Hero—Facestealer, thought the third layer—had deposited Hugh back in the kitchen after the trial. He’d even silenced the chef by haughtily telling him that Hugh had been borrowed for greater duties than kitchen work. With that he’d left, leaving only a few short words for Hugh to mull over.

Now, having spent so much of the day scared and confused—Exhilarated and Challenged—Hugh couldn't sleep. He was curled up with another dozen-or-so kitchen scamps around the lingering heat of the ovens, listening to the snores, snorts, and gurgles that made up their body orchestra.

He'd lain awake many times, piecing through the memories of a difficult day, wincing at his mistakes, and dreading the arrival of dawn. But rarely had he had things to really think about. When Hero had revealed his true nature to the mudmen, Hugh had been terrified—Fascinated. He was petrified when Hero had transformed him into the mudman, when he had stolen Hugh’s face to enable their subterfuge—To be reshaped is to be known. To be known is to be tested. He’d worried that he would be trapped in that form and that Hero had taken his shape forever.

Hugh had been sure when the execution of the mudfolk was ordered that Hero was disposing of him, trimming a loose end, how he had yearned to cry out and throw himself at the mercy of the highfolk, to be saved by his betters. But something held him back—I was beginning to See. To Understand. And then Hero had saved him! His good faith had been rewarded—Greater rewards await.

Hugh was still terrified by Hero—Fear of power does not preclude its worship. But even as he finally drifted off to sleep, Hugh kept turning over the final words Hero had left him with: 'Good work today Hugh, we'll make something of you yet'. Those words... Made into what? Anything. Everything.

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After the trials of the day, and still nursing the pounding head I had acquired from Grom’s gentle hand, I returned to the keep to sleep. I grabbed a plate from the kitchen while depositing Hugh, and scurried up to my room to feast on a flank steak and roast potatoes before a wave of exhaustion demanded I attend immediately to the question of exactly how soft my down pillow really was. I was pleased to discover the answer was very.

I was brooding. I finally had a moment to think, a break from the flurry of essential tasks that had hammered at me since my arrival, and all I could do was brood. I, to be fair, had a lot to brood over. Nothing in this place was what it seemed. The fair maiden? Holding some kind of darkness inside her. The oppressed peasantry? Masochist non-humans having a lark. At this rate Roderick was going to turn out to be a considerate and thoughtful egalitarian. At least I could rely on Hugh, he was exactly what he seemed, of that I had no doubt.

If this was the kind of trial the typical heroic types were being thrown into, it was no wonder they'd had a failure streak for a thousand generations. All of this was requiring a hefty amount of lateral thinking—not the usual crusader type's strong suit.

I suspected that for all the mudfolk's oddness and seemingly compliant nature that they were quite able to turn to force if it meant maintaining the comfy status quo they enjoyed. I could easily imagine a noble adventurer type blindly allying themselves with Elskia, committed to the path of justice, and walking among the people to tell them of their impending uplift. Next thing they know a pair of hands has erupted from below, grabbed their ankles, and gooood-bye daylight.

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It wasn't enough to be clever, you had to be weird. With that said, I thought I was doing remarkably well, which honestly worried me. Whatever the Dungeon's intentions were in these heroic trials, the secret sauce it was trying to find, was I inadvertently working to its goals? I wanted to bastard-scheme-cheat-lie my way to victory to poison the data, but it increasingly felt like that was playing directly into its hands.

It was impossible to know with the limited information I had. I resolved to stay the course for now, but I wondered if there would come a point where I would no longer just be looking for vengeance. If I really was the one-in-a-million, when should I start trying to win?

I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I almost didn't notice the scrape of tools in my lock. Thinking back, they had been at it for several minutes, the muffled click-click of the tumblers being tested and gradually set. From their approach I could infer a few things. First and foremost that they didn't have the good courtesy to knock, which meant their intentions were such that they wouldn't be invited in. Second, that they were trying to be subtle. Clearly Roderick had other resources than the odious trio to draw on.

If I shouted and raised a fuss, there was a decent chance I would be heard and they would be forced to flee...or they would abandon discretion and just barrel through, finish me off and go on their way. Of course if I waited they'd get in regardless, and I was very skeptical of my ability to fend off several attackers.

I took stock. My resources consisted of a small cot, a rather paltry steak knife, assorted linens, and a very long fall out my window. I had been put into the one place a Rogue never wants to be: back against the wall and out of tricks.

Well, maybe one trick.

As silently as I could I stood, wrapping my hand in a length of bedding. I went over to the window and smashed the glass with my wrapped fist. The sound of shattering glass crashed through the room.

"Who's there?!" I shouted blearily, and began to tear my room asunder.

I lunged for the cot and tossed it against the wall, feathers poofed out from my pillow and erupted into the air. I flung furniture through the snow of down while screaming invective.

"Guards! Guards! To me! Take that you bastard! And that!" I shattered my stoneware dishes against the ground, carefully grabbing the steak knife from the plate as I ran amok.

"N-n-no it can't be! You're dead?! I saw you die!" I yelled, unable to resist a flare for the dramatic, "NO! Stay back! Aaarrggh!"

I gave my best death rattle and slumped to the ground to imitate a body's fall. There! An impeccable performance. This way we all got something: they got a wonderful little story to tell at their next assassin's get-together of the time their target was murdered right before they had them; and I got to live. I thought it was a lovely compromise.

I heard the unmistakable sound of a door being rather aggressively broken down.

I just can't have nice things.

They were being professional about the whole thing. Fine! Well I really didn't want to do this, but they left me no choice. I was going to kill steal.

It's very difficult to force a blade on yourself, it's even harder when that blade is a somewhat blunt steak knife still greasy from an earlier meal. But desperation is a wonderful motivator. I wanted gruesome but nonlethal: I wanted blood, not bleeding out. The second I began to consider where exactly to place the knife my vision changed, it was like a gradient HUD appeared over my body. I could see the arrangement of major arteries and organs through my own skin. Each organ varied in shade, all the way from the lethal dark red of my heart to the lime green of my skin. Cold-Blood fucking Murder-Guy was telling me how to kill myself and, by proxy, how not to.

Guided by my finally deciphered feat (Intent! It was intent all along!) I set to work. I nicked my forehead and made some long but shallow slashes across my torso. That would do for cosmetic damage, but I needed a convincing lethal blow.

The problem with most stab wounds were that they were slow to kill, I needed something that guaranteed they wouldn't, ahem, try to finish the job.

I placed my shoddy steak knife carefully against my throat, positioning it exactly to miss both my carotid artery and jugular vein.

"Fuck this shit," I whispered and plunged the knife in.

One last trick. Doppleganger.