crawl.

​No one was crying. No one was complaining. They just moved in a silent, orderly fashion, staring at the boots of the person in front of them.

​Siurad was sure Obi would approve in glowing fashion, but it didn't feel right. It felt less like he was leading them to safety and more like he was taking a line of prisoners to an internment camp.

​"Alright," Siurad shouted, pointing over to a grassy plain bathed in sunlight. "Break time!"

​The command was obeyed instantly. The children moved over to the plain and sat in a straight line, in complete silence, watching Mara, who was watching Siurad.

​Yona sheathed her dagger and walked over, arching an eyebrow.

​"Okay, what's up?" she asked. "What's the reason for the stop? We’ve barely covered three miles."

​"Look at them, Yona! They're miserable," Siurad hissed, gesturing vaguely at the silent rows. "I know this isn't Disney World, but jeez, they're just children."

​“Disney World?” Yona said, giving him her usual look of I have no idea what nonsense you're spewing.

​"It was a fun place for children and adults where I'm from," Siurad explained, exasperated. "Anyway, let's liven them up a little. Maybe some hide-and-go-seek? Play tag? Maybe you could let them play with your tails?"

​Yona recoiled as if he’d slapped her.

​"T-Tails? Are you crazy?" she whispered harshly, glancing around to make sure no one heard. "That's a part of me, Shepherd. It’s intimate. I don't know what kind of place this Disney is, but it sure as shit shouldn't have children there."

​Siurad’s brain screeched to a halt.

​"What? No! It's not... It's a theme park! With mice!" He groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Forget it. Just... look at them. They're so miserable."

​"Miserable?" Yona corrected flatly. "They're terrified of you."

​"Of me?" Siurad’s voice rose an octave. "I saved them from fucking slavers! That doesn't even make sense!" He gestured wildly. "Hey kids, here's the guy that keeps you in a cage, and here's the guy that let you out! See, Yona? Doesn't seem like much of a choice to me."

​"True," Yona said, crossing her arms. "But you also fed their slaver to the shadows and then went on your psycho spiel about order and chaos. Yada yada. They're children, Siurad. They don’t see a hero. They see a bigger monster who ate the smaller monster."

​Siurad deflated. The truth of it hit him harder than a physical blow. He looked at the kids. They weren't looking at the flowers or the pixies. They were watching him, waiting for the next correction.

​"Okay," Siurad sighed. "Okay. So what? They're scared of me. I don't think I can just mosey on up to them and make it instantly go away."

​"Fine," Yona said with a dramatic sigh, cracking her knuckles. "I'll give it a try."

​Yona walked over to the group of children. Kneeling in front of a small boy with tear tracks on his dirty face, she gave him a bright smile.

​He just looked on, terrified.

​Yona tried a joke. "What did the piffle wag say to the tree?"

​Silence. More stone cold terror etched across their faces.

​"Welp, I tried, big guy," Yona said, standing up and twirling around in exaggerated fashion.

​Just as she spun, the air shimmered around her. Her illusion spell dropped. With a soft pop, five fluffy, amber tails fanned out behind her, and a pair of large, fox like ears sprouted from her hair.

​The children gasped in shock.

​"Oh, you like that, do you?" Yona said, a true, mischievous smile spreading across her face.

​She didn't stop there. She began to weave a story, her hands dancing in the air. She told the tale of the brave Kitsune maiden who felled the ogre guarding the spirit tree. As she spoke, she used harmless fire and ice magic to illustrate the story, creating tiny, shimmering illusions of the ogre stomping through the grass and sparkling lights drifting from the spirit tree to wow the children.

​For the first time in days, the fear vanished. Their oohs and ahhs fed her showmanship. When she was done, the children were no longer in a straight line. They were relaxed, sitting cross legged, some even beginning to wander around, chattering excitedly about the magic fox lady.

​'...INEFFECTIVE,' Obi pulsed, the ring vibrating with annoyance. '...CHAOS IS  DISTRACTING.'

​Shut it, Siurad thought, watching with delight. It’s called morale.

​He decided he would join in. If he couldn't be the storyteller, he would be the coach.

​He grabbed all the loose branches and twine he could find. "Yona!" he called out. "Water magic! Right here!"

​She shot a small jet of water onto a patch of dirt, creating mud. Siurad went to work, packing the mud around the twine wrapped branches, fashioning a small, lopsided, heavy ball.

​He held the muddy creation aloft like a trophy.

​"Alright!" he declared, his booming voice drawing every eye, but this time, with curiosity rather than fear. "Anyone here ever played soccer?"

Chapter Thirteen

​The game was a disaster of flailing limbs and mud, but for an hour, the terror was forgotten.

​As Siurad lay by the campfire, gazing at the sleeping children, he couldn't help but feel a profound sense of satisfaction. They had spent half the day frolicking around the prairie, and the exhaustion was the good kind, heavy, warm, and earned. They were all tuckered out, drifting into sleep without a single protest.

​Obi, true to form, was the ultimate Negative Nancy. A real professional in the art of pessimism. But tonight, it didn't bother Siurad one bit. The ancient voice’s logic was infallible, as usual: “You have wasted daylight. You have added half a day’s journey to the trip.”

​But it was worth it. Siurad got to see them just be children for a moment, no worries, no fears, just glee. Truth be told, he thought, staring into the flames, he needed it more than they did.

​The moon shone through the canopy, illuminating the campsite in silver and grey. The only sounds were the rustling leaves, the rhythmic chirping of crickets, and the Kitsune lawn mower incarnate. She was a snorer, a timber sawing, ground shaking snorer, and it was a problem Siurad would deal with at a later date.

​She showed her true form for the children today, he thought. That's no small task. I'll cut her some slack for tonight.

​Watching the embers pulse, he saw Mara approach. She moved silently, timid at first, before plopping down on the grass beside him.

​“How's it going?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “Everything all right?”

​“For the most part,” she whispered, her eyes reflecting the dying fire. “I just wanted to say thank you. The others are younger, so they might not get it, but I… I understand that sometimes bad things happen. And today wasn’t bad.”

​Siurad blinked, taken aback. She was no more than thirteen or fourteen, yet she carried a weariness that belonged to someone three times her age.

​“Don't worry about it. You're the lil’ homie. It's the least I could do.”

​“Lil’… homie?” She scrunched her nose, unsure of the foreign words.

​Siurad sighed, remembering where he was. “It means you're my little friend. My ally. So, tell me about yourself, Mara.”

​The curiosity on the girl's face vanished, replaced instantly by a hollow look. Siurad knew immediately he’d made a tactical error. Before he could pivot the conversation, Mara began to pick at a loose thread on her tunic.

​“Not much to say.” She pulled the thread tight. “I’m thirteen. I think. I don't remember much before I was seven. That was when I was taken. I was saved at nine, and put in an orphanage.”

​She paused, staring hard at the fire as if reading a script in the coals. “But they ran out of coin. They said there wasn't enough bread for the big kids. So the oldest of us were sent to Ravenwood. We were supposed to go to a new home there.”

​Her voice went flat. “We never made it. When people don't have funds, or if you present too many problems... the adults stop caring. I was sold again. Moved around. Passed along until you found me.”

​A somber, fragile smile touched her lips. “I remember a mother. A father. A brother. But that feels like a dream now. We were attacked and split up. That’s how I got caught the first time.”

​Siurad felt his heart cracking. The world was vast, and yet it seemed intent on crushing the smallest things in it.

​“Well,” Mara said, her voice dropping to a steel whisper. “I don't have any family left. But I want you to teach me magic.” She looked over at the sleeping pile of children. “So that I… so that we never have to be helpless again.”

​He didn't ask what she meant. The pit in his stomach told him he already knew.

​“Mara, they are your family,” Siurad said, gesturing to the sleepers. “And I am your family now. I won't give up on you. I will make sure you're safe. I promise.”

​He ran a hand through his hair. “And as far as magic goes… look, I barely know what I’m doing. I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing is even magic and I got a guy… person… thing, living in my head. He needed my help, so I’m helping him. He taught me what little I know, and trust me, I am not qualified to be a teacher.”

“But–,” he started to say.

​She looked down, her shoulders slumping. A tear welled in the corner of her eye, catching the firelight.

​'...THIS ONE IS CHAOTIC,' Obi’s voice pulsed in Siurad’s mind, suddenly sharp and alert. '...SHE' MAY HAVE THE AFFINITY.'

​Siurad groaned and got to his feet. “Fine. You little stinker. Let's see what we can do.”

​They moved to the tree line at the edge of the camp, where the firelight struggled to reach. The darkness here felt heavier.

​“Okay,” Siurad said. “Obi, my friend, told me to open the void, aim, and concentrate. That was garbage advice. It didn't help me at all. What did help was… feeling the connection. Asking it’s permission.”

​Siurad raised his hand. The darkness between the tree roots seemed to shiver and lift, swirling around his palm like black smoke. “Once I feel I got the okay, the shadow spike forms. Then I just launch it like a spitball.”

​Mara watched him with wide, unblinking eyes.

​“Watch.”

​The shadow spike hissed through the air, impaling a tree trunk with a dull thud. It held its form for three seconds, a jagged lance of solid night, before dissolving into mist, leaving a deep, splintered hole in the wood.

​“Now you try,” he said. “Don't think about power. Feel for the dark. It'll get… cold that's normal though.”

​Mara stepped toward a different tree. She raised her palm. She stood for a long moment, trembling with effort, but the night remained still. She dropped her hand, frustration etched on her face.

​“Can I try again?”

​Siurad sighed. “Sure thing, kid.”

​'...MANIFEST THE SHADOW FOR HER,' Obi commanded, the ring on Siurad’s finger pulsing against the bone.'...THIS ONE IS I ATTUNED, AN INTERESTING VARIABLE. BE HER VALVE.'

​“Okay, how the hell do I do that?” Siurad muttered.

​'...GRAB HER WRIST OPEN THE GATE.'

​Siurad stepped up behind her and gently grasped her forearm. He closed his eyes, pulling on the sensation he had become so familiar with, the cold, viscous current of the void. He pushed it down his arm and into hers.

​In her small palm, the shadows began to coalesce. They swirled, knitting together into a small, unstable sphere.

​“What the…” Siurad whispered in awe.

​'...THIS ONE'S ATTUNEMENT IS HIGH,' Obi said, a smug resonance in his voice that made Siurad’s teeth ache.

​He let go of her arm. The shadows held for a split second longer before dispersing into wisps. Mara cried out, stomping her foot.

​“Hey, hey! No reason to be upset,” Siurad said quickly. “You actually did a really great job. Better than me. I had to be almost murdered to get it to work the first time. You're leagues ahead, kiddo.”

​“One more time,” Mara said. It wasn't a request.

​“Okay, but this is the last one,” Siurad said, yawning.

​Mara raised her hand, eyes darting from the damage Siurad had caused back to her own target. She closed her eyes, visualizing. The air around her hand began to cool.

​“Siurad! What in the hells are you doing?!”

​The shout shattered the concentration. They both jumped, spinning around.

​Yona was standing ten feet away, arms crossed, half illuminated by the dying fire. She was looking at Siurad with a mixture of disbelief and disgust.

​“She wanted to learn magic,” Siurad stammered. “I was just… showing her the ropes.”

​Yona marched over, grabbed Siurad by the sleeve, and pulled him a few paces away from the girl.

​“Siurad,” she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. “I know you mean well. But you cannot teach a traumatized child that. You are putting her, and everyone around her, at risk. You can barely control it! How do you expect her to?”

​Siurad opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. He looked back at Mara, who looked small and frightened in the gloom.

​“She told me she was helpless,” he whispered back. “She wants the power to stop bad things from happening. Yeah, she’s young, but if she can protect herself, then so the fuck what?”

​“Cool,” Yona said, her voice terrifyingly calm. 

“So tell me, Siurad. What happens when that child gets into a standard argument with another kid? Or when she gets angry at you? You are handing a loaded weapon to a girl who doesn't know how to process her own grief. Shadow-spiking people for trivial things will lead her to an early grave. Do you want that on your conscience?”

​Siurad stared at her. The logic was sound. Cold, but sound.

​“Look,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Can we just talk about it tomorrow? I’m exhausted.”

​Yona held his gaze for a second longer, then nodded. She shot a worried glance at Mara before returning to her bedroll near the children.

​Siurad walked back to Mara, who was waiting anxiously.

​“Look, I… I probably shouldn't be trying to teach you this right now,” he said gently. “Yona has a point. It’s dangerous. But… maybe tomorrow, I'll ask her to help train you with a dagger. Basic self defense. But you can only use it on those trying to hurt you. Promise me.”

​Mara hesitated, then nodded. The adrenaline of the lesson faded, leaving her swaying on her feet. Within moments of sitting back down, she was out like a light, her head listing until it rested against Siurad’s shoulder.

​He didn't move her. He just sat there, wondering if this constant worry was what parenthood felt like.

​Obi, Siurad projected his thought, staring into the dark. I'm writing checks my ass can't cash. I promised her I'd keep her safe, and I don't think I can. I'm... I'm feeling rather inefficient.

​Obi was silent for a long time. When he finally replied, the arrogance was gone. His voice was quiet, resonant, and heavy with the dust of centuries.

​'...THERE WAS ONCE A MORTAL NAMED RAIMI WHO TOLD ME SOMETIMES HUMANS DO WHAT THEY MUST. AND WHEN IT IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH THEY DO THEIR BEST.'

​A cold pulse radiated from the ring. A sensation like a forgotten sigh.

​'...A MOST EXCEPTIONAL VARIABLE, SHE WAS.'

​Siurad let the words settle over him as sleep began to pull at his eyelids. He glanced over at the tree, Mara's tree.

​In the faint, dying glow of the fire, he saw it.

​It was small, barely the size of a needle, but it was there. A tiny, splintered puncture mark in the bark. Evidence of a shadow spike.

​Guess you're right, he thought, pulling his cloak tighter around himself and the sleeping girl. Kid's a natural.

​And then, he drifted off to sleep.

​A cool breeze hummed through the camp, carrying the bite of the coming morning. The fire had died hours ago, the glowing embers giving way to cold, gray ash that swirled in the draft, coating the grass in a fine, spectral dust.

​The sun had not yet breached the horizon, but Siurad was awake.

​His eyelids fluttered open, heavy with a lack of true rest. He sat up, his joints popping, and looked over his flock. They were sleeping soundly, a heap of tangled limbs and dirty wool blankets. It wasn't perfect, it was barely adequate, but for now, they were safe.

​Siurad looked over to Yona. The chaotic, rhythmic sound of a diesel engine turning over vibrated from her small frame.

​He didn't smile this time. He just stared at her, dreading the conversation that was inevitable when she woke up. Not because he thought he was wrong about teaching Mara, but precisely because he knew, deep down in the blackest part of his gut, that he was right.

​In this world, the strong devoured the weak. It was a fundamental law of physics here. The only recourse against a system built on cruelty was superior cruelty.

​'...YOU ARE BEGINNING TO UNDERSTAND,' Obi whispered, his voice softer than usual, lacking its typical arrogance.

​"I think I am," Siurad whispered to the dark. "And that’s the problem, Obi. I fear I'm starting to lose... me. The other day, with the Grief-Mare... I liked it. I didn't just want to stop it. I wanted to... kill... no. I wanted to correct it."

​'...CORRECTION IS A NECESSARY CONSEQUENCE OF A CHAOTIC SYSTEM. FLAWS ARE AN UNNECESSARY VARIABLE.'

​"What you call flaws are people, Obi," Siurad murmured, looking at his hands. "In my world, killing wasn't a necessity. It was a horror."

​The ring pulsed, not with its usual cold blue, but with a deep, violent violet light.

​'...FLAWS ARE WHAT CORRUPTED THE AUTHORITY. COMPASSION KILLED THE GREAT WORK.'

​The mental voice grew louder, trembling with something that sounded terrifyingly like pain.

​'...WEAKNESS BEGOT TREACHERY, TREACHERY RESULTED IN CONFINEMENT. DO NOT REPEAT MY MISTAKES, HEIR. THEY WILL TAKE EVERYTHING.'

​The pulsing stopped, leaving a heavy silence in Siurad’s mind. But the silence wasn't empty. He could feel the entity thinking, a turbulent mix of ancient anger and a crushing, human like regret.

​He felt it, bleeding into his own heart like ink in water. Their bond was growing too fast, blurring the lines between man and god, Siurad wasn't sure where the shepherd ended and the authority began.

The diesel engine sputtered and cut out.

​There was no yawning, no stretching, no rubbing of sleep from her eyes. One moment, Yona was asleep; the next, her amber eyes snapped open, locking onto Siurad with a clarity that unsettled him.

​"You're still thinking about it," she stated, her voice devoid of morning gravel.

​Siurad blinked, pulled from his communion with Obi. "Thinking about what?"

​"The girl," Yona said, sitting up in a single, fluid motion. She didn't look at the sunrise; she looked at him like he was a puzzle with a missing piece. "You're sitting there trying to justify giving a hand grenade to a toddler."

​'...THE FOX LACKS VISION,' Obi pulsed, the ring vibrating with cold disdain. '...THE GIRL IS NOT A TODDLER. SHE IS A RESOURCE.'

​Siurad stiffened, fighting the urge to nod at the voice in his head. "She asked for help, Yona. She feels helpless. I gave her a way to fight back."

​'...CORRECT,' Obi agreed instantly. ​'...WEAKNESS IS A DISEASE POWER IS THE CURE. DO NOT APOLOGIZE FOR CURING HER.'

​"No," Yona cut him off, her tone sharp, oblivious to the third participant in the conversation. "You gave her your way. And your way is to burn the house down to kill a spider."

​She stood up, dusting the ash from her leathers, and walked over to where he sat. She didn't loom over him, but her presence felt heavy.

​"We need to get one thing straight about this partnership, Shepherd," she said, crouching down so they were eye level. "I followed you because you’re interesting. You’re a anomaly. A big scary man with a conscience and a god in his pocket? That’s a portfolio I want to invest in."

​She pointed a gloved finger at his chest.

​"I like dangerous, Siurad. Dangerous pays, dangerous paid. Dangerous changes the world. But I don't do stupid."

​Siurad bristled, emboldened by Obi’s support. 

"Helping her isn't stupid."

​'...AGREED,' Obi pulsed. '...TO LEAVE A BLADE UNSHARPENED IS INEFFICIENT. XARA HAD VULNEIR. IGNORE THE ANIMAL.'

​"Teaching Void magic to a girl who is currently held together by trauma and spite is stupid," Yona countered, her voice dropping to a hiss. "Magic requires intent. Control. If she has a nightmare and lashes out, she won't just hurt the bad guys. She'll hurt the flock. She'll hurt us. And I didn't survive this long to get erased by a teenager having a panic attack."

​Siurad opened his mouth to argue, but the logic clamped his jaw shut. Even Obi went silent at that. The image of the shadows swarming Mara’s hand, eager, volatile, hungry, flashed in his mind.

​"So what?" Siurad asked, his voice tight. "I just tell her no? Let her stay a victim?"

​'...UNACCEPTABLE,' Obi growled.

​"You pivot," Yona said, her expression softening just a fraction. "You give her a weapon that doesn't feed on her soul. Let me teach her the blade. Let her learn discipline, footwork, leverage. Once she learns she can protect herself without blowing a hole in reality... then maybe we talk about the spooky stuff."

​She held his gaze, waiting.

​"I’m not your morality pet, big guy," she added quietly. "I'm your partner. And partners stop each other from walking off cliffs."

​Siurad let out a long breath. Obi was simmering in the back of his mind, radiating disapproval at the delay, but Siurad knew Yona had a point. He looked over at the sleeping Mara, then back to the fox woman who saw the world with such terrifying clarity.

​"Steel first," Siurad conceded.

​'...DISAPPOINTING,' Obi judged. '...BUT DISCIPLINE HAS MERIT.'

​"But you explain it to her," Siurad added. "I’m tired of being the bad guy."

​Yona grinned, the tension snapping as her usual shark like smile returned.

​"Deal," she said, standing up and offering him a hand. "I’ll turn her into a terror. You just focus on keeping us alive long enough to get there."

​Siurad took her hand. Her grip was calloused and strong.

​"Now," Yona said, hauling him up. "Wake the flock. If I have to eat another piece of salted pork while sitting still, I’m going to bite someone."

Chapter Fourteen

​​The road to Brookshire was paved, a luxury Siurad hadn't seen since arriving in this world. It implied civilization. It implied order.

​It implied laws.

​They were less than five miles from the city gates when the patrol spotted them.

​"Halt!"

​Three men on horseback trotted out from a copse of trees. They wore the blue and silver tabards of Vildris;clean, polished, and official. These weren't bandits. They were road wardens. Men with families, pensions, and a job to do.

​Siurad signaled for the flock to stop. Yona drifted to the back of the line, her hand hovering near her daggers, but keeping her head down.

​The Captain of the patrol, a man with a thick mustache and tired eyes, reined his horse in front of Siurad. He didn't draw his sword. He pulled out a leather bound ledger and a quill.

​"Refugees?" the Captain asked, eyeing the ragged children.

​"Orphans," Siurad corrected, keeping his voice steady. "We're taking them to the Temple of Ceuci in Brookshire."

"Noble," the Captain grunted, dipping his quill into the ink pot on his saddle. "But procedure is procedure. I need to log this group. Names, ages, and point of origin."

​"We're in a hurry, Captain," Siurad said, his voice tight. He reached for his belt pouch, deftly sliding two gold coins into his palm, more than a road warden made in a month. He stepped closer, offering a handshake with the gold concealed.

​"Surely we can handle the paperwork at the Temple?" Siurad lowered his voice. "Consider it a donation to the Widows and Orphans Fund. For the trouble."

​The Captain looked down at the gold glinting in Siurad’s hand. He didn't take it. He looked up at Siurad, his expression hardening; not with greed, but with a weary disappointment.

​"Put that away, son," the Captain said softly. "I'm not a bandit. I'm a warden. If I let you pass without a log, and these children turn out to be missing persons... that's on my soul. Now, line them up."

​He turned his gaze to the front of the line. "You there, girl. Step forward. Name?"

​Mara froze. She looked at Siurad, absolute terror flooding her eyes.

​'...THE VARIABLE CANNOT BE RECORDED, Obi whispered. The voice wasn't angry. It was terrifyingly calm. '...HE IS A LEAK. CLOSE IT.'

​Siurad stood paralyzed.

​He’s a good man, Siurad’s mind screamed. He’s doing his job. He’s the first honest cop we’ve met.

​And that was exactly why he had to die.

​Bouncer Logic: You don't hit a patron unless they swing first.

Warlord Logic: You remove the threat to the VIP.

​The two codes clashed in his skull, causing a physical spike of nausea. He looked at the Captain's neck. He saw the pulse thumping rhythmically against the skin.

​'...DO IT,' Obi commanded.

​Siurad shut his humanity off. He didn't want to be Siurad anymore. He retreated into the void. He forced himself to see the Captain not as a man with a soul, but as a blocking mechanic. A variable in the way.

​"Her name," Siurad said, stepping past the horse's flank, "is none of your business."

​The Captain blinked, opening his mouth to reprimand him. "Now look here—"

​Siurad didn't draw his sword. That would give the man a chance.

​He grabbed the Captain’s belt and the collar of his tabard. With a roar that was half effort, half despair, he ripped the man from the saddle.

​The Captain hit the pavement with a heavy clatter of armor, the breath leaving him in a wheeze. He looked up, eyes wide, hands raising in a gesture of confusion, not violence.

​"Wait—"

​Siurad dropped his knee onto the man's chest, pinning him. He drew the black steel blade.

​He didn't look away. He forced himself to look.

​The Captain’s eyes locked onto his. There was no hate there. Just pure, innocent confusion. Why?

​I'm sorry, Siurad thought.

​He drove the blade down.

​It wasn't a clean shing like in a game. It was a wet, resisting crunch. The steel punched through the gap in the gorget and severed the spine.

​The Captain’s body convulsed once; a violent, human spasm against Siurad’s leg, and then went heavy.

​The quill fell from his dead hand. The ledger lay in the dirt, blank.

​"Hostile!" the second guard screamed, fumbling for a signal horn at his belt.

​"Yona!" Siurad roared, his voice cracking.

​The green flash of hellfire struck the second guard in the chest before he could raise the horn, melting through his breastplate and silencing his scream in a roar of flame.

​The third guard didn't fight. He kicked his spurs, his horse rearing as he turned to run back toward the city. To warn them.

​"No," Siurad breathed. His stomach rolled, threatening to empty itself, but his mind was ice cold.

​Distance: Forty feet.

Speed: Increasing.

Solution: Void Step.

​Siurad tethered to the nearest shadow, then he simply stepped forward, and the world inverted.

​The nausea hit him instantly; a familiar, violent lurch as gravity dissolved. For a split second, he was nowhere, squeezed through the freezing vacuum of the Void.

​He erupted from the tear in reality directly behind the fleeing rider, materializing on the back of the galloping horse.

​The momentum slammed into him like a physical blow. He barely gripped the rider's waist to stabilize himself, his head spinning, bile burning the back of his throat.

​The guard felt the shift in weight. He turned his head, his eyes widening as he saw the demon that had just appeared out of thin air inches from his face.

​Siurad didn't say a word. He forced the sickness down and raised his hand.

​He drove a shadow spike directly through the back of the guard's armor.

​It wasn't just visual. He felt the resistance through his connection: the snap of the steel plate, the wet give of flesh, the vibration of bone shattering, right before the obsidian lance erupted from the guard's chest in a spray of red mist.

​Siurad shoved the body. The guard tumbled from the saddle, dead before he hit the road.

​Siurad grabbed the reins, slowing the panicked horse to a halt. He sat there for a moment, the black smoke of the void step still curling off his shoulders, the taste of vomit in his mouth.

​He had moved like a ghost. He had killed like a machine. And it hurt.

​'...EFFICIENT,' Obi pulsed, a warm wave of approval washing over Siurad’s nausea. ... '...LOOSE ENDS TIED. THE FLOCK IS SECURE.'

​Yona walked over to the Captain's body. She didn't look at the carnage. She picked up the ledger from the dirt. She flipped through it, verified it was empty of their names, and then incinerated it with a small pulse of fire.

​"They would have flagged us," she said, her voice devoid of judgment. "They would have sent a raven to the capital by noon. Valerius would have had a hit squad waiting at the temple."

​She looked up at Siurad, who was sliding off the captured horse, his face pale.

​"You didn't kill a man, Shepherd," she said softly. "You killed a leak. It had to be done."

​Siurad wiped his blade on the Captain's tabard, trying to ignore the guilt clawing at his throat. He turned to the children, expecting to see horror. Expecting them to run from the monster who could teleport and kill innocent men without blinking.

​Most of them were cowering, faces buried in their hands.

​But not Mara.

​She stood at the front of the line. She looked at the dead Captain, the honest man who had refused a bribe. She didn't look sad. She looked at the corpse with a chilling indifference, as if he were nothing more than a broken piece of furniture.

​Then she looked at Siurad. Her eyes weren't wide with fear. They were wide with awe.

​She walked over to him, stepping directly over the blood pooling on the road without flinching. She reached out and took his trembling hand.

​"You stopped them," she whispered, squeezing his fingers. "They were going to take us. And you stopped them."

​She looked up at him, and for the first time, she smiled; a fierce, terrifying expression of absolute devotion.

​"You really are our Shepherd."

​Siurad looked down at her, then at the dead men who had done nothing wrong but ask a question. He realized Yona was right about the danger of teaching her. He realized Obi was right about the efficiency of violence.

​And that terrified him more than anything else.

​"Let's go," Siurad rasped, his voice sounding hollow. "Brookshire is waiting."

'...WAIT,' Obi commanded. '...THE EVIDENCE REMAINS.'

Siurad froze. He looked at the bodies. The Captain with his severed spine. The guard melted by Yona’s fire. The rider he had spiked.

Blood pooled on the pavement. A ledger lay in the dirt.

If a patrol found this, they wouldn't just send a raven; they would send a battalion. They would hunt them to the ends of the earth.

No loose ends.

Siurad looked at the horse he had just dismounted. The beast was trembling, smelling the blood of its master, its eyes wide and rolling. It wore the barding of Vildris. If he let it go, it would run straight back to the garrison stables. A riderless horse was a screaming alarm bell.

He couldn't let it run. He couldn't take it with them.

Siurad closed his eyes. He felt the sickness in his gut, the ache in his veins; a telltale sign he was using too much mana.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the beast.

He didn't use magic this time. He couldn't afford it. He used the sword. One clean, brutal thrust into the heart. The horse buckled and fell without a sound.

Mara watched, her eyes unblinking. She didn't look away.

"Yona," Siurad said, his voice dead. "Get the kids back. I need a minute."

Yona didn't argue. She saw the look in his eyes, the look of a man about to do the janitorial work of the soul. She herded the children a few yards down the road, turning their backs to the carnage.

Siurad walked to the Captain first. He knelt in the blood.

He placed his hand on the man's breastplate. He prepared to open the void, but a thought struck him. An old habit from a time that seemed so long ago,a lingering gamer instinct.

Loot.

Kel.

He had absorbed the bandit leader into the earth back at the camp. In his mind, he had treated it like an inventory slot, toring the body to strip it of gear later when things calmed down. Kel had magical items. He had value.

Siurad reached into the Void, not to deposit, but to withdraw. He cast his will into the darkness, searching for the specific "echo" of the bandit leader.

Return, Siurad commanded.

Nothing happened.

There was no body. No armor. No resistance. Just an infinite, silent cold.

Siurad probed deeper, panic fluttering in his chest. I put him right here. Where is he?

'...GONE,' Obi whispered, his voice holding a trace of dark amusement. '...THE VOID IS NOT A VAULT, HEIR. IT IS A HUNGER.'

Siurad pulled his hand back, a chill running up his spine that had nothing to do with the wind. He had waited too long. The Void hadn't stored Kel; it had digested him. Armor, flesh, bone, and soul; broken down into nothingness.

He looked down at the Captain. There would be no retrieving him. This wasn't hiding a body; it was unmaking a man.

God forgive me, Siurad thought.

Consume.

The shadows beneath the body seemed to transform. The pavement seemed to dissolve into an infinite, black depth. The Captain’s body sank into the asphalt like a stone thrown into a tar pit.

In seconds, he was gone. No trace. No smell. Just clean, grey road.

Siurad moved to the next. Then the next. Then the horse he had felled.

Two more waited at the treeline.

He walked to them through the wet grass. They shied from the smell on him, and he took the first by the bridle and put the sword through its heart the way he had the other. Except this time he did not close his eyes. This time he did not say he was sorry. 

There was nothing left in him to say it with. He did the second the same way, and opened the ground beneath them both.

It was exhausting. It felt like dragging heavy weights through deep water. With every body he erased, he felt a piece of himself slipping into that cold dark with them.

When he was done, the road was empty. The blood was gone, absorbed into the hungry dark. The only proof that the Vildris patrol had ever existed was the blank ledger Yona had burned.

Siurad stood up, swaying slightly. He wiped his hands on his trousers, though there was nothing on them.

'...THE RECORD IS CLEANSED,' Obi pulsed, a note of grim satisfaction in his tone. '...PROCEED.'

Siurad walked back to the group. Mara was waiting. She looked at the empty road where the bodies had been moments ago. She looked at Siurad.

She didn't ask where they went. She knew.

"They're gone," she whispered, half to herself. "You made them... gone."

"We move," Siurad said, walking past her, refusing to meet her gaze. "Don't stop until we see the walls."

Chapter Fifteen

 The wooden palisades of Brookshire appeared on the horizon, rising out of the grasslands like a jagged set of teeth.

It was less a fortress and more like a corral.

The walls were sturdy enough to keep out wolves, but they wouldn't stop an army. The road, which had been empty and blood soaked just miles back, was now clogged with traffic. But not soldiers. Sheep. Hundreds of them.

The smell hit Siurad before they even reached the shadow of the walls. It wasn't the metallic tang of blood he was trying to scrub from his memory. It was lanolin; the greasy, heavy scent of wet wool, mixed with the sharp ammonia of dye and manure.

"It smells like a wet sock filled with money," Yona noted, adjusting her hood to hide her ears.

She stopped, turning to Siurad. She looked him up and down; at his blood flecked armor, his thousand yard stare, and the tension radiating off him like heat.

"Okay, big guy," she said, grabbing his collar and giving it a rough shake. "We need to change the vibe. You look like you're about to murder everyone, and while that's usually your charm, it's bad for business here."

"I just erased a patrol," Siurad hissed. "I'm a little tense."

"Exactly. So you don't talk," Yona ordered. "If you open your mouth, you'll say something spooky about order or variables. So we're bringing back the classic."

She poked him in the chest.

"Tall, Dark, and Dumb. You're the muscle. You hit things for a living and you don't read well. Slouch your shoulders. Look vacant. Only answer in grunts. Can you handle that, or do I need to draw you a diagram?"

'...A DEGRADING DISGUISE,' Obi pulsed, sounding offended. '...BUT TACTICALLY SOUND.'

Siurad sighed, rolling his neck. "Fine. Big and dumb. I hate you both."

"Love you too, Shepherd. Now, slouch."

Siurad let his shoulders drop. He puffed out his chest, relaxed his jaw until his mouth hung slightly open, and adopted a facial expression he hoped conveyed, I am thinking about a potato.

They reached the gate.

Two guards in stained leather jerkins leaned against the timber frame, spears resting idly against their shoulders. One was picking his teeth with a splinter; the other was watching the sheep pass with glazed eyes.

"Hold up," the toothpick guard grunted, stepping lazily into the road. He looked at Yona, then up at the hulking, black clad tower of meat behind her.

"State your business."

"Deliveries!" Yona chirped, flashing a smile that was charming but exhausted. "Pilgrims for the Temple of Ceuci. Labor offerings for the harvest."

She jerked a thumb at the line of fifteen ragged children. Then she patted Siurad’s arm like he was a prize bull.

"And this is my... associate. He handles the heavy lifting. And the unruly cargo."

The guard eyed Siurad warily. "He's big. He got a name?"

Siurad stared at a spot on the guard's forehead. He didn't blink. He let out a low, wet, guttural grunt that vibrated in his chest.

Hrghn.

The guard flinched slightly.

"We call him Tiny," Yona said with a wink. "Not much for conversation. Dropped on his head as a baby. Twice."

Siurad let out a second, slightly more inquisitive grunt, shuffling his feet heavily in the dirt like a bored toddler in a giant's body.

Hurh?

'...EXCELLENT PERFORMANCE,' Obi critiqued. '...THE LACK OF INTELLIGENCE IS CONVINCING.'

Shut up, Siurad thought, committing to the bit by scratching his stomach through his armor.

"Right," the guard said, clearly deciding he didn't want to question the giant simpleton. He looked back at the kids. "Labor, huh? Town's full. We got a gate tax. Two coppers a head."

"Two?" Yona asked, feigning shock. "For charity cases?"

"Commercial rate," the guard shrugged.

Yona sighed, reaching for her pouch. But Siurad moved.

He stepped forward, the ground crunching under his boots. He reached into his own pouch with agonizing slowness. His face was a mask of intense concentration, as if counting to three was a struggle.

He pulled out a handful of coins. He didn't count them. He just dropped the fistful into the guard's hand, silver mixed with copper.

Then he grunted again. A deep, flat sound that meant done.

The guard stared at the silver. He looked at the giant, dumb brute who apparently tipped like a king because he didn't know the value of money.

"Uh... right. Okay then," the guard stammered, pocketing the cash before Tiny could realize his mistake. "Move along. Temple's in the High District. Try not to step on the sheep."

He waved them through.

As soon as they passed the threshold and the noise of the market swallowed them, Siurad straightened his spine. The vacant look vanished, replaced by the sharp, hunting gaze of the Shepherd.

"I hate that persona," Siurad muttered, his voice low and dangerous again.

"Worked though," Yona grinned, counting the coins she’d saved. "Everyone underestimates the help. Now, let's get these kids off the street before your intellect scares anyone."

​“Fuck you, Yona,” Siurad muttered.

​They pushed through the busy streets on their way to the temple. It didn't take a genius to read the mood of the city: coin was god here, and those without it were suffering. Beggars lined the mud-slicked alleys, and the buildings leaned like they were tired of standing.

​“Yona, I thought this was supposed to be a small town? Why does it look like a war zone?”

​“Big guy, this is what most small towns are actually like,” Yona replied, stepping over a puddle of filth. “Not enough work to go around. A place like this needs a sudden influx of gold to survive, and they just don't have it.”

​“How safe will the flock be if we stick them in a fucking ghetto? Are you serious right now?”

​Siurad forced his voice low, trying not to spook the children trailing behind them, but his blood was boiling. He had just killed a good man to get them here. If he had traded that man’s life for a place where the children would starve, or worse, he would never forgive himself.

Yona didn’t flinch at his tone. She just adjusted the strap of her pack; the one heavy with the coins they had stripped from the bandit camp, and gave him a sharp look.

“Lower your voice, Siurad. You want to advertise we’re walking treasuries?” She gestured vaguely at the squalor around them. “We have money, yes. Enough to buy this whole block. But we don't have a history. You want to walk into a noble district covered in road dust and blood, dropping bandit gold on the counter? That gets the guard called. We need to be invisible.”

Siurad gritted his teeth, his jaw working silently. He glanced back. The children, the flock, were huddled close together, shivering in the damp alley air.

“They can’t grow up like this, Yona,” Siurad rasped. “We’re sitting on a fortune. We could have taken them anywhere.”

“We take them where nobody asks questions,” Yona whispered back. “Once they’re safe, we use the coin to make the nest comfortable. But first, we secure the nest.”

She turned and marched toward the temple. It rose from the grime like a polished tooth in a rotten mouth grey stone, iron-banded doors, imposing.

Yona let the knocker fall against the plate. A dull boom echoed like a judgment.

A moment later, a viewing slot slid open. Eyes, yellowed and suspicious, peered out. Then the door creaked open, revealing a man in robes that were once fine but now stained with wine and grease. He looked the group up and down, sneering at their travel worn clothes.

“The soup kitchen is on Thursdays,” the priest droned, already starting to close the door. “The gods help those who help themselves.”

“We aren’t here for soup,” Yona said, jamming her boot in the doorframe. “We’re here for sanctuary.”

The priest let out a wet, rattling laugh. “Sanctuary requires tithes. The temple roof leaks, my child. The candles cost wax. Faith is spiritual, but maintenance is material.” He rubbed his thumb against his fingers it was the universal sign for coin.

Siurad stared at the man.

The Captain, he thought, a fresh wave of guilt washing over him. The Captain refused a bribe because he had a soul. This parasite demands one because he has an appetite.

Obi, Siurad thought.

The ring on his finger hummed with a heavy, ancient pressure. Obi’s voice filled his mind, vast and dripping with disdain.

'...LOOK AT IT,'” Obi pulsed. '...A FLAWED CONSTRUCT. CONSUMED BY CHAOS AND GREED. IT WILL TAKE YOUR RESOURCE AND DISCARD THE FLOCK THE MOMENT YOU LEAVE.'

Greed makes a man predictable, Siurad thought back. I can use that.

'...THEN INTRODUCE A NEW VARIABLE,' Obi rumbled.  '...TERROR.'

Siurad stepped forward, moving past Yona. He placed a hand on the priest’s chest and shoved him backward into the dim, candlelit vestibule.

“Yona, keep the children outside for a moment,” Siurad said. His voice was calm, but it carried a vibration that made the hair on Yona's arms stand up. She didn't argue. She pulled the door shut, leaving Siurad alone with the priest.

The priest stumbled back against a stone pillar, indignity warring with alarm. “Now see here! You can’t just—”

Siurad didn’t speak. He just let it slip. The leash he kept on the darkness inside him he dropped it.

The temperature in the room plummeted. The shadows in the corners stretched. They detached themselves from the walls and pooled around Siurad’s feet like black water. The silence of the Void filled the room, swallowing the sound of the street outside.

When Siurad looked up, his eyes were no longer brown. They burned with a sick, luminous violet light.

“Do you know what I am?” Siurad whispered. The voice didn’t sound like his own. It sounded disturbed.

The priest shook his head, too terrified to speak.

Siurad reached into his pouch. He didn't count the coins; he just grabbed a heavy fistful. He seized the priest’s hand and slammed the gold into his palm, forcing his fingers closed over the stack with crushing force.

“Gold,” Siurad said. 

The priest’s eyes bulged. He looked at the gold glinting between his fingers, his brain short circuiting at the math. He could rebuild the temple. He could buy a vineyard.

“That is for the children,” Siurad said, leaning in, the violet glow of his eyes illuminating the sweat on the priest's face. “And for you.”

The priest blinked, confusion cutting through the fear. “For... me?”

“I don’t care if you buy fine wine,” Siurad hissed. “I don’t care if you replace these robes with silk. Be greedy, Priest. Indulge yourself.”

Siurad’s hand moved from the priest’s fist to his throat. He didn't squeeze, but the threat was absolute.

“But the children eat first. They get soft beds. They get to be safe. Because if they don't... I will tell you what happens.”

Siurad leaned closer, the violet light in his eyes flaring brighter.

“I knew a man named Kel. A bandit. Stronger than you. I introduced him to this darkness. I cast him into the Void. Do you know what happens there?”

Siurad’s voice dropped, becoming terribly soft.

“He didn’t die. Not immediately. He floated in the silence. No air. No light. And then... he began to unravel. He watched his own skin turn to dust. He watched his fingers dissolve into grey mist. He was unmade, piece by piece, until he was nothing but a memory of a stain.”

Siurad let the Void flare. The candles in the room snuffed out instantly, plunging them into total darkness, save for the two violet circles burning in the black.

“If one of those children cries out in the night and you are not there... I will know. And I will come back. And I will send you to find Kel.”

The priest let out a choked sob, his knees buckling. "I…yes. Yes. They eat first, they eat first, I swear it, I swear—"

Siurad released him.

He inhaled sharply, mentally wrestling the darkness back into its cage. It was reluctant to go. It wanted to stay, to feed on the man's fear. Siurad forced it down, the violet light fading back to brown, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The candles flickered back to life, though they burned lower than before.

The priest was slumped against the pillar, clutching the fortune to his chest, shaking uncontrollably. He looked at Siurad not as a man, but as a monster who had just handed him a winning lottery ticket.

Siurad looked down at his own hands. They were trembling slightly.

I enjoyed that, he thought, a spike of genuine fear piercing his own chest. I wanted to hurt him because I couldn't hurt the captain.

'...CAREFUL, HEIR,' Obi’s voice echoed, cold and distant. '...THE CONTRACT IS VALID. DO NOT LINGER IN THE DARK.'

He pushed the thought away and turned to the door to signal Yona.

“He’s agreed,” Siurad said, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. “Bring them in.”

The change in the priest was instant and pathetic. He scrambled to his feet, clapping his hands and shouting for novices who emerged from the back rooms like startled mice.

"Hot broth! Bread! The soft blankets from the guest quarters!" the priest barked, his voice cracking. He glanced nervously at the shadows where Siurad stood. "And wine! For the... for our benefactors."

Yona herded the flock inside. Fifteen children blinked, overwhelmed by the sudden warmth and the smell of incense. They didn't touch the benches, they didn't even speak. They just looked at Siurad.

Siurad stood by the door, half in the shadow of the archway. He felt cold, despite the fire.

"It's safe," Siurad said, his voice rough. "Eat."

Only then did they move. It wasn't a scramble; it was a disciplined, desperate quiet. They climbed onto the benches and tore into the bread the novices brought out.

Yona adjusted her pack, checking the straps. The leather creaked in the silence.

At the movement, the eating stopped.

It started with the oldest boy, but it rippled down the line instantly. The bread was lowered. The spoons clattered back into the bowls. Fifteen pairs of eyes fixed on Yona’s pack, then shifted to Siurad, who was still standing by the door.

Mara slid off the bench.

She was small, even for her age, but Siurad knew better than to underestimate her. He remembered the tree in the clearing, the tiny, splintered hole she had punched into the bark with a spike of solid night during their training. She wasn't just a victim; she was a fledgling.

She walked toward him now, stopping just outside the reach of his shadow.

"You aren't staying," she said. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

The room went deadly silent. Even the manic priest froze, sensing the shift in the air.

"We cannot," Siurad said. He wanted to lie, to tell them he would be back in the morning, but looking at Mara, he knew she would smell the falsehood. "The road ahead... it isn't paved yet. We have to clear it."

"You said we were a flock," Mara’s voice trembled, just slightly. "A shepherd stays with the flock."

"A shepherd fights the wolves," Siurad corrected gently. "And sometimes, the wolves are far away from the pasture."

He walked forward, dropping to one knee so he was eye level with her. The worn black leather of his armor creaked softly. He reached into his pouch.

He pulled out a single gold coin. It was one of the coins looted from the bandit camp. It was heavy, stamped with the face of some forgotten king, and scuffed with dirt and dried blood.

He took Mara’s hand and pressed the coin into her palm, closing her small fingers over it.

"This is not for spending," Siurad said, his voice low and intense. "This is not for bread. This is not for blankets."

Mara looked down at her fist, then back up at him. "Then what is it for?"

"It is a promise," Siurad said. "This is the first stone of a new castle. The first coin of a new kingdom. You are not just survivors, Mara. You are the foundation."

He looked up at the rest of them, the fifteen souls he had pulled from the fire.

"You are the Obsidian Authority now. You are the first. Keep this coin safe. As long as you have it, you are part of something bigger than this temple. Bigger than this town."

The ring on his finger pulsed, a slow, rhythmic thrum of approval.

'...A SYMBOL OF ORDER,' Obi’s voice echoed in his mind, devoid of warmth but filled with satisfaction. '...CAPITAL INVESTMENT. THE SEED IS PLANTED. MARK HER.'

Mara squeezed the coin tight. She didn't cry. She nodded.

"When will you come back?" she asked.

"When the road is safe," Siurad said. He stood up, brushing the road dust from his leather greaves. "Watch over them, Mara. Use what I taught you. But only when you must."

"I will," she whispered.

Siurad turned away before his resolve could crack. He nodded to Yona.

"Let's go."

Yona lingered for a second, looking at the children, then at the terrified priest who was bowing furiously in the corner.

"Feed them," Yona warned the priest, tapping the hilt of her dagger. "Or he comes back."

The priest turned pale and nodded rapidly.

They stepped out into the cool evening air. The heavy iron banded door boomed shut behind them, sealing the warmth and the light inside.

Siurad stood on the steps for a long moment, staring at the darkening street of Brookshire. He felt lighter, but also infinitely heavier.

"You did good, Big Guy," Yona murmured, adjusting her pack.

"Did I?" Siurad looked at his hands. "I just bought their safety with terror and stolen gold. The captain would have found a lawful way."

'...THE CAPTAIN IS DEAD,' Obi reminded him, mercilessly. '...YOU ARE ALIVE. RESULTS ARE THE ONLY METRIC THAT MATTERS.'

Siurad tightened his fists.

"Let's find an inn," he said, his voice hard. "Tomorrow, we decide where to go from here."

The heavy iron door of the Temple of Ceuci slammed shut.

Siurad stood on the cobblestones. Inside, there was warmth. Inside, the flock was safe.

Outside, the night air was cold and smelled of charcoal and horse manure.

Siurad didn’t move. He stared at his gloved hands. They were trembling. Not from fear, but from a surplus of kinetic energy. The memory of the sword sliding through the captain’s chest was playing on a loop in his mind. The resistance of the bone. The look of confusion.

He needed to make it stop.

He needed to hit something that deserved to be hit. He needed to find something unequivocally evil so he could crush it and prove to himself that he was still one of the good guys.

​"Alright," Yona yawned, unaware of the storm brewing next to her. "VIPs secure. Priest terrified. Bed time. I saw an inn two streets over..."

"Go," Siurad rasped.

Yona stopped mid-step. "Excuse me?"

"Go to the inn," Siurad said, turning away from her. He scanned the dark street, his eyes hunting. "I need to... walk. I need to patrol."

"Siurad," Yona warned, her voice dropping. "You've done a lot…you probably need some rest. You're vibrating. You don't need a patrol, you need a coma."

"I need to clear the noise!" Siurad snapped, the volume of his own voice startling him.

He took a breath, forcing the bouncer mask back on, though it fit poorly now.

"I just need to check the perimeter, Yona. I’ll meet you there."

He didn't wait for her argument. He marched into the darkness, heading toward the sounds of the city.

​He walked for ten minutes, hunting for trouble. He wanted a mugger. He wanted a rapist. He wanted a monster.

Instead, he found a commotion outside a bakery on the corner of a commercial street.

Shouting. A struggle.

There, Siurad thought. Target acquired.

He turned the corner, his fists already clenched, adrenaline flooding his system with eager relief.

A large, burly man in a flour-dusted apron, the baker had a smaller, ragged man pinned against the brick wall. The Baker was shouting, his face purple with rage, raining heavy blows down on the smaller man’s head.

"Thief! Rat! I'll break your hands!"

Thwack.

The baker’s fist connected with the thief's jaw.

Siurad saw red. A strong man hurting a weak man. A bully. A bad guy.

Finally.

Siurad crossed the street in three long strides. He grabbed the Baker by the back of his collar and the belt, ripping him off the smaller man with terrifying ease.

"That's enough," Siurad growled.

He didn't stop there. He wanted to hurt him. He shoved the Baker backward, sending the large man stumbling into a stack of empty crates. The wood shattered, sending splinters skittering across the stones.

The baker groaned, clutching his back, looking up in terror at the giant who had just materialized from the dark.

"You like hitting people who can't fight back?" Siurad roared, stepping forward, his hand drifting to his sword hilt. "Try me."

This was it. The release. He was going to break this man, and it would be justice.

"He stole from me!" the baker screamed, scrambling backward, pointing a shaking finger at the ragged man.

"I don't care!" Siurad yelled back. "You don't beat a man like a dog!"

"I have three kids!" the baker yelled, tears of frustration mingling with the rage. "Flour costs triple what it did last month! The taxes are up! If I lose stock, my kids don't eat! He took a whole loaf!"

​Siurad froze. The adrenaline stuttered.

He looked at the thief.

The ragged man was slumped against the wall, clutching a loaf of hard rye bread to his chest like it was a diamond. His lip was split, bleeding down his chin. He wasn't looking at Siurad. He was looking for an exit.

"Please," the thief wheezed. "My wife... the fever. She needs to eat to take the medicine. Please."

​The silence that followed was louder than any scream.

Siurad looked at the baker. A man trying to feed his kids, protecting his livelihood from a lawbreaker.

Like the road warden.

Siurad looked at the Thief. A man willing to commit a crime, willing to risk violence, to save someone he loved.

Like Siurad.

​There was no bad guy here.

There was no monster to punch.

There was just a desperate world where good people hurt each other to survive.

Siurad felt the nausea return, violent and acidic. The justified anger he had been clinging to dissolved, leaving him with nothing but the cold, hard truth of what he was.

He wasn't a hero stopping a villain. He was just another desperate man with a sword.

​'...A RESOURCE DISPUTE,' Obi analyzed coldly. '...IRRELEVANT. WALK AWAY.'

​Siurad couldn't walk away. He couldn't breathe.

He looked at his hands. He had wanted to beat the baker. He had wanted to break the man's jaw. Because the baker was right. And if the baker was right... then the captain was right.

And Siurad was wrong.

​"Here," Siurad choked out.

He reached into his pouch. His fingers felt numb. He pulled out a few gold coins.

He tossed it at the baker. It hit the cobblestones with a bright, heavy ring.

"For the bread," Siurad whispered. "And the crates."

The Baker stared at the gold. His jaw dropped. 

"My lord..." the Baker stammered, looking from the coin to Siurad, his anger vanishing into pure shock. "I... this is... are you serious?"

Siurad didn't look at him. He turned to the thief.

He pulled out more coins. He held it out.

The thief flinched, expecting a blow. When he saw the gold, his eyes went wide, reflecting the streetlamp.

"Take it," Siurad said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Get the medicine. Get food. Don't come back here."

The thief snatched the coin, his hands shaking so hard he almost dropped it. He looked at Siurad like he was a god who had descended from the heavens.

He scrambled away into the darkness, clutching the bread and a fortune in his fist, running before the giant changed his mind.

​Siurad stood alone in the street.

The baker picked up his gold, clutching it with both hands. "Thank you. Thank you, sir! You're a saint! A saint!"

"No," Siurad said. His voice was dead. "I'm not."

​He turned and walked away.

He didn't stomp. He dragged his feet.

He hadn't fixed anything. He had just thrown blood money at a tragedy to make it go away. Just like he had thrown the captain's body into the void.

He found Yona waiting down the block. She wasn't at the inn. She was leaning against a post, watching him. She had seen it.

She didn't ask if he felt better. She saw the look on his face; the look of a man who had gone looking for a fight and found a mirror.

"Siurad," she said softly.

"I couldn't hit him," Siurad whispered, staring at nothing. "The baker. He was just... he was just tired. He was just scared."

Siurad looked at Yona, his eyes wet, the violet light extinguished.

"I killed the captain, Yona. And I can't punish anyone for it because it was me."

Yona stepped forward and took his arm. She didn't offer platitudes. She didn't tell him it was okay. She just held his arm tight, anchoring him to the earth.

"Let's go to the inn," she said. "The world will still be broken tomorrow. You don't have to fix it tonight."

Siurad nodded. He let her lead him away.

He hadn't cleared the noise. It was louder than ever.

Chapter Sixteen

​The ceiling of the inn room was stained with soot, and for the last three hours, Siurad had memorized every crack in the plaster.

​He lay on the bed, fully armored in his dark leather gear, staring up with eyes that burned from lack of sleep. The bed was soft with clean linens, a real mattress and yet he felt like he was lying on a slab of granite.

​Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the captain’s face.

​He saw the confusion. He saw the trust. He saw the life leaving the eyes of a man who was just doing his job.

​I killed a leak, he told himself for the thousandth time. It was necessary.

​But the logic tasted like ash. It didn't feel like a correction. It felt like a crime.

​ '...STASIS IS INEFFICIENT,' Obi’s voice droned in his skull, devoid of sympathy. '...THE SUN IS UP. THE WORK WAITS.'

​"The work can wait," Siurad croaked, his voice wrecked. "I'm calling in sick."

​ '...SICKNESS IS A BIOLOGICAL FLAW. PURGE IT.'

​"I'm not sick, Obi. I'm..." Siurad searched for the word. "I'm defragmenting. Leave me alone."

​The door kicked open, slamming against the wall with such force that the washbasin rattled.

​Yona stood in the doorway, framed by the hallway light. She looked annoyingly fresh. Her red hair was pulled back in a tight, practical ponytail, and she was holding a tray laden with steaming mugs and a plate of something that smelled like grease and heaven.

​"Morning, Sunshine!" she chirped, kicking the door shut behind her. "Rise and grind. Or in your case, rise and brood."

​She marched over to the small table and set the tray down with a clatter.

​"I brought coffee. Well, it’s chicory and hate, but it’s hot. And bacon. Real bacon, not that salted leather we’ve been eating."

​Siurad didn't move. "I'm not hungry."

​"Liar," Yona said, grabbing a piece of bacon and chewing it loudly. "You're a calorie furnace. You're starving. You're just wallowing."

​She walked over to the bed and leaned over him, blocking his view of the cracked ceiling. Her amber eyes were sharp, scanning his face like a mechanic inspecting a broken engine.

​"You look like hell, Shepherd."

​"I feel like hell," Siurad muttered, finally sitting up. The room spun slightly. "I feel like... I don't know who the bad guy is anymore, Yona. That captain... he wasn't a bandit. He wasn't a slaver. He was just a guy with a ledger."

​"And you removed him because he was a threat to the flock," Yona said, her voice dropping the playful tone. "It sits heavy. I get it."

​"It sits like lead," Siurad corrected. "I don't want to be a murderer, Yona. I want to be... I wanted to be the correction. But that? That just felt like wet work."

​"So let's change the narrative," she said.

​She reached into her belt pouch and pulled out the bundle of crumpled letters she had looted from Kel’s camp; the paperwork she had mentioned back in the woods but hadn't shown him yet.

​She tossed them onto the bed next to him.

​"What is this?" Siurad asked, picking up a parchment stained with wine.

​"This," Yona grinned, a shark like expression returning to her face, "is therapy. My kind of therapy."

​Siurad unfolded the letter. The handwriting was elegant, jagged, and arrogant.

​To Captain Kel,

Regarding Shipment 404: The mines in Silverspire are demanding more labor units immediately. Payment is enclosed. Do not fail me again. The others can wait.

Signed, Magister Vane.

​"And look at the second one," Yona said, pointing to a smaller receipt. "The local one."

​Inventory Request: 50 Iron Collars. 20 Cages. Paid in Full. - Magister Vane.

​Siurad read it twice.

​The heavy, suffocating guilt in his chest shifted. It didn't vanish, but it made room for something else. Something hot.

​"Vane," Siurad whispered. "Who is he?"

​"Magister Vane," Yona explained, hopping onto the table and swinging her legs. "I asked around the common room this morning while you were staring at the ceiling. He runs the trade guild here in Brookshire. He controls the grain prices, the wool exports... and apparently, he was Kel’s wallet."

​She tapped the paper.

​"He's the guy who hired Kel. He's the guy who paid for the cages. Kel was just the muscle, Siurad. Vane is one of the reasons the captain had to die. Because Vane put those kids in danger in the first place."

​Siurad felt the ring pulse.

​ '...THE ROOT OF THE FLAW,' Obi hissed. '...HE FUNDS THE CHAOS.'

​"So what's the plan?" Siurad asked, looking up at Yona. "We go kill him?"

​"No," Yona shook her head, pacing the small room. "Killing him is messy. He's a Magister. A pillar of the community. You kill him, the King sends an army. And honestly? Killing him is too quick. It doesn't fix the balance."

​She stopped and pointed at him.

​"You feel bad about the Captain? You feel dirty? Then let's do something clean. Let's do something that hurts him more than a sword."

​She leaned in close.

​"Siurad, welcome to your first lesson in corporate warfare. We aren't going to assassinate him. We are going to audit him."

​"Audit?" Siurad frowned. "Like... taxes?"

​"Exactly like taxes," Yona beamed. "But with burglary."

​She began to pace again, her hands moving as she laid it out.

​"Think about it. This guy is rich. He got rich by selling kids and starving the town. That wealth? It’s not his. It’s a glitch in the system. It’s resources allocated to a variable that hurts the whole."

​She winked at him.

​"You call it a correction. I call it asset forfeiture. We walk in there. We expose him. We take his gold; every single copper. We give it to the temple to ensure those kids never go hungry again. And we leave him alive, bankrupt, and terrified."

​Siurad looked at the letter. He looked at the ring.

​He thought about the captain lying dead on the road. A tragedy caused by necessity.

​And then he thought about Magister Vane, sitting on a pile of gold made from selling children. A tragedy caused by greed.

​The logic clicked into place with the satisfying snap of a dislocated joint being reset.

​'...LOGIC SOUND,' Obi confirmed. '...RESOURCE HOARDING IS INEFFICIENT. REDISTRIBUTION REQUIRED.'

​Siurad stood up. He finished the coffee in one gulp. The fatigue didn't leave his bones, but his eyes were no longer dead. They were focused.

​"An audit," Siurad repeated, testing the word. It felt clinical. Cold. Correct.

​"We balance the books," Yona said. "And we have a little fun doing it."

​Siurad strapped on his black steel sword. The crushing weight of the captain's death felt manageable now. It was a debt he had incurred.

​And Vane was going to pay it.

​"Okay," Siurad said, his voice dropping into the Shepherd's register. "Let's go to work."

​Brookshire was too small for secrets, but perfect for predators.

​Siurad and Yona sat on a bench in the muddy town square, blending in with the farmers and wool merchants. Siurad wore his cloak, the hood pulled low to hide his face.

​"That's the house," Yona whispered, pretending to examine an apple she’d bought.

​Across the square stood Vane’s home. It wasn't a castle, but compared to the surrounding shacks, it might as well have been. It was built of sturdy, dark timber with glass windows, a rare luxury, and a heavy oak door reinforced with iron.

​Two private guards in chainmail stood out front, looking bored.

​"There he is," Yona murmured.

​The oak door opened. Magister Vane stepped out. He was a portly man in a velvet coat that was far too fine for the mud he was stepping into.

​A local farmer ran up to him, clutching a hat in his hands.

​"Magister! Please! The grain tariffs!"

​Vane didn't even stop walking.

​"The tariff stands," Vane sneered, adjusting his silk gloves. "If you can't pay, you may apply for deferred payments at a cost of a lien to your land. We need more grazing space for the sheep anyway."

​He climbed into a waiting carriage, not even looking at the man he had just ruined.

​Siurad watched the farmer weep in the mud. He felt the cold logic of the Ring slotting into place.

​Vane wasn't just a criminal; he was an inefficiency. He was hoarding resources, stifling the system, and funding chaos for profit.

​'...THE TARGET IS INVALID,' Obi pulsed. '...REALLOCATION OF ASSETS APPEARS REQUIRED.'

​"We take everything," Siurad whispered.

​"Everything," Yona agreed. "Tonight."

​The moon was hidden behind heavy clouds. The town of Brookshire slept.

​Siurad and Yona crouched on the thatched roof of the bakery next door to Vane’s manor. Siurad adjusted the black cloth mask over his face. Just silent, supple leather.

​"Patrol pattern is simple," Yona whispered, her eyes blackened with soot. "Two guards out front. One in the rear garden. Can you make the jump to the balcony?"

​"I don't need to jump," Siurad said.

​He reached out with his mind, finding the shadows on Vane’s balcony. He felt the familiar cold of the Void.

​Pop.

​The guards below didn't hear a thing.

​Siurad moved to the balcony door. It was locked. He placed his hand over the latch and twisted. The metal snapped silently.

​Yona vaulted the gap a moment later, assisted by a gust of wind. She landed lightly beside him.

​"Showoff," she whispered.

​They slipped inside.

​Vane’s office was upstairs. It smelled of beeswax and greed. A large desk dominated the room, covered in ledgers.

​"Find the safe," Siurad said softly.

​"Way ahead of you," Yona said. She moved to a large tapestry of the King. "It's always behind the patriotism."

​She lifted the tapestry. A heavy iron wall safe sat embedded in the timber.

​While Yona worked the tumblers, Siurad moved to the desk. He searched through crumpled letters and half-opened envelopes. Inside were a few loose coins, exotic quills and a small key with the words grain etched in its side. As Siurad searched the desk, he noticed one drawer had a false bottom.

“Jackpot,” Siurad said.

Inside was a large, worn leather-bound ledger. It held tax records, the kind Vane didn't show the tax collectors.

​He flipped through it. The third page contained an entry that appeared to be a receipt. It was all there. A payment to Kel, returned funds received from Kel, and a small math equation on the side showing his 40 percent profit share.

​And on the final page, a note in the margin: Valerius is demanding the package. Ensure Kel delivers to the Spire by the new moon. Advise he has more guests than usual. Remind Kel to be punctual. 

​"Got it," Yona whispered. The safe door swung open.

​Siurad turned. The safe was stacked with gold bars, pouches of gems, and deeds to half the farms in the valley.

​"Bag it," Siurad said. "Leave one copper."

​"One copper?" Yona paused.

​"So he knows we didn't take it all," Siurad said coldly. "So he knows we left him something."

​Yona smirked beneath her mask. "That's mean. I love it."

​They cleared the safe.

​"Bedroom," Siurad pointed to the adjoining door.

​They crept in. Vane was asleep in a large feather bed, snoring softly. He looked small and pathetic without his guards and his velvet.

​Siurad watched him. He could end it all right here. One squeeze. One spike. 

​'...TERMINATION FOR THIS ONE IS EFFICIENT,' Obi suggested.

​Yeah, Siurad thought. Death is too easy. Poverty is slower.

​He took the contract, the one linking Vane to Kel, and pinned it to the bedpost with a dagger he had taken from the dead guards at the camp.

​He leaned down, bringing his masked face inches from the sleeping Magister. He let the void leak out, dropping the room temperature until Vane’s breath puffed in white clouds.

​Vane shivered in his sleep, pulling the blankets tighter, sensing the nightmare standing over him.

And just as quickly as they entered, they left without causing a scene.

​They hit the roof of the Temple of Ceuci twenty minutes later.

​The streets were quiet except for the occasional drunk stumbling about and wildlife foraging through the trash.

​Yona held the heavy sack over the chimney.

​"This is going to make a mess of his hearth," she noted.

'...THIS LEVEL OF NOISE IS IDIOTIC.'

​"He can afford a broom," Siurad said. Ignoring Obi.

​Yona upended the sack. A golden rain poured down the chimney, clattering onto the stone grate below.

​"That covers the food for the kids," Yona said, dusting off her hands. "And the roof. And probably a few years of operating costs."

​She patted her own belt pouch, which jingled slightly.

​"And I kept a finder's fee for our travel expenses. Just the operational minimum."

​"Define minimum," Siurad asked.

​"Enough for a carriage to the mountains and a very nice bottle of wine," she winked.

​They dropped to the street.

​"Silverspire is North," Siurad said, looking at the stars. "Valerius is waiting."

​"Then let's go introduce ourselves," Yona said.

​They walked out of the town gates just as the first hint of dawn touched the sky. Behind them, Magister Vane was about to wake up to a very bad day. Ahead of them, the road to Silverspire beckoned.

​Siurad adjusted his sword belt. He looked at Yona.

​"You were right," he admitted.

​"Usually am," she shrugged. "About what?"

​"That helped," Siurad said. "I still see the Captain... but now I see the balance too."

​Yona bumped his shoulder with hers. "See? Stick with me, Shepherd. We'll clean up this whole damn continent, one ledger at a time."

“I swiped a key with the word grain etched into it. Should we find out where it goes?”

“No time tonight, shepherd. We'll take a rein check on that one.”

“Deal,” Siurad grunted, turning toward Silverspire. 

'...AUDIT COMPLETE,' Obi signaled. '...NEXT TARGET VALERIUS.'

Chapter Seventeen

They left Brookshire under the cover of a moonless sky.

Part of Siurad wanted to linger, just long enough to see the look on Vane’s face when he realized his empire had been liquidated. But satisfying that urge would only draw attention to the Temple. The flock’s safety was worth more than his amusement.

"So," Siurad said, adjusting the strap of his pack as the town walls faded into the mist behind them. "Without the kids to slow us down, I take it we can stick to the main roads?"

"Quickest way to Silverspire, that's for sure," Yona said, checking her compass.

'. . .THE GREAT WORK COMMENCES,' Obi pulsed, the vibration heavy in the base of Siurad's skull. '. . .THE SEEDS ARE PLANTED. THE PATH IS CLEAR.'

"Yeah, yeah," Siurad muttered, rubbing his temple. "Road trip. I got it."

They walked in silence for a mile, the rhythm of their boots on the hard-packed dirt the only sound. Finally, Siurad broke the quiet.

"Tell me something, Yona. You keep that illusion up tight. Hiding the ears, the tail. Is there a specific reason, or is it just fashion?"

Yona let out a dry laugh. "Long story, Shepherd. Short version? In these parts of Vildris, specifically Beast-kin, aren't exactly on the guest list."

She gestured vaguely to the dark countryside around them.

"There was a Great Purge a few years back. The King got paranoid. Those of us who didn't run fast enough... well, we ended up as rugs."

Siurad frowned. "Why stay, then? Seems like the danger outweighs the reward."

"I like danger, Big Guy," Yona said lightly. Then, her smile slipped. For a second, she didn't look like the carefree thief; she looked tired. "Plus... I have my reasons. Some things in this kingdom still need to burn."

Siurad let that hang in the cold air for a moment. He recognized that tone. It was the sound of a debt unpaid.

"You aren't from here originally, are you?" he asked.

"No," Yona shook her head. "I'm from the continent of Faeron, way out West. A little country called Sembial. Where I'm from, Beast-kin and humans actually got along." She kicked a loose stone on the road. "It was like that here for a while, too. Until it wasn't."

Siurad looked up at the stars, thinking of the dead captain, the greedy Magister, and the racism Yona was hiding from.

"This whole world is full of variables," Siurad muttered. "Too much chaos."

​They reached the town of Merrill just after midnight, putting twenty hard miles between them and the chaos of Brookshire. They moved fast, a two-person unit cutting through the dark.

​The streets were silent, save for the dull roar of conversation bleeding out from the local tavern. Siurad looked up at the sign creaking in the wind. It didn't have a fantasy name like The Prancing Pony or The Dragon's Breath.

​It just said: BOB’S.

​'...HOW PENURIOUS,' Obi pulsed against Siurad’s finger, his mental voice dripping with judgment.

​"I don't even know what that means, Obi," Siurad muttered, rubbing his eyes.

​'...POVERTY-STRICKEN,' Obi clarified. '...DESTITUTE. BELOW AVERAGE.'

​"Oh," Siurad said to Yona. "He's calling the place poor."

“Bob’s are everywhere,” Yona sighed. ​"As long as it has a bed and four walls, I don't care if he calls it a dumpster." Yona yawned, pushing the door open.

​Inside, Bob's contained the usual suspects: a pair of drunks arguing slurred politics in the corner, and a lone orc nursing a mug of ale, looking like he was waiting for a quest that was never coming.

Siurad stopped half a step inside the doorway.

He had seen monsters by now. He had seen magic. He had watched shadows eat men and had personally violated several laws of physics. But there was something uniquely stupid about seeing an actual orc sitting at an actual bar, drinking actual ale.

His brain supplied a dozen useless facts from games that no longer mattered.

The orc looked up.

He was broad even sitting down, with a wide brow, a heavy jaw, and a flat nose pierced by a small iron ring. Two lower tusks pressed against his upper lip. He wore pristine white armor polished bright enough to catch the tavern’s greasy lamplight, which made him look less like a raider and more like a paladin who had wandered into the wrong DLC.

Siurad realized he was staring.

The orc raised one eyebrow.

Yona nudged Siurad’s shin with her boot. “You planning to challenge him to a duel, or are you just being weird?”

“Sorry,” Siurad muttered, forcing himself forward. “First time I've seen an orc.”

The orc gave him a long, unreadable look, then returned to his ale.

“Bigot,” the orc grumbled.

​Yona moved to the counter, her eyes scanning the room. She checked exits, checked who had what weapons, and what was near them before she was comfortable enough to lean in.

​“One room,” she said, counting out copper coins and sliding them across the sticky wood. She had gold in her bag now, plenty of it, but flashing gold in a dive like this was painting a target on their backs.

​The barkeep, a dwarf with skin weathered like old leather, eyed the copper, then the massive man standing behind the small woman.

​“Breakfast is six to nine,” he grunted, swiping the coins. “Once we're out, we're out. Rooms are upstairs, last door on the left.”

​“Thanks.” Siurad offered a tired nod.

​The room was a box with a single window and one sagging bed. Yona locked the door and wedged a chair under the handle before tossing her pack onto the mattress.

​"I take the bed," she said, kicking off her boots. "I'm lighter. If you sleep on this thing, you'll break the frame."

​Siurad didn't argue. He made a nest on the floorboards with the spare blankets and a pillow Yona tossed down to him. It was hard, but it was solid.

​"Hey, Big Guy," Yona said, her voice softening as the candle flickered out. "I mean it. You did good things this week. You saved the flock. You balanced the books."

​"You too, Yona," Siurad whispered.

'...YOU DO NOT PLAN TO WASH? YOU SMELL OF ROTTING EQUINE AND POOR IMPULSE CONTROL.'

​Not now, Obi.

​The past few days had been a slog, and he was too tired to unpack any of it. The children. The Captain. The horse. The priest. The road stretching ahead like a punishment he had not finished earning.

​He closed his eyes, grateful that for tonight, the only thing he had to fight was the floor.

Sunlight filtered through the dirty windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. Siurad sat at a corner table, staring at a bowl of porridge that was grey, lukewarm, and possessed a texture suspiciously similar to wet cement.

​'...STARCH,' Obi critiqued, the ring pulsing faintly. '...AN INEFFICIENT FUEL. IT LACKS STRUCTURE.'

​"It's porridge, Obi," Siurad muttered, spooning a glob into his mouth. "It's not supposed to have structure."

' ...EVERYTHING REQUIRES STRUCTURE.' 

​Across from him, Yona was in high spirits. She had ordered eggs, bacon, and a tankard of ale, paying for it with the newly created travel expense account from the Vane audit.

​"You have to admit," Yona said, tearing into a strip of bacon. "For a place called Bob's, the pork is decent. And the beds didn't have lice. I rate it a solid six out of ten."

​"We eat, we leave," Siurad said, checking the map Limmel had sold him. "Silverspire is north. If we push, we can make the border of the Whispering Woods by sunset."

​"Always in a rush," Yona sighed. "You need a hobby, Shepherd. Besides saving the world and brooding."

​The tavern door creaked open.

​The conversation in the room was mostly low grumbles about the weather and complaints of an impending tax hike.

​A man stumbled in. He looked like a merchant, but his clothes were torn, his boots caked in a strange, shimmering blue mud. He collapsed onto the nearest stool, his breathing ragged. His expression was terrified.

​"Whiskey," the man gasped to the dwarf barkeep. "The whole bottle."

​"You got coin?" the dwarf asked.

​The man slammed a heavy gold ring onto the counter. "Just pour it!"

​Yona’s ears twitched. The sound of gold hitting wood was her favorite song. She leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing.

​"Rough night?" a local farmer asked the merchant.

​"I didn't stop," the merchant whispered, his hands shaking as he grabbed the bottle. "I didn't stop running. I left the wagon. I left the horses."

​"Bandits?"

​"No," the merchant shuddered. "Not bandits. There is something in Unity. 

​He took a massive swig of the whiskey, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand.

​"I passed through there to sell grain. But the town... it was quiet. Too quiet. I went to the Mayor's house to get the permit signed. The door was open."

​He leaned in, his voice dropping to a haunted whisper that carried across the silent room.

​"They were all there. The Mayor. The baker. The blacksmith. Standing in the parlor. Just... standing there. Facing the wall. They weren't moving. They weren't blinking."

​"Sick?" the farmer asked. "Plague?"

“Where is Unity?” A man asked.

“Bout thirty miles or so east of here.” The farmer said.

​"I touched the Mayor's shoulder," the merchant said, his eyes widening. "I asked if he was alright. He turned around. But it wasn't him."

​The merchant gripped the bottle tight.

​"His eyes were gone. Just... blue light. And he smiled. And then the baker turned. And the smith. And they all smiled the exact same smile at the exact same time."

​He shuddered.

​"They spoke. But not with their voices. It was one voice. Coming from all of them at once. It said: 'The Choir is building.'"

​The merchant downed another shot. "I ran. I think they followed me to the tree line. I could hear them... humming."

​The tavern went silent. Most of the locals looked at him like he was crazy.

​But at Siurad’s table, the atmosphere had shifted from casual breakfast to financial opportunity.

​Yona was no longer eating. She was staring at Siurad, her eyes glittering with that dangerous curiosity he was beginning to dread.

​"Blue light," she whispered. "Hive mind. Humming."

Siurad stared at the merchant, his spoon hovering over the porridge.

‘...SYNCHRONIZED RESPONSE,’ Obi pulsed.

Siurad looked down at the ring. “You know what that is?”

Obi paused for the slightest moment before answering 

‘...NO.’

That bothered him more than certainty would have.

'...BUT THE PATTERN IS WRONG. SHARED EXPRESSION. SHARED SPEECH. INDIVIDUAL WILL REDUCED TO SIGNAL NOISE.'

Yona slowly set down her bacon. “That sounds expensive.”

“It sounds like a town full of people who can’t ask for help,” Siurad said.

“Also expensive.”

Siurad gave her a look.

“What?” Yona said. “I can care about people and margins. I’m complex.”

“Shepherd…” She goaded.

“We’re not going,” Siurad said.

Yona blinked. “We’re absolutely going.”

“Silverspire is north.”

“Unity is thirty miles east.”

“That’s the opposite of north.”

“It’s a profitable diagonal.”

“It’s a detour.”

“It’s reconnaissance,” Yona corrected. “If the merchant is lying, we lose half a day, and you can mock me forever. If he’s telling the truth, there’s a whole town sitting there with its doors open and its survival instincts turned off. All that lonely coin just waiting…”

“Yona.”

“And yes,” she added, softer now, “There may be people still alive in there.”

That landed harder than the money.

Siurad looked back at the merchant. The man’s hands were still shaking around the bottle.

He pictured Mara standing in a quiet house, facing a wall, smiling with someone else’s mouth.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

Yona smiled. “That sounded like leadership.”

“That was not leadership, Yona it’s just guilt.”

'...INVESTIGATION IS ACCEPTABLE,' Obi said.

Acceptable, Siurad thought. That’s all you’ve got?

'...THE PHENOMENON IS UNNATURAL. I WISH TO UNDERSTAND THE FORCES CURRENTLY AT WORK. MANY VOICES DO NOT BECOME ONE WITHOUT AN ORGANIZING FORCE. '

“But if it isn’t?” Siurad asked.

'...THEN THE TOWN HAS FAILED SOCIALLY, MEDICALLY, OR THEOLOGICALLY. ALL THREE ARE WORTH CORRECTING.'

“Comforting. To unity it is,” he sighed.

Before leaving Merrill, they made one necessary stop.

​"We look like a mess," Siurad noted, catching his reflection in a shop window. He was still wearing the cured leather armor he’d bought from Limmel at the start of this journey. It had been decent quality then, but after grief mare attacks, bandit skirmishes, and sleeping on forest floors, it was holding on by a thread.

​"If we're going to walk into a possessed town," Siurad said, "we should look like we mean business. Not like we just rolled out of a cart."

​They ducked into The Rusty Gauntlet, a cramped armory that smelled of coal dust and stale sweat. The smith, a burly man with soot-stained arms, looked up from his anvil.

​"Got gold," Siurad stated, placing a heavy coin on the counter. "Need protection. Something that moves quietly. And it needs to be done now."

The smith eyed the gold, then the massive six foot four frame of Siurad and the agile five foot eight" build of Yona. He scratched his beard, thinking.

"What's your fancy?" he asked.

"I'm not really sure. Something better than this." Siurad gestured to his tattered leathers.

"You're welcome to take a look around. Heavy armor, light armor, everything in between. I've even got a few pieces with the old rune-work etched into the steel,it's proper enchantment, channels mana right through the plate, but that'll cost you." He said it with a wink. "And for the lady?"

"I think I'm just fine. Thank you." Yona walked to a rickety wooden bench and sat.

"So, Yona," Siurad said, eyeing a set of heavy armor. "What am I looking for?"

"Your best bet is to try different shit on. I'll say this though, you move faster than you look, and I like stealth, so stay away from the heavy, loud metals."

"Stealthy. Got it. Sir, how about this set here?"

Siurad pointed to a wooden mannequin clad in plate of blazing teal and unicorn silver. It sparkled faintly, a flicker of magic running through the engraved runework.

"Absolutely not!" Yona objected from the bench. "They'll see us coming from a mile away."

"But it's so shiny." Siurad's mind wandered for a moment. Sentimental images flooded his brain. "Reminds me of my J's." He put a hand over his heart.

"You and Jay will both be dead. Keep looking." She leaned back, rummaging in her pocket.

Siurad perused for what felt like forever before settling on another piece. "How about this one?"

It was a hulking monstrosity, a massive ivory breastplate gleaming in the light, gold-encrusted etching running from the gauntlets to the boots.

"No!" Yona's hand finally closed on what she'd been hunting for. She pulled out a small silver spoon and began to rub the bowl with her thumb, slow and absent, like a worry stone. "Hurry it up, Shepherd. Nine hells."

"Nope. You vetoed the other one. I'm trying this one on."

Five minutes later, Siurad emerged, donning the armor.

"How do I look? Does this make my butt look big?"

"What?" She rubbed the spoon faster. "Big guy, you're a giant. Everything on you is big."

'...NOT EVERYTHING.'

“Shut up, Obi!”

"Whatever he said, I agree with him."

Siurad sulked off, defeated. He stripped off the gold monstrosity and tossed it back toward the mannequin.

"Thanks, man, but I don't think we're finding it out here."

The smith watched him a moment longer, then scratched his beard again.

"I might have something in the back," the smith grunted. "A commission from a noble. A his and hers set."

​Yona choked on her own spit. "A what?"

​"Wealthy eccentric," the smith shrugged, walking to a large wooden trunk. "Wanted to play vigilante power couple with his mistress. They wanted intimidation factor. Then the wife found out, the funding got cut, and I got stuck with the inventory."

​He kicked the trunk open.

​Inside lay two sets of armor. They were striking, matte black leather reinforced with plates of blackened steel. The design was sleek, angular, and devoid of sigils or crests.

​The larger set was built for a tank, heavy pauldrons, a reinforced chest plate, and thick greaves, designed to absorb impact. The smaller set was cut for speed, lighter plating, articulated joints, and room for throwing knives.

​"The noble was a big guy," the smith noted, tossing the chest piece to Siurad. "And his mistress was... sleek. Should fit you two."

​"We aren't a couple," Siurad said, holding up the black steel. It was heavy, but balanced.

​"We're business partners," Yona added, running a hand over the sleek, dark leather of the smaller set. "But... damn. This is nice work."

​"It's efficient," Siurad said. He looked at the design, the dark cowls, the segmented plating, the way the light seemed to die against the material. It looked like the kind of gear you unlocked after beating a stealth campaign on nightmare difficulty.

​'...ACCEPTABLE,' Obi pulsed. '...SYMMETRY IS PLEASING. THE COLOR ABSORBS LIGHT. IT IS TACTICALLY SOUND.'

​"We'll take them," Siurad said.

​Ten minutes later, they stepped back onto the street. The transformation was complete. Gone were the travel-worn rags. They now looked like a unit, a dark, cohesive force. Siurad adjusted the black steel pauldrons, feeling the weight settle comfortably against his shoulders.

​"Okay," Yona admitted, checking her reflection in a puddle and turning to see how the cape flared. "I look dangerous. I look like I assassinate kings for a living."

​"Let's go," Siurad said. "Unity is waiting."

​The road east was less a road and more a suggestion of dirt cutting through the overgrowth. As they walked, the air grew heavier. The birds stopped singing miles ago.

​Siurad walked in rhythm, the new armor creaking softly. He used the time to address the elephant, or rather, the fox in the room.

​He looked over at Yona. She was walking with a bounce in her step, spinning one of her new obsidian daggers idly.

​"Hey, Yona," Siurad asked aloud.

​"Yeah, big guy?"

​"I was just doing the math," Siurad said. "If we go to Unity, we're going to find only God knows what. You sure you're up for this?”

​He gestured to the empty road ahead.

​Yona stopped spinning the dagger. She looked at him, and a slow, wicked grin spread across her face.

​"Shepherd," she said, shaking her head like he was missing the obvious. "Think about it. It’s probably a hive mind."

​"And?"

​"And that means everyone in town is busy," she explained, her eyes glittering with greed. "The merchant said they were all standing in the parlor staring at the wall. The baker. The smith. The shopkeepers."

​She gestured with her hands, framing an invisible scene.

​"If the baker is staring at the wall humming creepy songs... he isn't watching the till. If the blacksmith is busy being a puppet... he isn't guarding the armory."

​She laughed, a sharp, delightful sound.

​"While you and Spooky save their souls... I'm going to walk into every unattended shop in Unity and rob them absolutely blind. It's the perfect heist, Siurad. No guards. No witnesses. Just zombies and open registers."

​Siurad stared at her. The sheer, audacious pragmatism of it was staggering.

​'...THE FOX IS A VISIONARY,' Obi pulsed, vibrating with genuine respect. '...I APPROVE.'

​"You're terrible," Siurad sighed, though he couldn't suppress a smirk. "Efficient. But terrible."

​"That's why you love me," Yona winked, adjusting her new black pauldron. "Now come on. Those registers aren't going to empty themselves."

Chapter Eighteen

​The sky bled into a bruise of deep violet and pink; it was the final warning that dusk was fast approaching.

​Siurad and Yona crested the final hill, their new black armor absorbing the dying light rather than reflecting it. Below them sat the town.

​“Is that it?” Siurad asked, wiping sweat from his brow. “Finally. I have never done this much walking in my entire life.”

​“Aw, I'm sorry,” Yona cooed, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Are your poor wittle feetsies bothering you again, Big Guy? Should I get you a carriage?”

​'...DO NOT BE SOFT,' Obi pulsed, his mental voice sharp and cold. '...BIPEDAL LOCOMOTION IS BASIC. YOUR FATIGUE IS EMBARRASSING.'

​“Wow,” Siurad muttered, staring at the ring. “You know what? Fuck both of you.”

​He shook his head and focused on the town below. It was eerily quiet. No smoke rose from the chimneys. No dogs barked. The layout looked strange, like it was too organized.

'...I DETECT A RESONANCE.'

A resonance? Siurad thought back.

'...SOMETHING FAMILIAR. IT IS OF THE VOID. BUT NOT. IT IS ATTUNED.'

"Speak English, man," Siurad muttered aloud.

"What's going on?" Yona asked, sensing the sudden change in his demeanor.

Obi’s presence expanded. The temperature dropped, and a strange sensation went through Siurad. It was like a slow drain.

What are you doing?

'...THE SIGNATURE IS FROM THE VAULT.'

"What vault? Getting an answer out of you is like pulling teeth," Siurad hissed.

"Let me know something, Big Guy," Yona said, her gaze falling upon the ring.

'...WHEN THE VAULT WAS BREACHED AND NETHYUA WAS FREED, HE SCATTERED THE COLLECTION. ARTIFACTS, MERE TRINKETS, AND HEDGE WIZARDS—THIS WORLD'S BOUND GODS.'

"So someone named Nethyua was freed, and a bunch of stuff got out with him?" Siurad asked.

Yona stopped smiling. "Nethyua?" she whispered.

'...I WAS RELEASED AS WELL, ALONG WITH THIS... MASK. IT IS THE MASK OF THE CHORUS. IT DOES NOT POSSESS ONE; IT CONNECTS MANY. IT ERASES INDIVIDUALITY. IT CRAFTS PERFECT, MINDLESS ORDER. IT IS A PERVERSION OF MY DESIGN. WE MUST CORRECT IT.'

"Do you know who Nethyua is?" Siurad asked.

The change was small, but Siurad caught it. Her ears went still. Her fingers rested lightly near the knife at her hip. For once, Yona did not immediately make a joke.

"The Great Calamity," she said quietly. "Started a whole continent’s worth of shit centuries ago, got sealed, and apparently didn’t stay sealed. If your charming jewelry thinks this is connected to him, that changes the math."

Siurad frowned. "Bad math?"

"The kind where everyone dies if somebody carries the one wrong."

'...NETHYUA IS A PETULANT CHILD. THE MASK IS ATTUNED TO THE VOID. THAT IS THE PRIZE.'

"He says Nethyua is just a kid, but we need to get the mask," Siurad relayed.

Yona blinked, then whistled. The fear slowly drained from her face, replaced by something almost gleeful. "Huh." She looked at the Ring with new respect. "Nethyua's been called a lot of things. Child isn't one of them." A grin crept back. "If the thing in your finger thinks the Great Calamity is a toddler, then maybe the math's on our side for once." 

The ring pulsed with a greedy gravity.

'...IF WE CLAIM THE MASK, I CAN METABOLIZE IT.'

"Wait, you want to eat it?" Siurad asked, utterly baffled.

"Okay," Yona said. "Didn't have deity cannibals on the agenda today."

The ring pulsed harder. A chilling wave rolled through the area.

'...I AM NOT A TRINKET. BE SURE SHE DOES NOT MAKE THAT MISTAKE AGAIN.'

"Yona, chill out a bit. He definitely didn't like that. Says they are not the same," Siurad cautioned.

'...WITH THE MASK I CAN INCREASE YOUR CAPACITY.'

Siurad paused. Increase capacity.

He thought about the fight with the Grief-Mares. How he had run dry of mana and had to beat a monster to death with a rock. He thought about how helpless he felt when the tank ran empty. If this artifact could deepen his well... if it could make him a better Shepherd...

"Back with the Grief-Mares, I bottomed out," Siurad said. "I used a few spells, teleported a couple of times, and I was dry. If this town, Unity, is full of possessed villagers, I can't run out of gas halfway through. How do we fix the tank?"

'...THE PROBLEM IS NOT THE TANK. YOU ARE A LEAKY, UNREFINED BUCKET. I AM CONFINED TO THE RING. MY REACH IS REDUCED. YOUR REACH IS NEGLIGIBLE.'

"Thanks, Obi," Siurad sighed.

'...THE MASK WILL NOT FIX YOUR PROBLEM, BUT IT WILL ASSIST IN YOUR INEPTITUDE.'

Siurad nodded slowly. An extra mana bar. An external hard drive for violence.

"So we eat the Mask," Siurad said. "We upgrade the battery. I can live with that."

“So what's the plan?” Siurad asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It's a hive mind. One set of eyes sees us; they all see us. If we get spotted, we get swarmed. I suggest we wait. We go in at the dead of night.”

​Yona adjusted her daggers, her eyes scanning the perimeter like a hawk.

​“Maybe, Shepherd,” she said, dropping into a crouch. “But we're walking in blind. I think I should scope out the town first alone. I'm quieter than you. We gotta know what we're dealing with before we start kicking down doors.”

“Yona, I know you mean well,” Siurad said, crossing his massive arms over his chest plate. “But that is incredibly stupid.”

He gestured to the silent, creepy town below.

“When we split up, you know what’s going to happen. One of us will die. Or get brainwashed. Or eaten. It makes no sense to split the party in a horror movie. That’s how the guy in the varsity jacket always gets it.”

Yona rolled her eyes, sheathing her dagger with a sharp click. She stepped up to him, poking a gloved finger against his heavy black pauldron.

“You are as subtle as an explosion, Shepherd,” she countered, her voice hushed but sharp.

“Look at you. You’re a six-foot-four wall of black steel and angst. We’ll be caught immediately, and we’ll never get to the bottom of this if we just walk right into the middle of town holding hands.”

Siurad opened his mouth to argue, but a cold vibration buzzed against his knuckle.

'...TOO MUCH' TIME IS WASTED,' Obi interrupted, the mental voice vibrating with impatience.

'...THE FOX-WITCH HAS A POINT. YOUR STEALTH CAPABILITY IS NEGLIGIBLE. SHE IS A SCALPEL. YOU ARE A BRICK.'

Siurad rubbed his temples for a moment, savoring the headache. She had a point, but so did he. He had seen enough movies to know how this would end up. The scout goes in, the comms go dead, and then he has to go in anyway to find a body.

But he also knew he clanked when he walked.

“Fine,” Siurad groaned, dropping his hand. “Okay. You go in scouting.”

He leaned in, his expression deadly serious.

“But if anyone sees you, or if they even seem like they might know you're there… you abort. You shoot a massive fireball in the sky.”

"And then," Siurad added, his face completely deadpan. "You do the Emphysema Chicken."

Yona blinked. The confidence vanished, replaced by genuine confusion. “The Emphe-what?”

Then, the memory of the Kel's Camp raid hit her. She scowled.

“Oh, my god. You mean the Owl? It was a Tactical Nightbird Call, Siurad. It was cold out!”

“It sounded like a dying rooster, Yona. Just do it.”

“I hate you,” she muttered, pulling her cowl up. “Don’t worry, Big Guy. I’ll be a ghost. You stay here and try not to look so… heavy.”

She turned and melted into the tree line. One second she was there, the next she was just a shadow among shadows.

Siurad stood alone on the ridge.

'...THE SIGNAL WAS POULTRY?' Obi asked, his mental tone rippling with confusion.

“Don't ask, Obi. Just watch the perimeter.”

​Yona moved through the tree line like a tiger, low and stalking. She didn't just walk; she flowed, testing every patch of moss for crunch before committing her weight.

​The town below was quiet, but not silent. It was the wrong kind of quiet. There was no laughter, no arguments, no tavern music. Just the rhythmic, muffled thud of work.

​Yona reached the edge of the tree line and spotted a small brick structure, it was an old tannery, by the smell of it. It looked vacant. She scaled the ladder to the balcony with practiced ease, the leather of her boots making less noise than the wind.

​The sun was setting fast. The bruised pink of the horizon was giving way to a suffocating black.

​Now… where are you hiding the good stuff? she thought, scanning the streets.

​She pirouetted from the balcony to the adjacent roof, landing in a crouch. She was about to move again when a sound stopped her.

​Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

​It was the sound of footsteps, but they were perfectly synchronized.

​If I were a creep, where would I… Ooh, that’s interesting.

​Fifteen people rounded the corner below. They looked like townsfolk, but they moved like soldiers on a parade ground. They were carrying massive blocks of stone, their breathing regulated in a terrifying unison.

​“Now, now… not so fast,” Yona whispered, her eyes tracking them.

​She dropped from the roof, sticking to the shadowy throughways between homes. As she shadowed the group closer to the center of town, the rhythmic thudding grew louder.

​It was a worksite.

​There was a massive contraption, equal parts altar and machine, was being erected in the town square. Yona peered around a chimney, her eyes widening. There were roughly two hundred people in the congregation.

​It wasn’t just farmers. She saw mages, soldiers, and adventurers, all wearing the same vacant, slack-jawed expression.

​A fire mage held a metal beam, his hands glowing white-hot as he bent the steel with his bare hands, serving as a human forge. Nearby, soldiers were using their fine steel swords and battleaxes as pickaxes, hacking into the cobblestones. Some of them were bleeding; one man was limping on a broken ankle. But none of them slowed down.

​“Pretty potent mind control,” Yona muttered, a mercenary spark lighting up her eyes. “I’m going to get a lot of loot out of this.”

​A sly grin crept over her face like a storm on the horizon. Just when she thought she’d seen enough, the doors to the Town Hall burst open.

​Two figures emerged.

​One was a man clad in blue robes, a glowing ivory mask fixed to his face. The other was a mountainous Orc, his chest heaving. A massive gauntlet was fused to the Orc’s right arm, glowing a deep, resonant cerulean.

​Yona squinted, trying to make sense of the limb. From her vantage point, it looked like thick tubing connected the gauntlet to the Orc’s bicep.The way the tubes seemed to throb with the Orc’s heartbeat made her skin crawl.

​They stopped near the construction site, their voices carrying in the eerie silence.

​“Chorus, my Lord,” the Orc rasped, clutching his arm as if it were burning him. “You promised me power. This gauntlet… it is cursed. It eats at me.”

​The masked figure didn't look at him. He looked at the construction.

​“Mao, my child,” Chorus said, his voice smooth and terrible. “Power always has a price. You are simply paying the deposit.”

“But my Lord,” Mao pleaded, his voice cracking. “I found you. Without me, you would still be rotting in the dirt.”

​Chorus turned his masked face slowly toward the Orc.

​“And for your good deeds, you have not been made part of the brood,” Chorus said, his voice dropping an octave. “DO NOT MAKE ME RECONSIDER.”

​The conversation ended swiftly. The Orc grabbed his arm, his fingers digging into the flesh as he looked down at the gauntlet. The blue pulsing beneath the skin seemed to quicken, matching his panic.

​“Yes, my Lord,” Mao whispered. “A few more days. When we finish construction, you will have enough souls to complete the soul siphon.”

​Okay, Yona thought, shrinking back into the shadows. That’s the cue.

​She had enough intel. There was a soul siphon, a mind-controlled army, and two bosses who clearly had workplace morale issues. The plan was simple: rob them blind, rendezvous with Siurad, and then come back to take care of this masked bastard.

​But the sheer density of the crowd meant this had to remain a stealth mission.

​Slow and steady, she told herself. Don't wake the hive.

​She retraced her steps, moving backward along the alleyway, her eyes locked on Chorus and Mao to ensure they didn't spot her. She was so focused on the threat in front of her that she didn't hear the threat behind her.

​She stepped out of the alley and backed right into a solid wall of bodies.

​Yona froze. She didn't turn around immediately. She felt the air shift.

​The construction noise stopped. Instantly.

​Yona turned slowly.

​Another group of townsfolk had just rounded the corner, carrying heavy stone blocks. They had stopped in perfect harmony. Thirty sets of eyes landed on her at the exact same moment.

​Then, silence.

​The clinking of hammers, the sizzling of the fire mage, the digging, it all ceased. The only sound left in the square was the perfect, synchronized inhale of two hundred people breathing as one organism.

​“A visitor,” the crowd spoke.

​The sound didn't come from one person; it came from everywhere. It vibrated in the cobblestones.

​“Oh, shit…” Yona breathed.

​She spun on her heel to bolt.

​Mao, despite his massive size, moved with terrifying speed. There was a boom of displaced air, and suddenly, the Orc was blocking her exit, towering over her.

​Up close, the horror of the gauntlet was undeniable. It wasn't connected by glass tubes or machinery. It was biological. A bulbous, throbbing mass of translucent blue veins had grown out of the metal, burrowing deep into the Orc's bicep like parasitic worms.

​Mao raised the fist, the veins glowing bright.

​“Well, I tried,” Yona quipped.

​She snapped her fingers. A jagged spike of glacial ice erupted from the ground, aiming for Mao’s face. At the same instant, she slammed her palms together, blasting a gust of wind downward to launch herself backward onto the roof.

​Mao smashed the ice spike with a backhand, but Yona was already airborne.

​She landed on the slate tiles, stumbling but upright. She looked at Mao before  she raised both palms toward the fading sky, her mana flaring hot and bright.

​“Hellfire,” she whispered.

​BOOM.

​A spiraling column of emerald flame erupted from her hands. It screamed into the night sky, tearing through the clouds and detonating with a thunderous force that shook the entire valley.

​Yona grinned, her daggers flashing as she looked down at the army turning to face her.

​“Alright, Brick,” she shouted over the roar of the flames. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

The caustic green afterglow of the Hellfire signal was still fading from the sky when Mao moved.

​The Orc lowered his shoulder and charged through the front facade of the bakery Yona was standing on.

​The building groaned, then buckled.

​Timber snapped like dry kindling. The roof tilted violently beneath Yona’s feet. A lesser rogue would have fallen, but Yona treated gravity as a suggestion rather than a law. As the slate tiles slid away into the dust cloud below, she sprinted up the collapsing angle.

​She launched herself off the crumbling chimney, flipping through the air.

​“You’re loud!” Yona shouted, spinning mid-air. “Has anyone ever told you you’re loud?”

​She landed light as a feather on the cobblestones behind Mao, who was shaking brick dust off his massive shoulders.

​Mao roared, spinning with a backhand swing that would have decapitated a horse. The vein-covered gauntlet trailed blue light, humming with kinetic energy.

​Yona ducked.

​The fist passed inches over her head, the wind pressure snapping her cowl back. In that split second, she saw the opening. The gauntlet was powerful, but the connection point:where the blue veins burrowed into the Orc’s flesh, was raw and inflamed.

​There.

​She lunged. Dual daggers flashed in the twilight.

​Snick. Snick.

​She slashed in an ‘X’ pattern across the Orc’s bicep, aiming for the transition between metal and meat.

​Mao howled in pain. He stumbled back, clutching the arm. The blue veins pulsed erratically, leaking glowing fluid onto the street.

​“Does that hurt?” Yona taunted, dancing back out of reach. She twirled a dagger, ice crystals forming on the blade. “That looks like it hurts. You should really see a healer.”

​Mao’s eyes went red. He slammed the gauntlet into the ground.

​THOOM.

​A shockwave of blue force ripped through the pavement. This time, Yona was ready. She slammed her hand down, creating a ramp of ice. She slid up it like a skater, launching herself over the shockwave and driving a boot straight into Mao’s face.

​The Orc staggered.

​For a moment, it was a stalemate. Yona was faster, sharper, and hitting harder. Mao however was a tank.

​From the steps of the Town Hall, the floating figure of Chorus tilted his head. The porcelain mask caught the light of the burning bakery.

​“Disappointing,” Chorus whispered.

 He twitched a finger, like a conductor cueing the brass section.

​“Integration,” the Hive Mind spoke.

​Yona felt the hair on her arms stand up, there was a sudden shift in atmospheric pressure.

​To her left, the fire mage who had been welding steel turned. He extended a hand. A stream of white-hot flame erupted toward her.

​Yona cursed, abandoning her attack on Mao to roll sideways. The fire scorched the cobblestones where she had been standing a second ago.

​“Cheap shot!” she yelled.

​She scrambled to her feet, but the rhythm of the fight had broken.

​Three adventurers, one a ranger and two heavily armored knights, stepped out of the circle. They moved with the same terrifying synchronization. The ranger drew a bow, nocking three arrows at once. The knights leveled their lances.

​Yona deflected the first arrow with a dagger, but the second grazed her shoulder, tearing through her cloak.

​“Okay,” she hissed, wincing. “That’s cheating.”

​She looked for an exit, but the circle had tightened. Two hundred villagers had taken a step forward, closing the net.

​Mao, recovering his balance, grinned. The blue light in his gauntlet flared brighter as the pain faded, suppressed by the Hive Mind’s dulling influence.

​“Nowhere to run, little one,” Mao rasped.

​He charged again.

​Yona jumped, preparing to use wind magic to vault over him, but a sudden heaviness slammed into her chest. A gravity spell. She looked up to see a mage in the crowd.

​Her jump failed. She dropped like a stone.

​She hit the ground hard, rolling just in time to avoid Mao’s boot stomping on her ribs. She scrambled back, but her back hit the stone rim of the fountain.

​She was cornered.

​Mao loomed over her, raising the gauntlet high. The mages charged their spells. The archers drew back their strings.

​“Brood,” Chorus commanded. “Crush her.”

​Yona gripped her daggers, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She looked at the descending fist of the Orc and the wall of magic aimed at her face.

​Well, she thought, a grim smile touching her lips. At least it’ll be spectacular.

Chapter Nineteen

​Siurad stood on the ridge overlooking the town, the metal of his gauntlet scraping against his chin as he paced.

​“It’s been a while, Obi. I’m starting to worry.”

​'...THE WITCH IS NOT SO EASILY SLAIN.'

​“What if she got jumped? She might not have had time to signal. I haven't seen any fire, and I haven't heard any dying poultry.”

​'...THAT WAS NOT A FOWL.'

“True, but still I shouldn't have let—”

​BOOM.

​A massive, spiraling maelstrom of flames erupted from the town square, lighting up the night. Embers rained down like a twisted Fourth of July.

​There’s the signal.

​“Fuck,” Siurad hissed.

​He broke into a sprint, charging down the steep slope. He let gravity take him, his weight turning him into a runaway freight train. He didn't dodge the undergrowth; he trampled it. Saplings snapped, and bushes disintegrated under his boots as he gathered momentum. He burst through the tree line, shattering a low-hanging branch that sent splinters spinning into the dark.

​Below, the chaos was visible. Yona was pinned. And standing over her was Mao.

​He’s too far, Siurad realized. “I'll never make it in time.”

​“Obi,” Siurad gritted out. “We’re doing the Crash Dummy Protocol.”

​'...THERE IS NO CRASH DUMMY PROTOCOL.'

​“There is now.”

​The math was simple and stupid. Anything past fifty feet, the void step lost its accuracy; anything over one hundred, it gained exponential velocity. He was going to become a cannonball. Without Obi's ever-present augmentation, the G-force of the stop would likely liquefy his organs inside his armor.

​“Aiming for the orc,” Siurad muttered, trying to lead the target. “This is going to hurt.”

He found a tether and his mind snapped to it.

​Pop.

​His stomach lurched into his throat. The world twisted, colors inverting, sound going silent before dampening to a dull roar. For a split second, he wasn't anywhere.

​Then, reality snapped back.

​Siurad arrived like a meteor. He rocketed out of the void mid-air, his six-foot-four frame and three hundred pounds of black steel becoming a kinetic missile.

​He aimed for Mao.

​He missed.

​Instead of hitting the orc, Siurad slammed directly into the crowd. A cluster of mages soldiers and townsfolk standing near Mao.

​SPLAT.

​The physics were instant and horrifying. The force of a barreling Siurad, multiplied by the velocity of the long-range step, deleted them. Armor buckled, bones shattered, and human beings were instantaneously converted into a fine pink mist and wet gravel.

​Mao, who had been standing two feet to the left, was blasted backward by the sheer shockwave of the impact, his coat drenched with what had been his henchmen.

​Siurad hit the ground with a heavy, tectonic thud. He tumbled, metal screeching against stone, twisting his body to absorb the momentum before skidding to a halt.

​He stood up slowly, groaning, and wiped a piece of someone’s ribcage off his chest. He looked at the crater he made, then at the shivering, gore-covered Mao.

​“Damn,” Siurad wheezed, checking his hands. The realization hit him like a freight train. “EWW EWW …. EWW YONA ITS IN MY HAIR.”

“Oh god I… I can taste them, Yona.”

​The ring pulsed on his finger, vibrating with a mix of disgust and dark amusement.

​'...YOU ARE  STUPID BUT INNOVATIVE. THE RESULT IS ACCEPTABLE.'

Yona didn't waste a second processing the sheer stupidity of what she just witnessed. She was a professional. The crash dummy was the distraction; she was the executioner.

​While Mao stared in horror at the red mist that had once been his soldiers, Yona moved.

​She kicked off the fountain, triggering a gust of wind. The air screamed as she broke the sound barrier over a short distance. As she flew, she ran her thumb along her dagger.

​“Hellfire.”

​The black dagger turned glowing green.

​Mao turned, his eyes widening. He tried to get away, but he was one second too late.

​SHINK.

​The superheated blade sank to the hilt into the Orc’s chest, cauterizing the wound instantly. Mao gasped, clutching Yona’s wrist.

​Yona didn't pull the blade out. She twisted it.

​“Die,” she whispered.

​“Radial Shards.”

​She channeled a blast of freezing ice directly through the hot dagger.

​The reaction was catastrophic. The extreme heat met the extreme cold inside Mao’s chest.

​CRACK-BOOM.

​It sounded like a grenade going off. Mao’s chest shattered. A starburst of jagged red ice spikes erupted from his back, piercing his armor and turning his torso into a frozen, bloody pincushion.

​Mao’s eyes rolled back. He collapsed face-first onto the cobblestones, steam rising from his shattered ribs.

​Yona wiped a speck of blood from her cheek and turned to Siurad, spinning the dagger in her hand.

​“Clean kill,” she smirked. “Don't look so green, Shepherd. It’s just anatomy.”

​Siurad stared at the frozen corpse, then at Yona.

​“You... you just turned his heart into a slushie,” Siurad said, his voice tinged with horrified respect. “Why didn't you lead with that?”

​“Because he’s faster than me,” Yona shrugged. “I needed a meat-shield to distract him. Thanks for volunteering.”

​Before Siurad could argue, the ground shook.

​The two hundred mind-controlled townsfolk. They were charging. The blue light in their eyes burned brighter.

​“KILL... THEM...” The Mask commanded.

​Siurad stepped in front of Yona, raising his hands.

​“Okay, new objective,” Siurad shouted. “Crowd control only! Do not kill them, Yona!”

​“Easier said than done, big guy!” Yona yelled, readying herself.

​The ring on Siurad’s finger vibrated with cold annoyance.

​'...DO NOT DIE FOR YOUR PETTY MORALS VESSEL. THEY ARE ALREADY LOST.'

​“Don't kill them!” Siurad shouted, holding up his armored palms as the mob of farmers and bakers descended. “Just… shove them!”

​“I don't know shove magic,” Yona yelled back.

​She didn't shove. She spun, her dagger flashing. A blacksmith lunged at her with a hammer; she sidestepped and slashed his throat in one fluid motion. He gargled and dropped.

​“Yona!” Siurad roared, horrified.

​“They’re soldiers now, Shepherd!” she screamed back, kicking the dying man into the legs of a charging baker. “Focus on the big threats!”

​Before Siurad could argue, a wet, tearing sound echoed from the ground behind them. It came from Mao’s corpse.

​Siurad turned just in time to see the massive, vein-covered gauntlet twitch. With a sickening slurp, it detached from the Orc’s ruined arm. It scuttled across the cobblestones on its blue veins like a severed spider, heading straight for a group of enthralled villagers.

​“Oh god no,” Siurad grimaced.

​The gauntlet leaped; it connected to them. The translucent blue veins shot out like harpoons, piercing the chests of three farmers and a town guard.

​They were yanked together with the force of a car crash.

​CRUNCH.

​The Gauntlet pulsed violently, acting as a magnetic core. It pulled the living bodies tight against itself, using the veins to override their anatomy. Limbs snapped and reoriented. Torso pressed against torso. In seconds, a hulking, headless monstrosity rose from the groaning pile of humanity, anchored by the pulsing blue light of the Gauntlet embedded in the center of the meat-mass.

​It swung a massive, misshapen limb made of three fused arms at Siurad.

​WHAM.

​Siurad took the hit on his pauldron. The force was heavy, knocking him back into a market stall. He scrambled up, breath hitching.

​“Okay,” Siurad wheezed. “Magic. Range. Keep away from the hug-monster.”

​He raised his hand. “Shadow Spike!”

​He launched a jagged lance of darkness. It struck the creature’s shoulder, knocking a piece of one of the fused bodies clear of its bulk. The monster barely flinched.

​Siurad felt the drain instantly. 

​The creature lunged. Siurad panicked.

​POP.

​He teleported ten feet to the left. The nausea hit him immediately, a wave of dizziness that nearly buckled his knees. He stumbled, gasping.

​'...INEFFICIENT,' Obi hissed. '...YOUR RESERVES ARE CRITICAL.'

​“I know!” Siurad yelled.

​He cast another spike to deflect a grasping limb, then void stepped again to avoid being crushed.

​POP.

​He reappeared, retching bile onto the pavement. His vision swam. The tank was low. He was burning his meager mana pool too quickly.

​The gauntlet beast loomed over him, raising a fist made of human legs and wood.

​Siurad drew his sword. He was done being a mage. He was just a bouncer again.

​He swung with all his might. The blade sank deep into the creature's shoulder, but the dark steel did little to slow its momentum.

​It barreled into him. They both folded into a heap on the cobblestones, the massive amalgamation pinning him beneath a crushing wall of grafted limbs and dead weight. It pressed down, trying to squeeze the breath from his lungs.

​'...MOVE, VESSEL!'

​"I'm trying!" Siurad gasped.

​He reached for the sword still impaled in the creature's mass, but his arm was pinned. He needed space. He needed leverage.

​He improvised.

​Siurad grabbed a handful of the creature's fused flesh, visualized a coordinate, and forced the void to answer.

​POP.

​The world inverted. Gravity vanished.

​Siurad and the beast materialized twenty feet in the air, right in the shadow of a towering church spire. For a split second, they hung suspended in the cold night air.

Then, briefly, Siurad contemplated his life choices; he began to realize he should have thought this plan through a little longer.

​Then, they plummeted.

​Before the creature could react, Siurad shoved off its massive chest, and void stepped one last time.

​POP.

​He reappeared safely on the ground, his boots slamming into the dirt. He hunched over the nausea overwhelming his senses. He recovered just in time to watch physics take over.

Gravity was not kind.

​The hulking mass hit the cobblestones with a sickening, wet thud. Grafted limbs shattered and bent at impossible angles. Large bulges of flesh ruptured on impact, leaving a hobbled, bulky mass of broken bones and blue slime.

​But the blue veins still pulsed.

​Slowly, agonizingly, the mangled pile of meat began to drag itself forward, making a straight line for a fresh group of unconscious, mind-controlled townsfolk. It was going to rebuild itself.

​"Fuck me," Siurad sighed.

​While Siurad fought the amalgamation, Yona hunted the brain.

​The Mask of Chorus stood on the Town Hall steps, glowing with indignation.

​“A NEW VESSEL IS REQUIRED,” the Mask intoned.

​It dropped from the face of a man and was immediately grabbed by a hulking armored knight standing guard on the steps.

​The knight stiffened. The porcelain mask fused to his helmet. Blue light exploded from his visor. He drew a massive greatsword and roared, the sound echoing with a hundred voices.

​“DIE, VERMIN.”

​The knight charged, flanked by four enthralled mages.

​Yona moved like death.

​She sprinted toward the mages. One began to cast a lightning spell. She slid under the bolt, her dagger glowing green.

​“Hellfire.”

​She slashed the mage across the stomach. He screamed and collapsed, burning.

​The second mage cast a barrier. Yona vaulted off the dying man’s back, flipping over the shield. She drove her boot into the mage's neck with a sickening crack.

​“Two down,” she counted.

​The knight-host swung his greatsword. Yona ducked, the blade shearing the stone railing behind her.

​“Stay still!” the knight boomed.

​“Make me!” Yona taunted.

​She danced around his heavy swings, looking for an opening. The Mask was the target, but she couldn't break it. She wasn't even sure if she could. Siurad needed it whole anyway.

​Incapacitate, she thought. Knock out the battery.

​The Knight overextended on a vertical chop. Yona saw her chance.

​She cast Flash Freeze on the ground beneath his front foot. The cobblestones turned to a sheet of ice.

​The Knight slipped. His heavy armor worked against him, sending him crashing to one knee.

​She quickly moved behind him, grabbed the back of his helm, and channeled a pulse of lightning.

Lightning bolt

​ZAP.

​She drove the shock directly into the base of the knight’s neck, bypassing the armor.

​The knight convulsed. His eyes rolled back. He slumped forward, unconscious but alive. The Mask, still fused to his helm, dimmed slightly, its connection severed by the blackout.

“Not so tough now, huh?” Yona smirked.

Back outside, Siurad was losing.

The gauntlet had him pinned against the wall, crushing him with sheer weight. The blue veins writhed against his breastplate, questing, looking for a seam, looking for skin. He understood, with sudden cold clarity, what would happen if they found it. He wouldn't die. He'd be added. One more face in the mass, one more pair of arms for the thing to swing.

He bucked against it. The creature didn't budge. He drove his knee up into the central mass. The bouncer's reflex: break the grip, create space, and then he felt his greave sink into yielding meat and pop back out. The thing didn't even register it. Of course it didn't. He'd been fighting it like a man. Punching it, throwing it, breaking bones it couldn't feel in a body that wasn't really its body at all.

The body was just a coat. The thing wearing it pulsed against his chest, cold and blue and alive in a way the meat around it wasn't.

Stop hitting the suit, he thought. Hit what's inside it.

"Get... off!" Siurad grunted.

​He grabbed the Gauntlet with both hands. It burned cold.

​'...THE LINK,' Obi commanded. '...SEVER THE VEINS.'

​Siurad didn't have mana or a blade. He roared, channeling pure strength. He dug his armored fingers into the mass of flesh surrounding the artifact.

​He pulled.

​The veins stretched, taut as piano wire. The enthralled victims comprising the body groaned in unison.

​With a wet SNAP, Siurad ripped the gauntlet free from the central chest cavity.

​The monster instantly lost cohesion. The bodies slumped to the ground in a bloody, broken heap.

​Siurad stood panting, holding the throbbing blue artifact as it dripped a blue viscous liquid. As the gauntlet emptied, the faint blue light seemed to dull as it went limp. He looked across the square. Yona was standing over the unconscious knight, waving at him.

​“Shepherd! Catch!”

​She pried the porcelain mask off the knight’s helm and frisbee-tossed it across the square.

​Siurad dropped the gauntlet and caught the mask.

​It felt heavy. It buzzed with the screams of a thousand minds.

​'...IT IS TIME,' Obi’s voice thundered, sounding ravenous. '...OFFER IT.'

​Siurad held the Mask in his palm. The Ring on his finger flared with a violent violet light. The light didn't just shine; it reached out. Tentacles of shadow erupted from the obsidian band, wrapping around the white porcelain.

​NO... NO... WE ARE MANY... WE ARE—

​CRACK.

​The shadows tightened. The mask dissolved. The porcelain turned into blue dust, which was sucked into the ring like water down a drain.

​Siurad gasped. A sound like a gunshot echoed through the room. A visible, jagged hairline fracture appeared on the surface of the ring.

'...THE CAGE HAS WEAKENED,' Obi observed, his mental voice echoing louder than usual.

Then, the ring pulsed. The temperature dropped as it reached out through the new crack in its casing.

Yona suddenly dropped her dagger.

She gasped, clutching her temples with both hands, her knees buckling. A trickle of blood ran from her nose.

"Ah! Get... out... of my head!"

"Obi!" Siurad roared.

He grabbed his own right hand with his left. He dug his thumb directly into the Ring, squeezing hard enough to bruise his own finger, physically fighting the artifact.

"Back off!" Siurad commanded, his voice dropping into the terrifyingly low register he used to clear out bar brawls. "She is not a variable! She is the party! You hurt her, and I will find a way to starve you!"

'...TESTING THE WITCH’S RESONANCE,' Obi replied calmly, though the pressure on Yona eased slightly. '...THE MASK CONNECTED MINDS. I HAVE ABSORBED THE WEAVE.'

Yona groaned, planting her feet. She didn't scream. She forced her amber eyes open, and they were burning with pure, stubborn rage.

"If you... don't... get out..." Yona hissed, her voice trembling but defiant. "I will... find a way... to melt you down into a chamber pot."

The pressure vanished. Yona slumped against the doorframe, panting, wiping the blood from her lip.

'...IMPRESSIVE,' Obi’s voice rumbled.

But this time, Siurad didn't translate it.

Yona froze. She looked up, eyes wide.

'...YOU DID NOT BREAK,' the voice echoed directly in her skull. It was cold, arrogant, and sounded like a cathedral door slamming shut. '...MOST MINDS SHATTER UNDER THE WEIGHT OF MY ATTENTION. YOU MERELY BENT.'

"I can hear him," Yona whispered, horror and fascination warring on her face. "Directly. Why can I hear him?"

'...BECAUSE THE ABSORPTION CRACKED THE SEAL,' Obi stated. '...AND BECAUSE YOU ARE SUFFICIENTLY STUBBORN.'

Obi paused, his presence lingering in the space between their minds like static electricity.

'...DO NOT MISTAKE THIS FOR INTIMACY,  THIEF. I AM MERELY OPTIMIZING COMMUNICATION.'

Yona stared at the ring, then at Siurad. She looked terrified, impressed, and incredibly annoyed all at once.

"Great," she spat, sheathing her dagger with aggressive force. "Now I have two voices in my head. And one of them is a pompous piece of jewelry."

'...AND ONE OF THEM HAS TERRIBLE POSTURE,' Obi critiqued immediately. '...STRAIGHTEN YOUR SPINE. YOU SLOUCH WHEN YOU KILL, IT IS INEFFICIENT.'

Yona’s jaw dropped. She looked at Siurad, pointing an accusing finger at the Ring. "He's critiquing my form? After I just helped save his vessel's life?"

Siurad actually smiled. He felt the new strength thrumming in his blood. He felt solid. Capable.

"Welcome to the team, Yona," Siurad said, stepping into the morning light. "Get used to it. He never shuts up."

"I hate this," Yona muttered, though she fell into step beside him. "I hate this so much."

'...ONLY THE INEFFICIENT PARTS,' Obi assured her. '...WHICH UNFORTUNATELY IS MOST OF YOUR LIFE.'

"I'm going to throw the ring in a volcano," Yona promised.

"We can discuss murder later," Siurad said, clapping a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Right now, we have a long walk back to the road."

Yona paused, looking back at the unconscious knight and the fallen mages. A greedy sparkle returned to her eyes, pushing away the terror of the ring. “But first," she sang, stepping over a corpse, "it's time for looooot.”

The adrenaline was fading, replaced by the dull ache of bruised ribs. The town square of Unity was silent, save for the groans of the waking villagers.

Siurad was already scanning the corpses with the detached focus of a gamer checking drop tables, until he actually looked at the mangled reality of the mage leader.

"You alright?" Yona asked, wiping sludge off her dagger.

"The creature is down," Siurad replied, forcing himself to walk over to the body. "Which means the loot table is open."

He crouched down, trying not to breathe through his nose. The smell of copper and burnt hair was overwhelming. He patted down the mage’s robes, looking for the tell-tale lump of a coin purse, trying to treat it like a security pat-down at the club.

He found a hidden pocket inside the sleeve and pulled out a small velvet bag. He opened it, revealing three uncut blue stones.

"Shinies," Siurad muttered, tossing the bag to Yona to avoid looking at the mage's frozen, surprised face. "Garbage or gear?"

Yona caught the bag, peeked inside, and her eyebrows shot up.

"Sapphires," she corrected him. "Uncut. Mages use them for focusing arrays. Shepherd, these aren't just shinies. Each one of these is worth a good piece of coin."

"Good," Siurad noted, filing that data away. Blue stones equal a nice payday. He touched the mage's silk robe. "The robe feels... expensive."

"Grismore weave," Yona explained, rubbing the bloodstained silk between her fingers. "Waterproof. Not as good as the sapphire, still a decent haul. Help me get it off him."

Siurad recoiled slightly. "We are not stripping the dead naked in the street."

"We're leaving the underclothes! That's dignity!" Yona argued, already unbuttoning the collar. "The robe is just an estate tax!"

"You do it," Siurad grunted, standing up quickly. "I'll check the orc."

He walked over to Mao. The massive mercenary captain lay in a puddle of blue slime and blood. It was a mess. Siurad grimaced, using just his fingertips to cut the heavy leather sack from the Orc’s belt.

It hit the pavement with a dense, promising thud.

Siurad opened it with the toe of his boot. Inside was a stack of silver bars and a heavy purse full of gold coins.

"We're funded," Siurad muttered, dumping the gold into his armored pouch. It clinked heavily against the gold from the Kel raid. They were walking around with a small town's GDP, but right now, all Siurad could focus on was the smell.

He looked down at the orc’s face. The thick gold ring in Mao's nose caught the sunlight.

"Yona," Siurad said, pointing. "The nose ring."

"Way ahead of you," she said, skipping over and drawing her dagger.

Siurad looked at the dagger. He looked at the thick, tough cartilage of the Orc’s nose.

"I'm going to check the perimeter," Siurad said quickly, turning his back and walking away.

"Don't be a baby, Shepherd," Yona teased.

'...THE CARTILAGE IS TOUGH,' Obi’s voice echoed in their heads, sounding clinically interested. '...APPLY PRESSURE AT THE SEPTUM.'

"Thanks, Spooky!"

SQUELCH.

Siurad winced, hunching his shoulders as the wet, tearing sound echoed across the silent square. He hated this part. He hated that he was getting used to the violence, but he wasn't used to the butchery.

"Got it!" Yona called out. "Solid gold. Another half-coin in weight. That buys us a bath and a hot meal."

Siurad exhaled, composing himself, and walked over to the unconscious knight on the steps. This was better. No blood. Just a guy sleeping on the job.

"What about Sir Sleepy?" Yona asked, joining him while wiping her dagger.

Siurad loomed over the knight. He saw a heavy platinum ring on the man's finger, set with a massive ruby crest. It looked like high-tier loot.

Siurad reached for it. "This looks valuable."

"Don't!" Yona hissed, grabbing his wrist.

Siurad froze. "Why? It's platinum."

"It's a Signet," Yona explained, her voice dropping. "See the crest? That's a House seal. You try to sell that, and every fence from here to the capital will know we rolled a noble. That ring isn't loot, Shepherd. It's a tracking beacon."

Siurad pulled his hand back as if the ring were hot. Right. Politics. Not just a vendor item.

"Good catch," he grunted. He pointed to the silver clasp holding the knight's cloak. "That?"

"Generic silver," Yona nodded. "Safe to fence. Grab it."

Siurad unclipped the clasp and pocketed it. Then he checked the knight’s belt pouches. He pulled out two crumpled letters. One appeared to be a love letter to someone named Eleanor. The other was a request for assistance in a far-off land in a town known as Crystal Bay.

He stood up, eager to be done with the looting. He looked at the Town Hall. He remembered Yona’s obsession with the random clutter in Vane’s house. He pointed at the two heavy silver candlesticks on the porch.

"Those?" Siurad asked. "Worth the inventory slot?"

Yona beamed. "Solid silver. We melt them down, no questions asked. Good eye, Big Guy."

"If it fits, it ships," Siurad muttered, grabbing the candlesticks and shoving them into his bag. He preferred stealing furniture. The furniture didn't bleed.

"We did good," Yona said, bouncing on her heels, the heavy clinking of her pack a happy rhythm. "We are rolling in dough."

"We're solvent," Siurad corrected, wiping his hands on his trousers, trying to get the phantom feeling of dead mage silk off his fingers. "Let's go."

'...HYGIENE IS CRITICAL,' Obi added. '...YOU SMELL OF ORC BILE AND POOR DECISIONS.'

"Add it to the tab," Siurad grunted. "We're leaving."