The next day found Harding with several small baggies of blueberry-horehound flavored hard candies and no remaining jerky. Camp was stirring and breakfast was being heated on portable stoves by the Eights' camp staff. From what Harding could tell, camp food for them was various meat-filled pastries and breads. This eliminated the need for utensils and plates while keeping packed gear and cleaning to a minimum.

Harding walked back to the House Garnet rooms with a dozen of something that tasted like an unsweetened donut stuffed with a savory sausage and onion mix. He had no clue what they were called, but he'd talked his way into a whole sheet of them. As he arrived at the command section, Payne was still sitting guard.

"Heads up, buddy," Harding called and threw him the bag of hard candy with his free hand.

"What's this," Payne asked curiously, exploring his gift bag.

"Cultural exchange," chuckled Harding. "Oh, and grab one of these for breakfast."

Harding tipped the sheet towards him and Payne picked one. He took a bite and groaned. "When I die, bury me in these."

"They're cooking up tons down by the Eights' medic tent, if you see anyone looking for food. Are they up inside?"

"I've heard some rustling," Payne claimed with a full mouth before swallowing. "But no one has come out."

"Cool," he acknowledged and slid in through the front door. The antechamber had a central table dragged in, more out of habit than of use. It was the same set of table and stools the Garnet field command tent normally sported. There were no maps to be laid out and no stacks of papers to peruse. Just a bare table, which spoke to the realities and strangeness of their endeavor. Harding put the sheet on the table, uncovered the entire thing and sat on a stool.

"What is that smell," exclaimed the duke from the other room a few moments later. He came out like a bear waking from hibernation. He just had his ankle length underpants on and Harding could see the still angry, red mess of wounds in his right shoulder. There was a thin cut across his face and his right hand was heavily bandaged.

The duke seized a pastry and demolished it in one bite, starting on another before recognizing that Harding was there. He asked, "You did this?"

"I'm just the delivery boy, that's the Eights' camp breakfast," Harding responded, then realized the duke's hands were empty again and watched him pick up a third.

Harding started to fear that the duke might actually eat the whole dozen, but the duke slowed down half way through the third. He looked around, the accommodations not being his usual.

"Here, lord," Harding said and unthinkingly tossed his Eights' purified water skin. Everything felt more natural after the ordeal of the night. Sometimes mental walls, just like social ones, are best broken by ordeals. The duke dropped the half-eaten pastry onto the stiff sheet and caught the water with his left hand. He pulled it open with his teeth and downed half of it in a gulp.

"Those alchemies they use are powerful, and I'm thankful for them, but damned do they make you ravenous," he exclaimed.

He capped and set down the skin on the table to reobtain his food. "Damn fine job here though," he added, taking another bite.

Eyeing Harding, he asked, "Used my name to get these?"

"Yes, Your Grace, that and a quarter bag of Burn Ward jerky and a half used tin of Orange ointment. Got these and two bags of hard candies off the Eights' porters. Dropped my being a member of the Guard association too."

"Hard candies," he asked with a keen interest.

"Ah, yes lord," Harding confirmed and pulled the second bag out of his medic satchel.

"Gave one bag to Payne for barter, was going to give the other to Jarred," he explained as he stood to hand the bag over.

"No, keep it for Jarred… ok, give me a couple, the rest are for Jarred," he chuckled slyly. "You are showing initiative, I like it. My children still have many lessons to learn, it is good for them to be exposed to other people, to learn from them. Also, to learn to pursue what they want," he said pointedly. "Jasika, stop hiding and come get breakfast. It's worth it."

Jasika slipped through the room divider. She was dressed in a simple gown, of nice make but clearly not meant to be seen in public. Her hair was down and a bit of a mess. She glared daggers at her father, who expertly ignored them.

Practice makes perfect.

"Part of being in camp is eating new foods. Another is realizing you can't always control the situation, you can only attempt to forge the best result from what is offered," instructed the duke, taking a fourth pastry to illustrate.

Jasika peered at them, hesitated and then snatched one deftly, before retreating to the other side of the room to guardedly nibble. The duke looked to Harding, "Would you find us some drinking water? I imagine we are all parched."

"Of course, Your Grace," Harding answered and set out in search of water. A couple of stops later, including a chance encounter with Howie, Harding was back at the tent entrance with a pin of the Eights' fortified water over his shoulder.

"Payne," he called out in greeting. "Talked to the guy who makes those bars, he's interested in getting a packet of Burn Ward seasoning, maybe setting up trade with you guys after this in raw peppers. Let me know if your guys want to trade and I'll get you introduced."

Harding entered the suite without waiting for a reply other than Payne's nod of understanding. Inside, he found that Jarred had joined his family, as had Vostek.

"My Lord, a Pin of Fortified Water from the Eights. I hope there are cups?"

Duke Garnet motioned for the small barrel to be set on the table. They propped it with some random supplies and tapped it. Harding opened his bag and withdrew his prize find, three apples, which he placed on the table.

"How," asked Vostek, unbelieving.

"His Grace is helping fund this expedition, correct?"

"Yes."

"The guild supplies are extremely good for a reason. They require several things from all members, one of which is to have a separate and supportive vocation. Once you know who does what, you can discover what they have in their own supply crates outside of the communal guild supply. They bring plenty extra to barter with, the whole camp out there is essentially a giant market."

Vostek grinned slyly and looked at the duke, "Have you considered the possibility of another logistics sergeant?"

"Alas, he's not my man. He's in my son's employ at the moment," the duke said and slapped his son's shoulder proudly.

Harding withdrew the pouch of hard candies and presented it to Jarred. "I found something you might like."

"Thank you," said Jarred, opening it with childlike curiosity. Once he saw what was in it, his eyes widened. "Candies!"

Harding smiled at Jarred's excitement. "I have a feeling they'll become very common shortly, but there is a confectioner who is testing some new recipes at the raid."

Power-boosting stat candies will sell.

Jarred happily stepped over to his half-hidden sister to share his treasure.

"Knight-Commander, Sir, may I ask how Lieutenant Bitterman fares," Harding earnestly inquired.

"She's well enough, resting still. From what I can tell, the size and shape of those wounds stretch the bounds of what the alchemies can handle. She no longer bleeds, but the muscle and flesh has yet to be restored. The medics put her on some restorative medicinal, which she vehemently despises, and have been injecting regenerative solutions directly. She's improving, but I suspect it will be weeks until she's fully herself."

Harding shared his relief, "I'm just glad she's going to be ok, I was worried I might have made things worse."

"You did good," Vestok assured him, shaking his head. "And don't let her give you grief. She gets a little dramatic when wounded… frustration and all."

Harding tried to imagine the hard woman being dramatic and decided Vestok was being facetious. Or, if accurate, understating the dangers.

"Petr," sighed the duke, "it drives me crazy that there is nothing to plan. No maps to go over, no strategies. I just sit here and wait."

"Aye, feels weird, Your Grace," he agreed. "Adjustments had to be made because of casualties, but that is normally Bitterman's duty. It, well, it isn't a comforting task to do."

Jarred slid between the captain and his father, bestowing upon them gifts from his tiny hoard of candies.

"The word from Aleister was that he would wait until mid-morning to deliver a final assessment of readiness," Vestok informed him, sucking on his hard candy.

"Very well, I'm in no position to rush them," the duke sighed as he picked up an apple. He sat on a stool and drew a knife. The room was silent as he first cut a wedge and gave it to his daughter, the next his son and finally himself. He repeated the pattern, looked up and saw Vostek standing there waiting for dismissal.

"Vestok, take an apple and relax, you've more than earned a short break. Be back for that assessment though, I shall need you."

"Very well, Your Grace," he said with the formality of a vassal, but grinned at the duke as a long time friend. He took the smaller of the two remaining apples and stepped out of the room.

The duke yawned and stretched. "Okay, you kids get dressed and go out with Harding for a while. See the camp, meet people, learn things," he said before pointedly looking at a scowling Jasika. "Yes, you too. Part of being a good noble is understanding that it is necessary to your function that the people respect you. Your authority needs to feel natural to both them and you. To do that, you must be seen and, usually, build those relationships with them."

Jasika was about to respond but he cut her off. "If you want the men to fight for you, you must represent something to them beyond your rank. We are in a unique situation here, working with a potential and powerful ally who has a very different power structure than we do. So it behooves us to show their people interest, not just their leadership."

The duke put his palms out, fingers forward and shooed them off with a smile.

As the kids went into the back room, the duke gave Harding a smirk and chuckled, "Their leadership is especially helpful though."

Harding grinned back. He could only imagine how the duke would see the possibilities of a long term working relationship with the Eights. With a more somber tone the duke addressed Harding. "I know you aren't a member of my House staff and Vestok, ah, recruited you in ways that might have slightly bent the rules. However, you've been good for Jarred. Jasika needs more socializing, it is clear she's really regressed since we stopped mandating her social involvement. Please, help them relate to the men. I fear they've become only accustomed to their peers and, Jasika, barely even that."

"I'll take them around and do what I can. What they take from it though, only they can decide that." Harding couldn't promise more. Jarred had potential and he liked him.

The duke nodded, "As it should be. Try to get them back here in a few hours for the assessment."

"Yes, Lord."

"I'll send them out. I ate way too much and I need to sleep it off," he admitted and then joined his kids in the back room. Or rooms. Harding wasn't sure, he hadn't been past this point. The room felt like it was originally a front office for some higher up. He could imagine ancient beings waiting here anxiously in defense of the fortress.

Harding stepped outside and found Payne still there. "Damn, when do you get to sleep?"

"Matilda is supposed to be here by now, but everything's weird down here."

"Did you want to trade those spice packets?"

"Oh yeah, here," he said and fished through this bag. He produced several small folded packets. "A packet per pound of dried meat or so is what we did."

"Great, I'll find you once I make the trade, get you two together later to figure out the rest."

Payne thanked him and the two settled into the time honored past time of story sharing. Most of it was observations or actions from the past day's events. As they did this, a squat woman walked up. She was in full armor, dressed for combat, marked with the rising eastern sun symbol the House blades wore.

"Sorry I'm late, Will. No sun, no real latrine, no idea where stuff is; guess I'm off."

"I understand Mattie, it's been a weird day. Harding, this is Matilda Browne. Matilda, Harding Hill, the young Master's monk. Also, an excellent source for trades."

Harding smiled, "Pleasure to meet you."

Matilda did the same, curt and professional with an outsider. Harding understood. Payne bowed out and went to find sleep. "I'm going to go out for a bit with the duke's family while he's going to sleep. Should be quiet until the Eights show up for the midmorning meeting."

Browne quirked a subtle, but real, smile. Outsider though he was, news that her duty would be light and quiet was always appreciated. Not that any security was likely to be necessary down here, but certain protocols would be held to regardless.

Jarred came out of the tent, dressed in traveling clothes of high craftsmanship. Utilitarian, but with enough flourish to make sure you understood that they were expensive.

"This'll be interesting," he said in a soft, conspiratorial voice to Browne.

A minute later, Jasika emerged. She wore a slim cut but heavy-cloth gown that showed off her absolute lack of a figure. It was like someone had adapted a popular seasonal fashion to her shape that did not flatter her in the slightest. She'd braided her hair back into the crown she usually wore under her helmet and, like Jarred, wore her belt and sword. She walked up to Jarred, shoved her arm through his and then looked off as if she were interested in everything but their mandated adventure. Or, in Harding.

Harding led them out of the command area and through the Eights' camp, stopping to talk to the various people he had met or recognized. Each time, he introduced the nobles. Throughout though, finding Howie was his first goal. He found him sitting behind his crates, doing something. Delicious, sweet aroma wafted out.

"Howie," Harding called. "I got your packets."

Howie's head turned, saw him, and waved him over.

"What are you making? It smells… are those pancakes?"

"My secret weapon," beamed the living mountain. "Mini pancake skewers, stacked with banana slices, bacon and a local nut butter, drizzled with berry syrup. Doesn't matter what they got, they'll trade it all to me for these."

"You're ruthless Howie, utterly ruthless. This is Lady Jasika and Lord Jarred of House Garnet. My Lord and Lady, this is the great Howie, Guardian of the Grinder, and Baker Extraordinaire."

Harding was pretty sure he'd got the honorifics wrong, but didn't think the players of the Eights cared.

"Oh," Howie said and stood up hurriedly, running his hand on his apron. He absolutely dwarfed the Garnets. Howie started to offer his hand, noticed it was still sticky with syrup, and bowed with clear uncertainty instead. "A pleasure, your, ah- graces?"

Jasika almost broke a smile. Jarred laughed, "It's a pleasure for me, I love your work. Do you have a shop in Gremuth?"

"A couple of us share a little industrial place, but we've no storefront. It works for now though and has a nice view of the river out back," the suddenly awkward bouncer admitted.

Jarred pressed, "When all this is done, I'd like to visit if you accept guests. I'm terribly curious how you make so many delightful things in such a short time."

"We would be thrilled to have such esteemed guests," Howie assured him.

"And," Harding added in a conspiratorial tone, "Sometime in the near future, we will see you at your night job."

Jarred's eyes widened but Jasika continued to ignore Harding studiously.

Howie got back to work, the little mini pancakes cooked fast. While he worked though with marvelous speed, he chatted merrily. "Harding, grab a bag of bars for each of them would you?"

"Sure thing."

Howie stood up again and held out two skewers, "A small gift and thank you for your patronage."

Jarred snatched one. Jasika was slower to do so, but her curiosity and their smell overcame her hesitation. Harding waited for them to get their food before bringing up business. "Here's your spices and they'd be open to meeting about using more land to grow for you. I'll introduce you when we gather again."

"Great, I look forward to it. And, thank you."

Harding waved goodbye and led the Garnets onward while they nibbled on their skewers and crowd gazed. The place was truly a faire, only lacking blatant entertainers trying to gather crowds. Stop after stop, they were introduced to the people Harding had met previously. Sometimes this even extended to the people who happened to be in the area and the craftsman who made particular goodies. After an hour, both Jasika and Jarred had their own bag of bars, a skin of Eight-Up, as well as other treats. Jasika had traded for her own hard candy. Jarred had picked up three sets of 'regen' pills. Something about them hyper-accelerating the body's protein use, Harding hadn’t followed Jarred and the alchemist’s chatter. They were quite valuable and Jarred had used a fair amount of actual coin to purchase them.

Such rare alchemies weren't cheap, and not yet an approved guild expenditure. Apparently, Eights pitched in to buy them, at cost, for guild members who had been grievously wounded. The surplus was not so easily parted with due to difficulty and cost of what surely had to be the current cutting edge in alchemy crafting.

Jarred probably just funded more than he purchased.

Then Harding took them to the Casualty tent. There they meet the wounded and the near dead, people missing eyes, limbs, or chunks of flesh. They stopped at each one, from both guild and house, and thanked them. They spent the longest with Bitterman, where Jarred left a set of regen pills. Jasika opened up most with Bitterman, even holding her hand for a moment. By the end of the visit both of them were almost out of candy, but Harding didn't think they regretted it one bit.

Harding then took them back to their own men. They knew most of them and their interaction was strangely both more formal and more eased. Harding suspected it was the familiarity and shared culture. The Garnets knew their own men and spent the time catching up on events from home. Jarred started sharing Howie bars, which created a sense of competition from his sister. Harding smiled to himself as he watched them strive to be more generous than the other. It was a simple manipulation, but one meant to promote Jasika to interact more with their own men.

Finally, the group returned to the Garnet command room. Jasika discreetly waved at Matilda as they passed. The group entered the tent to find the duke and knight-commander sitting and discussing what could have been done better in the last fight. "... the Glooms are what made it bad, sir. They were like a flanking cavalry, but in the dark. The Horns weren't so bad, other than their tails," observed Vostek.

"I agree, Petr, I agree. But did we really expect this place to just bring a fair fight," the duke challenged. "The Horns' whole purpose was to break unit cohesion in order to maximize the Glooms."

Horns and Glooms? I only saw gargoyles and vampire stalactites.

Vestok nodded along and then asked, "You think we should have stayed in the tunnel, Lord? Just hold a long defense?"

"Oh no," Garnet waved off the concern. "I can't help but wonder if the expectation was for us to fight from the tunnel. So if we did, how would the Glooms have attacked? Above, Behind, wait until we think the fight is done and come out to attack when we are tending the wounded? We can't know, but we are going into another fight blind where we don't know the rules. Can we find a common theme?"

"Hello, father, are we late," interrupted Jarred.

The duke smiled warmly and shook his head. "Still waiting, should be soon though. Tell me what you did."

Jarred and, when prompted, Jasika shared their adventure and their loot. Jasika talked of Bitterman, of seeing the men still in pain and suffering. Jarred presented his dad with a set of regen pills and the instructions on their use. The duke was obviously pleased with both of his children and complimented them, both on their shrewd barter and compassionate charity. According to the duke, both were hallmarks of worthy nobles.

The duke was growing on Harding.

"Our faithful Sir Vestok and I," the noble started, motioning between the two with his good hand, "were discussing the last fight. I want to hear a single lesson you think we should learn from the first two fights then attempt to apply to the next. Jarred, start."

"The first was a few giants of metal, the second was many, smaller enemies made of stone. I would expect something made of softer matter than stone and maybe," he hesitated before guessing, "a horde of them?"

"Vague, but possible. Jasika?"

"The first fight forced cohesion and coordination of the whole," she stated crisply. This was the Jasika that Harding had come to know. Hard and sharp. "The second challenged that cohesion with chaos and required small group tactics. Having challenged both the whole and the unit, I would expect something that either alternates between them or confronts us individually."

The duke nodded, scratching at his stubble growth. "Our good Knight thought similarly, though he was advocating the need for more unit balance instead of the specialized teams. Good job. Harding, your thoughts?"

"Uh," vocalized Harding, caught unaware. "I spent most of the fight unaware or in a daze. Besides what's been said, each fight has not just challenged the physical body but made direct attacks at the spirit body. I gather this is unusual?"

"Highly," answered the duke as Aleister and Agnes stepped into the room. "Continue with that line of thought Harding."

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

"I would expect that to continue and would ask the question of why make direct spirit body attacks? The fights are deadly enough. Fire, gas, acid or whatever; any sort of direct magical attack could be employed. Instead each fight includes elements that specifically target the spirit body while the physical body is tied up in combat. Why?"

"Indeed," agreed the duke before turning to Aleister. "Welcome Guildmaster Aleister. Captain Agnes. Our hospitality is regrettably meager, just a bit of water and a cold pastry to go with a hard seat."

"Campaign life, Your Grace. Couldn't ask for more. I think our monk-in-training is correct though, each fight has had a hard-kill element focusing on a direct spirit attack. This is likely a theme of the boss itself." Aleister added somberly, "I think we expect it from the next fight too."

"What is our ready status," inquired the duke.

"We lost six completely," Aleister reported. "We have five too critical to fight and nine in some state of combat-effective injury including yourself. If we waited until tomorrow morning, we should have at least eight of those fully functional or near enough. The five critical are probably two days out though, minimum."

The duke sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair.

Aleister shrugged and leaned back on the stool against the wall behind. "I could bring in more Eights, but the ones who didn't come don't have the gear or the experience. They'll most likely just end up casualties in the first fight."

Harding could sympathize. It was hard being here and that only by his position, and some luck, had he been anything but dead weight.

Vestok turned to his lord in concern, "If we take a day of rest it will cost more in supplies and lost labors."

"But the less we have for the next fight, the more we will lose in that fight. Our losses will compound," countered Agnes.

Vestok scowled slightly but didn't argue. It was clear he was trying to manage the Garnet financial losses. Harding wondered how much both parties had spent. He realized he didn't even know what the loot had been. There weren't any loot related communications that he'd been a part of, but he had to guess their split was nowhere near enough to cover costs so far. He had seen them salvaging parts of the mechinels and they probably had a selection of seeds out of them, but the gargoyles had all turned to gravel.

"We should remove the critical back to the city," continued Agnes. "They won't recover in time to fight here."

"We don't know how long this will go, they may yet. Their recovery here lessens security issues," countered Vestok, somewhat sharply.

He doesn't know they can talk offline.

Agnes leaned into the argument with an edge, "And we don't know if this floor is actually safe."

The two glared at each other. While Agnes could be pretty direct and Vestok would put Garnet interests first, it seemed out of character for both. Harding wondered if perhaps something had happened previously he was unaware of. Aleister extended a hand, waving Agnes down. "We knew this would be brutal. We also knew there would be constraints on both parties."

Aleister turned his focus to the duke, "The less men we have for a fight means more casualties we will suffer. For each subsequent encounter that we are undermanned, our casualty rates will be amplified. Do we wait or push today?"

"We will wait one day," immediately declared the duke. Vestok opened his mouth but the duke silenced him with a quick glance. "However, we need to spend it wisely. Full treatment for the wounded and critical. And we need our top people meeting on solutions for these spirit attacks."

Aleister exhaled deeply, some tension relieved by the duke's decision. Harding felt confident it was Aliester’s preference too. "Sounds good, I'll announce the day's rest and we will reconvene after lunch with our trickiest mages?"

"Agreed."

Agnes looked placated, most likely by the extra treatment ordered for the wounded. Though it could be something else he supposed. Only Vestok seemed stressed about the decision, but he held his tongue in public.

And so it was that Harding spent that day in camp, though mostly cycled. He had wondered if he'd be called to the magic meeting but he was not. He felt like he'd been an innovator on the topic of spirit, but he had to admit he had no clue to the scope of knowledge or magical potency of a fully seeded user.

-Joshua at home-

Joshua had no responses to his job search other than auto-generated rejections. His search was not going well. He was stuck between not being valuable enough to be invaluable and being fresh enough to be cheap. Urgency played a role though, just like the economy. Joshua was not alone in his struggle and it only increased the problem.

After a new round of half-hearted attempts, he went for food. A bite, a relief and a splash later he was settling back into the couch. It bothered him. He sat there a moment wondering about things before the pressure to turn it on overcame. Thoughts became a slurry he raced down as he drifted in the stream of the ISR. Ever present; the feeling of forward motion.

Pop. Life.

-Life Loaded-

He stood in the grass. The sensations being near instantaneous now when he entered this place. Everything was as it should be, tranquil and lonely with the sounds of Life all around. His tree stood, tall and healthy, awaiting his approach. Against it leaned the staff. Even the bark felt smoother where he placed his hand.

He was in.

-Harding-

The next morning he gathered with the rest of the raid force. They stood in the plaza, gathered near the ramp entrance. Besides the two ramps and the two portcullis ahead, there were indeed a total of four side passages. They had been tentatively explored earlier in the morning and talk was that they were snaking tendrils of more recessed building facades. The buildings were simple one or two room affairs for the most part. Each passage ended in a small turnaround. The wings were, essentially, housing.

No headway has been made on the plaza ritual yet, which meant that the only direction to go was forward. Ahead loomed the grand columned building and the stairs that led to its recessed maw. On either side of the stairs sat the squat housings for the twin portcullis gates. Those gatehouses were built of cut stone, returning to the construction methods of the upper gateyard. The grand building sat above the gatehouses as if they were cornerstones to it. But the predominant characteristic of all of it was scale, the place built for beings larger than humans.

Those skeletons they found above.

The raid was running low on magic lamps, their distribution density from the portal on down had become sparse. They were strung in a line from the portal to cross the plaza, but it was more a chain of lonely islands of light than a solid path.

Once the raiders were congregated in the plaza, Agnes prepped the raid. "The four pillar groups will hold their own fights. The mage group will counter adds or spells as they can, otherwise they will dps. The burn group will be focusing damage as called. Eights command protects burners and flexes as needed, Garnet command does the same for the mages. Any questions from ‘gee-els’?"

No one had any, of course, since the day long break had been announced the leadership had been talking to each group leader. They'd settled on four balanced tank groups, not knowing the fight, with a control and a damage group assisting response. The command groups were really just floaters. Their bifurcated leadership structure wasn't optimized, but the result was a more flexible use of them. Jasika certainly wasn't going to follow an Eights group leader. As usual, no one knew what to do with Harding.

You can’t just rez leadership after the fight…

There were no spare medics for this fight. While they had eight combatants return from injury, they still were down more than they would have liked. No one was expecting it to get easier. Harding felt Bitterman’s absence despite Vestok having assumed that role. The Eights’ commanders were essentially running things at this point. Harding wondered if being essentially replaced by outsiders was the cause of Vestok's irritation.

Aleister yelled, which was uncharacteristic of him, "Let's tighten it up a bit with supporting your neighbors. The fights are pushing for chaos. Adapt to it and resist. Good luck, and stay sharp."

Thinking about it, Harding was sure he had heard someone besides Agnes and Bitterman use an amplified voice, but the power wasn't common. The Eights had adopted the same general strategy as the Garnets, a commander for strategy and a loud lieutenant to adapt tactics. The Eights used role based teams that he hadn't really explored. The Garnets ran balanced teams built for special missions and integration into large battlefields. Different needs and yet similar structure. This fight was the first time he'd seen either of them break from that organization.

Aleister motioned to the Blythe brothers who led their respective pillar teams forward, single file, followed by the second set of pillars, the ranged groups, then the commands. They walked the lonely line of lamps to the foot of the stairs to the great building.

"Runild, if you would," Aleister casually requested.

Runild advanced along with her sub-team of scouts from the control group. They mounted the oversized stairs, all of them looking a little ungainly other than Runild. It was a good thirty foot rise up stairs. Harding had a good view and time enough to ponder how the mage group was effectively the scout/pull group.

Life is weird.

Runild walked in the wide double-door, not even pausing at the suspicious way one side of the doors sat slightly ajar in welcome. The rest of her team, though, showed reasonable caution. No calamity or retreat immediately ensued.

The raid shuffled their feet.

Tension was drawn out longer, no sound or signal from within. It stayed as such for so long the command groups came together to have a hushed discussion. If they lost a whole group outside of a fight, that would surely delay the raid again. A murmur rose as a single mage came down the stairs. Skipping slightly to time the odd spacing of the stairs, he approached Aleister in a lope. Harding could swear he felt the whole raid try to listen.

"It's empty," the man said with a shrug, his padded cloth bunching at the shoulders slightly.

Aleister's response was flat, "Empty?"

"Yep," the mage responded with pursed lips and wide eyes. "Go figure, right? Place looks like some ancient world office building. No papers or anything, just empty offices. They're finishing up the search but Runild told me to tell you…" he held up a finger, readying his quote. "Tell Aleister to sit his ass down and wait, I don't need rescuing."

Agnes softly snorted.

The raid rippled, relaxing outward in a wave. Aleister grumbled but actually took a seat on the stairs. Whether he meant to follow Runild's suggestion or just rest his exhaustion wasn't clear. However, the rest of the raid followed suit and soon most of them sat on the stairs like an awkward group photo.

The scout mage added, “There is some weird interference with the usual comms. This whole place has been full of pockets of suppression though.” He quirked his lip and shrugged.

A little while later Runild and her crew exited the building. Her group joined the other mages at rest and she swayed to the seated Aleister. He looked wearily to her and she smiled softly back, patting him on the shoulder sympathetically.

"Nothing," he intoned with skepticism.

She laughed, so soft and breathy it was almost a sigh. "Not even a scrap of paper."

"This has to be the strangest raid we've ever done," he declared tiredly.

She just shrugged.

"Do the gates go through at least?"

"I'll look."

And off she went again.

Shortly thereafter the raid was marched to line up at a portcullis. The scouts had opened it and, when they went through, they found a short tunnel to an expanded chamber. It then turned to a tunnel and another gatehouse. Beyond was another open area of dim light.

Once more they had no idea what to expect.

"Retreat is through this gate to the cannons,” called Agnes in her raid voice. They were already wheeling the field pieces up into the chamber behind to blast whatever might chase them. Harding followed the flow of raiders through the tunnel, shuffling towards an unknown doom. In the condensed lights inside the tunnel, holes in the ceiling were visible, but nothing attacked them from above.

While the first plaza had been utilitarian beyond the floor inlay, this one took his breath. From the high ceiling hung large crystals that illuminated the place naturally with their unnatural and softly radiating light. Instead of the recessed facades of buildings along the walls, there were three large buildings partially cut out of the natural rock. They had the same Greek aesthetic as the grand building despite their different construction. Each was as large as any building he'd seen in Gremuth.

The group tentatively moved into the plaza, clearly recalling the surprise attack in the last. They stopped in the middle and looked about. After a minute of nothing, Runild strode forward from the guild once more. She walked with her steady confidence towards the building to the front. No one objected. Harding wondered how often it got her killed. Aleister certainly seemed to stress about her relaxed manner.

I wonder how many times she's caused a wipe?

When she reached the bottom of the stairs up to the middle building, the twin doors opened and a figure stepped out. He looked human except he was too large in scale. He was easily three feet taller than Runild. Built like Howie, he had his muscled frame on display as he wore no shirt. He wore loose slacks of off-white linen held by a wide leather belt which was adorned with gold armor plates.

"I am Ghasatavaro," the monster's voice thundered through the cavern with an uncomfortable volume. There was a slight reverb to his voice, like he was speaking with two voices. He continued, "Champion of the Fourth Order, Alph of Phiris, Lord of this Domain and Guardian of the Pillar."

Boss.

Ghasatavaro paused, looking over the crowd arrayed before him. "Who comes before my throne?"

Not two voices, one in my ears and the other in my head.

The duke looked over at Aleister and they shared a nod and both walked through the raid to stand with Runild. She paused, bowed the musclebound giant, and returned to the raid.

"I am Duke Elias Garnet, Lord of Eastrun, Sworn of Ayr," proclaimed the Duke.

The Eights's leader scratched the back of his head and then introduced himself. "I am Aleister, Guildmaster of the Divine Eights, and, uh, Manager of the Grinder Cafe and Coliseum."

The judging eyes of Ghasatavaro took measure of them before rising above them to examine the raiders behind. "A Lord of Men and a Merchant of Blood stand before me, but who here claims the right to my throne?"

Aleister shrugged, "It's a joint venture, we are just here for the loot and fame."

One of the Blythe brothers, Harding still couldn't tell them apart, chuckled softly, "Coin and cred."

Ghasatavaro turned to the duke, "Then you, mortal, claim rights to the glory of the throne?"

"My house stands with honor in its service to the Kingdom of Ayr. I seek no throne, only rightful benefit to my house and children."

"Then who claims rights to what is mine," he demanded with rising anger. Ghasatavaro stomped a foot in displeasure and a visible ring of dust spread from the shockwave. Even being back with the other raiders, Harding felt a ripple of air brushed past. Weapons were raised, but after a moment it became clear it was not an attack.

This guy is no joke.

"None present appear capable of claiming a throne. None here manifest significant force. None have, nor seek, valid claim. This requires mediation," he proclaimed, then added, "A Mediator has been requested."

Aleister shifted on his feet, settling back his balance and spread his hands before him, "How long will-”

Next to Ghasatavaro stood a robed being. There had been no sound. There has been no visual clue or other notification. Reality had just changed in jarringly abrupt fashion.

Life didn't do sparkles, it just bent shit.

The being's head was the bleached bone skull of a great horned beast. Harding had never seen a beast like it but guessed it to be a massive mountain ram or similar. The eyes were empty sockets of void-like nothing, but in those pits of darkness leaked out as thick black rivlets of goo streaking down the elongated cheeks.

It looks kind of like the weird Rent vision…

The newcomer was a horned skull shorter than Ghasatavaro and thin, wrapped in robes of the same style as monks. The fabric looked like actual gold, it was not just yellow. It radiated to the eye, but cast no light around him. He wore no armor and carried no weapon. Harding did notice the hint of a toe cap showing beneath the robes.

Even it knows the worth of quality boots.

"Honored Servant," rumbled Ghasatavaro. His bass voice carried more than a hint of surprise, "I am humbled you came to my call, I had expected a Glory Alphe."

The Mediator hadn't moved, it just existed with an unnatural stillness like it had no real physical presence. A higher pitch male voice spoke from nowhere and everywhere. It was rich and laid over a faint bed of static. "This is the first request of mediation between immortal and mortal since the very awakening. Authoritative oversight was deemed prudent. I answer the Call."

Ghasatavaro responded immediately, "I follow the Will."

Still no movement, not even a twitch.

"I am Yhavat, Agent of Revenee, the Honored Magister of Phiris. I will mediate this dispute as per the Governance," it declared. Its right hand was held forward, upright, a thick tome bound in gold on it. The hand didn't move, it just was in a new position.

"Who will speak for the Mortals," Yhavat asked.

Duke Garnet and Aleister exchanged glances, then Aleister gave him the nod. The duke stepped forward and Aleister retreated to the raid, quickly checking over people to keep the raid ready despite the events. Getting lulled by dialogue could be a real issue on a first encounter.

I don't think this is an event though, this is the game working something out. We broke something.

"I am Duke Elias Garnet, I will represent those gathered."

"Godling, they come before you gird for combat with bared steel and summoned will, thick with fate and full of spirit. This is their right." Yhavat was now facing Ghasatavaro, hands at his sides. The tome just hung in the air where his hand had once held it. Harding couldn't decide if the manifestation was broken or terrifying. This thing, for whatever reason, cared little for their shared reality. "What mediation do you seek?"

"None present could claim my throne. None present seek my throne," he asserted. "Am I bound by the Governance to moderate myself by the codes, or may I deal with them as invaders?"

"It is true that they are not yet ready, but Law cannot be forsaken. The codes will be followed. They do not meet the requirements to allow extermination," judged the Mediator.

That's a win.

"I am a Champion, should mortals be allowed to challenge here? Should I be held back and they prevail, her pillar will lie fallow," contested Ghasatavaro. For a boss, Ghasatavaro seemed kind of whiny to Harding.

Yhavat's response was sharp with judgment, "This pillar has been fallow for hundreds of years. You have sat in the dark, dutiful in your calling but not exuberant with her Will."

Ghasatavaro said nothing but even from this distance Harding could see the shifting of his stance. That proclamation had drawn blood. Softer, it added, "Your service is recognized and should you fall you will be taken up in her Glory."

Yhavat was turned to the duke, "Son of Gavin, understand you that should you press forward with this challenge, even in victory none here shall have claim to the throne?"

"Honored Servant," Garnet responded in courtly dictation, "We know not of this throne. We learn through action and are unknowing in your ways. We sought challenges and spoils but had no design on a specific reward."

"Very well." Mediation was over and Harding could feel the raiders tense. "Ghasatavaro, you must choose in accordance to her Will. Conduct the Rite of Exchange in her manner or meet any honorable challenge honorably."

"I cannot agree to Exchange. Though I acknowledge the rite, it would forge bonds that I cannot accept.” Ghasatavaro declared, "It must be combat."

Yhavat advanced the issue, "Son of Gavin, what is your choice? Withdraw in peace or challenge by combat?"

The duke straightened himself and utilized a skillset Aleister lacked. "We did not know of Ghasatavaro, we have no understanding of thrones, pillars, orders, agents or much of the rest. The only term I knew in all of that was the holy name of Phiris. Shadows of the Dream attacked my son outside this hill and everything since has been a result. I've never been honored with the presence of a Servant. I have no foundation of knowledge from which to make this decision. And yet it appears that there is a set of laws, ones we are not privy to, that apply to this situation. I ask to be given knowledge of them that I may govern prudently and effectively counsel those who I am responsible for."

"Excellent choice," Yhavat declared. Harding could almost hear a smile in the voice.

"Granted."

The duke staggered with a groan, started to raise a hand to his head and then stood upright once more. Whatever had ailed him had lasted only for a fraction of a second. He seemed fine after.

"May I confer with my advisors?"

"You may have one hour."

Ghasatavaro grunted and went to the top of the stairs to sit. The action seemed an act of unhappy acceptance, but he spoke quietly to Yhavat out of the hearing of the raid.

The duke walked back to the raid at a casual pace, but his eyes wide and completely dilated. He made an exaggerated face of comical panic before smiling.

I understand Jarred a little more now…

"This is so weird," whispered a voice at Harding's elbow. Harding started. He looked over to double check but the voice was unmistakable. Runild. Everything about her was an expression of unnaturally smoothness. More rhythmic than silky, like the undulations of a snake. Harding found her admirable in many ways, but she still was completely unnerving.

"Yeah. I think they're trying to deal with us being here before we should be," he suggested.

"Three fights for a raid dungeon seems weak, we didn't even wipe."

"I don't think this is a raid dungeon though. I think it's something else. A dead city? A holy site? Unfinished content?"

"Sounds like perfect dungeon material to me," she murmured in disappointment.

The duke reached the group and had everyone gather around. With the command structure for both factions closest, he made sure everyone could hear.

"As best I understand it, we aren't even in the real fight. Ghasatavaro is a godling and thus open to conflict. Even though this is a domain, it isn't his domain so much as he is the gatekeeper of this gate to a higher realm."

The duke paused, making sure people were following. "There are rules governing how he fights. We are being given the most optimal status possible, which means we would have to have the least capable form of him. Any who fights in a challenge must either win or die. Any who do not fight can be forcibly expelled from the domain. That includes the wounded and civilians above. So we must decide, be happy with what we have done or risk everything for a giant unknown."

Everyone was quiet.

"What's a godling," asked Agnes. Harding was glad he wasn't the only one who didn't know.

"It is a being higher than a mortal but less than a demigod," said Yhavat in a conversational tone, despite not being in their midst. He was still standing all the way at the top of the stairs, conversing with Ghasatavaro.

"That's not creepy," grumbled Agnes.

"So, the first question," Aleister put forward, "is it worth proceeding?"

"If we win, it's worth it," stated Agnes.

"But can we win," Vestok asked. "He's an immortal. We don't even know how to end something like that."

Agnes smirked at him, "Probably just hit it more?"

Everyone else ignored the exchange between the two. Harding understood Vestok's doubt and it was hard to remember that he was a NPC. Agnes was correct that most games just increased the survivability of a tougher opponent or required specific types of attacks. But, Life certainly didn't follow the conventions.

Duke Garnet waited for Aleister to speak first. Aleister realized it only after he’d spent a few moments of looking off while focusing his thoughts. Finally, he admitted, "Vestok is right, we have no idea the power jump we are dealing with here. We're deep in the red on this raid, but wiping will cost more."

Aleister was clearly unhappy about what he had said. He rubbed the back of his head and looked around at the others. The duke countered, "I have a duchy I am responsible for and while the duchess is highly capable, I cannot lightly risk the death of her family or forces. However, a great deal of my responsibility is providing financial and military power. A gain in either is a worthy prize. The risk of this spirit death is the question for me, we do not know if it is permanent."

"We can try asking," shrugged Aleister. "Yhavat, I am Aleister Bode, the leader of the guild present. So far in all the fights we have faced spirit killing attacks. We aren't sure of the permanency of such death. We need to know if that will be the case here to properly assess risk."

Yhavat addressed Ghasatavaro, "Spirit destruction is forbidden against mortals. It disrupts the Functioning. Explain."

"It was not intended for them, Honored Servant," Ghasatavaro explained, shaking his head slightly. "The defenses were in place for low beings. I did not anticipate mortal presence and once they were within the domain…" Ghasatavaro glanced at the raid, like he was trying to keep secrets and checking that nothing registered. "You are aware of my limitations in this role."

Harding watched as Ghasatavaro essentially gave the "nothing I could do" defense for instantly kicking people out of the life and death cycle. Yhavat didn't seem impressed. Granted he had no expression in face or posture, but Harding was feeling optimistic.

"Mortals," announced Yhavat. "Such powers will not be used against you. In recompense for previous violations, any who die in your challenge shall be returned by this throne's glory."

Ghasatavaro flinched. He tilted his head and breathed out before he protested, "... Honored Servant! That punishes my success! It is an unfair trade, for every moral I kill I will lose glory."

"The forces before you would be stronger had the Governance been followed. Order demands theft be unprofitable," rebutted Yhavat. Harding was sure arguing with something the system considered 'authoritative oversight' was a losing strategy. Yhavat had been silent for a moment, yet no one spoke. Even the raiders weren’t making much noise. He was that impressive. "Should Ghasatavaro fall in obedience, he shall be raised to the Fifth Ideal."

Whatever that meant it had seemed to mollify the hypertrophic giant's concerns. Harding wasn't too keen on the qualifier of if the big man was obedient. It seemed to suggest that following the rules was still optional and the godling seemed a bit temperamental. What the new conditions had done, however, was change the cost of the fight. Everyone got instant resurrection after the fight? At least that's how he took the proclamation.

The air hummed with the excited whispers of the raiders.

"What of those already fallen or destroyed," the duke asked quietly.

"They are gone,” said the Servant, making Harding wince. Gone as in dead, or gone as in completely gone wasn’t clarified. The duke didn't push the topic. It was clear that whatever was, wasn't going to be changed.

The duke instead addressed the joint command, "The only cost to this will be pain then. Do we have any other concerns or do we accept?"

Agnes and Vestok finally agreed on something; to fight. Aleister, though, chewed on his lower lip. When he spoke it was clear it was for Yhavat. "How do we become able to claim this throne for it is clearly the most valuable prize before us?"

"That must be learned as part of your own growth, though a few of you are closer than the rest," was the servant's answer.

"Which of us are those," rapidly returned Aleister.

Soft and unnerving, a choir of feminine laughter echoed as if from a thousand voices all around them. Yhavat remained still as always. Harding exchanged a glance with Runild who seemed way too calm.

If this goat-skulled creep is of heaven, what's hell like?

"Perhaps, if you prevail such knowledge could be sought as a prize," the goat skulled servant suggested.

"Last call for concerns then," proclaimed the duke. There may have been some, but none were voiced. Every delay was becoming an agony of prolonged tension.

The duke took a step out of the raid crowd and bowed to Yhavat. "Honored Servant, we give thanks for your effective mediation."

He then bowed to the still sitting Ghasatavaro. "Godling Ghasatavaro, by your choice we seek to test ourselves against you in honorable combat. Whatever the outcome, may we both be enriched."

"Fair enough," Ghasatavaro admitted as he stood up. "Prepare your people in peace. Should any body or effect touch my stairs, I will engage by the Governance and without mercy."

The duke leaned towards Aleister and urged, "Any changes you might have, make them now. We are committed."

The portcullis behind them clanked down, slamming shut and sealing them in. "Committed, he says," laughed Agnes. "It's a fucking cage fight with a god."

"I'd say he's the one trapped in here with us," growled a Blythe brother. The crowd laughed, Harding groaned.