Even if it was functioning as his prison cell, the guest chambers in the Garnet’s estate in Green Hills was the nicest room Harding had ever seen. Spacious and luxurious, it was clearly decorated more for impressing fellow nobles than housing sequestered Spiritualists. Despite the fact that Green Hills was more of a walled suburb than a true city district, the manor seemed excessive in size.

His room was open and well lit with a balcony overlooking the manicured grounds between the estate's walls and the manor. The ornate furniture was a bit stiff for his taste, but he could hardly complain. He presumed it to have meaning that he had been put in a nice suite and not a basement closet. Whatever the case though, it was certainly better than Gregor's jail cell experience.

The door to the hall was never locked and no guards were posted, but it was made very clear to him that straying from the estate itself would be a monumentally poor decision ending in tragedy. Harding didn't leave his chambers even though he could. He couldn't say whether it was in protest, disinterest or something else. He spent the time, instead, focused on his studies.

Greffenberg had brought all of Harding's belongings in a timely fashion. If the healer had noted anything unusual about what he had packed, Harding hadn't heard about it. Not even a comment on an unseeded monk with a seedcrypt. Hopefully Rent would be satisfied with that and not fail him on the loss of secrecy. The voidseed he'd left on his bed wasn't in his belongings so he hoped that Randal had grabbed it.

Harding's self-imposed isolation was respected and he was left on his own. He was visited, however, for the delivery of meals and once by the Chamberlain's assistant. She was an older woman named Heidi whose appearance matched her personality; stark and without color. She inquired once if he had any needs and when he declined she disappeared and never returned.

After settling he had cycled and sent a message to Brandon to update him.

The events in the woods, especially his pressured adaptation of spirit sensing, had challenged Harding's concepts of the use of spirit as opposed to the practice of Spiritualism. Focusing on nuance and detail had slowed him down in the field, whereas passive awareness and instinct had worked. Not perfectly, but functionally. This reflected his recent experiences with spirit body mediation, but contradicted the general classroom setting's practices.

Conversely, learning and using mass keying on the fly and under duress had been very active and focused thought. So much so that its use had contributed to a deep physical exhaustion that was possibly the most trying and desperate act of his life. While there were parts of it that would benefit from the positives of the meditative practice, he was sure that on the whole the conditions and conditioning required differing approaches for different skills. In short, there was no singular solution.

As a result, he set about changing his practice techniques.

Harding was unsure if it was the spirit body that became exhausted or if the fatigue was a sympathetic physical reaction. He imagined endurance was trained through forcing enervation and hoped to increase his resistance to those effects by such. Harding started deliberately exhausting himself through emptying his spirit body. Once pushed to his limit, he would then sit and attempt to resist the instinct to pull in spirit. In this state of spirit deprivation he would then do spirit body manipulation techniques in a passive mindset. Once he failed to resist taking spirit, he would recuperate and start again.

Coupled with that practice, Harding had started to work on his theory about ways to improve spirit intake. He had settled on calling it drawing. Drawing, he decided, was the act of using the spirit body to inject itself with collected spirit energy. While he hadn't discovered how to optimize it, drawing was just a refinement of what he started attempting at Black Burrow.

There is something liberating in this. It isn't just hardcoded ability spamming.

Testing for optimization in his theory was challenging due to the potential variance in the spirit body’s area and shape with each cast. With no ability to measure that nor the amount of spirit returned, results were extremely subjective. He also didn't know if ambient density or volatility would affect the return either. Ultimately, the differences he observed so far were small enough to make a clear evaluation evasive. Harding remained convinced though that if optimized they could be dramatic over time.

On the second day, as Harding read about using spirit body articulation towards accomplishing complex spirit manipulation, there came a knock at the door. It caught Harding sitting on the floor in just his long undershorts, where he had been switching between exhausted meditating and reading. It was not yet mealtime but he got up and opened the door.

Outside the door stood Jarred. Out of his armor the noble looked even more of a teen than before. He still carried a bit of baby fat in his features that marked him as not yet an adult, however his overall physique suggested he had constant physical training. Jarred's red-tinged blond hair was as much of a mess as his rumpled clothes. He slouched a little, his face pulled off into a lopsided grimace that broadcast his discomfort with the situation. He looked at Harding and asked hesitantly, “Am I disturbing you?”

Harding felt that maybe Jarred was looking for an excuse to avoid the conversation, but he gave him no escape. With a slight scoff he responded, “No, please come in. All I do is read and train. All day. Every day. Honestly, I could use a break.”

Harding turned and walked into the room, leaving the door open. He returned to sitting on the floor in the middle of the sitting area. Jarred followed him in and closed the door, looking uneasy. “I, ah,” he faltered. “I need to apologize for fleeing with Philip. I was unsure what to do and failed to be a man of honor over following the counsel of a coward.”

Sounds like he had that painfully pointed out to him.

“I understand how it is," Harding assured him. "When a classmate of mine was attacked, I fled as soon as I was offered an excuse by a larger authority. But ever since then, I have felt guilty about it. What we do in the moment is us, but it doesn’t define how we will be. You’ll be stronger next time. Besides, I was just some guy you hired.”

Jarred crossed his arms and shook his head firmly, “A noble's duty is to his family, his men and his liege. I hired you, so for that outing you were one of my men. Instead, I left Rhett and you behind.”

“Maybe," Harding conceded with a smile. "I would like to think of it as Rhett chose to protect you and I was just too dumb to run. Let's speak no more of it.”

Harding's concession and smile seemed to assuage some of the teen's guilt. Jarred looked around the room struggling with the strangeness of the situation and a lifetime of protocol training. While it was poor etiquette to be sitting on the floor and half-dressed, as a prisoner Harding wasn't sure he cared.

"Sit," suggested Harding.

Jarred looked relieved and crashed in a chair opposite of Harding. He started, “I wasn't told you were here until last night during supper. This morning I found Vostek, asked him what had happened and he told me that you sat vigil over Rhett in the woods. Alone, until our men arrived. And even after that you fought beside them instead of quitting to the city.”

Harding shrugged, he had gained more practical experience in that outing than he had in all prior play. He didn't see his actions as remarkable or selfless. Jarred hesitated, Harding's nonverbal indifference seemingly challenging his ability to respond.

He's probably not used to people who aren't his father's men.

Jarred revealed his purpose, “I spoke to Instructor Simone and told him what had happened. He's a very knowledgeable and highly regarded instructor in the Court. He said I should consider what we might exchange that would enrich the both of us.”

Harding chuckled and ventured, "Well, I'm down to a single set of robes and a bag of borrowed books, so I'm guessing he meant exchange as in training."

Jarred grinned for a moment before reverting to a properly solemn expression. “Instructor Simone says the only enrichment a noble needs is understanding.”

Harding quirked, "I'm still just an aspirant Spiritualist and my martial training amounts to ways to avoid tripping over myself. I'm unsure what understanding I can give you. I am an expert in being told I'm too uptight and need to relax.”

Jarred smiled at that and confessed in a faux voice, "I'm too informal and need to behave as befits a noble of my standing."

The response sounded like another recitation to Harding. He felt like a lot of what Jarred said was speaking with other peoples' words. He realized that he hadn't tried to imagine the situation for Jarred. The youth had tried to learn on his own. He hadn't achieved his goal, instead house men were dead and the commoner he hired was now being held prisoner by his family to keep some secret. He'd basically messed everything up.

Yeah, that would suck.

Harding shrugged, "I'm not sure what I can give you. I only know enough to know that I don't know nearly enough."

Jarred smirked, "I'm not really sure either to be honest. Apparently understanding can't be given, which is why a noble needs it? When I asked further he said I should find you and, if you were willing, train with you.”

“Sounds like your teacher just wants a day off,” Harding theorized with a chuckle.

Jarred stiffened a little, sensitive about his instructor's honor. Harding moved them past it and decided to accept the opportunity, “Do we train here then or go back to him?”

After scanned around the room full of expensive furnishings, Jarred shook his head, “We should go back to the training hall."

I wonder how many things he broke as a kid to train that response.

Harding put on his last robe and followed Jarred through the compound and a tiled garden to an outbuilding the size of a small two-story barn. It shared the trim and aesthetic elements of the estate including second story balconies and brass doors. Inside, the first floor was a singular giant room with matted floors and padded walls. Above it was mostly open space other than the singular catwalk joining the balconies. Harding found it shocking how much the family invested in training their children.

Surely it is for the guards, too?

At the near end stood a middle aged woman dressed in tight clothing. Her slightly silvered hair was pulled back in a tight bun. She was busily engaged in running a girl through a series of unarmed striking drills.

Real training, finally.

The girl's long hair was pulled back into a tail and exhibited the same slight curl and red hue as Jarred's. Though athletic and trim, her size and features suggested she was Jarred's younger sister by a handful of years.

“Ignore my sister,” Jarred whispered, “She can be… unpleasant to outsiders, but as long as you don’t notice her she’ll pretend you don’t exist.”

Harding arched his eyebrows and smirked, “I'm familiar with the type.”

He followed Jarred to the other side of the room. There sat a gregariously dressed man in a full array of orange hues, from nearly brown to bright and fruity. He was slightly overweight and relatively short. On his head was a giant hat with a large feather which shaded his down-turned face. The man was engrossed in whatever he was reading.

Clearly in the same fashion circles as Gregor.

“Instructor Simone, I have returned,” announced Jarred.

“Wonderful, just wonderful,” proclaimed Simone, not looking up from his book. “Why don’t you give me ten laps around the exterior.”

“Yes, Instructor Simone,” answered Jarred, who then immediately set off jogging to the door.

Harding followed in disbelief. They ran around the barn and courtyard ten times at a fair pace, though not a spirit, then returned into the building again to come to a stop in front of Simone.

“Wonderful,” was the bored response. The man looked up and saw Harding. "Oh, who is this?”

“This is the monk I told you about. The one who helped save Rhett’s life and is staying here,” Jarred reminded.

“Ah, yes. And what is he doing here.” Simone queried, just short of a sigh.

“You said to train with him, so I brought him here,” Jarred explained with slight confusion.

“Ah, yes. I meant for you to go train with him, not for you to bring him here for me to instruct.” Simone paused, sighed with exaggeration, and continued, “Very well. What is your name, monk?”

“Harding. I’m not a monk yet though."

“Wonderful. And what are you currently studying?”

“With the Guard association, I’m working on footing for combat. In Spiritualism, I’m practicing spirit body articulations in furtherance of complex spirit energy manipulation for the exploration of the mechanics of divinity.”

Simone stared at him blankly before slowly turning to Jarred, “And what can you learn from this?”

“Hire monks,” asked Jarred tentatively.

Simone laughed and clapped. “Yes, specialists will always be further ahead than you in their fields, that is indeed why you hire them. Very good. Wonderful. What, though, can you learn from training with him?”

“Oh, uh,” Jarred mumbled, thinking hard for a few moments as Simone and Harding watched. Harding found the teen’s struggle relatable. Jarred finally decided and offered, “Footwork is foundational to combat and I should not neglect it in training?”

“True, but you are far past that." Simone challenged Jarred, "What else?”

“He could teach me spirit magic?”

“Yes. Wonderful. You hire experts, you use experts, but that doesn’t mean you can’t also learn from them,” explained Simone in banal sagacity. The man was supposedly an expert hired to teach.

Harding rolled his eyes.

Reopening his book, the instructor ordered, “Monk, help Jarred train his spirit work. I’ll appraise and offer guidance."

“Sure,” Harding agreed. Harding couldn't believe it, the man had already returned to his book. Jarred and Harding went off a little bit to the corner of the training floor. As they spaced themselves out at arms length, Harding asked, “What do you know about Spiritualism?”

“It’s a Okkor monk thing they use to seal godseeds.”

Harding groaned. “Yes the monks do sealing, but what could you do with Spiritualism?”

Jarred shook his head, “Oh, I follow the Church. I'm not into that monotheistic cult stuff."

Harding sighed.

Harding corrected him, “Spiritualism isn't a religion, it's just using your spirit body. Even the Mage College teaches some of it. You know how to use your spirit body, right?”

“Uh, no," Jarred guessed. "I know how to fight and do all the noble stuff. No Spiritualism though.”

"But I've seen you use your seeds."

"Sure."

"You're an Archon."

"I got my third light seed on my twelfth birthday."

"Then you use your spirit body."

"If you say so."

Harding glanced at the oblivious Simone and remembered Vostek's comments about Jarred's education. He took a deep breath. “We’re starting at the beginning then. Let’s talk about what a spirit body is…”

They began at the beginning and mirrored Harding's own education. They were able to source a single voidseed for practice by pulling it from an unused magical training dummy, the cost of which Harding couldn't imagine. Jarred learned quickly, whether it was a result of his many years of godseed use or the fact he wasn't human didn't matter too much to Harding. When they ended for dinner, Harding requested his meal in his room and cycled his login, during which he ate, hydrated and cleaned himself.

The night passed quietly for Harding as Jarred was engaged with other things. He focused on his reading in the Szaktaa. The book wasn't written as an instructional text and Harding had never used a godseed before, so the topic of the role of spirit body articulation in spellcasting was theoretical at best to him.

The basic concepts were easy enough to follow. Spirit resisted being expelled out of the spirit body due to the body's boundary. Once it left the body it rapidly lost cohesion and what little ability it had to influence the world was almost immediately negated. Godseeds imparted divine command and that was why their magic was so effective.

The concept was that spells could be influenced by modifying the spirit body. Not necessarily in terms of raw power, but shape and even function could be altered. The magic wanted to follow the body. Doing so quickly was, of course, more difficult and required learning reflexive control. Which meant to Harding more shaping practice was needed, but as each seed had its own manifestation there was no predicting what shapes would be useful to him when he finally got one.

Beyond that generalized practice though was the realization of Rent's purpose in including the seedcrypt. Almost all of Harding's practice was focused on the expansion and shaping of his spirit body. The seedcrypt required the opposite, up close and precise control. He didn't need the code to the lock, he needed the failed attempts to practice.

Does he actually expect me to open it? He just wants me to keep practicing right?

Harding knew he wouldn't be satisfied without beating the lock. Which was how he spent that second night, learning to thread the lock instead of just flooding it. It took quite some work to be able to produce a thin string of spirit and articulate it within such a tight space. He didn't even try to figure out the combination and instead focused on learning precise manipulation.

It was a challenge that he didn't conquer that night.

And so it went for the next two days. Harding spent the days teaching Jarred. During the nights he advanced his own knowledge from his meditations, reading and the hell that was the seedcrypt puzzle.

He had hoped that he could learn some combat from Jarred’s instructor, despite his foppish ways he was a retained instructor. The man's garb was so ridiculous that Harding internally dubbed him Swatchwork Simone, but his inattentive behavior began to anger Harding more than amuse him. Simone did nothing but sit and read while Harding taught Jarred.

Maybe this guy is a fraud.

The singular material benefit from Harding's incarceration came when he requested a voidseed for his own training. It took the staff less than three hours to deliver one to him. While it wasn't explicitly stated, Harding assumed it was now his unless someone asked for it.

Whenever Jarred and Harding went to the Training Hall, his sister Jasika was already there training. Whenever they left, she was still there. Beyond her inhuman dedication to training, she behaved exactly as Jarred predicted. She sweated, swore and shouted angrily while being in near constant combat with her instructor, but never once acknowledged Harding or Jarred.

Harding was a bit envious of her training opportunities, her instructor seemed as merciless and ungiving as she was. She constantly pushed and corrected the girl. Harding didn’t mind teaching Jarred, but the difference in quality of instruction was incomprehensible to him.

The Duchess had left the day after Harding had begun teaching Jarred, not that Harding had ever seen her. Harding didn't know the whereabouts of the Duke either, but this was their townhome and their main estate was in their land holding which was apparently a great distance away. It made sense to him that the majority of their duties would be within the duchy they governed and that the children would be cultured in the capital.

Except as far as he knew, neither of them ever left the manor.

Harding couldn't imagine Jasika stopping to sit with her brother for a meal, so it didn’t seem too strange to him that Jarred started to take his dinner with Harding. The boy had to be lonely. They would eat their meal casually and just chat without any grand purpose or topic. The company was welcome though and Jarred always left shortly after eating which allowed Harding his own time.

On the fourth night of his stay with the family, they sat on Harding's balcony for dinner. After the meal Harding asked, “Do you have a Spirit Tree?”

“A what,” Jarred responded. This wasn't an unusual reaction from him as their terminologies were consistently divergent.

“It's a type of tree that holds a lot of seeds,” clarified Harding.

Jarred's face relayed his sudden comprehension before going stiff. He recited, “We don’t talk about things like that with outsiders.”

Someone else's words again.

“Oh, ok," Harding dismissed the question with a flat smile, not wanting to push on a sensitive topic. "We have one at the temple and I use it to practice inserting and removing seeds, but if you don’t have one we can learn something else.”

“If you want, we could get a servant to practice on.”

“Ah, no. It'll be ok.”

Tree. Servant. Same thing right?

“If we don't do seed mechanics, maybe we could try some ambient control," Harding casually proposed.

"Ambient?"

"Uh, yeah. It's a term I started using, I've no clue what the official name is for it. It's the spirit energy that exists in an area, both naturally and as a result of recent magic use."

Harding waved his hands lazily in the air, "There's always spirit energy around, right? The body of free floating spirit that absorbs expended spirit and feeds it back through spirit bodies. Like how air functions, essentially."

Unsurprisingly, Jarred eyed him questioningly. More and more Harding found that Jarred did this whether he knew or not, acting ignorant was his default response to any knowledge testing. Despite thinking Jarred did know plenty about refilling the spirit body, Harding clarified, "Basically you're always passing a bit of spirit through you, but then when you expend it the level of spirit in the area increases. I'm just calling that whole collective, churning pool of free spirit the ambient."

Jarred nodded along before adding, "And sometimes the, ah, ambient changes. It can be richer in some areas, right?"

"Correct."

"So, ambient control is what?"

"A thing I'm working out, but I'm sure that it has to exist in higher level Spiritualism teachings. Probably the kind of stuff they don't teach the public, held only for the sworn brothers you know? But the idea is to push or pull the ambient."

"Why?"

"To collect it towards and into you. The more you're injecting inwards, the more you can push out through your seeds."

Jarred's eyes glazed over for a second as his mind generated possibilities. "That could be very useful. It might even be enough to win battles."

"Maybe."

"Could you do ambient denial?"

Harding arched an eyebrow and thought about it. "Maybe… but you would have to be pretty close? I'm not sure."

"If you could lock someone out, that could change some duel matchups drastically."

Harding shrugged, "I'm sure it's a known thing to the higher ups. I just don't have a teacher right now, so I'm doing what I can on my own."

Jarred tried to hide his wince but failed. As thoughtless as he could be sometimes, the young noble seemed sensitive about Harding's velvet incarceration. He tentatively asked, "What do you need for your training?"

"On Spiritualism, I'm ok for a while. I've got my books to work through. What I really need is to learn combat.”

“What kind of combat?”

“Everything, apparently.”

“I’m ok at dueling, but I've only done a little martial combat. It's hard to train with so few people.“ He added with shame, "And my first expedition to face an actual monster...”

Harding momentarily pondered how an hour out of the capital with a lackey, bodyguard, and a hired laborer qualified as an expedition.

“Do you know how long I’ll be here,” asked Harding. It was a subject he’d avoided bringing up but he really needed to get back to training and he missed his friends.

“I’d imagine a week total at least,” Jarred weakly admitted. “I’m not sure what is going on, but the barracks here have been filling. A bunch of house blades have been coming in from other posts over the last couple days.”

“How many is that,” Harding asked out of curiosity.

“Thirty-ish? Housed within the walls at least. There might be more in nearby inns.”

“How many are normally here?”

“It depends who is here, but with just Jasika and me here? Maybe eight?"

"Oh."

"Some are always here, some rotate around, some just stay a few days to gather before they continue on some mission. That’s all the Marshal's job, so I don't pay it much attention.”

They chatted for a while about House Garnet's military obligations to kingdom and empire before Jarred excused himself and left Harding to his nightly routine.

The next morning brought a curt knock on Harding's door as he did his ritual meditation. It was a bit early for Jarred’s normal arrival, but Harding’s sense of time was nonexistent when meditating on his spirit body. “It’s open,” he called, sitting as usual on the floor between the chairs in his underpants. He drifted back into himself to finish. Jarred had been attempting to mirror him lately in brief meditation before training.

Instead of the familiar teen plopping to the ground next to him, the soft slip of fabric on metal suddenly brought Harding’s attention back. He looked up to find Knight-Commander Vostek standing there, bemusedly looking down at him. He was dressed in the House uniform, but had his hands resting on the pommels of his sword and dagger as if they were portable arm rests.

Seeing that Harding had looked up, the knight spoke. “I have come to inform you that the expedition, of which you have played a critical role in triggering, will be leaving tomorrow. Due to the unusual logistics for this venture, there is a capacity for extra members. Master Jarred has requested that you accompany him as his personal staff in the stead of his Instructor or Steward. You would be expected to serve in that function for the duration.”

Harding stared at him, trying to disassemble what had been said while not being overly distracted by the contrast of the stiffness of Vostek's speech with the casualness of his stance. Both seemed overly out of character for the Knight-Commander, Harding had found him respectfully formal but practically flexible.

Oh, it's a formal invitation.

Harding asked the only question he had learned for these types of things, “Do I pack my own provisions or is that part of the logistical surplus?"

The knight gave a single, stiff nod in recognition of a valid question. “Pack for a day, but barring emergencies the logistics train should provide with plenty.”

"And how long will we be gone?"

"Unknown, but the current plan is overnight in the field."

“When do we leave?”

“Meet at the front gate by sunrise tomorrow.”

“Very well. Thank you Knight-Commander for the honor of personally informing me,” returned Harding, attempting to be formal despite his cross-legged position on the rug.

Vostek smiled at him, though Harding was unsure if it was in appreciation or amusement. He turned to go but then stopped. When he spoke he did not face Harding, “I am glad the young Master will have a friend at his side instead of a coward or a fop. No matter how untrained the squire may be, it is of benefit to a young Master to experience the bonds of a campaign.” With that he walked off and out the suite.

His friend.

“Well, shit,” Harding exclaimed to the empty room. And with that he packed his things and tried to imagine what he might need to request from the kitchen. It would be a long night of anticipation.

He had little to pack as he owned little. It seemed imprudent to pack his valuables, but he inserted the voidseed in his Heart. It wouldn't give him any bonuses, but it was a handy carry method for his training equipment. With the staff packed away in that gate as well, all that was left for him was the small backpack Sancliff had given him and whatever remained in it.

Jarred was busy all day with house business and the whole place had become a swarm of activity. The Duke and Duchess had arrived that morning with another contingent of lancers. Belatedly, Harding realized that all the noble family must each travel with some set of guards. The number of nobility present would affect the quantity of guards in the area.

Having done his practice all day, mixed with some longer cycles to take on outstanding tasks at home, Harding was left with an empty night. He restlessly flitted between his learning focuses, failing in turn to focus on any.

For all the eagerness for the next day, the morning came too soon. Harding crawled out of bed and went to the servant’s outhouse. After his morning constitutional, he walked to the gate yard and found an odd scene.

Harding expected wagons or carts brimming with supplies. Instead, there were several pallets sitting on the crushed stone path, stacked tall with firkins and pins. The last of them was stacked with flat, wide wooden crates. There were no animals or wheeled devices, nothing he would expect for transport. A few servants milled about and about a dozen guards sat and stood in a cluster along the low garden wall. Harding recognized Jones and Campton, but no one else by name. Awkwardly, he stood to the side and just listened to the men.

A man with an impossibly thick accent mixed with a whistle in his speech was told of some exploit. It was entirely incomprehensible to him, instead only conveying his general invective.

“What did he say,” asked a man with coffee colored skin and an enormous mustache.

“Damn Whis’, you really should see a priest or something about that,” replied another man of the tall blonde build Harding had come to recognize as being of the northerners of the kingdom.

Whis’ laughter was at least understandable, as was his playfully extended finger.

“Even if he did get that fixed, it wouldn’t fix his Kanchet accent,” added Campton.

Whis changed the target of his indecipherable ire to Compton. As ill tempered as the big man seemed, Harding could see a smile peek out between the extended strings of expletives.

“What,” asked Mustache, clearly unable to decipher Whis like the rest of them could.

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“Even if you fixed Whistler’s mouth and accent, his Scyphor-reamed empty skull still wouldn’t make no sense,” predicted a broad woman with brown stubble for hair. She wrinkled her face in mock disgust, making her crooked nose all the more pronounced. Her eyes gleamed, wide open and grinning.

“Don’t listen to Bett," Campton comforted Whis, "she's just mad you broke her nose."

“Twice,” Bett exclaimed. “Damned moron can fight, but can’t get up from a table with any liquor in him.”

And on they went, the constant and referential banter of long acquaintances. Men and women who trusted each other with their lives, but not their rations. Harding hopped up on a garden half-wall and closed his eyes. The sun, peeking over the estate walls, bathed him in warmth. Eyes closed, he began repeatedly passing his awareness over and through his spirit body. With each repetition he gained deeper inner awareness.

"You're the Okkor Monk, yeah," asked a high-pitched female voice.

Harding opened his eyes to find a female in a very serious set of mail and plate standing before him. Next to her was a tall man, handsome in his features and wearing a simple breast plate over a gambeson. The man leaned casually on his halberd as he lazily examined Harding. Having given up correcting people about him being a monk, Harding agreed, "Yep, that's me."

"Good. I'm Lieutenant Bitterman. I am Knight-Commander Vostek's second. This is Sergeant Holtz, he'll be your team leader," she announced before promptly turning and walking off.

"Thanks Tart," called a friendly Holtz. Bitterman held up an arm, flipping him off as she walked away.

"Tart," asked Harding cautiously when she was gone.

"Yep, the common pastry back in the Run is made with Bitterberries. And ah, combined with her friendly disposition, that earned her the nickname when she was still a recruit."

"Ah, ok." Harding introduced himself, "I'm Harding Hill. Okkor aspirant and member of the Guard association."

Holtz flashed a friendly smile. "Sergeant Alan Holtz, House Garnet Sergeant."

"So, I follow you," Harding queried as he slid off the wall to his feet.

"What, now? You can if you want but we aren't currently doing anything but waiting," Holtz offered with a shrug. "In the field though you technically follow Master Jarred, while I act as his liaison with the larger force."

Harding arched his eyebrow at the weird command structure.

Holtz looked around and admitted quietly, "Which means I strongly suggest what to do and they do it. The Master and Maid, however, retain their authority due to nobility. Technically, I have no business giving them orders."

Politics and rank.

Harding clarified, "So, I follow Jarred but you'll be guiding him."

"See, now you've got it," grinned Holtz.

Harding scowled slightly. He could already tell Holtz was one of those impossibly happy people. The kind that generated equal parts annoyance and appreciation in everyone. Harding was already instinctively trying to hate him and failing.

They stood around in silence for a few minutes before Jasika walked up, her austere trainer trailing her like a living shadow. "Holtz," Jasika allowed in a voice like herself; quiet, small and intense. "You are the liaison officer."

Harding honestly couldn't tell if it had been a question or declaration. Her face was flat in affect, though possibly with a slight draw in the lips.

Is that a smile or a grimace?

Harding wondered if her instructor had taught her that too. Their expressions matched. Holtz bowed in acknowledgement, choosing to remain silent.

Smart man.

Jasika glanced at Harding before promptly ignoring them both. In an attempt to break the awkward silence, Harding looked over at Holtz and said, "May I ask a question?"

"Sure," agreed Holtz cheerfully.

"Why are the guards so varied in gear? Knowing what we are facing, isn't there an optimal set? Polearms to fight monsters, that sort of thing?"

Holtz laughed and then through his waning chuckles responded, "The guards aren't going, but I understand your question. Truthfully, we've no clue what we are facing. And, you rarely do. Selling out might work in a duel, but life is much more cruel."

Harding noticed Jasika's posture change, she was clearly listening even though she pretended otherwise.

"As for the rest," Holtz clarified as he again leaned casually on his Halberd, "Well, when life is at risk you use what you are most effective with. Also, seeds influence squad roles and combat methods making mundane arms take different roles."

Harding thought about it and found it rational. The prevalence of magic challenged the validity of his preconceptions. In smaller bands of combatants, maximizing individual capabilities probably outperformed the benefits of unit homogeny. Only partially in jest he asked, "But no uniforms?"

"Oh we got our parade uniforms, house banners and all that," Holtz assured him. "But we aren't line soldiers and we aren't in the public operating in an official capacity."

Harding scratched his chin absently, the sun's intensity was growing and there was no shade where they stood.

"Ok, how about this one," he started, intentionally killing time. "I've heard guard, blade and lancer. What is the correct term?"

"Depends."

Harding sighed.

"We are all guards by duty, though we do other things as well which supersede that descriptor."

"So guard is a description of a duty."

"Aye. And a seeded man-at-arms with ranged offensive spell capability is a lancer."

"So, some of you are lancers, but not all."

"Correct."

"And blades?"

"Slang, technically, but it's popular among the men despite being a bit of an insult? It's like a dangerous underling. The guys a boss sends to mess someone up."

"Heh."

The answers revealed something to Harding though, if lancer was a descriptive clarification of capability then it could possibly be a hint at the native class system.

"Is that definition of lancer just used by this house," he probed.

"Nah, it's Imperial."

"Then what are the others?"

Just then movement caught Harding's attention as a large and imposing man walked into the yard from the main house. He wore all red enameled armor with embossed designs and gilded edges. From his belt hung an ax and an unusual small sword. Following in his wake were Vostek and Jarred.

Presumably, the Duke has arrived.

The man stopped at the edge of the gravel path, all eyes on him. "Men," he announced in a clear and projected voice. The chatting stopped and they all looked on with a solemn eagerness, "Today we embark on an expedition whose success will greatly improve the house's position. In our destruction of this enemy, we will acquire opportunities whose bounty will be reflected upon you." There he paused, letting the armsmen process.

Does he mean performance bonuses?

"We do not know what awaits us in the dark, but we do know you are capable against any foe. Already some of you cut down a Nightmare elemental. My expectation is that we will encounter further denizens of the Dream, however it is also a place of power. Old and sealed, there is no telling what lurks within. We face the unknown knowing that we will prevail," he exclaimed.

The men cheered on cue.

He motioned to a few nearby house blades and they joined him. Among them was Lieutenant Bitterman, who stepped forward and yelled, "Form up and get your asses ready, we portal out in five."

She spun on a foot and returned to the command group.

The men started tightening up around their sergeants for last minute preparations. Already standing next to Holtz, Harding pondered the duke's message. Part of him felt underwhelmed as he had desired some epically rousing speech, but the reality was they were just going to go explore some new dungeon. It wasn't like they were defending their homes from invasion or fighting oppressive tyranny. They also still had travel time and maybe camp to set up too.

Despite being a world first, this is essentially just a loot run for them. Though, maybe a rich one if they felt the need to kidnap me to keep it secret.

The ease with which they assembled suggested familiarity with their assigned teams. Harding wondered if the other teams had unique strategies or themes, but was sure his team was formed around babysitting the duke's kids. Not that he could complain, this would be content far past his ability and his group was the most likely to be kept safe.

Jarred approached from his dad's side, helmet clutched under an arm and his face all smiles. "Hey Holtz, good to see you." They grasped each other's arm at the elbow in a familiar and practiced embrace before Jarred looked over at Harding. "Holtz here guarded me until I was old enough to take care of myself," he explained.

"He's still guarding you," Harding pointed out.

Jasika snorted, delicately. It was the first thing Harding had seen her do that didn't seem like she was trying to kill it.

She even ignores me violently.

Holtz and Jarred chuckled and began to catch up while quickly checking each other's armor. Stocke and Jasika stood there motionless. Presumably they had already done a check, but maybe they were just too proper to adjust each other's gear in public. Harding couldn't read them.

I am such an outsider here.

After their little display, Jarred was back on mission. "Ok Holtz, what's the formation today?"

"Browne is center-one, Campton is left-two, Enegram is right-three, and Bitterman is center-four. We have rear-left five while Dahl has rear-right-six," Holtz rattled off

"Understood," Jarred confirmed. The sergeant's explanation made no sense to Harding, but all he had to do was follow Jarred. The reduction of tasks made things simple, but left Harding with a feeling of disempowerment.

"Uh, what about grouping," Harding asked, suddenly remembering his past follies.

Holtz pointed at the supplies piled up in the courtyard, surrounded by a troop of liveried porters. "The barrel with the golden bands is our raid token, join it and it will add you."

"Join the barrel?"

"A raid uses the camp as the anchor. Allows for people to come and go without disruption."

Harding shrugged, walked over to the barrel and tapped it with his journal. Opening to the Social tab he found that he had joined House Garnet Expedition 2. The title made him wonder what else the Garnets were doing and if anyone could just join the raid.

Maybe Life knows I'm approved?

Walking back to his team, Harding found he was full of anticipation. Everything just seemed more vivid. He kept looking around, watching the small crowds check each other's armor and sort out their individual last minute instructions. The porters stood around the amassed pile of supplies, waiting with visible boredom. Harding smiled broadly at them.

That would have been me less than a week ago.

Men had erected two stanchions about five feet apart. They were made of wood and metal, all of which was painted black and topped with flags. Their flags were neither the house coat nor were they a matching pair. Standing on their own, they were reminiscent of the Grinder's crowd shield apparatus on a smaller scale. Several blades hovered around them, working magic Harding could feel.

A loud, wet snap sounded.

Harding jumped at the sound which caused Jarred to chuckle. Harding studied the black rectangle which was contained between the stanchions as a wave of violet spirit rolled past. Harding found the light absorbing nothingness concerning. There was no warning, nothing to indicate there was something there other than the void.

It's like a wound in reality.

"First time portaling," asked Jarred at his elbow.

"Yeah."

"Don't worry about it, it isn't like things from another dimension are going to pull you through."

Harding grimaced.

Just the thoughts I needed.

Jarred was, if possible, smiling even wider as he watched the men line up. As they started to walk through at a measured pace, Harding asked, "You just walk through then?"

"Yep. Just keep spaced out and don't stop."

"Or else?"

"Uh, you block the guy behind you and look like an ass?"

Harding smirked, which only further amused the teen. The adventure had Jarred in a rare mood. Between Jarred and Holtz, it was hard to not succumb to the excitement and enjoy it.

Holtz wandered to the forming portal line and the team followed. Harding watched as Holtz and then Jarred walked through the silent rent in space. There was no indication something had happened other than that they were gone. This close to the portal, Harding could feel a stream of spirit flowing out of it. The leaking spirit was denser than the ambient and thrummed as it was slowly washed out.

Harding stepped through.

He came out the other side experiencing no sensation nor delay to the travel. While it was physically similar to passing through a door frame, the sudden change in surroundings was mentally disorientating. His brain paused but a voice loudly ordered, "Keep moving!"

Harding stepped forward just in time. Jasika came through behind him, momentarily so close he could feel her spirit against his. Harding breathed with relief as he tracked towards Jarred, having narrowly avoided causing an incident.

She'd probably have stabbed me in the kidney if there'd been contact…

The portal had exited right along the edge of the hillside, close to the spot where they had defeated the Nightmare earlier that week. It was defined by two stanchions which also sported mismatching flags.

Each team gathered on the other side and they all stood around talking quietly as the others came through. The leadership squad was once again conferring. It was noticeably cooler in the shadow of the rock, despite not being that far away. There was a faint breeze as well and Harding could feel the spirit slowly draining through the portal.

Spirit tries to balance itself through the portal, like the world doesn't realize that the connection is artificial.

The leadership group consisted of the duke, Vostek and Bitterman. The others in that squad seemed to not be participants in their council. No other officers joined them either. They seemed to be kept busy elsewhere.

As an accentuation of that thought a stream of porters arrived through the portal all carrying crates, both individually and in tandems. They all came through, then turned around and all went back only to come back through again. As the porters transferred goods, Harding took the time to examine the woods. There was a small team of three house blades standing near the portal with four horses tied to a line strung a ways off.

They must be the advance team.

Lieutenant Bitterman whistled shrilly and put her arm in the air. She swirled it slowly and then yelled for them to advance as she brought it down. A different group advanced, walking along the cliff face and slipping into a fissure in the rock wall.

The groups filled forward, Holtz leading them after the leadership group. The line slowly disappeared into the fissure. The cramped space required them to be stooped and shambling. Bent over slightly to protect his head, Harding shuffled forward behind Jarred.

The way was lit by yellow-tinted alchemical flares. Some had been deposited along the uneven and gradually ascending floor while the team leads carried lights. This left deep and moving shadows with limited light in the cramped press of bodies.

The damp rock floor and low ceiling proved challenging, even when the fissure opened up into a cavern. There someone had cleared a rough path through the abundant speleothems and soon they were back into another fissure.

Despite tool markings on the walls suggesting the way had been manually opened, Harding heard the occasional scrape of armor on stone. Several times a choked grunt or vicious string of curses as someone didn't duck low enough. Even more common was the sound of someone tripping on the rough floor.

They traveled through a series of caverns but the pace was extremely slow. Harding began to wonder how far it would be as the realities of being underground settled in his mind. At one point the passage was so small they were forced to crawl on hands and knees.

Worst dungeon crawl ever.

The men seemed to agree by the amount of muffled swearing. Harding discovered that robes were not made with crawling in mind. At the end of that hated passage though, Harding could see the dim light of an open area just past Jarred's armored rear. He nearly tripped in his eagerness to be out that the rock had given way to cut stone.

Claustrophobia simulator, thanks for the future nightmares.

The exit opened into a vast darkness. The group's lights did little but reveal the ground and the wall from which they had exited. The blackness surrounding them was aggressive. Harding stood next to Jarred and stretched. The freedom to do so was euphoric. He didn't mind so much the neverending darkness in this imprisoning underground in his joy to be able to simply move. The groups were still packed together though as they attempted to take up as little space as they could while filing through the crack.

Not like our light pollution wouldn't be noticed.

"Heh," chortled Holtz, "Glad I didn't wear metal-soled boots."

I wonder what Bart is up to.

Harding looked down in curiosity, the rock floor was polished down to a smoothness that looked as if it had been poured. Strangely, it didn't feel slippery when walking, but combat might prove precarious.

The alchemists need to invent rubber.

"A retreat won't be possible here," said a woman. Harding didn't catch who the speaker was in the press of people, but they were disturbingly accurate. If they started losing the fight down here it would turn into a slaughter. There was no quick egress.

"Ready," called Bitterman. Her high voice was hard. Harding wondered if the command was intended to interrupt the thoughts of the impossibility of retreat.

Magic ripped into the air and washed over him with too many frequencies for his mind to taste. As the eddies in the ambient were still pounding against him, Bitterman yelled, "Light it up!”

A man stepped forward with what looked like a crude gun to Harding. Shouldering it, he fired. The noise of it was uncomfortable, made worse by the flat stone surroundings, but ended in a satisfying elongated pop. From it launched a hissing and crackling projectile that bathed the world in a bright white light as it sped burning through the black.

It arched upwards in a phosphorescent streak to plink off the ceiling with a metallic report and skip downward. Driving back into the floor, it spun violently as it slid a ways before finally coming to rest against the far wall over a hundred yards away.

The man broke open the breech of his device and reloaded with practiced hands, wisps of smoke rising from the action in the glow. Having slammed another munition in, he shouldered and fired along the perpendicular wall. He managed not to hit the ceiling as hard this time, but the flare disappeared through some kind of balcony or rampart that was flush with the wall.

There were small sounds of surprise around him at that revelation. The distance wasn't even fifty yards, but the base was still in darkness as the flare had gone deep into whatever chambers laid beyond.

Harding could already see movements in the shadows, something he wouldn't have even noticed before his night in the woods. By the time the man had fired a third time into the far corner, Bitterman had called for her men to maneuver.

"Spread it out," called Bitterman. "We have enemies near."

One team stayed with the long wall, but went forward ten paces. The others matched down the short wall and then out. Harding's team stayed put other than stepping off the wall and making sure they were clear enough from each other to fight without being isolated.

Almost immediately he heard a woman yell, "Gate." An alchemical flare burst into life from that direction and was tossed into some kind of small alcove which Harding couldn't see into from his position. Light spilled out though, its projection cutting through the gloom.

That's not the castle-like wall.

The first team took a position just forward of the gate and held while another moved past them until they lit up the far wall. The remaining two teams filed in behind them, the command group taking center. Spread out, they were three teams wide and two deep across the shorter wall of the rectangular expanse.

Bitterman yelled, "Probe forward!"

And with that the lead groups slowly started walking forward, their support groups trailing. Everyone moved slowly, watching the floor, walls and ceiling. The splinters seemed to compress back, hesitant to engage such a strong force.

"Bones," a voice on the far side called out.

Everyone stopped.

"Report," yelled the Knight-Commander.

"Uh, really large bones?"

Chuckles in the dark.

"Uhm, maybe a big troll or even a tyrant? And a massive sword stuck in the wall."

"In the wall?"

"Yes sir, stabbed right into the stone."

Harding looked but all he could see was shadows too large to be a sword behind that team.

"Splinters, many," called out a new voice, right in front of Harding from Group Two.

Whis' unmistakable voice called out next, still completely unintelligible to him.

"Here too," yelled Group Three over by the bones.

"Fighting Advance, Clear the Field," came Bitterman's hard edged command.

Flashes of divine energy lit off like fireworks, the sudden lights in the darkness destroying Harding's vision. A twenty yard cube popped into existence in the middle of the floor. It didn't emit light, instead everything within it was illuminated and faintly outlined in a glowing dark blue. Every Splinter caught in it was immediately brought down in lances and blasts.

"That's an amazing use of illusion," Holtz commented between spells.

"I can do that," exclaimed Jarred. He concentrated for a moment and a light cube appeared out in front of the leading line. It was the same red cast-ket he had used before. While much smaller and already starting to collapse in shrinking steps, it killed instead of just illuminated every Splinter that made contact with it.

A fireball streaked out into the darkness. It didn't end in an explosion as he expected, instead it splashed and coated everything in a ravenous liquid flame. The splinters caught in it didn't have time to run. They existed for half a second before collapsing under the fire leaving a brief outline before the fire fell to the floor. The fire on the floor continued to sputter and burn as it slowly crept forward.

That is terrifying, like a giant catapulted balloon of living napalm.

Not letting an opportunity go to waste, Jasika stepped forward and suddenly pulled hard on the ambient. Harding could feel the world's spirit shift towards her inhale in a pull greater than any arena contestant he'd ever seen. The chamber was a mad cacophony of combat, but Harding could still hear her spell growing just as well as he could feel it. An angry crackling hissed before a cascade of lightning rushed out in front of the line. Harding was blinded by the blue-white shock, but had seen it fill at least half the room.

Though momentarily blind, he was sure she'd just brought everything down in front of their entire wing. In curiosity, Harding cast out flat and wide and encountered nothing but the hard presences of the house forces to the front. However, a group of splinters were amassing behind them and he quickly mass keyed them down.

"Holtz," he yelled, "they're getting behind us."

"Aye. Keep it bright behind us and just keep pushing forward," he replied casually.

There's only a few glow stick flares back there…

It was madness to Harding, to push deeper and not keep their retreat clear but they certainly knew more than he did. He glanced back at the dim lights as the gently flared.

Brighter? Does that mean magic present?

Adopting it as his task, Harding cast, drew, and keyed again.

Three more.

The house forces were destroying the splinters with ease.

This will be over soon.

And as if summoned by overconfidence itself, an all too familiar roar echoed down the stone room. The roar was joined by another, closer and above.

Before anyone could even call out for it, a flare shot out from the center along the ceiling and fell behind a newly revealed rampart across from the other one, light pouring out through the crenulations.

"Up," shouted Vostek as a demonic looking Nightmare elemental roared in displeasure at the bright, hissing light being shot at it.

With one giant claw placed on top of a merlon, it vaulted over the wall and dropped the nearly thirty feet to the floor with ease. Amid the blades, it lowered its head and roared. Two roars came back from the darkness.

There wasn't much Harding thought he could do to it, so he looked for splinters to ward off.

"Two, Four, Five- burn it. One, Three, Six- Screen Front," yelled Bitterman over the racket of nightmares, steel and magic.

The ambient was sucked dry in a second, before becoming a tsunami of spirit as a massive wall of magic broke on the monster of solidified shadow. Harding didn't see the magic as he was watching backwards for opportunistic attackers, but he felt it like a sudden searing flash in spirit followed by scorching magic in the physical. The demon roared and men shouted before he heard a human scream.

Harding mass keyed again and only felt a single pop. He had to assume that the other teams had their backs covered as he couldn't reach across the field.

This place is bigger than a football field.

Harding turned just in time to watch an elemental crush the man he was holding. Bones splintered, skin split and fluids burst. The monster swung the remains at the nearby team and let go which caused them to scatter out of the way of the flung corpse. It pivoted and brought its other arm into Harding's team.

Harding watched as the massive shadow hand came down at him. His mind and body froze beneath the splayed claws.

Jarred impacted into Harding, knocking him over.

He fell to the rock floor roughly and looked up to watch Jarred be picked up by the Nightmare elemental. The attacks on the elemental were continuous, but seemed to do little in hindering its deadly movement.

A solid tendril of lightning shot out of Jasika's hand and wrapped around the elemental's wrist. It screamed in pain, unable to move the trapped appendage as the shadow surface bubbled and smoked midnight vapors beneath its violent tether.

Anchored like that and focused on its entrapped hand, it was oblivious to the charge of blades who laid into ferociously with steel and sorcery. The nightmare visibly shook from the impacts and tried to turn into them. It couldn't control its arm, but the arm was attached to its body. The sudden rotation of its torso flung Jasika.

With impressive will, she held her spell even as her armor skidded and scraped over the floor. Staff popping into hand, Harding brought it down in a vicious chop onto the elemental's hand while blasting everything he had through the staff.

Whether it be monster anatomy or luck, his chop struck the base of the elemental's thumb. He didn't know if it was his attack or Jasika's shocking binding, but the blow opened the elemental’s grip on Jarred and he was dropped. Jarred fell to the ground and cried out in pain. He laid at the nightmare's feet forgotten as its rage focused on the harming blades. Harding watched the battered youth look up and find his father before crawling towards him.

"Four, Switch Front," boomed Bitterman’s amplified voice.

Jasika, standing once more, created another tendril of lightning from her other hand. She lashed the elemental repeatedly, viciously slashing it's back with her whip of pulsating lightning.

Harding was sure the thing would never die.

And like that, it broke into an inky cloud bathed in the chemical light, a lump falling from its core. Rancid tasting spirit washed over him. Holtz cheered and was matched by voices from the other team as they stared at each other through the gap in space where the elemental had just existed.

Bitterman broke the trance, "Two, Five- Push."

The men snapped out of it and focused on the battles raging elsewhere. Two more of the Nightmares fought, the blades holding them more to a contest of endurance than any achievement of destruction. Harding saw one fight where the blade was taking the blows without giving, nearly as much magic hitting the warrior as the elemental.

Jarred was still crawling towards his father as the man turned and joined the charge against the next. Holtz knelt beside him to render aid. Jasika was wobbly but on her feet which Harding begrudgingly found impressive considering the amount of energy she had pushed.

He took a step towards Jarred when he heard Instructor Stocke gasp. Harding turned to see her as she was already falling forward, spin and flash her narrow sword in the haze. The blade passed through two splinters before she hit the ground hard. She laid there grimacing, her head having struck the floor hard, but no other splinters tried her.

Shit.

Harding went back to his cast-pause-draw sequence, keying when he discovered a presence. He had lost focus of his task, his concern for Jarred putting others at risk. "Stay close and I'll keep the splinters away," he promised.

It was all he could do. He had no ability to ease Jarred's pain nor could he treat Stocke's slashes. The only useful thing he could provide here was hunting and killing the splinters that would otherwise prey on them.

Battle raged on across the chamber as groups fought the other elementals. One group continued trade blows with theirs while all the rest swarmed down the second. After a moment of safety, Jasika determined that Stocke's cuts were minor and the two went off to join the duke.

Only Holtz and Harding, along with a hobbled Jarred, held their team's responsibility and kept the splinters off the other combatants’ backs. Holtz stood over Jarred, but even laid out Jarred managed to throw spells when any density of the scavenging shadows was detected. Harding drifted to the middle of the vast field, sweeping and clearing away any that dared risk approaching. Holtz supported with distorted purple bolts, but his attention was on guarding Jarred.

Harding felt like he was going to collapse. He'd channeled so much energy he felt both fevered and numb. The only reason he could keep going was that he had stopped thinking. He was just doing the same actions over and over.

Cast… one-two-three, draw. Cast… one-two-three, draw.

He was unaware of when both elementals were destroyed, only the physical presences of the returning blades. His mind just ignored them though lost in his tormented cycle. Holtz's hand on his shoulder roused his awareness and he crouched, extended an arm down and toppled onto his ass.

Harding sat there gasping. He was so exhausted even the pain was numb. His thoughts were evasive, his awareness slowed and his body would occasionally have minor muscle spasms. Someone, perhaps Holtz, gave him a waterskin which he clutched to himself for comfort as much as he drank from it.

By the time his mind was able to consistently make sense of what he was looking at, the men had the casualties grouped and triage started. Any man who could still fight gathered around Vostek as he maneuvered them into new teams.

"Moving in five," yelled a slightly hoarse Bitterman.

How?

Harding looked up at a smiling Holtz who seemed to read his mind. "Open gate on the other side, we have to keep pushing until we are secure."

"Shit..."

"Mhm."

"Jarred?"

"He's being taken care of, but for all of us the only way out is through."

Harding stood and leaned on his staff, mimicking Holtz's common stance with his Halberd. As he gulped air his body shook and strange burning sensations flared and disappeared under his skin. In the afforded pause, Harding revisited his past eagerness to delve dungeons.

I'm an idiot.

Far too soon, Bitterman was waving in the air and calling for an advance. Besides the occasionally bold Splinter though, there were no further contacts made until they reached the end of the room. There were a few more calls of "Bones", but instead of the earlier excitement of discovery it was now more of a caution of unsure footing.

"Gate," yelled Vostek, even though everyone had been eyeing it as they approached. At the call someone lit a flare and tossed it through the massive entryway.

They had set procedures and they were following them.

It was wide enough for two horse-drawn carts and half again as tall, though the bottom of the raised portcullis took up a bit of the top of the arch. Through it was a four-way junction and each direction had a matching gateway.

All stood open.

There's no way we can make it through three more…

"Jones, which way to the source," Vostek requested. He spoke at a regular volume but all could hear him as they stood in silence. "Left, sir, definitely left."

"Left it is then…"

Bitterman automatically called out, "Turn Left and Advance."

Harding hadn't thought of it, but actively sensing showed a definite current in the ambient.

The force of blades stalked down the left passage. It bent in a gradual arc and, for a while, they could not see neither their origin nor destination. The surfaces were smooth rock, not the massive cut stone blocks of the great ward they'd left. It was as if someone had just deleted a passageway from existence. The corridor eventually emptied through a framed threshold into a large chamber with a vaulted ceiling.

"Addion's hairy hangers," muttered someone in the group.

On the floor was a gold inlaid compound enneagram whose center was twelve feet across. The floor was missing within that central nonagon, replaced with an inky void radiating soft violet light. Energy pulsed from it like an arterial wound. It tasted wrong to Harding, colorless but darker than the ambient.

Everyone stood transfixed until Bitterman muttered, "It's a giant fucking open portal."

"Not just any portal, that’s the Veil of Dreams," supplied Jones.

"How do we close it," implored Vostek.

Jones shrugged, "This isn't my kind of magic, but it's built into this room and not some makeshift ritual. Maybe there's a lever."

The men started to look around. Harding attempted to sense but he was drowned by the raw waves washing out. Out of the portal came a faint, bubbling roar. It was definitely not a Nightmare elemental, much more massive and strangely melodic.

It's like a gurgling whale song…

"Closing it faster would be good," urged Duke Garnet.

"Found something, looks like a key," called a voice up front.

The crowd parted as Vostek walked over, Jones and Harding drifting in his wake. The knight bent down on a knee and examined the gold disc inlaid in the floor surrounded by a socket of a bluish metal. It sat just off, but connected by a line, to the union of two of the outer lines of the ritual.

A giant tentacle suddenly snaked out of the open portal and snatched a guy, dragging him back through. Harding could see the man's terror, but he seemed unable to scream in the crushing coil.

"Check the corners for keys, weapons up and face the portal," yelled Vostek.

"Here's one," came a call.

"Here's another."

"And another."

"Here's two more," called another.

There were nine in total.

"Let's try the keys simultaneously. If you can key, go to a lock. If you can't, kill anything that comes out of that portal."

And kill they did, though the escaping splinters were the least of the issues. In the roughly ten seconds it took to position and coordinate keying, two tentacles as thick as barrels thrust out of the portal, reaching for flesh. Each was lined with hooked suckers and eyes that leaked a purple slime down the smooth gray-green skin.

Quickly ichor coated the blades as they savagely hacked at them, other attacks having seemingly little effect. Harding briefly wondered if he would have to mass key the ritual, and if that even worked. But, on Bitterman's call they all keyed and the portal winked out.

Two meaty tentacles, severed by the portal closing, slapped wetly against the floor for a moment before the flesh rotted and turned to dust in seconds.

"Well that was some shit," rumbled Duke Garnet in the sudden quiet.

Holtz chuckled and slapped Harding's back. The men breathed a collective sigh of relief and relaxed. The alien energy was gone, leaving a dull but plentiful ambient that felt the same hum as what Harding equated as the normal state of spirit. The men paused for breath.

"What exactly," Harding inquired of Jones, "Is this dream veil thing?"

Jones exhaled noisily and gave a questioning frown before shrugging. "It's the barrier between the living and the dead."

His explanation made little sense to Harding but seemed exhaustive without him pressing on topics like the construction of reality itself. Intriguing, but not appropriate as men were bandaging wounds.

After a few minutes they walked back to the junction and explored the other passages. From the original orientation, the straight path had curved in a massive gatehouse. They surmised that they were on the other side of the known exterior gate. The mechanisms of control were not readily apparent and Harding was left with the impression that they didn't want them open anyways.

The right passage was a mirror of the left, though the hallway and portal were inverted in orientation. Thankfully, that inverted portal was closed.

Weary and bloody, the group limped back to the initial, large ward. Holtz stepped on one of the large bones and wrenched his ankle, so Harding walked with him to give him support instead of using the Halberd's butt end.

When they got back to the injured, Harding found that they had created a small camp around the fissure in the wall. At some point porters and several guards had hauled in a pair of portal stanchions and goods were now being brought in as tents were erected.

They're building a small city.

Harding looked at the two long walls of ramparts and wondered how they'd been cleared. It certainly wasn't his place to call them on it. Slowly the place grew from a handful of people sitting inside flares and tending wounds to a tent city with lampposts pushing back the mountain's perpetual dark.

Men were sent up into the parapets, but both were sealed from the other side. Guards were stationed to watch for any remaining splinters. With the portal closed though it was believed that their numbers wouldn't replenish. Hale blades hunted the shadows to extinction.

Some degree of interest was shown in the giant bone piles. They found five mostly intact skeletal remains of some humanoid that was probably about ten feet tall when living. Of special interest though was the giant sword that had pinned one to the wall and been left there struck into the stone. Also, he heard that Jones had found a ring in the bones that was about the size of a woman's bracelet.

Harding collected some food and drink and sought out Jared. He was in the family tent, a massive multiroom thing in the center of camp.

Sitting with Jarred, they ate a meal of bread, cheese, dried meat and a scoop of gravy. Even with the gravy though, it was unpleasantly dry. They ate in silence, partially due to the state of the food but mostly out of hunger and exhaustion.

"So what now," Harding eventually asked after the meal.

"We spend the night and get rested."

"Inside this place?"

"You’d rather be out in the dark woods again? To keep that camp hidden they will have no fire."

"Inside's great."

Duke Garnet came into the tent, a piece of bread in hand with a slab of cheese pinned to it with his thumb. Harding started to get up but the duke waved him off. The duke sat on a makeshift stool and looked at Jarred. "How's your situation?"

"They say I'll be mostly functional tomorrow, should be able to fight," Jarred explained, holding up his ankle a bit and slowly rotating the foot. It was puffy and had been lathered with a yellow cream. "It pisses me off, Father," he continued, "It wasn't that much of a drop, I should have been fine."

The duke just shrugged and smiled tiredly at his son. "That's how it goes. One guy gets cut up, but keeps fighting. Next guy gets a nick, but it's just right and he bleeds out."

Hesitant to intrude, Harding still felt it was best said in front of the duke. "Thank you for saving my life back there Jarred. I think I locked up a bit. "

Jarred waved away the gratitude, but Harding saw him smile a little. "You're here as my responsibility," he stated, "and, as a friend. Plus you saved my life with Rhett. I had debt."

Harding could see the pride swell in the duke's eyes.