"I don't understand why you don't just ask," she grumbled, carrying an armload of sheets through the main hall.

"Oh, we aren't talking about that again, are we?" Maggie sighed, sweating under her own load of linens.

"Well..." she prompted.

"Look, I would love to, but that just isn't how things are. I have my job and that's how it'll be."

"But you like the dress?"

"Of course I do! Francois did a fantastic job. Just look at that stitching, the man is an artist," Maggie gushed.

"Then why don't you ask to learn from him?"

Maggie sighed. "I just can't. It's not who I am."

Maggie had all but melted the first time she'd seen the dress. At first, the response came off laden with jealousy. Upon closer inspection, Maggie was more interested in how it'd been crafted rather than how it looked on her.

After some gentle prodding, Maggie confessed her dream of being a seamstress ever since she'd been a little girl. The passion in Maggie's voice made the choice seem simple. But for some reason, Maggie wouldn't put her hand towards trying to make, well... anything!

Several times she encouraged Maggie to speak to Francois, or even just experiment by herself. But Maggie would hear none of it. The strangest thing was, neither would any of the other staff. Even Doran gave her a similar response.

"The linens is Maggie's place. Best to respect that," he'd said.

Rolling her eyes in annoyance, she let the matter drop. Maybe Maggie needed more time to

A loud boom rocked the chamber.

An ominous pause settled across the hall as everyone stopped in their tracks. All eyes turned in the direction of the sound and their growing concern quickly festered into raw fear. BOOM! The thunderous crack resounded from the three-story door at the end of the hall, like a giant stone fist crashing into the wooden monstrosity.

Panic replaced their frozen forms and terrified screams bounced through the hall over heavy feet in a desperate dash to the servant's door.

"What's going on?" she asked, tossing her load of linens aside.

No one answered. There were too many bodies bottlenecking in the hall, all trying to push their way through the single door at the same time. The hall seemed so impossibly long.

She pushed up next to Maggie and gripped her arm, wanting to force her to explain what everyone else seemed to know. Except Maggie was just as terrified as the others, trying to slip in front of others as they fought to escape.

"Maggie, please!" She screamed. "What is happening?"

Maggie finally looked at her, fear in her eyes. "Players."

It came again. That deafening crack. The screams were lost in the explosion, the giant wooden door reduced to splinters. Or, more accurately, shrapnel.

Pieces of wood, large and small, tore into Maggie. Blood welled on her skin, coating her clothes.

Grasping for Maggie's stumbling form, her friend's fear filled eyes turned to a glassy stare before her. And that vacant expression slowed the world.

Slivers of wood embedded themselves into the eyes of the others, reducing their visage to bloody tears. Chunks of wood the size of an easy chair slammed into the backs and legs of some. Several long and sharp pieces flew into the crowd, eliciting ragged screams.

Pain blossomed in her shoulder as a piece of wood the size of a pencil lodged in her arm. Grunting, she pulled the offender out, tossing it to the side.

Crashing to her knees, she grabbed Maggie by her dress—so like the ones Maggie dreamed of creating—and pulled her close as tears fell.

Several people moaned from the floor, cradling broken arms or dragging unnaturally bent legs. And the lucky ones applied pressure to their cuts, too stunned to do much else. Blood was everywhere, the coppery scent heavy in the air.

A groan crept out of Maggie, causing an uncontrollable laugh of relief to spill forth. Maggie was alive. She could save her.

Focused on that single thought, she started to drag Maggie toward the servants' door. A child lay unconscious behind a large beam of wood, and she grabbed his foot, unable to bring herself to leave him behind.

Her muscles burned as she dragged them to safety. But she would—not—leave—them.

"Dude, that was fuggin sick! Did you see the boss in the cut scene? Freaky Ringwraith lookin' thing? So tight!"

The juxtaposition of the words coming down the hall against the tragedy around her made the phrase unintelligible at first. And the sounds of laughter overpowering the groans of pain was so out of place, she couldn't register it. But there were several pairs of boots getting closer, coming from the cloud of dust lingering around the ruined main door.

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Seconds ticked by like booming strikes of a judge's gavel. She made her legs move faster, dragging her friend and the child out of the way of whatever was coming. She rushed back into the hall to help the others. There were too many for her alone to move, but she would try.

From the dusty haze where the door had stood, five people clad in ornate armor, covered in spikes and glowing runes, entered the room.

Massive pieces of curved metal sat on their shoulders with huge spikes protruding from the front, back, and side. And each carried a terrifying weapon. Swords as tall as they were, axes with blades as large as hubcaps. It seemed impossible they could even wield the weapons with how heavy they must be.

These people were clearly dangerous.

"Right? Finally made it! So glad we made the push tonight! School tomorrow or nah, we—" The man stopped talking as his eyes fell on her. Confused, he turned to his partners. "The hell?"

Their gazes landed on her, hostile and questioning.

"What are you doing here, newb?" the leader asked. "Actually, I don't care. We aren't adding you to our team for free XP. Gonna have to wait for the next group of suckers. Got it?"

His gaze stayed on her intently for longer than she was comfortable. She remained unmoving, her mind in a daze from all that had happened in the last few moments.

She didn't know who these people were, why they were here, and—

"Good," he said, seeming to accept something by her silence. Turning to his friends, he said, "Let's get set up, boys. Remember the forums. We gotta get our placing right."

All the guys laughed, returning to their task, pointing at the creature occupying the end of the hall and discussing how they would set up for "the fight."

She was no longer listening.

Numbly, she floated across the hall, her feet moving without her command. Each step forcing more hope that her eyes were deceiving her.

They were not.

In front of the same alcove where they had met those weeks ago, so close to being safely tucked away, Doran laid still. Blank eyes locked on the ceiling, a beam sticking out of his chest like a makeshift spear.

Her breath left her, leaving a desire to scream in agony but without the will to make it happen. Doran blurred behind her tears, the view of him burning into her mind, briefly losing sight of the horror.

She touched Doran's clammy skin, already growing cold in death. The stubble on his cheek was rough under her fingertips and she fought back a sob. This man had saved her from herself. Helped her step outside her fear. He'd taken her in and shown her compassion and care.

Tears fell onto his blood-stained shirt.

"And no Leroy Jenkins, got it!" the leader of the armored men shouted, causing the group to laugh.

It was too much.

Her vision seemed to lose all color, becoming a landscape of black, white, and grays. Only the crimson of blood speckled her view. A vivid reminder of what she'd lost. Of what they took from her.

All emotion left her body. Her sorrow evaporated, leaving her empty. Cold.

Standing, she turned to look at the men who were still laughing over some crude humor.

"You killed Doran," she whispered.

The men stopped talking for a moment, looking over at her in confusion.

"You killed Doran," she repeated, her voice raspy from strain but firm as concrete.

"What?" the leader asked. "Yo, the NPC? Don't worry about it. We didn't mean to take your free XP or nothin'. He'll respawn at the boss reset, ain't no thang." He turned back to his friends, rolling his eyes.

Clearly, none of them held any remorse for Doran's lost life. For any of the lives they cut down. They found the situation funny. Amusing.

That simply wouldn't do.

"You killed this man and have no guilt? None? Not even shame?"

The leader's confusion transitioned to irritation. "Look noob, seriously. I don't know what weird role play thing you're doing, but we're here for the boss. We aren't here for..." he gestured at her, "whatever this is. Now get lost before we send you to respawn. We have things to do."

She knew she should be afraid. This man could clearly end her, and he seemed to have no moral objection to doing so. But where fear should have been, deep in her heart, she found only cold, burning rage.

The man returned to his group, pointedly ignoring her now. Unconcerned. Confident. She was no threat.

Oh, how wrong he was.

"You will answer for what you did," she said without inflection.

"Oh, yeah?" He whipped around to face her again. "How? You gonna do it, newb? Take on all five of us in top tier gear?"

She smiled, the expression momentarily making even these men uncomfortable. "No."

Neither he nor his friends reacted before she moved a single foot one tile to the right.

She'd spent hours minding the aggro areas. Hours being ushered back if she got too close. She knew exactly where to step at that moment.

The room went silent as their gazes slowly fell to her foot, pointed like a ballerina as it gracefully touched toe inside the aggro zone.

The men's pallor shifted to white.

A deep, threatening chuckle, reminiscent of two great stones being ground together, rolled from the end of the room. The horror of her time here calmly set its wine glass on the tray beside it and stood up from its throne. Darkness covered where its face would be, but she was certain it smiled as it took a step forward.

"Oh... shit," the man muttered.

She didn't flinch during the "fight." The screams of these so-called players echoed off the cobblestones while she stood next to Doran's corpse, unmoving. Memories of his kindness flashed through her mind, accenting the men's final moments of pain.

And then it was over. The room silent.

She knew what would come next and lifted her chin. Terror appeared before her and she stared fearlessly into the void of the creature's face. Though the grey of her vision had faded during the fight, she remained an emotional wasteland.

"Go on then. Do what you will," she said, blank as a new canvas.

The creature studied her for several moments, its gaze lingering, stretching both the moment and her nerves. Despite herself, she twitched when it gestured to the bodies of the players. Following his gesture, she snapped her gaze back to the thing's hood. Ferocity sparked in her eyes as she openly challenged the creature to dare imply she'd been in the wrong.

A full minute passed while it studied her, weighing her. She did not flinch away again.

"Players are a pestilence." The words were almost a whisper, dry and ragged, like red wine through the hot sand. "Destruction and pain. Sadness and fear. These are the products of the players. The kingdoms of men wriggle with war and violence from the whims of the morally bankrupt."

The creature paused momentarily before it continued.

"I will rid the world of this plague. I will return the kingdoms of men to peace eternal. I am Nightshade the Undying. Nightshade of many names. And I offer you the rights of my vassal."

The creature held out a hand, palm up, gesturing for her to join him. "Be my vassal, and I will grant you your name. Be my vassal, and I will guide your power. Be my vassal, and take your retribution from the ilk of those who harmed you."

She hesitated. What did it mean by vassal? She started to ask questions, but her gaze caught on Doran's face, and the cold fist grabbed her stomach once again.

Looking directly into its shadowed hood, she all but spit her reply.

"I'm in."

The creature smiled. She knew it did.

"Welcome, Hemlock."